Merle and Honey moved us through the doorway, guiding us down a few wooden steps into a den. Confederate flags hung from windows, throwing a tinted shade of red across the room. The air was stuffy, with a slight undertone of body odor and other unmentionable stenches beneath, as though waiting for an ambush if a nose investigated further.
Their TV displayed the familiar five-minute loop of the evacuation procedure, its muted volume a respite from the repeating self-parody of outdated information. A map on the screen divided the area into colored zones: blue was the next zone to evacuate, red areas were still under a shelter-in-place order, and green marked safe zones that were mainly near military bases or areas capable of organized resistance. These zones were few and far between.
To the left behind me, Merle kicked a half-empty twelve-pack carton of Brewski towards a large coffee table in the center of the room, holes torn into a corner of the cardboard as though a raccoon tried to burrow after the cheap hops and spring water. To the right, on the wood-paneled wall, a dusty picture frame contained yellowing wedding photos with the words “CONGRATS MR. & MRS. BADGERT” arced like a rainbow above the display.
I stopped, saying their names in my head to remember them later, before a gun at my back nudged me onward and I continued into the hole in the hill behind the others, my peripheral vision swarming with cloudy splotches of darkness.
The kitchen was in the next room, separated from the den by a large trapdoor cut into the wooden floor, the entrance to a canning cellar. Merle pushed us to the far side of the trapdoor while Honey gripped a rope handle and pulled the door open with little effort, aided by large metal springs near the hinges. An acrid odor immediately wafted from inside the hole and I nearly gagged. A ray of light from the kitchen shined into the root cellar, revealing empty shelves lining the dirt walls and glimpses of bloody, dirty skin from more than one body sprawled across the dirt floor. I didn’t look long enough to count.
Merle and Honey weren’t out to rob or kidnap…they were trapping for food.
Sam peered into the hole. “I’m not going down there, lady. And frankly, you don’t look like you could make me. It’s pretty clear you’re both out of your league here.”
She swung the barrel toward him. “I appreciate yer honesty. I’ll take that as you volunteering to be shot first. It’ll save ya a little pain ‘n’ suffering, but not because we’re bleeding hearts. But we can’t sleep if you’re in the hole screamin’ all night.”
“You sick fucks,” said Tarah. “Can you smell with that big nose of yours? You can’t eat rotten meat. You killed those people for nothing.”
“Not for nothing…it was a test run. We didn’t realize we had to start processing so soon after the catch. But you’re the real deal. We’ll get you three going first thing in the morning. Your new roommates will have to go to the pigs, though. They’re not so picky.”
“Look, there’s no reason to kill innocent people, especially for food,” I said. “This whole thing is going to blow over soon. Right, Sam?”
He nodded with vigor, as though trying to sell a used car with hidden mechanical issues. “The hell is wrong with you people? We were just heading down to catch up with the troops…just trying to stay alive. And you’re trapping people for food. And there’s still food all around us!”
“You fool. There are no troops! This is it…the Big One. God is coming for revenge on all sinners.” She looked upwards. “He’s commanded me and Merle to thin out the herd and rid the world of evil. To devour their flesh and bring good to the evil they brought to America. Then we’ll rise up to the Promised Land. You sinners didn’t want to work…you wanted everything for free…you wanted to indoctrinate children into lives of hopelessness and corruption!”
Merle charged in from the den with a crinkling sack of dog food in his arms and dogs swirling around his shins like fish on pieces of bread floating on water’s surface. “The hell’s going on in here? I’ll shoot all your asses and you’ll wind up like those sheep down there.” Then to Honey: “Make sure ya search ‘em again before they go down there.”
They gazed at each other with disappointed realization. “We forgot to search ‘em!”
The dogs grew more animated and began barking, the sight of the food bag trumping their patience to obey.
“Never mind…I’ll search ‘em right now,” said Merle. “Get the mutts outside so we can finish this and get ‘em fed.”
The couple switched roles and we were now under Merle’s supervision as he stood on the far side of the hole, holding Honey’s pistol. I looked around for another exit beyond the kitchen, but I could only see the doorways of one or two other rooms.
“Come on, boys! Come on!” Honey yelled to the dogs and they turned their attention to her, buzzing about her legs while heading for the front door. She flung the door open and the animals poured into the yard. As if on cue, the dogs’ chaotic barking took a different tone and Honey stepped out to the yard and called for them.
