Eleven

“We got the first call, God, was that just yesterday?” Tasgal stared at her, eyes wide, not waiting for an answer. She saw the gears of realization grinding behind his eyes. “No, yeah. Two days ago. I’d just come into the station. Was expecting another day of doing nothing, you know?”

“I know,” she said, suddenly wanting to hear what he had to say. Needing to hear it.

“It started at the hospital. It came through the switchboard as an assault, but by the time I got there, there was more than one report, and…”

He drank a little more rum, and then held the bottle out to her. She shook her head.

“No. You should pace yourself.”

“Gah,” he said, looking at the bottle as if it were a bee that had just stung him. “You’re probably right.”

“I drink a lot of water when I drink,” she said, and just like that they were talking casual. Just shooting the shit.

“Huh?”

“Yeah. No hangover the next day.”

“Huh,” he said, looking around. “There anything to eat?”

“Of course. Cold cut sandwich okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Coming right up,” she said, wishing he’d said a candy bar or a bag of chips would do. Her eyes felt like they each wanted to do their own thing, and she wasn’t convinced that she could make it to the deli.

She managed to get there, taking her time, laughing once when she knocked over some canned soup. She downed a cup of water and made Tasgal a hearty sandwich, piling ham and roast beef and three different cheeses high between slices of home-baked bread. She grabbed a bag of chips from the rack, and served it all up with a cup of ice water.

He downed the first half of the sandwich in silence then looked up at her.

“Mm,” he said, pulling a napkin from the fingerprint-stained silver dispenser and wiping his mouth. A drop of blood fell from his bandage and onto the table. He wiped it up. “God, this hurts.”

“Oh, damn,” she said, hopping up and returning to the table with a bottle of aspirin. She shook two into his hand, and when he asked for more she tapped out three more. He downed them with ice water. He was done with the rum for now.

“I was listening to the radio on the way over here, and let me tell you, I don’t give a shit what some of those jokers are saying. These are dead people.”

“I know,” she said. “You probably saw the…” she nodded toward the front door.

“Yeah.”

“Mark Willits and his two kids.”

“God,” he said. “I saw Connie at the hospital. She was dead. I saw Mark and Junior a little later, I think it was.” He frowned, looking around the room and blinking his eyes. He looked like he was about to pass out. She wondered if it was booze or blood loss that was taking hold.

“Did you lose a lot of blood?” she said, nodding toward his arm.

“No,” he said, shaking his head and looking hard at the rum. “It hurts like a bastard, but it’s not that bad. Still, you know, what the hell does this mean?”

She didn’t say anything.

“I think it’s starting to get infected,” he said, eyeing his right hand curled atop the table like some dead thing. Were the fingertips a little bluish? “Think maybe you can cut it off for me? I’m sure you got something in the deli that could do the job fast and clean.”

She opened her mouth, and that was all. No words came. Tasgal’s smile surprised her. “Kidding,” he said. He frowned again. “I think. And look at this,” he indicated the bottle of rum. “I contaminated your rum.”

“No,” she said, trying to sound as if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. “It’s—”

“I understand,” he said. “I should have asked for a glass.”

She waited for him to resume his fractured tale, and suddenly she wanted another hit from her rum. She was grateful for the other bottle in her kitchen.

“I watched Mark Willits and Junior pull Nellie to the ground,” he said, and his chest heaved once. She thought he was going to cry. He didn’t. “I wanted to shoot them, both of them. Nellie too, because by then there was no helping her. She was still alive, but, you know?”

Misty nodded once, trying to remember what the news had said about bites. She’d heard so much over the past forty-eight hours, so many conflicting reports, so much confusion.

“By then, I’d already gotten this,” he shook his head. “We were at Proust’s. You know Proust’s, right?”

“Yeah,” Misty said. Proust’s was a large supermarket owned and operated by Eddie Proust and his family. Proust was a loudmouth and an asshole, and Misty wouldn’t lose any sleep if Tasgal’s tale ended with Proust getting his windpipe eaten out.

