Authors: Wayne Wightman
They sat in the living room, Mona perched on the mantle, and Martin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, drinking in every word the man said. Again, he realized how thirsty he was for for the sound of someone's voice.
“It was strange, I tell you,” Winch said. “I never watched television much, except if I went in one of the rooms and somebody had one on, and for some reason I let my newspaper subscription expire two, three years ago, and I never missed it. Didn't have a computer. So newswise, I was out of it.” Martin thought that Winch had a voice like a sailor had a walk: it was rounded and full and he spoke in a rolling baritone. “I did my work and went back to my room, and those people there, they weren't much for inspiring conversation, if you know what I mean. They talked about who was screwing whom and where, what kind of equipment they found in the rooms and so on, so I never talked to anybody much. I read a lot.”
“Sounds like me,” Martin said.
“So one day, I was down on the floor, in the casino where the action is, you know, and I noticed there wasn't much going on, just a few plinkers, no bells, not even much trash on the floor. So I says to the bartender, 'Action's kind of slow today,' or something like that, and he looks at me like I'm some kind of alien or something and says, 'Where you been, Winch?' So—” He laughed at himself. “So I says to him, 'I been digging keno tickets out of a toilet up on twenty-six, why?' and he poured himself about five fingers of scotch, never took his eyes off me, and drank it down like it was water. Right then, I knew something was up. Pretty bright, eh? Next thing I knew, couple days later, I go to get my day's work order, and it ain't there. Boss ain't there. His secretary ain't there. In fact, when I look around, everybody ain't there, except some dogs in the kitchen digging through the food. Damn strange, I thought.”
Winch held a beer and turned it in his rough hands as he thought a few moments.
“I went outside, all the casino lights were on down the street. It was lit up like a party, but nobody was there but the coyotes. Couple of 'em come trotting down the middle of the street under the 'Biggest Little City' arch. Interesting scene. Coyotes trotting along through the neon, scouting it out before they take it back. I thought I'd seen some hinky deals in my time, you know, but that took it. Everybody dead. Jeez.” He shook his head. “You here by yourself?”
“There's a woman here too. Moreen. She's probably still asleep. Down the hall. I believe she's crazy.”
“Lotta that going around.”
Winch nodded thoughtfully and ran his fingers through his gray beard. “I wouldn't mind sticking around here with you for a while, Martin, rest up, plan my next move, but if you want me to butt out, I wouldn't be offended. Not a bit. I'll scrounge me some gas and hit the road.”
“I want you to stay,” Martin said. “Please stay. I need somebody to talk to.”
“Well, I wouldn't mind,” Winch said. “Diaz gave you a good recommendation. It took me three cars to get down here and I had to walk part of the way. Hearing another living voice with a living face attached... well, it's real nice.” He leaned back and spread his arms across the back of the sofa. His face saddened. The lines around the eyes seemed to grow deeper. “Everybody's dead, man. My last day there, I went down on the floor, it was a Friday evening, it creeped me out of my skin. There was a granny pulling on a slot machine. That was it in the whole place. The granny, I watched her, she walked over behind the bar, poured herself a drink, emptied the register, and went back over to her slot. She saw me but didn't say a word. Just kept at the machine. I was on my way out when Diaz blew into town. We had a few drinks, he told me you were here....” He shrugged and finished off his beer. “I keep saying to myself, 'the end of the world, the end of the world' but I don't believe it. What were you, back in the old days?”
“I never was quite anything. I was troubled, that's what I was,” Martin said with a laugh. “I was superfluous. All my friends had a program, they wanted to be teachers, engineers, speech therapists, whatever. I couldn't ever be sure. I thought I'd be a psychologist for a while. Or an architect. There was always something else to be interested in. My program was always getting muddled.”
“I wanted to be jazz musician,” Winch said. “Saxophone. I got one in the car. The price tag on it was $5200. I'm going to give it a try.”
“What's the end of the world for,” Martin said, “if you can't play saxophone once in a while?”
“What I said to myself,” Winch said. “Martin, introduce me to the young lady.”
It was Moreen, coming out of the hallway, wearing a long-tailed white shirt. She usually didn't get up till noon, and it was only 10:00 AM. She didn't look sleepy-eyed; she looked like she had been awake for hours.
Winch stood up and wiped his hands on his pants. “My name's Winch Hobson, ma'am. Martin already told me your name was Moreen. A pretty name.”
“Hi,” she said, staying where she was, half a room away from him. “I wanted to watch some of my movies now,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward a living room shelf where she kept some of them.
Winch glanced at Martin.
“I'll show you around,” Martin said to Winch, “how I've got things working around here. Maybe you could suggest some improvements.”
“Be glad to look,” Winch said, picking up his cap and heading for the front door.
Moreen was on her knees, going through the movie cases.
Isha was already at his feet, ready to go, but Mona stayed on the mantle. Martin glanced at Mona then back at Moreen. “Will she bother you?” he asked.
She either didn't hear or ignored him.
He hesitated a moment and then said to Winch, “Let me show you the pump,” and led him out the door.
Chapter 36
They were standing in the appliance store where Martin had hooked up the generators and the freezers. Winch had looked it over and had given it an approving nod, but their talk had been of other things.
“Well,” Winch said after Martin had told him how Moreen had changed, “you might think that the disease has passed over us by now, but it hasn't. The virus is finished doing its work, but it screwed up a lot of people, those who had to see it happen, who lost everybody, and those who might have been normal till everything got taken away — no frame of reference.”
Martin nodded in agreement. He remembered Curtiz and Stewart and the woman he and Ryan had brought from San Francisco.
“Maybe Moreen will normalize a bit if she has enough time.”
