Eat, Prey, Decay: 7 Tales of the Apocalypse (Zombie, Dark Fantasy, Dystopian, Horror, & Post-Apocalyptic Boxed Set), page 112
Not really having a plan, I did the one thing I could think of, the one thing that made sense to me- go to the police. Maybe that was a dumb move; maybe the whole world had gone to crap and sense was a sentiment better left dead. Something about a badge, a gun, something about authority; I’d cling to those things as long as I could.
I was only about 3 miles from the Sheriff’s department on the outskirt of town. I made a right turn and pointed the nose of the T-bird in that direction. It may have been my imagination, but the car seemed to enjoy going fast. So I obliged, pushing the speedometer well past the posted speed limit.
As the station came into sight, I noticed a school van occupied one of the closest parking spots. It seemed odd next to the few marked cars. I drove slowly the rest of the short distance and compressed the brakes, allowing the vehicle to idle at the base of the station entrance stairs. I hesitated; why did I think this place would be any different? Because this is the law; the law should be a constant. It should keep people safe. Telling myself that coming here was a smart move and not total dumb-assery, I shifted into park.
When I’d slowed down, Marty had uncurled himself and crawled into the passenger’s seat. His face still wet with tears, he stared out the window. “The school bus,” he gulped, “Izzy was supposed to be here today. Maybe if we’d gotten to school on time, maybe if I hadn’t thrown up everywhere…” his voice was small; I could barely hear him.
“It’s not your fault, Marty. I don’t think she would have been any safer here.”
He turned to me then, his face fierce. “She was going to be here, here with the police. She would have been safe.”
Not wanting to argue with him, I just swallowed and nodded. There was no sense trying to explain to him that his sister was sick, that no amount of badges and bullets would have changed the outcome of the morning. I looked away from the boy and studied our surroundings.
There was no movement- not outside the building and not behind the window glass inside the building. Suddenly, I was scared, really scared. I didn’t want to go in there. I had to though. I needed help. I had questions. Straightening my shoulders and grimacing, I unlocked the doors and reached for the door handle. As my fingers closed around the steel, my brain took me back to a boastful and drunk Kyle. He’d been a Marine aviator and he was proud of his glory days in the service. He’d also been proud of his .38, courtesy of his time in Vietnam.
Kyle had never been without it… I didn’t even know if he had a carry license. Once, he’d walked into Baby Bliss with it stuck in his belt, slurring his words and talking about the ‘VC bastards’ and how he’d put a bullet in the brains of anyone who shot down his plane. I’d been tempted to call the cops on him, but Kyle was mostly harmless.
Praying for something to go right, I opened the glove box. The knot in my stomach unclenched slightly as my fingers wrapped around the handgun.
I wasn’t real familiar with guns. Dad had wanted to teach me how to shoot when I was 16; I’d obliged for a while, learning how to hunt quail with his old shotgun, but I was more interested in my boyfriend at the time- who happened to be obsessed with classic cars. I’d learned a lot from that relationship. I mean, Gary was a jackass, but I could recognize the roar of a 396 big block in a ’69 Nova SS with my eyes closed.
I held the gun in my hand, feeling its weight. I knew enough from avid movie watching to be able to check and see if the .38 was loaded, which it was. Little blessings. In theory, all I had to do was squeeze the trigger and big-bada-boom, threat neutralized. Threat neutralized. Gun in hand, I was already sounding more like a bad ass. .
As quietly and cautiously as I could- which was probably ridiculous considering how loud the engine was- I got out of the car. It dawned on me, as I was about to shut the door, that I had no idea how much gas the car had and it probably wasn’t smart to leave it running. Leaning back into the T-bird, I checked the gauge- a little more than half a tank. I sighed. If only Kyle had topped off the tank before hitting the liquor store to top off his own tank. I turned the key and the strong thrum of the engine died out, leaving us in eerie quiet. Sometimes silence was so much more unsettling than a chaos of sound.
Leaning inside the vehicle, I saw Marty’s hand reach for his door handle.
“No, Buddy. You stay here.”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
His words knocked me in the gut. He was scared; more scared than me. But I didn’t know what I was walking in to. I needed him to be here and safe… not a distraction that I needed to protect. I could barely protect myself.
