Fallout (71 page)

KYLE’S EXCITEMENT

Is palpable, obvious

in the way he moves.

Every security camera

here is probably focused

on him right now. He might

be buying Christmas presents.

Except who wants trail mix for

Christmas? Or, uh, condoms?

Oh, well. We’re not doing

anything wrong. Wait.

Inaccurate. Okay, I

don’t feel like

we’re doing

anything wrong.

Even if we happen

to be paying for all this

stuff with “borrowed” money.

Could someone define “wrong”?

Is it wrong to take someone else’s

money so you can eat? Wrong

to leave relative security in

favor of unknown risk

at the side of some-

one you love?

SUPPLIES STOWED

Kyle checks out the map, decides

we should go by way of Lake Isabella.

It’s only about an hour from here, and

we can find a cheap campground there.

Highway 178 follows the meandering

Kern. We’ve been this way before.

And when we pass the place we first

made love, Kyle reaches to take my hand.

I’ll never forget that day
, he says.

It changed everything. You changed

everything. I thought love was bullshit.

Something made up for TV and movies.

“Me too. Or that people just repeated

those words to get them what they

wanted.” Sex. Drugs. Money. “You

always say the right thing, know that?”

If he had passed “our” spot and

said nothing, I would have seriously

questioned what I’m doing here.

Instead, I watch darkness descend,

a rain of night in the headlights,

washing away apprehension. Too

late to worry now, anyway. Might

as well soak up Kyle, enjoy the ride.

WE FIND A FIVE-DOLLAR

Per-night campground.
Some are free
,

Kyle informs me.
But this one has toilets.

That’s worth five dollars, don’t you think?

“Definitely. And since they’re here,

I’m going to pee.” The night air makes

me shiver. I slip into Kortni’s oversize

sweatshirt, grab the flashlight to show

me the way, happy to have both. When

I get back to camp, Kyle is messing

with a campfire.
Someone left a few

sticks of firewood
, he says.
Nice of

them. Too dark to be hunting for it now.

I sit on a big log, watching him work to

start it. Before long, a small flame slithers

up thin sticks of kindling, licking at a log.

Kyle’s face is handsome in the building

firelight. Rugged. “You remind me of

a cowboy. Or maybe a fur trapper.”

He laughs, sits next to me.
Guess that

makes you the lonely schoolteacher

waiting for me to come ravage you.

He kisses me, and it is sweet, despite

the smell of his smoke-stung clothes.

Too soon, he pulls away.
Hungry?

I nod, and he goes to the truck,

brings back nuts. Jerky. Water

to wash both down with. I chew

for a while. Finally I notice Kyle

hasn’t touched the skimpy feast.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.

He shakes his head.
Maybe later.

I’m not really hungry right now.

He goes to poke at the fire.

I close the bags carefully. Gulp

water, wishing I’d thought to buy

a toothbrush. “Are you scared?”

You kidding? Even if we get caught
,

it’s worth it. Being with you like this?

Fire’s low. Come on.
He has already

rolled out the sleeping bags in the back

of the truck. We climb in, and under

a meadow of stars, my cowboy ravages me.

BIRDSONG WAKES ME

Loud birdsong. A regular death metal

concert of birdsong, in fact. I keep

my eyes closed, snuggle into my bed.

Hard bed. A waterfall of light. Outside.

Sleeping bag. Cold metal beneath me.

And I am alone. I jump into a sitting

position, quieting the avian cacophony.

A flutter of wings. “Kyle? Where are you?”

An acrid drift of tobacco assaults

my nose just as I hear,
Over here.

He squats to one side of the fire pit,

trying to resurrect the dead embers.

Smoking. God. Cigarettes are, like,

seven bucks a pack. He needs to

kick that habit, and quickly. I slide

from the warmth of the sleeping bag,

into frosty December morning.

Go over to give him a kiss, steeling

myself against the stench of smoke.

But another, more insidious smell

leaks from his pores, despite

the cold. “Did you do crystal?”

His eyes, onyx-pupiled and crimson-

rimmed, are all the answer I need.

A bubble of anger rises. Pops.

Deep breath. “You did, didn’t you?”

He drops his gaze to the still-dead fire.

Just a little. Maintenance, you know.

A narrow column of bubbles lifts.

Pop-pop.
“No. I really don’t know.”

I’m down to a taste a couple times

a day. Keeps my head on straight.

A thick stream of bubbles.
Pop. Pop.

Pop-pop.
“Fine. Then I want to try it.”

His head shakes so hard, it must

rattle his brain.
Don’t want you to.

The bubbles become a low fizz.

It makes my eyes sting. “Why not?”

His eyes float up. He is crying

too.
Because I love you too much.

Hunter
COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS

Less than two days to go.

Rick Denio being a brick

back in his native Texas,

I’m pulling a double air

shift.

Morning drive wrapped

up, midday well underway,

I am pouring a hefty shot

of vanilla International Delight

into

a strong cup of coffee

when the studio phone

rings. On the far end

of the line, an extremely

high-

sounding girl inquires

if I’d like some company.

“Leah. I told you to leave

me the hell alone.” I

gear

up to say something much

stronger when I notice

the mic is on. Just perfect.

Good thing the music’s loud.

“Go

away,” I tell her, mic muted.

How many ways are there

to say no, anyway?