Read Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Online
Authors: Walter Greatshell
Xombies: Apocalypse Blues (3 page)
“We might need those. And if they were home, don’t you think we’d have seen them by now? We haven’t seen a soul in weeks. And by the way, Lulu, he’s not some ‘old guy,’ he’s your father.”
“Whatever, but it’s worth a try. I’ve seen his car there. Besides, even if nobody’s home, they might at least have some food or something.”
“You mean break in? Good heavens no!” My mother—paragon of virtue.
“Oh please.”
“And be caught looting? Uh-uh, thanks but no thanks.”
“Well, can we at least see if they’re home?”
“I don’t like the idea. What if some of that Agent X is floating around? I think we should stay put, like the radio says.”
“Mum, if Agent X is as bad as they say, we’d have it by now. That is, if there was anyone to catch it from. I bet this whole area’s deserted—all you have to do is look out the window.” I flipped up the curtain. The view was like an overexposed photo of bleak suburbia. “We’re like people in the Middle Ages who went to the countryside to escape the Black Death. Maybe we lucked out, but we can’t just sit here forever. There may be help out there.” I wasn’t sure if I believed that myself.
But my mother thought about it, bit her lip, and nodded.
Bringing her chrome handcuffs and diecast toy Luger made Mum feel less vulnerable, so I didn’t say anything. We drove to the cabin of my “father” first, a private little place tucked in its own cul-de-sac. He had a reinforced steel mailbox to ward off bat-wielding joyriders, and it was made quaint with an old lobster trap, buoys, and a jigsawed wooden sign that read, COWPER’S REST.
The cottage looked all shut up, but his big utility vehicle was parked in the driveway. I wondered if it might be possible to siphon gas out of it.
“Let’s just sit in the car for a few minutes,” I said. “Give him a chance to look us over.”
“Okay,” Mum said, turning off the motor.
We sat watching the house for any sign of activity, but no one peeked back at us through the blinds.
After a few minutes, my mother said, “I don’t think there’s anybody there.”
“I know.”
“I feel funny lurking out here.”
“Well, let’s go knock.”
“You think so?”
“Sure, why not?” As we got out, I added, “But I think you should leave the gun in the car.”
“I’ll put it in my purse.”
We cautiously climbed the porch and rang the bell, listening to the faint chimes within.
“Hello?” my mother called hopefully.
There was nothing. It was kind of a relief. I’d been tricked into meeting Mr. Cowper during one of my mother’s confrontations, and to his credit, he was cordial, but chilly. What was odd was how desperately coquettish she had been, flattering him and making her painstaking pursuit seem like a casual visit. It was pathetic. He went along with the small talk, humoring her like a doctor in an asylum, and I could feel his sympathy for me like a chintzy gift from a rich relative. When he started asking me how I was doing in school, and Mum began to boast about what a genius I was, I felt physically ill—it was the sensation that he and I were watching her with the same pity.
In the distance I could see the bulbous water tower by the highway. It made me wonder how long we’d have water pressure . . . and electricity, for that matter. A lump rose in my throat. My anxiety was interrupted by Mum’s plopping down on the steps.
“I can’t take this,” she said. “I just can’t
take
it.”
take
it.”
Trying to sound reassuring, I said, “It’ll be okay. I’m sure there are other people like us around.” I could tell she was on the verge of one of her meltdowns. It was something I didn’t think I could handle just then, as I was barely keeping it together myself. Give her a few minutes to cool down, I thought. “Listen, you take it easy for a little while,” I said. “I’m just going to run over to the stoner house and take a look. I’ll come right back.”
“No! By yourself? No way, buster, we’ll drive.”
“Mum, it’s twice as long to drive. From here I can just cut across the field, and I’ll be back in five minutes. You know how careful I am.”
She was wavering, not sure what to do. With her graying hair and her housecoat, she suddenly looked very old and sad.
Trying to clinch it, I said, “You know nobody’s even going to be there. I mean, look around!” I waved at the ranks of empty cottages. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”
With a worn-out nod, she said, “Okay, but don’t scare me.”
“I won’t.” I bolted from the porch.