“You’re safer here. I promise. Lock the doors when I leave. Do not unlock the car until I get back.” I closed the door and waited for the boy to hit the switch. He hesitated, but finally took his fingers off the metal handle and hit the auto locks. The look the boy gave me was at once terrified and shaming. His eyes said ‘how can you leave me here alone.’ I looked away from him quickly. Marty was safer than I was now. Being out of the T-bird made me feel very alone and scared. The gun in my hand was small comfort and I’d left the key in the ignition… just in case we needed a quick getaway. Let’s hope the boy would be swift to unlock the doors. I’d be shit-out-of-luck if he froze in fear and I was stranded.
Slowly I scanned my surroundings again, like a rabbit looking for a fox, looking for predatory danger. I could feel the cold droplets of sweat running down my blouse and between my breasts. Sometimes I hated being a larger gal; more sweat, and more folds of fat to collect the dampness. That’s how my mind worked- I had never been so scared in my life, yet all I could think about was my weight and how I’d have a better chance at survival if I could run faster than the monsters. Really wish I’d taken my mom up on that 5k run last summer. Would have been good practice.
I made my way up the stairs, jumping at every sound. I almost shot a squirrel as it darted out of a poorly trimmed bush. That would have been a waste of ammo, but my nerves were frayed. The front door of the building was ajar, as if someone had left in a rush. That didn’t bode well. It was a surprisingly cool day with a light breeze. Maybe I was overreacting, maybe the officers inside were just enjoying a bit of fresh air. A girl can hope. I carefully peeked inside the office, gun supported by both my hands and leading the way.
Everything seemed to be in order.
Then I saw the blood. So much blood.
Officer Murray lay on his back, still gripping his shotgun in his right hand. The barrel of the gun also lay against the floor, as if it were the deceased officer’s shadow, dark charcoal against khaki linoleum. An uneasy repose of victim and weapon. He must have held it beneath his chin; he’d taken his own life. The top rear of Murray’s head was missing- an exploded mess of brain matter. Bone shard was splattered a distance away on the floor and adjacent wall. Don’t throw up, Sherry. Don’t throw up. Forcing myself not to vomit hurt my insides and the gun in my own hand suddenly felt useless. I’d sold the Murrays clothing for all of their kids. They were a lovely family. It wasn’t fair. Doug was a good person. What would Anne do without him? How would she take care of her kids? He’d shot himself… why would he kill himself?
If he couldn’t survive, what chance in hell did I have?
Then I saw the bite wounds along both of his forearms and I agreed with him.
Better dead than a monster.
I fought back the tears now; they were like Niagara Falls, pushing against the back of my eyes with immeasurable force, gathering in my sinus cavities and threatening to overflow. To Doug’s left were the remains of at least half a dozen young children and what, I assumed, had at one time been their teacher. Each child had a large, oozing hole in their head… some had other wounds. But I knew from experience that even a forceful hit from a moving vehicle didn’t keep these… monsters down for long. A bullet to the brain? Was that the answer? I couldn’t believe what I was having to think about. Killing a kid.
There was a special place in hell for me.
It was obvious that this school outing had gone terribly wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
Trying not to throw up my protein shake, I checked that the .38 was loaded one more time and tucked it into the waist of my too-tight skirt. I pulled the shotgun out of Murray’s hand and couldn’t completely repress the bile. It momentarily filled my mouth with acid before I quickly swallowed it back down. It burned my throat, reminded me that I was alive.
The shotgun was a lot like my Dad’s, but this one had a shorter barrel and seemed to hold more rounds. Quickly, I checked the chamber. I didn’t need movie learning for this; I remembered that much from my Dad’s lessons, God bless him. Satisfied it was loaded, I looked around, trying to keep my gaze averted from the carnage on the floor.
The jail cells were empty and the weapons locker was secured by an impressive-looking padlock. Moving further from Murray’s body, I saw a hint of red near the front leg of a large desk. Shotgun shells. An entire box half-emptied across the floor looked like salvation. I gathered the ammunition one-by-one and placed them neatly back into the box. When I was done, my eyes were drawn towards a flash of silver. The name plate on the smooth, wooden surface of the desk had caught a ray of sunshine. Lt. Doug Murray. Murray’s desk.
