Chapter Four: Candy and Andrew
1
Candy stood at the edge of the embankment, staring out into the dark trees.
“Its OK Candy. Everything is going to be OK.” Andrew began, “we’ll get through this. Just you wait and see.” He reached and pulled the engine’s cord. It rumbled alive.
Candy watched as her brother guided the pontoon away from the bank and back into the dark water. He turned and a cheesy smile spread across his face. His thin arm rose, and he gave a wave. She forced half a smile. He disappeared upstream. She stood for a moment longer and then turned away and moved to the Humvee. Her tattered uniform clung to her body and sweat soaked through the material. Her mind was also drenched; soaked in anger and confusion; a desire for revenge that seemed impossible to obtain. In twenty-four hours she'd lost her husband, twin daughters, and grandfather. To make all this shit stain that much worse, Jack would die if she didn't find antibiotics. She walked over to the Hummer, climbed in, and slammed the vehicle’s door shut.
The narrow dirt road stretched long in front of her. Both her hands gripped the steering wheel while her knuckles turned white. The suspension kept her steady as the Humvee moved over uneven ground, pot holes, and marshy wet spots. The Cyprus hung high on both sides of the road. The tree’s boughs closest to the road dangled over and early morning fog created a dark misty tunnel.
She pushed a button on the CD player panel. Loud guitar music blasted the sounds of For Whom the Bell Tolls. She reset the song to the beginning and rolled down the window and for a brief moment she closed her eyes. Her eyes popped back open. Her look was stern, and hard lines ran down her face like dry rivers.
She turned the music to maximum and rolled down all windows. She screamed. She screamed again; the noise sounded both and chocked; scared and wild like some primitive beast was being unleashed. The shadows from the trees dashed across her face followed by streaks of sunlight. The road that led to highway 17 came into view. She floored the pedal; tears staring down her face, filling in the hard lines as bawled madly. The opening to the two lane black top came into view; she didn't slow down; the Humvee screeched and nearly flipped as she pulled the wheel hard to the right, steering onto the asphalt road.
The music blared; her pain swirled. Old homes were on either side of the road. Most had no siding; there were a few trailers, an ancient road side vegetable and fruit stand; then came into view, near the edge of the street, a hoard of five dead men jerked their heads up at the sound of the roaring Humvee. She came to a screeching halt. She breathed heavily as she watched them move toward her. She climbed out and slammed the door behind her, walked around the back, and popped the trunk open. In front of her was an AR15, an AK47, and a blood stained axe. She chose the axe. The Humvee sat idling, For Whom the Bell Tolls set to repeat.
Her chest heaved and she smiled with a wicked pleasure; she wanted blood and she was going to have it right now. The sun glistened off her white teeth. She marched with rage filled steps and drove the ax through the skull of a nearest zombie. The small hoard moved for her. She kicked one of them, causing a domino effect; they toppled over onto each other like drunk fools. She ripped the blade out the split skull, stepped up the next dead man like she was going to bat, and swung hard, cleaving the head off. Another one lunged toward her and she met his momentum with the flat head of the ax crushing its face. She twisted around in a fast swirl and swung the blade with torrid hate, sending its head tumbling onto the road. She screamed. She challenged them to eat her. Mocked them. Laughed at them. And screamed again; her civilized mind seemed to have gone on vacation; or maybe it was gone for good.
Dead teeth snarled and low growls garbled out of their mouths. Their rotted, greenish black arms reached for her. The ax removed another head. She tossed the ax and it clanked against the road. She removed a sharp, 8 inch Kabar fighting knife from a thigh holster. She ran back to the Humvee, reached in and changed the song to Ride the Lightening. Andrews expensive sound system vibrated, contrasting loudly against the vast silence of the apocalyptic roadside.
“Time to die!” She shrieked and ran with speed at the jerking zombies. The force of her boot knocked one of them to the ground. She grabbed another by the back of the hair, forced its chin up, and drove the blade through its skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed out as she tore the blade out. The other dead men leaped onto her sending her down the hard road. The knife fell from her hand. The dead man nipped for her face. She held him at bay by pushing against its chest. The foul breath mixed with rank spit plumed in her face, filling her nostrils with the smell of fetid, rotten flesh and organs. The other dead man growled as it crawled toward her. With her left forearm she held it up, and with her right she removed her revolver, pressed it into the creature's throat, pointed up, and fired. Brainy blood erupted like a volcanic explosion. The final beast gnawed at her boot, pulled at her pant leg, and tried to move up her body. She leaned forward, pressed the barrel into its open mouth, arched the barrel up, screamed, and pulled the trigger. Blood exploded from its cracked skull, flew high in the air, and rained down onto the road in a red splatter.
She fell onto her back, breathing hard. Around her the bodies lay motionless. The sun burned down on her face. Ride the Lightening blared in the back ground. She laughed. Her laughter turned to a maddening cackle. She lay there for nearly an hour.
2
Her mind drifted. She was back home. Her girls danced in a circle singing. Jody cooked burgers at a grill. She watched them while she sipped a Bud Lite. The sky above them had been cloudless and deep, saturated blue; the sun shining bright and friendly. They were going to go see the fireworks later; the Fourth of July was one of the best times of the year for them; Candy had won the day off during a shooting contest with her follow officers; she was, after all, the best damn shooter in the South; she had the medals to prove it—she'd won the last three Southern Conference shoot offs.
Jody waved her over. The soft, freshly mowed and manicured grass pressed down under her Birkenstock sandals; she always said that he extra money for real Birkenstocks was worth it over paying a little less for knockoffs.
Jody was laughing and jiggling his big belly. “I told ya! Come look here babe.” Jody said. He removed a burger form the grill and placed it on a bun, “Taste the perfection.” She bit into the burger, chewed, and swallowed.
“Perfect.” She said and reached over and slapped him on his rather large backside.
“Nice and bloody. Just the way I like it.” She pulled him down to her lips by his shirt and kissed him. “Only my perfect fat man could cook such a perfect Angus burger.”
“Big bellies know best!” He said, giving it another fun filled jiggle; belly jiggling was a family past time.
The late afternoon sun burned over their heads as they enjoyed the clear blue day. A lite breeze blew, taking the edge of the humidity. The girls ran up. They both were matching yellow and blue sundresses that cut off right above the knee. Their hair was pulled back in matching blonde ponytails, and each wore a pink ribbon around the knot. “What’s cookin pop?” Tamby asked.
“You still on that kick?” Jody asked. Asking “what's cookin pop” was their new favorite phrase. “Livin the Salt Life” was a close second; and was stickered on the back windshields of their cars.
“Come here you little burger heads!” Candy said as she chased after them. They ran and frolicked in the soft green grass. Candy stared back at Jody. He smiled, waved, and patted his stomach; it had been a wonderful day.
Then she was back at the shooting range, not long after she’d graduated top of her class. Sergeant Stack stood beside her, “Best shootin I’ve ever seen from a woman!” Stack was a large black man, with gray showing on the sides of his head; he was what he called a “recovering marine.” He stood at six feet two, around one hundred eighty pounds; at fifty-four years old he was still a hoss of a man.
Candy had stood, her heart beating fast, and her eyes still locked on the target she ju
st filled with holes—dead center, “It ain’t about gender Sarg—it’s about heart. I want to help people and sometimes that means killing bad guys. That’s OK with me.”
Sergeant Stack patted her shoulder and held his ash black face high, “Damn right kid. But you know society don’t always see it that way and it keeps getting worse for us.”
“I know. If people only listen to the talking heads, they’d think all cops are racist murderers.”
Behind her, her cell phone rang. It vibrated against the wood bench she’d laid it on. She turned, stepped the few steps over, and picked it up. She turned to her Sergeant, “It’s my lovable fat man. Gotta take it.”
Jody spoke on the other line, “So you promised to come? You coming right?”
Candy put a hand on her hip and held her head to the side, “God I guess… you know I hate that place. The people are as stiff as the wooden pews they sit in.”
“You getting philosophical on me?”
“It’s just a fact of their nature, hun.”
“Momma loves it when we come. She swears we’re sending the girls to hell. It makes her feel better to see them dolled up and listening to preacher Ramsey.”
