“You don’t need to do that.”
“I know…you alright?” she asked again, bringing her eyes up.
“I...I just lost someone dear to me recently, I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. Are you going to shower with that on?” she asked pointing to my hat.
“No,” I assured her, although I didn’t take it off. I bent over and grabbed my clothing, thankful that I was about to wash off. If I looked half as bad as my clothes, I thought I might be sick.
Mirabelle looked reluctant to touch them as well. “Umm, there’s a lot of clothes around these trailers. What size do you wear?”
I gave her rough dimensions. I wasn’t really sure anymore, especially after all the weight I had lost. Seemed kind of ironic that I had lost pounds in the physical realm and gained them all back in the spiritual in the form of pain.
“Time heals all wounds,” Mirabelle told me, obviously seeing the hurt I was in.
Normally I would tend to agree with that phrase, but the zombies had a way of repeatedly opening fresh wounds and never allowing the last one to completely heal up. I nodded my head at the right moment and let her believe her platitude.
“Thank you,” I told her as I closed the door. She was pointing to her head to let me know I still had the tin foil hat on. I hung the bag, looked to be about two-and-a-half gallons of fairly warm water up on the hook. I opened the spigot and got a good dosing. I’m not going to lie, I was more than a little concerned. There was more lard on me than I had originally figured. I looked up at the bag that now looked entirely too small. I quickly closed the valve, went head-to-toe lathering with the soap twice. I had no sooner finished my second go round when I paused. If we were going to be attacked by zombies, I was as sure as the purity of the soap I was using (99.4% by the way) that it would happen NOW.
I was thinking about that first night the zombies came when my shower was interrupted—how I had actually hoped for that very event. FUCKING HOPED! I’d lost a brother, a best friend, a niece, and dozens of others that I cared for in one way or another, and it was far from over. The odds were still greatly stacked against me, and I still had more on the betting line than I was prepared to wager. I turned the flow of water back on, most of the dirt, blood, and lard was removed as the water ran out; the pain…well, that remained.
A soft knock came at the door. “I found some clothes that might fit. I left them on the chair by your bed.”
“Thank you, Mirabelle,” I told her. I dried off, wrapped the towel around myself and went to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
G, BT and D
The group had to stop one more time for gas. BT picked a gas station right before they had turned on to the Massachusetts turnpike. The station was of the old traditional variety; no Slush Puppies, no hot dogs, candy bars, or rows upon rows of gourmet coffee dispensers. There were no aspirins, feminine hygiene products, or even newspapers. There was a counter where a person stood to take your cash or run your card through an old handheld device to imprint an image of your card. Checks were not welcome, neither was American Express; and if you wanted the proprietor’s gun, you would have to pry it from his cold dead hands—at least according to the bumper sticker adhered to the side of the counter.
The station looked like it had last seen upgrades at around the time of the Nixon administration and that was just fine with him, it would draw less attention that way. The truck rolled up, Gary morosely hopped down from the back. BT figured that the closer they got to Maine, the worse his friend was going to become. Mrs. Deneaux stayed in the cab; she at least kept a watch out for anything directly in front of her.
“Getting some gas,” BT said as he got into the back and grabbed his hose and pump.
“This’ll be the last fill up before we get back home,” Gary said more as a statement of fact. “My father is going to blame me for this.”
BT stopped what he was doing for a moment, not liking the added time to their stop but it was necessary. “Gary, listen to me, no one is going to blame you for this.”
“Not even Tracy?” Gary asked with red-rimmed eyes.
“Especially Tracy. Everyone including Mike knew the risks. Every time we open a door there is the chance we will dance with death. I miss your brother more than you can know, and I don’t blame you for what happened. You did all that you could…we all did. We go forward, Gary, we make those responsible pay.”
“When does it stop?”
“When we’re in a box, until then...” BT left the comment hanging. He opened the hatch to the tank and began to fill the tanks.
Gary made a few circuits around the station. When he was confident there was nothing to be overly concerned about except for a skunk that was going through some trash he stopped.
“Want a cigarette?” Mrs. Deneaux asked Gary.
BT had watched her get down out of the truck and go behind the station to do whatever is was that reptiles do. A few moments later she had come back to where Gary was sitting.
“Do you mind?” BT asked.
“Quit your bitching. It’s diesel and not as flammable as gas,” she said as she stuck the cigarette she had offered into her mouth and lit it up.
Within a few minutes they were ready to go; Deneaux up in the cab with BT and Gary sitting on the bench in back. He was leaning up against the canvas, his gaze peering through the hole up top that the zombie had fallen through. The truck got off to a slow start, then jerked to a stop.
“Sorry!” BT yelled in the cab loud enough for Gary to hear. “Skunk walked in front of the truck!”
“Run the creature over next time. You made me crush a cigarette on the dashboard,” Deneaux seethed.
As the truck passed, Gary watched the skunk waddle off. It seemed to be doing fairly well given the circumstances. Gary wondered if a skunk crossing one’s path meant anything. When he was certain it didn’t, he returned his gaze skyward. As they crossed into New Hampshire, Gary’s feelings of trepidation grew tangible. He could taste it on his tongue, he could feel the weight of it on his chest, and he did not know how he was going to face those he loved the most.
After another half hour or so, the truck came to a stop.
“What’s up?” Gary asked.
“Bladder break!” BT yelled back.
Gary got back down, riding in the back of the seemingly shock-less truck on a pine bench was not doing his spleen any favors and he welcomed the chance to stretch and pop. They had just crossed the Maine state line and Gary felt like his knees might buckle under the added weight of guilt.
Mrs. Deneaux was staring at the sign and the surrounding forest of trees when she commented on the state’s motto. “Maine, the way life should be. For who? Chipmunks? I certainly wouldn’t want my life to be like this. Looks like the land that time forgot.”
“That’s the point,” Gary said morosely.
“Like the dark ages?” she asked.
“More like the fifties,” he told her.
“The fifties weren’t all they were cracked up to be. People were still assholes…there was just not twenty-four hour news that catered to the insanity like we have today.”
“It’s more the idea of the time, I suppose,” BT said, defending Gary who looked like a whipped dog.
“One thing that was more in the open than today was racism. I wouldn’t think you’d be in such a hurry to revisit those times,” she said to BT offhandedly.
“You must miss that?” BT asked sarcastically.
“At least there wasn’t all this phony politically correct bullshit. You knew where people stood.”