march. Garish, fanny-packed corpses gnashed as the two ran past; seat-belted families groaned and slapped car windows with rotting hands. Dreadlocked hikers dragging bloody backpacks. Gore-spattered windbreakers, comfortable shoes adorning severed feet. A parade of death all the more grotesque because its members were so relaxed, so carefree, before they joined it.
One time, a half-eaten bison calf scraped toward them on two gnawed limbs, victim, most likely, of a poorly-timed birth. Somehow, its flayed ribs and lolling jaw had been harder to witness than any human corpse—walking or still.
That had been a few days after they’d met, though, when they were still sensitive to such things. Now, sliding a couple commemorative Yellowstone collectors’ plates from the cupboard above the sink—What the hell was a snow-plane mobile?— Val thought about the first time she saw Leslie, how he’d almost crashed his 80-something Caprice swerving around the out-of-control tour bus full of septuagenarians. She was running down the steps of the trading store with a pack full of looted peanut butter cups and Gatorade when he’d skidded to a stop in front of her.
His window was down, but the cool breeze hadn’t helped much with his dripping forehead. Must’ve done some Sunday driving , Val thought, remembering how quickly Grant Village had become a smoldering heap of bodies and metal.
He nodded, she nodded, and a thousand questions— Are you fucked up? Can you believe this? Is it as bad as it feels? — were asked and answered in their silent stares. Neither seemed to be able to offer comfort beyond the simple fact of physical presence. Val sighed loudly, backpack sagging in her hands.
The sound of Little Florida’s tires leaving pavement snapped their attention back to the road. 50 yards away, the geriatric tourists had gotten a close-up view of Yellowstone’s famous lodgepole pines as their bus caught a corner on one. The massive vehicle teetered for a few long seconds, then crashed onto one side, smashing most of the windows on the opposite.
In those early days, Val’s sense of propriety was still checking in occasionally, peanut butter cups excluded. “Oh my God,” she gasped, eyes riveted to the scene. “Those poor people.”
That’s when the first wave of blood-splattered grandparents clawed themselves from the wreckage. Moaning, bits of “safety” glass gouging their faces and hands, they began to hobble toward Val and Leslie on broken limbs. In her head, Val bid a final, hasty adieu to normal .
“Fuck those people!” she screamed. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
She ran around the rear of the car and tugged on the passenger handle.
“Wait,” yelled Leslie, his harried voice muffled by the window. “I have to unlock it!”
His nervous little fingers flashed over the console and Val wrenched the handle upward. Nothing happened.
“Hold on— you can’t pull on it ‘til I click the button!”
Val chanced a peek over her shoulder. The more spritely-looking grayhairs had already covered a third of the distance. Rheumatoid arthritis stopped bugging you after death, apparently.
Leslie was fumbling with the buttons again. Something big and metally hit something else big and metally; she figured this was the sound of car security in the ‘80’s and gave the handle another try.
“No, it’s locked now— relocked. Don’t pull too soon…it’ll stick!”
“Whenever you’re ready, guy!” She could already hear Hush Puppies and Keds sliding across the pavement behind her.
“Leslie! Les! My name’s Les.”
“Wha? I don’t… just get the fucking door open! Leslie!”
Metal struck metal again, and this time she made herself count slowly to three before jerking the handle. A hot gush of coffee and artificial pine scent shot up her nostrils as the oversized door swung open. She threw her butt into the upholstery
One time, a half-eaten bison calf scraped toward them on two gnawed limbs, victim, most likely, of a poorly-timed birth. Somehow, its flayed ribs and lolling jaw had been harder to witness than any human corpse—walking or still.
That had been a few days after they’d met, though, when they were still sensitive to such things. Now, sliding a couple commemorative Yellowstone collectors’ plates from the cupboard above the sink—What the hell was a snow-plane mobile?— Val thought about the first time she saw Leslie, how he’d almost crashed his 80-something Caprice swerving around the out-of-control tour bus full of septuagenarians. She was running down the steps of the trading store with a pack full of looted peanut butter cups and Gatorade when he’d skidded to a stop in front of her.
His window was down, but the cool breeze hadn’t helped much with his dripping forehead. Must’ve done some Sunday driving , Val thought, remembering how quickly Grant Village had become a smoldering heap of bodies and metal.
He nodded, she nodded, and a thousand questions— Are you fucked up? Can you believe this? Is it as bad as it feels? — were asked and answered in their silent stares. Neither seemed to be able to offer comfort beyond the simple fact of physical presence. Val sighed loudly, backpack sagging in her hands.
The sound of Little Florida’s tires leaving pavement snapped their attention back to the road. 50 yards away, the geriatric tourists had gotten a close-up view of Yellowstone’s famous lodgepole pines as their bus caught a corner on one. The massive vehicle teetered for a few long seconds, then crashed onto one side, smashing most of the windows on the opposite.
In those early days, Val’s sense of propriety was still checking in occasionally, peanut butter cups excluded. “Oh my God,” she gasped, eyes riveted to the scene. “Those poor people.”
That’s when the first wave of blood-splattered grandparents clawed themselves from the wreckage. Moaning, bits of “safety” glass gouging their faces and hands, they began to hobble toward Val and Leslie on broken limbs. In her head, Val bid a final, hasty adieu to normal .
“Fuck those people!” she screamed. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
She ran around the rear of the car and tugged on the passenger handle.
“Wait,” yelled Leslie, his harried voice muffled by the window. “I have to unlock it!”
His nervous little fingers flashed over the console and Val wrenched the handle upward. Nothing happened.
“Hold on— you can’t pull on it ‘til I click the button!”
Val chanced a peek over her shoulder. The more spritely-looking grayhairs had already covered a third of the distance. Rheumatoid arthritis stopped bugging you after death, apparently.
Leslie was fumbling with the buttons again. Something big and metally hit something else big and metally; she figured this was the sound of car security in the ‘80’s and gave the handle another try.
“No, it’s locked now— relocked. Don’t pull too soon…it’ll stick!”
“Whenever you’re ready, guy!” She could already hear Hush Puppies and Keds sliding across the pavement behind her.
“Leslie! Les! My name’s Les.”
“Wha? I don’t… just get the fucking door open! Leslie!”
Metal struck metal again, and this time she made herself count slowly to three before jerking the handle. A hot gush of coffee and artificial pine scent shot up her nostrils as the oversized door swung open. She threw her butt into the upholstery
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