“Listening to that buffoon rattle off his backs wood hate filled nonsense aint something I like the girls to hear. I have to detune them every time just to make sure it don’t stick. Gays are taking over the country and taking our kids to hell with them! Is that all that man thinks about? I tell you now, he is gayer than a rainbow on a hot summer’s day.”
“That’s what my sister Betsy says… says she saw him and Johnny Sawyer kissing down by the marshes.”
“Betsy Sue! She gonna be there? If she does, I will go.”
“I’ll make her. I’ll drag her fat ass and promise her a trip to Denny’s and a cheese cake with blueberry and whip cream topping for reward.”
“Jesus Christ almighty… OK, my fat lover, I'll go. I'll take your precious angels and let those horrible people defile and indoctrinate their minds. Then I’ll take em home and do my best to wash their brains clean. What are you gonna do for me?”
“I’ll do that thing you love.”
“What thing?” She said with a smile.
“I won’t say it out loud.”
“You bashful pig! I’m going to stick a fork in you when I get home tonight.”
“And I’ll spoon you till the cows come home.”
She'd giggled; that too had been a good day.
3
She opened her eyes. The day had aged. Dark clouds rumbled overhead. She forced herself up. The blood oozed out of the dead bodies around her. She ignored them. The asphalt clicked under her boots as she walked back to the Hummer.
The leather seat crinkled as she slammed the Humvee door. For a moment she just stared. Her breathing was rhythmic and slow. She adjusted the rear view mirror and stared at her reflection. Dried blood caked her pale white face, covering the freckles completely. She opened the glove box and took out a handkerchief; she spit on it and rubbed as much of the blood off as she could. She started the engine. She drove away from the gory scene, making her way down an empty highway 17.
The clouds hung low and shut out much of the sun. A light sprinkle showered the windshield. She turned on the wipers. The only sounds were the hypnotic back and forth swish of wiper blades and the soft purr of the air conditioner on low. She was approaching an old Army Surplus Depot. She slowed and crunched onto the gravel parking lot. No one in sight, neither living or dead. She climbed out of the Humvee and stepped cautiously towards the front entry doors. She could only see shadowy darkness inside the store. A bell jangled as she opened the door. She paused and gripped her revolver. She waited and listened. Nothing. No sounds. The store smelled like dried oil and old clothes. Dust settled everywhere. Broken shards of glass from busted lights lie on the floor and cracked under her boots. She stopped for a moment. She listened. Nothing. She moved around the store. A row of World II helmets sat on a shelf, covered in dust. Black boots covered in more dust set on the shelf below the helmets. The store was a tomb of America's war history. Open netted hats from every era set on another shelf. Empty grenade casings from every war on another. Black and white photographs hung on the wall showing the scenes from different wars.
She stood in front of a tall, narrow vanity mirror. Pale white shin showed through torn and battered shreds of her deputy’s uniform. The material hung loosely on her body. The badge, smudged with smote and dark, dried blood hung heavily, barley clinging to a strand of material. Outside, dark bluish gray storm clouds gathered, sun light disappeared, and a hot bolt of lightning crackled, lit up the store, and flashed in her graying, blue eyes. She ripped the badge from her chest, and threw it on the floor, and watched as it bounced and rolled away, landing face down on the cold concrete floor. A harsh wind rattled the entry way doors, and the gush entered the store and brushed up against her, flowing through her long red hair, and breezing against her pale, freckled skin. She tore her uniform top off, revealing her hard abs, and slender, athletic frame, and threw the shirt on top of the badge. Her bra, white and tight against her bosom. She watched her reflection carefully as she removed her belt, then her pants, and stared hard at her white, satin panties, clinging tightly against her lean, muscled hips. She removed a tight black shirt from a hanger and pulled it over her body. A ripple of harsh lighting lit the entire store up as she pulled solid black BDUs over her hips, and refastened her thick brown leather belt. She looked over, at the front desk, and just beyond the register, sitting on a stool, leaning stiff against the wall, was a dead man. Lighting crackled again and white light lit the dead body. His chin rested against his chest and above his head a sign stated: FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS. On his head was a solid black cowboy hat with a wide brim. Candy walked over and hoisted herself over the counter, removed her revolver and pushed the tip against the man. He didn’t move. She took his hat. She ran her fingers over the brim. She raised it to her nose and breathed in the scent of old leather. Back in front of the mirror she put the hat on and pulled it over her brow, just above her eyes. Another crack of lighting shook the entire building and a light rain pelted against the metal roof; her reflection looked like a ghost against the white light of lightning. She turned and moved through the store and pushed the exit door open. Another loud crackle of electricity sparked in the sky. A strong gush rushed against her. Her hair blew under the hat. She stepped off the concrete walkway and onto the parking lot’s asphalt. Slanted rain blew against her. She stalked to the Humvee, opened the door, and slammed it shut. She started the engine.
4
The army surplus disappeared in the rear view. Candy drove down the black asphalt of highway 17. The road rumbled underneath the car and a loud wispy wind came through a nearly shut window. On her right, the salty sea breeze rushed over boarded, burned, and abandoned beach condos. An old wood sign read PAWLEY”S ISLAND HAMMOCK SHOP. Dead men jerked around the trees. One found himself entangled in a swinging hammock. At least 100 zombies wondered the abandoned shopping area. Candy stared for a moment as she zoomed past. Dead men jerked their heads up as she drove by.
A little way up a large golf course came into view just off the left of the road. More dead men wearing bright, blood splattered and tattered reds, blues, and yellows moved aimlessly on the gray and dead golf course grass. She blew past them without a second look. To her right stood an empty restaurant. The sign read HANSER HOUSE. A few zombies moved about the parking lot, bumping into cars at random. She continued down 17. She saw a sign: SAM’S HOTDOGS. A large red and yellow hot dog stood on top of the building. The building looked like an old double wide trailer on stilts. Its windows were shattered. Attached to the hot dog was a noose with a dead man hanging from its grip. The zombie's teeth mashed and its arms flayed. It dangled in the salty wind and rain. She drove past and the sight of MARTIN’S FIREWORKS caught her eye. Dead kids bumped against each other in the parking lot. She slowed down and came to a halt.
She sa
w a boy with a varsity jacket, and suddenly a memory jolted in in her mind.
Her hair was curled that night. A warm breeze blew her twirls around. Larry Splat was there. He was a thin and wiry boy that played basketball. His hair was always greased down like something out of Grease. His girlfriend, Cherry Baker, stood holding his thin arm. She was a large girl, over two hundred twenty pounds and smart as they come, “Yep. I’m headed to Presbyterian on a full academic scholar ship. Got the acceptance letter today.” She said and smiled with huge white teeth.
“I always knew you would go far girl.” Candy said.
“What about you? Still gonna take Criminal Justice at Horry Community?”
Some fireworks popped in the not so far distance, somewhere on the sandy beach. “Yep. It’s my calling.” The sky was a dark blue hue and the sun was setting. A light summer wind blew and the smell of salt and sun tan lotion lingered in the air, “What about you?” Candy asked Larry.
“PC of course. Me and my girl’s gonna be together forever.” He said and reached over and kissed her sun burned cheek, “Full athletic scholarship. My momma always told me my long legs would come in handy. What bout you Jody boy?”
Jody stood off to the side with a shy red look on his face, “Oh I don’t know… all I’m good at is fixin broken toilets.” He said.
“And you are the best plumber this side of Horry County babe.” Candy said as she grabbed his arm and pulled him over to her, “and the sexiest!”
More fireworks crackled, the sun disappeared, and bright stars shined against a black canopy. Tourists walked past them in small droves, entered the store, and came out with bags of fireworks. It was the beginning of the tourist season; something the locals both loved and hated. The salty air was now mixed with the smell of the explosive black powder as the wind carried it off the beach. The sounds of children’s laughter and the crunch of the gravel shot by them as little boys and girls ran for the beach. A parent shouted for them to slow down and wait.
Larry and Cherry excused themselves and headed into the store. “Get one of the big packets would ya?” Jody shouted. Larry turned and shot him a thumbs up. Candy stood with Jody, their hands connected and pulsating against each other. She looked at him and his eyes stared back longingly.
“Baby…” he bent to one knee, “will you marry me?” He slid his high school ring over her finger. It was much too big for her; but she still thought it was a sweet thing; her fat man was one big jiggly romance.
She stared at him and chuckled, then said: “We just graduated a month ago… now you want to get married?”
