600 Miles: A Post-Apocalyptic Adventure (13 page)

Chapter 20

They was hard dreams I had, every one of them about Gitty. It weren't the Gitty as she'd been in the end that I dreamed about neither. It was the Gitty I had known before, the Gitty who'd loved me, like them early times in Arizona when we lived near the creek and was all alone. For a moment I thought I was still there, that we was at the creek in our little shelter under the tree and when I opened my eyes I'd see her laying there beside me, even though as I awakened I could hear the crashing waves.

The sky was gloomy, my mouth so parched that my lips stuck together as I tried to open them up. I got to my feet, my head spinning. I didn't know where I was, whether it were still Lost Angeles or somewhere else. How far had I walked the night before? Looking back the way I'd come, I could see the shoreline run for miles and could even make out the ruins of the city through the mist, though just barely.

I continued up the highway, still sore and aching, scanning the dirty beach for anything that might have helped, though it weren't nothing but an endless stretch of washed up junk. I was so hungry I ended up going down there anyway, thinking about what kind of sea critters I might find crawling in the sand, though after a while of looking I gave up.

Later that day things started looking a little better, like the farther behind I left Lost Angeles the less junk there were. I went back down to the beach, my thirst even meaner than before. I knelt down, my hands digging into the sand until some water started filling up the hole. I scooped it up, the first few sips being all right until it got too salty and I had to spit it out.

I saw something crawling close by, some evil-looking creature with a hard top and lots of legs. I hit it with a rock and it stopped moving. A
crab
I remembered were the name for it. I ain't ever eat one but I'd heard they was pretty good. Problem was lighting a fire. I ain't have nothing but that pocket knife and there sure as hell weren't no matches lying around.

Back up on the highway I gathered up some twigs and dry weeds and tried rubbing two sticks together but as usual it didn't work and all I ended up with was sore hands. Cooked or no, that critter was going into my belly. I pulled off a big piece of its broken shell, looking at what was inside. There was some vile looking gunk in there but some good enough looking meat too, and so I ate, scooping it out with my fingers and spitting out the pieces that were just too nasty to go down.

Some time later, my stomach pulled, that damn critter finally getting its revenge. I doubled over, puking long and hard, still heaving even when there was nothing left to come out. After that, things got worse. My stomach was now completely empty and my throat burned from all the puke. Then it got hot. I started sweating, sitting down by the side of the road to rest. Then my stomach starting pulling again. I didn't have the strength to sit up no more so I laid down in the dirt, hoping it would all pass. Unfortunately, it weren't so. I laid there a long time sweating and groaning, my stomach all twisted up, too sick and dizzy to even lift my head. I must have blacked out. I woke up and the hazy sky was still stretched over me, though I didn't see it for very long.

When my eyes fluttered open again I saw the stars. I could only lay there, trying to muster the strength I needed to get up, though there weren't anything left in me. I stared up at the night sky, helpless and alone. It was beautiful, so peaceful and calm, and there was that full moon shining over the still water, the distant sound of the crashing waves reaching me, a gentle breeze cooling my feverish skin so that I shivered and felt a tingle up my spine.

"Arizona," I groaned, "don't know why I ever left you. Get up and walk it, Elgin.
Get up!
"

But it were too far, and weren't no strength I had left to try. Maybe if I just had a cool drink of water, maybe a nice piece of cornbread too. I loved cornbread. Just one little piece and I would walk five-hundred miles if I had to. A thousand even.

I drifted in and out, that starry sky always there. I knew I was going to die, but inside I knew I didn't care, that in ten, twenty, thirty years I'd be nothing but yet another skellie laying beside the road and the waves would keep crashing and the stars shining and all of it—the world, everything—would have long forgotten who I was.

I was coming to again when I heard it. I turned my head, trying to focus my bleary eyes though all I could see was the dark. Then it came again, low and throaty. First thought were maybe it was the Devil. Then I realized it were a dog. Big fella, from the sound of it, though maybe it was just my imagination, but when I heard it the third time and at last made out the shaggy, canine monster standing there in the dark, I realized it were real.

