Desolate The Complete Trilogy

14



A little farther down the road I passed a few more rundown shacks. I didn’t bother stopping this time since I didn’t see any signs of life. Even if anybody was home, I didn’t have much optimism for the occupants’ ability to help me. I figured there had to be an actual town nearby, and now that I had some wheels my goal was to find it.

Eventually, the crummy little road intersected with an actual two-lane highway. I assumed I had found B6. There were no other signs around so I followed my hunch again and picked a direction.

The B6 was in much better shape than the last road and I was making good time on my trusty bike. I debated what to do if I finally came across a car. The smart thing would be to flag it down and try to get the driver to help me. For all I knew, I could still be hundreds of miles from the nearest town. After riding for thirty minutes or so I was beginning to wonder where the cars were. I still hadn’t seen any vehicles on the road.

By now, the sun was up and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The road offered no shade; the blacktop made it feel like I was on a cast-iron skillet. The heat waves emanating from the road distorted the view of the distance, creating mirages ahead. Any energy I got from that soggy banana and gray meat was long gone.

Just when I was starting to really get worried, I noticed a thinning in the vegetation ahead and a sign on the side of the road. I got close enough to read the sign and it greeted me to the town of Boones Run. I cracked a smile and picked up the pace, despite my burning legs and sore neck.

I passed a few houses on the edge of town and a little gas station that looked closed. Still no cars or people around. As I got closer to an intersection, I saw something lying in the middle of the road that I mistook for a dog at first. I rode the bike closer and realized it was a man.

He was face-first in a pool of what I could only guess was his own blood. I thought about checking for a pulse, but the odor that hit my nose and the flies milling about made his condition pretty obvious. I was really starting to get tired of finding dead people.

I looked up and down the streets, trying to find a sign of somebody, anybody. There were a few parked cars but otherwise the town seemed deserted. I shouted as loud as I could but heard nothing in return.

I left my bike next to the corpse and walked down the middle of the main street. The buildings were a hodgepodge of different architectural styles all crammed together, practically built on top of each other. Most of the houses and shops were painted with once bright but now faded shades of red, blue, or yellow. Mismatched sheets of corrugated metal served as the main roofing material in town and covered many of the windows that were missing glass.

Vegetation was growing out of just about every crack in the road. I would have sworn Boones Run had been deserted years ago if it wasn’t for the festering piles of garbage on the sidewalks. The funk from the trash hung over the street like a blanket, making the oppressive heat and humidity that much worse. Somebody must live here, but where were they?

I walked up to a nearby store sporting a large hand-painted sign above the door that read “Sonia’s Grocery.” I tried the wooden doors, one painted red, the other green, but they were locked. There were two windows. One was boarded up with graffiti-covered plywood, the other cloudy with years of neglect and filth. Somebody had tagged the wooden window with the words “Koukie” and “Propea,” whatever that meant. Below that, a crude drawing of a smiling man with large joint hanging from his lips flashed me the peace sign.

I knocked on the window and asked if anybody was inside. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye and saw a brown goat casually walking up the middle of the street. It paused for a moment to look at me, snorted once, and continued on.

The doors to the grocery didn’t seem very solid when I pushed on them. I gave the green one a good kick and my foot actually broke through the flimsy material. The goat stopped again to observe the commotion but didn’t offer to help. I flipped it the bird.

Carefully, I pulled my ankle out of the jagged hole, sighed in relief that I hadn’t cut myself, and looked inside. It was dark and I couldn’t see much besides a rack full of canned items and boxes.

This time, I slammed my shoulder against the rickety door and it broke open. I fell to the floor, banged my knee, and gritted my teeth as my abdomen acted up. It had been aching steadily all morning and that did not help the situation one bit.

After the pain eased a little, I got up and surveyed Sonia’s Grocery and all it had to offer. A cooler against the wall held an assortment of bottled drinks. I opened it, grabbed a bottle of water, and drained the whole thing in a few gulps. Warm but satisfying. It seemed the power must have gone out a while back because, like the water, everything in the case was lukewarm. On the bottom shelf were some sandwiches in plastic wrap and containers of cold cuts and egg cartons. My stomach rumbled, but I had enough to worry about without adding botulism to the list.

I checked out the assortment of dry goods on the shelves and didn’t see much to get excited about. Like the little shack, most of the stuff was useless to me at the moment, like boxes of powdered milk and sacks of cornmeal. All the labels were in English but I didn’t recognize any of the brand names.

