Pray To Stay Dead (13 page)

“
Eddie had the doors locked, and he was standing behind the glass all horse-faced and stupid, hollering for everyone to get back. His brothers were in there with him, and each of them had shotguns. Hell, I think Ella had one, too. Cardo was in there with him, trying to keep the peace. Talk some sense into the idiot, or something.”

Crate walked back into the room with a joint hanging from his lip, nesting in the fibers of his beard.

“
Here,” he said, and handed another joint to Tasgal along with a pack of matches. “On the house. It ain’t shit, too.”

“
Thanks,” Tasgal said. He lit up and sucked in, eyes closed. “That’s nice. I don’t do this so much lately.” Crate left and the bell jingled. When Tasgal offered the joint to Misty, she shook her head and waited for him to go on.

“
Oh, yeah—sorry.” He shrugged. “Clark and I got separated, and when Eddie opened the doors, everyone rushed in, and then it was just me and Clark, looking at each other. I remember looking around, making sure there weren’t any of those things around, and that’s when the yelling started inside.

“
We went in, and Proust was standing there with Keith, um, I’m not sure what his last name is, the little red-headed guy.”

Misty nodded even though she didn’t know who he was talking about.

“
That Keith guy was screaming in his face, and everyone else was yelling, and that’s when I realized what was going on. Eddie had hiked prices.”

“
Oh, jeeze,” she said.

“
Yeah. Through the roof,” Tasgal said. He grabbed the rum and took a shot, followed it with water. “Ah.”

“
How’s your arm? Aspirin kicking in yet?”

“
I think so,” he said, and held the joint up to his face, crossing his eyes a bit to look at it. “The idiot was asking something like five bucks for a dozen eggs. Two dollars for a can of beans. Like he was in his right mind.” Tasgal shook his head, fell silent.

“
What happened?”

“
That Keith guy shot him is what happened. Just reached up with a little pea-shooter and popped him right in the face. He dropped, and then everyone with a gun started shooting. I saw Cardo on the other side of the crowd, falling back, and then they charged the exit. I did the only thing I could do. I ran like hell, out of the store and around back.

“
Things quieted down eventually, and then they came back and started cleaning the place out. There were a few gunshots inside, but I think they were just shooting the dead ones who were coming back, you know?

“
I got back to my car. Clark was sitting in the passenger seat, holding his leg and leaning against the door. He was bleeding real bad. I should have thought, but I didn’t, I just wanted to get the hell out of town. I drove this way for about ten minutes, I guess, passing up those things, passing up people who waved for me to stop and help them. They looked confused, like ‘Where the hell is the cop going?’ and I just kept going, talking to Clark, telling him that he was going to be okay. He’d grunt, and when he stopped grunting, I guess I just figured he’d passed out.”

He shook his head, laughed once. He looked at the bottle of rum as if were someone he didn’t trust.

“
Then he sat up and, well, there it is.” He indicated the blood-soaked bandage with his left hand, which shook. “I screamed and emptied my gun into his head.” Tasgal crinkled his nose. He looked like a little boy who’d just stepped on a caterpillar. “He’s still in the car.”

He placed the joint in the ashtray. He considered the forgotten remnant of his sandwich, picked it up, and took a bite.

“
You should probably lie down,” Charlie said from behind Misty. She looked back at him. He stood near the door leading into the back, the bottle of gin in his right hand.

“
Oh, hey, Charles,” Tasgal said.

“
Hey,” Charlie said, walking over to them. He placed a hand on Misty’s shoulder. “Misty has a First Aid kit in the bathroom. You want me to take a look at that?”

Misty looked up at Charlie, surprised. Sitting on his ass and running his mouth was Charlie’s speed. Actually offering to chip in and help? She thought maybe a call to the Vatican was in order, for surely she’d been on hand for a bona-fide miracle. Then again, Charlie was scared, and Eric was an authority figure, an honest to God police officer charged with serving and protecting. Charlie felt safer with him around.

