White Out: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (18 page)

I can’t see him, what with Satan rubbing his fiery genitals into my eyes, but I can sure hear him. He moves across the kitchen. If he escapes, then my whole
settlin’ in
and settlin’ up
plan might get botched. “Stay still,” I warn, rubbing at my eyes. I can feel drool coming from the pockets of my lips, pooling on my chin and chest. Long snots dangle from my nose, ropy and thick. I wipe all of this mess away, wondering how crazy I must look. Sure, I was puttin’ on the crazy-pants act for the mailman, but now, it’s not an act. “Don’t move an inch, mailman. Skipper. Skippy.
Skipper-oo
.”

I lunge in the direction that I last hear him, grabbing on to the countertop instead. I hear a small clatter from my left and when I swing my arms out in that direction
, I am greeted by one of Marianne’s cats. It scratches at me. I take a swing at it, boxing style, but I miss. It clips me with its claw again and I let loose a girly scream. “Fuckin’ cats. I’ll kill every last one of you fuckers once I can see again.”

Another noise, this one from right behind me.
I spin, ready to beat the shit out of the mailman. That bastard sprayed me with a pink can of pepper spray. Ain’t nothin’ like feeling like a dainty little girl. I’m gonna kill this fucker, just like I shoulda the second he came into Marianne’s house. (
myhousemyhousemyhouse!
)

“I hear ya’,” I threaten, trying to smirk.

That’s when I feel it sink into me.

Motherfucker stabs
me. Stabs me deep, too.

The howl that comes out my mouth is—well, it’s like nothin’ you ever heard before. I guarantee that shit. It’s like I was savin’ up my best scream for years and years, bottling it all up inside
. And here it comes, a’roarin’ and a’rippin’ through the air. And you know what the real kicker is?

The fuckin’ mailman is laughing at me.

He has a mustache, he calls himself Skipper, and he delivers coupons to housewives.

And he’s laughing.
At
me
.

Cocksucker.

I feel around
for the knife. He left it behind when he made his move, which is probably just about the stupidest thing he could have done. It’s in all the way through my shoulder. I can feel it poking through the back of my jacket. “You should have gone for the heart or the throat, Skippy. Or even the balls,” I say, as I pull it free. It makes a strange noise that is almost like a pop. I’ve been stabbed before, but never like this. It hurts like a son of a bitch once the knife is free. I can feel pressure releasing from the seeping wound, but I don’t have time to cry over spilled blood. I got me a mailman to kill.

I hand the knife back and forth between my hands.
It’s slick with my blood, but that only thrills me more and more. Jesus, baby, let me feel your love all over me. “Gonna kill me a mailman. Momma used to fuck the mailman, so I gots me a lotta issues to work through, ya’ heard?” At this statement, I hear the whoosh of the back door opening, and then shutting again.

He’s running. Coward just dealt me a blow to the eyes, and then stabbed me. Had me against the ropes—one more lethal shot and I’d be a dead man. Even with all
them advantages, he gets to runnin’ just like a chicken-shit.

Feeling my way through the kitchen and then down the hallway, I open the door to the mudroom, stepping down carefully. I can remember where the door is, but it doesn’t come out real obvious to me. I feel along the wall (hooks, some hanging jackets, and some annoying fuckin’ windchime) until I finally find the
doorknob. I open it on up. I feel the wind blasting through. I zip up my jacket nice and tight.

Some light is starting to force its way through my shut eyes. They are still burnin’ like you wouldn’t believe
, but I can sort of see shadows through my eyelids now. It’s bright as hell outside, what with all the sun reflectin’ off the snow.

I go tromping out into the cold. I ain’t been outside in a few days, not since I first came to Marianne’s house. It’s colder than I remember. “Come on, Skippy!” I shout.
I’m freezing my ass off, but it’s worth it to chase the pesky shit down.

He mentioned that he had a snowmobile, so if he gets on that thing I’m screwed.
Royally screwed. I’ll never catch him on that, so I’ll have to be movin’ on again. A wanderin’ man knows when it’s time to turn tail and run off. If Skipper-oo gets away from me, then I don’t need any more sign than that. Sure, it’ll take a while for him to bring back somebody that gives a shit either way (those types of folks are in short supply I’m bettin’!), but I don’t take chances. The second ya’ stop takin’ chances, that’s when they nab you. Not that I ever been nabbed, but I’m not gonna get into the habit.

