Tim Waggoner: The Last Mile

She sat up, her back pitching a bitch at being forced to move after being stuck in one position so long, but she ignored it.

“Hey,” she whispered. “What’s up?” Not something wrong, she hoped. More wrong than things already were, anyway.

“Could you come back to the kitchen with me?”

She couldn’t detect any hint of what he wanted. His voice was calm, his words without any particular inflection. Nevertheless, she felt a little thrill upon hearing them.

“Sure.”

He smiled and held out his hand to help her up. She didn’t need any help, even with her sore back, but she took his hand anyway. And after she was standing and Jordan didn’t release her hand, she made no move to take it from his gentle grip. Slowly, he led her through the maze of shadowy figures sitting silently on the floor. Some of them looked up as they passed, a few even asked what was going on, but Jordan didn’t answer and no one pressed him. As they neared the kitchen, Alice realized she was trembling, and the crotch of her underwear was damp. She’d seen movies in which people got incredibly horny in dangerous situations. Something about the stress excited them, she supposed, the knowledge that they might die any moment driving them to experience life intensely one last time. She wondered if that was what was happening now between Jordan and her. She imagined him leading her through the swinging doors and into the kitchen, turning around, grabbing her waist, pressing his mouth to hers and kissing her passionately. She imagined tasting him, feeling the wet warmth of his tongue circling hers, hearing his passionate breathing, his pelvis pressed against her, his cock growing hard…

He escorted her through the swinging doors just as she’d pictured, but once they were on the other side, he made no move to embrace her. Instead, he let go of her hand. There were no windows in here, so she couldn’t see anything, but she heard a rustle of cloth that told her he was reaching into his pants pocket. She heard him take something out, fiddle with it for a moment, and then she heard the sound of a striking match, followed closely by the orange-white flare of flame. She squinted as light stabbed into her eyes, and she turned her face away from the burning match—

—and that’s when she saw the body.

Fatty’s bloated corpse lay naked atop a counter next to a cold, useless oven. He’d been cut open from chin to crotch, skin peeled back, ribs sawed away, the glistening-soft secrets that he’d carried hidden within him since before he was born now revealed in all their squishy-wet glory.

She turned to look at Jordan. He looked suddenly shy and uncertain.

“I know… it’s kind of gross, right? But we have to eat something . And the human body’s like, what? Ninety percent water or something? So we can get liquid from him, too.”

Alice continued to look at Jordan for close to a full minute without speaking. When did he lure Fatty back here? How had Jordan killed and… and butchered him without anyone hearing anything? Of all the questions swirling through her mind, though, the one she asked was “Why him?”

“Well, he’s fat, so I figured we’d get the most meat from him.” He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Besides, he pissed me off. We have to eat him raw, though, since the ovens don’t work. And we have to eat soon so he doesn’t spoil. Soooooo… what do you think?”

Alice smiled, her growling stomach answering for her.

“You’re a thrall, right? You got the mark.”

Dan damn well knew he had the mark. It had appeared on his forehead soon after the cow-thing had vomited its rancid milk on him: a scar-tissue design of spirals and intersecting lines that never seemed to be in the same exact configuration whenever he examined it in the mirror. And even when it didn’t burn—and it was blazing like a motherfucking house fire right now—he could always feel it, as if it were a living tattoo whose ink flowed beneath his skin like a slow but constant tide.

The two of them walked alongside the road, the dead-gray ground giving slightly beneath their weight as if it were formed not of soil but rather some spongelike substance. Dan, 9mm in his right hand, hunting knife in his left, walked several paces behind the girl. She was of medium height and didn’t look all that strong, but you didn’t willingly turn your back on anyone in the World After. Not if you wanted to survive a few minutes longer. He’d cut the tape around her ankles, but he’d left her wrists bound. If they ran into more trouble like that deer-thing, she wouldn’t be able to fight, but he couldn’t risk freeing her hands. She’d turn on him to save her own skin or try to make a run for it. With her hands bound, she’d be less likely to attack, and if she tried to take off, she’d be unbalanced and awkward. She’d have to run slow or she’d trip and fall. Either way, she wouldn’t escape him.

Of course, his reasoning assumed that she was sane, and these days, that was a mighty big assumption, one that could easily get you killed. But he didn’t have any choice. His thrall-mark burned like acid, a constant, agonizing reminder of his Master’s impatience. Dan had to deliver the girl and soon, or else… Well, he didn’t know what else, not precisely, but he knew it would be bad. Damned bad, in the truest sense of the adjective.

The World After was chock-a-block full of delicious little ironies like that, he thought.

As they continued walking, Dan swept his gaze back and forth, alert for any sign of a threat. After a bit, the girl looked over her shoulder at him.

“Where are you taking me?”

Dan didn’t want to talk; his tongue still hurt like a bitch from when he’d bit it. He glanced to his left, saw thorn-stalks waving in the breeze. Except, of course, there was no wind. The air was still and stale, like the inside of a closet that hadn’t been aired out for years. At least the goddamned things couldn’t reach them here. They were ten feet from the road, and Dan had never seen a thorn-stalk stretch that far. But then again, that didn’t mean one couldn’t reach them, not if it really wanted to. He sighed. Life had never come with any guarantees: that much at least hadn’t changed.

“If you don’t answer me, I’ll sit down and refuse to move,” the girl said without turning to face him this time.

Despite himself, Dan responded. “I’ll just carry you.” His speech sounded a little funny due to his wounded tongue, but his words were understandable enough.

“All the way to wherever it is you’re taking me?” She sounded amused. “Even if you were still eating regular, I bet you wouldn’t be strong enough to carry me that far.”

Dan knew she was baiting him, hoping to stall and learn what she could so she could use it to save herself. Even so, her cavalier attitude was beginning to get on his nerves. “I eat just fine. So does my family.”

“That’s right. You’re a thrall .” She emphasized the word as if it were some sort of disgusting insect that should be stepped on immediately and ground into the earth with as much force as possible. “You get food, water, and electricity, don’t you? All for serving your Master.”

“Yes.” Food—canned goods, and even fresh fruits and vegetables—was delivered to his home once a week by another thrall driving a battered pickup truck. Where the food came from, especially the produce, Dan didn’t know and didn’t ask. And as for the utilities, they just worked, presumably because his Master willed it. But he’d gotten so much more than the conveniences of modern life restored. Caroline had returned to her senses after his thrall-mark appeared, and her ghastly self-inflicted wounds healed—to a point. They’d never be able to make love again, but at least his wife was sane. And the return of their conveniences—including regular television, though only one channel that showed randomly selected reruns of old shows—had helped Lindsey come out of her near-catatonia. Life wasn’t back to normal, how could it be? But his family had it a damn site better than most people in the World After, and Dan intended to keep it that way.