“No,” Shane agreed, his voice a rough whisper.
“But I couldn’t bring myself to shoot them either, so I started thinking… and what finally occurred to me was the gas container we used to fill the tank of the motorcycle.”
Shane nodded, recalling the bright red can.
“I filled it up, siphoning gasoline out of the fuel tank of my car, and set fire to the house,” Rudy concluded. “I set fire to my wife and daughter and then I hid here like a coward, not caring if the house burned down around me or not.”
12
“What if they’re dead?” Marie asked, her voice treading softly in the early morning light. She looked at Shane openly, having just put her own father to rest. “Have you thought about the possibility?”
Shane nodded. “I’ve thought about it, but it hasn’t been that long. Only two days. It takes longer than two days to die of an infection.”
Marie let it go at that, but she wondered. Despite all he’d been through, Shane’s thinking on some subjects was still stuck in the past: a time when you could pick up the phone and summon an ambulance; a place where hospitals and emergency rooms still existed.
Here, now… bitten by something as aggressive as Wormwood, she suspected two days was plenty of time to find death.
They touched upon the subject once more before setting out on the motorcycle, Marie asking him if she should bother locking up the farmhouse.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “You never know. We might find ourselves right back here come sundown.”
She hesitated then asked him again. “What if they are dead, Shane? What then? Where would we go? Aside from coming back here, that is.”
He smiled at her, pleased by the plurality of the word “we”, and gave a slight nod. Larry and I talked about that a little,” he admitted. “Nothing specific, but it seemed sensible to start moving south, somewhere where the winters aren’t so cold.” He gazed contemplatively toward the south, as if imagining a quiet paradise beyond the stubbled ridges. White sands, palm trees, and the gentle lapping of the surf. “I’ve heard that the beaches are nice in Mexico,” he said, turning back, running his fingers over the padded seat, wondering how far the motorcycle would take them.
She clapped her hands and laughed. “Mexico!”
Shane looked at her and shrugged, embarrassed, then he grinned.
Marie leaned over the bike and as she kissed him, she pictured the two of them living in a thatched hut or bungalow, on a long and emerald stretch of sea.
They might never make it there, but it was enough.
Just the dream was enough.
13
“What’s it like out there?” Rudy asked, his eyes turning to the soft light falling down the stairs, though his feet were unwilling to step from the shelter.
Shane and Marie exchanged a guarded look, then Shane shook his head.
“As bad as we thought?” Rudy wondered.
Recalling Summertides, the scorched town of Brace, the exodus of empty cars on the freeway and the bodies floating on the river, Shane nodded. “Worse in places.”
Rudy sighed, retreated a step into the shelter then seemed to notice the conspicuous absence of the home’s owner. He studied Shane’s face for a long moment then asked about Larry.
Shane took a deep breath. “He made it as far as Fred Meyer, and then lost a good piece of his arm coming out of the pharmacy.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “I left him in the manager’s office with a loaded gun. He said he didn’t want to come back to this house.”
Rudy nodded. “I suspected as much when he brought me down here to show me his wife and son.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow then hesitated. “Was he of much help to you?”
“Yes.” Shane’s head was downcast. “I wouldn’t have made it without him.”
Something like a smile touched Rudy’s face. “I’m glad for him then. I’m glad he found a way out of his bitterness.” The smile slipped slowly away, as if he hadn’t the same high hopes for himself and, reminded of this fact, glanced uneasily toward the shelter’s far corner. The one Larry had pointed out to him. The thing was gone now, but he had no doubt it would be back, crouched atop the boxes, watching him… waiting patiently for the inevitable.
He turned back to Marie and Shane, the two of them so young he almost envied them.
Almost. It was a different world out there; one not likely to be kind to two such as they.
“You’re welcome to stay here,” he invited, “both of you. There’s food, water, ammunition… everything but a pleasant breeze and the stars overhead.” He stepped back and for one crazy moment, suspended by sheer force of will, he thought they might agree. That between the three of them, the dark eyes in the corner might sulk and fade away, but Shane shook his head.
“Claustrophobia,” he murmured, and from that moment Rudy knew he might count his remaining hours on the fingers of both hands.
They looked at one another across the threshold of the shelter: one unable to come out and the other unwilling to step in. They spoke a while longer, but once this fact became clear, it was really just a question of saying goodbye.
Rudy offered them all the supplies they could carry, pretending it was too much for one man.
And Shane took what was offered, pretending he didn’t know the reason why.
14
Afternoon falling, they left Quail Street and traveled back to the Barrow farmhouse, finding it shaded and undisturbed, traces of themselves still lingering about the silent rooms.
Come morning, the journey south would begin.
Copyright
Copyright 2010 by Michael James McFarland
Cover art “The Visitor” (circa 1980) by Michael James McFarland