Tourists of the Apocalypse (38 page)

“How about Dexter?” I suggest, having been bouncing this name around all day.

“Are you a Dexter?” she whispers, eyeing my son suspiciously. “No, I don’t think he is. Keep working on it.”

“Would you like to pick out the name?” I groan, having offered a dozen names only to be rejected by her each time. “What does he look like to you?”

“I’m not family so that wouldn’t be right,” she huffs, going back inside to put him to sleep.

“None of this is right.”

“I could not agree with you more,” Fitz groans slipping out the door and dangling a warm beer over my lap by the neck of the bottle.

“Why is it we have so much beer still?” I ask, taking it. “Party stores have been out of business quite a while.”

“T-Buck’s basement has a walk in chiller. It’s still cool down there, but it’s all going to turn skunky pretty quick so drink up.”

Just the mention of his name makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. T-Buck watched Lance kill Dickey and never moved a muscle. I guess you don’t really know anyone till the shooting starts.
After that people have to choose a side.

“Tell me something about you that no one else knows?”

“Huh,” she mutters, turning to lean on the porch rail facing me. “Why?”

“Something random,” I go on. “A tidbit only you know about yourself.”

“Wait,” she blurts out, pointing her bottle at me. “You decided to go.”

“Maybe,” I shrug, pretending that’s not the case.

“It’s the future,” she points out. “I won’t be there.”

She’s correct, but I have something different in mind. It’s not plan A, but better to have all the bases covered. It’s possible I have seen to many science fiction movies.

“Humor me,” I press her. “Tell me something.”

“Just promise me you won’t use it to get in my doppelganger’s pants,” she demands, pulling on a belt loop in her jeans.

“Scouts honor,” I assert, holding up a hand to testify then wink.

“Men,” she grumbles. “One track minds.”

“Give me something?”

“Hmm let’s see,” she mumbles, pausing to think. “There is one very dark secret.”

I nod and wag a hand to encourage her.

“I used to make myself throw up after meals when I was in high school,” she snickers, sticking her tongue out at me.

“If you’re not going to give me anything that’s fine, but don’t waste my time.”

“Fine, but you’re going to think less of me.”

“How is that possible?” I joke, cringing a bit.

“I killed a guy when I was a resident in Boston,” she admits, growing more serious. “He was ninety-six, and his much younger wife wanted me to keep him going on a ventilator indefinitely. Her attorney went to court to quash his DNR so we could keep him going by all means necessary. If he died, the kids got the bulk of his estate and she got a small cash payout.”

“How small?”

“Millions,” she assures me raising an eyebrow. “More than anyone needs.”

“He was going to die eventually with or without your intervention.”

“True, but the wife just wanted to have time to spend his kid’s inheritance. This was pure suffering for the sake of suffering. He was in and out of consciousness,” she relates in almost a whisper. “The pleading look in his eyes still haunts me.”

“So you were the Angel of Death?”

“Yeah, the wife tried to sue the hospital,” she adds, tipping up her beer and finishing it.

“What was his name?”

“Bennie, Bennie Wells,” she sighs, looking sad.

“And, you’re the only one who knows? No other residents or instructors?”

“No one else.”

I nod and sip my beer.

“When do you want to go for it?” she changes the subject, tossing her beer bottle into the Vette, which has become a trash receptacle.

“I have one thing to do first. Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Good by me,” she nods, heading in for what I assume is another beer. “Roberta’s going to be pissed.”

“Then, let’s not tell her.”

Pondering this, I doubt Roberta will harbor any lasting anger. Like a mother lioness she will protect that baby with her life.
At least that’s what I’m counting on.
What I’m about to do is vain and self-serving, but the idea has ahold of me now. While Fitz may have planted it there initially, I own the decision myself. Getting to Izzy is the main reason, but the chance to confront Lance is a close second.
You can’t hide from me Lance
. Of course, I haven’t mentioned this to anyone, but I will never get near him if I stay here.

“You need one?” Fitz calls out from the kitchen.

