Chapter 2

XX

John LaFleur's pale muscles shone in the sunlight, gleaming with sweat, as he worked with the shovel, digging relentlessly in the blazing heat. He was stripped to his waist, wearing just a pair of jean shorts, and he was crying.

His parents were dead. Dad had gotten sick about a week ago, then Mom, and John had tried desperately to take care of them. As far as he knew, it was a really bad version of the flu, and you needed to lie down and get rest and drink water for that. The news, when the TV had still worked, talked about it endlessly. Drink water, get rest. Drink water, get rest. Over and over and over again, as if chanting that enough would get everyone to believe you.

Thing was, none of that worked. It wasn't enough. Ordinary life had slowed, stuttered, then stopped as people began to get sick. Deaths mounted. All of Portland's schools closed, public and private. They just called an end to the school year with virtually no explanation, beyond that the year was basically over anyway, and the teachers needed time to plan or something.

The last day, so many people had been visibly sick that John had been scared just looking around. He had been terrified that practically everyone except him, Anthony Summers, and Henry and Mark Evans had been varying degrees of sick… and nobody had any clue why, or what to do about it.

John had a feeling the teachers would not be doing any planning this summer. They might not be doing much planning ever again.

At home and with nothing else to do, John had done his best to make some progress on his summer reading. He had hoped his parents would stay well, but they didn't. They got sick. Of course they got sick. When it became obvious none of the household medicine cabinet's inventory could do any good, John went around from house to house. He got brief looks of hope from ill, sweaty faces that quickly grew disappointed when they saw it was just a boy. He was told no, chased away. One man yelled at him to "go back to the IRS, I ain't givin' you mothafuckas nothin'".

John called the hospital, called 911 again and again in increasing panic, but he got nowhere. No one ever answered him. The line was busy. Unwilling to leave his parents but given no real choice, John left home and rode his bike to the hospital himself.

That did no good, either. Portland General was a horrendous mess, overflowing with people just trying to get in. There were so many wrecks just in the parking lot that John never came near the doors. He had turned and fled, taken his bike back to the house, and used the medicines he'd found in the cabinet.

It hadn't been enough. Not even close to enough.

Now, wrapped under black plastic bags, John's parents awaited burial. Their son had punished himself for his failure to save them by overworking his lean thirteen-year old body deliberately, trying to dig two six-foot long, six-foot deep trenches side-by-side in the backyard on the same day, in the middle of this heat.

It was hard on him, but John knew he deserved worse. Mom wouldn't have let him die. Dad wouldn't have, either. They would've found a way. They would've gotten the right medicines and saved their son. John had failed to be a good son, and the hardship of burying his own parents was a fitting price for failure.

As John neared the end of the second dig, his body cried out for mercy. His arms and shoulders, while reasonably fit, were not meant for such abuse and started trembling. John's black hair clung to his head, and he staggered on his feet. The blisters on his hands had burst, and John had put on gardening gloves to keep going. His hands, his arms, his heart, his whole body, his whole soul, was in terrible pain. As the sound of alarms and breaking glass and screams in the distance gradually faded into silence, John had wondered many times why he wasn't getting sick. Why he couldn't have at least died when Mom and Dad did.

There was no time to rest. John cried as he worked, unable to think, losing himself in his grief. He had no idea what he'd done to earn a fate like this. All of his friends had disappeared, gotten sick and died, or been killed. Anthony Summers, Jason Morgan, Mason Sarkozy… everybody. The phones didn't work anymore but Jason had sounded like he'd caught a cold the last time John had spoken to him on the phone. He had been frightened and angry, and he'd shouted about how "They're lying to us! This isn't just the goddamn flu! They're fucking lying to us!"

Tony had just disappeared. A lot of people had disappeared.

A short, choppy, and abruptly cut off news segment had shown footage of mounds of human corpses on barges. The news anchor had said the government was dumping the bodies into the sea, the basements of unfinished houses, mass graves dug outside of towns and cities. John was sure he'd find many familiar faces among the bodies… assuming he could even recognize them.

Finally, as he at last finished digging the six foot trench well into the afternoon, John's arms quit and he collapsed against the side of the trench. He realized, suddenly, that he no longer had the strength to get out. He tried, but his arms refused to take any more abuse. John wept and slid back down against the dirt wall.

"John?" a boy's voice called. "John, are you there?"

"I'm here," John yelled. He took a breath, tried again. "I'm here!"

"John!" Henry Evans cried, and soon John saw the blond boy's face looking down at him as Henry ran up to the edge of the trench. "What're you doing down there, John?"

