APOCALYCIOUS: Satire of the Dead (15 page)

             
“That’s all right, man,” Daniel said standing up.

             
“Yeah… if you’re gonna go, better sooner than later.” Arlington lowered his voice and he almost seemed to hold back some tears, and then said, “It was good seeing you again, Danny. It’s been a long time.” Daniel nodded. Arlington cleared his throat then said in a loud voice, “OK, you take care.” He unbolted the door to let them out, then shut the door behind them, and walked his friend out to the car.

As Daniel got in his car he asked sheepishly, “
Arlington …is that your dog?” He pointed toward the pickup.

Arlington
’s eyes followed his gaze and slowly focused on the tires. He threw his beer down on the gravel driveway, sending broken glass and white foam spraying in all directions.               “Goddammit!” the Pirate exclaimed and walked over to the truck, still swearing and possibly crying. Daniel felt sorry for him as he put the car in gear, but he thought it best that he get going. He spun the car around and headed back to town.

Daniel knew first hand, what the risks were in going back to his home town war zone but there were some personal things he couldn’t quite part with. Once he had those items loaded up he would try to find a couple of his friends, before heading to
Covington.

             
If he had glanced back in his rear view mirror he would have seen that Arlington had fallen down face first in the mud, passed out drunk.

                                               
Chapter 12 - Trailer Park Piñatas

Day 2 of infection

Mine Hills, West Virginia

              Mick Oswald ran through the hills and hollows, tripping over vines covered by snow, ducking under hanging branches, batting at them with his free arm and hurdling fallen trees. The path was littered with obstacles, but he ran hard, his breathing as controlled as possible in the cold December air.

             
He had already had his regular morning run only three hours ago, but this run was born of necessity, not for his wrestling conditioning.

             
He had arrived home yesterday for Winter break, as the term Christmas break had become politically incorrect, from the West Virginia University where he attended on a full wrestling scholarship. His five foot, eight inch frame carried a lean one hundred and sixty-eight pounds of muscle. His left arm swung like a heavy pendulum, while the other carried his single shot .12 gauge. His legs pistoned through the snow in long powerful strides and he ran as he had never run before. His navy blue Mountaineer sweatshirt was a stark contrast to the snowy terrain, his white face virtually camouflaged by the snow except for his three day growth of red beard and the light brown freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose. Steam rose from the body heat escaping from the top of his head, which made the stubble of his close-cropped red hair look as if it might burst into flame. He was Ichabod Crane on steroids, rampaging through Sleepy Hollow, though not in fear of the headless horseman. This incarnation of the Washington Irving character ran from his father, Foster Oswald. As he ran he tried to keep the vision from his mind, but it persisted and in his memory he watched helplessly as the horrible events replayed over and over as he ran toward his girlfriend’s house.

             
He had just returned to his parent’s double-wide after his morning run with the intention of refilling his tank with a nice big breakfast. He’d looked forward to his mother’s home cooking but she had gone to bed sick as a dog the night before and he figured that he would have to settle for a bowl of cereal.

             
With Christmas, and it was still called Christmas in Karen Oswald’s home, just days away, the trailer was decorated in twinkling red and green lights; presents lay wrapped beneath the freshly cut spruce that filled the home with its sweet scent while the sounds of Gene Autry crooned Silver Bells from the stereo. Mick had poured himself a concoction of Cap’n Crunch and Alpha-Bits and sat at the kitchen table. He read the back of the box of Alpha-Bits, easily solving the children’s word find as he shoveled a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth, crunching contentedly.

             
From over the box he saw his mother shuffle into the kitchen and he was remotely aware that her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying over his crunching.

             
Mick saw her hand knock over the box he was looking at. He wondered what was wrong and glanced up just in time to see her face explode outward in a spray of blood! He blinked and gaped as he saw that bits of his mother’s skull and chunks of her brain floated lazily in his cereal bowl. The Alpha-Bits didn’t spell out any clues to what had just happened and for an instant he thought that the foreign chunks could have been colored marshmallows from Lucky Charms, but there was nothing lucky or charming about his breakfast, only the good Cap’n and something he could not quite wrap his mind around. Mick realized that he was babbling within his shocked mind and he looked up at what used to be his mom. Her face was gone, shredded and hanging down over her chin and neck in long bloody flaps, as if someone had shoved a grenade in her mouth and pulled the pin. Her left eye dangled from the optic nerve and spun like a top from the collar of her threadbare housecoat. He sat in stunned silence as her body toppled forward; her chin struck the edge of the kitchen table and a molar shot out of her jaw, clattering past the upset box of cereal.

             
As she fell to the floor, Mick’s father was revealed, standing in the hallway. He slowly lowered his pump action .12 gauge from his shoulder and stood there, swaying. Foster was tall and thin with skin that was brown and leathered even in the cold of winter. He resembled a picture of an old cowboy in black and white photos.

“Sorry, son, but she was comin’ after ya.”  Foster Oswald’s weathered face was a tempest of emotions; anger and grief masked by the semi-transparent mimicry of stoic composure. His chin quivered, “I wouldn’t eat that cereal, it’s got your mama’s brains in it,” he said, his tone one of rationality. It was that tone that creeped the twenty year old sophomore out more than his father’s actual words.

              Seconds later Mick had vomited his half-eaten breakfast back into its point of origin. He clamped a hand over his mouth and his stomach’s contents squirted through his fingers as he rose and ran past his father, down the hall, and into the bathroom.