Cutting across backyards and sparse woods, I felt exhilarated, free. At times my mother was a planet unto herself, with a dense, claustrophobic atmosphere and heavy gravity. She needed company, and it was my lot to provide it. Being alone never bothered me; I often thought I would do well in solitary confinement, as long as I had access to books. Of course, being cooped up in that cabin with her for more than a month didn’t help. As my head cleared I even began to wonder if the whole Agent X business wasn’t pure delirium. Not that I could believe that, but it was so unreal.
I stopped to pee beside a vine-covered stone wall, listening to the trickle in the silence. It was so damn peaceful—yes, maybe there was nothing to be afraid of.
Crossing the meadow under the power lines, I found Hull Street. It was a narrow dirt lane with more summer houses on either side. My feet crunched on the gravel, and I found myself treading lightly without quite knowing why. If there was no one around, why did I care? And if there was someone, shouldn’t I make myself heard?
Stoner Central lay at the end of the street, a double-wide trailer strung with Christmas lights. I had seen it at night, all lit up and booming vapid technomusic to a throng of future tin nitus cases. Now the place was quiet, and nearly invisible, set far back under the trees and surrounded by a low chain-link fence. Drifts of unraked pine needles covered the property. Whitewashed tires that might have been taken off the stripped car in the driveway served as planters. Around back, a decrepit patio set was visible under the pines, where there was a lingering icy crust from the last time it snowed.
Worried about dogs, I made a racket opening the gate and waited. Just as before, there was zero response. I looked back down the road to see if anyone was watching, but nothing stirred except the trees. Standing still was the worst thing to do—it makes you imagine all kinds of things. Never being one to let my imagination get the best of me, I mentally slapped myself and went up the walk.
A cold gust of wind swept through, slamming a screen door somewhere and making me turn my face away. It had been a very mild winter, but in the afternoons the wind always picked up. I entered the zone of shade around the house and climbed to the front door, kicking pinecones off the step. There were cigarette butts everywhere.
We’re all friends here
—that was what I tried to communicate with my spritely knock.
We’re all friends here
—that was what I tried to communicate with my spritely knock.
Once more there was nothing. The sunlit street looked a long way off, and I was ready to call it quits. I turned to go but, while turning, absently gave the doorknob a twist. It opened.
Damn,
I thought.
I thought.
CHAPTER
THREE
THREE
F
eeling my skin crawl, I pushed the door in, and said, “Hello?”
eeling my skin crawl, I pushed the door in, and said, “Hello?”
Rank, housebound air puffed out. It smelled like damp ash-trays and rancid milk. I felt for and flicked the light switch, but it was dead, so I leaned in to let my eyes adjust. For a second my heart seized up at what I thought was the shape of a person in the gloom—
Oh God, oh God
—until the shape resolved itself into a life-size cardboard cutout of Pamela Anderson. Getting a grip, I stepped inside.
Oh God, oh God
—until the shape resolved itself into a life-size cardboard cutout of Pamela Anderson. Getting a grip, I stepped inside.
Not much to see: mustard-colored shag carpeting, a bunch of baggy old furniture, TV, stereo—typical guy stuff. Pamela was the only decoration. These were the kind of men who could argue heatedly about which pro athlete should be president. I tried the TV and got nothing, but there were several remotes, and it’s possible I didn’t do it right.
So this was Stoner Central. I was a little disappointed. Except for a few cigarette burns the place was pretty clean. I’d always pictured something a little more exotically nasty. To tell the truth, I’d had a secret yearning to come in here since Mum and I first arrived, and had gone so far as to spy on their New Year’s Eve party, skulking around under the trees as the place roared like a bonfire: sleazy-voluptuous tattooed women slithering against crude roughnecks, none of them much older than me, yet as confident in their skins as royalty, while music and laughter and the clink of bottles pushed back the solitude. I had fantasized about walking into that circle of light, all of them falling silent and the most scarily beautiful couple—the branded boy with the pierced lip and his languid, stunning gangsta princess—coming up and taking me by the waist. Welcoming me in.
