Print Page
Send to FriendHe looked down upon his speedometer, where the needle remained firmly planted over the 70 mark, and then his eyes veered toward the gas gauge, and saw to his dismay where the needle clung. An eighth of a tank, Connett thought with a sigh. No way in hell we're gonna make it on an eighth of a tank. Shit, why didn't I fill the tank up when I had a chance in Dusty Groves? Plenty of gas stations there, and I wouldn't be in this predicament. He sighed again, knowing that he had passed the small town of Dusty Groves, Nevada hours ago, and that since then the scenery had remained consistent. Empty desert, with a few cactuses for decoration, but nothing more, no signs of civilization except for a few road signs telling him how far away something like Reno or Las Vegas might be, or where the next exit might be and where it might take him.
Outside, some dust and a few tumbleweeds were carried off in the breeze as the sky darkened to the red-orange glow of dusk. Night would be upon them soon, and if they were to run out of gas now, they would be alone in the car. Once night time hit, the dry desert heat would no longer be a problem, but other creatures lurking within the darkness might be. Connett could only hope that they wouldn't be attacked by a few coyotes, rattle snakes, or vultures. He supposed that he and Amanda Turner were safe here in the car from any animals that might attack, but what about thieves or car-jackers. They would rob Connett and Turner, then leave them for dead.
Even if Connett and Turner survived unmolested throughout the night (and there was a pretty good chance that they would), morning would follow, and with it would be the return of sweltering daylight. The greenhouse effect would roast them alive were they to remain in the car and the heat would bring them down still even if they left. And with only a limited supply of water available, while the two of them were left to their own devices in the blistering, punishing sunlight.
And here I thought I was doing a GOOD deed in picking Amanda up, Connett thought, chagrined, and as it turns out, I was only buying her more time.
Amanda Turner sat shotgun in the jeep, still gulping down water from Connett's spare squeeze bottle. Connett looked at her and smiled. Already she was starting to regain some of her color and composure, now that she had replenished her fluids. "How are you feeling?" he asked her.
Amanda coughed dryly, blinked her watering eyes, and answered: "I'm doing better."
Connett nodded. "Good."
He wasn't normally inclined to pick up hitchhikers and would instead have preferred to err on the side of caution. There was no way to be sure of someone else's intentions, particularly when you had never met the person. Even someone like twenty-three-year-old Amanda Turner, who from all outward appearances was harmless, though attractive, with a small body frame, high cheekbones, hazel eyes and a tanned complexion, shoulder-length sand-colored hair, silky and naturally curly, with her bangs dipping just above her eyes. She appeared to be harmless and desperate, but there was no way to be one hundred percent sure that it wasn't a ploy to trap him and that she wasn't armed and waiting to rob him, then leave him for dead, for the vultures, coyotes, and buzzards to feast on his remains.
Under normal circumstances, Connett would have driven past her without even stopping and would never look back. Better to take the chance of abandoning a stranger who truly was in need of some help than risk getting mugged, robbed, and killed by a psychopath. But this was the desert, a dry, hostile, uncompromising environment. She was alone after her car had broken down, without a cell phone (And here I thought EVERYONE had one of those, Connett remarked mentally, although his wasn't working properly at the moment), and walking in the sweltering desert heat to the nearest gas station or rest area, where she would surely have passed out from heat exhaustion or dehydration before finally reaching her destination. And so, Connett made an exception to his rule of "No picking up hitchhikers under any circumstance" this one time and hesitantly stopped for her after a great deal of reluctant consideration. And it wasn't entirely because she was female and attractive--though deep down inside, Connett had a thing for helping damsels in distress, but had still managed to get him in trouble at least on a couple of occasions. He had helped her mainly because he didn't want her death to weigh too heavily on his conscience, though logic told him that even if she did die because of his inaction, he would most likely never find out about it.
On the radio was Michael Savage of The Savage Nation, ranting and raving about the "radical red diaper doper babies in the ACLU", Islamo fascists, and the "leftist scumbags" who were ruining this once great nation. As he listened, Connett chuckled to himself, finding at least some amusement the program, although he himself was apolitical and didn't really care one way or the other about conservatives and liberals, Republicans and Democrats, or any of that other stuff. It was enough, at least, to ease some of his growing tension of driving with such a low amount of fuel and having risked picking up a hitchhiker whom he knew nothing about.
"Do we have to listen to this idiot?" Amanda groaned in protest.
"Connett shrugged. "I find him entertaining."
"Well, I'm a Democrat myself and Savage's ignorant psychobabble pisses me off."
"Yeah, he has that effect on some people."
"Are you a Republican?"
"No, I'm neither, and I don't really care much for politics."
"Then why are you listening to him?"
"I find him entertaining, like I said."
"Well, he still pisses me off."
"Yeah, well, I'm risking my ass picking up a hitchhiker," snapped Connett with some reproach, "and I'm not completely comfortable with doing that either, so at least indulge me a little bit, please."
"Sure," muttered Amanda, sullenly, as she crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, toward the barren desert wasteland at the side of the road. "Just saying I don't like the guy, that's all. It's your car, your rules. Listen to whatever you want."
"Thank you," Connett said, feeling a small tinge of guilt for having snapped at her, but not enough so he felt the need to apologize. And instead he pressed on to wherever the road would take him, having some idea of the town he was headed for, since he had been around these parts before (though it had been ten years ago at least, so his knowledge of this area had dimmed considerably since then), though hadn't known how long it would take him to get there, nor if the gas tank would hold until he reached the nearest town.
* * *
As he kept driving, Connett eventually passed a sign which read:
MALSUN FLATS
10 MILES
"Looks like we're headed toward a town," Connett told Amanda. "Maybe my gas will hold out after all, at least until I can fill it up at the nearest gas station." He could only hope that this was true, though the gas gauge now seemed lower than before. Perhaps only a millimeter below where it had hung before, but it seemed to be diminishing too fast, leaving him feeling even more urgent to make it to the town.
It was Malshun Flats, which brought back some bad memories of when he had visited ten years ago, when he had suffered those life-threatening injuries, leaving behind residual aches along his hip even to this very day, which, phantom though they may be (though perhaps not psychological after all--he had no way to be sure, but wanted to tell himself that), still pulsated dully even now, a reminder of what he had been through. But the mental anguish had long since passed over him, and he hadn't even thought of what had happened most of the time (though hadn't returned to Malshun Flats since his injuries up until now, nor had he any great desire to). And he had expected to pass through the town regardless, though wouldn't stay any great length unless he had to, which he now did, since he was in desperate need of gas. Still, he thought that surely he could come in here. It wasn't too traumatic, nor was he the only one who had been hit by a car and nearly killed. Stephen King himself had been run over back in 1999 or 2000 and still managed to survive, to continue writing, and live a happy life.
On the radio, Michael Savage continued to rant and campaign against the ACLU, the democrats, and anyone else he disagreed with, but Amanda was no longer complaining, and had stopped quite a while ago, after Connett had snapped at her.
Instead, she appeared wistful, with a sentimental smile on her face as they quickly passed the green and white sign proclaiming that Malshun Flats was still ten miles away. "I grew up in that town," she told him. "Lived there until I was thirteen, then moved to Reno and haven't returned since then, though I've wanted to. Just never got around to it."
When she was thirteen, which would have been ten years ago, around 1993, right around the time of Connett's injuries. With his left hand gripped loosely to the steering wheel, he massaged his right hand lightly over his right hip, where metal still remained fused to bone to keep the hip in one piece, shuddering even now, still not used to having the metal in his body, even after all these years.
"Yeah, I went to Malshun Flats for a business trip around 1993," he told her flatly.
"How did that go?" she inquired.
"Not too well," he replied shakily. "Some kid, drunk off his ass, ran me over one night and nearly killed me."
She shook her head, almost looking at him with sympathy, then said: "Not too well at all, I gather."
"No, it went pretty badly. I had to get a metal hip," he said. "Never could quite get used to having metal in my body, either. I'm happy to be alive, though. I almost didn't make it. I needed a blood transfusion, but I'm B negative, which is the most rare blood type, so they had some problems find compatible blood for me."
"But you were able to get a transfusion."
"Of course I was," he said, laughing. "I wouldn't be alive if I hadn't."
She nodded. "Yeah, and then I would still be walking to the nearest gas station in the blazing sun, sweating and feeling ready to pass out."
"And eventually end up dead, most likely," Connett added.
Amanda scoffed, rolled her eyes, and then crossed her arms over her chest as she stuck out her tongue at Connett. "Sure," she scoffed, rolling her eyes back, "rub my nose in it, why don't you?"
"You do know how dangerous it is picking up hitchhikers, though. The risk that I took letting you in the car so you wouldn't dehydrate and die looking or waiting for help."
"Of course I know," she retorted. "You keep reminding me every five seconds."
"Well, I'm just speaking the truth, that's all."
"If its such a big deal, you can let me out here," she said, not without some resentment. "I can make it, I'm sure. I'll be fine."
