Authors: David Berardelli
I didn’t want to stop, but my soft side had already taken over, and my foot
mashed down on the brake pedal. Reluctantly I turned the wheel and moved the
van closer to the grove of scrubs, where the agitated figure stomped about,
talking to himself—or, at least, that’s what I thought he was doing.
He appeared to be around my own age, fairly tall and wiry, with thick, lightbrown hair. He wore a loose-fitting, short-sleeve tan shirt, plus jeans and
sneakers. I didn’t see his face until he spun around and gawked at me. Then I saw
the blood covering his forehead.
For some reason, I didn’t fear for my safety. I didn’t even think of grabbing a
gun as I got out of the van. He’d stopped pacing and watched me as I approached.
He was obviously not doped. His small blue eyes were glossy, but I attributed this
to rage, which I was familiar with. The ugly gash on his forehead hadn’t been
there very long.
“I was attacked!” His voice was high-pitched and throaty. “Right outside the
fucking store!”
“Who did it?”
“Kids. Punks.”
“How many?”
“Could’ve been eight or nine, for all I know. Jerks were all over me. They got
me from behind and…” He stopped talking and tilted his head. “What? Three?
Are you sure?” He sighed. “There were only three of them, apparently.”
“But you said…”
“I know. But he said three,” he said, jerking a thumb to his right.
“Someone there?” I saw no one hiding in the bushes or behind the scrubs.
“You ... can’t see him.”
I should have figured something was wrong. This man had suffered a
concussion.
“I can’t see him, either,” he said.
“Then how do you know he’s…?”
“I can hear him. How else would I know he’s there?”
This man genuinely believed someone was standing beside him. I didn’t
know if I should humor him or just politely wave and get back in the van.
“Any idea who he is?”
“He just ... started talking to me after ... after those punks jumped me—when
I woke up.”
“He wasn’t there before?”
His eyes narrowed. “You think I’m some sort of nut!”
The idea had occurred to me. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to take him to
a doctor. I didn’t even know if any doctors were still functioning—or where their
offices were. I didn’t want to get involved in anything that could delay my trip.
But he clearly needed medical attention.
“You really should get checked out. I don’t know if I can find a doctor around
here, but…”
“You can’t.”
“You live around here?”
“All my life.”
“You have a family?”
“A wife ... two kids.” A shadow crossed his features.
“Where ... are they?”
A deep sigh. “At home.”
“Where’s home?”
He pointed across 192 to a residential area. It wasn’t far from the house I’d
visited an hour earlier. Iciness slid down my arms. I was genuinely relieved it
wasn’t his place I had robbed.
“Down that street. They’re ... still there.”
“Are they ... I mean…”
“They all collapsed three days ago. I spent the last two looking for a damned
doctor. When I found one, I had to force him to remember what he did for a
living. Just when I thought I was getting through, he closed his eyes and died. On
the spot. I’ve been wandering around all morning, trying to decide what I should
do. I’ve been waiting to wind down as well, but it hasn’t happened. I don’t
understand.” He looked me over. “You seem okay, too.”
“I’m pretty sure I am.”
“Know why?”
“I’ve got a few theories.”
“I’ve got a ton of them, too, but what the hell good are they? They won’t
change anything, and they sure as hell won’t bring anyone back.”
This wasn’t exactly the time for a discussion of world events.
“Tell me about the assholes that jumped you.”
“Tattoos and jewelry and studs and funny clothes. They were carrying guns
and giggling like girls. I was going to the store for a few odds and ends when
they pulled me out of my car, slammed me to the pavement, and then took my
money and my car.”
“You have any money back at your home?”
“I have cash ... in a jar ... on my wife’s side of the bed.”
“Want to go back and…”
“No.”
“I can go in and…”
“Please.” His eyes glistened. “I can’t ... see them like that ... or know. If they
died. If ... they haven’t.”
I nodded.
“You’ve got no family?”
“I’m divorced.”
“Kids?”
“My wife miscarried three times. That last time almost killed her. She went
back to Miami to live with her family, last I heard.”
“You’re lucky.”
He was right. Watching my wife die would make all this a hundred times
worse. Thank God for small favors.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m leaving Florida. I’m driving up to Cocoa, then…”
“You have room in that van?”
