The Scattered and the Dead (Book 1.5) Read online

  Every inch of him looked to be gloved or hatted or otherwise swathed in winter attire, at least from my angle. This, of course, made it impossible to look for any telling marks or anything of that nature. Still, I watched him for a good long while, my mind teetering back and forth between the good or evil I might be gazing upon.

  He lodged the ax in the block again and stood for a moment, hands on his hips. His shoulders rose and fell as he took deep breaths.

  I sank back behind the tree trunk most of the way when he finally moved, tilting my head to the side so just that sliver of my head from the eyes up remained exposed.

  He walked toward the house, grabbing something there near the door that I couldn’t see, working it back and forth in the snow. It almost looked a handle, maybe a different ax? A snow shovel? Whatever it was, it seemed to be stuck. He yanked on it, an awful scraping sound moaning out as he pulled it free.

  He walked it out toward the wood pile, the handle dragging behind him, and then he moved into the clear where I could see it. The wagon. He grabbed arm loads of split wood and went to work stacking them into the bed of the wheeled cart.

  He was loading wood to bring to me.

  I stood without thought, hesitating for one second before I stepped out into the open, moving toward him. I crunched my way there, being loud on purpose so he’d hear.

  His shoulders bunched as I got within a few paces. He froze a moment and then whirled to face me, in a crouched, almost karate stance, both arms hugging wood to his chest. A wild grimace wrinkled his face, eyes open far too wide, wet with fear.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, straightening up. “What are you doing out this way? I was just loading up some wood for you.”

  The wrinkles vacated his forehead and cheeks for the most part, though I could somehow still see where they’d been, a pale afterglow taking their place.

  “I got sick of being cooped up,” I said. “Decided to take a walk.”

  He squinted.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “What?”

  He pointed a puffed up glove finger at me.

  “Your lip. You’re bleeding.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I’m pretty chapped.”

  I dabbed at my lips with my gloved fingers and checked them, though I couldn’t make out any blood on the black fabric. It did look a little wet, though.

  “It’s flowing pretty good. Getting down onto your chin. Let’s go inside and get you cleaned up.”

  Fiona

  Beckley, WV

  137 days after

  I filed into his house behind him, that mix of emotions doing cartwheels in my guts. Crossing the threshold felt so strange. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the shade inside. He had blankets over most of his windows, too.

  We peeled our boots off on a floor mat just inside the back door. Clumps of snow fell away from the sides of my boots, and inverted patterns of the treads remained where I’d taken my second to last steps. We headed into the kitchen.

  I watched Doyle then, my eyes fastening to the fabric that concealed his hair line, waiting for that hat to come off. I’d never observed any kind of mark there before, but it’s not like I was ever looking.

  His hand gripped the knit hat, thumb and index finger pinching the front just above his eyebrows. He seemed to hesitate there, though, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, perhaps noting the intensity with which I looked upon him. I turned my gaze to the floor, feeling weird. Feeling dumb.

  It occurred to me that I had no idea what to think anymore. No idea. Nothing made any sense.

  He turned away as he unsheathed that forehead, so I couldn’t get a look at the front of his head, just his hair all frizzed up in the back from static electricity. He spoke as he walked off into a hallway.

  “Have a seat. I’ll get you something for that lip.”

  “Thank you.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant to head into the living room or to just take a seat on one of the stools at the snack bar next to us. I decided a little look around couldn’t hurt, though.

  I rounded the kitchen island and walked past the place he’d turned right, peering that way the best I could. The shade dominated the hallway he’d disappeared down. I could only really make out the mouth of the opening, the rest trailing away into black like some bear’s den.

  Wood squeaked under foot as I crossed the threshold into the living room. I paused for a moment, listening to see if he’d respond to the sound. He didn’t, so I kept going.

  Coals cracked and spit in the fireplace, one tiny flicker of flame still shimmering toward the back. A stack of dirty plates piled on the left hand side of the coffee table and used Kleenex and napkins congregated in clusters on the floor. So I had observed evidence of him being a slob, just not a demon.