His fat face squished in like he sucked on a sour lemon, or like an angry child, “Dammit woman! Don’t foul up the mood with a bunch of talk. Just say…”
She pressed her lips against his, then pulled away after a few moments. “Yes! I will marry you, my sweet fat man!”
5
The world around her returned. Jody was gone. Larry and Cherry were gone. The smell of fireworks was gone. The stench of death and the pounding of dead hands on her windshield told her that that life was over. That world was gone. Never to return. Those days that were filled with laughter, sandy beach nights, warm fires and friendly embraces were replaced by death’s hot summer breath and bone chilling winters that froze more than just bone, but soul and passion itself. She felt the tears streaming down her cheeks. A horde now surrounded the Hummer. Their dead faces staring in at her, wanting her flesh, her hot blood.
She pressed the gas and forced the horded out of the way; they fell down like bowling pins. She stared into the rear view and saw the boy in the varsity jacket reaching out towards her. Who had he been? Just a happy high school boy looking forward to summer, feeling anxious about his upcoming freshmen year a college. What would he have done with his life had the Fever not come? Who would he of married? How many kids would they of had? Would they of settled down here in Horry County? Raising their kids to repeat the cycle of American dreams all over again?
She pushed the mirror down and forced herself to stare at the road ahead. Her mind was shutting down to the Old World morality. Her thoughts grew increasingly dark and sinister; she was slipping deeper and deeper into losing empathy for any and all people.
She continued down 17. To the right, a sign read ENTERING MURRELS INLET. The green trees swayed with the wind on either side of the road. The road was straight and even. Up ahead the sight of a CVS came into view. Candy slowed to a crawl. She needed antibiotics. That's why she was out here. Jack might be dead already, for all she knew. But, if she should save his life; she would by any means necessary. Then she saw the people. At first she thought they had to be zombies, but zombies don't run like that.
A man, woman, and kids were running inside the store. Candy crept the Humvee a little closer, parking it against the curb. They hadn't seen her. She exited, closing the door softly, and stepped over the concrete curb onto hot grass, her boots making shallow imprints. She saw no sign of the dead—a small miracle if there ever was one.
Ahead, steam rose off the black asphalt parking lot creating a foggy mist. Her boots clicked, clicked, clicked against the ground. Her right hand gripped the revolver’s handle. Her left arm rose and her hand lowered the hat’s brim, barely showing her piercing eyes. Her face was hard and stern. Her girls were gone. Her Jody was gone. Her Papa was gone. The rights and the wrongs of the Old World no longer existed for her. Kill or be killed; that’s all she thought as she moved in on the family.
Her legs moved precisely with her heels touching the ground with each step. Her right hand rested over her revolver while she approached the couple now coming out of the store, holding what looked like a bag of medicine. “What’s in the bag?”
A woman clad in a torn dress with blood stained yellow pokadots stared at her with a fearful glance. “Get over here girls! Who are you?” the woman said. Two girls grasped the backs of their mother’s legs and clung tightly, their frail bodies quivering.
“Listen now. We don’t have anything for you.” Said a man as he stepped in front of his family. “I’ll shoot you, I mean it!” He said.
Candy stared at the man’s pulsating brown eyes; he was scared. The barrel of his gun trembled with the involuntary shaking of his hand.
“Don’t do that.” Candy said.
“Do what?”
“Please just leave us alone! Why are you looking at us like that?”
The two girls peered around their parents. Their small knees trembled. “Please don’t hurt us lady.”
Candy didn’t move. Her breathing was rhythmic and smooth; and her stare never left the man pointing the gun.
The old woman spoke, “Just listen, would ya? We need that medicine for our little girl. She’s got an infection. Couldn’t you help us? Aren’t there any good left in ya? You don’t look so bad… we could help each other.”
“Antibiotics?” Candy asked. Her face was a grim shadow under the brim of her hat.
“You can’t have it! We might can spare a little food. But, we can’t…”
Candy drew her revolver, aimed for the husband’s forehead, and squeezed the trigger. His brains flew backwards, and covered the two little girls and their mother. The mother’s face cringed while she pushed her kids behind her. “My god, please! NOOOO—”
The next shot split the woman’s head in two. The two little girls held each other, and crawled into a fetal position and hid their faces. Candy’s footsteps marched slowly up to them and her shadow overcast their shuddering bodies. They were crying, shivering with fear. It was raining again; a thick shower falling from the dark, gray sky.
Two more shots rang out and the little girls went limp; their dead bodies two colorful lumps against the black asphalt.
In the car a child screeched loudly. Candy reached down and picked up the bag of medicine. The black asphalt creaked underneath her boots; the rain now poured out of the heavens hard and strong; lightning crackled and lit the eastern sky. She moved with precise steps, heel to toe,
heel to toe, and then hovered over the back seat window. Her shadow moved up the side of the car, darkening the screaming infant. The squeals became louder as she pulled the door open; the door ajar alarm dinged and dinged. Pictures of laughing children, and smiling parents were tacked against the back of the front seat’s head rest. The infant continued to bellow.
Beside the baby was another small bag of medicine. Candy picked it up and put it into the larger bag she held; and then stared down at the child. The baby’s cheeks were red, and tears streamed down like rain. It wiggled helplessly in the baby seat. Candy’s lip snarled, she picked up a pillow resting beside the child’s seat, and pressed it over the baby’s face and pushed down hard.
A few moments later the child stopped crying. She removed the pillow, revealing a blue, dead infantile face. She removed a short knife clipped to her leather belt. She stared at the blade; a break in the dark clouds beamed a ray of sun which reflected back into Candy’s eyes. She laid the bag on the seat, and with her left hand she pushed the dead child’s head to the side, and pushed the blade into the soft temple. She picked up the bag, and left the door open and the door ajar alarm chimed as she walked over to the dead man and removed his revolver from his death grip. She opened the chamber and smiled while she spun six empty holes.
6
Back on the road, driving back towards the swamp, the sky dark and menacing, a light rain still pouring against the windshield, and a cool wet breeze flowing through her hair, Candy stared blankly. In the back voices whispered “Mama why? Why did you kill those people?” Candy’s body jumped and she looked over her shoulder with a fast jerk. Nothing. She continued to drive.
“You didn’t have to do that Mama.” Candy slammed her foot on the break, bringing the Humvee to a screeching halt. Her bosom heaved while she closed her eyes. “It isn’t real.”
“Mama look!”
Candy opened her eyes and stared at her two little girls in the rear view mirror. She blinked. Then blinked again. But they still sat there, staring back at her. A foggy mist enveloped their bodies, and they were transparent, with parts of the back seat showing through. “You’re not real.” She said.
“You didn’t have to kill that baby. Why’d you do it? Mama, can’t you hear us?” The girls spoke in unison, like one voice. “Don’t look scared momma. We can help you.”
Candy stared forward and pressed the pedal down softly. The Hummer crept slowly down highway 17. A soft humming came from the back seat. Candy’s eyes began dripping.
“You remember that song mama? You loved it.”
“I do remember. I remember baby. Is this real? Can this be real?” Candy spoke with a cracked voice and let her tears fall. “Are you really there?” But she knew they were. She knew this wasn't a dream; this wasn't a hallucination. All those stories of paranormal sightings were true after all. She felt a cold shiver run up her spine.
“Why did you kill those people Mama?”
“I…had…to. Jack needs the medicine. If I don’t save Jack…” she burst into more tears. She knew she didn’t have to kill them. Why had she done it? Who was she now? Just another murderer in a murderous world?
“You don’t always have to kill mama. You can just kill sometimes. Not everyone needs to die.”
She did not respond. An opening in the sky poured late afternoon sunlight into Candy’s eyes. The storm was passing, heading east over the Atlantic. She lowered the eye shade and focused her eyes forward.
She felt like a monster. A disgusting, rabid animal. She’d killed an infant. Two girls no older than her girls had been. These thoughts would never leave her; would darken every future triumph. Why hadn’t she done something else? Why did she have to kill them? Had her mind really slipped this far into insanity? If so, could she come back? Could she regain some semblance of mental stability?
“Don’t worry mama! We will keep you on track!” The two girls slapped their palms together in celebration. “We’ll make sure only the bad guys die.”
“My babies. This ain’t possible.”