“
No,” Tasgal said. “Not now, anyway. I have a kit, too, in the car. I pulled over and took care of it. Burns like a bastard. I don’t know why I didn’t pull him out of the car back there.”

“
We can take care of that,” Misty said. “Crate will be happy to light him up.”

“
No,” Tasgal said. “Just wait. Things might, you don’t know… things might be better tomorrow. His wife will want to bury him. His head is mostly gone.”

Misty felt Charlie looking at her. She kept her eyes on Tasgal. He looked up at her, and then to Charlie. “Yes,” Tasgal said. “I need to lie down.” He looked at Misty, heavy-lidded, face pale, eyes dark. “Would that be okay, Miss Misty?”

“
Of course,” Misty said. She didn’t think she sounded very enthusiastic.

“
Okay,” Tasgal said, standing up a little too quickly, tipping over his chair. “Sorry. I just, I’ve been awake for, shit, how long?”

“
A long time,” Misty said. She picked up the joint, careful not to touch the end that had been in his mouth. She mashed it into the ashtray.

“
A long time, yeah,” he said, looking down at his arm. “Let me take care of this first. Don’t wanna leak all over your sofa.”

Forgetting his gun at the table, he left, dragged himself along like a dead thing. The bell jingled. Misty walked over to the television and turned it on. Tasgal returned with his First Aid kit and disappeared into the bathroom. The news bounced from one disaster to another, and it wasn’t long before Misty realized that five minutes had gone by without a single mention of the walking dead. Riots, looting, open war in the Middle East, Soviet saber-rattling, and cities going up in flames. The dead may have triggered these events, but they sure as hell weren’t doing the looting or firing the guns or threatening to fill the sky with nukes.

“
Okay,” Tasgal said, holding up his arm. He’d replaced the bandages. “Good as new.”

Misty nodded toward Charlie.

“
Follow him,” she said. “Get some rest, Eric. We’re good for now. We’ll wake you if we need you.”

“
Thanks,” Tasgal said, and took a step toward Charlie. “Oh,” he said, and grabbed his gun from the table before disappearing into the back.

She watched the news for a few more minutes, turning the dial from channel to channel, hoping to hear more on what to do about bites. No luck. They then showed dimly lit footage of a severed human head trying to bite the hand of a man who, laughing, waved his fingers inches from its mouth. She sighed and turned the damned thing off.

“
Nothing we can do for him,” Crate said. The sun had gone down, and the street lamp painted the parking lot a sickly piss yellow. Bilbo Baggins sat on his haunches, watching the road. Misty could smell the blackened heap on the gravel, but it no longer bothered her. It could be the lingering aroma of a cookout—hot dogs and ribs and half-pound burgers. The charred bodies were far enough away from her to look like dirt or compost or something in the gloom.

“
No,” she said, and that wasn’t really true. Admitting to herself, much less to Crate, what she knew they should do was about as easy as admitting that the smell of the Willits going up in flames had actually made her mouth water a little. “Well, there is but it’s ugly.”

“
You think I should shoot him.” Crate said, leaning forward and scratching Bilbo Baggins on the back of his head. The dog looked back at them, exhaled. It sounded a lot like a sigh.

Misty looked at Crate. She wasn’t sure what to say, so she said nothing. Crate could take that however he wanted to.

“
I’m not going to do that,” he said. “Make too much of a mess in there.” He shrugged. “And I’m not really all that comfortable with shooting a sleeping police officer, particularly a nice boy like Eric.”

“
I know, Crate, and I feel the same way. What if we—” She stopped, tensing as the distant sound of an engine reached them. The sound swelled, headlights illuminated the road, and a truck passed, breaking before it left their view, backing up, and turning into the parking lot.

“
Hm,” Crate said, stood up, cocked his rifle.

“
I think it’s Huff,” Misty said, squinting into the headlights, which were promptly extinguished.

“
Oh,” Crate said, letting his aim go limp.

The truck stopped and Huffington Niebolt got out, all six foot six inches of him. Strong thick arms and skinny legs and a gut that stretched the fabric of his blood-stained sleeveless t-shirt. The yellow light gleamed on his bald head, and his beard hung in a single braid, rested on the bulge of his belly.