"Trying to bury Mom… and Dad…" John explained.

"Is he crying?" Mark Evans, Henry's newly-adopted brother, asked as he came into view. "Why's he doing that?"

"I think he misses his parents," Henry said.

Mark laughed like the idea was hilarious.

"John, haven't you heard? All the adults are dead! We're fucking free!"

"Help me," John pleaded. "My arms- I can't- I can't get out. I've been digging all day. Please."

Henry cocked his head, considered that. Mark spoke to him, and they whispered back and forth. Then Mark nodded, and Henry said, "Okay, John."

The pale blond jumped down and simply picked John up, raising him so Mark could grab his arms and lift him the rest of the way out. Then Henry simply climbed out. John looked at the other two boys. "You guys aren't sick."

"No, but plenty of people are," Mark said. "They're dropping like fucking flies out there."

"What- did your parents- are they okay?" John asked hesitantly.

"No," Henry laughed. "Dumb fucks died already. I watched it happen, John. Mark and I both did. It was awesome."

John suddenly felt very cold.

"We've been over to Portland General Hospital," Henry added. "Everyone's dead. There's bodies just lying in the halls. A few were still moving in the beds, so, Mark and me had to put some of 'em down. We left some others, though, so we'll go back and study them before they go. You know, for science."

"For science?" John asked, becoming more frightened of these two by the second. It took all his willpower not to just scream and start running.

"Yeah, man," Mark said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. He snapped open a lighter, held it to the lower end of the cigarette, and inhaled. "I just gotta know what genius came up with the virus that's killing everybody. That Army guy- what's his name?"

"Starkey, Lieutenant General Starkey," Henry said.

"Nerd."

"Fuck you."

"Find a girl and I'll fuck her."

"They're all dead, 'cept this one."

"I'm a boy," John said faintly.

"Not if we do a little surgery," Mark shrugged. "Snip, slice, and you sure won't be a guy anymore." He laughed. "No offense, John, but Henry always thought you were kind of a faggot. You look like you'd rather kiss boys anyway."

"Hey, if he wants to eat some cock, that's fine," Henry said dismissively. "More pussy for us."

Mark shrugged. "Anyway, John, the news is lying. They're fucking lying to us. The virus isn't just the common flu."

"I thought so," John said. "That's what Mom said. She said that the government isn't telling the truth. She said the regular flu doesn't do this."

"Hey, how do you like your mom being maggot food?" Henry said, and he and Mark cracked up like that was the funniest thing they'd heard in weeks.

"If this faggot wasn't immune," Mark laughed, "we could pull him over to Portland, stick his face in one of the people we left alive, strap him to a bed and watch his fucking neck swell up like a motherfucking tire."

John didn't like the way these two were looking at him, those cold, frank looks of speculation. They had something planned for him, he knew that, and it wasn't to help him through his grief.

"Guys," John said suddenly, "I gotta go inside."

"Why's that?" Henry asked.

"Don't you need to finish burying your stupid folks?"

"Yes," John said, lowering his head. "But… I got something I need to bury them with. It's important."

They looked at him, confused.

"Like what?" Mark asked.

"It's personal, just something they wanted me to bury them with. Just a keepsake."

"No, I mean what the hell is it?" Mark demanded, visibly annoyed now.

"Well-"

"Oh, let 'im go get it," Henry said, waving a hand irritably. "Go, John. We'll wait here."

Although he privately loathed the idea of turning his back on them, John headed wordlessly into the LaFleur house. Once he was well out of sight, he broke into a run. He didn't trust Mark or Henry. Something was wrong with them, with the 'friendly' way they'd come by here… and with the way they were talking.

A run turned into a headlong sprint, and John fled for the front door, spun ninety degrees to the left, then bolted upstairs as if all the demons of Hell were snapping at his heels. He thought he could maybe hear two more pairs of shoes hitting the floor downstairs, racing after him, but that may have just been his imagination. John didn't think so.

More terrified than ever, John ran like his life depended on it, knowing that it probably did. He sprinted through the open doorway to his parents' bedroom, slammed the door closed behind him. Inside the closet, behind Dad's many suits and neckties, Mom's fine gowns, dresses, and suits of her own… there it was. John had left the safe unlocked, knowing that he might not have time to get the key if something happened. That had certainly proven correct.

"Hey, JOHN!" Henry shouted, and the door to the bedroom flew open with a crash. Henry passed in front of the closet, a butcher's knife in one hand. John immediately recognized it as stolen from his own family's kitchen.

"Come out, faggot," Mark said, following Henry into the room. "We just wanna give you back your shovel."