Connett considered this for a moment and had even slowed the Jeep from seventy miles per hour to sixty, then fifty, and finally forty, before he pressed steadily against the accelerator and began to pick up speed once again. "No point," he said, glancing toward her for a second before he put his eyes back to the darkening road before him once more. "I figure, if you were gonna attack me, you would've done it by now, so hopefully I'm safe."
"You're perfectly safe," Amanda assured him, with a hint of sarcasm. "I have neither the desire, nor the capabilities of attacking you, so don't worry."
Connett's jeep passed a green sign with white text proclaiming that Malshun Flats was now a mere five miles away, and he grinned at what Amanda had just said, as he stroked his hand lightly over his bald pate.
"That's definitely good to know. Very comforting."
And then Connett sighed as he looked down upon the gas gauge, which was growing way too close to the empty mark. Almost out of gas, he thought with a sigh, and that thought was not very comforting at all.
* * *
Once again, Connett gazed obsessively at the gas gauge of his Jeep Wrangler, looking down as the needle pointed now toward the empty mark. Almost out of gas, he thought again dismally. This is getting way too fucking close! He now put his hand over the top of his barren forehead, where once grew thick tufts of dark hair that he would brush aside, but which now remained only the smooth, shiny flesh of his scalp. He then turned toward Amanda. "I'm not sure we're gonna make it to the nearest gas station," he said uneasily.
Amanda shrugged. "Looks like I'm walking to it after all."
"At least you'll have some company, though."
"I guess," she said, then grinned. "And at least I won't have to listen to that ignorant, bigoted idiot Michael Savage anymore."
Connett chose not to dignify that comment with a response other than a light chuckle to himself as his eyes remained once more glued to the road. He decelerated, then accelerated once more, the Jeep slowing down drastically, only to speed up once again as he blinked his eyes and gazed at the thinning forest of cactuses, the barren sand fields, tumbleweed, and the mountains and plateaus outside. Up ahead, he could see the green sign with white text which now proclaimed that he was arriving not at his destination, but rather a pit stop along the way, one which this time he would have to take:
NOW ENTERING MALSHUN FLATS
POPULATION 200
"Looks like we made it after all," Connett said, grinning triumphantly. "Now all we have to do is find a gas station."
And as if on cue, the jeep's engine finally died and the car slowed to a halt on its own, with Connett swerving it carefully to the side of the road as the tired finally stopped spinning and the jeep remained still.
"Shit," he grunted, his fists clenching into tight fists. "We're out of gas!" He brought his fist down like a hammer upon the steering wheel, sending the horn blaring loudly. "Son of a bitch!"
"Calm down," said Amanda, holding his wrist almost tenderly as solace, to cool down his anger. "There's a gas station here somewhere, I'm sure. We just have to find it."
"Do you think my jeep will be okay here?"
She smiled, almost giggling. "Of course it will be. Malshun Flats has virtually no crime rate whatsoever, last time I checked. So unless things have changed drastically since I moved out, then I think we should both be safe and so will your car."
"Yeah, I'm sure you're right," he said as they both stepped out of the jeep. "Do you remember where the closest gas station was?"
She nodded. "Yeah, I think so. When I lived here, we only had one."
"Long as it isn't too far away," he said, and then headed off to the trunk to grab a jacket. "Might get pretty cold," Connett said to Amanda as he wrapped the sleeves of his jacket tightly around his waste. "I don't have an extra jacket. Are you sure you're gonna be okay?"
She nodded. "I know. I used to live here. But don't worry--I'll be fine, I think. It shouldn't even take us that long to get to the gas station and back."
"I can leave you in the car--" Connett began, but then cut it off. Not that he had anything of value, anything actually worth stealing in the car, and he had left his wallet with all of his credit cards safely tucked away in his pocket. Still, for a number of reasons he didn't feel comfortable with the idea of leaving her behind in his jeep alone, though was well aware that it wasn't as though she would drive off with it either. "Yeah, I'm sure you'll be fine," he said, trying to remain calm and feign an amiable smile.
Amanda nodded in agreement.
And with that said, they made their way into Malshun Flats.
* * *
As they ventured further into Malshun Flats, the rural outskirts of the small desert town quickly gave way to a residential neighborhood, one which seemed a bit too quiet even for a peaceful small town that was reputed (as far as Amanda could testify) to be virtually crime free. Connett wouldn't have attributed deal of the hustle and bustle of metropolitan city life to a small town like such as this, with barely a population of two hundred, yet activity now seemed to be stagnant, and when he consulted his watch, the watch told him that it was only a few minutes past eight o'clock, with the sun not even entirely set. On the two-lane street he walked down were many houses lined on both sides of the road, yet each one without any lights showing through the window, and if one were to look through the window, Connett had a feeling that they wouldn't see anybody sitting in their living rooms or bedrooms reading or watching TV either. He didn't know how knew it, but intuition insisted just as much. There were many cars parked to the side of the streets and in driveways, but each one sat idly, and the road remained completely clear of both drivers as well as other pedestrians out taking a stroll. Within some of the driveways were basketball hoops nailed above garage doors, but no kids or teenagers were out shooting hoops, playing horse, or in the middle of any kind of game. And on the streets, he could not see or hear any children playing, giggling, skipping, or even walking by or standing around. It almost beyond silence, for out here, not a single dog barked, nor was there any quiet hum of a car driving by, even at a distance. The only sounds made now were Amanda and Connett's own footfalls as they ventured further up the residential street.
"I don't remember it being this quiet," Amanda commented eerily as she instinctively drew closer to Connett.
"I'm sure it means nothing," Connett replied, trying to convince himself as well as her. "This is a small town, not a metropolitan city. I'm sure maybe they are just sitting down eating dinner inside today...or maybe taking an early nap."
"The whole town is taking a nap?" she said incredulously, her eyes veering toward each of the windows of each of the houses that they passed, as she began to shiver. "I know that this is a quiet town and all, but still...all this silence...just seems like a bad sign...a bad omen. I don't know." She sighed and drew even closer, allowing Connett to hold her in his arms and give her some comfort, despite whatever tension had built between the two of them since they had met and Connett had offered her a ride. "I'm just saying that it seems a bit...too quiet, that's all. Know what I mean?"
Connett nodded. "Yeah, I know. But I wouldn't worry too much about it. Lets just concentrate on finding a gas station so we can get the gas and go back to the car."
"But you don't even have a container to put it in."
Connett threw his hands outward when he realized that Amanda was right. He had no container to carry the gas in, nor had he ever carried such a container in his jeep, because he had never once anticipated a need for one. Well, looks like I found plenty of need for it after all, he cursed himself for being so ill-prepared for these kinds of situations. "I'm sure that we can find one once we get there," he said matter-of-factly.
"Even so, it will only fit about a gallon of gas, I'd think."
"Yeah, but it'll be enough, hopefully, to get us to the gas station, and then I can fill it up there and get to where I wanna go."
"Sounds like a plan to me," Amanda said, and smiled.
* * *
But when they reached the Mobil gas station, Connett found to his chagrin that it had been closed. Inside the Mobil Mart, the lights were out. No gas station attendant had been on shift, nor had any cars been at any of the three islands, pumping gas from any of the gas tanks. "This can't be happening?" he muttered to himself as his eyebrows raised. "I mean, come on, don't ya think its a little early to be closed?"
"I don't understand," Amanda murmured, perplexed. "Its supposed to be open twenty-four hours a day. At least it was when I lived here."
Connett hurried toward the glass entrance door to the Mobil Mart, which didn't look very large, looking through the window from the inside, perhaps a mere fifty to a hundred square feet, with the cash register to the left, a mere twenty feet away. Within that small space, he could see a two shelves with candy bars, gum, and other assorted snacks, and next to the shelves was a refrigerator with a clear glass door, storing various soft drinks. Yet inside the lights were out, and there were no lights within the refrigerator either, leaving the beverages to sit there, going warm and flat in dry, hot air. Then he looked on the sign displaying the hours when the Mobil Mart and the Mobil gas station were opened, and sure enough, it was supposedly open twenty-four hours a day.
"Looks like its closed now," Connett mused aloud.
"A master of the obvious, aren't you?" Amanda said with a nervous giggle.
Connett turned toward one of the gas pumps, wondering what would happen if he were to scan one of his credit cards to try and active it, to try and pump some gas. Probably nothing, he told himself. Doesn't look like the things are even on.
He considered throwing a garbage can into the window of the Mobil Mart to see if an alarm would go off when the window pane shattered, but decided against it, and instead turned toward the small building that was Mobil Mart, glimpsing through the dark windows once more and brushing his thigh against the rugged brick surface that was the building's exterior wall.
"I think we entered a ghost town," Amanda murmured.
"Looks like things have changed a bit more than you or I thought in the past ten years," Connett responded with a dismal sigh. "The question is: Where did everyone go? They couldn't have just vanished without a trace."
"I don't know. It doesn't make any sense."
