Fountain of the Dead Page 18

  “Moron outside my office, step in and close the door.” Crenshaw wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. He took off his suit jacket and hung it neatly on the chair. The door opened. Crenshaw motioned the man over. “Have you ever flown?”

  “Sir?” Waters stepped into the office. He was getting confused coming and going every few seconds.

  “In the air, in the sky, in a plane?” Crenshaw flapped his arms like a bird, mocking him.

  “Just once when I was a kid.” Waters kicked at a piece of broken glass on the floor. It skittered across the room.

  “Did you like it?”

  “I barely remember it.”

  Crenshaw sighed, his rage ebbing away, draining from his skull through his toes. He sat down, took another drink and then tightened the cap on the bottle.

  “I’m going to make some calls and in the mean time, have my plane readied. We’re going for a trip.”

  * * * * *

  Crowe put the phone on the car charger. The chargers were getting harder to find; every time he “lost” one, Crenshaw showed up with another. It’s not like they were in such big demand anymore. He turned on the radio and listened to the static. He wasn’t expecting to hear anything but it was better than Crenshaw’s voice. As he drove, he twirled the piece of shattered plastic in his hand from Williams’ radio. After a few miles he dropped it out the window as West Virginia disappeared in his rearview. He glanced at the fuel gauge then his watch and stomped on the accelerator.

  * * * * *

  Catherine stood on the porch of the lodge watching the others pack up the vehicles. Micah doused the fire remnants with what was left in the pot of lake water.

  “Should we fish some more before we leave?” Frank asked. He stuffed one of the plastic totes into the Explorer.

  “We could do some southern fishing, drop some dynamite in the lake. We’d have more fish than we needed.” Every one stopped what they were doing to look at Sam; he blushed and closed the tailgate on the SUV. Micah made another quick sketch of the lodge, with Catherine on the porch and notated it with the previous day’s story. Beverly read over his shoulder until he glared at her.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Do you think they’re OK?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “The village, home.” Guilt surged through Beverly. She’d thought about Meredith and their home, often enough, but not of the village as a whole.

  “We haven’t been gone that long, Micah. I’m sure they’re fine.” She sat on a stump next to him as he stuffed the journal into his bag. “Can I ask you something?” Micah nodded at her. “Why did you hide away in the car?”

  “Someone had to keep the history of this.”

  “That’s Catherine’s job.”

  “She’s not writing anything down.”

  “She has an amazing memory.”

  Micah sighed and looked Beverly in the eyes. “I have grandparents in Florida. I wanted to see if they were still alive.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?” Sharon asked walking over. “We could have gotten a vehicle and gone on a trip.”

  “We wouldn’t have made it, Mom, not the two of us.” Sharon’s lips trembled at the words.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Still getting used to you calling me Mom.”

  “My grandparents were in Kissme, Florida.”

  “Kissimmee,” Beverly corrected.

  “Whatever. We went to see them once in Florida and then we went to Disney.”

  “I took Meredith there once too, right before the storm.”

  “The night of the storm, my parents took me to see The Wiggles,” Micah dug through his bag and pulled out the worn, ragged program. “I rode on my Dad’s shoulders and we were drinking hot chocolate when it started. I thought the meteors were beautiful.”

  “The skies were beautiful,” Sharon said. “It’s what happened after. His parents bought hot drinks from my canteen truck. That’s how I saw him in the road.” Over at the vehicles, Sam scrubbed some more of his dog’s blood from the seat that Tony missed. Frank took a drink from a bottle of water, draining half of it.

  “Some fish might be good for breakfast,” Frank said.

  “We have some fruit that I ‘borrowed’ from back home, and some cold critter stew,” Catherine said and bit into an apple. “I wouldn’t trust that stew for much longer though, not like we have a fridge in the cars.”

  “Yeah but it’s not the same. I’d kill for some roast duck. Nice dark meat, crispy skin…” Frank wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth.

  “How about an apple? We have a basket of those.” The juice from the apple ran down her wrist as she half-chewed, half talked.

  “How about Sharon, sniper us a couple ducks instead?”

  “If you think I’m spending the morning gutting and plucking a duck, you’re insane,” Sharon said. A loud groan followed by cracking branches cut through the morning tranquility.

  “Something had to ruin the mood,” Frank said. The groan was followed by more. “They must have walked around the lake.”

  “Or through it,” Micah said. “Like the ones from Cape Cod, that the lady on the recording was talking about.”

  “We have a long ass haul today. We’re not stopping again until Savannah,” Catherine said and lobbed an apple to Frank as he ran for the Jeep.

  * * * * *

  “Little pigs, little pigs let us in.”

  Frank stood at the fence’s gate, guns drawn pointed down, prepared to fire. Catherine stood on the porch to her house. In back of the Frank, a dozen men and women gathered carrying anything they could use as weapons.

  “Why don’t you and your crew back off?” Frank growled. It was more a threat than a request or a question. There were five of them, standing in front of the outside gate. Two fences and a 3 foot walkway separated them from the cul-de-sac. One of Frank’s guns was empty, but they didn’t know that.