             
Mick looked at himself in the mirror as he propped himself up with the palms of his hands against the sink. His face was streaked with blood and flecked with pieces of spongy matter on his forehead and scalp. Pieces of cereal and milk dripped down his beard and from his chin.

             
There was a light knock at the bathroom door. “Mick?” asked his father from the opposite side in its two-pack a day rasp, “You get yourself cleaned up now. We’ve got work to do.” His Dad’s tone was gentle, but stern, the same voice he remembered from his youth that had always commanded respect.

             
Mick wanted to scream at his father, wanted to ask him why;
why had he killed his mom?
He wanted to hit him and beat him until his face looked like his mom’s but he didn’t have the strength or the words. He wanted to run away, call the police…he wanted his mom back.

             
Foster had always treasured his wife, Karen; he had never ceased to brag about how good a woman she was to anyone who asked about her. Mick knew how much Foster loved his wife and he couldn’t connect the dots. As if hearing his son’s thoughts, Foster said, “That wasn’t your mama, son. That was somethin’ else…somethin’ gone bad.”

             
Mick had no idea what he meant, but he knew that his father had somehow gone insane.

             
“I don’t hear any water runnin’. Get cleaned up, son.”

             
Mick listened as the sound of his father’s footsteps diminished as he walked away, up the hall. Mick ran the cold water and scrubbed vigorously at his face with his palms. He peeled off his soiled sweatshirt and silently prayed that his father didn’t shoot him too. He grasped the doorknob, slowly eased it open and peeked down the hallway. From there he watched as his father scooped brains and fleshy pulp from the table with Karen’s pancake spatula and flicked the chunks of gore into the trash can. Foster turned and saw his son was staring at him with a mixture of fear, disgust and confusion. He knew that Mick was scared of him so he remained where he stood. “Get dressed and grab extra clothes, your shotgun and all your shells. We’ve got to get goin’.”

             
Mick backed down the hall never taking his eyes off of his father as he entered his bedroom. He threw open a dresser drawer and grabbed a sweatshirt. He threw the navy blue Mountaineer sweatshirt over his head and pulled the hood down from his head. He could still hear his father in the kitchen. He stuffed his shells into the pocket at the front of his sweatshirt and grabbed his single shot shotgun from the gun rack he had made in high school shop class and crept to the back door. He twisted the thumb lock and eased it open; the cold air gave him a momentary head rush. He steadied himself and darted through the open door, across the back yard and into the woods.

             
“Mick!” he heard his father yell after him, but Mick had already disappeared into the thick woods. He knew that his dad could easily track him through the snow, but he also knew that his father would not be able to run fast enough or far enough to catch him. Foster would drive and he would know exactly where to drive. The route through the woods was more direct but against his father driving, the race would be close.  He heard Foster’s truck roar to life, its dual straight exhaust pipes cackled loudly. The engine revved and the sound of gravel spitting against the trailer carried into the woods as the pickup raced away. Mick was tempted to run back to the trailer to call the law, but it was too late for that now. His father would be heading for Mia’s house and Mick knew he had to get there first.

             
All that Mick could think of was Mia, his girlfriend and how he had to get to her before his father did. He could see Mia’s dark face smiling with her perfect white teeth, how her nose crinkled when she smiled, and he did not want to see her end up the same way as his mom had.  Mia was Jim Claymont’s daughter. Jim was Foster’s best friend; they had both served in the Marine Corps, where Jim had met his wife Suki, while serving on Okinawa. They had always been an odd duo; Foster was a poor, white, uneducated handy man while Jim was a rich, black, Jewish horse breeder. Jim always seemed to find extra work to offer his old friend when Foster needed it. Jim’s wife, Suki, was a Japanese Olympic equestrian while Foster’s wife, Karen, was a home health care worker who did the chores for the elderly that could no longer care for themselves, and she had also volunteered in the town of Rollins at the shelter serving food to poor families in the area.

              Mick vaulted over the split rail fence that surrounded the Claymont property and ran across the yard to the front door. The heavy oak door was lined with narrow frosted glass panes that ran the height of the door. Suki had designed it to be as welcoming an entrance as possible, now with it wide open, it strangely, didn’t make Mick feel welcome, instead Mick immediately felt uneasy. In the distance he could hear his father’s truck, its engine wide open, approaching quickly; too quickly, but Mick was thankful that he had gotten here first.

             
He stepped onto the large wooden porch, “Mia?” he called into the house but received no answer. He stepped closer to the open door and looked into the foyer and saw Suki lying in a pool of blood. Her eyes were still open and stared sightlessly at Mick with silent questions. “Suki?” he whispered, but she didn’t answer. He knew she wouldn’t.

“What is going on around here?” Mick whispered to himself.  His teeth began to chatter less from the cold, than from his nerves being tested. He eased into the house, his sneakers squeaking on the blood-slick hardwood floor. He squatted down on one knee and examined her. A chunk of meat had been ripped from her right calf and he saw bite marks on the opposite side of her neck, shoulder and arm. The area was known to have its share of mountain lions, black bears and coyotes, but he had never heard of any attacks. He rose to his feet and looked around to the other rooms where he stood.

              “Mia?” he called tentatively, the sound echoed in the silence far louder than he had hoped.

             
A scream, which sounded full of anger and something else that he could not explain, fractured the emptiness from somewhere inside the house and he raised the shotgun in front of him at the hip. The scream had a low resonance to it; it had been almost a growl and he thought of his father and wondered if he had managed to enter the house through a back window.