Amanda went to the left side of the building, where a pay phone was, and lifted the receiver and put it to her ear for a few minutes as she fished through her purse for a quarter, then stopped searching as she held the receiver of the phone closer and tighter into her ear. "The phone is dead," she said. "I can't get a dial tone."
"So no one lives here, everything's closed, and nothing works."
"Looks like it," she agreed, bewildered, as she hung the receiver back onto the cradle and walked toward the front of the Mobil Mart once again. "But what could have caused this?"
"I don't know," he said, pausing to consider for a few minutes.
He turned to his right and saw a newspaper machine standing a few feet to the right of the glass entrance door of the Mobil Mart. He hunkered over, looking through the window--with the dim glow of a setting sun granting some illumination, he was able to make out what the newspaper had said. It was a local paper: The Malshun Flats Gazette--and was dated September 12, 2001, almost two years ago. It was on the front page cover that he found the front page headline with a photo beneath the headline of a blond man with clusters of skin boils over both cheeks and over his neck, which had immediately grabbed his attention:
MYSTERIOUS PLAGUE CONTINUES TO RAGE MALSHUN FLATS!
CDC now sets up quarantine of the entire town.
"Holy shit...I think I found something!" Connett exclaimed.
He fished through his pockets and brought out a hand full of quarters, doubtful that the newspaper machine would even still work, since the gas pumps and the phone didn't work, but decided to try anyway, and so inserted the quarters into the slot and then pulled it open with a sharp tug, surprised that it had opened, relieved that perhaps at least one thing in the town had worked after all, and perhaps that maybe (a faint glimmer of hope on his part, he knew) that other things in the town might work as well. Best not to get his hopes up, however, as the lock might have been broken at some point a long time ago, jammed a bit, but still broken and able to be opened with enough force, whether he had inserted the money or not. If that were the case, he would have wasted fifty cents, but that, of course, was the least of his worries.
Connett held the paper in his hands and began reading to himself.
As the days go by, more and more people in Malshun Flats have succumb to the mysterious plague, dying off by the dozens, it seems. The few scientists and doctors that have actually survived thus far have studied the plague and ascertained that there is a four-hour incubation period, followed by the formation of skin boils clustering over the face and neck area and lesions throughout the body, as well as swollen glands in the throat making it difficult to swallow, and severe fevers, fatigue, and dizzy spells. Once contracted, the disease can kill a healthy young person within twenty-four hours or less.Strict quarantines have already been established by the CDC, who are not allowing anybody into or out of the Malshun Flats borders, while a few military personnel continue to stand vigilant, keeping order in the midst of impending outbreaks of panic, riots, and looting.
"I've never seen anything like it," says Doctor Philip Scanlon, Malshun Flats resident who has been trying to determine, without success thus far, the origin of this mysterious and deadly virus...
"What is it?" Amanda asks, shaking Connett's arm frantically.
Connett held the paper in his hands for a moment longer as a cooling breeze swept by and ruffled the pages, before he handed it over to her and said: "See for yourself."
And so she read the article for herself, her eyebrows raising at first, her eyes widening as her mouth dropped open in shock. She blinked twice, then threw the paper aside, sighing as she closed her eyes, as though she were about to cry. "I don't believe this," she said. "That disease...it wiped everyone out. Oh God...how could this have happened?"
"I'm sorry." Connett drew closer to her, putting an around her shoulder and offering comfort as her eyes grew misty with tears.
"I grew up in this town," she sobbed. "This is where I was born and raised. And now, its gone. My past is gone and everyone I knew growing up is dead."
Amanda sobbed again as tears spilled down her cheeks, unable to say anything more. She pressed her face against Connett's chest and cried, sniffling and sobbing heavily as Connett brushed a hand over her sand-colored shoulder-length hair and then rubbed the small of her back soothingly, offering her comfort and solace for her loss as best he could.
* * *
"Doctor Scanlon was my pediatrician," Amanda told Connett, sniffling wetly, but having had calmed down. They sat at the curb by the street in front of the Mobil Gas station, looking up at the empty town ahead, full of houses that were no longer inhabited and shops standing, their external structure enduring, but no longer in business. A tumbleweed drift past the fire hydrant across the street, but neither Connett nor Amanda paid it much heed. Amanda was still sobbing, with a few intermittent tears rolling down her cheeks and her face now smudged in mascara, but otherwise seemed to have regained at least some of her composure, and now stared ahead only reflectively, almost wistfully, as she spoke of Doctor Scanlon. "When I was a kid...and got sick, I saw him. He was a pediatrician. I don't know why the CDC would have appointed him to do the experimentation."
"He had a medical background," Connett said, with his arm around her shoulder.
His distrust in her had fled him the moment she had realized what had happened to the town a little while ago and had broken down crying in his arms. Instead, he felt only sympathy for her, wanting to do something for her to make the pain go away, but not knowing what, if anything, he could do to alleviate her grief and anguish at having lost the town of her childhood, so instead merely held her, offering comfort as best he could. The proverb You can never go home again sprang to his mind, and he almost said it aloud, but bit it back at the last minute. It seemed more than just a bit insensitive at a time like this, so instead he just held her and said nothing.
"I know," she said and sniffed. "What I mean is...he lived here. He was one of us in this small town, so I wouldn't have thought that he would have gotten it himself."
"He would have been the most familiar with this town and everyone in it and would have had a good deal of insight into the disease. So it would make sense that he would be involved in investigating this disease and finding out what it was. Plus maybe he didn't get it right away, but towards the end. Or maybe he didn't get it at all."
Amanda sniffed and nodded, closing her eyes.
"I can't believe I hadn't heard about what happened. I mean, okay, so I lived in Salt Lake City, Utah for the past ten years and hadn't gone back since, but still. I would think that I should have heard something about what happened, but I honestly had no idea." She squeezed her eyes shut and Connett thought she might begin to cry again and braced himself for the outpour of tears, drawing her closer, but while her mouth quivered and an errant teardrop scrolled down her face, she was otherwise able to retain her composure, her voice only slightly distorted. "I wanted to come back here to see how everything was, to see if I couldn't find some of my old friends again, and you know, to just see how everything changed. I thought it would all be fine." She paused for a long time, sobbing and burying her face in her hands. "Boy was I wrong."
"I hadn't heard anything about what happened either," Connett told her. "Keep in mind that at the time this was happening, America was still recovering from the terrorist attacks of nine-eleven. That was the main thing in the news and all anybody really seemed to care about. It even drowned out all that bullshit about Chandra Levi missing."
Amanda laughed humorlessly, then sobbed once more. "Yeah, that really freaked me out. Never expected it, and the idea of the US getting attacked--
"Well, I'm afraid of flying anyway, you know? That's why I drove over here. I figured it would be cheaper anyway, and I certainly didn't expect any car problems."
Again, Connett had no idea what to say, and only nodded and said nothing.
"You don't think we're gonna get this, do you?" Amanda asked suddenly, another frenzy seeming to build up within her. "I mean, could that disease still be in the air, infecting us? Are we gonna start developing symptoms in a couple hours?"
Connett shook his head, but remained unsure, as a feeling of uneasiness washed over him, and he tried to rationalize everything, to tell her and himself as well that it was simply impossible. "I doubt it," he explained to her, hoping to hide the growing apprehension in his own voice. "I mean, I'm not a scientist or doctor or anything, but I don't think this think would remain dormant in the air this long. Its been two years almost since it wiped out the town. Doesn't make sense that it would stick around this long." And then, as a mental note, he added to himself, but did not say out loud: I just hope to God that I'm right.
"Yeah, I hope you're right," she said, nodding as though she could read his thoughts.
They both rose to their feet and looked around, as Connett said: "Thing we gotta worry about now is what to do? We have no car, no gas, nothing in working order, in the middle of nowhere, and it seems no way of getting outta here either."
Amanda only looked at him and grimaced, her eyes growing teary once more. "They're all dead," she sobbed and whimpered. He hugged her, and she broke down and cried over his shoulder once again.
* * *
"That's where I used to go to school," Amanda said, pointing to the small, one-story brick building with the banner etched in stone over the double-door entrance reading MALSHUN FLATS ELEMENTARY. She had once more gained her composure, with only a few intermittent sobs, her eyes glistening beneath the glint of a setting sun. "It was very small, but probably for the better. Smaller classrooms meant that teachers were able to pay greater focus on each of the individual students. And while I hated school, it was still all right in a way. I had a lot of friends. Most people seemed to like me, anyway.
"I suppose I was a bit of a snob by the time I reached high school, but luckily I have humbled and matured a bit since then. I guess having a major secret and then having someone who I thoughtwas my best friend gossip about it to everyone else has a tendency to do that to you." She laughed bitterly. "That was on my senior year, too, and I bet no one had ever forgotten. But by then I was out of Malshun Flats and living in Utah. Oh well--wasn't the end of the world, though I hope never to see any of my classmates in high school again."
"What was this big secret anyway?" Connett inquired.