“We answered a call there,” he said. “Clark and me. This was after the hospital, I think.” He looked confused. “Wait, yeah, of course it was after the hospital. After the hospital and the funeral home. By then the National Guard was in town. Not a lot of them, and I got the idea that they were just as confused and messed up as the rest of us. Things weren’t holding together all that much.”

The bell above the door rang. Misty jumped, and Tasgal’s hand twitched toward his gun. Crate shuffled in. He saw the looks on their faces and raised his eyebrows, amused.

“More of them?” Misty said?

Crate shook his head, looked at her as if she were stupid. “You should drink a little more,” he said. “Me? I’m gonna smoke. Want some?”

Misty blinked at him.

“What?” Crate asked, half grinning. “You afraid the Beaver here is going to slap on the cuffs if we break out the grass?”

Tasgal laughed once.

“See?” Crate said, and vanished into the back.

Tasgal looked at her, his face scrunched up, trying to remember where he was.

“Proust’s,” she said.

“Yeah, Eddie Proust had a line of about fifty people outside of his store, and he called us out to make sure nobody went nuts and looted the place. There were two of us. Kosana was dead by that point, so things were already falling apart.”

“How?” She asked. She’d had a short fling with Mac Kosana, back when she was young and he was a deputy.

“Some drunk from up in the hills blew his chest out with a shotgun.”

Misty gasped. Despite her earlier feelings, real shock was setting in. Tasgal made sense, but he wasn’t telling a complete story, but what he was saying was real, it had all happened to him. She could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. It was in the air, and she suddenly found herself quite afraid. It was just outside her door, and before long it would be inside, looking for something to eat.

“Eddie had the doors locked, and he was standing behind the glass all horse-faced and stupid, hollering for everyone to get back. His brothers were in there with him, and each of them had shotguns. Hell, I think Ella had one, too. Cardo was in there with him, trying to keep the peace. Talk some sense into the idiot, or something.”

Crate walked back into the room with a joint hanging from his lip, nesting in the fibers of his beard.

“Here,” he said, and handed another joint to Tasgal along with a pack of matches. “On the house. It ain’t shit, too.”

“Thanks,” Tasgal said. He lit up and sucked in, eyes closed. “That’s nice. I don’t do this so much lately.” Crate left and the bell jingled. When Tasgal offered the joint to Misty, she shook her head and waited for him to go on.

“Oh, yeah—sorry.” He shrugged. “Clark and I got separated, and when Eddie opened the doors, everyone rushed in, and then it was just me and Clark, looking at each other. I remember looking around, making sure there weren’t any of those things around, and that’s when the yelling started inside.

“We went in, and Proust was standing there with Keith, um, I’m not sure what his last name is, the little red-headed guy.”

Misty nodded even though she didn’t know who he was talking about.

“That Keith guy was screaming in his face, and everyone else was yelling, and that’s when I realized what was going on. Eddie had hiked prices.”

“Oh, jeeze,” she said.

“Yeah. Through the roof,” Tasgal said. He grabbed the rum and took a shot, followed it with water. “Ah.”

“How’s your arm? Aspirin kicking in yet?”

“I think so,” he said, and held the joint up to his face, crossing his eyes a bit to look at it. “The idiot was asking something like five bucks for a dozen eggs. Two dollars for a can of beans. Like he was in his right mind.” Tasgal shook his head, fell silent.

“What happened?”

“That Keith guy shot him is what happened. Just reached up with a little pea-shooter and popped him right in the face. He dropped, and then everyone with a gun started shooting. I saw Cardo on the other side of the crowd, falling back, and then they charged the exit. I did the only thing I could do. I ran like hell, out of the store and around back.

“Things quieted down eventually, and then they came back and started cleaning the place out. There were a few gunshots inside, but I think they were just shooting the dead ones who were coming back, you know?

