Linda Andrews - The Meltdown

“Shit.” Forgetting the stink, he lunged for it. Small branches smacked him in the face. Thorns raked his skin. Flannel ripped and trails of fire burned his exposed skin.

The fifty dollar bill danced out of reach before wrapping around a branch. The edges flapped like a trapped bird.

He had it now. Lifting a bough, he ducked under it then raised his foot. His boot hovered inches about the trough that served as a toilet. For a seat, two planks of wood balanced on four rocks over the ditch. Tufts of white clung to an empty cardboard roll. What the hell? Resuming course, he sidestepped around the fecal pit.

His fingers skimmed the surface of the bill just as the wind freed it and shoved it through the branches. God damn it! If that stupid cow hadn’t hovered around him, he wouldn’t be here now. He reached for another branch.

“Thank you, Jesus!”

Trent stilled at the deep baritone. A dark shadow moved beyond the green needles and branches. He wasn’t alone.

“I always wanted to be rich enough to wipe my ass with a Benjamin.”

He blinked. Son of a bitch! That was his money. His. He knew someone would steal it. Pushing through the foliage, he drew up short.

A six-and-a-half-foot tall black soldier tugged on the drawstring of his trousers. He released them to grab for the M-4 leaning against a tree.

Trent threw up his hands, dropping the Bible.

“Sorry, Reverend.” The soldier finished knotting his drawers and his pants climbed a little higher on his lean hips. “After the firefight, you should be more careful approaching folks.”

“Of course. Of course.” He checked the man’s hands. Where was his money? Did he put it in his pocket? He should report the man for stealing and have him punished.

“Is the other head taken?” The soldier wiped the dust from the rifle’s stock then cradled it in his arms.

You prick ! You’ve taken my money . “What?”

“The other john, is someone using it? I thought I heard them, but…” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the wall of greenery behind Trent’s back.

Fuck! What was with the interrogation? He wasn’t the thief here. “It lacked…”

Basic sanitary conditions.

“Ah.” The soldier raised his chin. “We’re out of toilet paper here, too.” He took a step forward and the space between them disappeared. “You should appreciate this, Reverend. I was just sitting on the throne thinking how I was gonna wipe my ass…sets when like a gift from God, here comes a Benjamin.”

His nails bit into the Bible. “What did you do?” With my money.

“Used it as toilet paper, of course.” He chuckled, flashing oversized white teeth. “It’s pretty much the only thing it’s good for these days.”

His mouth dropped open and the fetid taste of waste flooded his mouth. He covered his gagging with a cough. If the loser in front of him could take the smell, he could hardly do any less.

“Thought you would like it.” Balancing his rifle in one arm, he opened his right thigh pocket. Velcro screamed apart. A white square shone brightly against his dark fingers. “Here you go, Reverend.”

Trent held up his hand. Plastic scratched his palm as his fingers curled over it. He didn’t want any damn toilet paper; he wanted his money back.

The soldier cocked his head. “Best get about your business. We’re moving out.”

With that, he left.

What the hell was with these losers telling him what to do? Protecting his nose, he covered it with the crook of his arm then shuffled to the trench. The neatly folded bill crested a mound of brown. He punched the nearest branch. Pain flared up his arm. Perhaps he should leave it behind. No! No, that was his! He was sick and tired of being deprived of his due.

With a kick, he shoved the seat aside. It landed with a loud thud and straddled the trench.

“Did you hear that?”

He jerked his head up at the sound. A woman’s voice. No, a girl’s voice.

“I hear a lot of things,” another replied. This one was young as well and familiar. “Now, hurry up. I have to pee.”

How did he know the voice? She didn’t sound sick, so he doubted he’d tended her.

“Oh, this is so gross.” A zipper growled then a stream of water splashed.

Trent stared at the hanging branches separating them. Should he take a peek? He stood up.

“Here,” the familiar voice repeated. “At least we have toilet paper.”

Cold sweat misted his skin. No. It couldn’t be. He shook his head. That Goth Lolita had been left behind in the burning city. She couldn’t be here. Not now. She would ruin everything!

“My turn.”

His thighs twitched, then the trembling seized him. Don’t panic. He had to plan. The little cock-tease would probably accuse him of trying to rape her once she saw him. Her kind always pleaded innocent. Good Lord! What if she still had the gun?

“Ahhhh, that’s a relief.” Goth Lolita sighed. Fabric swished then leaves rustled.

“Come on. I want to ride with Manny and Wheelchair Henry. I need a rest from nursing the sick.”

The tree swayed and the silhouettes moved. “I know what you mean. I could use a nap but you heard the Doc. More survivors are on the way. They’ll need us.”

Trent’s heart slammed against his chest. Goth Lolita was tending the sick. How had he avoided her until now? He locked his muscles, controlling shakes. Calm down. I don’t know that is Goth Lolita.

But there was one way to find out.

With one last glance at the trench, he used the Bible to beat back the branches and rounded the tree. Two girls in tee-shirts and jeans picked a path across the wash. He ignored the blond and focused on the one with red roots shining through her coal black hair. That was the same.

She turned to say something to her friend. A purple bruise marred her high cheek bone and a red slash marked her pale neck. His knees nearly buckled. It was Goth Lolita! He should have cut her throat when he’d had the chance.

He mentally pulled himself together. It was time to stop letting bitches ruin his life. He’d have to take care of her. A truck rumbled to a stop on the makeshift road in the wash, blocking his view of the girls.

The oversized black soldier waved his arm. “Hop on board, Reverend.”

“Thanks.” Clutching the Bible, he loped to the truck. Instead of the stupid cow, the girl would be the first casualty of the camp rapes. But how was he to achieve it?

Hands reached down to help him up.

He slammed his shin against the bumper but didn’t care. A plan. He needed a plan.

“Ah, Reverend.” A man stared at him from behind a face mask. He recognized the doctor, but the blood staining his tee-shirt was new. “Mrs. Harmon is requesting prayers.”

He nodded. Fuck prayers. Why couldn’t the dying just die? Why did they have to make such a fuss? He needed to focus on his plan, not on some loser who was of no use to him.

A gloved hand closed around his upper arm as he made his way to the back. “A bullet lodged in her spine, paralyzing her and I’m sure she has internal bleeding. She doesn’t have long.”

“I understand.” Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! He’d have to stay at her side until the bitch croaked. What if they stopped before he could plan? What if Goth Lolita climbed on board to help ?

The doctor returned to stitching up a teenage boy’s arm.

The light dimmed the farther he traveled toward the front. Finally, he reached the area closest to the cab. An upside down bucket had been placed next to the bottom cot. He balanced on the round seat. “Mrs. Harmon?”

“Yes, that’s me.” She didn’t turn her head but tears leaked from her eyes. She smelled of iodine and a saline bag swayed from the bottom of the bunk above hers. “Thank God you’ve come, Reverend.”