Fire Birds (20 page)

“Trek, of course.”

He grinned again. “Kirk or Picard?”

“Picard.”

He frowned.

“I thought Kate Mulgrew did a respectable job as Captain Janeway too,” I added.

“You disgust me,” he said, then laughed for the first time, “but kudos for knowing her name. Come on; let’s go eat.”

Ten minutes later, Bruce and I were in the house having MREs and mixed drinks. He had a variety of alcoholic beverages and other ingredients along with measuring cups and spoons. A bartender’s guidebook was open on the dining room table, and he followed the recipes exactly.

The house was modest and had been decorated by someone with bad taste. There were a lot of frilly and flowery pillows and curtains and lots of pink and yellow. I didn’t see any evidence of collectables in the house, so I presumed the house was a woman’s domain.

“This food isn’t too bad,” I said. “I haven’t had much experience with the MREs.”

“I found a whole tractor trailer full of them,” he said. “I moved it and hid it so nobody would find it. I plan to go back for it later. There’s enough food in there to last me a few years at least. It can’t compete with home cooking, though.”

“Did you have somebody?” I asked with hesitation. “I mean…somebody to make you home cooked meals? You know…before?”

He downed the rest of his drink and started mixing another, “Grams. She was the best cook. She stayed with me. I took care of her.”

“In Atlanta?” I asked.

“I’m from central Florida.”

“I’m from here in Clayfield,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “You were the museum director.”

“How’d you know?”

“I went in there,” he said. “Your picture is in that framed newspaper story hanging on the wall in your office. You look a little different now, but I could pick you out in a lineup.”

He finished mixing his drink and had a sip.

“How are you handling the alcohol?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“We have to drink it so often,” I replied.

He shrugged. “I don’t mind it. There’s enough variety to make it interesting.”

“Are you concerned about addiction or health problems?”

He grinned, “No. I’m not a wuss. Why? Are you?”

I shrugged. His grin turned smug. My pride almost pushed me into saying something about my ability to handle my liquor, but I let it slide. I thought it might be wise for me to let him think I was weak.

“Are you traveling alone?” I asked.

He paused and glared at me for an uncomfortable moment, then took my empty glass and started mixing me another drink.

“I’m traveling with a loose group. We’re all lone wolves. We like to do our own thing, but we meet up from time to time and swap stories and women. We’re heading west, but we’re not in any hurry.”

“You’re not interested in settling down somewhere?”

“Hell no,” he said. “We’re nomadic.”

He pushed my drink across the table to me.

“Before the Seebees,” he said, “I had this poster in my room. It was a picture of all this badass gear like machine guns and big knives, and it said: The Hardest Part About The Zombie Apocalypse Will Be Pretending I’m Not Excited.”

“I remember seeing those,” I said.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Then it really happened. It wasn’t what I thought it would be–”

“Yeah,” I said.

“–it was better,” he finished with a broad, goofy smile.

“Really?”

“Hell yeah. It’s like I woke up in a lucid dream only it was really real. I can do anything I want.”

“Yeah…I suppose, but–”

“The world is ours, my brother,” he said, holding up his glass for a toast. “Here’s to being and staying excited.”

I picked up my newly mixed drink and clinked my glass against his.

“This has been some fun shit, hasn’t it?” he said. “I mean this whole Seebees thing.”

“There have been moments,” I replied.

“I want to show you something,” he said. He left me and went into one of the bedrooms and returned with a gray, plastic tote box. It was the kind that the lid opened like two doors on hinges and interlocked in the middle. He put the box on the table and opened it.

“This is some military shit I found in a crashed helicopter last week,” he said and pulled out two small, rectangular packages in black plastic. On the outside of the packages, in yellow letters, it said: CHARGE DEMOLITION M112.

“C-4, I think,” he said. “I’ve never used the stuff, but I’m hanging onto in case one of my buds knows about it. There are only a couple of bricks in here. Then there are these things.”

He put the C-4 back into the box and pulled out two small, black devices devoid of markings. “I have a bunch of small ones like these, and a couple that are a little bigger.”

“Are they cellphones?” I asked.

“I think so. Look here,” he said, pointing to small reflective rectangles in the top. “They have little solar panels in them. They’ll power up, and the screen will light up, but I can’t get the display to give me numbers so I can call out.”

“Who would you call?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Whoever gave out the phones, I guess. There are LEDs on them too, but I can’t get them to light up. You can have one if you want it.” He offered one of the small ones to me. “Go ahead. I found twenty-two of them in the box.”

I took it. I didn’t see the point in having it, but I didn’t want to offend him. If nothing else maybe I could pop out the little power source and use it for something else.

“Where was the helicopter?” I said. “I found one some time back over by the school in Farmtown.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the one. There was a big crate in the back. It had all this great stuff in it.”

“I wasn’t able to get into it.”

“Your loss. Check this out,” he said, reaching into the tote again. He pulled out a squat cylinder, about the size of a Christmas cookie tin. He grinned. “That, my brother, is a magazine for an AA-12. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“No.”

He winked at me and said, “I’ll be right back.” He left the room and came back with an odd-looking gun. Then he took the canister and shoved it into place on the underside of the weapon. It made it look sort of like a bulky Tommy gun.

“Fully automatic assault shotgun,” he said. “Never in a million years would I think I’d get to shoot one of these. Now, thanks to the end of the world, I have one of my very own.”

“Wow,” I said. “Nice.”

