pushed the canisters in his direction then
went back to pick up the machine pistol. I tossed the assault rifle into the tall
grass off the shoulder. I hated assault weapons. They reminded me too much of
Brighton Beach.
Before getting back behind the wheel, I pulled off my shirt, wiped myself
down, and swapped it for a clean one from my suitcase.
“We’re just going to ... leave them here?” Reed asked.
I stuffed the bloody shirt into one of the Walmart bags we used for garbage. I
saw no reason to tell him about Carla’s disgusting penis collection. “You want to
toss them in this van, drive them to the nearest cemetery, bury them, and say a
few words about what fine people they were and how much they meant to us?”
The hopelessness and sorrow showed prominently on Reed’s pale features.
He obviously needed to be reminded of the situation.
“You have to remember something. It’s extremely unpleasant, but it’s the
truth. It’s what you told me in Cocoa, when I suffered that brain blip.”
“There’s no one to drive the ambulance,” he said softly, gazing at the bloody
pavement. “No one working the hospitals.”
“There’s nothing left. Never forget that.” Despair and sorrow filled my being
as well, as soon as the words left my throat.
EIGHT
Engulfed in an eerie stillness, Washington sprawled before us on the other side of
the Potomac River, its remaining survivors as shocked and bewildered by the
plague of death as those we encountered in Florida and all the way up I-95.
The sun had already dropped low in the sky, turning pink and lifeless among
the shredded clouds brushing silently around it.
I’d passed dozens of vehicles pulled over or stopped on the interstate and
back at the Beltway. Only three were moving, inching about at a snail’s pace,
their affected occupants struggling to control the last precious moments of their
lives.
I pulled onto the side of the road just before the 14th Street Bridge to survey
the situation. The gas gauge had drifted steadily toward empty. Once again I
faced the risky task of finding a place to fill the tank.
As we had approached the D.C. metro area, I also worried about being
stopped by a cop. My driver’s license was current, but if the cop checked the tag,
he’d discover that it didn’t belong to the van. Any working databanks would
know I was driving a stolen vehicle. A search would follow. The cop would find
the guns, the ammo, and the booze, as well as my illegal Walmart acquisitions.
The garbage bag containing my bloodied shirt would not help my situation.
I had to face facts. If I was stopped, I’d have to shoot the cop.
The realization terrified me. I’d always been a law-biding citizen and had
risked my life for my country many times in my brief military career. Aside from
a couple of speeding tickets picked up during my hectic teen years, my record
was clean.
But in the last few days, I’d stolen food, guns, sporting goods, money, and a
van. I’d also killed eight people.
I’d done what was necessary to survive. Very few people still functioned and
were probably doing the same unforgivable things I was doing. But that didn’t
make me feel less guilty, and it sure didn’t make me feel any better. I was brought
up to respect others, the law, and my country. And no matter what happened to
society or the rest of the world, stealing and killing just wasn’t right.
“I’ve been wondering about those women,” Reed said.
“Why?”
“I think about people, Moss. It’s the teacher in me, I guess. I’m always trying
to get a fix on things. Even as a kid I’d always wanted to find out why something
happened. Everything’s important in the great scheme of things. Background
influences everything. Maybe Carla had a rotten childhood and…”
“Background means nothing in a catastrophe. Everyone’s lost everything, and
the primeval urge takes over. Fight or flight becomes the order of the day. Most
people don’t even realize
went back to pick up the machine pistol. I tossed the assault rifle into the tall
grass off the shoulder. I hated assault weapons. They reminded me too much of
Brighton Beach.
Before getting back behind the wheel, I pulled off my shirt, wiped myself
down, and swapped it for a clean one from my suitcase.
“We’re just going to ... leave them here?” Reed asked.
I stuffed the bloody shirt into one of the Walmart bags we used for garbage. I
saw no reason to tell him about Carla’s disgusting penis collection. “You want to
toss them in this van, drive them to the nearest cemetery, bury them, and say a
few words about what fine people they were and how much they meant to us?”
The hopelessness and sorrow showed prominently on Reed’s pale features.
He obviously needed to be reminded of the situation.
“You have to remember something. It’s extremely unpleasant, but it’s the
truth. It’s what you told me in Cocoa, when I suffered that brain blip.”
“There’s no one to drive the ambulance,” he said softly, gazing at the bloody
pavement. “No one working the hospitals.”
“There’s nothing left. Never forget that.” Despair and sorrow filled my being
as well, as soon as the words left my throat.
EIGHT
Engulfed in an eerie stillness, Washington sprawled before us on the other side of
the Potomac River, its remaining survivors as shocked and bewildered by the
plague of death as those we encountered in Florida and all the way up I-95.
The sun had already dropped low in the sky, turning pink and lifeless among
the shredded clouds brushing silently around it.
I’d passed dozens of vehicles pulled over or stopped on the interstate and
back at the Beltway. Only three were moving, inching about at a snail’s pace,
their affected occupants struggling to control the last precious moments of their
lives.
I pulled onto the side of the road just before the 14th Street Bridge to survey
the situation. The gas gauge had drifted steadily toward empty. Once again I
faced the risky task of finding a place to fill the tank.
As we had approached the D.C. metro area, I also worried about being
stopped by a cop. My driver’s license was current, but if the cop checked the tag,
he’d discover that it didn’t belong to the van. Any working databanks would
know I was driving a stolen vehicle. A search would follow. The cop would find
the guns, the ammo, and the booze, as well as my illegal Walmart acquisitions.
The garbage bag containing my bloodied shirt would not help my situation.
I had to face facts. If I was stopped, I’d have to shoot the cop.
The realization terrified me. I’d always been a law-biding citizen and had
risked my life for my country many times in my brief military career. Aside from
a couple of speeding tickets picked up during my hectic teen years, my record
was clean.
But in the last few days, I’d stolen food, guns, sporting goods, money, and a
van. I’d also killed eight people.
I’d done what was necessary to survive. Very few people still functioned and
were probably doing the same unforgivable things I was doing. But that didn’t
make me feel less guilty, and it sure didn’t make me feel any better. I was brought
up to respect others, the law, and my country. And no matter what happened to
society or the rest of the world, stealing and killing just wasn’t right.
“I’ve been wondering about those women,” Reed said.
“Why?”
“I think about people, Moss. It’s the teacher in me, I guess. I’m always trying
to get a fix on things. Even as a kid I’d always wanted to find out why something
happened. Everything’s important in the great scheme of things. Background
influences everything. Maybe Carla had a rotten childhood and…”
“Background means nothing in a catastrophe. Everyone’s lost everything, and
the primeval urge takes over. Fight or flight becomes the order of the day. Most
people don’t even realize
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