2017:
The majority of the warehouse is just a vast room stacked with shelves. The shelves are packed with boxes, most with their tops ripped open. We poke around in them and I can see Guillermo's grin from across the room. Fortune has delivered unto us a Harley-Davidson distribution facility. We set to work swapping out belt buckles and accessories, and Lucas and Guillermo start pulling out various bike accoutrement with which they may pimp their rides.
Mercedes works with the owners of this wonderland to clear off shelving to use as food storage.
Guillermo motions Lucas and I over to him.
"It's in our best interest to stick around here for awhile," he says. He is holding various electrical bits in both meaty fists.
"No doubt," Lucas says. He's beaming.
"Yours maybe," I say. I'm sulking. I ride an Indian; none of this shit is compatible with my bike.
"I suggest we propose a trade-off. We'll stay here long enough to play with our bikes a bit and see them get set-up, and in exchange we'll do supply runs for them. Stock them up with canned goods and shit." This is a lengthy speech for the ordinarily quiet Mexican. "And we'll set them up long-term, too. Hell, we might need this outpost in the future."
I still don't see what's in it for me and I tell them so.
"Oh, Poopypants," Lucas says. "You can help Mercedes with her bike."
"Okay, I'm in," I say.
"You're into what?" Mercedes says, suddenly at my shoulder. I jump.
"Really kinky shit," Lucas says. "It's better not to ask."
"We're going to help these people," I say. "Run supplies, stuff like that."
"That sounds great," she says. "I'm in too, Poopypants."
There are great gales of laughter at my expense.
We make our announcement to Gordon, makeshift leader of this ragtag group of emaciated men, women, and children. All joking aside, the sight of a hundred or more people, many kids, with nothing between their bones but skin, is absolutely heartbreaking. This doesn't stop us from refering to Gordon as Mayor Lipschitz, or from curtsying when he passes by. The humor creates levity. That's what we tell ourselves.
The canned goods we brought in are devoured almost on sight, though there's a healthy smattering of creamed corn left to fill the shelves. We decide to make our first supply run in the morning. Meanwhile, Guillermo wants to take a look at the roof. We find the metal ladder making its vertical ascent and, one by one, forge ahead. Mayor Lipschitz is in the lead, and I can't help thinking of pitchforks. Our recent barn experience has me feeling jaded. The top hatch is locked, but we had anticipated that, and a bolt-cutters works like magic. We pop the hatch and let in sweet, sweet daylight.
The view from the roof is stunning. To the east I can see the winding debris wall heading toward the freeway. Pressed tight to the building on the remaining three sides are junked cars in various stages of accident, all jumbled together like large and sharply angled modern art. And beyond that, a city reeking of death, crawling with the dead. We can see them shambling along, paying us no mind.
"Good spot," Guillermo says. "Pulley system here," he says, indicating an exposed pipe. "Throw a garbage container down by the loading doors, weld up a basic chute system. No problem. The hardest part will be hauling dirt, really. Pain in the ass, but doable. And the walls go up a good two, three feet all around, so we'll need a lot of dirt." And suddenly I see it. Urban agriculture. A rooftop garden. He's right, it will be a lot of work. But if it works..
"We'll need rope," Mayor Lipschitz says. He sees it, too.
"We nothing," Lucas says. "You can't lift shit, Skeletor. Let the big boys do the heavy lifting."
"Myabe for now," he concedes. "But once I'm back up to fighting weight, I want to be a big, big part of this."
"Look at Mayor McCheese over here," Lucas says. "Doesn't know shit about politics. Rule number one: no real work if you can help it. Rule number two: prostitutes and blow."
Gordon smiles. "Lucky it's not an election year."
"No shit," Lucas says.
"I wouldn't run you against a potted plant looking like you do," I say.
Gordon surveys the rooftop. "A potted plant sounds about right," he says.
"First things first," Guillermo says. "Water collection."
