“Stay here.” I slammed it in park and rested only a moment to let my nerves settle down. I had to check the road. Snatching the .357, I pushed open the door, climbed down and snuck over to the side of the house just as the light-blue compact came into view on the main road, whining past the long line of pines at a clip of around fifty miles an hour.
I sighed in relief but knew it wasn’t over just yet. We had to stay here for a little while and make sure the compact didn’t show again. Then we could head back to the farm.
But first, I needed to assess our present situation. There were no other vehicles in the drive. If a car or truck was parked in the garage, it might indicate that someone was inside the house. This person could be alive or dead. We wouldn’t know for sure unless we investigated. I didn’t want to go inside, but I had to find out what was going on. I didn’t want to spend time sitting in the drive of someone’s house if there was someone inside, aiming a gun at us.
I crept over the garage door. It was painted white, but the paint had faded long ago, and had peeled all over. I was just about to peer inside the dirt-smudged window when Fields said, “Moss, I think you’d better turn around.”
The tone in her voice cut through me. I did as she said.
A small, slender old man around seventy years old sat at a battered wooden picnic table in the patio at the top of the stone steps leading to the French doors of the house. He wore a plaid shirt, suspenders and baggy pants. However, his mode of dress wasn’t what alarmed me. Inches from his gnarled hands, which gripped a stained white coffee mug, a double barrel shotgun lay on the bench in front of him.
The barrels were pointed in our direction.
I knew better than make any sudden movements. I still gripped the .357, but didn’t want to shoot the old man. This was his house, and we were trespassing. Over the last year, life had reached its ultimate extreme, but that didn’t mean I could kill an old man having a cup of coffee in his own back yard.
The shotgun looked like a twelve-gauge: a caliber I truly respected, since I’d seen the damage it could do. I didn’t want to do or say anything that would cause the old man to pull the trigger. I had no desire to test his reflexes or his mood. The odds were in his favor. He didn’t even have to pick it up; all he had to do was move his hand a few inches away from the coffee mug and squeeze the trigger. The gun was already pointed toward us—more toward Fields than me—and its scatter pattern would surely get her. This was much like our dilemma on the road just a few months earlier, when we’d encountered a unit of TABs armed with shotguns.
In this case, we faced an old man, not a superhuman TAB. He was out in his patio, enjoying his morning with a cup of coffee. He’d brought the shotgun along because he obviously knew what Fields and I had learned earlier this morning: you weren’t safe in your own back yard.
He wasn’t smiling, nor was he frowning. He just sat there, watching us curiously. He could be wondering if he should shoot us. We were trespassing, and I was holding a gun. We’d obviously come to rob and kill him, and I’d already walked over to open the garage door so we could enter and pick the place clean. He’d be well within his rights to shoot us. Just an hour or so earlier, Fields and I had defended ourselves when two men had wandered onto our place.
What was the difference?
The difference was that Fields and I were not psychos and hadn’t come here to rob this old man. We didn’t want to be followed and didn’t want to kill whoever was following us. We’d come here strictly to avoid a confrontation.
Unfortunately, the old man didn’t know any of this.
I had to somehow convince him that we meant him no harm. If he was a decent man, we might not have anything to worry about. If he realized that we’d come here just to hide out for a few minutes, he might even let us go.
“Hello.” I smiled and tried to look pleasant.
No response. The old man didn’t move. Neither did Fields. She was gawking at me, possibly for reassurance—or maybe because she didn’t want to be looking directly at the gun if the old man decided to reach for it.
“We didn’t come here to hurt anyone.”
Still no response.
The old man was watching Fields. This made no sense. I was the greater threat. I was armed, and standing close enough to the truck to jump behind it for cover ... yet his gaze remained on Fields. I didn’t know what was on his mind, if there was something about her that interested him—other than the obvious, of course. Fields was extremely easy on the eyes. But in a situation like this, anyone with combat training or experience would automatically concentrate on the immediate threat, and would fight to keep distraction out of the picture. This told me the old man had no military training. I didn’t know if that gave us the advantage or posed another threat.
