Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (151 page)

“I’m not to sure of the welcome we’re going to get, so if things go bad don’t hesitate. Either shoot, or run,” Mike said.

“You really think they’re going to just give us food?”

“No, the family didn’t strike me as the type to give handouts, but we might be able to work out a bartering deal. I’m willing to bet I’ve got some things they don’t.”

Mike kept to the east on his way down to the highway. He wanted to avoid getting close to the town. After hearing the stories from Mary and Ulysses about the biker gang, he didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

Once they made it to the highway, the farm was only a few miles down the road. Mike could see it in the distance.

The farm was modest, roughly twenty acres or so from what he could tell, although he wasn’t sure how much land the family owned beyond the fences. They could have come through the back way, but Mike didn’t want to risk spooking them. The last time he saw them he
did
have their son at gunpoint.

“You have your safety off?” Mike asked.

“Always.”

Mike swung the gate open and the two of them headed down the dirt road toward the house, the cart kicking up dust behind them. The house was sixty yards away when Mike heard the click of a hammer behind him.

“Drop it,” Ken said.

Mike kept his hands in the air.

“Easy. We’re not here to cause trouble,” Mike said.

“You always keep your rifles on you when you’re not looking for trouble?” Ken asked.

“Put it down, Fay. It’s all right,” Mike said.

Fay placed her rifle on the ground. Mike could feel the barrel of the pistol pressing hard against the back of his skull.

“You have sixty seconds to explain what you’re doing here and if I don’t like the answer I’ll be staining my driveway red,” Ken said.

“Are you Mr. Murth?” Mike asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Mike. I came here yesterday with your son. Your wife let me borrow your cart to wheel a woman in our group who was injured up to my cabin.”

Mike felt the pressure of the barrel on his head ease. He turned slowly, keeping his hands in the air.

“You’re the guy who shot at Billy?” Ken asked.

Ken Murth looked as rough as he sounded. White and gray scruff covered his face. What little hair he had was messy and tussled. His lower lip puffed out, concealing the dip in his mouth. His face and hands were dark and worn from working outdoors.

“He opened fire first,” Mike answered.

Ken spit a brown wad onto the ground. The juices from the dip dribbled down his chin.

“I know,” Ken said.

It was a father’s order to his son to protect his family at all costs. There wasn’t any remorse in Ken’s eyes, and with the barrel of the gun still aimed at Mike he wasn’t sure how willing Ken was to broker a mutual agreement.

“I was hoping we could talk,” Mike said.

The brown and yellow of Ken’s teeth flashed in a crooked smile.

“Your boyfriend sure has some balls on him,” Ken said, giving Fay a look up and down. “All right. Let’s talk.”

Beth and Billy were walking from the barn to the house when Mike, Ken, and Fay reached the front porch.

Ken insisted on keeping the rifles if they wanted to chat. Mike complied, hoping the show of good faith would build him some trust.

The inside of the house was simple, clean, and neat. The living room was absent of any television, computer, or any electronic device that he could see. A wooden cross with a figure of Jesus crucified was fixed as the centerpiece above the dining room table.

The back door swing open as Mike and Fay sat on the couch in the living room.

“Ken? Who’s in there with you?” Beth asked.

“They’re from the party that Billy shot at,” Ken answered.

“They bring back our cart?”

Ken sent another wad of brown spit into an empty soup can. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and kept his eyes on Mike.

“Yeah,” Ken said.

Billy froze when he saw Mike, then when his eyes landed on Fay he blushed.

Beth set a basket of eggs on the counter and wiped her hands on the front of her apron as she walked into the living room.

“I’m sure you know what’s happened, or at least have an idea of what’s happened. The whole country’s gone down. There’s no power, no water, no transportation, nothing,” Mike said.

Ken laughed.

“Boy, you just described my childhood. What are you getting at?”

“Your son mentioned to me that you’re a hunter, been doing it a long time. I’m sure you know these woods better than anyone. I was hoping we could set up a trade.”

Ken’s head slowly turned to his son. Billy kept his head down. His fingers fumbled with the front of his shirt nervously.

“What else did you tell him?” Ken asked.

“I didn’t tell him anything else,” Billy said.

“I have medical supplies, clothes, ammunition. I was hoping we could work something out,” Mike said.

“What kind of ammunition?” Ken asked.

“Every kind.”

“I see,” Ken said, rubbing his chin. He walked over to Mike slowly. The wooden floors creaked under his boots.

“We can help you hunt,” Fay added. “It’s been a while, but my dad used to take me all the time. Deer, boar, turkeys, I’ve tracked them all.”

Mike tried to hide his surprise at the statement, but he turned his head a little too quickly. She never mentioned anything like that. When he showed Fay how to shoot the rifle at the airport he just thought she was a natural. Now he knew why.

“You provide the ammo for the hunts, along with an extra five boxes each of nine millimeter, two twenty-three, and forty-five shells each month,” Ken said.

Mike extended his hand.

“Done.”

Ken flashed another yellow-stained smile. He squeezed Mike’s hand and laughed.

“Well, okay then. I’ll take this month’s supply up front,” Ken said.

“What?” Fay asked.

“Hey, you came here looking for my help remember? Unless you think you’ll be able to find the game around here by yourself?” Ken asked.

All of those extra mouths handicapped Mike. It was like he was wearing a pair of cement shoes and then was asked to run a marathon. He didn’t have a choice but to give Ken what he wanted.

“It’s fine. We’ll bring the ammo back first thing in the morning,” Mike said.

“No, I’ll come and collect the ammo now,” Ken said. “Besides, it’ll be nice to know where you are in case we need to stop by for some… sugar.”

