Weston Ochse - Blaze of Glory

Dinner had been over for an hour and things were relatively quiet. In fact, a passerby, if there were to be a passerby in the fortified penthouse apartment of the Franklin Hotel, would think nothing more of the gathered group lounging around the living room, other than they seemed at peace and at home with one another. Sissy and Little Rashad knelt on the floor playing a card game called Tonk. Samuel, Gert and MacHenry sat on the couch staring restfully at the peeling paint on the far wall. Grandma Riggs smoked crack. And Buckley, well Buckley was the only one out of place. Separated from the others, he sat on a body bag, his back leaning against the front door of the apartment, a white-encrusted black man as stone-still as a mannequin in a Christmas display. His skin and hair and clothes had been covered by a thick layer of salt. Occasionally he'd blink, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes dislodging some of the crystals. But other than that, he held very still. He was doing everything he could think of to fight his infection. And he'd do anything more. There was one thing that was a perfect truth and that was that Buckley Adamski, one time garbage man, part time hero, didn't want to die. And to the credit of the others, they didn't want him to die either.

"So I had this idea during dinner, you know. Something, that I think, might let us live."

All eyes went to Sissy, even Buckley's. As timid as a mouse, she rarely spoke, so rarely that her voice always sounded a little strange to Buckley. Then he noticed that the others had shifted their gaze and were staring at him. Buckley felt immediately uncomfortable, and for once understood how the babysitter felt when the Adams' children looked at her in that horrifying book by Mendal Johnson. If he had to bet, this was the end. Sometime during dinner they'd decided to push him out the door with the dead gangbanger as part of some whacked out plan to save them, and they were using cute little Sissy, the Stepford Barbie twin to Marsha Brady, to break the bad news.

"Did you hear me, Mr. Adamski? I had this idea."

"I heard you."

"Are you ready?"

How could I be ready? Are you ready to be hit by a car in the crosswalk? Are you ready to be crushed by a falling piano? Are you ready for maggies to infect you because one of the people who were supposed to be watching the door was fucking in the next room, smoking stogies and talking about flame-ons and hard-ons and sweaty Cuban thighs. Could anyone be ready? Fuck it. “I’m ready.”

"Okay," she began, offering an embarrassed smile to the others. "Bear with me a moment, will you? What kills maggies?"

Buckley wasn’t expecting a game show. “Things That Kill Maggies” for a Hundred, Alex. Was this some sort of test? He looked around the room. The others nodded, indicating that he should ask. But he didn't want to. He’d much rather have a bottle of vodka and a pistol. Perhaps on or near the bottom of the bottle he'd find the courage for what they wanted of him, because now he was scared. The way they all looked at him was unnerving.

"Come on. I know you know this,” Sissy insisted. “What kills maggies?"

Buckley shrugged, the motion sending handfuls of salt cascading down his shoulders.

Sissy shook her head and smiled. "Salt, silly. Salt kills maggies.”

Buckley glanced around the room. The others were still grinning stupidly at him, as if he'd come in first place at a Krishna Death Lottery. He didn't get it. What was going on? What was she talking about? Of course salt kills maggies. Why else was he wearing this year’s Armani salt attire? "Okay. I don’t get it."

Finally MacHenry jumped in. "Adamski, you can be fucking dense sometimes. Where’s the most salt on the planet?"

Buckley shrugged again. The others were creeping him out. “I give up. The world’s largest salt lick?”

Sissy laughed and shook her head. "In the ocean of course. The most salt is in the ocean and it covers two-thirds of the Earth’s surface." And with that, Sissy sat back, low-fived Little Rashad, and grinned like she’d just invented Pythagorean’s Theorem.

All eyes once again turned to him. What was this? What did they expect of him? Then his jaw dropped as hope shivered through his body. Why hadn't he thought of that? Oh my God!

"In the ocean. Of course," he repeated in monotone.

Samuel nodded. "I think he's getting it."

"I was the same way," MacHenry said. "How the hell did we miss that?"

"The eight hundred pound gorilla," Gert said.

"Two-thirds of the earth’s surface," Samuel said.

"More than that," Sissy offered, "hope."

"Yeah. Hope." For the first time since his infection, Buckley felt it. Deep down in his heart where butterflies hung upside-down from electrified power lines, he felt the algebraic possibility of life. There was an equation, there was a solution, he just needed to figure the variable. If he could somehow manage that, he might actually live.

"So how are we gonna get there through all them maggies?" Samuel looked at the shotgun in his hands and frowned. "We don't have enough firepower to even get outside our own door."

"Oh come on. It shouldn't be too hard. It's only a few miles."

"Gert's right," MacHenry said, reaching out and touching her hand. "It's only a few miles. A few miles through a few million maggies, and oh, let's not forget the caddies."

Maggies the size of Cadillacs , Buckley reminded himself. "Yeah, I remember." He remembered too well. Every end of the world saga, every George Romero picture, every Night of the Comet or Triffid or Lepus B-movie he'd ever seen on late night television had served as a syllabus for survival.

Running down the street, his side ripping with the pain of exertion, only panic fueling his spent muscles. Sounds of his heavy panting and screams in the distance. A rusty bicycle chain squeals directly behind him. Exhaustion. He slows as his legs reach the catastrophic limits of middle age, traitors to games of football, tag, Marco Polo and keep away that had been their genesis. He curses aloud over his shoulder at the thirteen year old boy on the bike with paperboy saddlebags. In panic, Buckley turns back, almost stumbling to the ground, but somehow manages to keep running. To his left a man does a maggie dance as a wave of the creatures consume him. To his right, half a block away, a horse drawn cart stands out of place. Suddenly, a great worm the size of a small semi, curls around the corner of a building and snaps the horse up and away. Gasping for air, Buckley grudgingly slows. He turns and fires his pistol three times. An empty bicycle tumbles past him.

But he needs to decide. Will he allow the tiny beasts to devour him as he waits to die in this top floor apartment, or will be try and do something to survive. The salt had slowed their gestation, but he couldn't keep it up. His stomach was a miasma of gut-wrenching agony. Man had never been meant to digest so much salt. As it was he felt as if he'd drunk a good portion of the Atlantic, but this was just the beginning. He would get worse and with it the pain. He had a small window of chance and if he didn't take it, he might never be able to.

And he did have an idea. "It might work, you know?"

"What might work?"

"Remember when I mentioned earlier that I had an idea about making some North Carolina Cocktails. Now I think we can add a twist."

"Yummee. Love the twist," giggled Grandma Riggs.

"No Granny. Think Molotov, not Martini." He grinned quickly. "Now if we can get someone to run across the street and get us some supplies, we’d be perfect. Any volunteers?"

"You want us to go outside?" Gert asked.

"We’re gonna have to sooner or later. I mean, we’re going through salt like a fast food franchise. It's the only thing we got going for us, and the longer we stay here without finding a way to replenish our stores, the harder it's going to be to leave."