The Last Mayor Box Set Page 19

  He thumbs the copies lying topmost on the crate. "Jesus, they're all the same. 'Zombies of America'? What are you doing with these?" He picks one up and leafs through. "New York," he murmurs, "the road West. Damn, is this you Ammo? Did you, somehow, make these?"

  He holds the comic out by the cover, causing its own weight to pull at the binding.

  "Yeah," I say. "I printed them out."

  He looks at me. "Why? Just for your own pleasure?" He twirls his finger around next to his head. "Gone a bit crazy? That's fine, I understand. I've gone plenty crazy myself. It can be hard, you know, to keep a handle on things."

  "I know."

  He eyes me hard. "Do you know? From the look of this, and the lack of guns, it seems like you've had it pretty easy."

  "I've had plenty."

  He puts the comic down. "So where are the guns then? The ammo? I don't see anything. You promised me an M320."

  "I guess I threw them mostly away, after I realized the ocean weren't dangerous. Let me see." I back up to the end of the bus and rummage in the storage boxes there. I come up with a handgun. I turn back and find he's followed me halfway up the bus, closing in tighter.

  "I've got this."

  He nods, licks his lip. "Let me see that."

  I look at him. "Why?"

  "Just let me have a look. Is it a police gun? Man I love those. Smooth recoil."

  He advances a step closer.

  "Hang on a second Don," I tell him. "Hold up. You're crowding me."

  He stops and raises his hands. "Sorry. I don't mean it, I'm just, you know, so excited? Let's relax, you're right." He doesn't take a step back. "Where did you say your family live, down near Muscle Beach? A lot of apartments that way, are there?"

  I massage the gun's handle into my palm.

  "I've never been, to be honest."

  He nods. He looks around the battle-tank interior. "Yeah, OK. It's kind of drab in here, you know? I'd cheer it up a bit, some color or something. You're an artist, why don't you paint it?"

  "Let's drink a whiskey," I say. "Why don't you pour us a whiskey? There's glasses at the front. We can celebrate."

  He grins. "You know, now I have a taste for tea? You put the idea there, and now it's stuck. Can you make me some tea, Ammo?"

  It's wonderfully awkward. It would make a great moment in a movie, because I just can't read him. Am I truly penned in, about to hand over my only gun to some psycho, or is this just friendly chitchat? Social nicety or bait on a trap? My finger slips silently through the trigger guard.

  "What's with the cheerleaders, Don?" I ask. "You have them on leashes. What are they for?"

  He frowns at me. The moment ticks over. "Those drifters? I told you, company. It's lonely out here."

  "But you dressed them. You must've stripped off whatever rags they were in, and you dressed them like that."

  He shrugs, then grins. "So what if I did? What's that between you and me, a little titillation? A little company. You know they come to us in the night, what do you think they're looking for?"

  I edge up against the hard plastic crates lying along the back seat.

  "What have you been doing with them, Don?"

  He laughs. "Seriously? Don't look so offended, Jesus. Do you really need me to explain this? And you're telling me you haven't? It's OK, buddy. We all get lonely, we've all got natural drives, there's nothing wrong with that. They come to us and we give them what they want, and who doesn't feel used when they leave the next morning? Like a one night stand." He winks. "So I keep them around, my favorites anyway. It's no big thing."

  I stare at him as the wave of understanding crests. It repulses me.

  "You've been having sex with them?"

  He laughs. "Well, sex is a bit strong. It's more a kind of whacking off, you know, since they don't really get involved. But we don't need to talk about that, if it freaks you out."

  I can't not talk about it. "It's rape."

  He laughs. "What? How could it be rape? They don't even think."

  "They're in comas," I say. "You were in a coma too, right?"

  He frowns. "A coma? Sure, like a year ago, but what's that got to do with this? And how did you know?"

  "I was in one too." I gesture around me with my free hand. "That's what this is. You had terrible migraines afterward, but then it went away when the floaters came, am I right? You said you were in hospital, it was probably for the migraines, yes? Now these 'drifters', the ones you have roped up outside and dressed like damn Barbie dolls, are people in comas. It is rape."