John quietly reached for the M1. It was his grandfather's. He had carried it all through the war in the Pacific, even had carefully etched the 11th Airborne Division emblem into the right side of the stock during some spare time in the Philippines. He had met Douglas MacArthur personally, received a Silver Star from him in appreciation for taking a Japanese tank out by himself.

There was ammunition in an identical safe, much of it stowed ready in what Grandpa had called "en bloc clips". The bayonet was lying on a shelf in the safe with the rifle. John silently debated what to do, then pulled the rifle out of the safe and placed it in his lap. Sweating and praying hard, he took the bayonet and drew it from its scabbard. It was original, the real thing, just like the rifle.

No way they won't hear me, John thought, reaching for a clip. But they're gonna find me soon anyway. He pulled back the bolt just the way Grandpa had taught him, inserted the clip, let the bolt come forward without slamming shut on his thumb. John snapped the bayonet in place, flicked off the safety, and turned the M1 toward the doorway just as Henry and Mark threw it open. They saw him crouched far inside the closet and at first, they smirked, sure they had found him helpless and cowering like they had been sure they would.

Then Henry's smile dropped off his face as he noticed what John was bringing up to his shoulder.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

A trio of thunderclaps exploded inside the closet, and the muzzle flash turned night into day three times inside the small room. Henry shouted; Mark screamed. The shots had gone too high, plowing through the wall above John's parents' bed. John lowered the barrel, but the Evans boys dove out of sight. John shifted and fired through the wall to his right, and Mark screamed again. John hoped he'd scored a hit.

Suddenly, Henry reached in and pulled the closet door closed again.

"Mark, get up! Get up, let's fucking go!"

"All right, all right!"

As Henry and Mark stumbled back out of the master bedroom, John opened the closet door and charged left. John pulled the trigger the second he caught sight of Henry and Mark. The bullet passed between them and shattered a vase, one of Mom's favorites.

By this time, Henry and Mark were in full retreat, their pride completely forgotten as they fled back downstairs. John's arms burned and cried out for mercy, but the adrenaline coursing and John knew it was him or them. He half-ran, half-stumbled down the hardwood stairs, skidded around the corner, and shot at Henry and Mark as they ran out into the backyard. He blew a windowpane out in the back door and Henry shouted and staggered as he sprinted away.

With a final burst of speed, John made it to the back porch and clumsily fired the last three rounds. The Garand boomed, brass cases flew, and Henry and Mark vaulted over the wooden fence and into the Hendersons' backyard as the rifle went PING! and ejected the empty clip.

Breathing and sweating very hard in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat, John lowered the M1. He fell on his knees, weeping. At least Mark and Henry didn't come back. Then he stood up and trudged wearily back inside, thinking of the old Army belt and its little pouches for things like canteens, clips, and loose ammo, wondering why, why, even with everyone he had ever known or even heard of dead or dying, people still had to go on killing each other.

Maybe there's something really wrong with them, John thought suddenly. Maybe they're worse off than I thought. Maybe Henry was creepier than any of us ever imagined.

XX

With the M1 loaded and ready, with the pistol belt pulled tight around his waist and nine loaded clips in reserve, John stayed hidden and watched the house for hours. When he desperately had to, he urinated and defecated in a hole he'd dug under one of the bushes. Then he would go back to his latest post. Only as the sun began to set did John sling the rifle over his bony shoulders.

It took a long, long time to bury Mom and Dad. John got the family Bible, read from it after he had dragged each body into each grave and covered them with six feet of earth. He cried helplessly as he did it all, so that by the end, he could barely stand. No longer feeling safe in his own home, John hastily prepared to leave. He didn't know where to go next, but he knew he had to get out of here, out of this whole town. Henry and Mark would come back. Sooner or later, they would come back.

John got one of Dad's hiking backpacks, the only one that fit a kid, and packed it with as much food and water as he could carry. He stowed one of Mom's kits of first aid supplies, put his khaki boonie on, and stuffed a sack of loose .30-06 ammo into the crowded backpack. The load was heavy and uncomfortable, but John knew he needed all of it, right down to the can opener. He would have to be ready to scavenge off the ruins of an entire civilization, after all, once his own supplies began to run out.

The street in front of John's house was fairly clear, except for that horrifying three-car wreck that nobody had ever come to clear up. The main roads were a mess, littered with abandoned cars, trucks, buses, and vans. Some had been wrecked, others were stuck in a traffic jam that was now frozen in time forever. Still more had just stopped here and there, either switched off or run out of gas with their owners still inside them.