An engine rattling.
A quiet curse in the distance, “Drat. Drat. Drat.” Who the fuck says drat? Skippy the mailman, that’s who. Come on, Skippy, stay still. Smile for the camera. Edgar’s comin’ for you.

“Drat!” I parrot back at him, laughing loud enough that he can hear me. “Drat! My snowmobile won’t start! Drat!”

He’s sobbing. The sissy doesn’t have enough in him to get off that damn snowmobile, walk up to me, and finish the job. I’m blind and stabbed but he’s still afraid of me. Time to put on the crazy-pants again.

He’s really sobbing now, so loud that it reminds me of the lion from that movie with the chick goin’ down that yellow
road, you know… the one with the witch and the scarecrow. Ain’t seen that movie since before my balls dropped, but I remember the way that lion cried. Skipper sounds just like that.
Blubberin’
. I think that’s the word. Skippy Zippy is blubberin’.

Skip-To-
My-Loo keeps tryin’ to turn the ignition over. I can tell from the sound the engine is making that he’s flooded it. If he had five minutes (he’s lucky if he’s got one minute) then he could wait it out and try again. Instead, he’s panickin’ cause old Edgar is coming.

“Drat!” I scream. I sound like
a devil on crystal meth. I wish I could see the mailman’s face.

He turns the ignition again. Skipper is only about ten feet away now.

I tighten up the knife in my hand.

Spluk.
Spluk. Spluk.

That’s the sound the kitchen knife makes as I return the favor. He got me once in the shoulder, just above my titty. I gave it back to him in the throat (I think), and then followed that one with one in the chest, and then another that was probably on the back of his skull. The third one felt hard, like I was goin’ up against some steel or some shit like that.

I hear him gurgle and cry out. He says something like, “
Comma comma lama domma
.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, Skippy.”

He tries again now that he’s dumped off the snowmobile, face first in the snow. He says, “
Breck a leck. Jabby. Jabby
.” I’m guessin’ that when you die sometimes you say stupid shit. Sort of like you’re talking some other language. Maybe dead folks have their own language, so when you’re halfway between worlds, you sort of start learning the new one and forgettin’ the old one. Sometimes I come up with silly theories, but try to disprove ‘em motherfucker.

“Shut up,” I say, feeling around for his body. My eyesight is startin’ to come back. I manage to get my left lid open. There’s no more snot coming out of my nose, but everything still hurts, still screams, like I just got sprayed by that shit. I still can’t believe I got my shit fucked up by a goddamned mailman. “Now where we gon’ bury your body?
Huh, Skippy?”

He groans and then he shuts up for good.
Pretty sure that the S.O.B. is dead now.

“Good idea,” I say.
“We’ll bury ya’ in the snow. Brilliant. Woulda never thought of that myself.”

Before I get to giving Skippy a final burial, I pull off his jacket. It’s cold out, and a man needs a warm jacket. I put on his hat and his gloves too. I was a dang fool, coming out here like this. Gonna catch a death of cold out here.

Once I got all the good stuff off his body and I have it on myself, I start to drag his dead weight away from the snowmobile. The blinding gusts of wind mask me from any nosy onlookers. Cause that’s all I need, for somebody else to check me out and get into my business. Then I have to kill them. And then somebody else sees me killin’ on that person, and then I have to kill that next one. And so on. And so on. You get to a point where you just get tired of killin’ motherfuckers and you just wanna take a goddamned nap.

“Head first?” I ask. Truth is
, I don’t have to really bury him at all. Just get him out of the way. The snow will do the rest. This shit ain’t stoppin’. Not anytime soon.

It’s like Jesus is listenin’,
cause the snow picks up just as I’m finding a sweet spot for the mailman. The snow is comin’ down so hard that I swear the whole cocksuckin’ world will be buried by the end of the week.

I crawl back to the snowmobile, leaning up against it. I stare up at the sky as a sudden wooziness overtakes my ass. I’m seeing all kinds of weird shit in my eyes—stars mixed with titties mixed with
leprechauns mixed with snow-snow-snow. It’s like I’m on some kind of drugs but then I think again. Maybe it’s just a mix of being tired as hell and losing a lot of blood.

The wound looks pretty bad.
Worse than it feels. There’s blood all over the snow.

As much as it pains old Edgar to admit it, I need help. I need to get patched up.

Fuck it all, I need help.

I don’t want to die. Not yet.
Too much fun to be havin’.

