In the Lone and Level Sands (37 page)

“Shut up!” one of the gunman said.

“Do you want a bullet in your fucking head?”
the lead gunman said, pointing his gun at the woman. She flinched,
and remained silent after that. The lead gunman continued with his
terms.

“I don’t want to see anyone getting out of
their cots for any fucking reason.”

A Hispanic man said, “What about food, or
water? My daughter—”

The lead gunman motioned to one of his
comrades. The gunman in question quickly stepped down from the
table and pointed his gun at the man, stopping just a few feet
away.

“Shut your motherfucking mouth, you stupid
prick! We ask the questions. Comprende, señor?”

The man dropped to his knees in tears.

“Please, don’t shoot me. I’m all Gabrielle
has!” The man put his arms up in defense. His little girl stood
next to him, tears rushing down her little cheeks. She pressed her
face into the man’s side.

“Keep quiet then, and we’ll have no
problems!” the gunman said, backing up. He returned to the
table.

“Now, all of you assholes get yourselves
back to your fucking cots before I start using you all for target
practice!” the lead gunman said. The crowd shuddered, and people
headed back to their cots. “I don’t give a shit if you’re hungry,
or if you have to take a piss. I don’t even care if your babies are
withering away in your arms! Nobody moves a muscle until I fucking
say so!”

After finishing his speech, the lead gunman
pointed his assault rifle down at the first officer in the line,
and pulled the trigger. He moved his arm like a sprinkler head,
showering dozens of bullets over each of the officers. The
remaining masses watched in horror as each police officer was
murdered, one by one. The officers that hadn’t been shot yet moaned
in distress. Some cried. Soon, their deaths came, and it was all
over.

Martha made it back to her cot, surrounded
by her family and friends. She was shaking as she drew the
photograph from underneath her cot. She wondered if she would
suffer a similar fate as the officers, though after some thought,
she realized it probably wouldn’t hurt at all to be shot in the
head. Rather, it could have been relieving for her. She envisioned
her and Charlie reuniting in a better place, a place the terrible
creatures could not reach with their bloody, grabbing fingers and
their gnashing teeth.

After staring at the photograph for a while,
Martha discreetly scanned the stadium turf. Everyone was silent,
except for the gunmen. They made their way around the stadium,
making sure there was no one they had to kill for acting out. They
slinked around sets of cots, like snakes.

Martha peered over at one fearfully, and
then lay down, trying to relax her stiff muscles. She was
exhausted. She decided she’d try to get some sleep.

****

Martha’s eyes cracked open. She lay face-up
on her cot, the way she’d fallen asleep, and she felt dizzy. She
sat up, almost blinded by the light. It felt like her head was in a
vice. Her face was wet with tears and sweat, and her eyes burned.
She rubbed them, which helped a little. Martha looked at her watch.
It was past one o’clock, and she was hungry.

“Grandma, you doing okay?” Francine asked.
She brushed a lock of hair out of her face.

“Oh, dear,” Martha said, using her bedding
to wipe her face. “Just a bad dream.”

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” Francine said. “Do you
maybe want to talk about it?”

“It’s fine, Frankie. I think this is one
battle I’ll have to fight all by my lonesome.”

“I won’t pry, but you know, Grandma, it’s
not healthy to bottle up your feelings. They do have a way of
getting shaken up, and when they do, it can’t be pretty.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I suppose it is best to
talk about it.”

“It’ll make you feel better,” Francine said
with a smile.

“All right,” Martha said. “I dreamt of
Charlie.”

“Grandma—”

Martha raised a hand to cut Francine short.
“Frankie, it’s fine.”

“You know, we all miss him, but he wouldn’t
want you to go on like this.”

“You’re always thinking of me. That’s why
you’re my favorite granddaughter.”

Francine chuckled. “I’m your only
granddaughter.”

“That just makes you even more special,”
Martha said.

They spoke for a little under an hour,
keeping quiet when the gunmen came near. It was 2:34 when Martha
leaned back with her picture frame. She thought about the times she
and Charlie had shared. She remembered their honeymoon; they’d
spent a good deal of it in bed in Charlie’s hometown, a small place
in Colorado called Belford. It was a romantic time, very intimate
because the town was so small. Martha smiled at the memories.