The shiny black phone near the large desk calendar- the white paper of it now colored with drying blood- caught my eye. For some reason, I got the urgent desire to check my cell messages. I’d give anything to hear Susan’s voice and know she was okay. Quickly I dialed my cell phone number and punched in the access code followed by the pound sign. I crossed my fingers in hope. Please, please, please. I mentally urged Susan to have called me. Which made no sense… she either had or she hadn’t. No amount of pleading in the present would change the past.
Then I heard her voice.
Like a prayer in a dark abyss. I heard my best friend’s voice.
Listening to the recording. I felt my face transform into a wide uncontrollable grin. We had a destination, we had a plan. Next stop, Corpus Christi. Thank you, Susan. Thank you. I realized beneath the happiness that I didn’t remember which Marina the Nancy-Grace was stored at. Susan had told me, more than once. God, I hated my memory sometimes. She’d said to call her… I could call her right now. I was such an idiot; why hadn’t I just called her to begin with? As I was about to hang up and dial, the only other saved message on my phone began to play, and then I couldn’t hang up. I had to listen.
The message was an old one. From my last birthday. “Hey, Sweetheart. Happy birthday. Your Dad and I have bingo later, so don’t try calling us back after 5. Hope to hear from you.” The line was quiet for a moment, but I knew the message wasn’t finished. I’d never erased it; I couldn’t bring myself to since Mom had died a month after leaving it. “I wish that girl would grow up and find a good boy. I want grandbabies. I’m tired of Edith Wengler and her million pictures. I swear, every Thursday at bingo she corners me. I probably know more about her granddaughter’s potty habits than my own.” I could hear the murmur of my dad in the background now telling Mom to cut it out, that I’d get married when I was good and ready. “I just want a grandchild before I die, Bert. Is that too much to ask? Oh, shoot. I forgot to press the damn button again. I hate this newfangled phone.”
I didn’t realize that I was crying until the message finally ended. Guess Niagara can only be held at bay so long before it breaks the barrier. Drying my eyes with the back of my shirt sleeve, I refocused, redialed. Susan’s phone went straight to voicemail. It was either dead or off or maybe the phone services were wonky. There had to be millions of people trying to make calls at the exact same moment, desperate to hear a loved one’s voice. Knowing Susan, maybe she’d forgotten her charger… she was always forgetting to keep her phone charged. Not hearing Susan answer the phone almost made the tears start anew, but I fought them. I knew where she was; I would get to her- her and the twins and Mr. Fields.
A set of car keys were on the desk next to the phone; a black and red key chain inscribed with the word D.A.R.E. was like a challenge. I grabbed them, wondering if they’d led me to a tougher vehicle or useful supplies. The fenced-in lot where the marked vehicles were housed when not in use was behind the building. I moved toward the back door quickly, ready to leave the carnage behind me. One foot outside the door though, I stopped myself.
I’d left Marty alone for a while. I had to keep in mind that he was just a little boy and I was his guardian, the only protection he had now. I had to think like a parent. That didn’t come naturally to me. Despite running a children’s consignment store, I had never wanted kids. I didn’t think I’d make a very good mother. Maybe that made me a crap person, but hell, I couldn’t even keep a steady boyfriend or a goldfish alive. I just wasn’t hardwired like other women, but like it or not, I was the untested parent to an unwanted son now.
Moving back towards the building entrance was like navigating a maze… a maze comprised of small, unmoving bodies and blood. Murray’s face, slack with death, his body riddled with bite marks, played in my peripheral vision, but I refused to look him full in the face again. I leaned my upper body out of the propped-open door. Marty was kneeling on the passenger’s seat, his face nearly pressed against the door glass. When he saw me, he visibly relaxed. I gave him a thumbs up and he nodded.
Soon I was again moving out the rear door and hitting the ‘unlock’ function on the key fob I held. The headlights of the big DARE Suburban flashed invitingly. The vehicle looked formidable, safe… maybe a better option that a muscle car- no matter how much I liked the look of it.
Before rummaging for supplies, I sat myself in the driver’s seat and stuck the key in the ignition and crossed the middle and index fingers of my left hand. “Please have a full tank.” I murmured, almost a prayer on my lips. Empty.