Around the corner was a small snack section consisting of various chips and sweets. I grabbed a can labeled Mister Potato Crisps and ripped off the top. They may have been a blatant rip-off of Pringles, right down to the mustachioed cartoon character on the can, but they were salty and delicious.

I stared absently at the old cash register on the counter as I ate the chips, and it occurred to me I might be able to figure out where I was. I walked around to the back of the counter and studied the register. It didn’t appear to be electric. I pressed a few of the number buttons and then Sale. The drawer opened with the clinking of a few coins. I picked up one. There was a bust of some old-looking guy on the face. The inscription on the coin declared him to be THE RT. EXCELLENT SIR ALEXANDER BUSTAMANTE - NATIONAL HERO. I flipped it over. JAMAICA - ONE DOLLAR 1996.

I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. For months I suffered on a dirty turd of an island off the coast of Antarctica, and here I was stranded in a place practically the exact opposite. My luck wasn’t that great though. Instead of ending up in one of those swanky beach resorts, I was in what looked to be a completely deserted mountain village.

A shuffling noise from the room behind me snapped me back to reality. I absently slipped the coin in my pocket and crept up to the door.

I was ready to knock, decided against it, and just opened the door. I peered into the hallway of the small living quarters behind the store. The smell that hit my nose was immediately recognizable and my heart sank. That odor would be burned into my memory forever.

Lying in the middle of the living room was a heavyset black woman. Was this Sonia? Or did the grocery change hands over the years? Maybe the original Sonia who had founded the store was dead and buried long ago.

This woman, Sonia or no Sonia, was flat on her back, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. Dark blood covered most of her face, neck, and shirt. The white sweatpants she was wearing were soiled dark where her bowels had given way. A dog was standing next to her, licking the blood off the floor beside Sonia’s head. It looked up at me and a low growl escaped its throat.

“Easy there, buddy,” I whispered.

I realized I was still holding the chips, so I pulled one out and tossed it to the dog. He snapped it up and looked to me for more. I tossed the can into the store and he ran after it.

Either Sonia lived alone or nobody else was home at the moment. The small apartment was a disaster. Used tissues littered the coffee table. Empty water bottles and dirty dishes were everywhere. The air was heavy and dank and flies buzzed around the body and dishes. Suddenly, those Mister Potato Crisps weren’t sitting very well. I staggered out the back door into an alley just in time to paint the wall with some vomit. In the state this town was in, I doubted anybody would notice.

As the nausea eased, I leaned against the wall, the cool cinderblock feeling good against my cheek. I knew exactly how and why Sonia died, and the deserted town started to make sense. The bloody, swollen face. The smell of fever and puke and shit. I’d seen dozens of inmates go down the same way. How was it possible? Here I was in Jamaica, thousands of miles from the island where the disease started. I just couldn’t believe those germs or bugs or whatever, trapped in that ship for who knows how long, had made it here. How did it travel so far and so quickly?

A scream from down the block snapped me out of it. I ran down the alley, weaving through the piles of trash, and into one of the side streets. A little girl was desperately trying to break the grasp of a tall, dirty-looking man. She slapped at his arms and wiggled away from him, only to have him grab her hair and pull her down the street. She cried out again, louder this time.

“Hey!” I shouted and ran toward them.

The man, clearly surprised by the sudden appearance of a white man running at him, froze and stared at me. The girl took the distraction to her advantage and quickly crawled away from him. She ran down the street and around the corner, out of sight.

The perv continued to stare but didn’t say anything. He was wearing brightly colored clothing that looked brand-new but didn’t fit well over his emaciated frame. A tag he’d forgotten to remove from the baggy pants was sticking out of his pocket. A white sticker stamped with an L was on his chest. Despite the new clothes, his hair was clumped and matted with filth. Deep cracks decorated his withered face. I was at least ten feet away but could clearly smell dried piss.

“G’won, get now,” he said, his toothless mouth making it difficult to understand. “Not cho bidness, mon.”

“Is there anybody else in town?” I asked. “I need help.”

I took a few steps forward and he picked up a piece of concrete from the ground and held it up, ready to throw.

“Easy,” I held my hands up, palms facing him. “Just wanna talk.”

He hurled the concrete in my direction and ran off. I followed a few steps and stopped, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. For a homeless guy, he was fast and he disappeared around the corner. With my aching stomach, I was in no condition to run after him.

Instead, I headed in the direction of the girl to see if I could find her.