Steps (9 page)

Chapter 17

Him Potty Man   
(Edwin)

O
h whey, Ehwa.”
Go away, Edwin.
Amalie said it forcefully, painfully, through what could be a fractured jaw. Her head had been hammered against the side of the Tahoe when a tree caved in the door, and from the blood Edwin had seen at the wreck, the airbag had done little to protect her from the steering wheel, and nothing at all to protect her from the driver’s side frame. Amalie had suffered the worst of it. Her left eye looked like a split grape.

Amalie’s words were barely intelligible, but Edwin knew his wife. He started to tell her she needed to drink, but her shoulder shifted forward, and he read the body language, which reinforced her words.

He left his wife lying in the master bedroom and returned the cup of water to the kitchen counter. For a moment he stared at the water in the cup, wondering how long all this would last, and then he drank it. He refilled it from the water tap and said, “Hey Baby Bird, you thirsty?”

Shelly Lynn waggled her crayon at him. “I not hungry,” she said. She sat on her knees at the coffee table, wedged with her back against the couch, with her head bent over a picture as she colored. She adjusted her knees and swapped yellow for a blue.

“You need to drink, Baby Bird.”

“No I not.”

Edwin left the water on the counter, afraid to waste it down the drain, and lifted his shotgun from where he had left it next to the kitchen sink. A glance out the bay window confirmed Perry’s presence with the two soldiers who had birddogged him since they found Shelly Lynn. They held a pair of rifles between them and demonstrated how to carry it barrel-down, and how to raise it in one smooth motion. Despite his amputated leg, Billings knelt, snapped the rifle up, and swept it across the trees. Perry imitated him, but without the practiced, mechanical motion Billings employed. The other soldier, Gentry, stood behind Perry holding the ejected gun clips by his side.

Edwin raised his hand when Gentry rotated toward him. Gentry returned the gesture, and Edwin scanned around for Riggs, the third man in Team Bravo. He did not see him.

Edwin left them to their rifle training and checked the pantry, now lightly stocked with the soldier’s rations and a bag of pecans. Seven soldiers, two adults, two children, not nearly enough food. Edwin closed the door, clomped through the hallway and touched the generator switch. He could check the news. It would be a blue screen, of course, so what was the point. Hope had become an absurdity.

“You okay, Amy?” He passed Amalie’s room, but she did not answer, and he did not expect her to. This idle gesture proved his concern, and then he opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.

It felt like a sacred place, him atop the pulpit preaching down onto the driveway and the pile of ashes in the middle. Three ribcages lay attached to their spines and skulls, blanched by a fire which had burned for nearly forty-eight hours.

“Lord help me,” Edwin said, because he had not finished the job after all. He leaned the shotgun against the porch railing, found a wide branch he could use as a sort of shovel, and set to pushing the remains toward the trees.

As he worked, Riggs appeared in the driveway. He stared at Edwin as if calculating just what the hell was going on.

As he worked, Edwin said to Riggs, “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Riggs answered. “I ain’t buggin’ out. Yet. Thinking is all.”

“About what?”

“About all this. Pretty messed up, ain’t it. I mean, with your boy and all.”

“It’s no fun. I guess we can’t complain too much, though. People have been suffering this sort of thing since people could suffer. I keep thinking about them wars in Africa and how all this started over there. And we got Billings in back of the house with his leg blown off. Afghanistan. Iraq. North Korea. Me and my family, we had it good for so long it’s hard to feel sorry for myself. It ain’t easy, but now’s our time, I guess.”

“To suffer, you mean?”

“Yeah. We suffer like everybody else. I bet in some places they don’t even notice a plague is going on. Situation normal, all fucked up.” Edwin strolled back to the center of the driveway and pushed more of the remains into the trees.

“What’re you doing, anyway?” Riggs said. “You gonna bury ’em?”

“Getting them out of the driveway. No sense trying to be sterile anymore, is there?”

“Don’t hurt none.”

“I guess not.” Edwin waved his hand across the pile of ashes. “But all this should be sterile anyway.”

“Should be.” Riggs thumbed over his shoulder, down the driveway. “That truck of theirs is full of food and gas. I bet they got a month’s worth of rations, not to mention whatever other supplies they brought. How long you figure the bug takes to die, like on its own?”

“No idea. I guess a cold virus survives forty-eight or seventy-two hours, isn’t that about right? Some I’ve heard last a week or two. Still, I bet after a week we’ll dig in no matter what.”