The girls began humming that soft melody again, a song for the dead. Candy’s eyes softened and her pulse slowed. Her grip on the steering wheel relaxed. Her breathing slowed to a steady rhythmic pace.
Candy spoke flatly, “Everything is OK now.”
(murderer!)
“Everything will be just fine.”
(babykiller!)
“I have my girls again. It is real. They are real. Everything is OK now. Everything will be just fine. I’m going to go meet Andrew now. Yes. Everything's perfectly fine now.”
She drove down highway 17, back towards the swamps. Her mind rested as the wind drifted through open windows. No music played. Only the soft hum of the girls in the back seat; their voices were hypnotic.
She finally reached the road leading back to the pontoon boat. The sun was lowering and dark shadow covered the marshes. Thick humidity still dampened the air and the smell of gas and vegetation stank.
The Humvee rumbled to a halt. She climbed out and slammed the door behind her. She walked over to the edge of the water. The boat was drug onto the edge of the marsh. Just outside the boat a red and white cooler lay. The lid was knocked open and dead fish had fallen out. Drag marks dug into the wet land. She followed the drag marks with her eyes. Her feet dipped into the soft earth as she followed the trail. The trees wrapped around her and swallowed her with dark shadows.
“Mama.”
“Yes baby?”
“This might get ugly.”
“I know baby. The whole world's ugly”.
(murderer!)
(babykiller!)
She moved through ancient cypress trees while her boots left imprints and sweat dripped from her face. The hot rotting vegetation left a gassy smell. “As long as I have you girls everything will be OK.”
(notthekidsyoukilled!)
She reached a clearing a few miles into the boggy wilderness. The trees were cut out in a circle. In the middle an old shack sat. It was made of rusted metal. Vines and green foliage covered its exterior. She lifted her leg but stopped it from moving forward. The path before her was made of whitish gray broken human bones. Thick grass and vegetation covered the rest of the yard. Gray smoke rose from a nearby grill. She took a deep breath and sprinted forward.
7
A few hours earlier
Andrew spoke softly to himself, “The whole world is on fire. The whole planet might not make it. But here I'm fishin and that’s all that matters to me today. Day by day is the way we have to live. Smile and be happy to be here catching the fish for the day.” A tear dribbled down his face. “Yep. Just another day in paradise. Another day. Papa’s gone...” He sniffed hard and shook his head. “Keep on marchin Andy. Yep. That's what I'll do Papa. Keep on fishin to. Ill catch us some good ones today.” He looked up into the blue sky. A cool wind blew against his face. The buzz of flying insects surrounded him like moving black shadowed clusters. Dark trees surrounded him. He'd found a calm section of the long river; the dark water was still around him.
He heard a rustle in the darkness. Crunching sticks. “All sorts of life still out there. Plenty of folks left in this world. Plenty of good people. Plenty of bad people. Just another day on this old blue globe.”
He'd never been known for his smarts; he wasn't dumb, but he'd never been much for reading books. He liked working with his hands. If he tried to read a book his attention just wouldn't hold.
His line caught and he reeled in a fish. He grabbed the line and hoisted the slippery creature into the boat and slapped it hard against the floor, then placed it in a red and white cooler. “That’s one. I need a lot more than one. God knows how long we have to last out in this place. What if a hurricane comes? How will I know? I guess I will just have to wait and see.” The water rippled from a sudden sharp wind. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Just fine. Everything is just fine. Everything is going to be OK.” Another fish tugged on the line and Andrew jerked it in, slapped it
hard on the boat’s metal, and put it in the red and white cooler.
The breeze was warm and the humidity thick. The sounds of breaking twigs came from somewhere in the woods. He laid on his back and stretched his legs out and allowed the sun to cook his face while he listened to the rustle. His eyes stared blankly at the darkening sky. A storm was coming. Might be a nasty one.
His mind drifted.
Andrew played Left for Dead on PS4. He was never good at video games, thought he did enjoy playing them. Mostly with Randy Jackson, his sometimes best friend.
“Im motha fuckin Randy GODDAM JACKSON! BITCH!” Randy held his arms up in victory. He'd just blasted the head off a zombie. This one, however, was on the PS4; and the Fever was years away. For all these boys new, the world would remain one of video games, no sex, and a lot of weed smoke forever and always—Randy's room was a high school loser's sanctuary.
Andrew sat at a wide double screen, playing side by side. The smell of weed in the air, a small fan blowing to his left. No troubles, none at all; the world was just fine that day.
“FUCK!” Andrew said as his character's head splattered.
“You suckin donkey dick SON!” Randy like saying donkey dick. It was his favorite thing to say.
Taking on Randy Jackson's online team never worked out. Andrew played on a team of complete strangers; Randy's team played the last two years together, nearly every day—Novy, RandyJackson, DECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE, and Foulslut. Andrew had a hard time understanding how Randy could spend so much time playing with people he'd never met in real life; but Randy always referred to them as friends, not making a distinction between the virtual world and the real world.
“Break time, Drew! Soda up!” Randy said, then spoke to his teammates through a head set. “He had some of that doo doo weed. Not smelled great. That doo doo weed. Sometimes Myrtle goes dry. As far as OK mids.” Said Randy Jackson in his ever so confused white boy mimicry of Ebonics. “That nigga brought the goods though. Real shit!” Randy said. He drew a long pull and sucked weed smoke (that doo doo, yo!) and held it...then exhaled. “Damn! That's shits rockin! Like action mutha fuckin Jackson!”
Andrew sat in Randy's bedroom. Randy's bedroom was part of a brick Georgetown colonial. The room was a large square box dedicated to the corporate rap industry. Four Kicker speakers, positioned in the four corners connecting the roof and walls, vibrated Eminem. Downstairs Randy's father (Doctor Harris, MD) and his mother (Miss Homemaker) watched Anderson 360 while drinking scotch (his mother drank a thirty-dollar bottle of red wine). Randy had been home schooled most of his life. His was a smart guy, though he would never let you know it; some people had even suggested he might be retarded. Andrew liked Randy; the confused identity didn't bother Andrew at all. Randy's seemingly endless stash of weed (yeah, even that doo doo weed) proved a valuable asset, given Andrew's lack of luck with ladies; not too mention his lack of social standing within the community of Socastee High.
Randy's bright red carrot top and landscape of freckles on his face, back, and arms, only complimented a sweet uniqueness. Blues eyes glimmered around black pupils. Randy's well brushed teeth smiled. Yes, Randy was OK, just fine with Andrew.
Randy prepared the Illadelph four-foot bong—while Andrew sat, nestled in an oversized bean bag, waiting for the weed to spark. Randy crunched up a purple and golden haired green nugget with a circular metal grinder. The smell was powerful and mouthwatering when Randy opened the top, letting out the sweet aroma of crushed weed. “You up, Drew! Blast that shit! To tha fuckin moon!” Randy stuffed the weed into the bong's bowl stem, then handed it over to Andrew. The bong was quite large, and had purple and green psychedelic designs up and down the glass. Andrew placed his mouth over the opening, put the Bic lighter to the stem bowl, lit the lighter, and pulled hard. The bong gurgled as the weed smoke went through the cooling water—
“Rip that shit, yo! YEAH!” Randy loved watching his friends take a serious bong rip.
Andrew sucked an insane amount of smoke into his lungs, held it as long as he could; his faced turning red as a beat; then he blew it out in a spasmodic rumble of loud coughs.
After Randy had his hit, they two boys continued to play Left for Dead; and Andrew continued to suck serious donkey dick.
8
A soft shower was now raining down as Andrew continued to doze in and out of sleep. He didn't even notice when his line caught again; nor did he notice the crunching of leaves and sticks and the dark shadow moving in the woods.
In his mind's eye he stood at a car lot. Rows of shiny new Hummers, reds, whites, blues, and blacks all sat shining under the early afternoon sun. “I sure appreciate this Papa. I really do.”
“Dont mentioned it boy. Just don’t fuck up my credit by defaulting.”
Andrew pushed the wheelchair over the black asphalt until he came up to a solid black Hummer. He'd been asking his grandfather for over three months to cosign for him a new Hummer. His grandfather had never said no, but never said yes either. Finally, the old man had smiled, slapped Andrew on the shoulder, and told him to wheel him to his transport van; they were gonna go get him a new Hummer.
