Wasting Away (23 page)

“Really?”
she asked. “Why?”

“My
stepdad was the same way except he was a violent drunk. He would come home,
barely able to stand. He would get in these terrible fights with my mother. It
usually ended when the police showed up and made him sleep it off in jail.”

She
looked up at me and squinted. “It got that bad?”

“Yeah,”
I said quietly.

When
I was old enough, I moved out and never looked back. My mother passed away a
few years later and I still feel guilty for leaving her there with him.

I
think that’s why I tend to cling to the women in my life. I believe that’s why
it was so hard to let go of my wife. I kept having this nagging feeling that I
had to find her, to set things right.

I
thought about heading east out of California. I took a few of my things with me
before I left my home and started down the road from where I had come. I had
gone full circle, heading back toward where the military truck had dropped me
off.

Along
a lonesome stretch of highway, just south of the military base where I had seen
all the bodies piled up in front of the main gate, I found an old tractor/trailer
and slept there for the night. It was one of the most comfortable places I have
slept since this whole thing began.

The
next morning, when I woke up, I could hear the dead moaning outside. I slowly
rose, keeping low to the bunk behind the cab. They were shuffling past the
window. In a flash, I saw her. She was right in front of me. I nearly cried
out.

“You
found your wife?” Mary asked.

“Yeah,”
I replied. “I had been looking for her for so long. When I finally gave up, she
just appeared out of thin air.”

“So
what was that about us not believing in miracles?” she asked with a grin.

“I
don’t know how
miraculous
it is to find your undead wife so you can kill
her.”

“Stop
trying to ruin the moment,” she said with a harrumph. “I’m calling it divine
intervention.”

I
laughed and rubbed her shoulder.

I
climbed out through the passenger’s side door and hopped over the guardrail.
She was the first corpse to spot me. Her head was tilted at an odd angle when
she turned and moaned out. Her movements were so stiff, exactly the opposite of
the woman I had known in life.

She
looked at me in the same way as the old woman from back at the gas station.
That pleading, sorrowful gaze was just too much to bear. I lost myself and
started to cry.

Through
the tears, I asked her, “Did you have to?” I shook my head and swallowed hard.
“I never claimed to be perfect,” I said in a sob. “I worked for us. I worked so
hard so that we could have something better. Not all of it was my fault.”

She
rasped and shambled forward.

I
held the pistol out and aimed at her. “It wasn’t all my fault,” I repeated.

She
stopped and swayed in place.

I’m
probably mistaken, but I saw something there in her eyes. It was like
acceptance, a brief flash of acknowledgment when her mouth hung slack. There
was the slightest glimmer before she moaned and came for me.

“You
finished it?” Mary asked, but it was less of a question and more of a
statement.

“Yes,”
I answered. “I finished it.”

We
sat there quietly and I felt Mary relax. I laid her down under the tree and
stood, stretching away the memories like old poems about forgiveness.

As
dawn reared up over the mountains in the distance, drawing light across the
courtyard, I could hear the dead pleading outside the gates. On the other side
of an enormous cage, their presence meant very little. I sat at the base of a
tree against the block wall and watched Mary sleep in the morning sun.

I
breathed easy, watching the dead gnash at the bars, completely harmless. As
birds chirped in the branches above me, I thought of the safest places on
Earth: a prison of our own doing, only as strong as the weakest lock. I thought
of old loves and fading memories. I thought of falling in love again and smiled
to myself.

We
were shut in, tucked away from the menace that had taken everything else away.
And for that single moment, I didn’t care. I didn’t worry about being stuck. I
didn’t mind the idea of dying there. For the first time since this hell began,
I felt safe.

Mary
moved in her sleep. Her face was restless and her arms twitched every so often.
I hated that she had to see the children like that. I hated the look of death
on their tired, young faces. I hated the man who would do something so
senseless, something so vile. But most of all, I hated myself for not having
the courage to pull the gun from my back, for not having killed him sooner.

I
climbed a small eucalyptus tree beside the manager’s office and leaned out to
grab a hold of the roof. Once on top, I stood and brushed myself off. From the
vantage point I could see a few blocks down on either side. Next to us there
was the strip mall we had run through the night before. Several businesses
sprawled out across the street, ending at another complex a block down.

There
was a small flower store directly across from us, a single daisy painted in the
window. But inside, the view was like everything else. The flowers had wilted
and yellowed. Dry petals, as crisp as paper, lay in the pots where they
withered and died. Smears of blood ran along the lower portion of the display
window, drifting downward toward the front walkway. An arm poked out from between
the door and its frame, lying on the threshold, fingers extended. The palm
faced upward as if asking for reprieve. Small bullet holes marked the door. Splatters
of blood had dried along the display window, coursing up along the daisy that
had been painted there.

Chapter 20

At
the front gate, bodies lined the sidewalk, pouring out into the street. More
came, drawn by the moaning. We didn’t have much time before there would be too
many of them.

I
climbed down along the branches of the eucalyptus and checked to make sure Mary
was still sleeping. She had moved a little in her sleep, but seemed to be
dozing peacefully. She moaned and her face distorted before she turned over and
sprawled out on her belly.

I
found a locked maintenance door on the west side of the management office. I
scoured the side, but couldn’t find a window. 