  He frowns. "I don't think so. It can't be. They just lie there."

  "And you've been killing them too," I say. I can't stop myself now, though I feel that I should. "When does that happen, if they disappoint you in the sack? I saw the blood on your blade."

  He shrugs. "I put them out of their misery, sometimes, so what? Don't tell me you haven't killed any."

  "I've killed thousands! But that was before I knew what they were. You knew, but still you did this?"

  His expression hardens slightly. His footing sets. I realize we're only a few steps apart.

  "Stop being so damn sanctimonious," he says. "You don't know shit about them, 'Ammo'. You don't even know where they go, do you? You haven't got a clue, your precious 'people' in 'comas'. You want to know where they're headed? They walk into the goddamn ocean! They walk right in if you let them, after they've had their fill, after they've used you. How is that fair, I ask you? Poof, they're gone, and you're alone again. It's not rape or imprisonment, it's saving them! So I take a little pleasure in their company, where's the harm in that? I'm saving their lives, and they don't complain. You don't get to dictate to me."

  My eyes blur with excitement and my body hums into a fight or flight tension. I try to calm myself but I can't. I imagine Blucy in his hands, straining to get away while he heaves his bulk onto her back. I imagine Lara, alive or dead, with him mounting her and leashing her and dressing her up in cheerleader clothes.

  "They're dead," I say. My legs are shaking. "And you dressed them up. Those two girls, you put them in those uniforms. They didn't volunteer for that."

  "So what? They're mine now, don't the leashes say as much? They may as well be goddamn cows I'm leading around. And it's not even as if the sex is very good, Ammo, you know? They're dry, man. It sucks."

  "So stop doing it. Go cut them free. That's it. If you can't do that, get the hell off this bus."

  He stares at me. "You're serious."

  I nod.

  "The last two survivors in all America, and you care about this? I'm not going to try and make you have sex with them. It's not a big deal."

  "So cut them free."

  He stares at me. I can tell he's making calculations. He's bigger than me by far. He only needs to cover a few steps and he'll be on me, then I'll be screwed. Seconds pass, and he decides. His expression twists into a snarl.

  "Bleeding heart," he says, with disgust in his voice. "I knew it when I saw you. An artist. A sensitive soul. You're really saying you'll choose them over me?"

  He takes a step closer. There's only a few rows of chairs between us now. I raise the gun and point it square at his chest.

  "I'm sorry. Get off the bus, Don."

  He laughs. "What are you doing, Ammo? Ammo from New York, headed for Muscle Beach, where there ain't shit but sand and shopping? We're just two guys having a conversation. You owe me some fucking tea."

  "Get off the bus now."

  He shakes his head. "No. I don't think so, we've come too far now. Tell me this, Mr. Judgment who's never seen another living soul, who's Lara?"

  Hearing her name come from his lips shocks me. He must have read it in the comic. He uses the moment to take another step closer. Dammit, we're almost within reaching distance. One lunge, and…

  "You've lied plenty, sinned plenty too, haven't you? I get it, man, you think there are others out there, so you're trying to keep them from me? You want to send me off on some crazy back trail
, because what, I'm not good enough? Because I got a bit lonely, because I took advances to mean what they obviously meant? It's not my fault they always leave, is it? It means something to me. I'm not that guy."

  I start to think I've made a mistake. This whole thing is a terrible mistake. "So back up," I say. "We can talk about this, Don. Maybe you're right. You just have to back up and we can be OK."

  "OK? What the fuck's OK about this, Ammo?" He's getting red under his thick blonde hair now, and his voice is getting louder. "That's a goddamn joke. What do you think we're going to talk about now, after you've screwed everything up? You're going to judge me some more, then figure out how to humiliate me in front of your Lara? Dammit, if I want my girls, if I want your girls, I'll goddamn well have them, because there's not another thing in this world for me now. Do you understand that? This is all I've had, Ammo, for months, dry goddamn pussy! Then I meet you, I let you hold my sword, and you give me this, a gun in my face?"

