Nine

He rolled through the small business district of Citrus Heights, eyes forward, trying to ignore what he saw. There were dead bodies in the streets, both walking and strewn across the road in tatters. Eyes forward, on the road, and a dead woman with a bloody smear for a face lifted its mouth from the open belly of a large dog to watch him pass. A bearded man clutching a small pistol walked toward her. Reggie rolled on, barely heard the pop of the gun behind him.

A heap of bodies burned in the parking lot of an In-n-Out, and a group of armed men clustered around a pick-up truck, stuffing their faces with burgers and fries, knocking them down with sodas. They tried to flag him down. Maybe they just wanted to ask him something—to see if he’d passed through Sacramento, perhaps, or if he knew just how bad things were on the interstate. Maybe they wanted to know what he was doing in their town. Maybe they wanted to pull a nigger from his truck and add him to the pyre. Who knew?

He wasn’t taking any chances. He kept on keeping on, and no one followed him. He wondered if maybe he should have taken a chance and stopped. He was getting hungry.

A line of abandoned cars and trucks blocked his path to the highway, stopped him in his tracks and cranked his heartbeat up a notch or two. His sideview mirrors were empty for now. If this were a trap, it had been abandoned. He contemplated pushing through, but the blockade was two cars deep, and he did not want to get stuck. He had no choice but to leave the main road. He consulted his map, and when he looked up, he saw three dead bodies walking toward his truck. One of them, an older man with a sunken stomach and a black and bulging post-mortem erection, was naked. One, a child still wearing a baseball hat, dragged its twisted right foot behind. Its small right arm dangled and spun from a thin strand of gristle. The third, trundling up the rear, was an obese man wearing only a pair of shorts. His enormous belly had been ripped open. Yellow fat and purple innards bulged.

Reggie turned left, slowly passing the dead bodies, which lifted their arms in an unintentional display of supplication, slack-jawed peasants begging for even a scrap of moldy bread. The small business district fell behind him. He passed an abandoned gas station. A hand-lettered sign taped to the pumps declared:

 

 

OUT OF GAS

PRAY TO JESUS!

 

 

He consulted his map once more.

“Shit and fuck,” he said, tracing a finger along Hazel Avenue. He was approaching the American River. There were two small bridges between him and Highway Fifty. If one of them was closed or cut off, he just might be fucked.

“Oh, well,” he said “Cross ‘em when I get to ‘em.” He turned right into a neighborhood comprised of small ranch style houses. Barring any unexpected obstructions, this was the quickest route to Hazel Avenue, which would take him south to a place called Nimbus, where he’d get onto Fifty.

Half the neighborhood had flown the coop, if the empty driveways were any indication. Aside from a few smashed windows, there was no sign of the wholesale looting and pillaging mentioned on the radio. Curtains parted and frightened faces watched his passage. A few folks had been smart enough to nudge their cars or trucks right up against their houses, barricading their front doors while making a quick escape easy.

He turned on the radio, caught the tail-end of a report from the Middle East. Over the past twelve hours, the powder keg of Israel had erupted. Within days, someone from within the PLO was reported to have said, Israel would be no more, and her people would be killing themselves upon the sands where the land met the sea. Gerald Ford said that Israel’s allies would not forsake her in this time of trouble. When asked about Vietnam, he was terse: complete withdrawal from Vietnam was possible within weeks. American troops were needed right here, in the cities and streets of the United States of America. No one challenged the contradiction inherent in his words.

“Mother fuckers,” Reggie said, not entirely sure who he was cursing, and that’s when he saw the kid. Just a chubby white kid riding a yellow bicycle with blue wheels up and down the deserted street. It was a girl’s bike with a banana seat. Sparkly tassels hung from the handlebars.

As Reggie passed him, the kid looked up and flashed a listless smile. Ignoring the guy and his dog on the interstate had been one thing, but this?

“Dammit,” he said, bringing the truck to a halt. He looked around. The coast was clear. He watched the kid approach the truck in his side-view mirror.

Beneath Reggie’s window, the kid brought the bike to a halt in style, braking hard with his right foot and planting his left foot on the ground, his back wheel skidding a blue half-circle across the concrete.

“Nice move, kid,” Reggie said, rolling down his window. “Now what the hell are you doing?”

“Riding my bike.”

“I can see that, but what the hell are you doing? Don’t you know what’s going on?”

“Yeah,” the kid said, and Reggie could see from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t very smart. He looked dull and stupid, like the kind of kid who would grow up to kick his dog and punch his wife, and Reggie cursed himself for stopping. To hell with this dumb white boy. He had a daughter to get home to. “Dead people are coming back to life.”

“Right.” Reggie said, opening the door and getting out. “So why are you out here on your bike?”

“I don’t know.” The kid shrugged. His eyes fell to the pistol at Reggie’s hip. “I guess I wanted to see one for myself.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah,” the kid said. “There’s one down at the end of the road. It’s trying to get up. I think a car hit it. Its guts are all smooshed out.” He made a face.

