I've Been Deader (18 page)

As with all town meetings there were cookies and orangeade in the lobby. Jon munched on an Oreo and smiled at Annie.

"We live about a half-mile from here."

"Just you and your son?"

"Stepson, yes." Annie absently played with her hair, making Jon smile.

Some things never change
. She was still pretty up close. Nice body, perky tits.
Eyes are a little glassy. She's probably on something.

"I haven't seen his father since the trouble began."

Jon's smile grew a bit wider. "What a shame."

"Mr. Tanner, I wonder if I might have a word with you." Mayor Biggie rested a meaty paw on Jon's shoulder. "If you'd excuse us for a minute, Annie?"

"Of course. I should be getting back to the house anyway." She smiled at Jon. "Mr. Tanner, if you're all settled in, Timmy and I would love to have you over for dinner tomorrow night?"

"That sounds wonderful. It's been a while since I've had anything that didn't come out of a bag or can."

"I hope I don't disappoint you. Tom does an amazing job of providing fresh produce and meat for our community. But I'm afraid he's a better provider than I am a cook."

Mayor Biggie gave a hearty laugh. "Don't you believe a word she says, Jon. Annie here cooks even better than she looks. I may bring home the bacon for the good people here, but no one fries it up in the pan like her. Now, if you'll excuse us, darlin', I need to bend Mr. Tanner's ear for a bit."

Jon took Annie's hand in his. "I'll be looking forward to it."

Inside his office away from the good people of Deerkill, Mayor Biggie discarded his saccharine smile and pompous swagger.

"You seem like a smart man, Mr. Tanner." Biggie went to the cabinet behind his desk and took out a bottle of J&B and two glasses. "The people here all have safe, secure homes, more or less, with plenty of food and clean water. We even have a nice stockpile of medical supplies and some of what I like to call
specialty items
." He handed Jon a glass and gestured to a chair. "Please."

Jon sat.

"By
specialty items
…?"

"Cocaine, weed, ammo, morphine, smack, guns. Hell, we even got fifty pounds of sweet Italian sausage just yesterday. The thing is, Jon, that -"

"Nothing worth anything comes cheap," Jon finished.

Mayor Biggie nodded. "That's right, son. Nothing is free. I run this town partly because I have connections."

Jon smiled. "You know a guy who knows a guy."

Mayor Biggie didn't. "Something like that."

"Mr. Mayor, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in some of those
specialty items
. Despite my fine speech out there, I'm not planning on staying. I'm going west, and I'd like to be going with cocaine, morphine and whatever else I can get my hands on."

"My 'connections' can probably get you anything you need. But their price is high. I'm not sure if you'd be willing to pay what I'm asking."

Jon leaned forward, looking directly at Mayor Biggie. He was getting tired of waltzing around here. "Let's cut to the chase, Mayor. What are you looking for?"

Mayor Biggie raised his glass and smiled.

"Why, blood, Mr. Tanner. I'm looking for blood."

Chapter 31

Orphans

Wilbur sat at his desk, a heavy wool blanket draped over his shoulders. The Kansas Baptist Children's Home was too cold and drafty in the winter, and too hot and stale in the summer. He was happy to bear the burden because, like him, his bank account was fat and growing. The only hot things in the orphanage this winter were its books. Praise Jesus, he'd be cooking the books for some time to come.

A strong gust hammered the orphanage and the lights flickered and dimmed again. A doosey of a blizzard blew in just after supper and by the sound of the wind rattling the windows it was planning on staying for breakfast - cornflakes on Tuesdays.

Twenty-seven small and very cold children resided under his roof at the moment, ranging in ages from eight to fourteen - thirteen girls and fourteen boys. Most were not technically orphans, just discarded; abandoned by parents with other priorities, like crack. Wilbur didn't have any children of his own, praise Jesus, and nothing about this place made him regret it. No, sir. If the last nine years had taught him anything, it was that children were nothing more than little bitching machines - like wives without benefits. Not that he was married, praise Jesus.

