Mountain Man - 01 (14 page)

Gus shook his head. “Sorry, man. Guess you heard all that, huh?”

“What’re you doing out there?” Scott demanded.

“Aw, cooking up some grub there. Beans and wieners. I’m pretty much shitfaced from earlier. Rule one. Don’t cook while shitfaced. You might knock the whole damn works off the stove and onto the floor. Anyway, sorry for wakin’ you up. I heard you snorin’.”

“I snore?”

Gus’s bearded face looked somber. “You sound like a fucked-up chainsaw.” He smiled and rubbed his bald head. “You hungry?”

“For beans and wieners?”

“Well, I’ll eat those. I scraped them up off the floor. Can’t throw that shit out, man. It’s all food, right? But I got another can of it if you want some.”

“Yeah, please.”

“All right. That smell botherin’ you?”

“Huh?”

“That.” Gus pointed at the bucket. “The piss bucket. You want me to empty that?”

Scott just noticed the pungent odor. “Maybe later.”

“If I had sawdust, that would take the smell away, but I don’t. Sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize. I’m just glad I have a bucket here.” A grin came out with his words, and Scott didn’t want to think about the alternative.

Gus stifled a belch and raised a hand. “You’re a guest. No problem. I’ll get them beans and wieners on for ya.” He disappeared from the doorway as abruptly as he had appeared.

Scott lay back down and waited for about twenty minutes before deciding to get up. It was getting dark outside. He grabbed his crutches and swung his way into the hallway. As he came into the kitchen, he saw Gus pouring the beans and wieners into a white plastic bowl, right beside its twin.

“There ya are,” Gus said and swayed a bit. Scott noted the bottle of Captain Morgan rum, almost empty on the island counter. “You know what’s worse than knocking shit onto the floor?”

“No, what?”

“Cleaning it up. I got plenty of paper towels, but it wasn’t––oh, s’cuse me––absorbing the shit. I was spreadin’ it out like pizza sauce. Finally… finally changed tactics and scooped what I could into the bowl. That one’s yours, by the by.”

Scott leaned over the island table, took up a spoon and starting eating, blowing on each scoop before devouring it. “Tastes good,” he managed to get out.

“I’ll get you something to drink.” Gus went to the fridge and poured a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Scott said with his mouth full. He nodded at the bottle. “A little early, ain’t it?”

Gus looked at the rum and smiled tightly. “Any time’s good these days.” With that, he ate his food in silence until it was gone.

For Scott, it was the first can of B&W he’d had since it all began, and while a little stale, they tasted just fine. God bless whatever chemicals preserved them.

The sun drooped lower, and the shadows grew in the house. Gus cleaned up the dinner dishes and placed them to one side.

“You wash those?” Scott asked.

“Sometimes. Only for special company. Usually use paper if I have them or just straight from the can. I’m not picky. Let’s go into the living room here.”

Gus grabbed his bottle and moved out of the kitchen and into the living room. He plopped down onto the sofa and gestured for Scott to take the recliner.

“Want another bottle?” Gus asked.

“I’m fine. Too hung over from last night.”

“You get over it. I did. Do. Sometimes.” Gus cackled, baring faded white teeth. He patted his flat belly and took another shot of rum. “I was never a drinker. Came into it. Can you blame me?”

Scott eased into the recliner and sighed. He shook his head.

“That’s what I figured,” Gus said. “Hardly touched the stuff. Now, it’s bottled comfort. You read at all?”

“A little.”

“We got books here, too. Mostly horror fiction, but the owner seemed to like a bit of everything. Some point in time, I’d like to get to the city library. There’s another one at the university, but that’s a scary place to visit now, like any place that had a high population. Ah, well. Some good reads here all the same. Ever read any King?”

“Who?”

“Stephen King?”

“No, not really.”

“I think all of his books are here. You’ll see, anyway. I never asked you before, where you from? Saint John?”

“Yeah. Saint John.”

“Like it there?”

“Back in the day, yeah, it was fine. Not now, though.”

Gus drank some of his rum. He studied the bottle. “I’ll have to get another one of these soon. Anytime you want anything, just let me know. I’ve got lots down below. I gotta get you a Speed Stick as well. And a toothbrush.”

“You have those?”

“Got lots. Raided a drugstore a while back and took what I could from the shelves. That included a shitload of deodorant, shampoo, toothpaste, dental floss, you name it. Stored it all over the house.”

“Jesus, you’re a packrat.”

“I prefer the word
survivor
,” Gus said with satisfaction, staring in the direction of the dead fireplace.

Scott thought about something for a while, and decided to ask his question. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“Huh?”

“All of this? Why you doing it all?”

“You worried about something?”

“Maybe.”

Gus smiled. “Then don’t. I don’t have any secret plans.”

“All right, then, why again?” Scott had to know. He had seen too many things on the road, people reduced to base savagery before, during, and after the collapse.

Gus took his time answering, taking a long drink. “I’ve been up here a long time. Got to a point where I felt like talking to myself at times, like Will Smith in
I am Legend
, there.”

“That a movie?”

“Yeah, old bad movie––it’s in the library below––but, anyway, as sad as it sounds, man, you’re someone to talk to. I haven’t talked to anyone besides the walls, the TV, myself, and the dead outside. ”

Scott nodded. Two years in relative seclusion. Cabin fever of a different kind. “I hear ya.”

A week later, Scott felt better about staying at the house. His sense of being fortunate grew with his contact with Gus. The man was a peculiar one. He drank constantly,
smiles
as he would refer to them, but he had plenty remaining downstairs. Gus had taken him down to one of the storerooms to see what exactly he had, and the revelation nearly blew him away.

