Mountain Man - 01 (12 page)

Scott cringed and bared his teeth at the fire going down his throat. “God… damn.” He coughed. “That’s some hard shit.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Gus said. “That’s one of the other things to do around here besides watch TV.”

“Is it?” Scott sputtered, still recovering from the initial shot.

“Oh, fuck yeah. If I get really bored, I do two of these together.”

Scott chuckled. “Well, thanks.” He held out the bottle.

“What are you, dry or something?” Gus frowned. “That’s yours. This is mine. Think of it as medicine for the nerves.” With that, Gus took another blast from the rum.

“Jesus, you really like this shit, don’t you?”

“Yep.”

Scott took another shot, and felt the burn race to his gut.

From the doorway, Gus nodded with approval. “Feel hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“You keep on sipping that, and I’ll cook something up.”

“You can cook?”

“Well, heat something up in the kitchen. For you, I got a can of Irish stew.”

“Holy shit, that sounds great!”

“Yeah, well, relax then, and I’ll get started on that.” Gus turned and left.

Scott studied his surroundings. A wooden chest of drawers sat at the foot of the queen-sized bed, and two night tables were on either side. The place was dusty; he could see the motes floating in the air as they crossed in front of the only window, which was mostly boarded up except for perhaps half a foot at the very top. The sky seemed overcast, but Scott’s mood was improving. Scratching at his chin, he took another drink of whisky and grimaced.

Gus was right after all. He got used to it.

Later that day, Gus gave two sweaters to Scott and helped the injured man to his feet. Scott draped his arm around Gus’s shoulders, and they made slow, but steady time toward the outside. The hard-looking newcomer was a head taller than Gus, and much heavier as well, and they stopped once in the living room to take a breather.

“We can do this tomorrow,” Scott said.

“What? Nah, what else you have to do?”

Scott shrugged. “That’s true.”

“Just a few minutes outside. Get some fresh air into ya.”

“Thanks, man.”

“You said that already.”

“I mean, thanks for this. Helping me outside.”

Having nothing to say to that, Gus merely grunted. “Gonna have ta see if we can get you some crutches or something. You’re too damn heavy to lug around all the time.”

He helped the bigger man onto the deck and past the pool, to the pair of lawn chairs facing the valley full of city.

“Watch out for the glass,” Scott said.

“What? Oh, yeah. Meant to clean that up. Here.” Gus lowered him onto one of the chairs and stepped back to lean against the railing.

“Whoa,” Scott said, taking in the sight.

“Somethin’, ain’t it?”

“It is.”

“Hold on.” Gus walked into the kitchen. There was still a good three hours left to the day, and he figured he would clean up that mess of glass. He grabbed a broom and dust pan, and the two bottles of alcohol, and went back to the deck. He placed the booze on the table between the chairs and dusted the broken glass over the edge of the deck. He should’ve done that long before he had a guest. What would the man think?

“Break a bottle out here?” Scott asked.

“Huh? Yeah,” Gus said, giving the broom a toss in the direction of the house. With a huff, he landed on the other chair and picked up his bottle of rum. “Cleaning’s done for the day.” He took a slug from his bottle. “What do you think?” he asked, gesturing toward Annapolis.

“Great view.”

“It is great. Best damn house I ever had.”

“Was it yours from before?”

Gus shook his head. “Shit, no. I couldn’t afford a place like this. I couldn’t afford one of the
closets
in a place like this. No, I found this place maybe five or six months after everything went tits up. Someone had money to do this place, but it wasn’t me. I just got lucky.”

“Where do you think the owners went?” Scott asked and finally took a sip of his bottle.

“Don’t know. Not really important now, is it?”

“I just want to know if you killed them or not.”

The statement stopped Gus in his mental tracks, and he thought about what he would say next. After all, from Scott’s viewpoint, especially after surviving a very close shave, Gus might be just another crazy fattening him up for the kill.

“I didn’t kill anyone not already dead,” Gus responded. “I ain’t got no problem puttin’ a bullet or a shell into the head of one of those fuckers down there. A living person, though, is a whole ’nother ball of wax. I ain’t killed anyone for this. God as my witness. Okay? Besides, what kinda sick fuck would I be to bandage you up, feed you, and get you drunk before killin’ you?”

Scott smiled. “Pretty sick.”

“Pretty fuckin’ sick. Damn right.”

They clicked bottles and drank. The sun hung above, pausing before skidding down the arc of the sky.

“What did you do before the fall?” Scott asked.

Gus snorted and rubbed his head. He should’ve brought a toque out with him. “I was a house painter.”

That revelation put a smile on Scott’s face. “No way.”

“Yeah. A house painter. Hard to believe?”

“Figure you to be Special Forces or something. Joint Task Force Five or some shit.”

Gus scoffed. “Just ’cause I ran over a few deadheads?”

“And saved my ass.”

“Yeah, well, no, I’m just a house painter. Back in the day, I swore when I died I’d want to be buried in latex.”

“Why latex?”

“Jesus, you ask a lot of questions.”

“Sorry, man.” Scott’s head tilted to one side. “I’m nosy. Sorry.”

“S’okay. Not used to it, that’s all. Sorry if I sound, y’know, curt, sometimes.” Gus shrugged and made his shoulders crack. “Yeah, latex. ’Cause it’s so easy to use. That’s why.”

“I was a baker. In a donut place.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Scott nodded. “I used to work in Saint John. Small outlet. Had the night shift.”

“How was that job?”

“Shitty. Well… it wasn’t so bad. Got to bring home the leftovers after my shift. The ones I wanted, anyway.”

“All those doughnuts and muffins.” Gus shook his head. “Man, that sounds good.”