Amanda blushed, and considered for a moment, then said. "Its not important now. But it changed me. Up until then I was a bit too much of a prissy little bitch for my own good. The humiliation of being exposed made me a bit more open-minded and made me realize that we all have embarrassing or strange facets to our personalities. I guess you could say it knocked me off my high horse a few pegs." She laughed quietly, almost bitterly, then sighed ruefully. "But if I could do it all over again, I never would have trusted that 'friend' of mine with my secret."
Connett himself had never been popular among his peers during his school career, and had spent most of his time in high school getting picked on by some, while others beat the living shit out of him and humiliated him on a daily basis. Knowing that if he and Amanda had been the same age and had been in high school at the same time and in the same school, that she too would have hated him didn't offer the least bit of comfort (and if that had been the case, he supposed he would have happily left her behind in the desert to die) wasn't the least bit comforting but he decided it best not to say anything. High school had been a long time ago--fifteen years since he had graduated, and never once looked back and didn't want to either. As a child, people were always saying that he should enjoy being young and that when he got older, he would wish he were a kid again, but at the age of thirty-two, he found that aside from the hair loss, he liked getting older. People treated him better now than they ever did when he was a kid, and the new responsibilities that were shifted his way upon adulthood seemed a fair tradeoff for the respect and courtesy he now garnered from people.
"Not sure what any of this has to do with Malshun Flats, since you weren't even living here at the time of your fall from grace," Connett said, though not at all dispassionately.
Amanda sobbed and sniffed, sighing. "I know. I'm sorry. My mind's wandering, that's all. I don't know. I still can't fathom the fact that this whole town, the town I grew up in, could have just died off without me even knowing about it."
"I know. Its okay," he said, whispering soothingly into her ear and kissing her lightly over the cheek. He hugged her again, holding her tightly in his arms as he felt her warm tears sprinkling over his skin as she kissed him back over the cheek, then the corner of his lip. He inhaled and the smell of her hair and sweat filled his nose and pulled her even closer.
"Thank you," she whispered, barely audible.
"For what?"
"For giving me a ride. And for being here, giving me comfort in my time of grief." He kissed her again, as if to say you're welcome, and she smiled, nearly melting in his arms, before she kissed him and finally released from his embraced, began to shiver.
Up ahead, to the side of the school, Connett could see the silhouette of a man standing hunched over, creeping forward, a few inches behind a drifting tumbleweed. The details of the man, Connett couldn't make out, but he somehow guessed that perhaps the man could give a few more answers as to what might have happened to the small town of Malshun Flats, answers that neither Connett nor Amanda would have gotten from the newspaper. At the very least, the sight of a man (or a woman--it was impossible to be sure at this distance), meant that there was life here in this town still, and that Connett and Amanda weren't alone here after all.
"I see someone," Connett whispered.
Amanda's teary eyes raised in alarm, but she said nothing.
"Wait here," Connett ordered as he pursued the man by the side of the school. The man disappeared in the darkened shadows and Connett hurried after him.
* * *
"Hey, wait!" Connett called after him as he stopped by the side of the school, panting and out of breath, his heart now racing as he stepped forward, taking in a few shallow breaths.
He thought of Amanda, standing out there and alone, now vulnerable, and wondered who the man he might have seen could have been? Perhaps it was a good man, who meant no harm, though possibly driven insane by the events that had happened in this town two years ago, but was otherwise harmless. Or perhaps it was someone who had more malicious intentions, a real psychopath who wanted to kill both Connett and Amanda. Or perhaps he wanted to draw Connett's attention so he and whatever friends that might have been with him could get Amanda alone and rape her. I never should have left her alone like that, Connett thought, cursing himself. What was I thinking?
Standing before Connett now was the man he had seen and followed. The man was draped in a burlap robe, which was little more than rags hanging over his body by strings connecting the loosening fabric, as though it were a layer of coarse skin slowly shedding and pealing off. The robe covered his head, except for a small opening over his face, but his face was still well concealed by shadows. He held something in his hands that looked like a buck knife. The blade gleamed in the setting sun. The man stood there, pacing back and forth but saying nothing.
"Who are you?" Connett asked, but received no answer. "Relax, I'm not gonna hurt you. I got someone with me and she means you no harm either. We just want answers, that's all." The man shook his head and backed away. Connett put out his hands in a gesture meant to reveal that he came in peace, was unarmed, and meant no harm, all the while trembling and beginning to sweat. "Hey, maybe we can help each other out a little, you know?"
The man lunged forward and Connett felt the knife's edge carving into his chest and screamed as blood began to pour from the wound. He backed away as he looked down at the vertical line now etched in his flesh, just above the nipples. Connett looked down, aghast at the sight of his blood now appearing to ooze in freshets from his wound, soaking his shirt as it rained upon the sandy surface below and hunched over slightly, feeling the hot liquid pouring over his stomach. He groaned as hot pain flared within the slash wound, making his eyes water. Connett took a few quavering steps away from his assailant, then looked up, blinking the water that threatened to flood his eyes.
"You cut me...you son of a bitch!"
The man lurched forward again and went for another swipe, this time to Connett's throat, but Connett pivoted to the side and blocked the strike, grabbing the man's wrist, then thrusting his forearm just below the man's shoulder and could feel and hear the man's bone snapping apart. He released his hold and the man recoiled, his right arm now broken and hanging askew from his shoulder as Connett stood, watching and on guard as his feet floundered on the sand, which now seemed too slippery, and his chest continued to ooze blood.
Something hit suddenly at the small of his back and he felt sharp pain pulsating all the way up his spine as his arms shook convulsively and he staggered forward before falling on his hands and knees, his spine still aching, and he feared that it might snap in half. He let out another howl of pain as he rose slowly and shakily to his feet before looking behind to see his assailant, another man in a brown burlap robe that had been tearing at the seams, this one a few inches taller than the last.
A closed fist struck against Connett's jaw and he was sent reeling backward into the wall, the back of his head smacking hard against the brick surface before his feet seemed to have been pulled from beneath him, sending him careening down, his buttocks hitting the sand. There was warm, thick moister now dripping in rivulets over the back of his head, soaking into what little hair he had left as it washed over the nape of his neck. Blood also now dripped from his broken lip, and his hands and feet went numb for a few seconds as he looked up, seemingly blinking in and out of consciousness.
"Oh my God, what's going on?" Amanda called, hurrying toward them. Connett looked to the left and saw her appearing suddenly in the darkness, her mouth dropping open as her face contorted. She let out a shrill scream that pierced Connett's ear-drums and seemed to squeeze his head painfully, as though the force of her voice were crushing his skull.
As the tingling numbness in his hands and feet tapered off , Connett looked up--his eyes watering, making the dimming rays of sunlight appear like prisms through his tears--and saw three men, brown silhouettes standing before him, circling along his field of vision as their eyes, hidden in the murky shadows, pinned him down.
"Please," she pleaded as fresh tears spilled down her face, "please don't hurt him."
Connett then looked to his three assailants once more. One of them brought his foot up into the air above Connett's head, then drove the heel of his foot like an axe through Connett's bald pate. Connett felt for only a split second the impact the man's foot made against his head, and had enough time just to hear Amanda scream once more, before he slipped into the void of unconsciousness.
* * *
When he came to, Connett found himself in a prison cell, lying on a cot and looking up at the stony ceiling as it danced before his eyes. He reached up and felt the bandages, like a helmet sitting askew over his head, and assumed that his captors, whoever they might have been, had bandaged up the wounds they had inflicted, then looked beneath his shirt and realized that he had been right. Head still hurts like hell, though, he thought and groaned as a sharp bolt of pain coursing through his skull, that familiar sensation of his head being crushed.
He looked around and saw that his prison cell was being lit up through candle light. By each of the three corners was a single candle over a tall metallic stand, casting a golden glow over the prison cell. It was as though he were being locked in a medieval dungeon, with the candlelight giving off a sort of gothic atmosphere throughout. He suspected that this was how the rest of the building was being lit up as well.
Across the room was Amanda, sitting curled in a fetal ball, her face pressed tightly into her knees. Her eyes moved to look up at Connett, but the rest of her face remained hidden. "You okay?" she asked, her voice muffled, and Connett could hear her sobbing quietly. She was crying again, and he suspected that it was no longer only about the loss of the people of this town.
"Yeah," he said, wincing as he rose into a sitting position. "How about you?"
Although she remained in a fetal position, Connett could tell she was shaking her head subtilely. "No...I think I'm dying."
"What do you mean?" But already he had some idea.
"Whatever killed the people of this town, whatever mysterious plague they mentioned in the paper, I think...oh God...I think I have it!"
"What do you mean you have it? It can't be. I mean--"
But instead of answering, Amanda merely rose to her feet, slowly removing her hands from her face, which was gaunt, and appearing pale even in dim candlelight. Her eyeballs were sunken deeper into her skull, while dark circles appeared beneath her eyelids. Her face hadn't thinned, in fact her cheeks seemed to swell a bit, though to only a subtle degree, and Connett could now see over her brow the formation of blisters resulting from her high fever. But this wasn't the main thing that had caught his attention, nor was it the way she seemed to stagger forward, as though she were drunk.