“There are more back that way,” Reggie said, tossing a thumb over his shoulder.

“You use that yet?” The kid’s eyes were still on Reggie’s Colt.

“No,” Reggie said, looking around. “You should be home right now.”

“I guess so,” the kid said. “Do you think you will?”

“Will what?”

“Use your gun.”

“Jesus, kid, I don’t know.” Now it was his turn to shrug. Why the hell was he wasting his time like this? “Probably.”

“You should go down the road,” the kid said, turning in place, looking back toward the end of the road. “Thataway. Shoot the thing. It’s pretty sad.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Can I come see?”

“That something you want to see?”

“I dunno.” The kid scrunched up his face. “I guess so.”

“You don’t,” Reggie said. “It’s nothing you ever want to see. Where’s your house?”

“Back there,” the kid said, tossing his thumb over his shoulder in obvious imitation of Reggie.

“Are your parents home?”

“My dad moved out last year,” the kid said. Somewhere far away, a machine gun ripped through someone or something. The kid winced, crouching.

“Where’s your mother?”

“She left.” The kid stared into space, his eyes going distant. More gunfire. The kid snapped back, looked Reggie in the eye. “She drinks a lot. She ran out of Blue Nun. She went to the store to get more.”

“Jesus,” Reggie said. “How long ago?”

“You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain, mister.”

“How long ago?”

“I dunno. This morning. She told me to stay inside, but…” He shrugged.

“Damn it,” Reggie said.

“You think she’s dead?”

“I’m going to take you home, okay?”

“You think she’s dead?”

“I don’t know, kid. I’m just going—you got a name?”

“Steven.”

“I’m just going to take you home, Steven, and then I’m going to go. My little girl is waiting for me.”

“How old is she?”

“Seven,” Reggie said, remembering the last time he spoke to her. The radio said that the phones were out across most of the country, but suddenly he had to try. At the very least he had to try. “How old are you?”

“Eleven. What’s her name?”

“Nefertiti.”

“Weird name,” the kid said, and looked instantly sorry. “I mean, it’s kind of pretty.”

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s get you home.”

“I just live a few blocks that way,” the kid said, flapping his hand in the direction of his house. “I can get there.”

“I’m sure you can,” Reggie said. “But I’m going to take you, anyway. And you’re gonna stay inside. Give me this.” Reggie put his hands on the bike’s handlebars.

“What do you want with my bike?”

“I’m just going to strap it to the back of the truck. Do you know if your phone is wor—”

“Hey,” someone shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”

Reggie turned, and it was too late to go for his Colt. The guy standing in the door of one of the houses that Reggie had taken to be abandoned had him in the sights of his hunting rifle.

“I’m helping the kid, man,” Reggie said, freezing, raising his hands. “Just put the gun down and—”

“You fucking sick bastard,” the guy said. His voice was slurred, and he was having trouble holding the rifle steady. Jesus, is that how people everywhere were reacting to this? By getting shit-faced?

“Listen, man, I was just—”

“You were just trying to get your dirty black hands on a little white boy, is what you were doing, you sick faggot. Get on your bike and go home, kid.”

“Do it,” Reggie said, glancing at the kid.

“Is that what you were…” the kid began, letting his words trail off. He looked at Reggie, fear and confusion dawning on his face.

“Jesus Christ, no, kid, now would you—”

The guy opened fire, squeezed off five frenzied shots. At least two of them struck Reggie’s truck.

It was over quickly: Reggie leapt to his left, dropping and rolling and pulling his gun. His first two shots went wild, turning brick into powder and shattering a window. The last one caught the asshole in the stomach. The rifle hit the ground and the guy followed, wailing, his hands pressed to his belly.

Reggie got to his feet, looked around. The kid lay on his side in a spreading pool of blood, gasping. Reggie dropped to his knees and inspected the damage. The bullet had missed the kid’s heart, but judging by the sound of his breathing it had collapsed one of his lungs. Reggie could not find an exit wound. The bullet had bounced around inside the kid’s ribcage.

“Hey, Steven.” Reggie took his hand. The kid was going to be dead within minutes. “Just close your eyes and take a nap, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

The kid’s eyes found him, and his body jerked. He tried to get away from Reggie.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Reggie said. “You have to know that.”

The kid coughed, his lips glistening red. A line of blood ran from his right nostril. There was fear in his eyes, and then the fear was gone and there was nothing there at all. His chest heaved and rattled. There was a rush of blood and bile from his mouth, and then it was over.

“Damn it,” Reggie said, standing up. Behind him, the asshole was on his knees, trying to grasp his rifle with blood-slick fingers.

“Aggh,” he said, dropping the gun and falling back onto his ass. Reggie stomped toward him.