But that didn’t matter right now. I had to shift his attention from Fields—to get him to look at me. This way, if things turned horrible, Fields would have time to duck and let the door absorb most of the buckshot.
I decided to keep talking and try to get him focused on me.
“We only came here to...”
“Hi,” he said finally, and sat up on the bench seat. About ten seconds later, he grinned. It happened slowly, as if each muscle had to be activated individually. When the grin reached its level of intensity, I saw that he had no teeth.
The realization hit Fields and me at the same time.
The old man was doped.
***
“Why’re you kids ... here?” he asked.
“We’re hiding.” I didn’t want to lie to the old guy. “Someone’s been following us.”
He nodded several times, thinking it over. I wondered how far gone his brain was. “Where ya comin’ from?”
“Just down the road.” I used my left hand to point. As I pointed, I tilted my body to hide my right side from view, as I’d done with Willis K. Simpson. In this case, I wanted to appear less threatening. The old man was doped, but many of his faculties obviously still remained. He’d dressed himself, made a cup of coffee, and brought the shotgun outside with him. His reflexes were slow, but he had the presence of mind to ask why we’d come here.
“That’s a big one.” He pointed to the .357.
“I have it for protection.”
He nodded again. “Someone followin’ ya?”
“I don’t like killing people, but sometimes they don’t give you much of a choice.”
The old man cackled laughter. “You can say
that
again.” He abruptly stopped laughing. “My kid ... he’s got a big one, too. Know Don?”
“I don’t think so. Is he here?”
“Naw ... Don ... he ain’t out here.” The old man began grinning at Fields. “You the missus?”
Fields nodded.
“You’re pretty, got nice hair.”
“Thank you.”
“Peggy had nice hair, bless her heart.” He lowered his head. I felt sorry for the guy. Fields turned to me and shook her head. I was about to ask him about her when he looked up a moment later and raised his bushy gray brows. “Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks. We’ve got to...”
“Don’t get much company now ... Don ... he makes good coffee.”
“Do you have any made?” Fields asked.
He nodded. “Don ... he makes ... yeah, there’s some left ... in the pot. In there.” He pointed toward the French doors. “Made some last...” He scratched the back of his neck, trying to remember. “Wasn’t too long ago.”
“That would be very nice.” Fields turned to me. She obviously felt badly for the poor guy, too. Before she opened her door, she tilted toward her left, to slide the .45 out of sight beneath the seat. I went over and slid the .357 beneath the driver’s seat.
The old man grunted into a standing position. He was short, about five-four, and probably weighed in at one-thirty after a heavy meal. But he still appeared fairly alert, even though he was doped. After he’d picked up his mug, he grabbed the weapon and held it loosely at his side, barrels pointing toward the ground. “Bring it out with me all a time.” He shook his head. “Never know now, folks runnin’ around, crazier than shithouse rats.” He held up the shotgun. “Don ... he found it for me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t shoot us,” I said.
He grinned. “A fella can tell. Even when he’s old and losin’ his nut, he can still figure things out once in a while.” He shuffled across the large, jagged stones of the patio floor, to the French doors.
As I followed Fields, I felt a heavy wave of cold darkness pulling us inside.
***
A heavy mix of stale cigarette smoke, burnt coffee, urine and something faintly rancid made my eyes water as soon as we’d gone inside. As Fields and I followed the old man through the piles of clutter and boxes stacked six feet high, the darkness surrounding me grew.
Stepping over empty beer cans and a couple of golf clubs, we went through the small dining room. At least I thought it was the dining room, judging by the French doors and what appeared to be an oval table and four chairs in the center of the area. However, the junk piled on the table and chairs and the boxes scattered everywhere made me disoriented. The floor was covered with strewn newspapers, magazines, laundry, beer cans, old toys, and cat litter. Two small kittens scurried across the floor as we went inside. A full-grown cat darted down the hall.
