Flinch
S.K. Millz as Sonny Sequel
We rode through town in the backseat of their truck. The windows were tinted and black and sometimes when the steam lifting off the road glazed them in such a way they would fog up a cool metallic gray and we wouldn't be able to see out of them.
Every once in a while when they were clear we would turn our heads and gaze out at the empty road lined with empty houses and empty buildings. Everything a dull ash brown. Dead twisted trees groping for the misty tin sky like old gnarled hands with pointed spindly fingers. From time to time the two men in the front seat would turn and glance over their shoulders and ask us if we needed anything but we never did.
We were just kids, they kept saying to each other.
It was cold in the city but the backseat of their truck was nice and warm. We unbuttoned our jackets and took off our hats and gloves and rubbed our palms together until the blood came rushing back and we could feel them again.
The truck pulled into an abandoned gas station on the outer rim of the city. The driver parked in the back where a giant oil tanker had overturned in front of a high cement wall and split along its topside.
Don't look like none of it's spilled yet, he said.
The other one shook his head. Doesn't look like it. No fumes. No oil stains.
You get the shotgun. I'll fill us up.
They clambered out and walked around to the back. While the driver unscrewed the gascap and rigged a hose up to the tank the other one fished around inside the trunk for a long black rectangular strongbox. Then he came back around and opened up the side door and peered in at us through squinted hazel eyes.
You two can get out and stretch your legs if you like, he said. Then he turned and knelt down and unlatched the case and withdrew a long black automatic shotgun with a simple household flashlight ducttaped to the underside.
There might even be something special for you inside, he winked.
We glanced at each other, eyes full of wonder. Then we got out and followed him into the store.
The windows had been boarded up ages ago. Sharp white light splaying through the cracks.
Everything covered in soot and dust and ash. Empty shelves. Empty cabinets. Empty counters. Everything gone. Taken. Looted. Spent.
His flashlight projected a dim yellow oval onto the gritty linoleum floor. We hid behind him. Staying close. Creeping forward. Less than half his height. Hearts thundering.
There's nothing to be afraid of, he laughed, but we weren't so sure.
What did he need the shotgun for?
He checked the coolers and under all the shelves and even in the cavernous stockroom, but all he found was an unopened candybar which he gave to us to share. The sweet brown chocolate and smooth caramel filling helped alleviate our fears. Something special.
There was nothing in the men's room. No soap. No water. No toilet paper. Even the bathroom mirror was missing. For a while we all just stood there in the middle of the floor, staring wordlessly at the walls, feeling the darkness.
The door to the ladies' room was shut and padlocked. It took him three tries to break the latch with the butt of his gun. Then he pushed the door open with his fingertips and shined the light in.
Three of them. Naked. Emaciated. Furless. Stretched out in a heap in the middle of the cold tile floor. Short protruding ribs. Pale colorless flesh. Hanging off their bones. They looked like corpses. Skeletons. Frail wasted bodies. And then they stirred. Bulging yellow eyes like beacons in the gaping darkness. Housed in narrow purple skulls. Tracking us. Veins throbbing. Huge black arteries pounding in their necks. The whole room smelled of blood. They all looked up at once.
He yanked the door shut and ushered us out into the cool gray daylight and pushed us along and we didn't look back.
Are we ready to roll? he asked the driver hurriedly. They packed everything up and closed the trunk and we all clambered back inside and drove off down the road.
The sweet essence of dark chocolate still fresh in our mouths.
You two headed to Knothole?
Yeah.
What for?
We're refugees.
You come all by yourselves?
No there were some others.
Fallout?
Yeah. Fallout.
Don't worry. You'll be safe. Long as you stick with us.
Okay.
Sleep any out there?
No. Not much. Not lately.
Ain't easy round here. Gotta keep your wits about you.
Yeah you do.
We'll be outside the city soon. Either of you ever been to Knothole?
No.
Ain't all it's cracked up to be.
Oh.
You expect to do right when you get there?
Yeah we do.
Any relatives?
No.
All gone?
All gone.
We tried our best to clear our heads, but the moment was ours to bear forever.
The truck had begun stopping regularly now. Braking along the abandoned roadside at random intervals. Never idling. There was something wrong with the cargo and every few miles the two of them would kill the engine and take turns getting out and inspecting it.
The trailer hitched to the back of the truck was little more than a giant stuffy black box. Windowless. Dented. Aged. Sometimes they would both get out and throw open the trailer door and just stand there side by side, staring into the mouth of it. Talking.
We could never quite make out what they were saying.
As we rode on the cold gray city broke apart and gave way to a small outcropping of vacant crumbling suburbs. From there a wide plane of vast rolling green countryside sprang up all along the flat horizon. Abandoned brick homes and great lurching farmhouses dotted the sparse rainwet landscape, on into the distance. The dull white sky was lower here and the sifting black ash had settled long ago. We tried counting the busted old mailboxes as they streaked past the tinted windows in a blur but after a while we lost track of them and gave up.
The truck stopped along a broad suspension bridge overlooking the river. Silver water glittering in the rocky pass a hundred feet below. Loud choppy waves lapping against the powerful steel supports.
This time we all filed out. The air was cooler here, the wind hard and blistering and thick with seasalt. A great sprawling pineforest straddled the road on either side, bristling with quiet songbirds. The driver unlatched the trailer door and just stood there watching the river roll on by in silence while the other one led us down into the dark green treecover to use the bathroom. It didn't take us long.
You two ever roughed it before?
No. Not in the city.
Would've fooled me, he said. Seem mighty comfortable out here.
We started back. Halfway up the hill a bright yellow viceroy came tumbling weightlessly down through the treetops, battling the straightedged wind like a plastic bag caught in an updraft. We all stopped and craned our necks and stood watching as it slowly regained its balance and glided on gracefully down the hill. In search of lower ground.
The driver stood in the middle of the road. We spotted him just over the hillcrest. At his feet lay a skinny little otter boy. Mangy blackbrown fur all tousled and caked with sweat and mud. Draped in torn useless rags. Bound and shackled. Mouth taped. Eyes bleeding. Unmoving.
The other one turned and tried to nudge us back down into the valley but it was already too late.
The driver unfastened the boy's restraints and dragged him unceremoniously off to the guardrail at the edge of the bridge, disappearing behind the truck and out of view. No struggle. No scream. Only the steely crash of churning whitewater in the riverbed below.
You weren't supposed to see that. We didn't mean for it.
Okay.
The boy was sick. More trouble than he was worth.
What was he worth?
Not much. Less than the rest of em probably.
Less than us?
You don't get it. They's not like you. They ain't nothin but a bunch of stray mules.
Why don't you let them go then?
They ain't got nothin to live for.
Alright.
They's objects. Assets. Private property. Understand?
Objects.
They belong to people. We can't just leave em on the side of the road.
No.
They's not like you.
Okay. How many?
Seven now.
Okay.