The damn thing was empty. “God, my luck sucks ass lately!” I slammed my palms down on the steering wheel angrily. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t. Life was a callous, heartless bitch sometimes. I slid off the driver’s seat and didn’t bother to reclose the door. Let it stay open; let the perfect interior be ruined by rain and dirt.
Lifting the tailgate of the vehicle, I set the shotgun and box of shells down and started rummaging around. The rear of the vehicle was stocked to the hilt. Whatever the hell was going on, we might actually survive. Shouldn’t count my chicks before the eggs hatch, I chided myself. I wasn’t normally superstitious, but given the circumstances, I sure as hell didn’t want to jinx myself.
Pulling a plastic bin towards the edge of the tailgate, I began stuffing gear in like a mad woman, not pausing to consider what would be most useful. Bulletproof vest, medical kit, radio, even a case of Hersey bars. Murray probably intended to hand them out to the kids after the station tour, God Bless him. Such a great guy.
A great guy that doesn’t keep his tank filled. I thought grumpily.
There wasn’t any additional weapons or ammo, but I was a lot better off than I had been. I briefly thought about stealing the big SUV, but the station lot’s gate was electronically secured and I wasn’t about to spend any more time here than necessary. I wanted to drive away and try to forget about monsters, murdered children and Doug Murray.
The last thing I grabbed from the Suburban was Murray’s half-empty backpack- a military-style thing with his name embroidered in black and white. I stuffed the chocolate bars in a front pocket and threaded my arms through the straps. That action turned my mind towards food. I had so many supplies now, but not the very basest of necessities- nutrition and fluids. The station had to have a break room. Struggling to carry my haul, the shotgun and shells perched atop the too-stuffed bin, I made my way through the building and outside. Marty was once again relieved to see me and he quickly unlocked the doors as I approached.
Opening the driver’s door, I lifted a small handle attached to the seat base and pulled the backrest forward to lean against the steering wheel at an angle. The huge rear seat was soon obscured by my findings. It gave me a sense of confidence and safety, to have so many supplies. Even the items that might prove useless were a comfort.
“I’ve got to go back in one more time, okay?”
Marty looked at me worriedly. “You’re going to leave me alone again?”
“Just for a minute. I promise.”
The boy bit his bottom lip and grimaced. He opened his mouth to speak, but then clamped his lips together. His cheeks turned rosy red with an embarrassment I didn’t understand. “What’s wrong?”
His frown deepened. “I’ve got to pee really bad.”
I almost laughed. Not a polite giggle, but a full-out belly laugh, snorting and all. The kid needed to pee. It was such a… normal need that it seemed ridiculous given the monsters and dead folks piling up in our small town. “One good thing about being a boy, Marty. The world’s your urinal. Come on. You can go behind the bushes right there.” I pointed to the left of the station stairs.
“There… isn’t a bathroom inside? Do you think the Sheriff would mind?”
Now I grimaced. “No. I don’t think he’d mind, but… just trust me, staying out here is much better. Now, hop out and pee so we can get out of here.” He continued to hesitate so I retrieved the shotgun from the back seat and closed the driver’s door. Walking around to his side, I shot him a reassuring smile. I held out my hand to him after swinging his door open. “There’s nothing to be scared of, Marty. We’re safe here.”
The boy took my hand and moved like a turtle out of the car. He stood by me for a moment, his fingers entwined with mine. I waited, trying to be patient, but once I realized he wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon, I shooed him toward the bushes. When he left my side, he picked up the pace and I probably couldn’t have counted off sixty seconds in my head before Marty was running back from around the tall bushes, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shorts.
“Lock the doors again. I’ll be quicker this time.” I didn’t wait for Marty to respond, but I heard the sound of the door closing as I walked away. Murray’s pack was still on my back and I hoped soon it would be heavier with the weight of food and water. I held the shotgun in my left hand, its barrel pointed towards the ground. It made me feel more secure than the .38, maybe because it reminded me of my dad. The handgun was still a reassuring bulge at my waistline though. Bullets, bullets everywhere, but not a thing to shoot. That was a good thing, of course, yet, I couldn’t help wanting to test my mettle now that I had double the weaponry.
