The children were gnawed upon, their small bodies desecrated by the fangs of the hungry creatures who devoured them. Limbs, some showing bone, were scattered about the floor. Paul didn’t want to, but he had to look. He had to see the faces of the children. He had to check for signs of the flu. And though they displayed outward signs of their illness, it gave Paul a sense of relief that they had died prior to the ravishing their innocent bodies had suffered from the creatures of the wild.
Deadhorse lived up to the first half of its name. The small village, population thirty, was wiped out.
Did it stop here? Would it stop here? Paul could only pray. But he knew that his prayer was futile when he saw James Littleton pull up in a jeep. James, another research assistant from Winston, had been canvassing the area.
Using the inner suit radio, Paul spoke to James. “Anything?”
James, still wearing his bio suit, stepped out of the jeep. “Take a ride with me, Paul.”
“I’ve only got a half hour of oxygen left. Let me change my tank,” Paul stated as he walked to James.
“We got some where we’re going. Get in.”
Paul did.
Was it a mystery? A big surprise? Why was James being so secretive? Paul guessed James would start talking after he started the Jeep and they drove away from Deadhorse, but there wasn’t time. The jeep stopped a mile or so down the road.
“We followed that smoke signal. Welcome to Prudhoe Bay,” James said and threw the jeep into park. “Neighboring community.”
Paul stepped down from the jeep as well. He almost asked James about the town, but he didn’t need to. The eerie sight before him gave him the answer.
Small fires burned about the small village. Every single home seemed to smolder. The closer Paul walked, the more he knew. The answer to the question, ‘who burned the village,’ came in the form of a man. One old man, bundled in furs, sat holding a stick while perched on a rock. A small fire for warmth was ablaze before him. The old man didn’t look up to Paul or James. Nor did he speak or move. He just sat there, staring out. His aged face held pain and fear, but more so than that, it projected the desolation and horror of everything he had witnessed.
Lodi, Ohio
Experimental dishes for the benefit of Lars Rayburn’s visit went to waste at Jean’s Diner because no one really wanted to try the exotic-looking food, so Jean gave it to Mick knowing that he had a cast iron stomach, and Mick was grateful. Not only was it a free meal he took home, but one that he could easily warm by popping it into the microwave.
The green wilted leaf dish looked hideous to Mick, but it didn’t smell bad. And he highly doubted, like everyone feared, that he would get sick. He may have caught every type of bug that flew through Lodi, but stomach bugs didn’t affect him. Only once did he have food poisoning and that was when he was eighteen and deliberately ate bad meat to prove to Dylan that he wouldn’t get sick.
He had.
Reminiscing about that horrid experience made Mick think about another… the dismantling of his relationship with Dylan. Not that the breakup bred violent cramping, vomiting, and diarrhea, but he felt bad just the same.
Hot dish burning his hands as he removed it from the ‘Mick-o-wave’ as he called it, Mick heard the front door opening. “Hello?” he shouted out, setting the dish on the table.
“Mick?” Dylan called his name.
“Fuck,” Mick whispered. He sat down and placed himself in the mindset. He wasn’t going to break or give in. “Goddamn it, Dylan, go home.” He picked up a fork and buried his face in his food.
“Mick,” she said as she stepped into the kitchen. “I have to talk to… what are you eating?”
“I don’t know. Jean made it. Go home.” Mick stuck his fork in.
“No, Mick.” Dylan was stern. “I really want to talk to you. I need to talk to you.”
“Is it about us?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Go home.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now why would you…” Mick dropped his fork and finally looked up at her. “You got sun burn.”
“Just a little.” Dylan lifted her tee shirt to show her stomach. “See. Not much. Anyhow…”
“Dylan.”
“Mick, shut up, all right?” She crossed her arms and noticed his meal again. “Is that any good? Smells good. Looks bad, but it smells good.”
“Not bad. Want some?”
Dylan shook her head. “Anyhow… first and most important,” she held up a finger, “I am not, will not, be back with Sam.”
“Is he living at the house?”
“Sam lost his job. He can’t afford the apartment in Wadsworth. It’s his house, Mick.”
Only grunting ‘Uh-hmm,’ Mick returned to eating.
“And I did some heavy, creative thinking. I believe my approach to you is really impressive.”
“Heavy creative thinking?” Mick asked.
“Yeah. See?” Dylan wore a pair of baggy cloth shorts. She reached into the front pocket and pulled out three playing cards. She laid them face down on the table in front of Mick. “All right.”
“What the hell is this?” Mick asked. “These are cards to a kid’s game.”
“Ignore that. It’s a metaphor. Get it?” she asked, giving a motion of her head to the cards. “Laying all my cards on the table. Get it?”
“Yeah, I get it. Are you holding back, because there’s only three cards there.”
“Three major points cover it all. Now…”
“This is silly.” Mick pushed the cards to her. “Tigger’s gonna have a fit, you stealing his game.”
“Tigger is the reason I’m doing this,” Dylan said.
“Tigger sent you over with this?”
“No, Tigger was peeing.”
A long blink and Mick he sat back. “What?”
“O.K., listen,” Dylan explained with animated hand motions. “I’m doing my hair in the bathroom, right? Stewing, Mick. Stewing over you. I’m standing there, trying to do something in this heat with this long hair and Tigger blasts his little body into the bathroom, says nothing, pulls up his step stool, drops his pants and hoses everything down.”
“And that made you think of this?”
“No, of you.”
“I am really lost,” Mick said. “How did your kid pissing all over the bathroom make you think of me?”
“Now check this out,” Dylan continued. “I thought when he did this, didn’t he notice me standing there. He just flew in, not caring and went. Then, you know, I shrugged it off. I’m his mom, He feels comfortable with me. And it was better than him peeing his pants. Then it dawned on me. It really dawned on me, right there and then, curling iron in my hand.” Dylan smiled. “Tenth Grade, Mick Owens. You got me drunk on your mother’s whiskey and you had me laughing so hard I pissed my pants in front of you. Remember?”
Mick snickered. “Yeah. And it wasn’t the last time either. You did the same thing the next time I got you drunk.”
“Exactly.” Dylan nodded. “And what about the time you decided I needed to go hiking. How about that?”
“You didn’t pee your pants, you pulled a Tigger, dropped your drawers and went. Watching you take a leak, Dylan, no matter how you do it, is old news to me. It’s no big deal.”
“Yes. Yes, it is, Mick. See? You are only the person in this world I have ever peed my pants in front of. All those years I was with Sam, never did I do that or… go to the bathroom in front of him. Contrary to what you have witnessed, I consider my bodily functions very private.”
“And your point?”
“You’re not seeing it, are you? I was never embarrassed and I never cared what I did in front of you. That tells me so much. More than I originally realized. And that is the reason for my cards on the table. Read them, Mick.” Dylan smiled. “Turn them over and read them. Left to right.”