“This the one?” Papa asked.
“Sure is. Black beauty. I been waitin so long!”
The Hummer shined from a fresh coat of wax. The wheels hadn’t been jacked up yet, but they were still large with silver chrome caps. The interior was gray leather. “All she needs is a lift kit and she’ll be perfect.”
“We can add that in for ya son.” A man said from behind. He was wiping mustard from his chin with a cloth. He wore a solid white button up shirt with black buttons. His tie was blood red and his double chin hung over the crease of his collar. His stomach bulged out and over a brown belt and his pants were wrinkled black slacks. “Yes sir, you fellas picked a dandy alright.”
When the man walked his large behind jiggled in his black slacks like cold gelatin on hot summer’s day. But it was sweet Southern spring, just over seventy degrees with next to no humidity in the air. Even so, sweat perspired through the car dealer's shirt, leaving sweat stains around the collar and under his arms. He was bald with only a few strands remaining, that he clearly took time to comb just right multiple times every day.
Andrew sat down inside the cool air conditioned office and the man removed a small mirror. Andrew watched as the man brushed thin strands back into place. Papers were spread out and pens handed over. Signatures were written and Andrew drove off the lot with his new Humvee, not to mention a smile that touched ear to hear.
9
While lying there, the sun hot on his face, surrounded by the darkening world, Andrew continued to dream. He was back at Christian camp. He was only fourteen and only now realizing what breasts were and that he enjoyed watching them bounce as the young girls ran by. He watched them jumping on the large circle trampolines while the much older and muscled councilors showed them how to cut back flips.
His mouth always watered. But he didn’t dare talk. They’d never take him. Andrew had one good friend back in those days (two years before he met Randy Jackson and the doo doo weed).
Sally Fighart was his best friend back then. She was a tall brunette that ran on the junior varsity track team. But at the Christian camp, she just sat with Andrew and watched the girls that had better breasts and firmer bottoms jump up and down. The large hands of the councilors assisted their back flips by pressing softly on their firm tummies and the small of their backs. Sometimes may touching a little lower than they were supposed to; what happens in Christian Camps stays in Christian Camp, so the campers loved to say; the eighteen and nineteen-year-old councilors had no problem with this philosophy, just make sure to pray for forgiveness.
“Look at em Drew. Just look at em.” Sally said.
“I am. I sure am.”
“Jesus. It’s all boys can look at. I mean fuck. Just look at em.”
“I will keep on lookin Sally. I promise.”
Andrew looked over at Sally and for a moment h
e saw years of rejection on her face. She as nearly as mentally ruined as he was and that was saying something. “You’re just as pretty.” He said and blushed red.
“Don’t even try. I know the pecking order. My mom says all that will change one day. When I grow up. She says that those girls will develop into whores and that know body will respect em after that.”
The sun burned like hell’s inferno. It was over one hundred degrees. Sally's complexion suffered miserly form the sweaty oil that stagnated on her face; she had a nest of pimples growing on each cheek; none of the councilors would be fondling her barely existent breasts this year.
Andrew rose up and moved over to the shade of some tall oak trees and settled against the bark with one leg out stretched out and the other pulled into his chest. He stared out over a large green field of manicured grass. The smell of honey suckle was not far off and the girls kept doing their flips on the large trampolines.
Sally lingered over and plopped down beside him. “When I grow up, my mom says I’ll develop large breasts and a lean firm ass.”
“If you do, let me know.” Andrew said with a smirk.
“One day I’ll be a star runner. I will have Olympic gold.”
“I believe it.” And he did; and she did win.
Years later, he watched Sally walking across the Olympic stage and accepting her gold medal; he’d just got off work after a twelve-hour shift of watching machines cut metal with red fire tips. He was still in his work clothes and stank of grease and sweat. He was now a twenty-year-old welder with a large Little Caesar’s pepperoni pizza sitting in front of him. Half the slices were gone. He lit a Marlboro and drew in the cancer. Seeing Sally smile had caused a tear to dribble out of his eye. “I always believed in you Sally.” He said to himself. He took a sip out of a can of Bud Lite and swallowed his regrets down with it.
10
He woke up. He saw a light rain falling toward his face. Heaven’s tears crying for the dying world around him.
He forced himself up and started the motor. How long had he been out? Hours? He looked down and saw that his line had snapped; the rod now lay in the boat's floor. He let out a small sigh of regret. He'd meant to catch a lot of fish. He wanted to bring back a huge dinner. He just wanted to make what was left of his family smile. At least make them forget the pain for a short while. If that was even possible now. Now it might just be endless pain, endless suffering, endless regret; never-ending strife iced over with the fact that they would all probably die in just as horrible fashion as the rest had. How did it happen any damn way? What happened to Papa and the girls while they were gone? How in Christ's name did Papa die and end up eating them. Plateyes never even crossed Andrew's imagination; nor did any other supernatural possibility.
He guided the boat back to the embankment. The rain began to fall hard, much harder than before. Lightening flashed followed by earth shaking thunder. He beached the boat, grabbed the cooler, and stepped out. “Better make sure these fish are good and clea—”
A sharp sting shut him up. He stumbled. He stumbled again. His vision blurred. Another rock flew out of the dark woods like a bullet and cracked him hard in the temple. He fell hard into the mud, knocking over the cooler.
A small crooked figure emerged from the thick brush. She looked as ancient as the tree’s themselves. She walked with a slight limp and pulled a sled behind her. She grunted as she pushed Andrew onto the sled. She bound him tightly with dark, bloodstained leather bands.
She pulled his limp, thin, unconscious body around thick trees. Thick rain blew against her sunken face and a hot misty fog engulfed them. “We be there soon young man. Very soon. Just a few miles in now. Then you get to know. You get to know what real pain is.” She held the rope over her hunched, pointed shoulders and grasp the twisted nylon with both hands, and dug her black rain boots hard into the earth’s soft flesh. “You always had it all. Everybody always had more. Never me. Nothing for poor ole me. Just a beggar. That’s what I was. Nothing but a disgusting beggar. Now you gonna beg me. I ain’t beggin no more.” A harsh wind blew her mud ridden hair and her black eyes beamed through the mist, her steps pushed into the mud, and she grunted as she lurked ahead. “No sir. No way. No more. Not me. Throwing rocks at me. That’s all people like you ever did. Laughed at me. Now whos laughin?” She cackled, her black gums exposed to the damp air, only a few rotting, yellow teeth showed.
Andrew’s body breathed softly and jerked from time to time. The rain poured over his closed eye lids, down his cheeks, and trickled against the sled. As she pulled him along through the dark Palmetto wilderness; Andrew's life flashed before his mind's eye.
He was at a grocery store. It was right after he, Jack, and Candy rescued Jody and Papa from the nursing home.
He drove the Humvee carefully down highway 17. Death was everywhere; bodies of those that recently met the final death were being ripped apart by zombies. Sweat dripped down his face, and civilization slipped before his eyes. It was all happening so damn fast. He felt sick and excited; he saw a large yellow school bus. Kids screamed inside. Some of them had turned and were tearing into the others. The face of a little blonde girl stitched into his mind that day and never left. She pressed hard against the glass, and behind, two boys, no older than nine, tore out her organs with tiny hands while she stared out of the school buses escape door.
But that wasn’t what caused him to bring the Humvee to a screeching halt. As he drove past the Piggly Wiggly, he saw a tall brunette running with fast even strides into the store; he knew those legs; he may not have seen them in years, at least not in person; but he'd know them anywhere.
“What the hell!” Candy screamed as he brought the Humvee to a fast stop and jumped. He didn’t say a word or look back as he ran through the crowd. He moved fast around zombies that reached out but failed to get hold of his flesh. The store was cold. And people screamed all around. The aisle dividers lay in the floor, knocked over like dominoes. He moved his head back and forth frantically, “Sally! Sally!” He didn’t see her. He ran down the bread aisle. Nothing but a zombie eating the stomach out of a little boy. The boy was still alive and screamed for his mother to stop eating him, to please stop eating him!
“Sally! Sally!” He ran past the zombie mother feasting on her son, and ran the frozen foods. There she was. He'd found her. Oh god, please no... he was too late.