“No,” I push myself up. “I need to do something before tomorrow.”

“What might that be?” she begs, leaning her face close to the screen and peering at me with one eye.

“I think you’ve had enough beer for tonight,” I lecture. “You’re going to be cutting me open tomorrow.”

“Last one,” she promises, pushing the door open and wiping the back of her hand on my cheek. “I’m going to sit out here for a bit longer.”

She pulls me close, burying her nose against my cheek. Her breath is warm and she plants soft kisses on my neck. She holds me like this briefly, and then turns my head with her hand and kisses me. It’s not a pretend kiss and I put a hand on her shoulder to push her back gently. I expect a hurt expression, but she only looks sad.

“Sorry,” she whispers, then slips past and into my chair. “You’ll be gone after tomorrow.”

I pause on the inside of the screen door and observe her.
If I stay here would Fitz and I become more than just friends?
Are we already more than that?
I shake off this selfish thought as if I tasted something bad. Some things are better left un-known.

She pulls her feet up on the chair and wraps her arms over her knees. It had not occurred to me what loss she might be feeling. Is there someone out at the Hive she was romantically involved with?
Could be a man or woman I suppose.
She was particularly close with Dickey.
How upset is she on the inside?
Fitz is a hard person to gauge.

“Stop staring at me,” she barks without looking over.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “You sleeping in my room tonight?”

“After all this time it would be strange not to,” she shrugs, turning to look back at me. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” I assure her. “Just don’t try anything.”

“For the record,” she sighs. “If you try something I won’t stop you.”

“Fitz,” I choke out, then pause un-sure how to end this exchange.

“Five hundred years from now you’re going to regret not sleeping with me,” she sniffles, but remains staring out at the cul-de-sac.

The wind blows across the porch flipping her hair about. She doesn’t look back and I do not argue her assertion.
If I slept with you, I’d never be able to leave
.

Several minutes pass, then I head to my room. Inside, Violet sleeps in the soft chair with her feet up on an ottoman. Her forearm hangs limp over the edge, the wire running off it. I expect to be hit with the scent of death, but the windows are open and cool fresh air fills the room. We were all amazed how calmly Violet is sitting next to Graham’s corpse these last few days. It will probably be more upsetting for her when they try to bury him tomorrow.
I better get up early and dig another hole.

I shuffle quietly through the right hand drawer of my desk, coming back with a yellow note pad. I can’t find a pen however and have to pull the center drawer open. It grinds loudly, the rails long ruined by a younger version of me trying to stuff a teddy bear inside. Violet flutters her eyes, then squints at me.

“Dylan?” she yawns, putting a hand to her mouth.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Uh, uh,” she hums, shaking her head. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I nod. “Sorry you have to do this.”

“Stop apologizing.”

I pass by her and kiss her gently on the top of her head. She takes my hand and squeezes it, then let’s go and turns over in her nest to get comfortable. I exit the room, pulling the door shut behind me. In my mother’s room, sits an old roll top desk. I pull the chair from the front of her vanity over to it, as I have seen her do so many times. The writing surface opens like a breadbox and hangs from two chains, like a draw bridge.

Turning to a blank page in the notebook, I tap the pen on the desk. I need a name for this. Roberta’s point is finally made. I try writing
My Son
on the top of the first page, but tear it off and crumple the paper. Skipping the greeting for now, I write about Izzy and our strange meeting. I try to tell him about my mother, his grandmother. The tale spans a dozen pages before I get to the important part. I write in great detail about the last year, including everything possible about Lance and our struggle with him. For all intents and purposes it ends with Izzy’s murder, but a short post-mortem of Dickey and my adventure is included. Once these necessary topics are covered, I get down to the reason for this note. I pray he receives it with an open heart.

If you’re old enough to read this, then you are aware of what has become of me. I need to ask you for a favor, although in your eyes I may not have earned the right to ask. If that is where your sentiment lies I cannot fault you for feeling that way. That said, I find myself at your mercy. I need you to do something for your mother and me. I know that might seem silly, but read on and I hope it will become clearer what I desire you to do. My fate lies in your hands and all of our descendants yet to be born
.