“Maybe. Nice truck, ain’t it.”

“Yeah.”

“Made it up here right after the rains, eh?”

“Sounds about right.” Edwin pushed the last of the bones into the trees. He swept the branch across the site to smooth out the ashes and thought maybe it would be a good idea to cover the bones with leaves.

“Animals’ll spread them bones,” Riggs said. He must have been thinking the same as Edwin. “Don’t make no sense to cover or bury ’em. They’ll get dug up anyhow.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You, um.” Riggs stopped and wrinkled his nose and glanced at the cabin. He crooked a finger at Edwin to come closer, and they approached one another until they stood almost touching. Riggs leaned into Edwin’s shoulder and whispered, “Man, if I scoot out of here, you and your family want to go with me? I mean, if you find the keys, we got a truck and all. Your lady just don’t know how to drive on these roads. I bet once we head back into town—”

“Riggs, goddammit, where’ve you been!” Sarge hollered. He stomped around the side of the cabin as he waved his finger between Riggs and the men in back. “Why weren’t you on patrol with Bravo this morning?”

Riggs held up his middle finger. “We ain’t in the Army no more,
Benjamin P. Walthers.
You ain’t a Sergeant-Major no more. You’re just an old man with a rifle who likes hiking in the woods. I ain’t one of your Team Bravo grunts. You copy?
Ben?
”

“What the hell are you talking about, son?” Sarge said.

Riggs shook his head. “Nothing.” He clasped a hand on Edwin’s shoulder, squeezed and said, “I think we understand each other, don’t we Edwin?” He kissed his middle finger, pointed it at Sarge, and stomped down the driveway, toward where Dale Lincoln had left his truck.

Sarge watched him go and said to Edwin, “It’ll get worse, son. Things like this, they bend a man in ways he never thought he could bend. If he don’t watch it he’ll snap.” He pointed down the driveway with his rifle. “I lost five the night we lit out of Mayberry. Him, well, shit. I don’t know about him. He’s too much of an individual, if you get me, not a team player. The only colors he flies are his. You keep that in mind, you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Edwin said.

Sarge inspected Edwin’s work, nodded his approval, and disappeared around the cabin toward where Perry practiced with the others.

When he was alone, Edwin exchanged the large branch for a smaller one, just long enough for him to poke the ground without needing to bend over. He began in the driveway where Dale’s body had been. He swept the stick side-to-side as a blind man would, pushing the ashes and dirt as he cut a winding trail toward where he had shoved Dale’s bones into the trees. He found a quarter and a piece of belt buckle, knelt, sifted through the ashes with his fingers. He uncovered a dime and two pennies, a pocket knife, and the burnt remains of a plastic keyless remote entry. Attached to the ruined plastic was a metal key ring, and on that dangled several keys, which Edwin thumbed through until he found one with the imprint of a Dodge Ram’s head. He palmed the keys and shoved them into his pocket.

He raised his head to confirm he was still alone. He collected Dale’s pistol and rifle. Infected or not, he carried them into the cabin and hid them in the back of the coat closet beneath the stairs.

When he passed by the master bedroom, he said, “You doing okay, Amy? You all right?” Amalie continued to ignore him, and he found Shelly Lynn still hunched over her picture.

“What are you drawing, Baby Bird?”

“A rainbow, Daddy.” Shelly Lynn held up the drawing for her father. It showed a frontal view of the cabin. He, Amalie, Shelly Lynn, and Perry stood lock-handed in front of it. Green-topped trees pressed against a wildly-scribbled blue sky. Above the cabin spanned a massive rainbow of mostly purple and red with a streak of yellow. “That’s His promise, Daddy.”

“Whose promise?”

“Him Potty Man.” She pointed to the couch as if a man were sitting there. “Tell my daddy,” she said to the couch. She waited a few beats, listening, and then said, “See, Daddy?”

“I don’t—”

Shelly Lynn huffed and held up the picture. “Him Potty Man said it over when He sends the rainbow, Daddy.”

As she tapped the drawing for emphasis, a series of gunshots erupted from deep in the woods. They both turned to the window in time to see Billings, Gentry, and Sarge plunge into the trees toward the noise. Perry stood alone for a moment, unarmed now that Gentry had reclaimed his weapon, and then he jogged to the porch, grabbed his shotgun, and ran after the soldiers.