Sally Fighart’s body, lean and curved with muscle, pressed against a glass freezer door that once held the milk. Two dead men chewed into her. One pulled the protein from her neck in gobs of bloody muscle. The other looked as though he was humping her leg as he pulled long strands of meat from her torn skin.
In those last moments, Miss Fighart, the Olympic gold medalist, the once breast less and pimple faced little girl, looked right at Andrew; and for a moment he saw her smile as the zombies munched into her. Her head jiggled back and forth but her eyes never left his. From behind him, grabbed him.
“You’ve lost your fucking mind! You fucking shit tard!” Candy pulled him along with Jack. He let them guide him past the dying and screaming people, out the door, back to the Humvee where Jody sat waiting with his hands on the wheel. The door slammed as he was forced into the back, and as the Hummer rumbled away from the screams and mayhem; Andrew wept for his Sally.
11
Now Andrew laid on the sled, delirious. The world around him rushed by in dashes of green and brown. From somewhere in front of him, though she sounded a thousand miles away, came the voice of his captor.
“Dumb worthless hag! Tramp they calls me! I was once a good woman. They didn’t care bout my past, only bout what happened. Weren’t my fault. Weren’t my fault what those boys did to me. Those rich boys back when I was young. Used me up, turned me out. Now look at em. They all dead. I’m right here.”
Her words fell on Andrew’s ears in fuzzy wisps, the sounds barely audible, like some strange and ghoulish nightmare where he knows he is being pulled to his death but can’t do a damn thing t
o stop it. Her black shadow danced over his eyes as he tried to look up and get a glimpse. But his head couldn’t stay upright and fell back hard against the sled. So he just stared up at the green canopy and wept.
“Tears ain’t gonna save shit boy. I cried once to, ya know? Didn’t do me a bit of good and it aint gonna do you either. Yous just a boy. And boys hurt girls like me. They use em up and spit em out. Not now though. Oh no. Good lords done gone and turned the tide. Now I bring the tears and causin the pain.”
Andrew’s sobs continued. The jerk of the sled jostled him around. He felt a powerful dose of nausea and green bile erupt from his mouth. He couldn’t turn to spit it out and it began filling up his throat and causing a sickening garbling noise.
“Oh no you don’t boy! Not that easy!” The woman came to a stop and walked over to Andrew. His body was turned to the side and old hands slapped his back hard, causing the bile to spill out of his mouth and onto the ground.
“Thatta a boy. Can’t let ya spoil. You fine meat son. Hell, we alls just meat.”
His vision cleared and he was left on his side as she pulled him deeper and deeper into the dark and wild wilderness. As the day grew darker, his eyes closed and he kept them closed. His legs hurt under the thick straps holding him down. What was happening? He'd been doing so well for nearly a year, hardly any troubles considering the nature fo the New World. Then, just like that, the tables had turned.
No, this can't be happening. All a dream, just a bad dream that would end soon. He’d wake up and see his Sally Fighart at any moment. “Just a dream Drew! Wake up you dirty scoundrel. Didn’t you hear? I made varsity this year! Aren’t you happy for me?”
“Yes Sally, course of I'm happy for you. But… why did you have to go and start dating Barry Darkwood? You always said…”
Sally had cut him off, “I always said I’d never date a preppy.”
And Barry Darkwood wore his polo’s flipped up around the collar like some flashback to the 80s. His fancy cars, he had three of them, all paid for by his dear ole father, Judge Barry Darkwood the first, which of course made Barry Darkwood the second biggest asshole in all of Horry county.
By junior year Sally had turned into a red fire bomb of a sexy looker. Her breasts developed into full C cups and her once long, thin, bird legs radicalized into lean mean running machines and her rump as a firm piece of muscle that perked its way into every high school boy’s lingering, horny field of vision.
And she’d fallen for Barry fucking Darkwood, the single biggest prick in all the land. And Sally took it further when Andrew pointed this out, “Yeah he does have a big prick. And I tell you now… I like it.”
“Great. He is just the all in one package.”
“I call him The Total Package.”
One year later, much to Sally’s dismay and dripping tears, Barry Darkwood forget she existed after he disappeared in the California college scene, two thousand miles away. She'd held on to Andrew like a sad puppy. “You can’t trust men with big cocks. That’s what I am taking away from this. Never trust a man with a big cock.” She’d then slipped her hand into Andrew’s pants and made the confirmation that he possessed the qualities of a fine, trustworthy, and decent man. After that moment, despite his obsessing calls, Andrew never saw or heard from Sally again until that fateful day at the Piggly Wiggly.
Those days died and Andrew’s haze started to lift. The old woman rambled her autobiography, jumping from story to story without offering much consistency. She once been a real looker. A real doll. Something everyman wanted. Then she was a little girl, just a play thing for her brothers and daddy. Used her up, spit her out. We all’s just meat after all. Then them boys done found her and used her in a dark alley. Then she was in love with a real man. A real winner. Donny Jumper she called him. A real winner. Then she was back at a hospital holding Donny’s hand. Cancer they said. Couldn’t save Donny. He died for sure. We all’s just meat after all.
Then she was homeless. Not a penny to her name. People throwing rocks at her. Calling her names. She started to cry then made herself stop. “Gonna show yous some pain now!” She turned and in a revengeful fit raised her foot high a kicked Andrew hard in the temple. A shiny white shimmer glowed in his mind and he heard a high pitch ringing. Then the dragging commenced, this time in silence.
12
Wild life croaked from the dark trees. Rain was falling hard now and his head pounded with nauseating pain. His throat felt like sand paper and the green around him blurred in a haze of dizziness. He shut them tightly. He transported his mind back to a moment in time when hot sparks flew against his face mask. He was helping Tommy Tyler—who owned Tommy Tyler’s Auto Mart and Mechanics.
Tommy stood over him rubbing his double chin. He wore a white t-shirt that clung over a big fat belly that hung over a thick brown belt that overshadowed his crotch. His arms were thin rails and his head shined a dingy brown under the car garage’s florescent lights. “Looking good Drew! Just like new.”
“Always happy to help.” Andrew said as he pulled the mask up and rested against a 98 blue Dodge Ram. Andrew had on a faded gray Hanes t-shirt with a front chest pocket. He reached in his front pocket and removed a pack of Marlboros—the shorts, and grabbed a Bic lighter he’d stuffed in the plastic covering the card board box that housed the cancer. He lit it and took a long drag and blew out a hot cloud of smoke, each one a perfect ring. Above, the florescent lights flickered. He’d taken up smoking not long after Sally had left. Then not long after that, he’d found his broken heart felt better dipped in a bottle of Jim Bean; and of course he still enjoyed Randy's doo doo weed. Which he had desperately wanted to get to right away. He had hated these trips to Tommy’s garage. He knew Tommy was a crook. The worst kind of crook. The kind that sold you a shitty car, knowing full well that it would leave you high and dry the moment the one-week warranty ran out.
He’d recently lost his job at the Swamp Pipe Company and was forced to draw unemployment. A week before he’d lost his job he'd seen the head line in the Palmetto Times: HORRY COUNTY’S OWN SALLY FIGHEART HEADED TO THE OLYMPICS; by the time she'd won the gold he'd found him a new job at Iron Caster's Welding, INC. He was happy for her of course. He had to be happy for her. But why did she have to just up and leave him like that?
Tommy the Crook was still standing over him and his cigarette had burned down to the filter. Tommy was almost shouting with his eyes focused on the ceiling. His abnormally long chin moved up and down, up and down. “The mother fucker calls me screaming. Says he wants his money back. His money back! Can you fucking believe that? I told him to go straight to fucking hell. The bastard then threatens me with a law suit. I told him to go ahead and waste his fucking money. Look at the goddamn warranty asshole! That’s what I told him. Exactly what I fucking told him.”
Andrew had sat and nodded, remembering the image of Barry Blackwood’s palm on the back of Sally’s head. He’d followed them over a mile and finally watched as they parked in front of Barry’s parent’s ten thousand square foot house. He watched in horror and a strange delight as Sally’s brunette head went up and down. He agreed with himself that is was more than just a wee bit creepy to follow them around. And, after masturbating, sitting right there watching that patch of brown go up and down; he knew he probably should seek help. The only help he ever found was in the bottle of his new best friend, Jimmy Bean and games of beer pong at Randy's home while his mom and dad were gone out of town; he developed a keen skill for a winning beer pong.
