A Little More Dead (20 page)

He rubbed his face with both hands,
pulling the skin down around his eyes. “It’s too big. Go somewhere else.”

“There’s nothing else around and I’m
tired of driving.” Dan slammed a full clip into his
Glock
and racked the slide. “It’s almost dark.”

Paul tried blinking the sleep from his
eyes, his mind as thick as his tongue felt. The car show guy’s slobber haunted his
mouth.

Would it hurt when he turned?

Would any part of him remain?

He hoped not.

Quietly, they exited the vehicle and
approached the back deck. Paul’s legs felt like wet sandbags. He was tired of
these
chores
taking him away from his thoughts of Sophia. He needed to
grieve and they wouldn’t let him and it wasn’t right! What didn’t they get
about that? On the wooden deck, Dan peered through a window with his hands cupped
around his face, his Browning leaning against the house. “I think I saw
something,” he whispered.

Wendy and Paul peered through a set of
French doors, the kitchen inside cloaked in shadows.

“It looked like someone just walked out
of the dining room,” Dan said.

“Yeah, probably the same person who
boarded up these windows,” Paul replied, noticing the two boards running across
the patio doors. “We should leave.”

“And go where?”

Dan shifted in his stance. “Wait, are
those candles smoking?”

Paul and Wendy went to his window and
observed thin streams of smoke rising from two long and skinny candles centered
on a dining room table, as if someone just blew them out. “I see it.”

“I don’t see anything,” Wendy whispered.

The hammer clicked back on a gun behind
them, gluing them in place. “We already gave at the office,” a gruff voice
said.

Instinctively, they eased their hands into
the air and slowly turned around to find themselves staring down the barrel of
a .357 Magnum revolver. The man behind it spread a sly grin below his bushy
gray mustache. He tipped his cowboy hat to them, a toothpick wiggling in the
corner of his mouth. “Now just keep your hands were I can see
em
and step away from the house.”

They did as requested, coming closer to
the tall man standing in the backyard.

“We’re just looking for a place to spend
the night,” Dan said, reaching for the sky. “We’ll move on.”

The man stared up at them for a bit, one
eye thinner than the other, toothpick jiggling. Time slowed to a crawl. “Well,
so far I
ain’t
seen no talking stiffs yet, so y’all
got that much
goin
for
ya
,”
he said, his voice as deep as the blue in his eyes.

“No, we’re not one of those things,” Dan
replied.

“Not yet anyway,” Wendy muttered.

He snorted, eyes landing on Paul.
“Just the three of
ya
?”

Dan nodded. “We’ve been on the road all
day.”

The French doors clicked open behind them.
“Brock!
Put that goddamn gun down before you kill
somebody!”

They turned to a pretty lady in black
high heels standing in the doorway with her hands planted on slender hips.

“Get back in the house and mind your own
beeswax, woman!” Brock hollered back, not taking his eyes or gun off the
strangers.
“Where y’all
comin
from?”

“Paul and I came down from Des Moines,
Iowa,” Dan told him, glancing at Wendy. “We met Wendy in Kansas on our way
south.”

The tanned cowboy eyeballed them with
careful consideration, stroking his mustache as he mulled things over in his
head.
“And where to now?”

“We’re going to play volleyball at the
ocean and start civilization all over again.” A destructive grin slid through
Paul’s thick brown stubble.

Brock chuckled a little. “Not a bad
plan,” he responded, tentatively lowering his weapon. “Bet you were
freezin
your tails off up in Iowa. Power’s out there too, I
take it.”

“Power’s out everywhere,” Dan said,
dropping his arms to his sides.

Brock made a clicking noise with his
tongue and stuffed the cannon in a western drop-loop that hung low and tied
above his right knee. “Never seen anything like it,” he stated, resting a hand on
the butt of his gun and giving them the once over. “Well, y’all look like
ya
could use a hot meal. Come on inside.”

“Oh, we don’t want to put you out,”
Wendy responded, nervously looking to Dan and Paul.

Brock stepped up onto the deck and
stopped in front of her, the ghost of a grin tugging at his thick mustache. “Not
puttin
us
outta
nothin
, Miss. Only visitors we’ve had lately can’t hold a
conversation worth a shit anymore, so we’d love the company.” He nodded to the
cattle mooing in the distance. “
Gonna
grill up some
steaks tonight.” He spit the toothpick to the deck. “Hated to waste an entire
cow for just two people and it won’t be worth a hog’s ass tomorrow,” he said,
giving up his back and clicking his cowboy boots past a long patio table with
cushioned seats.

The three friends traded uncertain looks,
darkness staining the sky.

Brock stopped at the French doors.
“Well, y’all
comin
or what?”

“What if it’s a trap?” Wendy said under
her breath.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” Paul
suggested, locked in staring match with Brock. The last thing Paul wanted to do
right now was make new friends over dinner. Small talk wasn’t high on his list
of priorities and oh how they would talk! Talk about what they did before the
spread, where they were when it happened and how they’d narrowly escaped with
their measly fucking lives. Paul could give two
shits
.

Dan spoke in a soft voice. “It’s not a
trap; it’s T-bones.”

Paul and Wendy watched him head for the patio
door, confliction in their eyes. Wendy turned to Paul and shrugged. With a
heavy sigh, he followed her across the deck, the purple butterfly peeking out
from her motorcycle jacket reminding him of the night they spent in Dancers.
The night Sophia was still Sophia.

Inside the kitchen, Paul noticed two
things inside right off the bat: A) It smelled delicious, and B) Brock’s wife
was tipsy. He could smell the whiskey in the cola she toted around in a rocks
glass as she shook their hands. The way Cora carried herself in the kitchen reminded
him of the women Sophia watched on the Food Network – easy to talk to with a
warm smile. Cora’s shoulder length hair, a mixture of chocolate and silver, bounced
as she tended to four different things at once. Timeless black heels showed off
her toned calves and Paul found her black tight skirt and shiny red top a bit
of overkill considering the situation. And was she wearing perfume? They must’ve
had a special dinner planned for tonight, maybe one last big shebang before
blowing their heads off for dessert.