  I let the gun drop a little. Just a little. "I'm penned in here, Don. Listen, I'm sorry, I over-reacted. Let me breathe here. We can talk."

  "Screw talking! You made the decision about me the second you saw me. You lured me up here so you could do this, and what are you going to do afterward, Ammo, write me into your comic as the psycho loser you met, tell all the world about my fucked-up sexual depravity? No way, my friend." He licks his lip. I feel it coming.

  "I won't do that."

  "Damn right you won't. You think that gun is going to stop me? You know how many times I've tried to kill myself, son? It doesn't work! I've shot myself full of holes, and always I just wake up. I'm strong and you're weak, and that's what the record will show. I'll burn your shitty comics in a heap, and I'll burn you, and I'll tell your precious Lara you died in a stampede because you were the one fucking the dead. How do you like that? You can either put that gun down now, or we can tango and find out who the real man is."

  I angle the gun to point at his throat. He notices and smiles. "Not that weak, then," he says, and lunges.

  His right hand shoots up and covers the barrel just as I pull the trigger. Blood spurts out, the bullet sprays through his palm and out the other side, ricocheting off his temple and sparking from the bus roof.

  Then his bulk hits me and slams me back against the reinforced metal back wall. The supply chests dig sharply into my thighs and knock me off balance, tipping me to the side. He falls with me and there's blood dropping on my face. I fall into the narrow space behind the back seat, hemmed in, and he clumsily reaches after me, his ruined hand pawing me with blood.

  I've still got the gun and I hold it up but this time he manages to bat it away, pressed up against the seatback. I pull the trigger and the bullet takes off the top of his thumb, more blood spurts out across my chest, and he howls.

  "Enough," he shouts, and somehow claws the gun out of my hand. It goes clattering off the floor several seats over. He tries to get his left arm into the tight space to close around my throat, his eyes now burning with pain, but it's so narrow he can't easily reach in.

  I brace my shoulders against the emergency door and kick out at his legs. I catch one of his shins sharply with the ball of my foot, so hard it twinges my ankle and something clicks. It drives another bellow of rage from him as the leg flips back and he falls hard onto the seat back, his ruined right hand no longer enough to hold up his weight.

  His cheek cracks off the metal rail, and if the gap between the seat and wall were wider he'd fall right on top of me, but it's too narrow for his thick chest. Instead for a second he's left lying suspended above me, blood dripping down from his head and a new gash in his cheek, gazing at me numbly.

  His left hand pats at my chest weakly. "Why?" he mumbles.

  I grab for the pistol at his waist and slide it out. He stares in horror and snatches down at it.

  "Back off," I rasp, pointing it at his belly.

  "No," he mumbles, and tries to grab the gun.

  I put a slug through his side. He jerks and more hot blood splashes out, then his hand closes on the barrel and pulls it easily from my grip. He slides backward to slump in the tight aisle on his knees before me, turning the gun in his blood-slick hands, searching for the trigger.

  I kick him in the face, there's a stiff crack and he jerks back, then I scrabble desperately behind me for the emergency exit lever. My hand finds it, yanks down, and the door opens outward, spilling me into the bright sunlight.

  I hit the sandy asphalt with a crunch on my shoulder and neck, then tip awkwardly backward across my face. I come to rest flat on my belly with a great view of Don in the bus getting the gun in position. I roll to the side as he shoots, one, two, three shots, a fourth, and one of them catches me in the foot like a whipping snakebite. I look down to see blood spreading across the toe of my left boot.

  "Come on, Ammo," he calls from inside. "Let's talk. You wanted to talk."

  I lurch to my feet and start hobbling back along the side of the bus. From the delivery truck the sound of Counting Crows singing Mr. Jones peels out, the soundtrack of this ragged escape. I reach the JCB just as there's a crunch and he hits the road behind me, holding the pistol and pulling the trigger, but all it does is click.

  He gets to his feet as I climb up to the JCB's cab, my left foot bloody and my right twingeing with every step. I can barely even hold my own weight going up. I make two rungs on the ladder then my leg gives out and I fall back, barely stopping myself from a full fall with my hand on the railing.