He maps out a general idea of what he wants, but it's Gordon who's surprisingly detail-oriented. Bing, bang, boom, just like that he's sketched a rough diagram, made a list of materials, and even a map of where everything can be salvaged from. Before we leave the rooftop, we mark off the rough grid pattern we'll need for the garden. Then it's back to the warehouse.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mercedes is grinning like a fiend. She's wearing a tight leather jacket and holding something behind her back. She brings it around and presents it to Guillermo. It's a leather vest, size small. "If I sew this into a dog jacket," she says, "can you make us some patches?"
Guillermo smiles that rare tiny smile of his, eyes twinkling. "Absolutely," he says. "But you'll have to prospect first. All three of you."
Dante shuffles over. Mercedes has stuffed him into a leather jacket as well, and the sight of the old man looking so ridiculously hard-assed reduces Lucas and I to wobbling puddles of hysterical laughter. At his expense, of course.
As he stands there unmoving, Dante accumulates small pools of blood beneath each hanging arm. That kills the laughter somewhat. As unnatural as the whole situation is, the fact that he doesn't bleed out, hell, that he's completely unaffected altogether, makes the whole thing downright spooky.
"At least get him some gloves or something," I say. Guillermo and Lucas glare hard at me. To them, there isn't a shred of doubt that this old shambling mess is the second-coming of Christ. I ditched belief a long time ago; this old man to me is just an old man. He's denying my conception of a rational reality, sure, but there's a lot of that going around these days, and there's nothing to say that there's a deity involved in any of it. Shit, for all I know, zombification is some virus and the old man just caught a milder strain of it or something. I don't know. What I do know is that when the outbreak broke out, there were those that prayed and there were those that worked on a cure, and both sides failed miserably. I don't know what that means except maybe there's no hope anywhere.
But maybe, a small squeaky logic mouse in my brain pipes in, if this thing is viral, if Dante does have a milder strain or whatever, then maybe there's a cure in him. Yeah, I think, and if he's Jesus then we're saved. That voice belongs to my sarcasm mouse.
God, I'm cracking up.
I need this reality to not be real so I don't lose my goddamned mind.
"Maybe if I squint my eyes real tight," I find myself saying aloud, "and think real hard and click my heels, maybe then I could go back to Kansas. That would be super," I say.
Everyone is staring at me.
"We're from Philly," Lucas says finally. "Pennsylvania." There's a pause while he studies me. "Are you okay?"
For the first time I can remember, my baby brother is sincere. He cares about me. It's touching. So of course I have to ruin this moment. "Don't go all gooey on me, Francine," I say. "I'm just fucking around." There. I took something honest and heartfelt and special and I stomped on it, cheapened it with cheap sarcasm, and threw another wall up in my head. And maybe killed a little something between myself and the person closest to me. And sure, why not, add a little hurt feelings in the mix. I'm a monster. These are monstrous times. Sick of myself, I storm away to sulk alone in my quiet space.
I pull a frayed-edged cd insert from my jacket pocket. Meat Loaf: Bat Out of Hell II. I read the lyrics, try to hold on to the sounds of the songs in my head. Going to my happy place, trying not to cry.
Lucas follows me, sits by my side. "Big day, huh, little guy?" he says. He's hurt and trying like hell not to show it.
"Sorry," I say under my breath. His hand on my shoulder.
"You've always been so into yourself," he says. "You think you're the only person going crazy here? Shit, man. Look around. Everyone, everyone, is going bug-nutty." He stands, offers me his hand. "Can I show you something?" he says.
I let him help me up. He leads me to one of the warehouse's offices. Inside, on the desk, is an old boxy stereo.
"There’s a little juice left in batteries," he says. "But you're going to have to close the door behind you. I don't want to hear your shitty music."
There are genuine tears in my eyes. "Thank you," I say.
He leaves. Closes the door behind himself. I pull my cd out and pop it in the stereo. Swing the volume knob full clockwise and just let the drummer tell my heart what to do, over and over and over again, until the batteries go out and the stereo putters to silence.
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