He picked up the week's dining schedule from his desk, red pen in hand. The children's menu was provided by the State every month, together with the stipend check. This week's menu called for twenty pounds of bacon, fourteen dozen eggs, various lunch meats, blah, blah, blah.
There's what should be and there's what is and never the twain shall meet
. He crossed out bacon and eggs and wrote 'hot cereal' in the margins. 'Lunch meat' fell victim to 'rice and beans', and dessert - 'ice cream and Jell-O' - simply went the way of the Dodo. A balanced meal was one of the many casualties of Wilbur's creative accounting, here at the home for rug rat returns.

Maybe I'll requisition fresh eggs next month, or a few turkeys for Christmas.

Not that he'd be there in December. Decembers were spent with Mother in Miami. Spending so much time with these damn kids was depressing, and Wilbur looked forward to his time away with Mom.
Sunshine and family, that's what it's all about
.

A crash from the downstairs, followed by muffled shouting, interrupted his happy thoughts.
What in holy hell is it this time?
He didn't bother getting up. One of the few rules that even he couldn't bend required at least one registered nurse on the premises 24/7. Yolanda had night duty this week. The children hated her, Wilbur knew. He couldn't blame them. He couldn't understand a word she said. She was always shouting and recently she took to calling him 'white devil' when she thought he couldn't hear her. If he wasn't paying her next to nothing, she'd have been history a long time ago.

He flipped on the TV, intending to drown out the storm and the children. Sean Hannity appeared in all his HD glory, gently explaining why the Center for Disease Control was a pawn of left wing Democrats. Wilbur loved his new TV.
Thank you, State of Kansas.

"Don't you find it odd, Congresswoman, that almost all reports of these allegedly 'walking dead' are coming from so-called 'red districts'?"

A black woman sat across from Hannity, dressed in a blue pants suit.

Wilbur rolled his eyes.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, Sean. This … this … whatever this is, is not a political issue. It's a public health and safety issue and it's becoming more apparent every hour. These reports of people attacking loved ones, people waking up from comas and killing indiscriminately - the YouTube videos - all this points to a growing epidemic. An epidemic that has broken out under a Republican Administration, I might add."

"You're not suggesting, Congresswoman, that the Dobbs Administration is somehow responsible ..."

"I'm suggesting that when this whole thing -"

The TV winked out along with the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

"Cheese and crackers." Wilbur sat at his desk, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Even over the howling wind he could hear commotion downstairs. He found the phone in the dark and hit the intercom button. The intercom system at the orphanage was not exactly high tech. Essentially an open line with speakerphones, it allowed Wilbur to hear what was going on at the other end at all times, rather than just when Yolanda was speaking.

"Yolanda! What's going on down there?"

Shouting -
and moaning?
- drifted through the speaker.

"Yolanda!"

Something big fell, the sound coming through both speaker and floor.

"Yolanda!"

No Yolanda. He left the intercom on and searched the desk drawer for the flashlight. Power outages were as common as hunger pains here, and Wilbur kept a flashlight in every room. Like everything else, the flashlight was purchased on the cheap. It flickered on, splashing weak yellow light across the floor. The wind outside kicked up some, momentarily drowning out the racket downstairs.

"Cheese and fucking crackers."

Wilbur got up and made his way to the hallway. The office door swung shut behind him, cutting off Yolanda's final words - not that he'd have understood what she was saying, Jamaican accent or no.

The children's dormitory was two flights down. Even with the electricity on Wilbur tended to take the stairs. It was good exercise. Besides, he didn't trust that deathtrap of an elevator. It passed inspection last month by the grace of two Benjamins and a state inspector who was putting two kids through college.

The emergency lights that were supposed to kick in when the electricity went off, didn't. Wilbur was forced to rely on his trusty flashlight. It wasn't easy to negotiate the stairs. Outside his little yellow circle everything was pitch black and light kept jumping around, casting distracting shadows along the wall and stairs.

He took them nice and slow. He was halfway down to the first floor when he heard the stairwell door open. The unmistakable sound of running children drifted up and then was cut off with the sound of the door swinging shut. Wilbur shone his light down the stairwell but it was too weak to illuminate anything more than a few feet away.
Have to remember to get some new batteries next time I drive by the WaWa. Maybe one of those big flashlights too, like Mom keeps in the car
...