I stop and read the last paragraph back. It’s confusing and poorly written leading me to shake my head and groan. I almost rip the page out and start over, but instead I come to the conclusion that it’s unlikely to get much better. Putting pen to paper once again I make my impassioned plea for his help. It’s clumsy and desperate, but honest. If he’s truly my son, possibly he’ll pick up on something that evades me. I finish, reading it back several times, then seal it in an envelope stored in the desk. The blank envelope looks lost so I scrawl
Robert
on the front.

“Robert, Roberta,” I chuckle. “Let’s see her complain about that one.”

….

“What the heck is this?” I grumble, running a finger down just below my ribcage on my right side. “Feels like rubber cement.”

“The guy out at the Hive called it
BIC
, short for
Bandage in a Can
,” Fitz answers, holding up a small aerosol can. “Basically superglue for human tissue pumped full of some super antibiotic. I made a small incision in the muscle to insert the device, so other than hurting like hell, you’ll be fine.”

“Who knew they would be using aerosol cans in the future,” I joke, but wind up pressing a hand on my side in pain. “How long was I out?”

“Two hours, maybe less.

“Time to go then,” I declare glancing over at Violet, who’s now attached to me by the wire. “Why is she still hooked up to this?”

“Too risky to unhook her and try to attach it to you in one go. If we broke the connection for too long, we might have lost the device. Besides, we’re just going to cut it anyway.”

“Point taken,” I admit, sitting up on the dining room table and swinging my feet over the side.

My head reels and I have to put both hands on the table top to keep from falling on the floor. There is some sort of field being emitted from the device inside me. I can’t say what it actually is, but the feeling is disorienting.
How did Graham walk around with this inside him all these years?

“You want Roberta to bring the kid in before you go?” Fitz inquires picking up a pair of wire cutters from a toolbox on a chair behind her.

“No,” I blurt out before I can change my mind. “Can I have just a minute with Violet before we do this?”

Fitz looks at me in a curious way, then shrugs and steps out onto the porch. I watch her stumble down the steps and stretch her arms over her head in the sunshine.
I’m sorry Fitz, but I can’t say goodbye to you.

I motion for Violet to stand in front of me as I sit on the edge of the table. She does so slowly, very cautious and timid these days. When she stops fidgeting, I ask her a question with my softest voice.

“What was the name of that boyfriend your mother had? The overly friendly one.”

“Why would you ask me that now?” she exclaims. “Who told you that? Was it Graham?”

“I can’t tell you why, but I need to know,” I beg. “Trust me on this.”

“Dyson Chandler,” she discloses in a disgusted tone. “He was a pig.”

“You tell that story to a lot of people?”

“Huh,” she shrugs, looking like she may get teary.

“Besides Graham did you tell anyone else?” I repeat. “Before you met him.”

She shakes her head aggressively.

“Dyson Chandler,” I repeat slowly.

She nods.

“Okay, thank you,” I whisper, leaning forward and putting my head against hers for a moment.

When she steps back, I slide off the table and realize that Fitz took the wire cutters with her. I rifle around in the tool box, but there aren’t any other cutters. There is a small hatchet, which I pull out and turn to Violet. She looks frightened and backs up, taking the slack out of the wire.

“Relax,” I whisper. “Just take one step back this way.”

“What’s going to happen?” she stutters, moving closer.

“In a perfect world or this one?” I chuckle, removing the letter from my back pocket.

“Either?”

“In the best case scenario, I will be getting jolted back to life by a defibrillator in a few minutes,” I suggest, holding the letter out.

“And in a not so perfect scenario?” she asks, taking the letter.

“I won’t be getting jolted back to life,” I sigh. “Give this letter to my son. You need to make sure he gets it when he’s old enough to understand it.”

“What does it say?”

“It contains very important instructions Violet,” I point out in a stern tone. “Make sure he gets it or the second scenario is virtually guaranteed.”

She nods an assent, clutching the letter to her chest with her free hand.