What was most shocking, what seemed to seal Amanda's fate and confirm all of Connett's growing suspicions and worries were the clusters of skin boils enflaming her face, clustering over both cheeks, just below her eyes, appearing to swell painfully like opaque, red-tinted blisters ten times their normal size. Connett's heart sank in deep despair as he realized now that it was the same pattern, the very same symptoms as displayed by the blond man in the newspaper, with a few skin boils protruding around the side of her neck as well. Upon closer inspection, Connett could see thin runners of puss trickling from the tips of her skin boils, down her cheek and dripping below the shoulders, then looked away in revulsion, suddenly feeling nauseous.
"Oh my God," he murmured.
"I don't wanna know how bad I look," she whispered, then broke off into a nagging coughing fit, squeezing her hand over her throat as tendrils of saliva sprayed from her lips. As the coughing tapered off, she looked at him again with glazing eyes. "I must look terrible, but I don't wanna know. I feel terrible. My skin feels like its on fire." She paused, then sighed, groaning miserable as she looked up at Connett again with watering eyes. "And my throat is absolutely killing me," she finished, then coughed hoarsely once more as if to further illustrate this statement. "Christ, how could this have happened?"
"I don't know," Connett said.
"I thought you said we were safe, that we wouldn't get this thing! Goddamn it, Mike, you told me we were safe!" She was screaming now and crying hysterical, and through her cries, Connett could almost hear the wretched sounds of her throat cracking open from the exertion she now foisted upon it.
"I'm sorry. Damn it, I said I thought we were safe. I don't know anymore about this shit than you do!"
She calmed down once more, saying nothing, uttering only a few faint sobs. "I know," she said finally, sighing. "I'm sorry. Its just...well, I just learned that everyone in the town I grew up in is dead, and now I'm dying, too." She sobbed, then laughed grimly. "I guess you could say its been a stressful day, that's all. I'm sorry I yelled at you."
Connett nodded sympathetically.
Amanda unbuttoned her blouse, then pulled it open, exposing the area of her chest, above her breasts, revealing dark red lesions radiating along every inch of flesh, as though her chest had been set afire and she were now suffering third degree burns. It was one huge lesion, actually, that washed over her, still expanding while it split apart, branching off, stopping just along the bottom of her throat, while also eating away parts of both her breasts as well, leaving them inflamed like the rest of her torso.
"This is how I knew I had it," she explained, her voice hoarse and distorted, sounding a bit deeper now than it had been before. "I had taken a nap on the floor while you were out. I don't know how I managed to sleep given the circumstances, but I did. I was feeling afraid and depressed, and started crying once they threw us in here, and I guess I cried myself to sleep. I don't know how long, but when I awoke, I felt like someone dumped acid down my throat and on my chest. That's how I knew I was infected." She massaged her throat and sobbed quietly, but otherwise spoke in a flat tone, explaining everything strictly matter-of-factly. "I could also feel the skin boil around my face."
"I'm so sorry," Connett whispered as he felt a lump in his throat.
She looked at him and nodded. "Yeah...I'm sorry, too."
* * *
Connett and Amanda had now switched places, and it was now Amanda who was lying on the cot, staring hazily up at the ceiling while Connett kneeled beside her, caressing her feverish, blistering forehead, offering her what little comfort he could.
He looked toward the bars again and saw looking into his cell was a young boy no older than twelve, dressed in gray rags that seemed too tight for him, and was bare-food, his feet covered in curds of sand that seemed to seep beneath his toenails as well. The boy's face was hideously scarred, disfigured, as though parts of it would simply fall off and expose portions of his skull with gleaming gore. The scars over his cheek were pink and peeling away, but still well defined. The scars of skin boils he had had many years ago. Although he had survived, the infection still lived within him, keeping him hideous to look at, his face puffy and covered with boils and lesions, some of them old and drying, while a few other skin boils still fresh and swelling. But Connett couldn't look away, for as much as he wanted to, he needed some answers.
"What the hell's going on here?"
But the boy wouldn't answer, only stood, trembling, gazing at him blankly, as though he were catatonic.
"Kid, you need to get us outta here." He drew the boy's attention toward Amanda. "She's sick. She needs to be in a hospital or something. I think she's dying...I don't know. But damn it, kid, you need to get us outta here right now!"
The boy shuffled his feet back, then said in an emotionless drone that creeped Connett out: "Doctor Scanlon's gonna wanna talk to you."
Then he walked away.
* * *
A little while later, a middle-aged man appeared outside the cell. Through thinning strands of gray hair, Connett could see the man's dark red scalp, where tiny lesions grew like darkened pimples between clusters of thinning hair. On his cheeks were the same scars of skin boils as that of the boy's, like dark red inflamed tumors clustering together and eating away at the man's cheeks, nose, and forehead. His coarse, chapped hands--which split open at the knuckles, trickling fine threads of blood slowly drizzling down his fingers--grasped the bars of the jail cell and he hunched over slightly, his glazed eyes bouncing about through his skull as he peered across to where Connett and Amanda had been, watching them.
"I'm Doctor Philip Scanlon," the man said, and he looked like a doctor as well, albeit a homeless one, if that made sense. Over his chin was a few scruffy strands of facial hair, though the lesions over his chin prevented any beard from fully developing. Unlike the boy, Scanlon wore shoes--black loafers, and Connett could see the subtle protrusion of toes on both feet. Like the stereotypical scientist or doctor, he wore the white lab coat, though his was now coated in stains of dust and sand throughout, and was no longer white, per se, but a dingy shade of gray with random spots of sandy stains throughout. The white coat flapped open, revealing his chest, which was covered with scars encircling throughout, older lesions from his infection two years ago, along with some fresher sores enflaming the scarred flesh. While he wore a red tie, the bottom half had at some point somehow been cut off, leaving the tie ending somewhere around Scanlon's solar plexus. Scanlon's demeanor seemed calm; he appeared to be deranged, yet somehow still eerily lucid, and had creeped Connett out even more so than the boy had done just a little while ago.
"What the hell's going on here? Who are you people, and what do you want with us?" Connett demanded, before turning his attention back toward Amanda--who had fallen asleep once again--and stroked her bangs back. He turned back toward Scanlon. "She needs a hospital bad, so how about letting us go...please."
Scanlon shook his head. "I'm sorry, but its not my call to make."
"Well whose call is it to make? Goddamn it, this is serious. She may be dying! We need to get her some help immediately!"
"She is dying, I'm afraid," Scanlon confirmed. "She's got the disease...the one that killed most of us in this town. She'll most likely be dead within a matter of hours. In the unlikely event that she does survive, she'll be one of us."
"And just who the hell are you people, anyway?"
"We are all that is left of Malshun Flats," Scanlon explained. "There are around ten of us in all...each a different age, both male and females, somewhat of a mixture in race. All with one thing in common: We each got the mysterious disease that swept the town, and we survived, and continue to survive still in this otherwise ghost town. I guess you could call us a leper colony of sorts, though our condition is by no means natural, but something a lot more sinister."
"What do you mean? How is it sinister. Its just a fucking disease."
"We don't have any proof, but many of us believe--myself included--that this disease was man-made," Scanlon went on, his face growing even more grim and haggard as his grip around the bars tightened, secreting a few more blisters of blood from his ruptured knuckles. "We believe that it was created by the government and test on us, and then kept a secret from the people while we were all quarantined. Ask yourself: Did you, prior to this day, know anything about what happened to Malshun Flats?"
Connett shook his head. "No, but the country had a lot more serious matters on their hands at the time this happened, apparently."
"Yeah, the September Eleventh attacks," Scanlon agreed. "After those attacks, we were cut off from the rest of the country and have no idea what happened afterward. But it doesn't matter, for I know that they kept this thing a secret, which leads me to believe that they created this virus in their labs as part of some biological weapon. It was easy to keep it a secret, since everyone was so up in arms about the whole terrorist thing, so even if people had heard about us, they would most likely have forgotten anyway, in all of their fears of further foreign attacks. Being that this was a small, obscure town in the middle of the desert would have also worked in their favor, because unless the media got a whiff of it (which the government worked very hard not to let happen), if this town were to suddenly disappear off the map, not that many people on the outside would even know about it, least of all care all that much."
"That's a nice theory, but it doesn't explain why you captured us in the first place."
"We were acting under orders," Scanlon answered.
"Whose orders?"
"Lord Crimson."
"Lord Crimson?"
Scanlon nodded. "Jack Crimson. He was the sheriff of this town at one time (we're holding you in the jail cells of what used to be the Sheriff's office), and now I guess you could call him our leader. He calls the shots. He saw you wandering around, and ordered us to capture you. We're sorry it went down rather violently, but don't worry, Mister Connett, I fixed you up nicely. The fevers might have fried my brain, but I can still remember a few of the simpler medical procedures, like bandaging you up."
"How do you know my name?"
"I checked your driver's license."
"You went into my wallet?" Connett felt almost outraged, but the current circumstances somehow cut off most of the rage he felt at this violation.