Then there were other sounds, not low and mean like the growling but a chorus of yipping and yapping that sounded like crazy, gibbering men, and then I saw them, those darting shapes that moved in and out of the darkness as the big shaggy one stood its ground and growled.

It was chaos as them coyotes ran at it, for weren't no doubting now what they were. There were snarls, then yelps of pain, those bloodthirsty killers driving each other into a frenzy as the whole pack rushed forward. The strength I couldn't find before was suddenly there. I made it to my feet, my fingers closing over the little knife in my pocket. How many of them there were, I didn't know. They were just moving too quick, their infernal yapping filling my ears as I ran forward.

It was one against many, that big dog holding its own against those coyotes, though they were getting it good. They snapped and snarled at it from all sides, taking little bites, some of them crying out as the jaws of that big furry beast sunk into them. I came wading in, stabbing with my little knife, the blade sinking into flesh, just stabbing and stabbing, one of the coyotes snapping at my leg but only getting a mouthful of my pants. I stabbed him too, right in the neck just as another one bit into my arm. The pain only fueled my rage, and then I weren't feeling much of anything no matter how many times they bit into me, snarling as fiercely as they did as I killed.

My little pocket knife weren't much of a weapon, but at least two of them was dead, the others that I'd wounded running off into the night. My eyes swept around me but there weren't any more left to fight, the only one still standing being that big dog they'd nearly torn apart. It chased some of them a short distance then gave up, whimpering as it sat there licking the blood from its hind quarters and paying no attention to me until I got close. It turned on me, growling as I stopped.

"Easy," I said.

It sat there staring, panting and waiting to see if I was going to make any sudden moves. At first I thought I recognized him, though it were too dark to be sure. It was big, with a black muzzle and pointy ears, definitely shepherd-like in appearance though its tail was too curled and its head too wide, the thick mane around its neck being what made me wonder for a moment if it were even a dog at all. Half shepherd half lion, maybe, if such a thing could ever be true.

"Lucky? Is that you, boy?"

He stopped panting a moment and just looked at me dumb, his head cocked to one side. Sweat was running down my forehead and I felt lightheaded, and for a moment I was afraid I was going to black out.

"Lucky? Don't you remember me?"

He growled again, though he didn't move. I steadied myself and forced my eyes wide, nothing making sense, both the pain of my wounds and the fever I was still suffering burning me up, that dumb dog just staring. Then he turned, whining as he limped off into the dark. I followed, stumbling like a corpse risen from the dead, forcing myself to keep going as everything started spinning around me and I again wiped the sweat from my eyes.

He stopped to sit down a second, then started limping off once more. Then he laid down, too hurt to go any farther, his ears sticking up as I neared.

"Hey, boy," I said, cautiously holding out my hand, close enough that he might have jumped up and bit me if he wanted. I was still holding my knife, though only on account of forgetting I was still holding it. I looked down and saw there was blood all over it, and all over my hand, and yet more coming from the bite on my arm.

Eyeing all that blood he got up, at first just sniffing and then suddenly licking it up. I chuckled, relieved that he weren't going to bite.

"Yeah, you like the taste of them coyotes, don't you?"

He lapped up a bit more of it then smacked his chops and started whining again. Up close, I could see just how hurt he was, those coyotes having torn him up real bad.

"Oh boy, you ain't looking so good."

He might have been saying it back to me, just staring like he was. Hell if he didn't look like Lucky. Must have been, though ain't no way he could have walked all them miles from Arizona. And it must have been the excitement of the fight that had kept me going for so long, because I was starting to fade again, my head swimming like I were drunk. Damn. Had been a long time since I'd had a drink of that. It was whiskey I was thinking about, about how thirsty I was and how wonderful it would have been to have a nice long swallow before laying down for a nap.

Shit!

I fell over but didn't feel it. Next thing I knew I was lying on the ground, my face sweating in the dirt. I tried to roll over, not wanting to lose my dog a second time.

"Help me, Lucky!"

I couldn't see him no more, couldn't even turn my head to look, but then I heard snuffling in my ear and felt his wet nose.

