CHAPTER TWENTY.

G, BT and D The group had to stop one more time for gas. BT picked a gas station right before they had turned on to the Ma.s.sachusetts turnpike. The station was of the old traditional variety; no Slush Puppies, no hot dogs, candy bars, or rows upon rows of gourmet coffee dispensers. There were no aspirins, feminine hygiene products, or even newspapers. There was a counter where a person stood to take your cash or run your card through an old handheld device to imprint an image of your card. Checks were not welcome, neither was American Express; and if you wanted the proprietor's gun, you would have to pry it from his cold dead hands-at least according to the b.u.mper sticker adhered to the side of the counter.

The station looked like it had last seen upgrades at around the time of the Nixon administration and that was just fine with him, it would draw less attention that way. The truck rolled up, Gary morosely hopped down from the back. BT figured that the closer they got to Maine, the worse his friend was going to become. Mrs. Deneaux stayed in the cab; she at least kept a watch out for anything directly in front of her.

"Getting some gas," BT said as he got into the back and grabbed his hose and pump.

"This'll be the last fill up before we get back home," Gary said more as a statement of fact. "My father is going to blame me for this."

BT stopped what he was doing for a moment, not liking the added time to their stop but it was necessary. "Gary, listen to me, no one is going to blame you for this."

"Not even Tracy?" Gary asked with red-rimmed eyes.

"Especially Tracy. Everyone including Mike knew the risks. Every time we open a door there is the chance we will dance with death. I miss your brother more than you can know, and I don't blame you for what happened. You did all that you could...we all did. We go forward, Gary, we make those responsible pay."

"When does it stop?"

"When we're in a box, until then..." BT left the comment hanging. He opened the hatch to the tank and began to fill the tanks.

Gary made a few circuits around the station. When he was confident there was nothing to be overly concerned about except for a skunk that was going through some trash he stopped.

"Want a cigarette?" Mrs. Deneaux asked Gary.

BT had watched her get down out of the truck and go behind the station to do whatever is was that reptiles do. A few moments later she had come back to where Gary was sitting.

"Do you mind?" BT asked.

"Quit your b.i.t.c.hing. It's diesel and not as flammable as gas," she said as she stuck the cigarette she had offered into her mouth and lit it up.

Within a few minutes they were ready to go; Deneaux up in the cab with BT and Gary sitting on the bench in back. He was leaning up against the canvas, his gaze peering through the hole up top that the zombie had fallen through. The truck got off to a slow start, then jerked to a stop.

"Sorry!" BT yelled in the cab loud enough for Gary to hear. "Skunk walked in front of the truck!"

"Run the creature over next time. You made me crush a cigarette on the dashboard," Deneaux seethed.

As the truck pa.s.sed, Gary watched the skunk waddle off. It seemed to be doing fairly well given the circ.u.mstances. Gary wondered if a skunk crossing one's path meant anything. When he was certain it didn't, he returned his gaze skyward. As they crossed into New Hampshire, Gary's feelings of trepidation grew tangible. He could taste it on his tongue, he could feel the weight of it on his chest, and he did not know how he was going to face those he loved the most.

After another half hour or so, the truck came to a stop.

"What's up?" Gary asked.

"Bladder break!" BT yelled back.

Gary got back down, riding in the back of the seemingly shock-less truck on a pine bench was not doing his spleen any favors and he welcomed the chance to stretch and pop. They had just crossed the Maine state line and Gary felt like his knees might buckle under the added weight of guilt.

Mrs. Deneaux was staring at the sign and the surrounding forest of trees when she commented on the state's motto. "Maine, the way life should be. For who? Chipmunks? I certainly wouldn't want my life to be like this. Looks like the land that time forgot."

"That's the point," Gary said morosely.

"Like the dark ages?" she asked.

"More like the fifties," he told her.

"The fifties weren't all they were cracked up to be. People were still a.s.sholes...there was just not twenty-four hour news that catered to the insanity like we have today."

"It's more the idea of the time, I suppose," BT said, defending Gary who looked like a whipped dog.

"One thing that was more in the open than today was racism. I wouldn't think you'd be in such a hurry to revisit those times," she said to BT offhandedly.

"You must miss that?" BT asked sarcastically.

"At least there wasn't all this phony politically correct bulls.h.i.t. You knew where people stood."

"Yeah, in a circle with hoods on watching crosses burn," he said heatedly.

She scoffed at him, "Are we done here or do you need to tinkle some more?"

