Part 3: Steaks, Hospitality, and Gunfire
By Jordan Martin
“And may God have mercy upon us all in this dark time,” Harry’s old voice said, cracking as he spoke. For a moment, my father’s voice echoed in my head, though he never had half as many white hairs as Harry did.
“Amen,” we both said softly. I picked up the fork and knife on either side of the plate, eyeing the thinly sliced hunk of charred meat on my plate. It’d been over a day since I’d eaten, but what sat in front of me didn’t invoke any hunger.
“Looks pretty good,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was talking to myself or Harry.
“If I know one thing, young man, it’s how to cook a good steak,” Harry replied. Giving a small smile, he gestured with his silverware and said, “Eat up.” I put my fork to the top of the meat, ready to push into the dark, crunchy exterior. The meat gave no resistance, the fork only stopping when it hit the plate.
“It’s tender,” I said. The thought of a warm meal made my stomach growl a bit. The butter knife glinted against the light, only yielding to small water spots. “These are clean, aren’t they?”
“If you’re wonderin’ about the water, I have a well. I filter n’ boil the stuff, too.”
It was good enough for me. My knife slid through the steak, separating a bite-sized piece from the mass on my plate. I closed my eyes and said a small prayer for mercy on my taste buds. Salty, soft, and delicious, I chewed with an eager surprise. Every bit of it was delicious.
“This is amazing,” I spat out between my chewing. The outside wasn’t burnt—it was perfectly caramelized and dark. I didn’t recognize the cut, but that never stopped me before. It reminded me of one of those exotic steakhouses where they had all kinds of offal. If I had to guess, this had to be some jowls.
“Like I said, I know how to cook a steak.”
We ate in silence, unable to speak amid our chewing. My stomach yearned for more even after I’d cleared my plate. Unable to stop myself, I asked if there was more.
“Free dinner ain’t enough for you?” Harry grumbled.
“Harry, I—“
“I’m giving you shit, boy,” he grinned. “But I only cook one supper. You want more, you’re gonna have to earn it.” At that, I gave closer thought to my present condition. “But that ain’t happenin.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, a yawn overcoming my face.
“You’re no more good for me than them sick bastards if you’re not rested. You earned a bed for the night, but we got more to do tomorrow. Those dead need to be burned, or they’ll just rot and attract more.” Harry said, swallowing down a chunk of savory meat. “You can take Arthur’s old room.”
“Where’s that?”
“Upstairs, second door on the left. You can take the first door, but I don’t think you’d care much for sleepin with the toilet,” Harry smiled. I wanted to laugh, but every part of me was too heavy to even try. I blinked my thick, swollen eyelids, and pushed myself upward off the table.
“You mind if I get a glass of water?” I asked, stumbling toward the sink with my plate.
“Sure, just make sure you get it out of the jug with the blue lid. The red lid stuff ain’t boiled yet—jus’ remember, red is dead,” Harry said, but I was lost after the first word. I set the plate in the sink, retrieved a glass from a cabinet nearby, and filled it to the brim. It wasn’t cool, but it slid down my throat and washed down the last pieces of meat I’d swallowed too quickly.
Once I’d emptied the glass, I let out a loud sigh. A thin, notable iron taste lingered from the water, clinging to my teeth and tongue. It was well water, for sure. I thanked Harry once more, and made my way out of the dining room, through the living room, and up the stairs. The walls could very well have been bright purple with pink polka dots. I didn’t care. I just wanted two doors on the left, and the bed beyond.
Before collapsing, I caught myself going through the usual bed time motions. I took out my cell phone and set it on the night stand. My wallet. My watch. I sat on the edge of the bed and made the aching reach for my ankles, tugging my thin-insole black leather slip-ons from my smooth black socks. The sun was setting outside, and darkness was taking over.
If I’m honest, I don’t even remember lying down. The worst part about sleeping when you’re exhausted is you don’t seem to sleep; instead, you blink and it’s sunny outside. I sat up in a room covered wall to wall in Lynard Skynard and Allman Brothers posters. I laughed for a moment, remembering the time Chloe first heard “Sweet Home Alabama.” She had mono, and was trying to relax in her bed, and then that song came on. She hated it, but was too tired to do anything about it.
A heavy yawn overcame my face, straining my eyes shut and making my jaw hurt. My limbs, still sore from the last few weeks’ worth of running, were entirely unaccustomed to the rest I’d gotten last night, no matter how brief the snoozing seemed.
My filthy shirt was glued to my sweating frame. My pants felt loose around my shrinking waist. My skin felt tight and dry. I didn’t care. I was alive, and I had a chance at seeing Chloe again. I slowly peeled myself out of the bed and marched down the stairs. The kitchen was totally vacant, save several new blue-capped jugs of water. Harry must have been busy.
I helped myself to a glass, savoring every last drop. The hint of iron even felt pleasant against my palette. I filled up a second time, then turned toward the window. It faced toward the side yard, away from the marsh in the front. Still, the brilliant sunlight lighting up every strand of grass made it hard to believe the front yard was a cesspool.
Made it hard to believe so many people were dead.
Suddenly Harry appeared, carrying a medium sized cooler and a gallon jug of water. The jug looked about half full from what I could see—the other half Harry must have drank, and it was now pouring down his face in sweat. He noticed it too, and even stopped to wipe his forehead with red cloth from his pocket. A thin trail of blood ran down Harry’s arm, glinting in the daylight.
