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Buckley shook his head. “Richard Simmons is evil.”

“Don’t you mean Gene Simmons?” Samuel asked.

Little Rashad turned to Buckley. “Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?” Buckley began ripping the cellophane from around his chest. “Gene Simmons is a member of the band Kiss. You know, Detroit Rock City? Beth?”

Both Little Rashad and Samuel shook their heads, blank stares clear evidence that they had no idea what Buckley was talking about.

“If it ain’t Snoop Dog or Dr. Dre then he don’t listen to it.” MacHenry finished hammering the board in place, and took one of the bags from the floor. He peered inside, looked back at Buckley, then shook his head. “I’m not even going to ask what you got these for. Anyway, Kiss ain’t his type of music. He only listens to-”

“Don’t make this into a black-white thing,” Samuel warned.

“I’m not. It’s a rock and roll versus rap thing.”

Sissy spoke up. “Ever listen to Kid Rock? He does this Southern Rock-Rap fusion that’s pretty cool.”

“Isn’t he from Detroit too?” Gert asked.

“Kiss isn’t from Detroit, they just sing about it,” Buckley pointed out.

“Eminem is from Detroit and he’s a white rapper,” Sissy added.

“What does that have to do with anything? Are we taking a survey of musical birthplaces?” MacHenry snatched up as many bags he could carry and headed to the hallway. “What the hell were we talking about?” he mumbled as he left the room.

Gert rolled her eyes. She and Sissy had begun to apply the cook’s mortar to the edges of the boards. They worked with military efficiency. “Richard Simmons. We were talking about Richard Simmons.”

“Yeah. Richard Simmons.” MacHenry re-entered and grabbed the bags of salt. “You know,” he said looking pointedly at Samuel, “the gay guy.”

Samuel mouthed the words the gay guy and rolled his eyes.

“Hey!” MacHenry shrugged, trying to keep his cool. “I didn’t make him gay, he just is. Stepping to the oldies with the fat chicks is about as gay as they come.”

Samuel raised his eyebrows. “So Richard Simmons is gay, but Gene Simmons isn’t gay. This band Kiss isn’t gay?”

The question stopped MacHenry in his tracks. “Hell no! I mean yes! I mean-”

“So they just dress up in platform shoes and wear make-up, but that’s not gay?” Samuel asked not letting up.

Buckley wondered how Samuel knew about what they wore when he’d pretended he didn’t even know who they were. The kid was pulling MacHenry’ chain. Bigtime.

“Hell no!” MacHenry turned to Samuel. By the way he held the bags of salt, he could just as easily throw them as carry them. “What are you trying to do? Start a fight?”

Samuel grinned broadly. “Nope. No fight. I’m just fucking with you.”

“Just fucking with…” MacHenry glowered and stomped towards the kitchen.

When he left the room, everyone’s attention switched to Samuel.

“What?” he shrugged. “It was a slow pitch across the plate. I had to hit it out of the park.” He pulled the rest of the cellophane off and began wiping the sweat from his skin with a towel. “Some people just beg to be fucked with.”

Buckley finished stripping as well. “And you’ve been put on the planet to do it.”

“Why not?” Samuel asked, passing the older man a towel. “There’s no television. No radio. Not even any Kiss, Eminem, Snoop Dog or Kid Rock. We’re back to caveman times.”

“So you think the cavemen fucked with each other as much as we do?”

“Hell yes! After a long day of trying to invent the wheel and chasing pterodactyls, what else would they do?”

Buckley stared at Samuel and had nothing more to say. It was the pterodactyl comment that did it. Or was it the gay Kiss comment? Whatever it was, he was happy to dwell on the evilness of Richard Simmons or the homosexuality inherent in choosing to wear makeup as a rock star rather than dwelling on the grayish-red sludge that now covered his body. If he thought on it, he’d remember that he was infected and would most surely die. If he thought about it, he’d realize that the gray sludge was none other than the result of maggies coming into contact with the layer of salt that had surrounded him beneath the cellophane armor. If he thought on it, he’d recognize that the red tinge was from his own blood, seeping from exit wounds as the maggies escaped his body. So with studied persistence, he decided not to think on it, instead remembering the energy and vitality of Richard Simmons who’d once been the King of Infomercials and the salvation of fat chicks worldwide.

Back when there’d been infomercials.

Back when there’d been fat chicks.

CHAPTER 20

Thirty minutes later, Buckley had changed back into his clothes and once again stood in his little circle of salt by the door. The difference was that this time it was by choice. The sludge he’d wiped away had more than scared him. It had energized him. Time was as much an enemy as the maggies. If he was going to be any help saving these people he’d gathered together, he’d need to switch things into high gear.

He'd explained to MacHenry and the others his idea about the super soakers. Even now he and Gert were busy in the kitchen widening the holes the water fired through so they wouldn't get clogged with the salt crystals.

Meanwhile Samuel and Sissy were filling every container they could find with lighter fluid and salt water. Samuel had only managed to find about a dozen pints of the fuel in the Piggly Wiggly, but what they had was being put to good use. Buckley wished they had more, but there was nothing they could do about it. As it stood, even with the loaded water pistols and the Smokey Mountain Cocktails, they might not make it.

Then again, he reminded himself that he hadn't seen even one maggie on their recent excursion. A small silent part of him hoped that it was all over. Another larger part of him scolded him for even thinking such a thing.

Buckley's attention was drawn to Little Rashad who sat at the feet of Grandma Riggs. As she rocked in her chair staring at the blank television screen, he cleaned his trumpet. The boy's actions reminded Buckley of a soldier going out to war. Just as a soldier would lay out the pieces of his rifle — barrel, butt stock, magazine, firing pin, carriage assembly- Little Rashad had laid out the pieces of his trumpet. With wrinkled brow and pressed-together lips, the boy wiped each piece, then lay it down careful.

So much like a little soldier it was scary.

Truth be told, he was a soldier. His weapon, that trumpet and the notes he'd learned to play, were as deadly to the maggies as anything they had. In fact, if there was one weapon that could be said to be their weapon of last resort, it was the boy and his trumpet.

Thermo-nuclear Trumpet Player.

Buckley liked the sound of that. He was sure the boy would too. When it was all over, he'd share his private thoughts with the kid, if they lived.

Buckley looked at MacHenry again, now almost finished rigging the super soakers. He hadn't believed in the idea at first. Once they'd gathered together after the supply run, Samuel had made a beeline to the bags. While Buckley explained his salt-water propellant concept to MacHenry, Samuel had pulled one of the super soakers out of one of the bags. The high school jock had leveled the orange and green rifle at his hip and pretended to shoot down a line of people, ala gangster-style, sub-vocalizing the brraaaaap of the real life weapon.

MacHenry still didn't understand. "It's just a toy," he'd argued.

And grandma, in all of her magic wisdom had said the perfect thing that Buckley still remembered. "What better to kill things that aren’t supposed to exist than a toy gun that shoots water?"

To that MacHenry had no answer.

CHAPTER 21