“You want to go to Cocoa?”
His features tightened. “I don’t care where I go. I have to get the hell out of
here.”
“Listen, fella, I need to…”
“Reed. My name’s Reed McCallum.”
“Listen. Reed. I’d like to help, but…”
“What’s your name?”
“Moss. I’d like to…”
“What’s your first name?”
“Alan, but everyone calls me Moss. I’m heading north.”
“Like I said, I don’t care.” Then he tilted his head.
“I really don’t have room for…”
“You need to get gas.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re low. You don’t want to run out—especially on that long stretch east.”
I glanced at the van, then at him.
He nodded. “Check the gauge.”
I opened the door and peered inside. Sure enough, the needle hovered just
above empty. I straightened, nearly bumping my head. “How the hell did you
know?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how…?”
“He did.” He jabbed a thumb to his right, again.
This was getting weird.
“You
really
don’t know who he is?”
“He just started talking to me a little while ago. He ... woke me up.”
“You woke up and heard his voice?”
“He
told
me to wake up—yelled at me. Those punks who jumped me, after
they beat me up and got in my car, they tried to run me over.”
“And he ... yelled at you to get out of the way?”
“Weird, right?”
“Slightly.” I was still wondering about that gas gauge deal.
“So ... can we tag along?”
I’d been planning this for myself. Besides, I’d always been a loner and didn’t
want to be responsible for someone else’s safety. A lot of things could happen on
a thousand-mile trip.
“I don’t know...”
“He knew about your gas tank.”
“What else can he do?”
Reed glared. “He said he’ll pay his way.”
“He’s ... got money?”
“He’ll pay in other ways.”
“How will
you
pay?”
“
He’ll
pay by telling us things we need to know.
I’ll
pay by being his
translator. Otherwise, you won’t know what he’s saying. You can’t hear him, can
you?”
“No.”
“If you need him, you’ll need me as well.”
I didn’t like being pressured, but the gas tank issue had slapped my face with
a chilling reality. I had no idea who Reed was talking to, or how this imaginary
friend knew about the tank. But he’d been right.
I’d always been cautious in the past. I always checked the door and windows
and made sure the contents of my wallet were in order before leaving the
apartment. I’ve always checked gauges, tires, oil, and gas as well before driving
off.
On that day, however, I hadn’t been thinking clearly. Plus, I’d stolen a vehicle
in broad daylight. I’d never stolen anything before, and the experience had
shaken me up. As I’d driven away, I worried more about being nabbed by the
cops than anything else.
When I’d left Walmart, I was thinking about the items I’d stolen. I probably
would have spent the rest of the day checking the rearview mirror and not
thinking rationally again until I was halfway to the ocean.
By then, I would have already run out of gas. There were only a few stations
on that stretch, and they were all probably closed. If I’d gone empty, I would’ve
been forced to search for another vehicle. I would’ve been out in the open and
totally vulnerable—an easy target for psychos driving around hunting for fresh
prey.
“Get in,” I said.
Reed nearly smiled. “Would you mind letting me use your first-aid kit? I need
to clean up and fix this disgusting gash.”
The back of my neck tingled. The first-aid kid sat on the floor behind my seat,
beneath the sleeping bag. “How’d you know I bought a first-aid kit?”
Reed grinned. “He saw it when he was checking your gas gauge.”
After spending nearly two hours finding a working gas station in St. Cloud, we
gassed up, got back onto 192, and reached Cocoa around suppertime. Then, for
the next half-hour, I searched for a place to rest for the night.
The same eerie stillness I’d seen everywhere else had engulfed the town. The
palm trees and palmettos, oblivious to human suffering, surrendered to the cool
ocean breeze. The few people on the sidewalks stood completely still or lay dead
on the pavement or on park benches. Others sat on front porches, staring straight
ahead. It was difficult to tell who was still alive and who was dead. Deserted
stores lined the streets, their darkened windows reflecting the emptiness within.
Traffic lights blinked sporadically. Neon signs flickered, darkened then flickered
again. Vehicles sat in the middle of the street, their drivers slouched behind the
wheel. A stray cat rubbed its nose against a shoe of one of the corpses on the
sidewalk.
sidewalk.
