Peter Stenson - Fiend

Then I see two giant headlights coming toward us.

Type, I say.

He doesn’t respond.

Someone’s coming, I yell.

I point my gun at the blinding lights. I’m about to unload whatever I’ve got when the semi stops. Typewriter stands by me. He’s pointing his shotgun at the truck too. I can’t see what’s getting out of the truck, but I hear the door open.

Hello, I yell.

I’m expecting a giggle, a groan.

Friendly, a man’s voice calls back.

Kill the lights, Typewriter yells.

My finger presses against the trigger. I have no idea how hard I actually have to pull for it to discharge, but I suspect I’m close.

The fucking lights, Typewriter says again.

Ain’t here for trouble, the man says.

I can see his shape now. His hands are raised to about head level. He keeps coming toward us. I glance over at Typewriter, who has his shotgun in the crook of his shoulder. The man finally gets close enough for me to make him out. He’s an ugly motherfucker, skinny like the third world, with maybe two weeks’ worth of pubes covering his taut face.

Guns down, guys, not one of them, he says.

We keep them trained on him.

What do you want? I say.

Who are you? asks Typewriter.

Saw your lights, figured I’d stop and see—

Who the fuck are you? Typewriter repeats.

Shh, he hisses.

He extends his hand in the direction of Typewriter and this seems like an aggressive move and I’m about to shoot because what the fuck do I know about this man and his intentions and how the world now stands?

Noise, man, noise.

Back away from me, Typewriter says.

Okay, okay, just keep your voice down. They’ll be swarming if you keep with the shouting.

Who’s they ? I ask.

The man looks at me. It’s then I notice his eyes, deep like mine, sunken, like they’ve seen everything they possibly could and now are on the retreat. He’s either starving or smokes scante.

Everyone, let’s just keep it down. How long you all been here?

We don’t say anything.

Cuz I’ve found any longer than twenty minutes and one of ’em catches wind.

Typewriter’s eyes dart from swaying branches to a Doritos bag blowing along the pavement. My finger tightens even more. Typewriter asks if he’s the dude from the porn site.

The guy gives a snort. Tells him no. He grinds his jaw like he’s chewing a Starburst. He’s spun. He asks where we’re staying. Type keeps asking who he is. The guy is getting nervous, I can tell, how quickly his gaze shifts from me to Typewriter to our guns to the dark behind the gas station, and he keeps saying shh and he doesn’t like it one bit when Typewriter pokes him with the barrel of his shotgun.

Stop, I yell.

Both of them give me their attention.

I say, Please, tell me what the fuck is happening. We were holed away for a week, and we come out to this.

He stares at me like he thinks I’m full of shit. I raise my gun. He says, End of days. Apocalypse. Whatever you want to call it. Talked to a few truckers still left but you’re the first live guys I’ve seen in a week.

I can tell he’s scared, maybe not of us, but of everything. The speed coursing through his veins must be making shit worse. I ask if it’s just in Minnesota or America, if it’s terrorism.

He shrugs. He says, People just didn’t wake up last Saturday. Died in their sleep. Everyone, far as I can tell.

What about the… Typewriter stops, maybe feels stupid to say zombies .

Started two days after, the man says.

How? I say.

Whatever it was, virus or something that killed everyone, obviously turned ’em. But only the healthy ones, I think, the young, the able. Haven’t seen any old walkers.

Zombies?

The guy shrugs again. He says, Yeah, I guess. Call ’em Chucklers. Chucks for short.

It’s obvious this motherfucker thinks he’s clever.

How we know you’re not one of them? Typewriter asks.

Am I giggling?

Jesus Christ, I say.

He ain’t about to help you, he says.

Type lowers his gun. I don’t. I’m thinking about the twenty minutes of grace time the guy told us about. We’re probably right at the mark. We need to get the tire finished, get away from this guy, and head to the Albino’s. Then I realize the trucker has got to be holding, and a taste would be about the best thing I could imagine.

I whisper to Typewriter that he’s spun.

The guy is telling us that we should team up, that three against however many is better, that we can cruise in his rig, and then Typewriter raises his gun again. You holding?

The man narrows his eyebrows. He shakes his head like he’s not following. Typewriter pumps the shotgun. He asks again—You holding?—and the guy puts his hands up in mock confusion. I’m thinking that it’s so fucked up, us junkies, our inability to get honest with anyone, how we keep pleading ignorance, innocence, even in the face of two loaded shotguns and worldwide death. This guy standing there like he has no idea what holding even refers to, this guy with eyes like train tunnels and a jaw like a gearshift, he will continue this act until he has no alternative. It’s a form of survival. I get it. I do it.

I tell him that we’re just looking for a teener to get back on the road.

He realizes he’s at the point where coming clean is the better tactic. He says, Can’t give you that much. ’Bout all I have myself. Can give you a ride for a trade, maybe for one of those there guns.

Not sure you’re in any position to be bartering, Typewriter says.

Come on, not with all this, the guy says, sweeping an open palm to the engulfing darkness. His tone has become more singsongy, and he’s saying things about sticking together and only having a pistol himself and if we thought tweak was hard to get before, and I feel for this guy for some reason. Here he is driving the interstates alone in a semi, smoking meth and hoping to see another human, anyone. He might have a family, maybe a little boy and a wife back in Kansas or someplace, and they are either dead or undead and he’s just trying to connect. And here we are stealing the only thing he has left.

Okay, I say.

He grins at me.

No, not okay, Typewriter says.

Dude needs to be able to protect—

Motherfucker doesn’t need shit.

We’re fine. We’re set. Just get him a piece.

Typewriter takes a step closer to me and leans into my face and his breath is all sorts of sour. He whispers things about being smart and conserving. I say, Think about somebody besides yourself. Typewriter backs away, shaking his fat jowls.

We good? the guy asks.

I tell him to get his shit and we’ll get him a gun. He jogs back to the semi and Typewriter is giving me fuck-you eyes and I tell him to finish up with the tire. I reach into the shotgun duffle bag and take out a lighter one. I grab a handful of shells. The guy is back by the time I’m done and he’s holding on to a cellophane cigarette wrapper with a single shard. I know he’s just transferred it from a larger stash but I don’t say anything because we’ll be at the Albino’s in no time.

Travis, the guy says.

Chase, I say.

We shake hands in the form of him giving me the baggie. I can tell it’s decent glass when I place it in my pipe, the color a little chalky, but clearer than most. I use the torch lighter. I give myself the honor of first hit. I inhale and wonder if any part of my decision to trade had to do with being a good person, helping out a stranger and all that shit, or if I simply couldn’t wait thirty minutes until we got to the Albino’s.

Type and I pass the pipe. We don’t talk. Travis loads his gun. The overhead light flickers and the wind picks up even more. It’s coming from the north because with each exhale, the smoke slips past my face, back toward the Twin Cities and my dead parents and KK.