Marianne won’t be able to help. Cause I ripped her in half.

Skipper can’t help. Cause I skewered ‘em like a pig.

There’s another house, just across the way. One, two, three, I move down the line.
Pickin’ one place after another, wishin’ on those dreams that only a wanderin’ man can grow inside him. Marianne had mentioned the other people, the neighbors next door, and she said that they were still home, waitin’ out the storm like everybody else.

I think about movin’ the snowmobile, but it’ll be buried by the snow in no time. Just like everything else. Just like the whole damn world, sinkin’ deeper and deeper. The mailman and the snowmobile won’t be much of a problem. 

Ding dong. Ding dong. Just a friendly neighbor, lookin’ for some sugar.

Chapter Five

Here comes the pity parade, so everybody get them binoculars out. Light your sparklers. Poor ol’ Edgar is all ripped up n’ broken. I'm damaged goods, but I can play it up to my advantage, do my little possum act for the people. I been practicin' all my life and it's my favorite move. Somebody once called me the world's slickest con man, but that person don't say nothin' anymore, mostly cause I snipped out his throat with a pair o’ rusty hedge clippers. 

I'm crawlin
’ across the snow, dragging my body towards the next house in the line, hoping that somebody is home. I keep on movin’ from one house to another. Reminds me of that game where you buy up all them little red houses and then you start buyin’ up them big green hotels. Or is it the other way around? Either way, I hated that there game. Too much countin’.

I’m feelin’ my way through the snow.
Can’t see shit. The wind is whipping like a son of a bitch. I’m feelin’ mighty tired, like I need a nap.  

Dammit
all to hell, I need a break from all this drama. Marianne's house is tainted and I can't go back there. Skipper ruined it, even more so than the pissy cats and that stench of Marianne's perfume, clingin' to everything like an STD. Fuck that place. Not a good place to settle in and definitely not one you want to settle up in either.

Skipper put a hurtin’ on me.
Pretty bad one. I can feel the blood oozin’ out of me.

I wish I hadn't been so loosey-goosey with him. You see a dope like Skipper, wearing some asshole's mustache and putting
himself out there like the world's biggest doormat, well, you can't help but let your guard down a little. I've run into a lotta fellas like Skipper in my day, and that son of a bitch won't be the last. In the end, I always take what I got comin' to me. I never been bested and I never will. Skipper mighta had some tricks up his sleeves, or maybe I was just bein’ sloppy, but I got that beast still lurkin’ inside me, sittin' pretty right next to Jesus Christ.

Thems
a dangerous combination.

It's snowed a lot since I settled in and settled up at Marianne's house. A few days ago, I might have been able to sneak in through the first floor windows, but they are gone, gone, gone. Doors ain't available,
buried deep in the icy shit, but the top floor windows of this new house are reachable. On the front of this house, there's a drift of snow that done made me a nice ramp all the way up to the top. Might even be able to climb on the roof if I get a good boost, not that I want to.

I came to a conclusion, ya know, that
this snow is testin' us all. We're drownin' in it. If I had to guess, it's cause of all the sin that we done created. Commie presidents, abortion clinics, vegetarians; all that stuff adds up, and one day God says, through some big fuckin’ megaphone so all us dummies can hear it: "
Y'all are sooooo fucked
."

If I go too
slow, the snow's fit to bury me, so I pull myself along my belly like the clock is tickin' faster and faster. I can remember back when I could see the lawns, when
What's His Face
(the one with all the painted angels pattin’ each other of the keister) first picked me up on the side of the road. Now I don't even know where the damn grass is. It's down there somewhere, but I bet my momma's headstone that I won't be lookin' at it for a long, long time. Reckon I might never see it again.

I can't hear nothin' inside, what with all the wind blasting around out here,
but I did see a little bit of smoke comin' out through the chimney. That gives me some hope, and I start to pull myself up the snowy banks a touch harder, digging my nails into that crunchy shit, hollering out loud. I'm a fucking animal when I get backed into a corner, ya’ hear? 

It don't feel much like I’m bleeding
(not too bad, anyway) from what that cunt Skipper did to me, but it's gonna be awhile before I'm healed and feelin’ good again. That's why I hope this is one of those
settle-in-settle-up
kinda lily pads.