That party was the last peep we’d heard out of the house, and I realized it was likely that no one had been here since then. I crept across the living room and peered in the kitchen. Not too bad. The contact paper was peeling here and there, likewise the Formica, but on the whole it was at least as clean as our place. No dirty dishes or pizza crusts—these guys wanted their security deposit back. Spotting a wall phone, I snatched it up, but it was dead. This was getting to be annoying. I checked the refrigerator with a sense of trepidation, but it contained only basic condiments and a few cans of beer. I hate beer.
There was a collection of tools laid out on the dining table as if on display: axes, hatchets, pruning saws, cleavers. The sight of all those sharp blades was vaguely unsettling, so I returned to the living room, thinking I ought to get back before Mum panicked.
Crossing to the front door, I was struck again by the putrid milk smell. I had forgotten about it in the kitchen—obviously it wasn’t coming from there at all. I took a step down the wood paneled hall . . . the smell was definitely stronger. The only room I could see into was the bathroom, on my right. Some idiot had broken the toilet seat, but other than that it looked empty and clean. No, the smell was farther down, in the vicinity of those closed doors. It had to be pretty ripe behind one of those. You had to wonder what was causing it.
With terrific economy of motion, I was back outside, tugging the front door shut behind me. That I neither left it open nor slammed it in haste should put to rest any idea that I panicked. I was fairly secure about the source of that smell being nothing but, say, a rotting damp mop. But what would be the point of finding out?
Kicking through a drift of pine needles halfway down the walk, I began to hear something. A pattering sound from the road. I slowed to listen. It was the sound of rapid footsteps—someone running.
A jogger? There was something alarming in that ordinary sound, but I didn’t want to jump to any paranoid conclusions. Chances were it was someone else who was feeling a bit marooned. Perhaps someone helpful. I couldn’t see the person yet through the screen of trees, but in a moment our paths would intersect at the front gate. As the footsteps neared, I felt a strong, instinctive impulse to hide but limited it to stopping well short of the fence.
Now I could hear other footsteps trailing the first. I pictured a whole gaggle of runners, a cross-country team sprinting by in their shorts as if nothing was wrong. God, that would be good. I was shaking.
The first runner came into view, really moving, and it took me a moment to recognize my own mother. I just watched stupidly as a blue woman—her face the bruised color of a sparrow chick—ran deliriously toward me, dress flapping. Her open mouth was an obscene black hole. Then it clicked:
That housecoat
. . .
That housecoat
. . .
“M-mummy?” I cried, stumbling backward.
As she attempted to lunge over the fence, her dress became entangled in the hooked wires, and she fell. Senseless with shock and grief, I cried out and jumped to help her, but froze again at the sight of her rolling and heaving in the dirt like a wild animal. She was so
blue
, blue as someone in the throes of strangulation . . . but she was not choking. All the while she struggled to get loose, the huge black pupils of her glaring eyes were fixed on me. It was such a manic, predatory look that I shrank back with fear. Then the dress gave way like a shed skin.
blue
, blue as someone in the throes of strangulation . . . but she was not choking. All the while she struggled to get loose, the huge black pupils of her glaring eyes were fixed on me. It was such a manic, predatory look that I shrank back with fear. Then the dress gave way like a shed skin.
I don’t remember screaming or running or anything else that happened for the next few seconds, but somehow I wound up crouched in the trailer, gasping for breath, with my back against the front door. The door rattled in its frame. I must have been in shock, because the strongest feeling I had was that I was late and my mother would be worried.
Once when I was in fourth grade, I had been so late coming home that she called the police. Some other girls and I had been holding a kind of séance in a churchyard, having convinced ourselves that the statues of saints moved when we weren’t looking
.
We even gave offerings of pocket change. But then some less-credulous older boys showed up and spoiled the illusion.
.
We even gave offerings of pocket change. But then some less-credulous older boys showed up and spoiled the illusion.
The door stopped shuddering, and the thing outside leaped off the stoop to circle around back. The back door. I ran into the kitchen just in time to see my mother yank the screen off its hinges and smash the little window high in the door. Her whole arm snaked through, heedless of broken glass, a crablike blue hand skittering in search of the lock. Half her terrible face was visible in the opening, the mad dilated eye bulging with furious greed.
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