After the End: Survival Page 6

  What a perfect picture, Pete thought. Probably just what the original planners of the Affordable Care Act had in mind to start out with.

  "Hey! Hey, Doctor!"

  It had been pretty good morning up to this point. Jason Owens was an IV drug abuser and had been diagnosed HIV positive before the Change. In the last six months he had developed a full blown case of AIDS. Pete’s dislike for the man had nothing to do with any social stigma. Pete's personal feelings for the man were simply that he was a flaming asshole and always had been.

  Jason was still a good fifty feet away, his thin frame moving quickly across the yard. His face and arms were very pale and covered with purple blotches.

  "This damn skin ointment isn't doing shit. You're a quack. And now look at me! I've got fucking fur growing on my tongue." Jason's tongue protruded now, and Pete could see it was covered with a white growth.

  "Jason, you've got AIDS. I really can't do anything for you. I wish I could. Why don't you go see Dr. Flood? He's a bona fide physician. Maybe he can do something for you I can't."

  I shouldn't have said that. Jay doesn't deserve this guy either.

  "I did! And he told me to come to you."

  Flood, you S.O.B.

  "Well, come on in. I'll try and make you up some kind of solution you can gargle with, maybe help your throat out some." Red pepper and honey, Pete thought. Mix it with tomato juice.

  "’Maybe help my throat?’ What kind of shit are you going to give me this time? Hey, Pete ! You got a little wifey Pete ? Maybe I could help her out some. What do you think, Pete?"

  Pete turned to see Jason performing pelvic thrusts, rhythmically pulling his hands to his waist. Pete watched for several seconds and reached for an IV pole hanging from the ceiling. It was three feet long, made of half inch galvanized pipe. With a single fluid motion, he swung the pole underhand from the ceiling to Jason's crotch. Jason's knees buckled, but before he hit the floor Pete struck him again, using both hands to swing the rod like a golf club. Jason screamed and then crumpled to the floor, rolling into the fetal position, rocking slowly and making soft mewing sounds.

  Watching for a moment, Pete returned the IV pole to its hook on the ceiling. Using a funnel and a small water bottle, he quickly made a mouthwash solution. Then he knelt down beside the prostrate patient.

  "Jason, try gargling with this a few times a day, it may help. I have to go out back for while, so when you leave, make sure the screen door is shut all the way, we don't want any flies coming in."

  Pete went out the back door to his ‘sunny’ garden, where he grew herbs and vegetables that thrived in full sunlight. Knocking on one of five connected water drums, he ascertained the barrels were still about one third full. Been a dry summer, he thought. He watered close to the roots of the plants, his hands rock steady.

  When he went back inside ten minutes later, Jason was gone.

  The screen door was closed all the way.

  CHAPTER 9

  He lay in the bed on his back, hands clasped behind his head. It had been a pleasant morning. This was one of his favorite houses, with its wood frame and large front porch. He'd been up early, as was his habit, and walked silently through the grove of trees on both sides of a seasonal creek that passed nearby. It was dry now, but when it rained, torrents of water, tainted red with dirt, would flow southward to Palo Duro Canyon.

  He loved the quiet here.

  "Sure beats working in a shoe factory and sleeping in a damn cage," he said aloud. His horse, hobbled in the front yard, lifted its head at the voice, resumed its casual grazing.

  Just three years had passed but it seemed like a lifetime. The Clements Prison Unit of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice was northeast of Amarillo, three miles north of Loop 335. Many of the inmates of the 3,150 bed maximum security facility spent their days making brogans, the high top prison boot that was de rigueur for all the inmates in the Texas prison system. It wasn't difficult, but it was tedious work, cutting the stiff cowhide from patterns day after day. At the time, he figured he could expect at least twelve more years making boots, even with good behavior and an early release to help relieve the over-crowded prison.

  He frowned, reliving some of the anger he had at being incarcerated. There was no reason for me to even be there. Just because I liked to diddle the girls. That’s no crime. Hell, most of them liked it, and wouldn't hardly fight back at all. So many sweet memories. His face relaxed as he reminisced.

