Dislocated (8 page)

I drive over to the Yankee Kitchen at mach speeds. An insatiable hunger has developed within my guts. The front door of this town’s finest breakfast establishment, naturally, is locked. Next door at Furniture World, they leave their discounted items on the sidewalk all night. I grab a wooden dining room chair and throw it through the front window of the restaurant. I fall into it a bit, glass spraying against my face and clinging to my hair, but I survive unscratched. I could get used to these dramatic entrances. I kick the shards away from the perimeter before climbing inside.

I fire up the gas stove (so there’s gas but no electricity) and cook myself some eggs, while boiling water to accommodate the jar of instant coffee I find in one of the cabinets. I get Sunday’s newspaper from the rack by the hostess stand; take a seat at the counter. The coffee is scalding.  I burn my tongue. The eggs are a bit runny. The caffeine helps curb my appetite.

I glance at the paper, but I’m not really reading. Just looking at the pictures and thinking: could this be global? Some sort of epidemic that I, as well as a few others, am fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to have immunity to?

The eggs make me sick.

I stand, dumping the remainder of my coffee on my breakfast before throwing the plate against the wall, telling everyone and no one at all that this place always had shitty service.

There’s cheap champagne in the walk-in cooler. I take two bottles to go.

I heave a cinderblock through the window at the Gas-N-Go next door. The alarm sounds. With it blasting in my ears, it’s harder to concentrate on firing up the computer systems to turn on the pumps, but I’ve been under worse pressure. Before gassing up, I take as much soda and chips and candy as I can carry.

Roderick’s phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out.

The counter has reached zero.

The gas tank tops off. I remove the nozzle.

I stand.

And wait.

The sky smells like rain.

I can make out of the sound of thunder quickly descending upon this place.

I step away from the car and into the street, squinting into the darkening horizon, the last of the daylight being chased away.

And I hear it. Clear as day. Not thunder.

Helicopters.

The ground shakes beneath my feet, stones and pebbles coming to life around me.

Okay. Maybe not helicopters.

Fire bursts from the sewer in the street like a caged and captured monster with plans to devour its pathetic captors after discovering newfound freedom. I stumble back, almost pissed at myself for still being surprised when something as outrageous as this happens today.

A pterodactyl could come crashing out of the sky tonight, scoop me up, and feed me to its hideous, slimy, pterodactyl babies and I’d only be able to argue, “Sure, pterodactyls, this makes perfect sense.”

Then the Yankee Kitchen explodes followed by the bank across the street.

I cut myself some slack and decide it’s okay to be surprised by this.

9

A PERFECTLY GOOD PLACE TO STOP FOREVER AND DIE

Driving away from explosions at seventy miles per hour is not as easy as Hollywood makes it look.

And if you’re asking, driving away from explosions at seventy miles per hour in a Lamborghini is about as deadly as having remained at that gas station while every building around me exploded into a brilliant display of orange and red and yellow shrapnel.

I cannot control the thing. It’s a miracle I’m not yet burning alive in a pile of twisted metal.

I steal glances in the rearview mirror. The sun is crashing into the earth behind me.

Mom.

Dad.

Valerie.

Eddy.

I dodge a dead giraffe and fishtail.

The entrance to the freeway is less than a mile ahead.

I can barely handle the wheel with the sweat on my palms.

A fireball of flaming brick and mortar lands in front of me.

I press down on the gas and scrape by, destroying the driver’s side of Mr. Waterman’s car. I see the entrance ramp and remember it curves around to the right. I’m too late to do anything about it, and I enter the freeway rolling instead of driving.

The 76 West is nearly abandoned. A Semi is overturned, and I can see an accident up ahead. Small fires have broken out from the wreckage that was once my hometown. Behind me, the horizon shines so bright I can still feel the heat from here as I walk—stumble—to the Honda sitting on the side of the road with its driver’s side door open, the driver just a few feet away sprawled face-down on the pavement. His arms are outstretched, and a set of keys rests just out of reach of his right hand. He must have made a run for it, tripped, fell, and never got back up. I kneel to retrieve the keys, wiping the blood that is dripping into my eyes from the bits and pieces of the Lamborghini’s windshield embedded in my forehead. I cannot tell if those sirens I hear are another side effect of my fragile mental state, or real. I toss my bag in the trunk, set the shotgun in the backseat, and drive away.