But he pushed on, day in and day out, always telling himself, “Its OK. Everything is going to be OK.” It became his slogan. His only way of holding onto his sanity. While he showered, “Its OK. Everything is going to be OK.” While he used the toilet in the morning, “Its OK. Everything is going to be OK.”
Back then, sitting on the floor of Tommy’s greasy garage, he said softly in his mind, its OK. Everything is going to be OK. Then Tommy was gone and so was the garage, the florescent lights, and the
cold concrete floor. Now the cackle of lightening, mad thunder, and hard rain poured over his body. The old woman was still silent, accept for the occasional grunt as she jerked him along down what now felt like a well beaten path. Her dark shadowed crept along the trees. “Almost there boy. Oh yeah. Almost there.”
Andrew suddenly realized everything's not gonna be alright.
13
Andrew forced himself to turn onto his back; then pushed his chin against his chest and looked at his strapped down body. The ties were nylon and clicked tightly around him with metal buckles. The sled itself was red. He wiggled a little. Then his heart started to pump. His mind cleared completely and for the first time since this woman entered his life, he was fully aware that she intended to kill him. Not just kill him, but make him scream and suffer. Sweat pushed out of his forehead in large droplets. Sally was dead. Tommy was dead. Barry Blackwood’s huge cock was dead. And he was about to be dead to, if he didn’t find a way out of this. He forced himself to breath slowly, one long breath at a time, then said in a low whisper: “It’s OK. Everything is going to be OK.”
Where had she come from? How did this happen? His mind was leaping from one end to the other trying to figure out how in god’s name this was happening. Where was Candy? Where was Jack? Where in Christ’s name was this woman taking him? The questions spilled over into desperate tears. He cried like a helpless child. Sally was in those tears somewhere, dripping down to the earth. So was Papa and the girls. Jack. Jody. Every person he’d ever loved and cared about flowed out of his eyes now. His last gift to the world was a tearful plea: “Let em be OK. All of them. Let em be OK. Papa. Candy. Jack. Jody. Oh and you Sally. I miss you!” He burst into pathetic sobs, causing snot to drip from his nose. “Oh Sally I loved you! I love you my queen!”
The old woman stopped for a moment and let out a shrilled cackle of laughter and then started pulling again, laughing hard and coughing up something deep inside her. Andrew bounced up and down as she pulled him up brick steps, then dragged him into an old shack. Inside it stank of dead meat and bones. Hooks hung from the ceiling and chains on the walls.
Oh jesus mother of god! His mind was screaming. He was laid out in the middle of the floor. She stepped outside and flung coals on a grill and lit it up. She then laid a cold iron onto the grill. The grill sat under an umbrella and the rain coursed off in all directions. “Let fires rumble! Baby here comes the meat!” She walked back into the shack and stood over him.
Andrew stared up at her with huge bug eyes, “You don’t have to do this. You are better than this. Come on! Put that down!” A sharp blade cut into his leg. He screamed. Writhing pain shot through his body. The hot blade sliced off his leg with ease. He watched in screaming terror as she raised it up and ran her nose down the length of his now detached blood dripping limb. Her eyes gleamed as she stared at his severed leg. Then her dark eyes looked down at him, “Hunny. We all just meat.”
Andrew’s face was white. Blood oozed out of his leg. His pulse was slowing to a slow tick. He watched helplessly as she walked out and then came back with a red hot iron. She pressed it hard against the wound, “Don’t worry boy. You aint gonna die yet.”
His screams filled the shack and permeated into the surrounding swamp land. Not a creature nearby didn’t hear his hair raising shrieks. Then he just lay there, a panting piece of dying meat. He didn’t see Sally. He didn’t see much of anything. His body fell into the arms of pain induced shock.
The old woman walked over to a small cabinet nailed to the wall. She opened it. The inside was stocked with baby food—one on top of the other. She took one out, opened it, grabbed a dirty spoon, and walked over to Andrew, “Gotta keep you alive son.” She force fed him the baby food, “There you go now. That’s a good boy.” It dripped down his face. His eyes opened just for a moment, then closed. She picked up the severed leg and walked over to a small wood bench. It was stained dark red. Andrew’s leg landed with a squishy flop. His boot was still on the foot.
She first cut the skin off. She peeled till the leg was clean of flesh. She flung the dead flesh into the woods. She then took the protein rich leg over to the charcoal grill. The charcoal was red hot. The meat sizzled as she laid it across the metal. She breathed in deeply. She kept her nose over the grille. The gray smoke flowed around her. She twirled. Then twirled again.
After the meat was done, she returned to the shack and sat down Indian style bedside Andrew. She ate the human leg with bare hands. “We just meat.” She said.
She finished the leg, chewing it down to the bone, then licking it for any residual protein. She then flung it into a pile of bones on the floor. She stared at the small mountain of white carbon. Each one represented a former life. Someone that used to dream and scream. Now they just turned slowly to bone dust.
She’d found the owner of those bones back when this first all went down. But, back then, the bones still moved inside the living flesh of the people they supported—the family was cooking when she walked silently to the edge of the tree line that surrounded the shack. She’d wondered out here after the Fever caused dead men to walk in the cities. Her belly had growled. Her mind had spun. In her right hand she held an Army issue .45 she’d picked off a dead solider. He didn’t need it, she had thought. He’s just meat now. Meat for the roaming dead. She’d shot the family dead.
That memory faded. She still sat beside Andrew, staring blankly over his body. In her mind's eyes she saw fraternity boys surrounding her. They'd pushed her and pulled her. Her clothes tore off. She'd screamed.
“Shut up! Fucking street rat!” They lobed spit in her face while each on took a turn with her on a sticky beer stained carpet. After they’d used her up, they tied her up, and loaded her in a car trunk. Her mascara, which she’d so delicately put on before the party, was smeared all over her face like pen ink exploded from her eyes. Tears created tributaries of pain in long squiggly lines that dripped down her chin. She’d been so excited. Real college boys. They’d really liked her, she’d thought. Jackie Mason, so tall and stout, had called her a real dazzler. Said she was a fine woman. She’d smiled up at his big blue eyes and fell in love instantly. But Jackie was driving the Cadillac as she vibrated in the trunk, a rag tied in her mouth, her hands and ankles bound tightly. Heavy music blared as fear took hold of her soul. She laid there, begging a deity for help, until the car came to a slow and creeping halt. The music stopped. The doors opened then closed. The trunk latch unlocked and moon light shimmered in. They stood above her with angry glares. She was jerked out with a harsh pull. Her eyes burned with fear as they dragged her naked body into an old cemetery, throwing her hard against a head stone.
“Dumb bitch.” Jackie said as he removed his member and peeded yellow onto her face. The others followed, then left her there in the dark, with their disgusting urine dripping off her. Tears fell as she laid in the dirt.
That morning a grave digger found her and she learned she’d been carried over to Sumter, SC, a little shit hole of a back woods hick town. The grave digger was a tall and thin black man with a few teeth missing. He was kind. He found her some old clothes to put on and drove her to the sheriff’s office.
She'd sat there staring at Sheriff Bass. His big belly protruded from his waist line and flopped over his belt. A large cigar dangled from his mouth. White hair sat on his head, accented by an even whiter handle bar mustache. She’d just told him the tale. He gleamed at her with menacing eyes, like he’d heard this before and resented it more every time. “It all sounds like a lot of horse shit to me, honey. You street girls get all liquored up, go out with these party boys, and then whine when you get what you knew was coming.”
She stared at the floor. It was gray carpet, recently vacuumed. She looked up and saw a black and white clock ticking. Below it and directly above the sheriff’s head was a confederate flag mixed with the palmetto flag.
“Listen. I’m not gonna lock you up, this time. I’ll have one of my deputies drive you over to the homel
ess shelter. Don’t come in here with bullshit like this again, ya hear?”
The image of the sheriff faded into a past that was never forgotten. She looked at Andrew and breathed out a sigh of relief. “Them days over… them days over…theys all dead.” She then took the hot iron outside and laid it on the grill.
14
She reentered the shack and shut the door, “OK! One more to go!”
Andrew screamed as she dismembered his final leg. Tears gushed from his eyes and he begged for death, “Kill me! Kill me! Just kill me!”
“Did I say yous gonna feel some pain? Oh hells yeah I did!” She walked back outside, grabbed the iron, and walked back in.