  The first one, let's see, her name Katy, no Connie. Little girl who lived a couple houses from him in the city of Big Spring. She must have been six or seven, he was nine. He took her into an old wooden garage. Closed his eyes now, remembering. They were both barefoot, and the fine white caliche dirt was soft and cool. First they caught ants and dropped them into the funnel-like depressions in the dust made by ant lions. He enjoyed watching the little insects struggle, first as they tried to climb out of the dirt traps and then again as they were pulled beneath the soil by the jaws of the predator just under the dirt's surface. Seeing the helpless bugs fight against their inevitable death made his thighs feel kind of warm. He looked at the little girl next to him, and got an idea.

  "Hey, Connie, see that storeroom over there? I saw an old doll in there. Wanna look?"

  Together they went into the attached lean-to storage area. He turned around, facing her, and then struck the side of her face with his open hand as hard as he could.

  "Aoww!" she wailed, surprised and dazed.

  He struck her again.

  "You better not make any more damn noise. You and me are gonna play ant lion."

  Even then, I was careful, he thought. I didn't rip her clothes none, but I sure got her little shorts off in a hurry. Smiling at the memory. It was a good start.

  "You tell anybody and I'll do it to you everyday," he said to the sniveling girl as they left the garage.

  Little Connie avoided him after that, but there were others, and it was so easy! Talk to them, friendly like. Try to get them to talk about themselves some, so you'd know what was they thought was special. Like their hair, or new clothes, or maybe some argument they were having with their parents.

  "My daddy says he doesn’t ever want to catch me wearing lipstick to school, so I put it on when I get on the bus."

  "Well, Ruth Ann, I think you look so much older when you wear it. I bet you could pass for sixteen. What color red is that?"

  Sincere. Complimentary. And how they like surprises!

  "Ruth Ann, I want you to have this." Handing her the eye shadow kit he'd stolen from Walmart.

  "Oh, you are just the most thoughtful person!" A kiss on the cheek.

  And that night, him only fourteen, driving his mother's Pinto. Picking up the eleven year old girl a block from her house and driving her to the Big Spring State Park. Little bitch looks like a raccoon wearing lipstick, he thought, as they drove to the top of the hill overlooking Big Spring.

  "Honey, you look just beautiful," he said earnestly to the beaming girl.

  An hour later, and he was helping her wipe the tear streaked mascara from her cheeks.

  "Now you just stop crying girl. It wasn't that bad. It had to happen sooner or later. You should just be glad it was me, and not some fool who didn't know what they were doing. Anyway, it was your fault, coming on to me that way. You know it just drives a man crazy."

  "You hit me. You hurt me. I'm bleeding from down there."

  "I know that, babycakes. It hurt me, too. I'm going to keep your panties, so your momma won't think you've started having your period." He liked that. Keeping their underwear. Sort of like winning a trophy.

  "I’ve never had my period," she sniffed.

  "I'll bet you start in the next year or so, don't you worry."

  What a great time it was, he thought.

  Then he smiled, raising his hands to shoulder level, shaking them like an actor in a vaudeville musical.

  "Happy days are here again!"

  Using his MURS radio, P
ete called the S.O. The interview with Larry Maxwell had aired that morning and the radio announcer had followed through with his promise to air a description of the murdered girl a couple of times an hour. Pete was hoping for a quick identification but learned to temper everything these days with patience; there was no functional telephone system. For that matter, Pete mused, not everyone could listen to an FM radio. The radios were in abundance but keeping the batteries charged to power them was a problem. The area stock of AA batteries was dwindling, and new batteries in unopened packs were used in trade in lieu of money. Government officials could communicate with MURS radios that had a range of up to 20 miles. Some folks used FRS walkie-talkies for short range communication. CB radios were commonly available but ran through batteries in a hurry and had short range during daytime hours.

  Guess it's time I checked my charging system, he thought ruefully. The clinic building had one of the better individual systems in the area, courtesy of the mayor. It had been built by radio station engineer Chick Barrett. Looking up, Pete observed the roof mounted wind generator turning lazily in the light breeze. Be hot up there. May as well get it over with.