“You should see it go to work on the goons. It’s like a meat grinder. Tomorrow, I’ll take you out and let you run a box of shells through it. It’s going to give you a hard-on.”

“Sounds like fun.”

He sat again and returned to his meal.

“I’ve come across all kinds of military shit,” he said. “I’ve played with some of it, and I’ve hid a lot of it. You never know when you’ll need it. I’ve got several caches of shit between here and Atlanta. I think it’s hilarious any time I come up on trucks or tanks or goon soldiers. Those fucktard jugheads and G.I. Joes didn’t have what it took to survive. I outlasted all of them. Now their toys belong to me…and their women.”

“Survival seems kind of random,” I said. “Men, women, old, young, big, small...”

“Well, all of that will get sorted out eventually. It’s not over by a long shot. You’ve got to be fit, and you’ve got to know how to handle yourself. Being young doesn’t hurt either, but it isn’t important.”

When he said “fit” my eyes fell to his oversized gut.

“How old do you think I am?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. Then he pointed at his face with both hands.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Thirty-two? Twenty-nine?”

“I am forty-one years old.”

“No way.”

“I’m a baby face,” he said, returning to his meal. “Grams always said that. One time, I went to the store to buy cigarettes for a friend of mine, and they thought I had a fake ID.” He pointed at his face again. “Baby face.”

“Maybe it was because of your name,” I said.

“What’s wrong with my name?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It just sounds made up. Like John Smith or McLovin.”

“My name is Bruce Lee. That’s my name.”

“I believe you,” I said. “Why didn’t your friend buy their own cigarettes?”

“He couldn’t; he was only fifteen. It’s a guy I play D&D with. Anyway, having a baby face isn’t great for getting with the ladies. They like a rugged man, you know? You might find this hard to believe, but I never really had a girlfriend before.”

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure what to say.

“But now, I can be what I want to be. I have gotten so much ass since Canton B.”

“Really?”

“Hell yeah.”

“What about that one girl you were looking for?”

“Sara?” he grinned. “Yeah, she had a sweet ass and tits like you would not believe.”

I felt the anger welling up at that, but I stifled it.

“And?” I asked, hoping he’d give more information.

“And nothing. Stay away from her,” he said. “For one thing, she’s mine. For another, she’s a vamp.”

“A vamp,” I grinned. “I’ve always been attracted to vamps.”

“Fucking stay away from her!” he yelled and slammed his fist on the table. Then he composed himself. “Sorry. She…she really hurt me. I need to talk with her.”

“What happened?”

“I’d rather not go into it,” he said. “No offense, brother, but it’s personal.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“I…I um…so what comic books were you into?” he said. “Probably nothing good since it’s Marvel.”

“Uh…well…I liked–”

“Hey, you know what?”

I stopped speaking and shrugged.

“Did you ever cosplay?” he asked.

“You mean dress up and go to conventions?”

“That’s what I said.”

“No,” I said. “I went to the Superman Festival up in Metropolis years ago. I saw some people doing that.”

“The guy that used to live here had some serious cosplay shit. I only found one thing that fit me, but I’ll bet the other stuff is about your size.”

“I don’t think so. I really–”

“Come on,” he said, standing. “Let’s do it, man. Let’s open all those toys and comic books too. It’s not like they’re worth anything anymore.”

“I’m still eating,” I said. “Maybe later. Besides, I honestly haven’t read comic books in years. That stuff in the garage is really cool, but dressing up seems...” I didn’t finish the sentence because of the change in his expression.

“What?” he said, defensively. “Stupid? Childish?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing. Never mind.”

He sat heavily and gave me a cold stare. “Same old shit.”

“I didn’t mean anything,” I said. “I’m just not into it.”

“Bikers put on all the leather and shit and people say that’s cool. Those rednecks dress up in cowboy hats and boots and western overcoats and people say that’s cool. I put on my Star Trek the Original Series chief engineer’s uniform, and they say I’m an immature geek. There’s no difference.”

“I guess,” I said. “I never did any of that so–”

“What about wearing football jerseys, huh? For that matter, what about fantasy football? How’s that any different from D&D?”

“I’ve heard those arguments before, and I don’t really like football, so you’re preaching to the choir.”

“Fucking Marvel Comics,” he sneered. “I should have expected you to be a tool.”

I stopped chewing my Italian beef then nonchalantly let my hand fall under the table and to the grip of my pistol. He noticed.

“Hands above the table, motherfucker,” he said. “What’s wrong with you? What are you going to do? Are you going to shoot me over fantasy fucking football?”

I put my hand above the table and grabbed my fork. I started chewing again and shrugged, “Just being cautious.” Then I grinned and added, “I thought maybe some Han and Greedo shit was about to go down.”

He gave me a blank stare then that broad, goofy smile returned, “Shit…if anybody in this situation is Han, it’s me. It sure as hell isn’t you. And trust me, I will shoot first.”

I downed my drink and pushed my glass toward him, “Another one of those would be great. You make a killer…whatever that was.”

He took my glass then started measuring ingredients in the measuring cups. He acted like his feelings were hurt.

“Oh, what the hell,” I said flippantly. “What kind of costumes does the guy have?”

“Fuck you,” he said. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “You’re already doing it. You look just like The Punisher or were you going for Steven Seagal?”

He grinned a little, “This isn’t cosplay; this is just me on a normal day...post-apocalypse, that is.”

“Well, you look like a badass,” I said. “Even if it is a Marvel character.”