"Aw, Lucky, that's a good boy!"

It were so goddamn hot. I wanted to take my shirt off but I couldn't even get my arms to work. Then I started fading out, fighting against it, afraid that if I went to sleep I wouldn't be waking up. I'd seen it happen before, like with poor Eddie, my good friend who shit himself to death. He were so sick he couldn't do nothing and he passed out and never woke up again, stiff as a board when I shook him the next morning.

"It were too bad, Eddie," I mumbled, "it were too bad."

Then I was drifting off to sleep. Or dying. I'd just have to find out. I let go and let myself be taken to wherever God were going to take me, Lucky or whoever he was whimpering, though that started fading too.

Last thing I remember was that I didn't even remember where I was anymore. Might have been Arizona. I wondered if the dog would eat me. Just let me die first so it didn't hurt so bad.

Chapter 21

I woke up and it was day again. I looked around, everything like I'd last seen it though that dog was gone. I touched my face and winced, having forgotten about my broken nose. It was all plugged up with dry blood and it was hard to breathe. I rolled over, wincing as I held one nostril shut and blasted out some of the gunk.

Where'd he go? I got up, suddenly realizing that my fever had passed. My head was clear, and apart from the pain I was experiencing from the welts and bruises and coyote bites, I felt better than I had in...
days?
Something felt strange, like I'd been laying there a lot longer than I thought. I limped over in the direction of them dead coyotes, seeing them lying in the grass. There were two of them, then a third a short ways away, dried blood and clumps of dirty fur all over the ground. Some of the blood trailed off a distance, most of the wounded coyotes having got away.

There was thirst and hunger, my belly chewing itself up. I pulled out my pocket knife, squatted over one of the dead coyotes and started cutting. Its hide was tough and the knife weren't too sharp, but I managed to get a good hole in it and started peeling it back, not bothering to strip him all the way. I poked in there with my knife a little, cutting some meat off the ribs and putting it in my mouth. At first it seemed all right, though as I started chewing more I gagged and spit it out. It was too bitter, even worse, that nasty taste of rotten meat clinging to my tongue. Then I caught a whiff of the stench I hadn't smelled before. Them coyotes was rotten, though there weren't no way it could have happened so soon.

It were more than just a night then, as I suspected. I must have been out a couple of days. I walked away trying to spit that horrible taste out of my mouth though I kept tasting it. I wondered if I'd get sick again. What lousy luck, getting sick off of two rotten creatures one after the other.

I headed away from the ocean towards the hills, knowing that it were my best chance to survive. Where was that dog? I wanted to call out for him but didn't, not knowing who or what else might be around. I trudged up the hills, everything quiet and peaceful, always watching for sight of someone I might have to hide from, though it was just me, the warm afternoon sun that broke through the clouds shining on my face, the cool wind whispering in my ears.

I came across a gully running between two hills and went down there, pushing my way through the thickets at the bottom as I heard the trickle of running water and discovered a small stream. I threw myself down onto the muddy bank, scooping up greedy handfuls of water and slurping them down. Suddenly I stopped, remembering a story I'd heard about a man in the desert who hadn't drunk for days whose stomach burst when he finally found water and started chugging it down. I took a deep breath, gasping as I splashed  the cold water on my face and neck then cleaned the dirt and dried blood from my hands, afterwards sitting in the mud to rest.

I drank a little more, knowing I should wait but too thirsty to care about my stomach exploding. At first my stomach hurt so bad that I thought maybe it was about to burst until I figured it was just me starving. I got up, taking a long look around and deciding I should head farther up into the hills, drinking as much as I could from the creek before leaving.

Where was that dog? Maybe I'd come across him again, though he was probably far away by now, if he were still alive. Why they all had to run off on me like that I didn't know. Man's best friend people said, though even dogs didn't want to stick around. I couldn't blame them either, seeing what bad luck I had.