“That’s what everyone thinks. It is good until you get sick of it. I did everything except the doughnuts. Cookies, pies. All good. I was good at it, too. A decent job. Lonely, though, at times. Night shift and all. Yeah.”

“All gone now,” Gus said and pursed his lips.

“Yeah. All gone.”

Gus gazed out over the cityscape and felt November’s light breath chill his face.

“You ever find out how it happened?” Scott asked.

“The zombies?”

“Yeah.”

Gus took another drink. “No. Don’t know if anyone knows. You?”

“No.”

“TV said it was a virus before everything went off air. Something mashed together with Ebola or Sars or Avian flu or something like that. Never for certain. Some folks said it was a leak of some biochemical weapon. Some sorta weaponized agent. I don’t know. You’re asking the guy on the lowest rung here.”

“Same here.”

“The worst were the religious fucks. Jesus, they were fucking dancing in the streets they were so goddamn happy that, finally, the world was ending on the day they said it would. Or the month, I guess.”

“You see that old fucker on TV? The old rich one that wanted to seal himself in the bunker?”

“With the fifty pieces of ass?” Gus chuckled. “Fuck me. The old bastard must of thought it was his lucky day. Going to do his job to repopulate the earth.”

“The women went down into the bunker with him.”

“Yeah, well, he was rich and crazy, and evidently hornier than everyone on the eastern seaboard put together.”

Scott smiled. “Think they’ll make it?”

“Don’t know,” Gus admitted. “TV went off the air around that time.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Forgot.”

“I like to think the old codger got his rocks off at least once or twice before something took the door off his holy bunker. ‘Repopulate the earth for the Lord!’” Gus shook his head. “My ass. Y’know the sad thing about that, besides the women going down there with him, were the followers who donated money to that pious bastard over the years, just so he could build shit like that bunker and call it the church of whatever the hell that was.”

“I forgot that one, too.”

“Same guy was on TV years earlier calling for forgiveness because he lost a couple of million at the horse races,” Gus said, lifting his bottle for emphasis.

“Never heard of that one.”

“Oh yeah, he did that. That’s what he did. Bet the farm, lost it all, and went on national TV asking the congregation to help him out. And the sad thing, the piss
poor
sad thing, is they helped him out. And he went ahead so many years later, built an ultra-modern ‘church,’ which just happened to be set into the side of a mountain, all self-contained and only big enough and with supplies enough for fifty of the hottest worshippers, all no older than thirty, I heard, who submitted applications and photos online, complete with health records. Joke’s on him, though. A man’s sperm starts to degenerate as he gets older, increasing the risk of mental problems with the youngsters.”

Gus took another shot of booze, and pointed at the horizon. “Holy bunker, my ass. And that’s only a fragment of the shit. Y’know, I did hear a conspiracy theory that it wasn’t an airborne virus at all. It was some sorta chemical reaction that turned people after eating their favorite preserved snacks. MSG and MC-nine some shit-or-other, combined with some other additive that made people crave more. I heard they were coming out with the obesity laws just before it all went down. All a farce, I think.”

“Why’s that?”

“The continent’s food supply is controlled by all of what, six or seven mega-corporations? That export all over the world? And if they don’t export, they sure as shit got, what do you call ‘em… affiliates? Subsidiaries? Over there to sell their
enhanced
products for years. They’ve been polluting the grub for God knows how long with their ultra-preservatives filled with ingredients a Yale graduate would have a hard time pronouncing. Personally, I think it was already in the food supply and just needed time to go off.”

“Scary shit, man.”

“Yeah, scary shit.” Gus took another drink and looked toward the city. “Scary shit.”

“I always thought the military would push them back,” Scott said. “We heard there was a division fighting in Quebec, but nothing ever got into New Brunswick. I think some folks went down to the States, but were never heard from again. There’s just nothing. Not even a radio signal. Like being in a void.”

“Sometimes,” Gus began, “I sit out here and drink and hear things. Screams. Gunshots. But only, uh… sporadic. Then, nothing. The wind takes it away, or the situation was taken care of. But you’re pretty much the first person I’ve seen and talked to for a very long time. Maybe two years now.”

“Hard to believe you survived this long up here.”

“Not too hard. Defensively, I’m pretty much set, I think. I got a trench I want to dig out front there, in front of the outer wall. And a few more things I’ll dig. Pits and such.”

“You ever watch zombie flicks?” Scott asked, looking at him with eyes that were sly slits.

“Yeah. All the time now. Why?”

“You have to count on those things getting up here.”

Gus took a shot of rum. “I know. I do. That’s why I’m doing the outer defenses. Try to make it as secure as possible.”

“Ever get any up this far?”

“Not often. And always in singles. Never a pack. I don’t know what drives them up here, but yeah, sometimes I get them. One morning, I woke up to the sound of one wailing away at the outer wall. I took care of him quick, but I was shaking for the rest of the day. Figured it came up through the woods, bypassing the road gate altogether. Another time, I opened the road gate, and one was right there, looking like it had run a marathon. Scared the shit outta me. I put it down and dragged it off to the other side, and that was that. They come around every now and again. They seem to keep to the towns and cities, though.”

Scott nodded.

“You have a family?” Gus asked.

“Had one. A wife and a little girl. They’re gone now. Dead. Parents passed on long ago. My sister’s dead. You?”

“Girlfriend got the bug or was bit. I saw her in a mob coming down a street. Cop shot her in the head just before the crowd overran the street blockades. Got two brothers out west, but I don’t know what happened to them. Probably never will.”

“This talk’s getting depressing.”

“So it is.”

“The guy I used to hang around with, he used to ask, why did they have to turn into things that ate people?”