Only the terrier returned, yapping and running, chased by three revenants, all wearing similar uniforms.
Merle turned toward the front door and fired off a shot that missed its target and embedded itself in the wall with a puff of dust.
Sam drew his pistol from the back of his waistband and dropped his arm, holding the weapon at his side. He turned to speak discreetly to Tarah and me, his eyes remaining on the expanding melee. “Keep behind me…I’ll handle this.”
Merle held his ground between the living room and front door as Honey joined him at the kitchen entrance with Merle’s rifle, attempting to make a stand against the three revenant invaders. The terrier also followed, jumping about and barking frantically, its nubby tail wiggling like a clown’s ear.
As the revs crashed through the front door, Merle fired a round that caught the first one in the shoulder, though not enough to stop its charge. Then he began firing wildly while Sam and Tarah raised their weapons and, after realizing each had stashed a weapon, fired indiscriminately into the crowd approaching from the next room, the hill house erupting into a barrage of deafening, smoky violence.
Merle, shot several times in the back and in imminent danger from the front, stepped backward to balance himself and tripped over the bag of dog food he’d dropped at his feet, causing a chain reaction that brought the entire maelstrom into the cellar, with the three of us standing in the kitchen.
Sam pushed the trapdoor closed with his free hand and slid the bar lock into place with a most-satisfying click.
***
Soon, we were back on the road. For a while, no one spoke. Then Tarah: “Did you see what the revenants were wearing back there?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Looked like military.”
Sam kept his eyes forward, failing to hide the concern on his face. Still wound up from the escape, the possibility of bad news was just raising his anxiety level. “That means nothing. There were just three of ‘em, not the entire army. Soldiers are human beings and can turn just like everybody else, but that doesn’t mean they were all overrun and we’re all on our own.” He sniffed. “America would not go out like that. We’re so much better than to just get erased by an epidemic or whatever the hell this is called.”
“Armageddon,” said Tarah. “That’s what this is called.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well, what the fuck would you call it?” I asked. “There’s nothing in the world anymore except for killers and victims. Can we come back from this? What would it take?”
“Strong leadership,” said Sam. “Someone with charisma. Pluck, even.”
“Someone with an army,” Tarah said. “Maybe Sam’s right and there are survivors in the military that can regroup.” She hesitated, shooting Sam a look of disdain. “I’m not saying I think he’s right, though.”
The truck screeched to a halt. With his foot on the brake, Sam removed his cap and, as though hoping to convince himself, fell back to the powers of persuasion. “Of course we can come back from this. Eventually. In the bigger scheme of things, this is just the beginning. And we can do what we want with it. We can toss in the towel and meet our makers in a double cliché of surrender or we can leave a mark on this rock that tells other people that we at least tried to make a difference. Most of us struggle every day at everything, throughout our lives, but we keep showing up every day and you know why? Because we have hope of something better ahead. We hope for a chance to overcome whatever challenges come our way, challenges that motivate us to keep going…not just for success or glory, but the thrill of success. For validation of everything it took to get to that point. To validate those hopes and prove to ourselves that there’s more to life than just suffering…” One could almost hear patriotic music in the air. “…that we can defeat any obstacle and prove that our limits go far beyond the point where we’re too scared to continue. The rest of life is on the other side of fear, and it’s our hope that pulls us through.
“Like a flower growing between the cracks in concrete, if we see a chance, we’ll keep going. Society works best when united against a common foe…like fascists or slow drivers in the fast lane…but the only thing going for this new foe, these revenants, is that they only caught us flat-footed. But we can and we will adapt to this new enemy, just like we’ve always done with every setback in history. Against the British, against the Confederates, against the Axis, against extremists of all stripes. We will adapt to this new enemy and we will overcome because we’re all in this together and this is America, and that’s just fuckin’ how we do things around here. Are you people with me?”
Tarah responded with a salute while rolling her eyes. “O Captain, my captain!”
“Your sarcasm is duly noted, though I’m glad you felt compelled to salute.”
“Another one of those speeches and I’ll jump out of this truck at the next high bridge.”
“You might be waiting a while because we’re in the Midwest,” he said. “Unless you want to sprain you ankle at the bottom of a drainage ditch.”
“That still might work. Let me think about it.”