I make it seven miles before I have to stop to pee and vomit. I look for a good place not just to use the bathroom, but to stop forever and die.

There’s another car in the rest stop lot. Abandoned. Naturally. It’s the end of the world, and I’m still concerned about using the proper restroom facilities. I hurry into the men’s room next to the payphone, and start thinking about the phone numbers I have memorized. The only people I call frequently enough to remember their numbers live within a ten-mile radius of home. And are dead. I curse the cellular age, and empty my bladder.

It smells of rotting flesh and feces in here. There are so many flies I have to hold my breath. Not on account of the smell, but on the misfortune of accidently breathing in one of the pesky sons-of-bitches.

I can’t stick around long enough to look in the mirror and see just how bad things have gotten. I’ll use the car window to the remove the glass from my face. My bones feel pulverized. Every inch of skin seems to be tightening. It’s becoming harder for me to move. Perhaps it’s the perilous amount of blood on my skin finally drying. Or I’m finally dying.

I see a pair of boots and jeans bunched down around some ankles in the stall next to the urinals. I don’t bother checking to see how he’s holding up in there.

I leave without washing my hands. I’ve never been so thankful to breathe fresh, smoke-filled summer air. I take in big, heaping gulps before returning to the car—which doesn’t start.

The engine won’t turn over.  I pop the hood and pretend to know what it is I’m looking at.

I pace around the parking lot, hands on the back of my head, fingers interlocked. I can’t stop the bleeding caused by the Lamborghini’s wreck. I’m not sure I was ever behind the wheel. I hold my hands up in front of my face and try to focus on them. Hands. I can rely on my hands. I can trust my hands.

Whatever was in those darts Roderick shot me with, it’s wearing off and the pain of the real world is settling in. Specifically what I am certain is the rabies-infected wound on my shoulder.

I kick the passenger door of the Honda; open the trunk. I enjoy a soda and a bag of chips, and sit on the car. I finish dinner, and take the tire iron from the trunk. I smash the passenger side window of the pickup. The interior is littered with fast food wrappers and open ketchup packets. The vinyl seats are held together with duct tape, and the Virgin Mary is mounted to the dash, crusted with the dust of Cheetos. I climb inside and search for keys, but come up empty-handed.

I wrestle with the fact that I’ll have to search my unfortunate friend in the bathroom if I ever want to get out of here.

Surely someone must have heard the explosions. I could just wait. Waiting sounds like the best plan I’ve had all day.

Someone will come.

Someone has to come.

No one comes.

I wrap a jacket around my head, and return with reluctance to the men’s room. The number of flies seems to have doubled during my brief absence. The stall door isn’t locked. I give thanks that I don’t have to crawl underneath. Sitting inside is a man larger than life, thighs the size of tree trunks, sixty, maybe seventy years old. Who can tell when you’re dead on a toilet and covered in flies? He sits slumped to his right, head against the stall, and a hand tucked gingerly between his legs.

The smell is debilitating. I brace myself for fear of losing consciousness. I rip the jacket from my head because I can’t help but vomit—right onto the jeans bunched around the ankles where I’m sure the keys are hidden. I slip, falling to my knees, flies crawling in my ears and through my hair. I can feel them burrowing beneath my skin, already laying eggs. I push myself from the floor, stumble back. I run from the restroom for the second time today, relieving myself of the chips and soda I only recently consumed.

I wipe the bile from my lips. 

I stand when I’m good and ready. The smell from the facilities is everywhere.  I return to the Honda, pop the trunk. I strip naked, leaving my clothes on the ground, changing into fresh jeans, a clean t-shirt. I grab a thick, black jacket better fit for bitter winter days because I can’t stop shaking. I tell myself it’s because of the smell. Because I just threw up. Because I seem to be the only living, breathing human being left on the planet.