Martin told him about the movies she had begun watching.
Winch shook his head.
“I don't know what to do,” Martin said. “Every time I think I've left the old world behind, more of it crops up. I think I've made about three new starts so far.”
“You could talk to her.”
“I don't know. She only wants to argue.”
“So argue.”
“Why?”
“Get her wound up, she might tell you what's on her mind, even if she doesn't mean to.”
Martin considered it. It could be nasty. Plow into the situation, churn it up until something recognizable came to the surface. “I keep thinking that here at the end of the world, people should be considerate of each other. There are so few of us, I guess I'm afraid she'll leave.”
“Well,” Winch said, “I don't want to get into your business.”
“Winch....” Martin looked up at him and squinted a little. “Everyone I meet seems crazy. So tell me the truth. Are you the exception? Or are you hiding it?”
“Me?” His forehead wrinkled and he thought a moment. “Well, I never thought about being unbalanced,” he said, “but I'm probably not the best person to ask.”
“Everyone I've met seems to be from Zerk City. Except Diaz. Well, Diaz too, but he seems to deal with it pretty well.”
“Like you said, what's the end of the world for if you can't live out your dreams. I got my saxophone, Diaz has his open road. Other people have some dreams that shouldn't come true.”
“I've seen that.”
“Likewise.”
“Let's go back.”
....
It was mid-afternoon when they walked in the front door. Martin noted that Mona was no longer on the mantel. Gasping whimpering noises came from the Moreen's room, then a scream. She sat facing the television, her face a drained mask of horror. Behind the fall of her hair, her wide eyes stared at the television and her mouth hung slack and open. Voices, screams, and gunshots came from the movie. The air in the room had a strange, pungent smell.
Winch stayed back, but Martin rushed forward and turned off the set and knelt in front of Moreen, taking her shoulders firmly in each of his hands and repeating her name into her face.
Her mouth closed and her eyes changed focus. Within the curtains of her hair, her expression changed smoothly from fear to cold hostility. “What are you doing?” she said quietly, barely moving her teeth, staring at him. “Why are your hands on me?”
Martin was suddenly aware of Isha dashing through the room, sniffing one place and another, then, rushing up to Moreen, taking quick deep breaths near her hands, then backing off, whimpering, and trotting through the house, her nose to the floor.
“Moreen, where's Mona?”
“I don't know anything about it,” she said with a toss of her head, as though she didn't care if he believed her or not.
Isha now ran from room to room, whining and moaning. Winch had discreetly disappeared.
“Moreen, what did you do with her?
Moreen
.”
“I don't know anything about it.”
He heard the click of the remote control. Agonized screaming came from the movie.
Frustrated and enraged, Martin picked up the television, ripped it free of its cables and slammed it into the corner. It crashed into silence.
“Why do you watch things die? Haven't you seen enough of that already? What did you do with Mona?”
“I don't know anything about it,” she said, her eyes glassy and her face blank. “I don't know anything—”
From the back of the house, he heard Isha madly scratching at the door, then he heard Winch open it, letting her out.
Martin grabbed Moreen's wrist and jerked her to her feet and shook her. “Just tell me what you did to Mona, where she is, and then you're out of here. Tell me!”
“I don't know any—”
He shook her again, this time very hard, twice.
Her lips began moving as she whispered softly, rapidly, “Yes, lord, my god, yes. Yes, I do lord,” and she smiled, her eyes rolling up in her head. “Yes,” she was murmuring, “yes... yes... yes...” over and over, “At last... I do, yes.... You may strike me now,” she said, looking into his eyes.
Martin released her and she dropped back down on the sofa, murmuring to herself, her hair closing around her face like a mask.
What she was doing — making her world miserable to get back her spiritual life, watching death tapes, doing something to Mona.... He didn't want to think what he was thinking.
But that was it: After their few hours of happiness together, she had to hate the world again, to get back the voice of her god in her head.
He got a blue nylon backpack out of the closet, stuffed a windbreaker into it, and from the kitchen counter he grabbed two packages of dehydrated food, put them in it, and then pushed her arms into the straps. She fought him at first and then stood meekly, breathing heavily. As soon as the second buckle clicked shut, she flailed and screamed noises at him.
“Come on,” he said. “Our time is over. You can pretend we never met.”
She slung her head around and jabbered constantly, “Yes, my God, I hear you, yes!” He led her to the front door, past Winch, who politely held it open and stood aside, an embarrassed look on his face. Winch then shoved his hands into his pockets and looked extremely uncomfortable. When Moreen saw she was outside, her eyes bulged wide and she threw her arms out to grab at Martin. He pushed her away. “No, no, no! Don't send me away, don't! Let me stay! Let me stay! God speaks to me here!”
“You'll have to be miserable someplace else.” He shoved her through the gate as she twisted away from him, her hair flying, and then ran into the street.
She stopped a dozen yards away and turned and screamed at him, “You raped my soul! I hate you! I hate everything!” A flash of joy crossed her face. “I love.... I
hate....
”
Martin breathed through his mouth, deeply, several times, tasting the cool damp-cement-smelling air. Once again, he would be starting over.
He heard Winch come up behind him. “Is she going to be all right?”
“Probably not, and she's going to love it,” Martin said, still looking down the street after her. In the distance the blue backpack fastened on her grew smaller and fainter. Birds flew up around her and then settled back in the yards. “I wish you could have come tomorrow and missed this.”
“Unusual woman,” Winch said.
“She wasn't happy unless she hated the world, if you can figure that one,” Martin said, still watching after her. “As long as her world is a nightmare, a horror, she thinks she has a chance for salvation.”
“Right off hand, I'd say her chances were pretty good.”