Scanlon nodded. "Don't worry. I put it back where I found it, good as new. I didn't take any money. Money no longer has any value to us here, you see. Its just worthless paper that we might as well wipe our asses with, because that's all its really good for around these parts."
"That's good to know," Connett sighed.
"I checked hers, too"--he pointed toward Amanda, who now began to stir awake, but was still in a daze--"I know her to be Amanda Turner. I was her pediatrician at one time before she moved away." He smiled and uttered a sentimental sigh, and Connett thought for a moment that he might grow teary-eyed in his reminiscence as well. "I'm sorry to see her like this. She was a really good kid. They were all good kids--those I treated--and I was sorry to see them die off, as well. It'll be a shame to see Amanda go. I almost hope she pulls through, but if she does, she'll be condemned to live the way the rest of us live." He sighed again, ruefully this time. "I'm afraid the truth of the matter is that at this point she'll be better off dead."
Then he bowed his head. Connett suspected that after all that had happened and all that this town had endured, genuine emotions such as happiness, fear, anger, and sadness for these people was most likely a thing of the past, but judging by the look on Scanlon's face that whatever he was capable of that passed off for sorrow was what he experienced now. If not for the brutality of their capture, and if it didn't seem almost one hundred percent certain that Connett and Amanda's assailants had been the ones to infect Amanda in the first place, he supposed that he might feel something close to pity for the man standing on the other end of the prison bars.
"Why did you capture us? What good could have possibly come from it?" Connett asked finally.
"We were acting under Lord Crimson's orders, like I told you. The reasons are not for you or me to know at this time, but perhaps later he might explain them to you if he sees fit."
"I think I'd like to talk to Lord Crimson now, please."
"He might want to talk to you later on, but now is not the time. I'm sorry."
"Goddamn it, I want answers now!" Connett yelled, charging toward the prison bars, furious now, as venomous spittle flew from his lips. In his rage, he derived a perverse pleasure at seeing Scanlon shrinking away, recoiling in fear, or whatever passed off as far to him.
Then the look of fear faded from Scanlon's disfigured face and he grinned. "All I can tell you now is that you're not sick at all." His grin widened. "And that is a very good sign."
"What do you mean? Why is that a good sign?"
But Scanlon didn't answer. Instead, he left, leaving Connett grasping and shaking himself against the prison bars.
"What's going on?" Amanda asked, confused, as she looked up from her cot and yawned. "What happened? That was Doctor Scanlon, wasn't it?"
Connett nodded as he turned his attention toward Amanda once more, rushing to her side. "Yeah, it was him. He got infected after all, but survived."
"Yeah, I can see that."
"How are you feeling?"
Amanda broke into another harsh coughing fit, then squeezed her hand along her throat and groaned miserably as her free hand caressed along the skin boils secreting puss and eating away at both her cheeks. "I still feel like total shit." She coughed again, then winced in pain. "What happened? Could you explain to me what he said?"
Connett nodded and sighed, then hesitantly began to explain.
* * *
"I'm really sorry for having gotten you into this," Connett apologized, guilt-stricken, when he had finished explaining that which Scanlon had already explained to him. "You never would've gotten sick like this if I hadn't given you a ride. I should have just went with my original instincts and left you there. You still might have died, but at least you would have had a chance. Maybe someone else would have picked you up without running outta gas, and you would have survived and moved on."
"It was a gamble either way," Amanda said, as she put her hand over his shoulder, a hand, which blissfully enough, as of yet wasn't covered in skin boils and lesions as the rest of her body seemed to have been. "I was headed to this town anyway--it was my destination. Besides, you had no way of knowing what happened here and neither did I, so it's really no one's fault."
Connett sighed, then reluctantly said: "I suppose you're right."
Yet it hadn't alleviated all of Connett's guilt, for there was still the survivor's guilt that ebbed away at him. He thought of what Scanlon said particularly about him: All I can tell you now is that you're not sick at all. And still, Connett didn't know what that was supposed to mean, or why Scanlon might have thought of it as a good sign. But it made him feel guilty because the situation seemed so unfair. He was the one who had brought her here in the first place (though he acknowledged that she would have ended up in this town anyway whether he had taken her or not--but still, he was the one who ended up being here, so for that alone he felt accountable for her condition), yet she was the one to be infected and not him. Though he recognized the irrationality of this desire, a part of him wished that he, too, had been infected, or that she would have been spared altogether and he'd be the one who ended up getting sick. If given the opportunity to switch places with her, Connett wasn't precisely sure if he would actually have gone through with it, if such an offer were to be reality, but right now, the idea had a strange appeal to him, something at the very least worth giving serious consideration.
"Mike," she murmured, opening her mouth to say more, then closing it again, considering long and hard whatever it was she was going to say or to ask of him. Amanda closed her eyes, and her eyelids now were the same shade of red as a piece of raw steak. A few teardrops seeped through the lids, scrolling down, then got lost in the thick bloom of skin boils over both her cheeks. Then she opened her eyes, looking dazedly ahead at him, struggling to come up with the words for whatever it was she needed to say.
"What is it?" Connett asked, his mouth hanging open.
"I'm dead no matter what, right?" she said finally, with a faint sob. "There isn't much hope for me, is there? I got the disease somehow, and once you have it, it accelerates through your body at an abnormal rate, not like most other diseases."
"I'm not a doctor, so don't know much about that stuff--"
"I know, but we both know I'm a goner."
Connett shook his head, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then opened it again. "Most likely, you are dead," he said hesitantly, his voice trailing off. "You're right--there isn't much hope at all. But there's still a chance. The people left in this town, they got it, yet two years later are still alive. Maybe you can survive, too."
Now it was Amanda's turn to shake her head. "No--I don't wanna end up like that. I don't wanna end up like these people. Living in a ghost town, like in some shitty leper colony, as an outcast, and exile, cut off from the rest of the world, from my friends, my family--completely alone and isolated. I don't wanna spend the rest of my life looking like a monster either, not like them. I saw what Scanlon looks like now, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking that way."
"Maybe they'll find a cure eventually," Connett spoke up, doubting his own words.
"I'm not gonna hold my breath," she replied. "And looking at them, whose to say they're out of the woods. While they survived, the virus must be inside them. It has to be, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten it and they wouldn't still be exhibiting symptoms. And maybe they're still dying. They survived the initial day of infection and lived a few years, but if they're still infected, chances are they'll be dead soon. Any day, in fact. For all I know, they're bodies are falling apart the way their minds are crumpling to pieces.
"I'm already starting to lose my mind. My memories are fading quickly. I'm starting to lose who I am...my identity. I'm changing, because of this fucking fever, and soon I won't even be the same person I used to be.
"I need you to do me a favor, Mike."
"What do you need?" he asked, dreading the answer she would give.
"I want...I need you to kill me."
It was out now. He had expected all along that she would make such a request, but hearing it come out of her lips now was still a jarring experience, and he looked at her in disbelief still, knowing that he would be unable to comply with such a request, knowing that he would probably hate himself later for having killed her, even though failure to do so would be to condemn her to the same horrid existence as that of the few remaining residence of Malshun Flats.
"I...I can't," he said, beginning to sob himself, and then swallowed the growing lump in his throat to fight off the impending tears. He rose to his feet, then sat down on the cot next to her as she bent over and rested her head over his lap.
"Please...you have to...I can't live like this...I just can't!"
"I don't know if I can...I've never killed anyone before..."
"Don't think of it as killing me," she said, her voice now distorted as her eyes grew misty with fresh tears. "Think of it as setting me free," she murmured, and could say no more.
Connett thought of how he had had a thing for rescuing the damsel in distress. He hadn't always acted on such an instinct, of course, but quite a few times he had. At times, it had gotten him in trouble. It had gotten him beaten up on a couple of occasions, but he still did it, and usually never regretted doing so later on. Yet now it was beckoning him to do what Amanda had requested, which was to kill her. He wanted to help her, which was in large part why he had picked her up at the side of the road to begin with. If this were a fairy tale, Amanda would be the captured and tormented princess, while he would be the night in shining armor. Yet to save this princess, he would have to kill her. Don't think of it as killing me...Think of it as setting me free. The words echoed through his mind.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut and laying his hands over her head, feeling his fingers cling against the waxy texture of her skin boils. He grimaced, then thrust his hands quickly and shuddered at the sickening crack of Amanda's breaking neck.
Connett opened his eyes and saw that Amanda had stopped moving and stopped breathing. Her neck was now contorted, her head twisted backwards so that while her back was to him, her face was also gazing up at him, her blank, glassy eyes meeting his. Connett reached his hands over her face, then quickly pulled her eyes shut before placing her gently on the ground.
He looked at Amanda one last time, then buried his face in his hands and begun to cry.
* * *
Connett had no idea how long he had been alone in the cell. Minutes? Hours? At this point, it might as well have been days, for there was really no way of telling with any degree of certainty. Time seemed to drag on at the pace of a slug. Connett was starving and his throat was now parched with thirst. There was a good chance that he might die here in this prison cell, but at this point he didn't really care.