Packages of instant mashed potatoes,
gravy and cornbread littered the kitchen island, and soon the wonderful smell
of charcoal filtered in from the deck.

“Cora, where in
tarnation
did you put those tongs, woman?”
Brock hollered
from outside.

“They’re right here, honey!” she sang
out, gracefully ushering them outside and planting a big kiss on his cheek as
she handed them off. She glided back into the room, wiping her hands on a
flowery apron. “Man would lose his head if it wasn’t already attached,” she
muttered, the enormous diamond ring on her finger making Paul blink. “Shoot,
might lose it anyway these days!” Cora let loose with a wild laugh and quickly sobered,
eyeing them as if one of them had just stolen something from her. “Now, let’s
get serious. What do y’all want to drink? We’ve got whiskey, rum, vodka, gin, and
lukewarm beer and wine.” Her hazel-colored eyes sparkled like copper pennies,
desperate for any distraction to keep her mind from the calamity outside. Her bright
gaze lingered on Paul. “You look like you could use a double, sweetie.”

They all went for Jack and Cokes, but
later Wendy switched to a nice cabernet to go with her dinner. As promised,
Brock grilled up some fresh cuts right off the farm and the smell alone made
Paul’s mouth water like a Seattle raincloud. Red juices bubbled around the
charred edges of the enormous slabs of meat taking up most of their plates. Paul
hadn’t felt hungry in the least but ate like he
’d just been
rescued
from a deserted island. They all did. Perched around a long
dining table made from heavy wood, they wolfed down the thick cuts, mashed potatoes
and gravy, and canned corn under the trembling light of two tall candles. Cora
even baked some instant cornbread on the grill.

Gravy dripped from Brock’s mustache and he
didn’t seem interested in wasting time with the silk napkins Cora passed out just
before dinner. He chewed with
purpose,
only stopping to
take long pulls from a can of Coors Light, taking his time appreciating what
won’t last forever while Cora refilled their glasses and warmed up more
potatoes outside on the grill. Paul ate with his mouth shut while the others eventually
traded predictable stories about where they were from and what they used to do
and who they lost in the spread and blah, blah, blah. Wendy told Brock and Cora
she was a waitress at The Cheesecake Factory, which prompted Dan to start
choking on a piece of meat.

Wendy dropped her napkin next to her empty
plate and leaned back, rubbing her belly with both hands. “That was
ammmmazing
. I feel sick, but thank you so much.”

“There’s plenty more if
ya
want.” Cora flashed them a pretty smile. “Normally, I
would’ve made a nice chocolate cake to top it off with, but
kinda
hard to do without my precious oven.”

Paul stared down at his empty plate like
he didn’t recognize it, like he couldn’t believe he was the one who finished
it, like he could ever be hungry again. It was insulting to Sophia and he
pushed his plate forward, sickened by his lack of respect. How could he eat
when she was dead? Asshole! He stared at his Jack and Coke, consumed with guilt.
She should be here with them, enjoying this meal and looking forward to the
beach tomorrow. It almost could’ve been fun.
Just them against
the world, living on their own time and no one else’s.
But he failed her
and there was no do over. Tipping his rocks glass back, he let the whiskey burn,
wanting to be alone with his miserable thoughts instead of seated around this
table like it was
Thanksfuckinggiving
.

With her legs crossed, Cora nibbled on a
warm piece of cornbread and said something about a solar-powered oven, which
prompted Wendy to say something about a solar-powered car and then Dan said
something about getting a generator so he could watch movies and play his iPod
outside of the car.

Brock sat back and
laughed,
a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah, that’s just what
ya
wanna
do these days, go and
stick an iPod in
yer
ears so
ya
can’t hear any of those creepers
sneakin
up from
behind!” He followed that up with a loud belch that drew a warning look from
his wife.

“I don’t have to wear the ear-buds, I can
get a dock for it,” Dan coolly replied.

Brock leaned his elbows on the table and
ran a hand down his mustache. “
The what’s
the who now?”

“Never mind,” Dan chuckled, shooting Wendy
a sideways look. “We need a generator. That’s the bottom line.”

Brock lit up a thick cigar and
blew
smoke rings through the candles as he thought on it
for a spell. “You’re absolutely right, Danny,” he said, polishing off his beer
with one last big gulp. “Wish I had one now, but never had the need.” Brock
went on to inform them he’d been a fifty-seven year-old cattle rancher before
the outbreak and was now just a fifty-seven year-old. Cora, he boasted, was the
best damn cook in the county and the prettiest woman in the whole wide world.

“Oh, don’t listen to him; Brock likes to
exaggerate,” she smiled, getting up and grabbing his empty beer can. “I’m certainly
not the best cook in the county.”

She shot Brock a wink and he tipped his
head back and bellowed with laughter, swatting her on the butt as she pranced
back into the kitchen.
“Lucky as
lightnin
to’ve
married her thirty-two years ago today.”

Wendy’s eyebrows slanted. “Today’s your
anniversary?”

He cheered her with his cigar and took a
long pull, exhaling a gray stream of pungent smelling smoke to the ceiling.
“Supposed to be in Barbados right now,” he said with a faint shrug. “I’m just
glad we didn’t end up getting caught there when the power went out.” He patted
his sidearm, which was more like a rifle on his leg.
“Would’ve
hated to be away from the Undertaker during this shit-storm.”

Wendy traded a quick look with Dan.
“Well, happy anniversary. I’m sorry we intruded.”