The images of their honeymoon were quickly
replaced with the cold reality that Martha now faced. She heard the
incessant moans coming from the masses outside the stadium. She
didn’t know how long she’d lain there with the old picture.

“Mom?”

It was Emily this time, and she looked at
Martha with sad eyes. Emily got up and sat with Martha. Martha
cried into Emily’s shoulder for a while. She hadn’t cried so much
since before Charlie’s funeral.

****

Sometime after five o’clock, Martha woke
from a power nap. She sat up and looked around. All of the cots
were occupied, by order of the new “higher ups” of the stadium.
None of the refugees were allowed to wander very far from their own
cots. In addition, the new order of Lynnwood Stadium was not
allowing its subjects the privilege of eating. Almost everyone
remained silent, at the risk of confrontation. There was some going
on from children, and the occasional banter of the gunmen, but that
was the extent of the sound within the stadium.

Outside, more and more bloody hands clawed
and scratched on the exterior walls. It was maddening to some of
the survivors, especially those closest to the entrances.

Alan lay on his cot, his arms draped over
the sides. His right hand brushed against his bag. On top of that
was his notebook. It was closed, with the pen stuck in the coiled
binding. He stirred a bit, then jerked out of a nap.

“You okay?” Billy said.

“Fine, I think.” Alan stretched, in a
sitting position, and was attacked by a huge yawn. “Sleep is hard,
here.”

“Sleep’s hard everywhere,” Phil said.

“It sure makes me wonder how far this goes,”
Angela said.

“Who knows?” Francine replied.

“Someone out there does, I bet you,” Billy
said.

“How do you mean?” Phil asked.

“Well, this shit didn’t just fall out of
someone’s ass. Someone did this to us. That’s all I really need to
say. Just wish I knew who.”

“God,” Alan said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Billy said,
glaring at Alan.

“I’m not fucking kidding you, Billy.”

“Someone needs to get their mind out of the
Old Testament and back to Earth,” Phil said. “I don’t believe in a
God that would do something like this. It’s utter bullshit.”

Alan shrugged. “That’s good for you then, I
suppose. “Or maybe not. You’re trapped in here like everyone else.
Just because you don’t believe in bad things, doesn’t mean you’re
protected from them.”

“God is a merciful being who loves His
children. He would never—” Phil stopped, and sighed. His eyes
became wet.

Alan’s face hardened. “Do you know what I
was doing before I met all of you?”

“No,” Phil said. “What?”

“I was killing my mother,” Alan said. “She
went crazy after somebody broke into her house. I didn’t make it
there in time. She was going to kill me, so I had to kill her to
survive. What kind of loving God does that to a man?”

No one answered for a few minutes. Finally,
Phil did. “I’m sorry that happened, but God has a plan for
everyone.”

“And God’s plan for my mother was this?
Bullshit!”

“Alan, bad things happen to good people,”
Angela said.

“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t repent properly
for past sins. That’s why He punished me. What a blood-thirsty
beast God is. You lie a few times and covet your neighbor’s
lawnmower, and you lose your mother. That sounds fair.”

“Life isn’t always fair,” Phil said.

“That’s a cold thing to say,” Angela said,
shooting Phil a dirty look.

“What do you want me to say? Life
isn’t
fair!”

“You could show some compassion. Whether God
had any part in in it or not, Alan had to kill his own mother.” She
looked from Phil to Alan. “I couldn’t begin to imagine how hard
that was for you. I am so sorry.”

“Thanks, Angela, but you don’t need to
apologize,” Alan said. Angela glared at Phil and he gave her a
hurt, confused expression.

“Honestly, I think God’s abandoned us
anyway,” Angela said. “We’re on our own now. And honestly, if I
were God, I’d have given up on us, too.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Phil said.

“Is there a fucking problem over here?” said
a voice said from behind Martha and the others. Most of them turned
around to see one of the gunmen.

“N-no,” Emily said. “There isn’t.” She
shrank away from him as much as she could, trying not to make eye
contact.