“Where the hell’d you get all of this?” he asked, gazing at the shelves and boxes of stored goods, bathroom supplies, household cleaners, and alcohol.

Gus shrugged. “Around.”

Gus later told him that he squirreled away everything he found in shops and stores, even after the looting. And he occasionally found small convenience stores that had been missed. Gas was the easiest, as Scott already knew. All one had to do was check the derelicts on the roads and drill a hole into the tanks. Gus figured he had close to ten extra gas containers in the garage, all full. And there were the mountain bikes, as well, that he used in a pinch. Gus informed him that he took what he could from the houses in Annapolis. House picking. Some contained vast stores of supplies, while others didn’t, but he tried to be systematic in his search.

“Winter’s comin’ up, though,” Gus said. “And once that comes, getting down into the city will get that much harder, if not dangerous.”

Scott didn’t question the mountain man.

During the days, he would use the crutches to get around the house. His gunshot wound healed slowly, and he had to be careful moving or he could cause it to bleed again, but staying in the house for hours on end was difficult to do when he knew from Gus that there were a good three acres of land cordoned off by the stone wall. Three acres of relative undead-free freedom. So, he explored the grounds on his crutches. He saw how the solar panels that gave them electricity were situated on the south side of the house to maximize efficiency. He found the wind generator high on the mountainside that didn’t move at all as Gus wasn’t sure if it would attract attention. Gus had even taken him to the shed behind the garage and shown him the batteries for the solar panels, twenty units the size and shape of car batteries arranged neatly on the floor and a shelf, connected to a panel and generator of unknown purpose.

“All I know is that the sun shines, and I have power,” Gus said, and that was good enough for Scott. He didn’t ask too many questions if he could help it. He didn’t want to bother the man that would carry out his bucket of excrement to the outhouse for dumping and sanitizing.

In the second week, Gus took inventory and made a list of things he needed. On the following Monday, he suited up and left Scott alone in the house while he drove down to Annapolis to see what could be found. While he was gone, Scott amused himself with reading one of the many paperbacks in the house.

The feeling of comfort hadn’t left Scott, and he luxuriated in it while he had the chance. Gus made it back to the house before nightfall and went straight to the deck with bottle in hand, where he stayed well after the sun went down. Scott didn’t approach him during that time for fear of disturbing some private ritual he was unaware of. He found him in a better mood the next day, and when he asked about it, Gus told him it was the job, and the dangers that went with it.

In the fourth week, seeing Gus after another run into Annapolis, Scott discerned a distinct pattern. Gus would drive into the city and be gone for most of the day. He’d return just before sundown and go off to some part of the house, usually outside, and drink heavily from his basement supply. He’d pass out, regain consciousness the next day, and spend the day moving about as though shot through the guts, something Scott thought funny when he heard the groans and curses. Gus would be fully recovered on the day after, and he would then unload whatever he had scavenged from the suburbs, as well as inspect the van’s condition. Then, he’d take a day of rest before heading back down to the city again for more house picking.

In the middle of the fifth week, Scott removed his bandage and tentatively took his first step in the living room without the support of crutches. His ankle was sore, but thankfully, the sprain wasn’t as bad it could have been. He knew there were three different kinds of sprains, ranging from mild to severe, and he supposed he was lucky enough not to have a severe one.

“How’s it feel?” Gus asked.

“Still hurts.” Scott took another a step. “Stiff. I’ll have to bandage it again.”

“But you’re up and around, so that’s good.”

“I am.” He beamed. He looked at his bare foot and wiggled the toes. “Might bandage it again anyway, while I’m moving around.”

“Think you can drive with that thing?”

He met Gus’s eyes. “I think so. What’s up?”

“Depends.” Gus sat on the sofa and regarded him. “How long you figure on staying here?”

“Good question.” He’d thought about that as well. Some nights, he’d woken up from the nightmare of finding Teddy and Lea in the basement, but they weren’t dead. Tenner was there, chewing their flesh off, and Scott was slipping on the steps just at the worst time. Sometimes, he woke up feeling Tenner’s bloody breath on his face. “I’ve thought about it.”

“Same here, and I’ve got a deal for you.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Gus nodded. “You can stay here for the winter, if you like. If you want to go, we’ll get you set up for that, too. But the snow will be here by the end of December, and it’ll be down for three to four months. That’s a long time. You can stay here, but if you do, I’d like you to come along and ride shotgun with me. Until you feel strong enough on your feet to do more. Work with me in the house picking, and you’re more than welcome to stay. How’s that sound?”

It sounded fine. “And I can leave whenever?”

“If you really want to, man, I’m not stopping you. You drink too damn much.”

Scott frowned and smiled at the same time. “I do not.”

“You’re like a fucking fish. An
alcoholic
fish, I might add.”

“I am…?” He saw the amused glint in Gus’s eye. “I get you. You’re an evil bastard, you know that?”

Gus looked at his feet, his thick mossy beard covering his expression, but Scott suspected the man was smiling. “You got a deal,” Scott finally said. “I’ll stick around. For a while.”

“Fair enough, then.”

“Fair enough.”

They cleaned and oiled their shotguns in silence. Gus got up at one point and placed a box of red shells in the middle of the dining room table, and they loaded each weapon with five shots apiece. Gus brought in a leather jacket for Scott, but he didn’t have a neck protector or another pair of leather pants.

“I used to be a hundred pounds overweight,” Gus disclosed when he brought out the jacket. “This should be okay for you. Wear your sweaters underneath tomorrow to bulk yourself up. We’ll have to keep an eye out for anything that’s your size. Sports equipment has lots of padding.”

“What about the fire department?”

“What about it?”

“They have thick coats there. Might be worth a look.”