“
Hey, Huff,” Crate said.

“
Hello.” Huff looked tired and lost. He sniffed the air and shot a glance at the remains of the Willits family. “Everybody okay here?”

“
Not everybody,” Misty said. “But we are. Where’s Connor?” Three days ago, Huff’s youngest son had been with him when they stopped in for Cokes on the way south.

Huff shook his head. He looked down at the bloodstained fabric of his shirt for just a hair of a second and then resolutely looked elsewhere.

“
Oh, God,” Misty said, walking to him, wrapping her arms around him. “Oh, Huff.” He was stiff. He didn’t return her embrace. She pulled away and looked up into his pock-marked face.

“
How many have you seen in town?” he asked, and his breath stank of whisky.

“
Just those three,” Misty said, stepping back and indicating the blackened heap. “The Willitses.”

“
Huh,” Huff said. “Three?”

“
Not sure where Connie is.”

“
Any of my boys come through here?”

“
Samson was here earlier. He met up with some kids from Fresno. Took them up to your place.”

“
That’s good,” he said. “Safe. How’re you, Crate?”

“
Been better, been worse,” the old man said, shrugging. “I’m sorry about your boy.”

“
Me, too,” Huff said. “He didn’t really suffer, so I guess we should be grateful for the little things.”

“
We should,” Crate said. “It’s really bad out there?”

“
Worse than bad,” Huff said, knotting his brow. “It’s the end.”

“
You need anything, Huff?” Misty asked, attempting derail one of Huff’s end of the world spiels before it really got rolling. What was happening was worse than anything Huff could prattle on about; she didn’t care to hear him tack any of his insane ideas onto it. “Something to eat?”

“
Nah,” the big man said. “I got everything I need at home. I just saw you two sitting here and figured I’d check in.” He looked back at the road. “I can’t see why there would be many of them out this way, but if you feel safer, you’re both welcome up at our place, okay?”

“
Thanks, Huff,” Misty said. “I think we’re gonna stay here for now. Charlie is inside, drunk on his ass, and Eric Tasgal is asleep on the couch in the back.”

“
He’s bit,” Crate added.

“
Oh,” Huff said, drawing back his head. “That’s not good.”

“
No,” Misty said.

They exchanged a few more words, and then Huff left. Misty and Crate sat down. Bilbo Baggins farted and whined.

“
That bite,” Misty said.

“
We really don’t know anything about it.”

“
The television says the bites get infected.”

“
I haven’t watched a lot of TV since this started, but I watched a little, and here’s what I heard: someone talking about UFOs and aliens, someone else blaming it on Tricky Dick and voodoo at the same damn time, and Pat Robertson saying that Jesus was getting back at us for of Roe vs. Wade. You’ll understand if I don’t put a lot of stock in what I hear on that television in there, honey,” he said, scratching his beard. “Now, infection? Bites do that. I could bite you right now, and if you didn’t take care of it, it would get infected.”

“
We’re talking about a bite from a dead man.”

“
I know,” he said, knotting his brow. “I know. But we have to wait.”

“
For?”

“
Wait to see how he is in a few hours.”

“
Wait for him to die,” she said.

“
Yeah,” Crate said, eyes wide. “Maybe so, yeah.”

“
We could try to get him some antibiotics.”

“
In town? In Beistle?” He looked at her until he was sure she would not answer. “No, we can’t.”

No one said anything for a few minutes. The night air was cool. Not too cool but Misty shivered anyway. She drew close to Crate, resting her head on his bony shoulder and closing her eyes.

“
Hup,” Crate said, nudging her. She sat up and blinked at him.

“
I fell asleep?”

“
For a few minutes. Look.” He nodded toward the road. A dead body shuffled through the parking lot. Crate nudged Bilbo Baggins with his foot, but the dog was out cold.

“
Dumb dog,” Crate said, standing up and stepping from the deck and onto the gravel. He cocked his rifle.