Gripping the M1, John started out down Larkin Street. He saw something watching him from the shadows as he passed by the Dufresne family's house. For a second, he thought he saw a pair of glowing red eyes, and that was enough. John quickly shouldered Grandpa's rifle. The cicadas went silent in the trees, and even the air seemed to stand still. Getting more frightened by the second, John flicked the M1's safety off and fired a shot.

BANG!

The red eyes disappeared instantly.

And then…

Someone, something, laughed. It was utterly inhuman, like no sound John had ever heard before in his life. John had never seen Satan, but he imagined that if the Devil laughed, it might sound something like that.

John backed away until he was at the end of Larkin Street, fighting not to let his bladder go in his shorts. He bumped into a few cars, a few of which were actually parked in their driveways. There wasn't much chance John could drive any of them. Not only were all the major streets hopelessly clogged, John was still too short. And he had no idea how to drive.

Lots of lumpy shadows were sitting inside the stream of abandoned cars occupying Decatur Street, plus all of Main Street, once John got to the intersection and looked around. He kept getting the sense of being watched, but refrained from firing the rifle any more. Even if everyone but him- and the Evans brothers- was dead in Portland now, John didn't like the idea of loudly announcing his location.

Plus, he'd already shot at whatever he had seen… or thought he'd seen. You couldn't kill or even harm everything with bullets.

As John hiked west, he looked uphill, towards the old Whitmore mansion, Fleetwood Hall. It had been sitting there, creeping everyone the hell out, abandoned yet enduring, long before God or Satan or some Army scientists or whoever had seen fit to kill everyone with some super-virus. No doubt that damn house would survive still, even as the rest of Portland rotted and decayed… like the thousands of bodies nobody would ever bury.

Well, two had been buried, at least. It was all John could do. He felt worse than he could ever say for the deaths, felt guilty just for being (somehow) one of the only humans in the entire town allowed to live. There were thousands of people, their pets, everything just… lying where they had fallen. Forever.

John had no illusions about trying to do the right thing and bury all the bodies, clear it all up. He didn't have the time or the strength. Especially not the time. John continued to worry that Henry and Mark were gonna come back. His brief fierce courage had not quite deserted him, not completely, but John sure wasn't fool enough to try a battle with these two in a dead city. He was getting out of here and heading west. North or south would probably have worked just as well, but west was the most appealing choice, for some reason. It would do. Better than sticking around here.

Maybe someday I'll come back, John thought. Bury all the skeletons at least, or whatever's left of everybody. Or maybe I'll just forget this place ever existed.

Passing a giant, hulking Army truck at the western edge of town, John almost screamed when he saw a couple camouflaged corpses slumped against it in the moonlight. They were rotting quickly, and the sight was as horrific as the smell. John hurried onward, grateful for the clear, open road that lay past the rusting barbed wire and the unmanned sandbags and machine guns that made up the blockade.

As John continued onward, checking behind and around him often, dogged still by a lingering sense that he was not truly alone, he was nonetheless painfully aware that everyone he had ever known was now dead (save two other boys who had tried to kill him), that everyone in the entire world was probably dead, and that even going west was probably a big waste of time. Yet it was still better than staying here. John walked onward down the empty road under the moonlight, and behind him the dead city of Portland, Maine lay darkened and silent.

And silent.

And silent.

XX

A/N: 9-7-2019.

This chapter was actually written, most of it anyway, before Chapter 1 was completed. I initially meant for this to be the start of the story, with John burying his parents much as Frannie Goldsmith buried her father, Peter Goldsmith. Like Frannie with her father, John loved his parents deeply and is struggling with himself for having survived after so many have died. I imagine a great many immune humans had to deal with survivor's guilt, and all of them, we may safely assume, suffered significant trauma.

Henry and Mark do not often back down from anyone or anything, but when confronted with impossible odds, they will. They are capable of recognizing a situation where they cannot win. They never let anything go, however, so if you cross them, they'll never stop trying to get even with you. Like Ace Rothstein says of Nicky Santoro in the 1995 film Casino, you beat Henry and Mark with a gun, you better kill 'em, because they'll keep coming back and back until either you or them is dead.

And by the way, this story is part of my overall plan to drum up some ideas for additional stories for The Good Son. It is an obscure film from 1993, and the Todd Strasser novelization should honestly have been the exact script for the film, but I still liked it and saw potential in it for fanfiction right away. AM83220 contacted me over half a decade ago asking me to write a sequel to my first story for TGS, and now here I am, writing my fifth.

All feedback is welcome. Feel free to post a review, send me a PM, or both.