Tourists of the Apocalypse (12 page)

I don’t see anyone, but when I lean into the living room I notice Graham lying on the couch. He’s watching me and the plastic crinkles loudly as he turns his head in my direction.

“Looking for someone?”

“No point in answering that now is there?” I sigh, sitting on the arm of a chair.

“None,” he agrees, putting his arms behind his head.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then a diesel engine rattles to life down the street. I glance in that direction, even though the curtains are closed. Graham watches me as I go to the window. T-Buck’s big truck jerks into gear down the street and turns slowly in the cul-de-sac. Once it makes the complete turn and starts my way, Lance’s car backs out of his garage and into the street. It follows T-Buck and they both pass Dickey’s house and disappear into the oncoming night. When I look back to Graham he shakes his head.

“I’ll assume she was with him,” I sneer.

“They will probably be out there most of the time between now and next spring.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It is actually. Now you’re free to stay here and be with your mom,” he points out. “You’re welcome.”

I ball up both hands into fists and grit my teeth. The urge to hit something washes over me like a wave, but it’s offset by a heavy feeling in my stomach. I waffle between breaking a lamp and throwing up, but can’t decide. In the end, I let myself out the front door and leave Graham behind.
Screw this, I’m not doing this all over again
. I march back to my house to pack my things.

There isn’t any way to leave on Thanksgiving, so I lay awake most of the night. It’s one of those nights where you wish you could just fall asleep, but wind up watching the numbers change on the clock. When I finally slip into sleep it’s nearly dawn. I wind up dozing until noon as a result. I’m sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee when Graham slips in the front door and joins me. Mother offers him a cup, but he declines. He stares at my duffle bag on the floor. It’s bursting at the seams, and he seems preoccupied with it.

“What do you want?” I demand.

“Where ya going?”

“Away,” I snap back. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t, but do yourself a favor and come back before the Fourth of July.”

This is a very cryptic request and I watch him over my coffee cup. It brings to mind a conversation I had with Izzy about avoiding any long commitments in in the military.
Don’t sign anything that takes you beyond 2015
she had indicated. Setting my coffee cup down, I lean back in the chair and shrug.

“Why?”

“Just don’t.”

“Why should I do what you tell me?”

“Remember when we first met?” he asks.

“I do.”

“This place was a hot mess,” he lectures me, pointing a hand around the house. “That idiot Jarrod was terrorizing you and your mom—,” he’s saying when I cut him off.

“Until you killed him,” I interject, looking him right in the eye. “You did kill him didn’t you? I mean, they never found the body, but I always assumed you killed him.”

This puts a perplexed look on his face. I have spent a lot of time thinking about what became of Jarrod. The police did eventually contact me about him, but in regard to a dispute over his mother’s estate, not his disappearance. Long nights spent standing watch in the service gave me plenty of time to put two and two together. Jarrod just up and disappeared the day after he roughed up my mom. The officer who contacted me about the estate assured me no one had talked to, or seen him alive, after that day.

“You would have preferred he came back and hurt you or Missy?”

I shake my head.

“Thought so,” he grunts. “You’re welcome.”

“You were about to explain why I need to be back here by the Fourth?”

He appears to run out of the desire to argue at this point. It’s seems my putting Jarrod’s murder out on the table has taken the wind out of him. He slides a white envelope across the table, leaving it beside my coffee cup. After a pause and a loud exhale, he gets up and goes, stopping to hug my mom on the way. Once he’s gone, I pick up the envelope. Running it under my nose it smells of Izzy. It’s a fresh, almost soapy scent that gives me goosebumps.
It’s lavender.

“Dylan,” my mother calls out from the kitchen. “Did you call a taxi?”

“I did,” I shout back, turning the envelope over in my fingertips.

“Well it just pulled up. Where ya going?”

Choosing not to answer, I stare at the envelope.
What fresh hell is this?
Good or bad, I’m not in the mood at present. I slip it in a pocket on the green duffle bag. After lots of lying and an equal amount of hugging, I escape my mother and toss my duffle in the trunk of the taxi.