The dark, messy kitchen smelled strongly of urine and rotting food. The linoleum floor was covered with stains. The only light source came in through the window above the sink. Dirty dishes and pots and pans stacked two feet high filled the sink. A dish smeared with remnants of food sat on the counter. A calico cat crouched over it, licking its contents. A percolator bubbled quietly on the counter, its contents black and burnt.
The old man laid the shotgun on the island counter. He found two cups in the dish drainer, placed them on the counter and poured some steaming battery acid into them, as well as his own cup. “Sugar? Cream?”
A small milk carton sat on the counter. A sour smell emanated strongly from it. It had undoubtedly expired long ago.
“Sugar’s fine, thanks.” Fields glanced at me.
The old man placed both cups on the island counter, spilling some as he slid them over. The coffee was rank, but we nonetheless accepted his kind offer graciously. I was pleased that he’d decided we weren’t a threat, and welcomed this kindness, hoping it might lead to a casual friendship, and that it could be an omen of a future that might not be as bleak as we’d all originally feared. After this morning’s nightmare, Fields and I needed some sign, however small, that the human race hadn’t gone entirely belly-up. I hoped this turn of events would be such a sign.
I didn’t know if Fields felt the same, but I was curious about Don. If he was as cordial as his father, there could be a possible friendship in the making there as well. I wondered if he lived here as well. We couldn’t tell by the cluttered interior of the house. Boxes, dirty laundry, canned goods, toys and beer cans filled every inch of available space. Judging by the sheer volume of board games, model airplane kits, unopened packages of shirts, underwear and dog-eared paperbacks tossed everywhere, the old man had been accumulating this stuff long before the plague had come about. But it didn’t tell me if anyone else lived here. From what I’d learned about hoarders, this mess could easily belong to one person.
The old man gestured for us to drink the coffee.
Fields and I both watched him as we raised our cups. We brought the cup to within two inches of our lips, but no closer. The stench of the brew was horrible. I held my breath and I could tell Fields had done the same thing. We both lowered our cups as he sipped from his own. The cat had finished cleaning the food from the plate and tiptoed across the sink, to the carton of milk, where a few drops had splattered the counter in front of it. The cat lapped it up, jumped down to the floor and ran out of the room.
“Scruffy.” The old man grinned. “Came here one day, lookin’ for vittles.”
“Are all the cats yours?” Fields asked.
“Don ... he brought one home the other day.” He scratched his jaw. “Naw. Last week, mebbe?” He grinned. “Two weeks. Yep, two weeks ago, I think.”
“Does Don live here with you?” I asked.
He laughed. “Don? Naw, got his own place three roads down. Betsy didn’t like it, him movin’ out, but what the hell? Kids, right?” He shrugged. “It’s okay, he comes here once in a while, brings me ciggies and beer. Smoke?” He pulled a crumpled pack of Pall Malls out of his plaid shirt pocket. Fields and I shook our heads. He pulled a crooked smoke from the pack and dropped it on the counter. He picked it up and dropped it again. I picked it up for him. He took it, put it in his mouth and struggled with a match. I took the book from him and lit it. He nodded his thanks, pulled in a thick lungful and hacked away. Gray smoke danced around him. He stopped coughing and had another quick puff.
“Where ya from?” he asked again, coughing again.
“Down the road a few miles,” I said.
He nodded. “Used to ... I worked on cars ... before this ... before everyone started ... dyin’ off.”
“Did Don work with you?” I asked.
He grinned. “Yeah, Don’s a big, strappin’ boy, always around when ol’ Dad was workin’ on a car, learnin’ all kinds of stuff so he could be like his daddy ...” The old man shook his head at some memory and sighed. “Now?” He shrugged. “He goes out now, once in a while, lookin’ for folks. Don’s always liked people, especially the ladies.”