"You're jinxed, Elgin," I said out loud, them birds happily chirping as I starved. I picked up a rock and threw it at one I spotted watching me from a branch, but I missed and it flapped its dirty wings and flew off. I couldn't tell what it was. Some kind of duck maybe, though I weren't no bird expert and so it were all the same. Then again, I didn't think ducks took to sitting in branches. Whatever. I saw more of them and tried a few more times but it were no use, them birds too quick and my aim just too goddamn lousy to hit anything. I cussed, wishing I had even just one of them to put in my belly. A little bird meat would have gone a long ways.

Giving up on the birds, I looked around for something else. There were some plants that by then weren't looking so bad, though I ended up not eating them, knowing how deadly even harmless looking things could be once you had them in your gut. I moved on, walking all day. Where was I going? I realized that the easiest paths through the hills were leading me east, which is the way I'd come, though I couldn't remember how far down along the ocean I'd walked and so I weren't sure just how far I was going back.

Then I started smelling it. Something was cooking, or was I just smelling things that weren't there now that I was dying of hunger? And then came that sound. Was it a voice? At first I thought I'd just imagined it, but after holding still and listening real close it came again. It was a man's voice, low and mumbling. I crept forward, my head already filled with ideas of who it might have been. I couldn't hear it no more but I kept going, wondering if I'd been heard.

Then I heard it again, not one, but two, back and forth, one a man and the other...

The other...

I could hardly breathe, my heart thumping so fast, my hands shaking as the distance closed. The voices came from just under me now, and as I spied down the grassy slope I spotted a wild-looking man with sunken cheeks and a mangy woman wearing nothing but a pair of tattered shorts, both of them sitting before a small fire, something big roasting over it.

"Gotta let it finish cooking," the man was telling her. "You remember what happened last time we tried eating one raw."

I quietly let out the breath I'd been holding in, thankful that my worst fear hadn't come to pass. They must have heard me though, or maybe just sensed me standing there, because that skellie of a woman looked up and gasped, the man cussing as he fumbled for his gun.

I ran, hearing him shout as he came up after me.

"Son of a bitch!" he said. "I'm gonna fix you good!"

He didn't stop coming, popping off shots with his pistol as he ran. Down the dirt path he chased me, branches hitting me in the face. Eventually he was gaining, and I didn't have much more breath. I stumbled and got up again, my knees scraped.
POP! POP!
went that pistol, closer than before. Weren't no getting away from him, and no way he was going to stop, though why he was so hell-bent on shooting me I didn't know. All I knew is that I had two choices: keep running and end up taking one in the back, or desperately turn and try my luck.

Suddenly I spun around and charged, startling him as he squeezed off another wild shot. I thought I was done for but he missed, though I was so fired up that even if he had hit me I probably wouldn't have felt a thing. Then we was grappling, him trying to bring his pistol to bear as I fought to push it away. Then we hit the ground, his rotten teeth gnashing, though he didn't lose his grip on his gun. I was on top of him, pinning his arm down as he scratched and clawed at my face, growling and grunting as I pounded on him, another shot going off and ringing my ears, though he missed.

Then he lost it, my knee driving hard between his legs, then again, his grip loosening just enough for me to pull that gun out of his hand. I tried shooting him, but like him, I couldn't on account of us tangling so close, though after a good pistol whipping with all my weight coming down behind every blow, he was too dazed to fight back, his mouth hanging open as I shoved the barrel between his dirty teeth and pulled the trigger.

There was supposed to be a big bang but there weren't nothing but a click, then again. Empty. He weren't fighting, just out cold, his nose all busted up from the pistol whipping, his teeth all covered with blood. I yanked the barrel out of his mouth and hit him a few more times, wondering if he were dead.

No. He was still breathing.

I pushed myself off of him, throwing the pistol aside as I reached down and with both hands pulled up a big rock that were half buried in the mud, my muscles straining. I walked back, huffing and puffing, the rock clutched to my belly until finally I dropped it on his head. It was a horrible sound, that loud, squishy crack as his skull split open, and I knew that there weren't no way he was still living after that.

I felt in his pockets but weren't no more bullets he had on him. Then, my blood still pumping, I picked up his pistol and made my way back to his camp. She was still standing there when I arrived, waiting to see who had returned, just gawking at me with those big bucked teeth sticking out. I walked toward her, that dirty, bony woman with the flapjack titties backing away, her eyes moving to the gun in my hand. Then I looked over to the fire.