  When they showed up for their parlay, Frank hadn’t seen any obvious weapons. They came on foot, with backpacks and tents, dressed in whatever they found or stole. Theft wasn’t crime, murder wasn’t a crime and there were no cops to enforce the law. Looking closer at them, Frank saw the blades around their waists; knives and swords. He had let them know he was armed and made no attempts at hiding his guns, empty or not.

  “All we want is a place to sleep. And those houses look sweet.” Frank looked over at Catherine, but he was sure he knew the answer. She shook her head. “You have to ask your mother for permission?”

  “Move along. Boston is twenty miles that way.” Frank answered.

  “How much for your women? Just give us one. We’ll treat her right tilll we’re finished and then we’ll send her back.” The others in his group laughed a little. “Do you really think your little fences are going to stop us if we want to get in there?”

  “No. But I think I have 18 bullets that can move faster than you can climb,” Frank said.

  “You can’t kill us all.” He took a step closer and looked at the gates, assessing their strengths, looking for weakness in their armor. “That’ll make you no better than the murder squads.”

  “I think you guys are a murder squad, looking for a new home. And this is not going to be your new home,” Catherine said and came down the stairs. Frank signaled her to stop and stay where she was but she kept on walking. The threat had become too much. She stood next to Frank and took one of the guns from his hand. She got the empty one and pointed it at the men in the road.

  “Back up. Get out.” She took a step forward. “Pack up your men and hit the road.”

  “You talk tough holding a gun behind two fences.” He swiped dirty brown hair off his forehead.

  “I talk tough.” She motioned down the road with her head. “When the dead are coming down the road.” Down the road a shambling mass was coming, slow. There were well over a dozen, weaving through cars, stumbling over debris and getting closer. “What I suggest, Mr. Man, is you get to stepp
ing. They’ll get here and they’ll feed and you’ll still be outside my fences.”

  He reached out grabbed the fence and shook it. The chains rattled and echoed hollowly through the cul-de-sac. “You keep an eye out for us.” He let go of the fence and started off with his men.

  “We’ll keep both eyes open.” They watched them hurry off down the road towards the highway. Catherine sighed and handed the gun back to Frank.

  “Is now a good time to tell you that gun was empty?” She punched him in the shoulder. The others gathered went back to their houses.

  “We need towers, Frank. Some kind of lookout.”

  “And some sweet, sweet rifles.”

  “Why don’t you take some people tomorrow and check out some of our ‘neighbors’? See what you can find around here. Don’t go too far in case those men are loitering.” Frank tucked the loaded gun under his belt and twirled the empty on his finger.

  “We can take care of five men, even if only with one gun.” He handed Catherine the empty one. “Well go after them with pitchforks and torches. If we had any.” They stopped talking as the dead went past the gates. No one moved, no one breathed. When the pack was gone Frank took a deep breath.

  “You know what you’re looking for?”

  “Lot’s of spare lumber, some ladders and hopefully a home improvement fanatic’s house with a shitload of tools.” Catherine patted him on the shoulder and walked towards her house. “And bracing for the fence.”

  * * * * *

  Crenshaw stared out of the small window of the plane, wishing for a blanket, a neat scotch, and a foot massage. There was no pretty stewardess, no crappy in-flight movie, and no snacks. He sighed and looked over at Waters who was sound asleep, coat draped over him like a comforter. The twin prop plane was making good time. In the pilot’s compartment was another one of his thugs. The co-pilot’s seat was empty.

  “God really is my co-pilot,” he chuckled. And it was a strange noise, dry and raspy, something he hadn’t done in a while and was out of practice at. Waters snored from the aisle seat. “That’s why you don’t remember the flights you putz.” Crenshaw stood up and paced the main aisle. Waters snorted and thrashed in his seat for a moment. Crenshaw thought for a moment about kicking him or slapping him for fun.

  Stuffed in the seat in front of Crenshaw was a spare jacket, guns and ammo. He rifled through the coat’s pockets and took out the flask and took a small sip. He had to preserve it, make a toast to Catherine before putting a bullet in her face. Or maybe have Williams and Crowe hold her down while he had his way with her one last time.

  * * * * *

  Several Decades Earlier

  Catherine stuffed the bundle into the passenger’s seat of the van. Everything she owned wrapped up in a blanket and tied with string. She took a long last look at the old farmhouse and barn, the fields dead from weather and rain. In the kitchen window, Catherine’s mother stood watching her, blowing the steam from a mug of tea. Her mother waved a small hand, looking tired and defeated from years of marriage and abuse. From with the walls of the house she heard her father roar. The roar she’d heard as long as she could remember; he never molested her but some of the beatings were legendary. A fearful shiver raced across her, a reaction she was used to. No matter how badly she felt about leaving her mother alone with the monster, she had to get out. Catherine waved at her mother, brushed a strand of wavy blonde hair from her face, closed the van door, and drove off.

  * * * * *

  Catherine scribbled on the order pad, smiled at the diner customers, and went off to her next table. She worked the booths, Nita worked the counter, Paul and Jimmy cooked, while Raul bussed and washed dishes. The diner was hustling with the morning breakfast crowd, regulars coming in for coffee and a paper, while the booths filled up quick with the townies.