“Dispatch say you want go to airport?” the driver mutters in a thick Eastern European accent.

“That’s correct.”

“Is long ride,” he warns me. “Cost you a couple hundred at least.”

“I’m aware. It’s not a problem.”

He shrugs and we roll down the street. Passing Dickey’s house, I see his Mustang in the drive. I should have asked Dickey about what they are doing out there.
I bet he would have told me.

…

The construction company I work for in Tallahassee closes down at noon on Saturday. My two Army buddies and I shoot home to shower then expect to make the two and half hour drive to Pensacola. The plan is to grab a room at this cheap motel we used to frequent when we were in the service, then hang out at the beach for a few days. The Fourth of July falls on a Monday so I don’t have to be back at work until Wednesday.

At our shared apartment, I toss some clothes in a backpack and look around for my sunglasses. The bowl by the door has a half dozen pairs, but most are the cheap knock offs we wear at work. I’m in the bedroom closet digging for my good ones when Derrick pokes me in the back. He’s skinny and pale with a choppy short hairstyle we call the
Bieber
.

“What?” I complain turning to face him in the walk in closet.

“Some guy,” he shrugs, wagging a thumb over his shoulder. “The lights flashing on your antique message thing.”

“Some guy?”

“I’m not your secretary,” he huffs. “Get your stuff and let’s hit it.”

Finishing my search and finding my prize, I slip back into the living room and see the blinking light on the answering machine. I bought it at a yard sale a few months back. I don’t have a cell phone, so for me it actually serves a purpose. Derrick calls it backwards-compatible in a snide way.

The front doors hangs open leaving a clear view of Derrick and Randall tossing stuff in the back of a yellow Jeep by the curb. Randall is of Indian decent. By that, I mean American Indian, not the turban kind. He’s stocky and muscular compared to Derrick. I pause then hit the play button.

You have six messages… Playing first message… Dylan, this is Graham. Coming up on the Fourth and was wondering when we can expect you? Give me a call and let me know? 555-656-1212.

There is a loud beep, then another.

Playing second message… Dylan, Graham, 555-656-1212, pick up the phone or call me back.

I push down the stop button and then hold it. Three beeps precede a flashing zero that replaces a six that indicated the number of messages. I find deleting them satisfying, but am still annoyed my mother caved and gave Graham my number. Snatching up my bag, I head for the Jeep. I have enjoyed weekly phone calls with my mother, but otherwise have shared this number with no one. Without a cell or a laptop, I am basically a ghost in a world of instant connectivity. Both my buddies have cell phones so I can always borrow one in a pinch.

I climb into the back of Randall’s Jeep and the engine roars to life. Two hours to the beach, then two days to do nothing. More importantly there is no chance of Graham interrupting me there. Once we hit US-10 the wind whistles over the tonneau cover and I crack a beer, thinking about Graham. This leads to thoughts of Izzy, which in turn leads to me chugging my beer and cracking another.
Why is he so insistent that I come home now?

Now I have become death, the destroyer of worlds. . .

It’s in the 90’s and sunny on Sunday, leaving me hung over and marginally sun burned. Since I work outside doing construction, this condition illustrates how long I was outside. When I roll over to check the clock it’s already a quarter after twelve. A quick scan around the room reveals Randall and Derrick are nowhere to be seen.
Either they got up early or didn’t come home?
On further review, I recall leaving at least one of them in a different room.

“You seen my top?” a girl’s voice hits my ears like an ice pick from the bathroom.

My head spins like a slot machine, until all the wheels stop turning and I recall the girl in the bathroom.

“Leslie right?” I shout, but wind up wincing when my own voice hurts my ears.

“Libby,” she mumbles, emerging from the bathroom. “You seen my top?”

I push myself up on the headboard, which is just a fabric covered plank bolted to the wall. Libby has red hair and a decent tan. She’s tall, maybe 5-10, and full figured. She’s wearing bikini bottoms and a tee shirt, but is obviously talking about her bathing suit top. The tee shirt is very snug, leaving no doubt she’s not wearing anything under it. She’s tossing through the bed spread, which is on the floor, but having no luck. I recall her now and before panic sets in that she will be a problem she pops up from the pile of sheets wearing a frown.