I
began circling the manager’s office, checking the door at the front and the one
along the back, but they were both locked. As I made my way through the planter
on the side, I glanced at the window. The clasp was loose and I was sure I
could open it. I took my pocket knife out and made a slit at the bottom of the
screen to get a better hold. I pulled out the frame and tossed it aside. I
worked the edge of the window, lifting it slightly as I pulled. With a rocking
motion, the clasp finally released.

With
the window open, I parted the blinds and peered through. There was a long table
in the center of the room with enough chairs to seat eight. On the other side
of a large coffee maker was an open door. Filing cabinets lined the far wall, a
vase positioned on top of one, filled with large, plastic flowers. There was a
strong smell of potpourri mingling with a hint of cinnamon - something sweet
lingered in the air just below their scent.

After
hoisting myself up on the window frame, I edged my way through the side of the
blinds. I crouched to the floor and saw a shadow move across the door of the
office, just past the coffee maker. I saw a balding head with wild patches of
hair jutting out to the sides. An empty gaze fixed in on me and the creature
gurgled. The lower half of its face was missing, just below the top row of
teeth. A vacant hole of black lined in brown slop and a dark tinge of spine
where its throat had been. I backed away and tucked my hand into the small of
my back, groping for the pistol.

The
corpse lumbered forward, a mess of slaughter across a waste tainted shirt,
staining it the color of rust and mud. Its tie hung slack, loosened in times of
worry. Its upper lip twisted like a leech as it stared at me, slick fluid
peeling away from the gum line.

It
gurgled again, releasing a fuzzy hiss of bubbles along it breastbone.

I
aimed the pistol, centering the sight above the bridge of its nose, between its
eyes. A dull click and my eyes went wide as the creature lurched forward,
grasping at the weapon. I twisted under its reach and scurried to the other
side of the room, desperately trying to pull back the slide and load another
round.

I
fell to my ass and the cadaver bent down over me. A wet slap hit my chest from
a stream of bile that trailed from the cavernous hole in its neck. I kicked out
and landed my heel into its guts. It toppled over toward me and its eyes
bulged. It stretched its arms, trying to claw at my face. I braced my feet
against it chest as it writhed on top of me. The slide clicked back into place.
I steadied the pistol and fired. A tiny hole appeared above its brow and a look
of astonishment crossed its eyes. The body went slack, all of its weight resting
on my legs. I grunted, pushed it away, and watched as it hit the floor.

I
swallowed hard and gulped for breath.

A
slack, rot filled suit heaped in on itself to my side.

I
stood slowly and stared down at the blood laced phlegm on my chest and pulled
off my shirt, keeping the waste away from my face.

“Are
you okay?” a voice asked behind me.

Startled,
I turned around to see Mary at the window.

I
tossed the shirt to the floor. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, looking down at the
corpse. “I didn’t see it when I checked the building.”

“How
did it get in?” Mary asked, staring at the heap on the floor.

“I
think it was always here,” I said.

“Suicide?”

“Probably.”
I nodded.

“Well
get out of there,” she said.

“Yeah,
just give me a minute.” I returned the pistol to my waistband. “I’m looking for
the key to the maintenance room.”

“Be
careful,” she said with a concerned look in her eyes.

“I
will,” I replied. “Just stay there and I’ll be out in a minute.”

Mary
backed away from the window and I went into the back office.

There
was a spray of blood across white paint, dripping down in places and converging
in runs, collecting at the baseboard. The chair behind the desk lay on its side
in the corner. A large caliber handgun a few feet away with a smear of dark red
along the barrel shimmered in the faint sunlight that filtered through the
closed blinds. The smell of cinnamon, iron laced decay, and potpourri lingered
there. It made me think of final moments and the end of pain.

It
was hard to consider what the poor bastard was thinking before he cocked the
hammer. What was even worse was thinking of all the others that had taken the
same route. How many bullets does it take to bring about the end of the world?

I
righted the chair behind the desk and sat down. The image of blood behind me, a
picture of a sunflower, framed on the opposing wall. A shuffle of papers across
the top of the desk scattered along like an Asian fan. Little wisps of nothing
written on pages that no longer held meaning.

I
gave the chair a push and wheeled over to the handgun on the floor. I leaned
over and picked it up. The grip was slick. It weighed heavy in my hand. A
single round was missing.

I
wheeled back behind the desk, looking through dead man’s eyes, glancing through
the final moments and what ends in loss. I remembered what had almost brought
me to the same end. My heart beat quickly. The taste of metal in my mouth,
coupled with fear, with the lost fragments of unknowable change. Sweat stung my
eyes and I realized I was holding the gun too close. I placed it on the desk in
front of me.

The
top drawer opened easily. A key ring inside, knotted with silver and brass.

“Hey,
what’s going on in there? Are you okay?” Mary asked; her voice was dull from
the window in the other room.

“Yeah,
I’m coming.”

On
my way out, I glanced at the body, huddled on the floor and was glad it wasn’t
me.

Chapter
21

I
unbolted the front door and let myself out. Mary was sitting at the side of the
building in the shade, resting against the wall. She glanced up at me for a
moment and managed a smile when I sat down next to her.

We
sat there quietly for a while, watching a few stray clouds gather and drift in
the sky.