  Catherine slid order tickets through the window, winked at Jimmy, and took her plates from under the heat lamps. Jimmy took the slips and put them in order in a clip over the condiments. He dropped a spoonful of butter on the grill and got to work. When the flow of people slowed, Catherine went in back of the counter for some coffee and to count her tips.

  “How much longer you got, darling?” Nita asked going for her fourth coffee of the morning.

  “I need at least another five hundred and that’s just to get me there.”

  “All this working and traveling all so you can be an artist in Boston.”

  “It’s a goal, either that or I go back to the farm. Which is never going to happen.”

  “You should settle down here. Scranton isn’t so bad.”

  “Yeah I’ve thought about it, find a nice man, who is preferably rich, go to school, have a nest full of kids and go to PTA meetings.”

  “That’s so not you,” Nita laughed

  Catherine smiled and stuffed the folded bills back into her apron as the door opened. A trucker sat down at the counter and winked at Anita. She slid him a menu and reached for the coffee pot.

  *

  “No, I’m going to be an artist,” Catherine said and bit into a pear.

  “Then why are you posing nude instead of sketching nudes?” a student asked.

  “I have to make money to pay for this school don’t I?” She pulled the robe tighter, suddenly shy. She took some cheese from the table and nibbled at it. “Besides from the money every time I model, I get snacks and take all the leftovers home.” A woman came into the room, lowered the blind on the door’s window and clapped her hands. Catherine popped the cheese into her mouth and took up her previous position on the stool after dropping the robe.

  *

  “Hey wait up!” the man called as he ran across the road oblivious to the blaring car horns. Catherine smiled and turned around. The paper bag with the leftovers in it was getting heavy. “Want me to carry that?” Catherine shook her head.

  “I got it thanks.”

  “I hope it’s not too weird, me talking to you after the class.”

  “No it’s alright.” She put the bag down on the sidewalk and held out her hand. “I’m Catherine.”

  “I’m Richard, Richard Crenshaw.” Silence followed while Richard scratched his head and looked around, suddenly stumped for words.

  “Want to buy me some coffee?” Catherine asked trying to help. A flush came to his cheeks.

  “Coffee works,” he said. She could tell from his eyes that there was something else on his mind. They walked down the sidewalk and went into a small coffee shop. Catherine slid into a booth facing the street and Richard sat across from her. She put the bag of leftovers on the table so she wouldn’t forget them. She smiled and waited for the words to come out of him.

  “Are you an art major?” she asked.”

  He looked shocked at the question and laughed a little. “No, I have a double major business and marketing.” A waitress came over and poured them two cups of coffee.

  “Anything else?” She said, order pad poised and ready.

  “Do you trust me?” Catherine said.

  “As long as it’s not any weird hippie food,” Richard answered a little too serious.

  “Two cheeseburgers with bacon and extra cheese and two cups of the sirloin chili.”

  “Girl knows what she wants.” The waitress finished writing and walked off.

  “I hope so,” Crenshaw muttered. “So I’m assuming you’re an art major?”

  “How’d you guess?” Catherine asked.

  “You have the ‘feel’ of one.” Catherine laughed and they made small talk until the food arrived. She watched for Richard’s reaction to the food and hoped it wasn’t a bad choice. She spooned the chili on the burger and ate. Richard repeated her moves.

  “Best lunch ever,” he said chewing.

  *

  Catherine cried out and raked her fingers across Richard’s back. He rolled off her and gave her a breathy kiss. She slid from her bed and pulled on her robe, smiling as she looked down at Richard tangled in the sheets. Richard recognized the robe from when he s
aw her in the art class. The elective he was forced to take and would never take on his own. Art was never on the agenda.

  “Coffee?”

  “Anything, thanks. Something stronger if you have it?”

  “I don’t drink, sorry. Too many bad memories.” Richard looked at her confused. “My dad was a drinker, used to like to beat up my mother.” Crenshaw reached down to the floor to grab his boxers.

  “Coffee, tea whichever is easiest for you.”

  “I only have instant coffee, let’s go with the tea.” Crenshaw pulled on his jeans and dug around in his pockets for the small black velvet box. He opened it to check the shine on the small diamond and snapped it shut when Catherine came back into the bedroom with the tea.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been rehearsing this since we met.”

  “In the class or on the street?” She set down the mugs on the dresser.

  “Look, I know we’ve only been together for a couple months,” he opened his hand to show her the box and flipped it open to expose the ring. “This feels right. You and me.”

  “I barely know you Richard. I mean as far as I know you could be someone who hooks up with naked chicks in an art class. Well, actually you are...”

  “Come on, what do you say?”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand and kissed his fingers. “You’re sure? About us? A business major and an art major?”

  Crenshaw nodded and slid the ring on her finger. “Alright,” she smiled and kissed him, parting her lips to let his tongue slip into her mouth. He reached over and slid his hand into her robe and let it drop off her shoulders.

  *

  “Hit me again, and I’ll leave you and kill you,” Catherine said and wiped the blood from her mouth. She remembered her mother saying something similar once and never doing anything about it. Except wait for the beatings.