At some point, Gary just left the argument and got back on the bench. The truck pulled away moments later, Gary struggled for breaths as dismay and disquiet warred within him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Tracy Journal Entry The day my world crashed in on itself. It was late afternoon and I had finished most of my daily duties. Who knew surviving could be so labor intensive? I was sitting on Ron's deck with Tony and we were enjoying a cup of coffee together. It was the only time of the day I felt at peace, because when the night set in so did my fears. I was looking out over the pond enjoying the silence with Mike's dad when he abruptly stood.

"You hear that?" he asked me.

I thought this strange because he was notoriously hard of hearing, so I did not know the odds of him hearing something before me. (Although I had secretly suspected that his hardness of hearing might more be contributed to selective listening.) Then I heard it, a moment later it was confirmed.

"Truck coming!" Mark, Ron's son, said from his guard station in a turret some thirty feet off the ground. "Military truck," he clarified.

Whoever hadn't heard the truck outright had most definitely heard his warning cry. People streamed out the front door of the house as Tony and I went back in through the back door and out the front to stand on the lawn with everyone else.

"Halt!" Mark shouted as he pointed his rifle down at the truck.

Ron came out from the woods on the pa.s.senger side. Tony had his rifle up and pointed squarely at the truck. I did not see Travis and Justin until later. They were in the woods far enough back to not be seen, but close enough and with good enough firing angles to take out anybody on the driver's side.

The large military truck came to a stop.

"Hands!" Mark shouted. "Identify yourself!"

I could see arms the size of heavy tree limbs poke out the side window. My heart leapt. It was BT-it had to be-they were back! And as if to prove my point, the pa.s.senger side door opened and Mrs. Deneaux got out. She was her normal pleasant self.

"Oh for the love of G.o.d, who else do you think we are? Who else would come down to the middle of d.a.m.n nowhere?" she said as she lit up another cigarette.

"BT?" That you?" Travis said as he made his way out of the woods, putting his rifle back up.

"Good to see you again, boy," BT said with genuine sincerity as he opened his door and hopped down, extending his hand for Travis to shake it.

"Where's dad?" Travis asked, looking around the bulk of the man as if Mike were hiding.

Even from thirty yards away I could see the tight-lipped, imperceptible shake of BT's head. I felt like someone had pulled a heavy weighted veil over my entire body, the pressure nearly sending me to my knees. I was cognizant enough to see Gary come from the back of the truck and thought that surely Mike was right behind him.

Gary's head was down. He walked past Ron and Justin, who had converged to give their greetings. He was walking towards me and Tony; I felt myself wanting to turn and run into the house. If he could not catch me, he could not tell me. Tony stood stoically, but I could see his white knuckled grip on his rifle. Instead of slinging it across his shoulder, he kept it across his chest. Maybe that was his barrier against the encroaching news.

Gary was ten feet from the both of us when he spoke. Tears were streaming from his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he said. It was difficult to discern who the apology was directed to, but it didn't really matter.

"No," Tony said, shaking his head. "NO! I cannot lose another child!" he yelled, the force of which stopped Gary in his tracks still some five feet away.

"I did everything I could, dad," Gary moaned.

"NO!" Tony said, taking one hand off the rifle to point an accusatory finger at his son.

Tony did what I had hoped to do and retreated back into the house. I stepped forward and hugged Gary. He sobbed long and hard against my shoulder, it was difficult to figure out who was holding who up.

And even enveloped within my mourning, I was able to hear the rest of the miserable little drama as it unfolded. Erin (Paul's wife) and Perla had been out on the pond fishing when the truck had rolled in. Cindy (Brian's fiancee) had gone down to tell them someone was coming. The trio came up from the side of the house. Erin saw me with Gary. She took a few steps forward and saw BT and Travis, and then Deneaux by herself. "Paul?" she asked of anyone that would listen.

Gary sobbed even harder if that were possible. That was all the information I needed in regards to Paul's fate.

"Paul!" Erin screamed, running towards the truck. She did a complete circle around the entire vehicle. "Paul!" she screamed again.

"Really, don't you think he would have responded by now if he were here?" Deneaux answered.

"What...what are you talking about?" Erin asked. "When are the rest of them coming home?"

"This is it, sweetie," Deneaux said without any soothing effect.

Cindy had waited behind. Her hands had been to her mouth as she waited for Erin to do her route around the truck. When she realized no one else was getting out, she turned and headed back the way she came. Perla was right behind her.

BT was now coming my way. Travis seemed to stagger off, lost in his own grief. Ron had a set to his jaw that would have cracked diamonds and Justin seemed to be somewhere in the middle of emotions-from stalwart to stricken.

His arms opened up and he swallowed me and Gary up. His sobs were added to our own. Erin was screaming incoherently. I did not know it then, but she had gone insane at that moment. Something inside of her mind snapped. Two nights later she would walk out of the house to never be heard from again. I hoped that whatever end she found was a quick and peaceful one.