  There's no time. Don pulls the shotgun from its sheath on his back. I roll around the front of the cab just as the first blast roars out. It tears shreds of metal out of the JCB's side and draws fracture patterns on the glass. I hobble ahead, keeping the large yellow machine between me and him, cornering and working my way back down the battle-tank.

  "I just wanted to be friends," he shouts, his voice a pained gurgle. "Why did you have to be such a dick?"

  I don't say anything. Another blast tears across the air beside me and I feel the breath of the shrapnel passing inches over my shoulder. I risk a glance back and see him coming around the cab. He looks like shit, pale-faced as a floater, with blood leaking out of his blasted side. If I can just keep ahead of him I'll be all right. He'll slow down before I do.

  "We could have shared them," he shouts. "One cheerleader for me, one for you. It didn't have to be like this."

  "You don't get it," I shoot hoarsely back. "How could I trust you with anyone else? You knew they weren't dangerous!"

  I hobble on, one foot sprained and one shot through. I pass the end of the battle-tank and am closing on the ocean at the back of the delivery truck when he shoots again.

  This time I feel it more than I hear it. My legs go out from under me, peppered by spray, and I hit the road hard with my face, cracking my nose and my lips sharply, too abruptly to get my hands up in front of me.

  "I'm a good person," he slurs. "I am. You think those bitches are what I wanted you to see first?"

  Ah God. I roll over and feel the acid sting of buckshot burn hotly in the meat of my legs. I'm twingeing again, it's rising to cloud my vision with gray, and I can't think clearly. Lara, I think, Cerulean, I'm sorry. I twist back to see my thighs and calves lying limply like torn fins behind me, and beyond them there's Don, humping wheezily closer, slotting fresh shells into the shotgun's breech.

  "Should have listened to me," he says. He's moving by sheer will too. He's going pale from blood loss already. "We could have been pals."

  I look forward and start to crawl. The asphalt burns hot against my palms and cheek, and I know I'm not going to make it. Like Sophia I'll be found broken and beaten, and this will be my legacy, our two bodies left entwined with no explanation or reason why. I don't want to die.

  I'm sorry Lara. I'm sorry Cerulean. I'm sorry Sophia too, I've let you all down.

  My vision clouds and I look up to see the ocean lapping near. They come over from the back of the truck, all withered faces and g
angly limbs, half-dressed and gray, as eager as over-friendly dogs. I think of Hank in the Darkness, barreling out to be close to me, and how happy he seemed to have me near. I think of all the horrible crimes I did against them.

  "Please," I whisper to them. "Help me."

  I roll onto my back. Don's over me now, leveling the shotgun.

  "Please," I say again. He pushes the barrel hard against my chest, and I know this is the end.

  "Bleeding heart," he says, "bleed for me."

  Then gray flesh flies over me in a blur. Don pulls up the shotgun and blows it to powder, but another floater follows in an instant, leaping over my ruined legs and taking another spray of buckshot that blows it to pieces.

  My head falls back and I watch as more of them come, leaping over me like sheep over a fence, and I'm drifting. Four, five, six. I hear Don begin to scream, I hear the sound of rending and tearing, and when I look up briefly, I see the ocean for the first time as they feed on a fellow human.

  They're eating Don. His arm lifts up from the midst of them, covered in his own blood, and one of the ocean bites into it, tearing a chunk of quivering meat free.

  He screams throughout. They rear back with his intestines dangling like strands of spaghetti from their mouths, his bright red blood everywhere, splashing like a geyser. They're eating him. They're really eating him alive.

  It could be me next.

  I lie back and look up at the sky, where wisps of cloud twist and turn. One of them looks a little like Lara, or it may, because I can hardly even remember what she looks like. I never took a photo and it's already been so long. In my mind she merges with Sophia, another soul lost to the vast emptiness of this great country.

  Don's screams fade, replaced by the gristly snap and crunch of the feast. My vision goes dark. If this is the end then so be it. Let my bones be a warning to those that come after me, a cairn itself, helping them forward and making them strong.