Chapter 18

Chase   
(Perry)

P
erry slowed when he heard his father yelling behind him. He stopped, crouched, and waited for him to catch up. Sporadic gunshots interrupted occasional screams, men hollering out instructions one to the other, followed by a one or two round burst, the stomping of boots, more orders, another shot.

“Boy,” his father said when he reached Perry. He brushed Perry on the shoulder and pointed back toward the cabin. “Why don’t you head on . . .”

His father paused and stared at him in a way that reminded Perry of the time the transmission had gone out in the Tahoe, a clanging of gears, as if someone had thrown a handful of nickels into a food disposal. His father squeezed his shoulder, held it, and then nodded. The gears realigned themselves and ran smooth again.

“All right,” his father said. “Listen. You stay behind me, okay?”

“Sir, no, sir,” Perry said, and he said it with the conviction of a man who had killed, and would kill again, and he had no regrets. “Billings said you always move forward in flanking positions, like a flock of geese. That means side-by-side with alternating zones to fire in. And don’t get across from each other. That’s called crossfire, or friendly fire, which he said isn’t very friendly. Side-by-side, Dad. You take the left and I’ll take right.”

“Boy, listen—” his father said.

“There isn’t time, Dad.” Perry rose, waved his father to stand, and both of them ran side-by-side through the woods toward the firing of guns.

Gentry spotted him first and motioned for them to crouch. “Other side of the ridge.”

“Buggers?” Perry said.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Gentry said. “I just got here. Those rifles are U.S. issue by the sound of ’em, so they’re probably from Mayberry. Sarge just topped the hill. I’m hanging back to cover the rear. You help out, okay?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Perry said. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air metallic. An automatic burst of bullets ripped through the trees like angry wasps.

After about thirty seconds a voice hollered out from the other side of the ridge. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

Perry recognized the voice as Sarge. For a moment the listened in silence, and then an explosion rocked the forest. They ducked as the echo receded into the hills.

“Goddammit, cease fire!” That was Sarge again, booming, tyrannical, and this time the top of the man’s head appeared over the ridge as he paced higher to the peak.

Sarge stopped, swiveled toward where they had been firing, held up his rifle and shook it. “We’re on the same side, goddammit!”

A voice from farther off in the woods answered, but the words were muffled by the hilltop. From what Perry made out, it sounded like curses mixed with gibberish. Gentry checked his pocket for an extra clip. Perry pulled back the slide on his shotgun and verified a round was chambered.

“Get down, Sarge,” Gentry whispered.

Sarge only stood higher and yelled louder. “Are you out of your ever-loving mind, son?” He paused. “Are you infected? Are any of you infected?” He paused again.

A scream answered Sarge, along with another burst of gunfire. Sarge buckled and dropped into the gully, out of sight. A second explosion rocked the forest, and then Billings and Fletcher appeared over the ridge dragging Sarge limp by the shoulders. Goetsch and Arroyo followed on their heels and fired behind them as they ran.

“One of ’em has a grenade launcher,” Billings yelled. “Infected, else we’d all be in pieces. Keep low and fall back. Estimate about six or ten of ’em, near a full Dirty.”

Billings’ eyes crossed over Perry to the woods and back to Perry, and he hollered out as he slid Sarge through the leaves. “Stay with your daddy, Maggot. Hump it back to the cabin. Make sure it’s clear, and stay with your momma and sister like I told you. You copy?”

“Sir, yes sir.” Perry was on his feet and flying through the forest before he glanced back to check on his father. The older man ran slower, awkwardly. He had never seen his father work out, much less run at a full sprint. He seemed far more ancient than forty-something, and in his mind Perry labeled him Old Man, someone who had too long ago replaced exercise with modern sedentary activities.

“Come on, Dad!” Perry yelled. He stopped so his father could catch up. Behind him, men topped the ridge, took cover behind trees, and fired down on them.

Perry raised his shotgun, aimed, fired, and one of the men fell. Ahead of him, Goetsch spun on a leg, toppled to the ground, and crawled behind a tree with his gun trailing him like a limp tail. He fired one-armed around the tree as Arroyo took cover flanking him.

His father shoved Perry onward, but Perry shook him off, chambered another round, and took aim on another man. Billings had said it would be like this, a cool shower of calm washing over you, that you had about sixty seconds of clear-headed adrenaline response time before full-on panic took over and your heart and head caught up to reality. Then you ran like hell. Billings said, “That fuel burns fast and hot, and you have to act before it runs dry.”