I make it to the top
of the snowdrift and I tap at the window with my finger. It’s so iced over that I doubt anybody could even see me from inside there. And I can feel my face icing over, just like the window. Sure, I could crash my head through, crack it open and take care of business the old-fashioned way. But if I pull that move and I might just get a shotgun in my face. I don't know who lives in this here house, so I gotta play it cool like cucumbers, make my move when the time is right. 

I tap on the window again, resting my
numb mug in the snow, hoping to build up some redness to my face, get that pity party-parade moving in the right direction. If I'm out here too long, I'll get that motherfucker they call frostbite all over my face, and Jesus knows that'll end it quick. I once saw a man that had to have his nose removed cause he climbed all the way to the top of Everest and then he fell into some ditch. He looked like a fuckin' twit, with a little black nub where his nose used to be. I'd rather die than lose my nose, cause I wouldn't be able to smell all that sweet pussy anymore.
Zing
at nobody in particular
.
 

There's something on the other side of the window. I can make out a small form through the ice crystals. It looks like a little boy, but he ain't moving much. He comes closer for a second,
and then backs the fuck up again. He ain't sure what to think of this silly fella that dragged his frozen body over to the window. Don't blame him, neither. I'd be scared of me too. 

I push my face against the window, trying to get a good look at the boy, but he's gone now. A few seconds
later, a man follows the boy into the room. I know it's a guy because he's a whole lot fuckin' taller, but I can't make out either of their faces, just their shapes. 

The taller one gets closer to the window.
 

And here I am,
just waitin’ for them to open the window for me; the world’s meanest fucking possum. 

*  *  *

This place is comfy!

Holy shit.
This is the place that a wanderin' man like me (yeah, I know I said that about the last two places at first, but you gotta keep trying til you find the slipper that fits I say) wants to settle in and settle up with. Makes a man almost want to put away his boots for the rest of his days. That sounds a little crazy, what with how special these boots are, but I might just trade the boots for a warm pillow. 

They got food. They got warmth.

The guy keeps yappin' on about his son and how smart he is. Good for him, I want to say, but I hold on to my tongue so I can figure out a proper plan. Kid ain’t all that smart, actually. Dumb little shit, he keeps staring at my boots like I'm some sort of circus freak or something. I'm gonna stick my boot up the kid’s ass. 

They got booze, too. The real nice
stuff, that top shelf crap that fellas like me aren't even supposed to know about. Kinda stuff they drink at the White House and golf courses. It don't even taste like booze cause it's so dang smooth. Guy keeps giving it to me by the glassful, but he's mighty skimpy about the fake-ass fire logs and the beans. 

He's
shook
. 

Shook
because he thinks the world's comin' to a nasty end. I don't argue with him on that. Tries to keep his voice real quiet-like, sort of like he's out
huntin' wabbit
, but it’s cause his son is sleeping on the floor, snoring like you wouldn't believe. He says his kid is scared shitless what with not seeing his momma in so long. I know that feeling all too well. Not havin' a momma is a terrible thing, same for not havin' a Daddy. It's been a long time since I had those. 

On a side note…
oh Momma
, look at that Momma! 

Every time I walk to the bathroom, I go right by a picture of the whole family. Mommy's wearin' something tight and black. He
r boobies are pokin' out just enough to get the mind reelin', and I swear to Jesus H. Christ and all his disciples that I can see the shape of a nipple beneath that shirt, just trying to sneak out to say
hello pardner
,
care for a lick?
 

She's a looker, not like the usual barnacles that I get stuck to my
zipper in gas stations, supermarkets, all those places you pick up easy broads with no morals. This girl here--this Momma-- she's grade A. Prime stuff, sort of like Christian’s whiskey supply. The shook-up twit don't deserve her. 

I'm a charmin' motherfucker, in case you haven't figured that much out yet.
 

I can’t wait to charm his wife.
Chris says that the Momma's gonna be home real soon, that she's on her way. I can't wait to meet her.

*  *  *

Kid showed me the stashes in the basement. 

Chris
tian is a dolt for letting me see this, and his son ain't much brighter. He is one of those fellas that automatically trusts you. Those are the best kind of cons for wanderin' men, because we don't have to work too hard to get that golden goose egg when we want it. 

The kid's named Paulie and he don't know shit about wanderin' men. Don't know shit about stallions. Mostly cause his father ain't nothin' more than a wet rag
, hangin’ out to dry. This boy needs a role model and I won't mind bein' that, as long as his Mommy shows me proper respect when she gets home. 

It's time to settle in.

It’s time to settle up.