  His voice called from somewhere down the hall.

  “You’ve got to be careful out in that cold. How long were you out there?”

  “Not too long. It’s always gone this way for me. Sensitive skin, especially my lips.”

  I scanned the room again, no real idea of what I could be looking for. What evidence might someone leave around hinting at their antichrist-ness. I didn’t know. A warmth saturated my cheeks just then. Maybe part of it was the heat kicking out of the furnace, but I think it was mostly embarrassment. It felt silly to be performing this search.

  His footsteps clattered down the hall toward me, the carpet muffling the sound a bit. He emerged from the mouth of that cave, his eyes swiveling from the kitchen into the living room to find me.

  “Ah. Here you go.”

  He wiggled a little container of salve at me.

  “Aloe Vera lip balm. Always helps my chapped lips heal up.”

  I padded over and took it from his outstretched arm. Everything went into slow motion as the jar transferred from his fingers to mine, my eyes locked on the discolored spot on the back of his right hand.

  I gasped, unable to remove my hands from the pale region there.

  “What? What is it?”

  My heart fluttered in my chest, uneven and sloppy like a giant moth with soggy wings. My panicked brain struggled for words.

  “Hm? Oh. Just… I must be seeing things in the dark here. It looked like your… like you had something… on your hand. The back of it, I mean.”

  “Hm? Oh, right.”

  He held up his hand so the back faced me, that pale square coming into focus a little better so I could see what it was.

  “Burned myself heating a kettle over the fire. Heh. Bandage must have looked weird in the half-light or something.”

  “Yeah. It caught me off guard is all. Sorry about that.”

  He smiled, lips peeling back to reveal those strange teeth, and I tilted my head toward the object in my hands. I fumbled with the jar, fingers struggling to grip the lid and twist it open. Anything to not look at him any longer.

  Fiona

  Beckley, WV

  137 days after

  I set the pot of water on top of the stove and sat down on the edge of the mattress to wait for it to warm up. The bottom sizzled where a rivulet of water had spilled down as I ladled it in. Just the sound of that, the hiss of the water droplet dancing across the top like a griddle, made me feel warmer. Of course, the noise of the fire raging within the stove didn’t hurt either, I’m sure.

  I felt ashamed. Ashamed that I’d let him fool me, let him touch me. Ashamed that even now part of me wanted to believe he was as he had appeared before, that the notion of his evil was some delusion.

  Anyway, I got the overwhelming urge to clean myself after walking about in that demon’s nest, and I spent the whole walk home dreaming about the shower I couldn’t take, feeling all the little streams from the shower head flowing into the back of my neck, the heat draining down my spine, feeling the steam saturate the air around me, but no. No shower. Just a sponge bath. It took too long to heat up all the water necessary for a real bath, and I imagine it’d sting my hands something awful to soak in hot fluid
at this point anyhow.

  He tried to walk with me, tried to drag that wagon of wood along behind him in the snow, but it wasn’t possible. Snow caked the wagon wheels and frosted the front of the wagon bed with a thick, smooth layer like butter cream on red velvet. I told him I had enough wood for now, and that he could bring it in a while when things melt a little. If they do.

  I was glad to be rid of him, glad to look away, to walk away, but my skin itched the whole way home, aching for the scald of the sponge. A queasy feeling gurgled in my gut once I got out of sight of his place, and my hands tingled, vibrating from palm to fingertip. I knew then that my adrenaline had been going crazy that whole time, and now the after effects had come clear to me once the stimulation of being near him faded.

  It wasn’t until I got home and took my coat off that I realized that I’d sweat through everything, dark stains in oval shapes stretching down from each arm pit in both my t-shirt and sweatshirt. The inside of my coat soaked to the touch, the whole thing heavy with moisture, limp and sagging from the end of my arm like a soggy towel.