It was a few hours later and everyone except for Deneaux and Erin were in the living room. BT related the majority of the events as they had unfolded. It sounded as if we were receiving the heavily edited version. That was fine with me, I didn't need the details. As it was, it felt like I was walking through the world through a fog; the only thing that kept me grounded was Henry. The dog seemed completely unaffected by all the emotions that were in that room. He knew something that none of us did, and since he was the only one that offered hope. I decided to throw my lot in with his.

Gary would not pick his gaze up off the floor. He wouldn't look Tony or me in the eyes. I don't believe Tony blamed him, and I certainly didn't, but Gary blamed himself and that was a bigger burden then he was prepared to carry. It was difficult to see someone who was always so upbeat and positive that far down in the abyss.

Nicole had slept through the group's initial homecoming, but she was inconsolable as she sat there, her head was in my lap. I was absently stroking her hair as I tried to listen. It was almost impossible, though, as I felt as if I were underwater. I had to believe Talbot was still alive.

What was the alternative?

And the d.a.m.n dog, he knew something...and he wasn't telling.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Mike Journal Entry 8 "Hand-cut jean shorts and a white tank top," I said as I picked up the clothes that Mirabelle had found for me. I shook my head. I'd had as much luck with clothes lately as I had with cars-which pretty much meant none at all. The only thing I could say positively about the shorts was that they fit well around my waist. Whoever had cut them looked like they had severe palsy. The hem went up and down like a cross-eyed orangutan had gone at them. Add to that the fact that they they were way too short. Someone was apparently very fond of showing off their inner thighs; the white material of the pockets hung a few inches below the frayed line of the shorts.

The shirt was a couple of sizes too small. It was something that, a few months ago, I would not have been comfortable wearing as it would have showed all my years of soft living. Now it displayed the hard starkness of definition. At this very moment, I longed for my poncho.

"You look good," Mirabelle said as I came down the hallway. "Want some breakfast?" she asked.

I was self-conscious about my new digs, but in Mirabelle's world I fit right in. "Sure what do you have?" I was hoping for a three-egg cheese omelet, with a side of bacon or maple breakfast sausage, maybe an English m.u.f.fin or some toast slathered in b.u.t.ter, a pile of hash browns and a pancake or two would be divine and a giant gla.s.s of orange juice to wash it all down with.

"Ring Dings and Kool-Aid." She smiled back.

My heart and stomach sank at the prospect of eating the syrupy sweet snack. "What flavor Kool-Aid?"

"Cherry."

"Of course," I responded dourly. I'd had an aversion to cherry flavored anything since around the age of six when I realized that every nasty tasting medicinal concoction back in my youth was cherry flavored. Cherry flavored cough drops, cough syrup, and nasal decongestant, maybe even the suppositories were cherry flavored. I don't know. Even pa.s.sing by fresh cherries in the produce section of a supermarket was cause for my gag reflex to start the process of producing excessive jets of saliva while my stomach began to perform its Olympic gymnastics routine.

I grabbed the Ring Ding from her hand but left the Kool-Aid alone. I went to sit at the small kitchen table. Luke and John had pa.s.sed out on the couch. They were sleeping nearly sitting up, their heads were touching keeping them propped there.

"Cute," I said pointing to them, melted chocolate now on the tips of my fingers.

"They stayed up all night." Mirabelle said as she cleaned up after 'preparing' breakfast.

"John," I said. No response, although I really wasn't expecting any. This time I got up and put my hand on his shoulder. I gave him a gentle shake as I spoke his name.

"I smell Ring Dings!" Luke said excitedly. "Mirabelle when'd you pull off that small miracle?" he asked as he got up quickly from the couch. John fell all the way over. "Man my head hurts," Luke said, rubbing the connecting spot where he had spent the night as a temporary Siamese twin.

"I saved them for a special occasion," Mirabelle smiled.

"And Kool-Aid? Is it our anniversary?" Luke asked earnestly.

"No it's for our guests."

He seemed relieved that he had not forgotten something he shouldn't have and extremely excited that he was the beneficiary of the bounty.

"Ring Dings are his favorite," Mirabelle said over Luke's plastic crinkling noise to get to the snack.

"I got that," I told her. "John." I shook his shoulder with a little more vigor. I wanted to put as many miles as possible under our belt today and maybe find some antacids. The Ring Ding was already wreaking havoc on a system that hadn't seen much in the way of 'real' food in a bit.

"Steph, I left the toaster in the pool," John said as I shook him again.

"I hope it wasn't plugged in," Luke snorted.