“I got back to my car. Clark was sitting in the passenger seat, holding his leg and leaning against the door. He was bleeding real bad. I should have thought, but I didn’t, I just wanted to get the hell out of town. I drove this way for about ten minutes, I guess, passing up those things, passing up people who waved for me to stop and help them. They looked confused, like ‘Where the hell is the cop going?’ and I just kept going, talking to Clark, telling him that he was going to be okay. He’d grunt, and when he stopped grunting, I guess I just figured he’d passed out.”

He shook his head, laughed once. He looked at the bottle of rum as if were someone he didn’t trust.

“Then he sat up and, well, there it is.” He indicated the blood-soaked bandage with his left hand, which shook. “I screamed and emptied my gun into his head.” Tasgal crinkled his nose. He looked like a little boy who’d just stepped on a caterpillar. “He’s still in the car.”

He placed the joint in the ashtray. He considered the forgotten remnant of his sandwich, picked it up, and took a bite.

“You should probably lie down,” Charlie said from behind Misty. She looked back at him. He stood near the door leading into the back, the bottle of gin in his right hand.

“Oh, hey, Charles,” Tasgal said.

“Hey,” Charlie said, walking over to them. He placed a hand on Misty’s shoulder. “Misty has a First Aid kit in the bathroom. You want me to take a look at that?”

Misty looked up at Charlie, surprised. Sitting on his ass and running his mouth was Charlie’s speed. Actually offering to chip in and help? She thought maybe a call to the Vatican was in order, for surely she’d been on hand for a bona-fide miracle. Then again, Charlie was scared, and Eric was an authority figure, an honest to God police officer charged with serving and protecting. Charlie felt safer with him around.

“No,” Tasgal said. “Not now, anyway. I have a kit, too, in the car. I pulled over and took care of it. Burns like a bastard. I don’t know why I didn’t pull him out of the car back there.”

“We can take care of that,” Misty said. “Crate will be happy to light him up.”

“No,” Tasgal said. “Just wait. Things might, you don’t know… things might be better tomorrow. His wife will want to bury him. His head is mostly gone.”

Misty felt Charlie looking at her. She kept her eyes on Tasgal. He looked up at her, and then to Charlie. “Yes,” Tasgal said. “I need to lie down.” He looked at Misty, heavy-lidded, face pale, eyes dark. “Would that be okay, Miss Misty?”

“Of course,” Misty said. She didn’t think she sounded very enthusiastic.

“Okay,” Tasgal said, standing up a little too quickly, tipping over his chair. “Sorry. I just, I’ve been awake for, shit, how long?”

“A long time,” Misty said. She picked up the joint, careful not to touch the end that had been in his mouth. She mashed it into the ashtray.

“A long time, yeah,” he said, looking down at his arm. “Let me take care of this first. Don’t wanna leak all over your sofa.”

Forgetting his gun at the table, he left, dragged himself along like a dead thing. The bell jingled. Misty walked over to the television and turned it on. Tasgal returned with his First Aid kit and disappeared into the bathroom. The news bounced from one disaster to another, and it wasn’t long before Misty realized that five minutes had gone by without a single mention of the walking dead. Riots, looting, open war in the Middle East, Soviet saber-rattling, and cities going up in flames. The dead may have triggered these events, but they sure as hell weren’t doing the looting or firing the guns or threatening to fill the sky with nukes.

“Okay,” Tasgal said, holding up his arm. He’d replaced the bandages. “Good as new.”

Misty nodded toward Charlie.

“Follow him,” she said. “Get some rest, Eric. We’re good for now. We’ll wake you if we need you.”

“Thanks,” Tasgal said, and took a step toward Charlie. “Oh,” he said, and grabbed his gun from the table before disappearing into the back.

She watched the news for a few more minutes, turning the dial from channel to channel, hoping to hear more on what to do about bites. No luck. They then showed dimly lit footage of a severed human head trying to bite the hand of a man who, laughing, waved his fingers inches from its mouth. She sighed and turned the damned thing off.