Half the spaces were taken, but the RVs appeared dark and empty. No candles
or kerosene lamps lit up any of the windows. I heard no moaning of generators
interrupting the silence. Total darkness had swallowed up the office as well.
I peered at the bushes, half-expecting some undead creature from an old
zombie flick to crawl out and stumble our way.
“Where we gonna park?” Reed’s voice snapped me out of my delusion.
“I thought I’d ease on over to the empty space near that single-wide in front
of the bushes.”
“Someone’s in there.”
I stiffened. “You sure?”
The black windows revealed nothing.
“We’re being watched.”
“Could be someone just being cautious.”
“My friend doesn’t think so.”
“What makes him so suspicious?”
“He spotted a rifle—and a handgun.”
Rifle. Handgun
. Two words I didn’t want to hear just then. I didn’t want to
spend the night waiting for someone to rob us at gunpoint, and I certainly didn’t
want to shoot it out with a paranoid nutcase. Even if I won the battle, he might hit
the van and disable it. Then I’d have to waste precious time searching for another
ride.
I backed out, turned around, and hurried down the street.
We heard no gunshots.
I drove another two miles until we reached an attractive residential area of
large brick homes. Halfway down the block, I stopped in front of an old two-story
house sitting proudly behind trimmed bushes and palmettos. A long gravel drive
ran up to the two-car garage in the back yard.
An elderly man sat in a rocker on the front porch, his bald head slumped
forward. He wasn’t rocking and didn’t move at all.
I pulled in and coaxed the van down the driveway, stopping about five feet
from the garage doors. “This place is as good as any. We can leave the van right
here.”
“I don’t think the old man will mind,” Reed said.
“He’s probably been dead a while.”
“If anyone’s still moving around inside, they would’ve already brought him
back in.”
“Poor guy. He probably just fell asleep then died.”
“Not a bad way to go.”
When I was in the military, I’d seen people die in many ghastly ways. Reed
was right—falling asleep was the most peaceful way to go. Even so, as I flicked
off the ignition, a heavy tug of guilt pulled at my heart. We were going into this
man’s house to use his facilities while he sat out here, dead.
“I feel badly about this,” I said.
“We need a place to spend the night.”
“I know.”
“He won’t mind.”
“Won’t you feel guilty?”
“I’ll get over it.”
Reed had a point. I fully realized I should get over it as well, but my soft side
had stepped in again.
“I keep thinking someone’ll come along, pile them all in an ambulance, and
haul them away to a mass grave.”
“There’s no one to drive the ambulance. No one working the hospitals.”
“That’s what’s eating me up inside. I’m surprised it’s not eating you up as
well.”
“Being beaten up and left for dead changed my outlook,” Reed said edgily.
I grabbed a flashlight and one of the handguns. I told myself to ignore the
dead figure in the rocker and focus on the house.
The front door, made of carved mahogany, had a large oval pane of glass built
into its center. I aimed my flashlight at the glass but saw only the glare from its
reflection.
The door was unlocked. I eased it open and aimed my light at the gaping
square of darkness facing me. A large tile foyer. Carpeted stairs straight ahead
and doorways to my right and left. A light-switch panel on the wall directly to my
left.
I tried the switches. The foyer flickered at first, went dark again, then came
right back, spraying the area with bright yellow light. The living room blazed,
then the dining room, front porch, and kitchen. Apparently the grid handling the
area still provided temporary power.
“Nice,” Reed said behind me.
I felt as if we’d just won the lottery. To be safe, I flicked off the porch light as
well as the kitchen light.
The house radiated comfort and warmth. Framed family photos covered a
stretch along the living room wall and extended up the stairs.
The living room boasted a high beamed ceiling, lots of furniture, and polished
hutches and shelves. Knickknacks and mementoes filled every niche. A large
leather couch sat in front of a big bay window. A smaller couch faced it. An oval
coffee table piled with magazines rested between the two pieces. A wicker-back
rocker occupied the far corner. A thick, well-worn armchair sitting against the far
wall faced the entryway.
Despite its aged attractiveness, the room’s silent emptiness and lingering
smell brought me back. This home would no longer hear laughter, joy, or any
other sounds of life. It would never again exude delicious aromas from the
kitchen. It had become yet another mausoleum in a world filled with death.