Wilbur heard little feet hit the stairs and frowned.

"Who's in here? And why aren't you in bed? Answer me."

The sound of footsteps got louder and the dirt-smudged face of Emma Smith swam into view. At eight-years of age, she was one of the younger brats here but she was a veteran nonetheless. She stopped when she saw him on the landing.
She's always dirty, that one
. Wilbur shone the soft light directly on her face. She was dressed in the white sleeping gown that all the children - girls and boys - wore to bed.

"You're old enough to know better, Emma. No moving about after lights out."

Emma stared into the light for a few moments.
She's bleeding
. There was a large cut on her bare shoulder and blood colored the left side of her nightgown, giving it a dark purple cast in the light. Her eyes reflected the light, making them look silver.
Why isn't she blinking?
Wilbur unconsciously took a step backwards.

"What have you been up to? What's all that racket down there?"

Emma lightly skipped up two stairs, quick as you please. Wilbur jumped back another step and almost fell. His hands were shaking and the flashlight jittered and jived, causing Emma to jump in and out of shadows.

"L-listen to me. I want you ..."

Emma's face jerked at the sound of his voice and she started climbing the stairs, her little mouth snapping open and shut with audible clicks. He jumped back again and this time he did fall, sliding back down two steps on his ass. The flashlight flew out of his hands and bounced down the stairs, its light extinguished.

Wilbur was no athlete, not by a long shot. But Bruce Jenner on meth wouldn't have jumped up faster right then. In the dark he leapt, spun around and ran, taking the stairs two at a time. Just two dozen steps separated him from the hallway.

Wilbur ran. Fast. But Emma was faster.

Chapter 32

Dinner

Jon cradled the bottle of wine and the .9mm in the crook of his elbow, and knocked on the door. The kid opened it a moment later, wearing a faded Star Wars T-shirt and jeans. Jon could see two plastic light sabers - green and red - sticking out of a black metal umbrella stand beside the doorway.

"Why hello, Master Jedi. You must be Timmy."

The boy's eyes widened and fixed on the pistol.

"You're a brave boy to open the door without first checking the peephole."

Timmy drew his eyes away from the gun and to Jon.

"Annie told me you were coming. Besides, zombies don't knock." His eyes drifted back to the gun. "How come you brought a gun?"

"There are worse things in this world than zombies, kid." Jon smiled and held it out to him. "Want to hold it? It's okay. The safety is on." It wasn't.

Timmy reached out with no hesitation and took the weapon.

"It's heavy."

"It gets a lot heavier when you fire it," Jon assured him. "You ever fire a gun?"

Timmy squinted and pointed the gun at Jon, causing his heart to skip a beat.

"No, sir. My dad didn't own one and Annie's scared of them."

Jon's smile froze in place. "The only time you need to be afraid of a gun is when you're staring down its business end." Jon leaned forward, his chest a few inches from the gun and whispered confidentially, "You don't want to be pointing the business end at anything you don't intend to kill."

Timmy flushed red and lowered the gun. "I'm sorry. I was just playing ..."

"Timmy! Give that back to Mr. Tanner right now." Annie stood at the end of the short hallway, staring anxiously at Jon and Timmy.

Oh my, oh my
. Jon's smile got just a tad brighter as his eyes soaked her in.

Barefoot and dressed in a 'fuck me' red dress, she bit her upper lip and bounced nervously on her toes. The lipstick was red and the dress's neckline was low enough to raise more than his expectations.

Jon took the gun from Timmy. "It's a new world, Timmy - a gun friendly world." He clicked the safety on and slid the gun in his waistband. Armed only with wine, he stepped inside and approached Annie.

"You look good enough to eat."

Annie blushed. "Thank you, I guess. About the gun …"

Jon handed her the wine. "The wine's for you. You should open it and let it breathe for a while. The gun is for those pesky neighbors in the backyard. Mayor Biggie mentioned that you were still having trouble."