“Screw it,” she blurts out. “If it turns up, hang it on your door knob.”

I nod. Libby passes by my side of the bed and kisses me on the top of the head before leaving. The glass patio sliders open onto the beach and she slips out, pulling the glass closed on the bent track behind her.

“Praise God,” I mumble, sliding back down and pulling the sheet over my head.

Thirst and desire to find some aspirin drive me from the warm bed soon after. There is a coffee shop attached to the motel and I find my friends already there. I join them at the counter and turn back and forth on the swiveling stool. The waitress, an older lady with long grey hair and thick glasses brings me a coffee. I wave her off on food for now and add an obscene amount of sugar to the coffee before blowing on the mug.

“How was the redhead?” Randall pokes at me.

“Couldn’t find her bikini top this morning,” I choke out after a hot mouthful of coffee. “One of you guys aren’t wearing it are you?”

“So things went well,” he chuckles.

“Where did you guys sleep?” I change the subject off Libby, one hand rubbing my temples.

“Two doors down.”

“Let me guess,” I mutter, holding up a hand. “Two brunettes, one’s Sandy or something.”

“Right color hair, wrong name,” Derrick butts in. “What’s up today?”

“Volleyball thing down the beach in front of the Hyatt,” Randall informs us. “Fill the cooler with beer and drag it down there. See what happens.”

“I’m not playing,” I groan, sipping my coffee.

“You’ll play if we need you,” Derrick barks, slapping the side of my head.

My headache rings and I think of getting up and going after him, but it’s too painful to contemplate. The ringing left by the slap reminds me of Jarrod hitting me as a child. I ponder this silently, and then they abandon me to go to the liquor store. Once my head stops ringing I order some pancakes. The coffee shop has a huge plastic dome in the center of the roof letting light in. I’m looking up, when a plane crosses through it. After it passes all that’s left is a white trail in the sky. The visual is surreal viewed from inside. I see several more while I wait for my breakfast.
We must be on a flight path for some airport.

The three of us go to the volleyball tournament and I do wind up playing. They needed a third player to enter, even though only two play at a time. Randall is basically a spaz, so I play most of the time with Derrick and we do fairly well, but finish out of the money. There’s a bonfire and barbeque after and our trio winds up attached to a girls team. It’s Randall and Derrick who are chasing two of the gals so I make chit chat with the third gal, Mindy, while they work on her friends. She’s nice, but clearly not into me. This is fine as I am feeling marginally ill from a second day of sun and booze.

When the fireworks start it’s too much for my head to take. They have a barge off the shore shooting them into the night sky. I excuse myself from the proceedings and head back down the beach. Lights from various motels along the ocean twinkle against the night sky. Several other lone figures walk along the beach as well. When I arrive at my motel, I try the patio slider on the ocean side and find it open.

Once the light is located I see the maid service has been in. Both beds are made and the sand that covered the floor has been vacuumed away. The bed closest to the patio sliders has a red and white stripped bikini top laid across the bead spread. I assume it must have been intertwined with the bedding. Recalling Libby’s wishes, I snag it and head to the door.

“Hang it on the door knob,” I recite, pulling it open.

Standing there with her hand up, as if in mid-knock, is Izzy. Her eyes bulge at the sight of me. All I am thinking about is the bikini top dangling off one finger, but she doesn’t seem to notice that.

“Izzy?” I stutter. “What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t answer, instead just tosses her arms around me and hugs. I return the hug, hanging Libby’s bikini top on the light fixture to the right of the door. Izzy is wearing a leather jacket, which seems a bit too warm for our current locale. The jacket feels stiff against my shirtless chest. Her hair is curled up on top of her head with a monster clip and it pokes me in the chin when I lean down to hug her back. We remain like this for several minutes, and then she pulls back and scowls at me.

“You were supposed to come home.”

“Says who?” I argue. “Graham?”

“No, I told you in the letter,” she scolds, pushing past me into the room. “Didn’t you believe me? I explained everything.”