Then he heard footsteps, and saw Doctor Scanlon once more standing on the other side of the prison bars. "Just thought I'd come check on you, that's all. How are the two of you holding up."
"How about some food and water?"
"Its the desert, Mister Connett. Water is kinda hard to come by."
"So open up a goddamn cactus," he scoffed, then rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you gotta have some food and water, if you and the others managed to survive here all this time."
He sighed, having already urinated in his hands then gulped it down a few hours ago to quench his thirst, marvelling at the lengths people were willing to go to stay alive, and at the same time dreading having to drink his urine again, should he get thirsty again later on. None of that relieved his hunger, however, for his stomach still rumbled loudly, while his tongue salivated in accordance to his hunger pangs. He thought of eating Amanda's corpse, but refused to go through with it both out of fear of catching the disease (though he hadn't been infected yet and at this point it seemed rather unlikely, thus rendering a moot point) and because doing would seem like a violation, somehow, as though he were defiling her.
"What happened to Amanda?" asked Scanlon, drawing Connett out of his thoughts.
"She's dead," Connett answered listlessly. "I killed her."
She's dead because of YOU, Scanlon, Connett thought, but did not say. YOU brought us here to begin with. You and your buddies, the other infectees. You infected her, and now she's dead because of YOU, you son of a bitch!
"Why did you kill her?"
Connett blinked the tears from his eyes, then looked at him flatly, struggling to keep a straight face, then feigned a grin that probably wasn't the least bit convincing. "Because she asked me to."
Scanlon nodded, sighing. "Yeah, I can understand that. Probably better this way, I suppose. She didn't stand much of a chance...and the shit I've been through...we've all been through...I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."
Connett said nothing and rose to his feet, heading toward one of the candles that still remained lit, and lifted it from its stand, holding the candle in his hand and looking down at the dancing flame for a few minutes, his eyes fixated on the flame, then walked back to the cot, feeling the hot wax slowly melting over his hand.
"What are you doing?" Scanlon asked, bewildered.
Connett shot him a grin, and this time, the grin was genuine. "I can't bury her in here. But you left the candle's running, so I can still give her a cremation."
Connett dropped the candle and watched it fall to the floor by Amanda, cartwheeling in the air as it descending, the flame dancing frantically, before the candle hit her hair, releasing a spark as the flame lit up her hair. The inferno bloomed above her head in a fiery crown (although it didn't really touch her face, as her flesh, without accelerant, wasn't flammable the way her hair had been due to whatever hair spray she might have applied that morning) as the fire engulfed her hair. The stench of the burning flesh of her scalp immediately filled Connett's nose as the smoke filled his lungs, making him gag, inducing a thick, rasping cough. The fire bounced and danced as it swept in a sea of flames over her scalp, shooting out thin strands of flaming hair throughout the prison cell. Connett watched, laughing hysterically and coughing at the same time and beginning to sweat, as Amanda's charred scalp was lit up in an orange glow through the flames, whose heat now began to scorch the top of her forehead as well, just around the bangs.
"Holy shit! Fire!" howled Scanlon as he watched in horror. "Goddamn it, we got a fire here!" He fished into his coat pocket frantically for something, then brought out a key, which nearly slipped through his fingers twice before he thrust it into the keyhole of the prison cell and frantically pulled the cell door open.
The moment he did that, Connett leapt out of his prison cell, tackled Scanlon, and the force of the impact pushed Scanlon backward, his feet floundering as his shoulder blades hit the prison bars of the jail cell on the other side. Still pinning Scanlon to the jail bars, Connett raised his hands and put them over Scanlon's face. Connett growled savagely as his fingers punctured through the skin boils, biting and digging, tearing away at rotting, fetid, charred flesh and feeling thick, hot wetness as blood mingled with fresh puss spurted from the skin boils and soaked his hands, seeping deep into his fingernails. Scanlon let out a shrill bellow of both fear and agony before Connett tossed him aside, sending the man reeling face-first into the prison bars.
Connett hurried away from the bars, to the sheriff's desk (or what used to be the sheriff's desk when this town was still populated) and tore open one of the drawers on the left side, seeing a revolver lying in it, and pulled it out, holding it in his hands and wondering if it still worked, hoping desperately that it was loaded and still functional.
Just as Connett grabbed the gun, another of Malshun Flat's grotesque civilians burst into the room, with the same hideous skin boils, scars, and lesions over his face and body as everyone else had who had lived in the town. This one was bald and bigger than Scanlon, with broad shoulders, a firm and muscular body, and a height that seemed to peak at around six feet, four inches, and was naked from the waste up, wearing only a pair of torn denim pants. In what little flesh that remained unaffected by the scarring, skin boils, and lesions, Connett could see that it had broken into gooseflesh, no doubt from the cold winds outside. Otherwise, the man's face remained gaunt and hideous, yet intense as he bore his sallow teeth at Connett, with that predator gaze that his eyes had been locked into. From the corner of his chapped lips was what appeared to be a runner of rabid froth, covering his chin. The man cracked his knuckles, then balled his hands into tightly clenched fists, making the veins over his forearms protrude like cords through the skin.
"Stay back, you son of a bitch!" Connett shouted as he lifted the revolver and pointed it toward the man, his arm trembling as fresh perspiration ran down his temples.
"Don't listen to him, Evan," Scanlon shouted from a distance, with his hands over his face, as though he were struggling to keep it from falling apart. As Connett looked, even from this distance, he could still see blood dripping thickly from Scanlon's fingers. "Get him! The gun isn't fucking loaded!"
Evan charged toward Connett, slapping the palms of both hands over the surface of the desk as he hoisted himself on top, leaping into the air as though he were about to pounce Connett. Connett pivoted to the side. Evan crouched down, then stepped off the desk and was now standing before Connett, his hands out as though he were about to grasp Connett, shake him like a rag doll, then tear him limb from limb.
"Don't hurt him!" Scanlon shouted frantically, still trying to hold his face together. "We need him alive, goddamn it, so you can't hurt him!"
Evan looked back toward Scanlon for a second, and that was long enough for Connett to make his move. With all of his might, he held the revolver by the barrel, then raised it into the air and brought it down in a swift arc and felt the force of impact as chrome met bone and the butt of the revolver shattered Evan's skull. Blood spurted from the head wound just as a runner of blood dripped from Evan's nose. His eyes rolled all the way back to his sockets, then he fell forward, a toppling tower nearly falling over Connett. Connett took a few steps back, his heart racing and his limbs trembling, and watched as Evan's face slammed against the wooden floor, and then he lay there, bleeding and motionless.
Connett raced toward the door as Scanlon hurried blindly toward him, screaming: "Hey, get back here! Get back here now, you son of a bitch! Shit! Holy shit, he's gettin' away! The son of a bitch is getting away!"
Connett tore the door open and threw himself threw, feeling the cold night winds of the desert whipping against his face and making his eyes water profusely as he continued to run. From behind him, he sensed Scanlon shaking his fist insanely in his direction with a look of pure and unadulterated hatred in his eyes, a look that seemed to cut into the back of his head, while he heard Scanlon continue to shout: "He's getting away! The son of a bitch is getting away! Hurry!"
And as Scanlon continued to shout insanely, Connett continued to run.
* * *
Connett's running eventually slowed to a job, then slowed to a sluggish stroll, and he pressed on, breathing heavily, sweating despite the cold atmosphere of the desert night, and still afraid for his life. Connett was unsure of what direction he had been headed. A part of him wanted to head back to his Jeep Wrangler, but then he remembered that it had been out of gas and therefore wouldn't be of any use to him at all until he'd been able to get a fill up, which seemed unlikely, given the circumstances. Regardless, the longer he strolled, the less likely it seemed that it had been in the direction of his jeep, for hours seemed to have passed after he had left Malshun Flats, yet no sign of his vehicle at all, and nothing else other than empty desert road and a few cactuses to the side in the endless fields of sand and rolling tumbleweed.
As night eventually faded into early dawn, Connett stopped by the side of the road, looking up to watch as the sun slowly began to rise, turning the sky a clear indigo and slowly vanquishing the cool breeze, and looked ahead reflectively.
He considered briefly, if he should somehow make it out of the desert alive, selling the story of what he had been through to a newspaper somewhere. The idea held some appeal, and if the government indeed had orchestrated the disease as Scanlon had theorized, perhaps somehow they might finally be brought to justice for the dastardly crimes they had committed against their own people. He'd have to put himself in quarantine first, of course, to make sure he wasn't infected and couldn't pass it onto anyone else, but afterward, he could sell the story, spread the word somehow.
Everyone's so worried about other dictators like Saddam Hussein killing his own people, Connett thought with a new contempt for the government and for the people who bought into all of their propaganda that he never would have experienced before having entered Malshun Flats the night before. Yet the same shit's happening right here in our own homeland. How ironic! Of course I'm gonna spread the word. How can I not. The people have a right to know.