  Taking a couple of wrenches and some oil, he climbed the aluminum ladder that had been permanently mounted to the side of the clinic. Waves of heat radiated against his face. Walking along the roof ridge he approached the wind machine. The propeller shaft used permanently lubricated bearings, but part of the tail and high wind braking assembly was exposed to the weather and needed oil. He checked all the bolts for tightness.

  The oven-like heat reflected from the roof was intense and moving back down the ladder provided instant relief. Once on the ground Pete grabbed an old coffee pot and filled it with water from one of the rain barrels. He went in the back door and walked up the stairs to a bathroom. In the bathtub were six car batteries, connected in parallel. A wire ran from the wind generator to the batteries. A much thicker cable ran through the floor to the clinic area below, providing lights, communications, and the ability to power several appliances. Pete had the convenience of charging his home batteries with this system, exchanging a couple of batteries every few days.

  He carefully topped off the water level in each cell, cleaned and tightened all the connections. Still early afternoon.

  Laundry time.

  He walked across the street to his back yard. A piece of corrugated tin roofing in a bucket of soapy water was all he needed. White stuff got washed first, then shirts. His four pairs of jeans were the last to get the washboard treatment. A quick rinse in clean water and then everything was draped over a clothesline. Someday, he would remember to get clothespins. He'd always think about it on windy days when most of everything he hung would end up on the ground.

  "Pete Wilson, S.O." Pete could hear his radio crackle. He pulled the unit off his belt to answer.

  "S.O. this is Pete."

  "Hold for the sheriff, please."

  About twenty seconds passed.

  "Hey Pete, we've gotten a few possibilities on that girl’s ID. Wonder if you could help run down a couple of them."

  "Sure."

  "We got calls from two ministers. Harold Dingman and Leonard Goss. You know them?"

  "I know who they are."

  "Harold said he'd be at his church. Leonard'll said he'd be working around his house all day and you can visit with him there. Let me know what you find out."

  The sheriff gave Pete directions to both places.

  "OK. I'm clear."

  Harold Dingman's church was on Western and 44th, just south of the Albertson's food market and a block from the Southwest branch of the Amarillo public library. The church was pleasantly cool, the concrete floor and heavy brick walls moderating the summer heat. Pete commented on it when he shook hands with the minister.

  "It does feel good, doesn't it? I think that's half the reason attendance is usually up in the summertime." His hands were smooth and a little damp. Harold Dingman was a big man with a once muscular body that had gone soft. His clean shaven cheeks flushed as though from exertion.

  "I've always believed if you can provide a nice atmosphere for folks, it will pave the way to prayer and therefore to righteousness. Have you found a church home, Pete?"

  No, but I've just checked another one off my list.

  "Nossir, can't say that I have."

  "Pete, I'm sorry to hear that." Looking earnestly into Pete's eyes. "You know, when I played defensive guard for Wayland Baptist University, we used to pray before every game and at half time. And I can truly say there were times I know God heard our prayers. We could feel it. The power of prayer defies human comprehension!"

  And I always thought He was an Aggies fan.

  "Sounds like it’s working for you." Pete nodding thoughtfully a couple of times, reaching into a manila envelope to retrieve a copy of the girl's portrait before the good reverend could get his second wind. He wasn't quick enough.

  "Pete, it works for everyone! Even when the Lord doesn't grant you what you prayed for, He gives you what you need, what is truly best for you. The Change was only a test, a supreme test for all of us! The world had been on a downward spiral for years. Those of us who believed, who knew the Lord, we understood it was just a matter of time before the judgment would be handed down. Look at us. Wretches that we are, we have been given an opportunity, a chance to recreate our world in His eyes! The glory of God is everywhere. Can you feel it Pete? Can you feel it!" The man was on his feet, arms extended straight out from his sides. His florid face wet with perspiration. Pete was watching the preacher's eyes, fascinated. They were deep blue, and totally without expression. He was reminded of a friend's Siamese cat. The animal languidly observed everything around him but his eyes never registered any emotion.

  "I can't disagree with you, Harold." You wouldn't listen anyway. "Take a look at this, would you?" Handing over the portrait.

  "Oh my God." Sitting down, shaking his head, looking at the copy of the dead girl's face. "Dear Lord, it's her." Shaking his head some more. "The murdered girl, am I right?"