“I’d better do a search upstairs,” I said.
“Be careful. He doesn’t hear anything, but you know what that might mean.”
“Someone could be up there, waiting.”
“Looters have no conscience.”
Reed’s statement made the hair bristle on the back of my neck.
“What the hell do you think
we
are?”
He blinked. “We … haven’t hurt anyone. We’re just using the facilities. These
people have already died. I honestly don’t think they’d mind, Moss.”
His reasoning didn’t make me feel any better. We’d just walked into
someone’s house while a dead man slumped in a rocker on the front porch. I was
going to see what was salvageable and what we could take with us. That meant
searching the rooms and going through people’s dressers and closets—just as I’d
done in St. Cloud.
These people were dead, but it didn’t change the fact that I’d become a looter.
My disgust and self-loathing rose to new levels.
I forced myself up the stairs and stopped at the doorway of the first bedroom.
A girl in her late teens lay on the floor, just a few feet from her vanity. Apparently
her reflection was the last thing she saw before falling out of her chair and dying
on the carpet. She was dressed in a white slip. One of her fuzzy pink bunny
slippers had dislodged beneath her vanity. A cell phone lay just a few inches from
her outstretched arm.
A middle-aged couple lay in bed in the master bedroom, staring up at the
ceiling. They both wore pajamas and held hands. They’d obviously chosen to die
together.
In another bedroom, a woman around seventy lay on the bed on her back. She
wore a red, flowery housecoat that had opened, revealing her white slip. She was
probably the wife of the old man on the porch. Perhaps her husband had slipped
outside for some fresh air before going to bed. Maybe he hadn’t asked her to
accompany him because she’d already fallen. Or maybe he knew he was going to
die and wanted to watch the stars one last time.
Holding in my nausea and depression, I went into the bathroom. To my relief,
the toilet was usable. I indulged myself then washed my hands and face in the
sink. I tried not to stare at my gaunt reflection in the smudged mirror, but I was
tired, and my self-control lost out over my curiosity. I ignored the despair, fear,
and self-loathing oozing from my reflection by washing my face again.
They’re all dead,
the little voice inside me said.
You may be a looter, but it
doesn’t matter anymore
.
Not to them. Not to anyone
.
Why doesn’t it matter?
I asked myself.
No one else is around to make things right
, came the reply.
I washed my face one more time. Then, leaving my irritating philosophical
self at the sink, I went back downstairs.
Reed was lounging on the couch in front of the big bay window.
“How many?” he asked softly.
“Four.” I turned off the light upstairs and the one in the dining room. Then I
turned on the small lamp beside the living room hutch and turned off the main
overhead light. I didn’t want to advertise activity to anyone wandering about
outside.
“Kids?”
“One, probably in her late teens.”
Reed sighed. “I don’t want to be around when all this ends. I mean, I don’t
want to be the last one left. Do you?”
“What choice do we have?”
Reed pointed to the gun in my hand.
I didn’t look at it. “Only if the time comes.”
“
When
it comes?”
“Let’s not talk about this, okay? Things are depressing enough.”
“I’ll take this couch, if you don’t mind. I’m already beginning to feel the last
few hours. It’s been a long, stressful day.”
“We should check the kitchen. Their food might still be fairly fresh.”
“In the morning. I’m too exhausted to eat.”
I hadn’t noticed my own fatigue until Reed mentioned it. I wanted to lie down
and sleep for hours. I knew that was impossible, but we could at least grab a few
winks and be ready to go in the morning.
“I’ll take this armchair. It faces the front doorway.”
“You think we’ll have company?”
“If we do, I’ll need a clear shot.”
“Isn’t there a deadbolt on the front door?”
“I didn’t lock the door.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t want to arouse suspicion. Anyone will know that with the dead
man outside, the door shouldn’t be dead-bolted. Even if I did lock it, what good’s
a dead-bolt with a huge pane of glass in the center of the door?”
Reed said nothing, but he didn’t look pleased.
I turned off the lamp and carefully found my way back to the chair. I sat, put
my gun in my lap, and grabbed the afghan from the back of the chair.