The men on the hilltop focused on the soldiers nearest them, unconcerned with Perry and his father, and Perry fired into the side of a tree where one of the men took cover. The slug splintered the tree, and the man stumbled away from it. A burst of rifle fire caught him, and he folded.

More men poured over the hilltop, so many that Perry lost count. It felt like a hundred men, even though Billings had figured no more than ten. They seemed to be everywhere. Bullets weaved through the trees with the randomness and all-ensnaring invisible threat of a tightly-crafted spider-web.

His father’s hand clasped Perry’s shoulder, dragged him running and threw him to the ground in the dip of a felled tree. Roots jutted from the trunk in wild spikes, and the branches lay sprawled a hundred feet away with leaves still green.

“Stay down, boy!” Edwin said. His face burned red, teeth clenched, and Perry thought of the phrase chewing nails. He looked as if he could bite off a handful and swallow them whole.

His father leaned away from the stump and fired. The thump of the shotgun stood in contrast to the sharp twangs of the soldier’s weapons. There was a shuck, a thump, and more popping rifles, followed by a third explosion, this one closer.

Perry replenished the two rounds he had spent. He had six in the gun, and two more left on the stock sleeve.

Edwin said, “Don’t move, boy,” and disappeared around the tree toward the gunfire.

Perry replaced him in the covered position and aimed at another man farther up the hill. He was dressed like an American soldier in pixelated camouflage, and Perry thought of how they were under martial law, and how his father had said American soldiers would not fire on American citizens. He thought of Billings and Gentry in the cabin up the hill gunning down a woman with a stick, and of Dale Lincoln and his wife and sons.

Perry pulled the trigger, and the soldier seemed to catch a football in his gut. He folded, dropped to his knees, and screamed as he clutched his stomach. It was not a scream of pain, but of anger. The soldier stood and stumbled forward into the gunfire. He raised his rifle and fired an automatic sweep. When the clip emptied, he ran on as he screamed and panned the silent weapon across the forest as if he were still firing live rounds.

Above the gunfire, Perry heard him yell the words, “My dabba bust a pent-up yellow! It’s time to clean the stains!”

Perry’s father pulled Sarge with Billings and Fletcher behind the stump, but Gentry remained pinned-down with Goetsch and Arroyo farther up the hill.

The soldier Perry had wounded slid around the tree and brought his rifle butt down onto Goetsch’s head and face in a blinding fury. He kept going even after Goetsch stopped screaming, despite the repeated gunshots to his back that Arroyo and Gentry delivered to him. He buried his face into Goetsch’s neck and tore out a piece of the man’s throat with his teeth, stood, shook the meat as if to display his kill, and then his head knocked forward as a round blew through his skull. The man folded onto Goetsch, and both of them lay still. Through it all, Perry kept pulling the trigger without response in a growing panic. That initial rush dulled, but he steadied his breath the way Billings taught him. “You step in the shit, you ain’t got time to slap an ass or kiss a bitch, but you got to breathe. Make time to breathe.” Perry gulped a breath and shucked the shotgun slide.

Arroyo rolled out from behind his cover and ran down the hill as Gentry fired behind him. Gentry hit a soldier in the body and the leg, and Perry heard the sickly
whap
as the bullet tore through flesh, but instead of falling, the soldier became even more animated, more furious. He slid from his covered position and ran screaming toward Gentry. The soldier’s gun ran empty and Gentry paused, aimed at the charging man, fired, and the soldier’s head snapped back.

The soldier crashed to the ground, and Gentry leapt up and chased Arroyo as bullets weaved their web around him. The other soldiers charged after Gentry, firing as they ran. Perry returned fire with two more slugs, but his hands had begun to shake and he missed the moving targets.

A sharp crack sounded beside Perry. A soldier’s head snapped back and he fell. Another crack followed, and another, and with each report a head kicked awkwardly on its shoulders, and another soldier fell into the leaves and lay still.

A glance to his right showed Billings on one knee taking careful and mechanical aim as he continued to fire. Two more shots rang out, two more heads snapped, and two more soldiers fell. Then there was nothing but ringing in Perry’s ears, and the sound of Sarge on the ground sucking in deep, ragged, painful breaths.