  I lay back, my head resting on a bunched up blanket chunk, and I closed my eyes. The pot creaked a little bit on the stovetop, a sound that reminded me of cooking something on a real range. I pictured it, the wooden spoon stirring a sauce, mushrooms swirling in marinara, while a pot of water boiled on the burner next door, ready for the noodles. That’s all I wanted. A shower and some homemade pasta. And I couldn’t have either.

  It seemed strange just then, the things we centered our lives around before. I had enough food to get by for this winter and a little beyond, at least. Doyle and I had scavenged a bunch of dried beans and oats, cans of various soups, even a bunch of boxes of Jello mixture and divided everything up. And yet, foods I missed occurred to me constantly, delicacies and novelties I desired, everything from the simplest snacks to elaborate multiple course meals in fine dining restaurants. It seemed like food was no longer simply fuel to survive in my imagination. It was a confection, a fantasy made real, like before this my whole life was lived as a kid in a candy store, stuffing my face with disgusting sweet. And even with everyone dead, the dream remained the same, the gluttony remained. I missed all of those chips and crackers and chocolates that I didn’t need as dearly as I missed anything.

  My thoughts drifted out for a time, going quiet in the warmth, and then I pictured a candy store, the racks of colorful bags and boxes from floor to ceiling. All of those strange sugary products wearing their logos and brand names with pride. Candy bars and wafers and individually wrapped fruit chews that tasted nothing like real fruit.

  And then I sat up, my eyes snapping open. I blinked a few times, eyes flitting over the pot on the stovetop. It hadn’t reached a boil yet, not even close by the looks of it, but that was OK. I knew what I needed to do.

  Fiona

  Beckley, WV

  138 days after

  The scene felt like a repeat of the afternoon before. The same pot sat on the stove, and the same sizzle hissed out from under it, but this time beige goop pooled where the water had been, and a wooden spoon drew invisible figure eights in the fluid. I lifted the spoon from the murk and tapped it on the side of the pot a few times, sheets of lumpy broth falling away with each hit.

  Soup. Lentil soup. Not the most romantic of meals, I suppose, but it was enough of a draw to entice Doyle into coming over. I really stressed the positives: that it would be a hot meal that he wouldn’t have to lift a finger toward cooking. Maybe that sold it more than the particular dish. Or maybe he was impressed that I trudged all the way there through the snow again just to invite him to dine with me.

  Of course, I’d poisoned the hell out of it. See, that was the thing I had realized about Doyle. He didn’t deserve to draw breath. Not anymore. He deserved a home cooked bowl of death with a cremation in the backyard for dessert.

  Strychnine. Old rat poison that we’ve had in the garage for years. From what I’ve read about the stuff, it’s a rough way to go. His death will be a painful one. I guess I’ll have to find a way to hold back the tears.

  I looked down upon the pot, the perfect circle of khaki colored food. The smooth surface rippled when I dipped the spoon in once more and stirred so the bottom wouldn’t scorch. Its scent wafted up at me, and it smelled good. Good enough to make my mouth water. None for me, though, thank you. Strychnine gives me terrible heartburn.

  I left it to cook a while then, sitting on the corner of the mattress and laying back, letting my spine stretch out. I lay width ways so my legs dangled off one side of the bed and my head dangled off the other, my neck going limp and reveling in the lack of tension for a moment.

  Little popping sounds rang out when bubbles formed and burst along the surface of the soup. With no way to control the heat, I’d have to remember to stir it soon to avoid that layer of skin forming along the top and bottom of it, all gummy and pasty and strange.

  For now, I would rest, though. I would enjoy the way the strain lifted from my neck and back and shoulders for a long moment. As long as I could, anyway. It felt good to lie motionless, to go all limp, to rest my eyes. I hadn’t slept much the night before, visions of entrees and poisons tumbling around in my head. I’d considered a variety of meals to serve as the poison’s delivery system, but the lentil soup seemed like the best bet to mask any strange flavors. I could just layer in some spices to cover anything over.