Ken looked at Fay when he said it. She took a step forward, but Mike stepped in between them.

“The cabin’s a few hours away. We better get going,” Mike said.

Ken brought Billy with him to help carry the gear back. On the way back Mike didn’t want to show him the entrance from the main road, so he just cut through the forest.

Mike and Ken were up front, while Fay and Billy walked behind them. There wasn’t much talk on the way up. Fay kept her eyes on Ken, while Billy kept his eyes on Fay.

“Your dad always like that?” Fay finally asked.

“Yeah, most of the time. It’s been worse over the past couple weeks. He pretends that what’s happened doesn’t affect us, but it does, especially since the town’s been taken over by those bikers.”

“I heard your grandfather was there when they came in. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“Were you guys close?”

“Not really. My dad and he never really saw eye to eye. They always butted heads. The only time I got to see him was when I went into town alone. I don’t know why my dad always hated him.”

“Well, you know what they say; you can’t choose your family.”

Fay noticed that Billy kept looking away when she would look at him. She smiled.

“So, you have a girlfriend, Bill?”

“Um, no, I… uh… well, not that I haven’t wanted one it’s just, I, um… you know helping out with the farm, and… hey, how much longer till we get to the cabin?”

***

Mike spent most of the walk trying to figure out who Ken was, but the man was a closed book. He wouldn’t budge on anything. He wouldn’t say how long he’d lived here, or who he knew in town, and when Mike brought up the fact that it’d be good to get to know each other a bit, Ken simply popped another piece of chew in his mouth and laughed.

So Mike focused most of his brain power on how much food they’d need to ration moving forward. Just because he’d set the agreement up with Ken didn’t mean they’d get food whenever they wanted. They still had to hunt for it.

The only game Mike had seen were a few birds. If they could get a deer they’d be able to cure it and it could last them a few weeks. If he could pull down a deer every other week they’d be in good shape.

“When’s the next time you’re heading out hunting?” Mike asked.

“Mornin’.”

“What time?”

“I’ll let you know when I get my ammo.”

“Look, Ken, if this is going to work we’re going to need a little trust. It’s not like I’m asking for your social security number.”

“You wanna know why the rest of the country’s gone to shit and I’m still alive? It’s because of that trust. Except my trust isn’t with other people it’s with me. I know how to stay alive. I know how to keep moving forward. It’s no skin off my back if no one else knows how to do that.”

There wasn’t any doubt in Mike’s mind that Ken was right about being able to survive, about not needing to depend on others to make it through, but Mike wondered if that’s what he would have to become. Would he have to push everything out of him except his own stubborn will to survive? And if he did, then what did that mean for his family?

“You’re pretty cynical for a man with all those crosses in your house,” Mike said.

“Ha! That’s all of the wife’s shit. She’s the one who dragged our boys to church every Sunday. The only thing I miss from before the power went out was having those Sunday mornings to myself while the rest of them were gone. What about you? Have you found solace in the fact that God will save us?”

The last sentence came out in a sarcastic plea. Mike listened to the stillness of the forest. It was midafternoon now, and there wasn’t even the rustle of leaves, just the sound of their boots crunching on the forest floor and the periodic spit of the man next to him.

“No. Whatever saving happens comes from us.”

The bags under Jake’s eyes told the story of his night. It told the story for most of his nights over the past few weeks. The cold concrete of the fountain he leaned against was uncomfortable, but he was too numb to move. The sky was gray, struggling to turn blue with the morning’s rising sun.

Jake took another swig of the nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels and finally succumbed to the heaviness of his eyelids.

Find the bitches. Make them suffer. Kill them. Burn them.

He opened his eyes and saw the charred corpses on the ground and the woman tied to the pole. She was the mother of the three girls he believed killed one of his brothers. He ran his hand over the president’s patch on his cut, feeling the outline of the raised letters against the leather.

That patch was his life. The club was his life. Everything he did was for the prosperity of his brothers, the advancement of the club… the amelioration of his own survival.

He walked back to his room at the motel. He passed the open doors of his brothers asleep in their beds, snoring, slumbering from restless dreams.

When he made it to his room, he felt his body collapse onto the dirty sheets of his bed. They were stained with sweat and dirt from the past week. The room was starting to smell. He was starting to smell. The whole goddamn town reeked of death. It was a death that he brought, a death that he would always bring.

Jake tore the sheets off the bed, balled them up, and threw them in the trash. He picked up the pieces of garbage, collecting the empty wrappers and half-eaten sandwiches from the floor. As he bent over, he felt dizzy and collapsed.

The room was spinning. He looked at the whiskey still clutched in his hand. The brown liquid sloshed back and forth. He smiled, laughed.

Jake steadied himself, rose, then began chugging the rest of the bottle in defiance. He wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of him finishing the things he wanted, no matter what the cost.

The last few drops were drained from the bottle and he threw it against the wall violently. The bottle burst into jagged shards that rained to the carpet.

Jake fell onto the nightstand behind him. The lamp crashed to the bed and the blank clock slid into the space between the wall and the stand.

The edges of the smashed glass were sharp when he picked them up. The pieces dug into his skin, drawing blood as he pinched them between his fingers.

When the bottle was whole, the glass was harmless. He could run his fingers along the edges without hurting himself. The bottle only became a weapon when he made it one. The bottle only became dangerous because of him.

Jake liked that. He liked the violence in him. That violence propelled him to lead the storied Diablo Motorcycle Club. Everyone knew who he was back in Cleveland. Everyone feared him there, just as he had made everyone fear him here in Carrollton.

That fear gave him strength. It gave him purpose.