Don't bother, a nagging, pessimistic voice spoke up. They'll just kill you and cover it up anyway, so what's the point. You think these people will be brought to justice to pay for their crimes? Don't be so naive! If you go forward with this, not only will no one believe you, but you'll wind up disappearing, never to be seen or heard from again.
Connett sighed in defeat, knowing that the voice in his head had probably been speaking the truth. Perhaps in the past it would have been illegal for the government to seize him and make him disappear, perhaps acting as the Secret Police of Russia during the early twentieth century. Yet in this day of the Patriot Act and other radical new forms of national security, it seemed that anything was possible.
Connett also needed to make it out of the desert alive, for he was now the only witness to what had happened to Malshun Flats (though a second-hand witness, for he had only heard the stories and witnessed the aftermath, not the events themselves as they unfolded). If he died, then the world might never know the truth of what had happened two years ago, nor have any idea that anything of the sort had transpired in the first place.
Connett thought of Amanda Turner, and how--had she remained alive--perhaps a romance between the two could have blossomed. But it no longer mattered now, for he was dead and he had killed her. Now that her face was in his mind, he felt the ebbs of guilt eating away at her soul, of how he now had blood on his hands. He had taken a life.
Get over it, he told himself. She was dying anyway, and all you did was put her out of her misery. In the condition she was in, what you did was an act of mercy. She needed to die--it was the only way to end her suffering, and there was no way she'd ever recover, so in that way, what you did was kind of a noble act, if you stop to think about it.
In his head, he knew it to be the truth, but in his heart, he still felt like a murderer.
Connett pressed on, feeling his temples throbbing, his head pounding in pain. The wounds over his head began to itch and burn. As the sun rose further into the sky, it grew warmer. Connett's stomach rumbled with hunger pangs. Somehow, he was both hungry and nauseous at the same time, and this seemed a most unpleasant combination. As he walked, he massaged his hand over his throat, which felt dry and parched. Waves of vertigo hit him suddenly, and his arms and legs felt wobbly, like rubber. Staring ahead, he could see the rising sun dance before him as its sharp rays pierced his eyes painfully.
Then the sound of a loud horn blaring startled him out of his daze.
He turned around and saw a tanker truck slowing to a halt by the side of the road. The driver blatted the horn again as Connett moved further into the sand fields just as the truck halted behind him. "Need a ride?" the driver said as he peaked his head through the driver's side window.
"Sure, thanks," Connett said, his voice sounded weak and hoarse to his own ears.
"Where ya headed?" the driver said when Connett climbed inside the truck and sat slouching in the passenger seat, staring blankly ahead through the wind shield. The trucker was a large, burly man in his late fifties, with dark eyes with deep grooving ripples beneath the lids, a thick, bushy beard and gray hair, with a red baseball cap, and dressed in a red flannel shirt. He grinned at Connett, revealing sallow, tobacco-stained teeth, a few of them missing.
"To the nearest hospitable," Connett said without hesitation.
"Yeah, might be a good idea," the trucker said, shaking his head sympathetically. "I hope ya don't mind me sayin' so, but you don't look too good right about now."
Connett suddenly sat bolt upright on the seat, growing frantic. I hope ya don't mind me sayin' so, but you don't look too good right about now, the trucker had said a few seconds ago, and rather than either taking offense, grinning in jest, or shaking off the comment entirely, it had left him feeling utterly frightened. "Shit, what do you mean?" he asked despairingly.
"Calm down, man, didn't mean to upset you. Jesus, sorry."
"No, its not that," Connett said, shaking his head, as beads of cold sweat broke over his brow. "Shit, I don't have any skin boils on me, do I?"
The trucker scratched his head, confused.
Connett looked in the rear view mirror and saw what the trucker had meant. Indeed he had looked like shit. His face was now pallid, looking older, and he had a few dark circles beneath his tired eyes. His lips were slightly chapped. Dried blood had stained through the helmet-like bandages over his bald head, leaving behind a few maroon splotches. The bandages would no doubt need to be changed before the wounds became infected. Yet to his relief, there hadn't been any skin boils nor a single blemish anywhere over his face.
Looks like I might actually be okay after all, he thought to himself with a sigh of relief.
"Sorry for acting weird," he apologized to the trucker. "Just been a rough night, that's all."
The trucker nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, I'll bet it was.
"Anyway, just take me to the hospital, please."
The trucker nodded and smiled. "Sure thing, pal."
"Thanks," Connett murmured, then turned his head, staring blankly through the passenger window at the endless desert outside, then finally passed out.
* * *
Somewhere nearby the former sheriff's office, in what used to be his home during his time as Sheriff of Malshun Flats, former Sheriff Jack Crimson, now known to the few survivors of the small desert town as Lord Crimson, sat over by his couch, his chubby face lit up by the golden glow of candle light, as Doctor Philip Scanlon explained what had happened.
"And then he just ran off," Scanlon finished. "I tried to get him back, but...you know, I just couldn't."
Crimson grinned, a pale faced man in his mid-forties, dark hair thinning over his scalp, though without any bald spots, with his face as disfigured with skin boils, old and new, as that of the rest of this town. He was an overweight man, but still moved with an eerie gracefulness. "Was he infected at all?"
"As far as I could tell, no."
Crimson put his finger over his chapped lips and considered this briefly. "You said that people with blood type B-negative don't experience symptoms and don't die from this thing, is that right?"
"That's right," Scanlon confirmed. "But even if I did have a blood sample, without the proper lab equipment, it's impossible to determine Connett's blood type."
"But since he didn't get the disease, after overwhelming exposure, its probably safe to assume that he is immune to it himself, and can only become a carrier. Therefore, more likely than not, he probably has B-negative blood."
Scanlon nodded. "That's probably true."
"You are aware of the dreams I've been having this past year," Crimson brought up.
"Your prophecy."
"The prophecy has come true at long last," Crimson said with wide mirth. "It was good that Connett was able to escape, for you see, he was the carrier, as foretold in my dreams, in my prophecy. His companion gets infected and he witnessed firsthand her demise. But he escapes virtually unscathed. He will neither die nor exhibit any symptoms, because of his blood type. But he is still able to infect others he comes in contact with, and will be able to at least for a couple days, long enough for another outbreak."
Scanlon was unsure what to say, and so remained speechless.
"In a small, obscure town like Malshun Flats, in the middle of nowhere, with barely a population of a couple hundred, its easy to hide the effects of this disease from the rest of the country. But if an outbreak like this occurs in a major city, like say Las Vegas, Nevada, where everyone there gets infected--or almost everyone--then the press is bound to get whiff of this eventually. And with exposure of the disease itself, perhaps the culprits within the US government will also be exposed for their part in creating this thing and setting it loose on us.
"We're doomed, Scanlon. Each one of us. Yet we can all rest comfortable now, because the prophesy foretold has passed, and soon, justice, unforgiving, will be served and those guilty of the transgressions against us will finally pay the price."
"The end is near!" exclaimed Scanlon, and they both burst out laughing diabolically.
Shortly after, the entire town of Malshun Flats--all ten disfigured, deranged residents--rejoiced in celebration at the upcoming deadly outbreak that was soon to hit the western border of the United States.
* * *
Hours had passed since Gary Vincent had dropped Michael Connett off at the nearest hospital in Reno, and he continued west, keeping his tanker truck at a steady pace of fifty miles per hour, as Garth Brooks sang a country tune on the radio. Night fell once more, and Gary was nearing the California border, getting closer and closer to his destination.
Connett had appeared pallid and sickly when he had rode with Gary in the truck, and had even passed out for a while on the ride over there, though luckily had come to before they reached the hospital. Connett had been exhausted, dehydrated, and appeared malnourished as well. Yet it didn't look as though there would be any permanent damage, and although not a medical expert, if Gary had to make a call, he would probably say that Connett would most likely pull through. And so he left him and pressed on. Connett would hopefully have health coverage, so if that were the case, then all would be well, though either way, Gary could forget about the whole matter entirely.
Shit, I don't have any skin boils on me, do I? Connett had asked after having freaked out when Gary told him he didn't look so good. Looks like shit, in fact, Gary had wanted to say, but of course that seemed impolite.
Shit, I don't have any skin boils on me, do I?
At the time Connett had asked this, Gary had been confused more than anything else. Yet now he was starting to develop at least some idea of what Connett might have been talking about.
Gary hadn't unbuttoned his flannel shirt to look at his chest yet and he didn't want to either. But he could feel the lesions forming and spreading over his chest, searing the flesh, as though someone had set him on fire. The glands in his throat had swelled considerably and painfully, making it nearly impossible for him to swallow. He put the palm of his hand over his forehead and realized now that he had a fever. He was burning up and it made him dizzy, and eventually he would have to pull the rig over, lest he get into an accident. And worst yet were the clusters of skin boils now forming over his face.
Shit, I don't have any skin boils on me, do I? Connett had said, and Gary sighed, for he was the one with the skin boils. Whatever illness Connett might be referring to, Gary was now sick with it and it felt like he was dying.
The end.
June 30, 2003
August 13, 2003