She pressed the iron onto the bleeding nub. “Now whos the dummy? Whos in charge now, boy?!”
Andrew screamed a cry of deathly agony. His eyes were wide and fierce with pain. His veins pumped hard under his skin and bulged through his neck like long purple worms. Never in his life did he think such pain existed.
After she finished, she pushed his body onto the floor causing him to whimper. She'd unstrapped him. He started crawling on his elbows. His legs were now blackened nubs. His vision was filled with strange, black butterflies floating aimlessly.
“Gotta get rid of those now. I specially like that fat under the arms.” A long hook hung from the center of the ceiling. A chain pully system was attached to it. The metal clanged as she pulled the sharp hook down. She wrapped her hands around the cold metal. She stepped up to Andrew and positioned the hook at the center of his back. She forced it in hard. He screamed and the metal clanged as she lifted him into the air.
He hung, suspended with the hook driven into his back. His knubbed legs moved like two short table legs. He prayed for death. Begged whatever god existed, please, oh please, end it now. Make this pain stop. What had he done to deserve this torture? He never hurt no body. Never cheated no body. Oh god, please just make it sto—
The door swung open sharply and knocked the old women to the floor. Candy stood in the door way and stared at her brother. She saw his blackened nub legs. She saw the pale, white horror in his face; the life had drained out of him. His eyes darkened like a storm cloud over black pupils, and a crooked smile spread across his face. “It’s OK. Candy…it’s OK.” His face grayed while his blue eyes closed. His chin fell against his chest and his head dangled loosely to the side.
Candy fell to her knees. Pain cringed across her face. Her little brother. Look what this world did to her little brother. Behind her the old woman cackled loudly. “Let’s not let that meat go to waste dearie. We all nothing but dead meat in the end.”
“Mama! Mama! Kill! Kill! Kill!” Candy stared at the ghostly images of her girls then back at the old woman. Candy rose. Her eyes locked onto the old women. A hatchet laid on a wooden bench to Candy’s right. It scraped against the wood as she picked it up.
“Kill! Kill! Kill!” the girls screamed.
The old women’s face stopped laughing. She trembled. “We all just meat honey!”
Candy looked at her girls. “Kill her?”
“Yes mama! Kill! Kill! Kill!”
“Who you talking to girl? We can work together you know?” said the old woman.
“For your daddy?”
“For daddy!”
“For your uncle?”
“We loved Uncle Andrew!”
“Who you see girl? They ain’t nothing there! Don’t do it! Don’t!”
The hatchet rose high and candy’s eyes shined with a mad glare and the blade came down fast and hard, split between the old woman’s skull, sinking between her eyes and stopping above the bridge of the nose. The ragged old body tumbled over and her blood pooled around Candy’s black Kevlar boots.
Behind Candy, a noise caught her attention. She turned. Andrew’s body jerked. Jerked again. And then jerked fast, hard, and violently. His eyes shot open; they scowled a white hot glare; a rumbling roar erupted from him, and his neck careened, and his arms flayed forward, and his entire body jerked with wild and hungry passion.
“That’s not Uncle Andrew Mama.”
“No baby. It sure isn’t.” She removed her revolver, aimed at his head, fire erupted from the barrel, and a bullet whizzed through the air and torn asunder her dead brother's brains.
Candy smiled as her translucent girls danced hand in hand in a circle around her. “Mama! Mama! Mama! Kill! Kill! Kill!” The old woman’s blood now streamed around Candy’s boots, spreading through the old shack’s blistered wood floor. Bloody axes, hackets, and knives surrounded her. The smell of dead flesh stank the room. Humidity clung to the air and bugs buzzed above body parts and bones. She exploded in laughter as she stared at the ceiling and let tears run down her red speckled face. This room represented the New World, she thought as her mind courted insanity. The bones, the flesh, the bugs, the death, the pain, the hate—it’s all that’s' left. This is all that's left when the lights are gone, the cell phones are dead, the reality shows are cancelled, the pop artists are out of business; this is what remains. May be this is all that there ever was. All the glamour of the Old World was just a thin, lying veneer hiding the grim reality of man's primal need for the gore and mayhem of the New World. May be the Fever freed humanity from its self-imposed, civilized shackles.
Candy gathered herself
(babykiller!)
and walked out of the shack, back into the New World; where she knew new horrors waited, ready and willing to show her that if she thought this was bad—she aint seen nothing yet.
15
Candy moved back down the path heading to the pontoon boat. The rain had stopped; the sun had broken through. The day was heating up, the humidity already making a stellar come back. She didn't feel much of anything in that moment. Her mind had stored the image of her brother hanging from a hook, surrounded by death, far back into the nether regions of her subconscious; a place that comes alive during dark nightmares; a region of traumatizing pain that waits for an opportune time to hit the play button; reeling the drama in the mind's eye like a digital projector.
She was closing on the clearing that led to the pontoon and the water's edge; she heard voices, male voices, stranger danger, red alert; her own primal instincts now sharpened and tuned in on the new horror frequency sent her hand straight to the handle the Colt revolver. She slunk down into a slow and stealthy walk; she edged her way to the clearing.
She saw three men. Camouflage covered their thin and rugged bodies. They stood around the pontoon. Then the men saw the hummer and smiles broke across their faces; faces that looked higher than a fucking kite; jacked up on something crazy strong; she'd seen that kind of look countless times dealing with meth heads; but this look was more intense, like they weren’t quite human anymore; they looked like primal savages with the intelligence of rabid bears.
"Mama... can't let em take the Hummer." The girls spoke in hushed whispers, their translucent bodies shivering in hot swamp air like ghostly vapor. Earth's hot steam rose, surrounding Candy with stealthy mist. She removed her revolver and quietly opened the cylinder. Three bullets left. Primal savages with insane bear intelligence or not; powerful drugs fueling their intensity withstanding; hot lead shot by an award winning gunslinger was a fix all for such circumstances.
(murderer!)
(babykiller!)
The soldiers were now sliding the pontoon on the shore. They looked to be talking about trying to secure it to the top of the Humvee. Candy aimed her revolver for one of their heads. Then the crackle a radio on one of their belts caused her to stay her trigger finger.
The man turned and looked in her general direction.
She didn't budge.
He was walking casually closer, speaking loudly into the radio. "A hell of a find, Sarge! A Humvee and a pontoon boat... Nope. I don't see em... Wait a second...holy shit!"
The rain had washed away some of her tracks and the drag marks from Andrews final ride. But, now, the radio man spotted them; then he spotted her.
> Her first bullet split Radio Man's head. The two other had stayed at the Humvee and turned fast, almost fast enough. Her second bullet burst a hole through the next soldiers right eye, exited through the back of his skull and splattered his buddy red. The man fell backwards and took cover on the other side of the Humvee.
The radio crackled alive on the ground with questions. What is your situation? Do you copy? Hello? Tom, are you there!"
The man jumped up from the other side and sprayed an erratic spurt of bullets from his rifle; the hot lead zipped passed Candy, leaving her unscathed. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Candy said in a soft monotone as she entered the clearing, making her way to the Hummer.
A wild voice came from the other side of the Jeep. “You just fucked up! I mean, you just fucked up big! You go any idea who you messin with!”
Candy squatted down and stared under the Hummer. The man may be jacked up and feeling strong; but that bear intelligence just failed him. She picked up Radio Man's rifle, a AR15 (seemed like everybody's carrying them these days), aimed it deftly at the man's exposed ankle and fired. Hot blood shot from his leg in a red spurt and he fell to the ground, dropping his rifle, screaming. She now ran around the hummer, quickly walked up to him, and kicked the rifle out of his reach. He was looking up at her, his big bug eyes pulsing in his skull. “You going to regret this, fucking bitch!” He spat at her. She smiled.
“You have clue what you just did? Who you just fucking crossed? You red headed, stupid fucking cunt! The Militia will have your fucking head in a goddam slin—”
She blew his brains out. The report of the rifle echoed over the smoggy land, the hot humid air, and reverberated over the black water. Somewhere a flock of birds took flight.
She examined their uniforms. This was some new hell; this wasn't the City of God guys. She was almost certain of that. They had a basic patch stitched on their arms with skulls and rifles crossing each other with only two words in bold capital lettering: THE MILITIA.