“You no good piece of shit,” Reggie said, seizing the man by the shirt, pulling him to his feet, and slamming him into the doorframe—once, twice, again, again. The man reeked of blood and shit.

“I was just helping him,” Reggie screamed, nose to nose with the man, who sputtered and yelped and clutched Reggie’s wrists. Reggie tossed him to the ground, glowering. He paced back and forth on the lawn and, deciding, grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and dragged him over to where the dead boy lay.

“What are you—” the man said, and Reggie kicked him in the ribs. He thought about kicking him in the stomach but didn’t want a foot covered in shit and blood.

“You deserve this,” he said, and crouched beside the man. He closed his right hand around the asshole’s throat. “You fucking deserve this.”

He let go, stood, and walked back toward the man’s house. He stopped to pick up the hunting rifle, a well-kept pre-’64 Winchester. A good gun.

“Help me,” the man said, weeping. “I’m sorry.”

Pistol raised, Reggie entered the man’s house and closed the door behind him. He stepped into the dimly lit living room. Against the wall, a large color television displayed the image of a burning building. Reggie glanced at the television and stepped into the kitchen. Placing the Winchester onto the couch, he walked to the sink and threw up.

Outside, the asshole screamed.

 

 

 

Reggie checked every one of the rooms, yelling out that any bastards hiding in here better throw their guns down and come out or he’d murder them on the spot. The place was empty. There were no family photos on the walls. A stack of magazines with names like DUDE and SWANK sat atop the toilet tank.

Back in the living room, Reggie sat down on the chair before the television and buried his face in his hands, tried to steady his breathing, to get his hands to stop shaking.

Why the hell had he stopped? The kid would be alive now, and the lonely son of a bitch outside would maybe be rubbing one out into the toilet right now instead of getting ripped apart.

Reggie lifted his face. There was a small table next to the chair. On it sat a lamp, a TV GUIDE, a half-empty bottle of Jack, and a telephone.

The lamp was off, the TV GUIDE was of no use, and the Jack lit a fire in his belly. Knowing what he’d hear, he picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear.

There was a dial tone.

He dialed home, cursing the slowness of the rotary dialer, pushing each number along. There was a distant-sounding click followed by the faint ghost chatter of someone else’s frenzied conversation, and then the phone rang. And rang. On the eighth ring, someone picked up. Reggie’s heart sank as quickly as his hopes had risen: a pre-recorded message informed him that all circuits were busy. He hung up.

In the kitchen, he found paper bags in the pantry and filled four of them with provisions: canned goods—beans and soup and, God help him, SPAM—and dry cereal and potato chips. Bottled soda and a half-eaten loaf of bread. A jar of pickles from the fridge. A can opener from the drawer next to the sink. A fork, a spoon, and a knife from the drawer next to that one.

He arranged the grocery bags beside the front door, walked into the living room, and tried the phone once more. Same story.

Outside, the asshole was still alive, lying on his side and curled into a ball, whimpering, quivering in shock, his arms shielding his face and head. Steven gnawed on a deflated length of intestine trailing from his stomach. The dead kid with the baseball cap sat beside him, tugging something from the asshole’s stomach with his one good hand. They looked like best buddies sitting there like that, and Reggie wondered if they’d known each other.

The naked dead man was fifteen or so feet away. The fat one wearing shorts trundled along behind it. Steven looked up at him with stupid awareness, a knot of gut-rope hanging down across his chin. The other kid dropped the glistening thing it had pulled from the asshole’s stomach, picked it up. Dropped it.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he told Steven, and blew the top of the dead kid’s head off. He put another bullet between the eyes of the one-armed kid, and then pointed the barrel of the gun at the asshole’s head.

“Puh-puh-puh.”

“You don’t deserve this,” Reggie said, and shot him.

Reggie walked toward the naked dead man, put a bullet between its eyes. He climbed into this truck, started it up, and backed it into the dead man’s yard. He loaded most of the supplies he’d stolen from the man’s house into his truck and then went back inside. He rummaged around until he found the rounds for the rifle. He inspected the window he’d shattered when returning the asshole’s fire, and then he realized that the guy probably wasn’t as asshole—just scared and stupid. What was he supposed to have thought, seeing Reggie taking the kid’s bike?

“Dammit,” Reggie said. Wanting to hit the road, to get to his daughter as quickly as possible, he instead sank into the chair before the television and brought the bottle of Jack to his lips. For now, it might be best to just lie low.

Reggie watched television and drank himself into a stupor but he never fell asleep. He tried to—he closed his eyes and tried to push everything out of his mind, but sleep would not come. At some point during the night he got up from the chair and went to the window, watched dead bodies shuffle by in the buzzing glow of the streetlight. Then he watched more television, tried and failed to fall asleep.

He rose from the chair in the quiet hour before dawn, ate food from the fridge, freshened up in the dead man’s bathroom, and was on the road by sunrise.