He picked up the cooler and the jug, and made the rest of the way to the house. The door creaked loudly and slammed closed. Harry’s boots thudded loudly as he stomped the dirt off of them.
Like it mattered.
“I was startin’ to wonder if you were dead, boy!” Harry grinned when he saw me in the kitchen. I chuckled, even though it seemed a bit dark for Harry. “Then again, them dead don’t sleep so good these days.”
“I suppose,” was all I could muster. Harry set the cooler on the counter, and I caught another glimpse of the blood. It was tacky and thick, like it had been there a while. “Did you catch your arm on something?”
“Whassat?” Harry said, holding his arms up and looking them over. He spotted the red trail on his arm, and reached for his cloth again. Harry let out a grunt, and retrieved his red cloth once more.
“Oh, we were runnin’ low on meat, so I butchered some up this morning after I got done boilin the water,” he muttered, sounding frustrated as he cleaned his arm. “I swear, this stuff sticks so bad, it’s sunk in.” He wiped away the trail to a fresh, unscathed arm.
“Speakin’ of,” he said and turned to the cooler, “it’s time for lunch. How many steaks you want?”
“Just the one—do you need a hand?” I asked.
“Nah, but you can sure as heck go fish some more water outta that well. I put my truck by it and a few empty containers. Get em all filled before I’m done cookin these up and I’ll let you sleepin’ half the day off slide.”
I turned and walked out of the kitchen and through the back door. I made my way to the well, realizing halfway there that I had no idea how to actually get the water out of the well. There was a huge bucket and the truck Harry mentioned, but nothing about this felt intuitive. We always had a pump when I was a kid.
Nietzsche once wrote about men, monsters, and the abyss. I’d survived the first two without a problem, but the depths of this well stared back into me without hesitation. The bucket had a r
ope leading to the top of the well opening, suspended across a horizontal rung that looked like it could turn. I didn’t see a handle to turn it, though.
Still, I cast the bucket down, holding the rope to keep it from dropping and breaking. Brittle, dusty threads popped off the rope under the weight of the bucket. The rung rotated, but kept hanging up hard enough that I had to give it a tug a few times to keep the bucket moving.
My arms were starting to strain with the weight of the rope and empty bucket—worry overcame me for a moment, realizing there was no way I’d be able to lift this bucket when it was full. The rope slid through my hands, but suddenly became slack. I’d hit something, but the echoing thud told me it wasn’t fluid. It was dry.
I let the rope go entirely and turned back toward the house. There had to be something better for me to do.
“Hey, Harry?” I called around the corner as I neared the front of the house. Why he kept his grill so near the stink-hole of a front yard, I thought I’d never know. Stepping foot onto his porch, though, it was evident—he had a clear view of anything approaching. Like the cloud of dust billowing from the gravel road nearby.
“Anyone followin’ you round out here?” Harry asked. I didn’t answer—that would have meant I had to breathe. My mouth felt dry and my heart pounded hard in my throat. It was Chloe. It had to be. Harry lives in the absolute middle of nowhere.
Then again, my GPS has led me weirder places… it could be some random, unfortunate, and lost travelers. There were also quite a few infected roaming from the surrounding cities. Just a few from each direction could total out to a crowd, like the one I’d seen by my truck.
Still… I hoped.
“It’s my wife,” I finally spit out.
“Your wife? How in the—hey, where you goin?” Harry shouted after me. My arms and legs swung awkwardly around my torso as I lunged forward, tearing toward the road. The driveway faded underneath me, and I dove over the wire fence. I landed on my left shoulder hard, but kept moving forward. Harry kept shouting something after me, but I couldn’t make anything out over my own gasping.
The cloud was approaching fast, but no vehicle was in sight. I stood in the middle of the road, watching. Waiting. Trying desperately to catch my breath.
“Kit town!” Harry shouted. Fixated, I could only bark a response.
“What?”
“GET DOWN!” Harry bellowed. Loud pops suddenly sprang from the house, accompanied shortly thereafter by whizzing and thumping impacts as the spray impacted the road. My arms flung over my head and I dropped forward to the dirt. My shoulder rang out in pain, worse than when I jumped the fence. I shuffled across the sharp rocks and toward the sparse grass ditch.
My breathing eased, in spite of the massive gulps of dirt and dust I was inhaling. The skin on my elbows and hips raw from dragging didn’t register until the dry grass jabbed into the open sores from all directions.
“Move!” Harry shouted, sounding markedly closer. I looked up and back to the house; Harry stood in the driveway with his assault rifle shouldered. Following his gun, I glanced behind me. Four sun-bleached corpses clambered behind me, gurgling and choking. The one woman among them was leaking red and clear fluids from the open wound in her throat. She looked to be the freshest of them.
The other three men could have been triplets. Bib overalls and flannel shirts, all adorned with silver buttons and spattered in blood and dirt. Their cracked skin was yellow and gray, worn from years of abuse and labor. The nearest was only a few feet short of me, covered in blood from his jaw down. He fell to his knees, reaching out for me.
My exhausted, sore body had nothing left to give. My leg swung upward, but no force was behind it. He persisted, his moans growing in volume and frequency. Swelling began closing my throat, panic arresting my senses. I was going to die.
I’m so sorry, Chloe.