"No,"
I said.

It was skinned and stretched out over the flames like a pig on a spit, a big stick shoved right through its mouth. I looked away, a sick feeling rising in my gut.

"Where'd you get that dog?"

She just looked at me, shaking.

"I said where'd you get that dog, woman."

"We—we found it! Fred shot it. You want it? Take it, mister, it’s yours!"

I squeezed the grip of my pistol, unable to push down the rage. Then I remembered it was empty.

"Oh God," she said. "
Fred...
Where is he?"

I walked around the fire, trying not to look down.

"Where is he!" she yelled. "Oh God, you killed him! You killed Fred, didn't you? You killed him, you son of a bitch!"

The gun came up and I squeezed the trigger. It clicked. I kept squeezing and it kept clicking and she screamed and ran, still howling from a long ways away.

Weren't nothing I found there except an old blanket that was so filthy with dirt and sweat and human excrement that I left it alone. I still couldn't look, not sure if it was him but not wanting to see if it were. I left the camp behind, walking in the direction that dirty woman had run, the smell of roast dog torturing my empty belly even as it made me want to throw up. If I saw her again I was going to kill her, and I wouldn't need no bullets to do it. I wondered what cooked person really tasted like. A lot like pork, maybe. Of course, it was just a guess.

I pushed the thought away, realizing that this were probably how it started: the craziness, the man-eating, the losing of who you was. What was happening? All I could imagine as I stalked those hills was killing and how good it felt seeing people dead, especially if they had died in violent ways. And why not? Ain't nothing I'd ever seen but people doing bad things to each other: lying, cheating, raping, killing, or maybe just hurting each other in little ways that added up, so that in the end you didn't give two damns about them anymore, and instead of hurting you gave them what they deserved.

I weren't no smart, educated man with the means of putting it into high-sounding words, but I had brains enough to know just how rotten it all was: people, the world, everything, no matter how much folks liked to talk about God and hope and the natural goodness of humanity, like human beings was something special, like they should be treated any better than that poor dog back there on the spit. Where was she, that bucktoothed woman? Where was everybody? I hadn't wanted to see anyone before and kept coming across them anyway, and now that I was looking weren't no one to be found. And which way was I going anyway? Seemed to me it were once again back the way I came, back towards that road and the house and that tunnel.

My mouth was getting dry again. My stomach, forget it. To say how hungry I was ain't even worth it because ain't too many people know what it's like to not eat for three days. Four, maybe? I didn't know. But there it came, just beckoning me in the distance, that good old American flag flying high, and I knew them boys had something to eat there, especially on account of how fat one of them was.

Where were they now? Come get me, I thought. Better yet, let me sneak up on them and do it my way. I'd killed a man before with nothing but an old shoelace and I could do it again. I saw the road, but weren't no sight of them around. They was probably in the house doing to each other what they did best. God knows it weren't shooting, because had they been any good with them rifles I wouldn't have been standing there.

As I headed down the hill I saw something laying near the road, a moment later realizing it was a man. I went over, wondering if the bullets were going to suddenly start flying, certain it was some kind of trap.

"You,"
I said.

I knew him all right, one of them men who'd tried to shoot me, one of them two boys who had chased me until I'd rolled down the hill. Weren't the fat one though, but the other, which was a surprise, seeing as, in my experience, it was always the fat one who was the first to die. There was a couple of holes in him and blood all over. I looked up, almost expecting to see the shooter but I was the only one around. Then a short ways up the road I spotted another body. This one I recognized before even coming close. 

Beneath me was Ramiro, as dead as the other, half his skull blown off. It was a mess. I weren't no caliber expert, though I knew enough to see he'd been sniped from a distance, whoever had done it obviously packing a rifle with a lot of punch. .308 round, I guessed. I'd seen what one of those could do to a man before and no doubt was seeing it again, though the first time I'd seen it, it had been me who had been doing the shooting, exploding a bandit's head from a pace of about a hundred yards.