***
The night was approaching. I watched the passing homes and enormous yards scattered about the countryside…all the space in the world to spread out and be free, but so little of it safe. Our exposure concerned me as we drove through the countryside. And at dusk, the battered truck became more of a liability, with its broken headlights compounding our blindness ahead and rumbling engine cutting through the quiet rural scenery. The lack of a windshield was also a problem, creating a wind tunnel for fat bugs to careen through the cab like rocks, while slivers of broken glass crisscrossed the boxy truck body with every gust of wind.
My head pounded with the ache of withdrawal and the hallucinations that would not let up with the constant stress…rising and falling in waves of intensity, but never retreating. Everywhere I looked was alive with illusion and it was often better to keep my eyes closed when I could.
“We should stop for the night,” I said. “It’s getting dark and all we’re doing is attracting attention to ourselves.”
Sam’s neck craned from the driver’s seat, his eyes stuck to the small patch of pavement he could still see unfolding right before it disappeared beneath the hood. “Keep an eye out and I’ll pull off. It doesn’t look like there’s much to choose from right now.”
“There’s got to be a barn or farmhouse around here. Isn’t this farm country?”
We searched along the roadside, Sam easing on the throttle as the light dimmed beyond our sight, the engine drawing down to a steady hum. I grew impatient. Fighting against time does little but hurdle it into the future. We discovered the few barns we passed silhouetting the blue-black horizon were dangerous. The barns’ gray, decaying boards leaned on themselves as they were left to rot on overgrown lots, none of them offering much more than a potential for a mighty clatter as it collapsed around us in splintery dust, ultimately creating more problems than it solved.
A one-story home appeared out of the darkness on the right, a ranch with more gravel driveway than a front yard, allowing for an easy turnoff from the highway. I decided to check the Magic 8-Ball. “Should we stop here for the night?”
“Don’t count on it.”
Tarah took the 8-Ball and read it herself. “Aww, don’t listen to this thing. It’s just a toy. It’s not psychic. It doesn’t even have intuition.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Pull in there, Sam, unless you want to keep pushing our luck.”
Sam slowed the truck to a crawl. “Okay. At this point, any four walls and a roof would be better than wandering around the darkness.”
Details of the area emerged as we coasted closer. The home was intact but looked unoccupied. Thick curtains covered the large front window, which was not covered with plywood. A mud-caked pickup, sans wheels, sat in the weeds next to a two-door pole barn, where a dim mercury light barely shone brighter than a full moon, as though connected to a dying generator.
We pulled into the driveway, gravel cracking under our tires, and a trio of figures appeared from around the back of the home, barely noticeable except for their sudden jerky movements.
“Look over there!” Tarah exclaimed. “Don’t stop!”
Sam stomped the gas pedal and we were back on the road as though we were just tossing newspapers on porches in the pre-dawn, the revenants in pursuit, stumbling over themselves in their ferocity to reach the fleeing truck. One rev fell behind as it tripped on a lost shoe, while the remaining two pursued us until torque pulled us away and a startled deer on the roadside attracted their attention instead. In the glow of our red taillights, I watched them veer off the road in pursuit of prey they’d never catch.
The engine’s whine brought more revenants out of the darkness and Sam kept the RPMs high, hoping to speed past those closest to the road flanking us as we passed, all attracted by the new commotion. They threw themselves at the passing truck like moths to a light bulb, landing on their hands and knees in failure, and then returning to the chase until they could no longer keep up.
Too afraid to move my attention away from our pursuers, Sam got my attention and pointed ahead. “What’s that light up there? See that?”
I peered into the void ahead. On the right, the very edge of darkness gave way to the orange glow of fire…and it had to be a big one to see it from where we were. As we came closer, we realized we weren’t even seeing the whole thing, as the lower half of the bonfire appeared to be obstructed behind a wall jutting into the highway itself. We slowed a bit, deciding whether we were fleeing one danger only to head right into the jaws of another. Considering the way ahead was blocked by the walls of some kind of makeshift fortress between us and the fire, I couldn’t think of another reasonable option.
In the distance ahead, a gate slid to the side and the silhouette of a vehicle appeared—heading straight for us—a triangle of headlights piercing through the dust and smoke and darkness. Whatever kind of vehicle it was, it was loud as hell as it sped towards us at full throttle.
“Too late to turn back now,” said Sam, moving his shotgun closer to his seat. “They’ve seen us.”
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