 

 

 

“Nothing we can do for him,” Crate said. The sun had gone down, and the street lamp painted the parking lot a sickly piss yellow. Bilbo Baggins sat on his haunches, watching the road. Misty could smell the blackened heap on the gravel, but it no longer bothered her. It could be the lingering aroma of a cookout—hot dogs and ribs and half-pound burgers. The charred bodies were far enough away from her to look like dirt or compost or something in the gloom.

“No,” she said, and that wasn’t really true. Admitting to herself, much less to Crate, what she knew they should do was about as easy as admitting that the smell of the Willits going up in flames had actually made her mouth water a little. “Well, there is but it’s ugly.”

“You think I should shoot him.” Crate said, leaning forward and scratching Bilbo Baggins on the back of his head. The dog looked back at them, exhaled. It sounded a lot like a sigh.

Misty looked at Crate. She wasn’t sure what to say, so she said nothing. Crate could take that however he wanted to.

“I’m not going to do that,” he said. “Make too much of a mess in there.” He shrugged. “And I’m not really all that comfortable with shooting a sleeping police officer, particularly a nice boy like Eric.”

“I know, Crate, and I feel the same way. What if we—” She stopped, tensing as the distant sound of an engine reached them. The sound swelled, headlights illuminated the road, and a truck passed, breaking before it left their view, backing up, and turning into the parking lot.

“Hm,” Crate said, stood up, cocked his rifle.

“I think it’s Huff,” Misty said, squinting into the headlights, which were promptly extinguished.

“Oh,” Crate said, letting his aim go limp.

The truck stopped and Huffington Niebolt got out, all six foot six inches of him. Strong thick arms and skinny legs and a gut that stretched the fabric of his blood-stained sleeveless t-shirt. The yellow light gleamed on his bald head, and his beard hung in a single braid, rested on the bulge of his belly.

“Hey, Huff,” Crate said.

“Hello.” Huff looked tired and lost. He sniffed the air and shot a glance at the remains of the Willits family. “Everybody okay here?”

“Not everybody,” Misty said. “But we are. Where’s Connor?” Three days ago, Huff’s youngest son had been with him when they stopped in for Cokes on the way south.

Huff shook his head. He looked down at the bloodstained fabric of his shirt for just a hair of a second and then resolutely looked elsewhere.

“Oh, God,” Misty said, walking to him, wrapping her arms around him. “Oh, Huff.” He was stiff. He didn’t return her embrace. She pulled away and looked up into his pock-marked face.

“How many have you seen in town?” he asked, and his breath stank of whisky.

“Just those three,” Misty said, stepping back and indicating the blackened heap. “The Willitses.”

“Huh,” Huff said. “Three?”

“Not sure where Connie is.”

“Any of my boys come through here?”

“Samson was here earlier. He met up with some kids from Fresno. Took them up to your place.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Safe. How’re you, Crate?”

“Been better, been worse,” the old man said, shrugging. “I’m sorry about your boy.”

“Me, too,” Huff said. “He didn’t really suffer, so I guess we should be grateful for the little things.”

“We should,” Crate said. “It’s really bad out there?”

“Worse than bad,” Huff said, knotting his brow. “It’s the end.”

“You need anything, Huff?” Misty asked, attempting derail one of Huff’s end of the world spiels before it really got rolling. What was happening was worse than anything Huff could prattle on about; she didn’t care to hear him tack any of his insane ideas onto it. “Something to eat?”

“Nah,” the big man said. “I got everything I need at home. I just saw you two sitting here and figured I’d check in.” He looked back at the road. “I can’t see why there would be many of them out this way, but if you feel safer, you’re both welcome up at our place, okay?”

“Thanks, Huff,” Misty said. “I think we’re gonna stay here for now. Charlie is inside, drunk on his ass, and Eric Tasgal is asleep on the couch in the back.”

“He’s bit,” Crate added.

“Oh,” Huff said, drawing back his head. “That’s not good.”

“No,” Misty said.

They exchanged a few more words, and then Huff left. Misty and Crate sat down. Bilbo Baggins farted and whined.

“That bite,” Misty said.

“We really don’t know anything about it.”

“The television says the bites get infected.”