“Really?” he said. Emily cringed, and looked
at Martha. Her hands rested on the edge of the cot, gripping it
tightly as if bracing herself for a careless turn in a car with a
drunk driver. Her head was down. Alan eyed his notebook. “I’m very
sure that I heard you idiots yelling over which motherfucking God
you believe in. You know what I think?”

“Well—” Alan said.

“It was fucking rhetorical, asshole. I think
that there isn’t any God any of us can pray to. We’re all alone on
this pathetic little rock. We may meet people along the way, but
they’ll just be taken away from us. The quicker you fuckers get to
comprehending these facts, the better off you’ll fucking be!” He
sized up the group and noticed Jesse playing his PSP. The gunman
lurched forward, took it, and held it up.

Without realizing who had snatched his game,
Jesse shouted.

“Hey! What gives?” He looked up at the
gunman. His face moved quickly from anger to fear, and he leaned
back in submission.

“I think I’ll be taking this off your hands.
Next time I talk, you fucking listen.” He turned to leave.

“Fucking bastard,” Jesse mumbled. The
gunman’s head snapped back toward Jesse, the animosity in his eyes
singed his thick lashes.

“The fuck did you just say, you little
punk?”

Phil leaned forward and put his arm in front
of Jesse. “Nothing. He said nothing.”

“Young man, we’ve done nothing to you,”
Martha said. “Just leave us be, please.”

The gunman stared at Martha for a few
seconds, then sighed. “You win, Granny. Just let the kid know who’s
got the fucking gun, okay?”

Martha looked over at Jesse, who met her
gaze momentarily, and then turned away.

The gunman looked the group over one more
time and smirked. “You all have yourselves a wonderful day now!
Glad we can have you here at Lynnwood Stadium.” He laughed to
himself as he walked away into the mass of people and cots.

What the hell do I win here?
Martha
thought.
What is there to gain? I’m going to die here. Not that
that would be such a horrible thing, I guess.
Martha sighed and
picked up the picture frame again.
Oh Charlie, I miss you. I
need you here. I know things were hard, but I loved you anyway, and
I love you more than ever, now. I’m being eaten up inside. No
different than what those creatures would do to me.

Phil looked at his son, who was sitting by
himself on his cot. “That guy was way out of line,” he said.

“I’ll be okay,” Jesse replied.

“Are you sure? Do you want to talk? I know
you’re scared, bud. You really don’t need to—”

“Dad, I’m fine. Really!” Jesse sighed
heavily and looked at the ground.

“Fine then.” Phil turned to Angela. “Are you
doing all right, honey?”

“Huh? Yeah,” she said. “I’m all right. Just
waiting for the moment when I wake up and realize this was all just
a bad dream. Otherwise, I’m just hotsy-totsy.” She flashed a
thumbs-up and an exaggerated grin.

“A simple yes or no would have sufficed, you
know,” Phil said.

“I think we’re all pretty scared here,”
Billy said. “But I think we’d all be a hell of a lot less scared if
we had the weapons we came into this hell with.” Emily looked at
him.

“Honey, please.” Billy met her gaze. “Will
you just forget about the damn guns?”

“No, I won’t, Emily. If they hadn’t taken my
gun, or Alan’s, we could have killed a couple of these
fuckers.”

“And then the others would have killed you
for it,” Emily said. “Is that what you want? Would that be worth
it?”

Billy sighed.

Martha noticed Alan was scribbling away in
his notebook. Since they had arrived at the stadium, she thought,
he’d most likely written at least twenty pages. If he was even
writing words; he could have been doodling.

“Alan?” Martha said. The pen halted, and he
looked up with a smile on his face.

“Yes?” He closed the notebook and set it
down with the pen lying on the cover. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I’m doing just fine, dear. I was just
curious to see if you were all right.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m doing great,
Mo-Martha.”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” she said. Alan
went back to his notebook.

“Yes.
Very
wonderful,” Alan said to
himself. His pen glided over the crisp pages; the script was
sporadic, but the soft lines flowed like liquid. He filled up a
page in about ten minutes, then looked over at Martha. She was
staring at her picture again.

Alan’s gaze fell back over his paper. He
looked at what he had written for a moment, and then turned the
page. A fresh, blank one awaited him.