  "You recognize her, then?"

  "Oh yes, I have no doubt. It's Susan. Susan Shupe. Oh, this grieves me. She'd been coming here, to this church, every Sunday and Wednesday. I had taken a special interest in the girl. Lost her family in the Change, of course. The church gave her comfort, as it does for a great many of us." He stared at Pete significantly.

  "About a year ago she stopped coming. Just all of a sudden. I visited with her adopted family to try to understand why. As I said, I'd taken an interest in the girl's wellbeing. They said she'd just left and wouldn't tell me why or where she went. It sorely disappointed me. I prayed for her, for the Lord to watch over her, that she might find peace and salvation. I can only believe that she was needed in Heaven. Did she...die quickly?"

  "No. She died a slow, miserable death. She fought with her attacker. She was in pain for a long time."

  "He performs His work in mysterious ways." Harold shaking his head some more. The room grew quiet.

  "You said you knew her pretty well?"

  "Yes, I did. Mind you, we’re all in a unique situation. Our family and friends, all dying over a period of just weeks. There’s been nothing like it in history. We all respond differently. But Susan, she was...there was just a special quality about her. Calm, quiet, but you could feel an inner strength there. And a pretty girl. Always dressed in white. With her black hair, she looked just like one of His angels. Beautiful. And now, you tell me she's dead. Poor little Susan."

  More head shaking. Pete decided the guy looked like one of those little dolls with the spring loaded heads that people used to put in the back windows of their cars. Boing, boing.

  "Is this picture a true rendition of her face? She looks a little thin."

  "She was thin."

  "She must have lost some weight."

  "Reverend, I'd like to visit with her family. Where do they live?"

  "Oh yes, the Langleys. They don't live far from here." Har
old wrote directions on a small card.

  "Please tell them hello for me. I'm afraid they were rather hostile towards me the last time I saw them."

  "Why?"

  "Jealousy. Because of her strong religious belief. They're a Godless couple. They actually believe that I had some responsibility for Susan leaving their household. That girl was this close," holding a thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, "this close, to reaching salvation. I only needed a little more time with her. Such a pretty little girl." His entire face was crimson.

  "So why do you think she left?"

  Those deep blue eyes never left Pete's face.

  "I have no idea."

  The Langley house was eight blocks south of the church, a single story ranch style house. A tall woman with a white blouse and jeans met him at the door, pulling unruly strands of hair from her face.

  "Good afternoon. My name's Pete Wilson."

  "I thought that's who you were. I recognized your car but we've never met.”

  A girl about five banged up against the woman's leg.

  "Who is it, Momma?"

  "This is Dr. Wilson, honey. He takes care of sick people."

  The girl looked at Pete for a few seconds.

  "Oh." Then she tore off back into the house. He heard voices of several children playing.

  "I'm Sarah Langley."

  "Yes, ma'am. Harold Dingman said I might find you here."

  At the sound of the man's name, the smile left her face and her eyes became hard.

  "I don't know him well," he added, noticing she obviously was not on friendly terms with the minister.

  "He's a slime ball."

  "Do you know who this is?" He handed her the girl's portrait.

  "Why sure, it’s Susan." Then she put her hand to her mouth and inhaled sharply. "Is this who they found? The dead girl? Oh, poor little Susan. That poor little girl."

  "Mrs. Langley, I'm sure sorry for your trouble. I'm working with the sheriff's department, trying to find out who did this. When did you first meet Susan?"

  She handed the copy back to Pete.

  "Well, let's see. I first met her four? No, five years ago. Her family moved into that blue house, see it down the street there? Her and my daughter were friends, they were both the same age. Then the Change came, and I lost all three of my kids and my husband, and little Susan lost all her family too. So, she just sort of moved over here? I was glad for the company, to tell you the truth. You know, a familiar face? For a short while it was her and me against the world." She made a crooked smile and looked away. "Anyway, a few other kids came by and stayed, then my current husband, Travis? Well, he needed to be around kids so he started hanging around, too. He's a good man, great with kids, always fixing things and trying to make it a little easier around here. So anyway, looks like I got a family again."