“I haven’t watched a lot of TV since this started, but I watched a little, and here’s what I heard: someone talking about UFOs and aliens, someone else blaming it on Tricky Dick and voodoo at the same damn time, and Pat Robertson saying that Jesus was getting back at us for of Roe vs. Wade. You’ll understand if I don’t put a lot of stock in what I hear on that television in there, honey,” he said, scratching his beard. “Now, infection? Bites do that. I could bite you right now, and if you didn’t take care of it, it would get infected.”

“We’re talking about a bite from a dead man.”

“I know,” he said, knotting his brow. “I know. But we have to wait.”

“For?”

“Wait to see how he is in a few hours.”

“Wait for him to die,” she said.

“Yeah,” Crate said, eyes wide. “Maybe so, yeah.”

“We could try to get him some antibiotics.”

“In town? In Beistle?” He looked at her until he was sure she would not answer. “No, we can’t.”

No one said anything for a few minutes. The night air was cool. Not too cool but Misty shivered anyway. She drew close to Crate, resting her head on his bony shoulder and closing her eyes.

“Hup,” Crate said, nudging her. She sat up and blinked at him.

“I fell asleep?”

“For a few minutes. Look.” He nodded toward the road. A dead body shuffled through the parking lot. Crate nudged Bilbo Baggins with his foot, but the dog was out cold.

“Dumb dog,” Crate said, standing up and stepping from the deck and onto the gravel. He cocked his rifle.

 

 

 

At first glance, she thought maybe Tasgal had died in his sleep. He was sprawled across her couch on his back, his left arm hanging to the floor, his mouth open. His gun lay on the floor, beneath his hand. He seemed even paler than before, but that could just have been a trick of the dim light cast from the standing lamp next to the couch. His wounded forearm rested on his chest. A quarter-sized circle of blood had seeped up through the fresh bandages. His bleeding had all but stopped.

Misty took a step backward, into Crate, and then Tasgal snorted and changed positions. His eyes drifted open, fluttered, and for a second her heart turned to ice. Then he mumbled something, closed his eyes, and was asleep once more.

“He got a fever?” Crate said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Check him.”

“I really don’t want to.”

“Jesus, woman,” Crate said. He leaned his rifle against the wall and walked over to where Tasgal lay, blocking her view of him.

“Nnn.”

“Hey, Eric,” Crate said. “It’s just me, okay?”

“Mm.”

“Just checkin to see if you got a fever.”

Misty waited, heart racing, waiting for Tasgal to take a bite out of Crate’s hand, wondering if she’d be able to use the rifle on both of them.

“Okay, you’re good,” Crate said, picking up Tasgal’s gun. “Here’s your iron, cowboy.”

He stepped away from the couch, picked up his rifle, and looked at Misty. She raised her eyebrows.

“Mild fever,” Crate said, nudging past her. “We should keep an eye on it. Poor kid.”

Misty stood there for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of Tasgal’s chest until Charlie spoke up behind her, making her jump.

“What’s going on?” His words were slurred. She wondered how hard he’d hit the gin. She wondered how much was left, and how the hell she was going to get more, once the bottle was dry. “He okay?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at Charlie. He leaned against the wall, eyelids heavy. “You’re messed up.”

“You look worried.”

She sighed. Tasgal stirred again. She held her breath, stared at his chest until she was certain that he was still alive. “Do you have any rope?”

“Now, don’t let your head...”

“I have an extension cord somewhere, I think.”

“You ought to come to bed.”

Charlie didn’t drink much, but when he did he got as horny as a teenager. He thought he did, anyway. His dick was about as useful as a banana slug.

“You ought to go to bed, you useless turd,” she said, and left. Behind the counter, she turned on the television and watched the end of Nixon’s address to the nation. The criminal bastard looked frightened, far more so than he had while getting publicly grilled over the Watergate fiasco. This pleased her.

Outside, Crate’s stupid dog barked. The door opened and Crate came through and strode toward the back, noticed her behind the counter and skidded to a halt.

“Oh. Four more coming. I think the party’s starting.”