I don’t tell myself I’ve finally caught whatever killed everyone else.

That maybe I’m not immune after all.

I close the trunk. If I ever want to get out of here, I have to get those keys.

I pace around for a few more minutes. And in this useless task I notice the tires on the truck: they’re flat. 

All four of them.

I try to remember if they were flat when I broke in, but I cannot recall. I’m positive they weren’t. You would notice a thing like that, wouldn’t you?

I look around, spinning in circles, that sickening feeling of being watched crawling through my bones again.

Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightening tears through the clouds, ripping open the seams, spilling their insides upon the earth.

I stand near the payphone stationed next to the vending machine and men’s room for shelter against the rain, but I’m still getting wet. I can’t stop shaking even though it’s still seventy degrees.

I think of Valerie.

I think of Leslie.

Ma.

Dad.

My brother, Russell, in New York.

I think about dialing random numbers on the payphone until I get someone. Then I’m thinking I should have brought along some quarters.

I pick the phone up and slam it against the receiver over and over until I’m certain I’ve broken it.

I contemplate death, and life, and family, and I contemplate that I might be the only person left contemplating anything at all.

I close my eyes, begging for sleep. And for the first time since Valerie left, it’s coming easy. With my back against the wall, I slide to the cold concrete, lowering my head, my hands in my pockets and my chin against my chest to help control the shakes. The collar of my jacket popped to help keep out the rain.

And I sleep.

The pay phone rings.

Seven rings before I’m on my feet.

“Hello?”

My voice is exasperated, defeated, yet so full of hope.

Nothing.

No one. Not even a breath.

“Hello? Hello? Hello?”

My heart sinks. My stomach sinks lower.

I’m dreaming.

Certainly I am dreaming.

I go to place the phone back on the receiver when I hear: “Is this William Alan Scott?”

It’s hard to hear over the weather. This could be the rain talking for all I know.

“William Alan Scott,” the voice says again. “Is this with whom we are speaking?”

I say yes because I don’t know what else to say at all.

“William Alan Scott, son of Judith and Roger Scott of 758 Jaguar Drive?”

Yes!

“William Alan Scott, graduate of Kent State University with a Bachelor’s of Science in business and computer programming? Winner of the Annual Brighton Falls Science Fair four consecutive years?  The William Alan Scott accused and arrested but never convicted of computer crimes against the N.S.A.?”

Yes! Yes! And no fucking comment.

I pinch myself until I draw blood.

I want answers. “Now who are you? Where are you? Everyone here is dead! Everyone I love is gone! What is happening, what is happening, what is happening?”

There’s a muffled sound, like someone is passing the phone along, or a hand going over the receiver. I make out voices. There is talking. “It’s now seventy-two hours after the zero hour. Subject is in communication.” Zero hour? Subject? Me? There is lots of talking. Arguing? Cheering? It sounds a lot like cheering. And I hear, “It’s him. He survived. Just like you said he would.”

Then the voice says to me, “Stand fast, son, we’re coming in to get you.”

10

VIRUS

Helicopter blades cut through the air, whipping rain and leaves and grass into a tornado around me. I stand in the field behind the rest stop, watching the chopper descend upon me.

I don’t move. I don’t shield my eyes.

The machine lands with grace, but the blades do not cease.

I step forward.

My boots sink into mud.

I take another step.

The blades continue to spin.

I half-expect the thing to lift off before I can get any closer. But I manage to make my way over and I’m soaked. I duck down so I don’t lose my head.

“Hello?” I scream, but the words are lost to the wind.

The windows are blacked out.

I reach forward to pound on the side of this metal beast.

“Hello! It’s me. William Alan Scott!”

The door slides open with a roar, and three men in thousand-dollar suits stare at me through the eyes of gasmasks. I instinctively hold my breath the way I did when I first encountered Roderick, but it’s a useless exercise. If I’m not dead yet, I’m clearly the one immune bastard who ends up being humanities last hope. I consider the responsibility. If they ask, I’ll have to sleep on it. For now, I’m just thrilled I’m not the last man alive.