  Panicky feelings washed over me periodically. Notions that perhaps he would know what I was up to, that perhaps the beast was immortal or invincible in some way. But I reminded myself of what I had to lose. Nothing. If he didn’t die, so be it, but I couldn’t see any harm in trying. I couldn’t see any other path at all.

  I remembered the sound of the rats gnawing on the rafters in the garage, the smell of their piss. Years ago. In a different world than this. We tried to trap them first, shoving live traps up through the circular openings for the recessed light fixtures. We caught one or two, but the gnawing continued and the smell only got worse. We called an exterminator, and he tried a couple of things, killed a couple more, but it didn’t help. More scuffing and gritting and gnawing up there. More piss.

  When rat shit appeared in the pantry, I decided to get the poison. I hated to do it, but rodents can carry diseases that are fatal to humans, especially small humans with only partially developed immune systems. The rats had become a threat to my children, and I had to eliminate that threat. I put grain bait in the ceiling, and the strychnine wiped out the rodents quickly.

  Everything was still for two days. No more grit of teeth on wood. Even the urine smell began to fade.

  And then the smell of death was everywhere. That stench of rotting rat meat completely overpowered the urine smell. Within a few days, thousands of bloat flies cascaded out of those light fixtures, thudding into walls and windows. Fat things that buzzed in all directions, swarms of them. It took weeks to get rid of them. They’d die and another generation would replace them, dead flies piled over every surface in the garage. Dried out husks that crunched underfoot with every step we took.

  Funny how it always works that way. We solve problems and create a series of new ones in the process.

  But I would solve the biggest problem of them all here soon. I’d kill the biggest rat of all. Or so I hoped.

  I opened my eyes and blinked a few times, readying myself to stir the soup. Only then did I realize how sore my eyelids were, how tired I was, how clouded my thoughts were, my mind fogged up like the mirror in the bathroom after a long, hot shower.

  I sat up, and that strain returned to my spine. The weight of the empty world.

  Fiona

  Beckley, WV

  138 days after

  He lifted the spoon to his face, a droplet of soup hanging off the bottom where the rounded part narrowed into the handle. He hesitated a moment with it just shy of his lips, perhaps trying to avoid the soup giving way onto his chin or shirt. Cupping the opposite hand under the sloppy spoon, he final
ly landed the lentil sludge between his teeth. His lips closed around it, and he mushed it around in his mouth a moment and swallowed.

  In my memory, it’s like his lips filled my entire field of vision just then, like I was watching them on a huge iMAX screen in 3-D. This close up, the shapes lost their meaning. They became two flaps of fat covering his teeth hole. They looked all greased up with food, too, the shininess spreading to coat the pale flesh in the corners of his mouth.

  Disgusting.

  “Delicious, delicious soup,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  He locked eyes with me and smiled, shaking his head a little. Then he went right back to shoveling heaping scoops of poison into his mouth. It was almost weird how easy it was. Almost disturbing.

  I remembered that the rats were trickier. They were smarter. They didn’t gorge themselves on the poison right away. They tested it, some evolutionary leap based on their inability to vomit. We had to put un-poisoned grain up there first for a few days to train them that this type of food from this location was OK and they could go all-you-can-eat-buffet nuts on it. Then, and only then, can you drop the strychnine hammer of death on them. By that time, some of the rats are so greedy that they will eat enough poison to kill 20. Quite a change from that first day when none of them would eat enough to matter.

  Anyway, Doyle had no such evolutionary trait to assist him. No built in cautiousness. He just spooned the goop straight down his gullet as fast as he could.

  I snapped back to the moment when I realized he was looking at me, his eyebrows raised like he’d just asked a question, though I don’t think he had.

  I swirled my spoon in my soup and pretended to eat some. I had set aside some for myself, of course, sans strychnine. Watching his mouth had killed any shred of appetite I’d had, though.

  Doyle raised a fist to his mouth just then, his balled up hand blocking my view of those lips, a curious gesture that he held for a long, awkward moment.