Craig Dilouie - The Killing Floor

First stop, latrine, then the showers.

Paul flew through the air into the gaping mouth of the monster.

Todd gasps, his heart racing. The dream, so vivid.

He cannot figure one thing out. Why was Paul smiling?

“Coffee?” says a voice.

Todd is aware of everything. Dogs bark and military vehicles groan on the other side of the camp. A few boys play horseshoes, wagering cigarettes on the outcome, while a woman shouts at her children to be careful running. Someone chops firewood while someone else practices the harmonica. Two grinning men carry a large painting that Todd recognizes from the Andy Warhol Museum.

“You want some coffee, buddy?”

Todd focuses on the bearded man sitting on a plastic cooler, brewing a pot of coffee on a Coleman stove. His wife kneels on a tarp, filling plastic bottles from a rain collector.

“Sure, thanks.”

The man glances at his wife, who nods. “Want some sugar in it?”

“That’d be great.”

Todd accepts the mug of coffee and blows on it, savoring its aroma.

“You look like you’re going somewhere,” the man tells him. “You can bring the mug back later, all right?”

“Thank you,” he says again. The sweetened coffee is an incredible gift and this act of basic human kindness brings him close to tears.

The bearded man nods to Todd’s ribbon. “No need to thank me.”

“God bless you, boy,” the man’s wife says.

God bless you, Kid—

Todd takes a deep breath, gritting his teeth. His heart gallops in his chest. Is this what PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder—is like? The older survivors of the epidemic always talked about its symptoms, but he was never able to relate.

Lying in the jaws of the beast, Paul stared into Todd’s eyes and smiled sadly.

Even in death, he smiled. Why?

Clouds drift in front of the sun, turning the world gray.

♦

At the market, the traders give him new clothes and boots, rainproof poncho, handful of bullets, toothbrush, two packs of sugarless gum, three condoms and a plastic baggie filled with coffee.

So this is what it’s like to be popular. Clean and clothed and eating cold spaghetti and meatballs from a can with a plastic fork, he starts to feel whole again. He always wanted to be popular. It’s a strange feeling.

I wonder how fast it wears off.

He remembers something Erin told him last night: We can make a life here. The hero fights the monster and gets the girl and the treasure. Perfect story, right? He wonders if Prince Charming also screams in the dark during the happily ever after, dreaming about his fight with the Dragon.

His eyes wide with sudden knowledge—

Paul knew he was going to die. The monster’s long, revolting tongue, studded with slimy suckers, had already gripped the Reverend’s ankle.

And yet he smiled. In the air too. In the mouth of the beast.

Paul: the man who loved God but feared death. Who loved his enemies as he killed them. Who tried to reconcile the forgiving, loving God of the New Testament with the apparent return of the judgmental, violent God of the Old. Who could not live without his wife even though Sara would have wanted more than anything for him to go on living.

A fellow traveler of the thin line of survival, that limbo between living and dying. Torn between forces larger than himself, he gave himself to others, ultimately giving his life, and in doing so, welcomed death. With his wife now at last, either in heaven or oblivion; it did not matter which to him. Was this the peace the Reverend found? Could this be why he smiled? He had given up worrying whether he would ever see her again. All that mattered was they were together one way or the other. In the end, Paul welcomed his death.

Todd wonders if he will ever love anyone as strongly as that. He wonders if he could ever love Erin so much. Before the bridge, he would have said he already did. After the bridge, he does not know. He doesn’t know much of anything. All he can think about is the road.

He limps past dozens of shacks, each leaning on the next for support in the endless shantytown. People sit on lawn chairs watching over their children, cook, tend gardens, stack wood, stoke fires, hang laundry, gossip, trade. They fall silent as he passes. Chickens cluck in a series of pens, filling the air with the acrid smell of shit. Several men swear over a tractor coupled to a water tanker, both of which are stuck in the mud. A teenager pushes a wheelbarrow filled with plastic jugs, surrounded by smaller children splashing through puddles acting out the fight at the bridge, holding back the Infected onslaught while the engineers lay their charges.

“On me!” one of the kids cries. “Come on, we’ll make our stand here!”

Todd smiles at them, idly swatting a mosquito on his neck.

“Are you one of those people from the bridge?”

He turns and sees the teenager pushing the wheelbarrow, staring at him with something like awe. The kid is only younger than Todd by two years at most, filthy and dressed in rags. One of the many orphans of Infection.

“No,” Todd says. “You are.”

He unpins the ribbon, gives it to the surprised boy while the smaller children howl in disbelief, and walks into the compound adjacent to the gate, a hive of constant activity: salvage coming in, waste going out. A five-ton driven by men in bright yellow hazmat suits rolls through the gate, carrying corpses stacked in shiny black body bags. A squad of tired National Guard in olive green rainproof ponchos watches the truck leave, smoking and yawning and rubbing their eyes. Workers unload salvaged goods from a white pickup scarred with hundreds of tiny scratches made by fingernails and jewelry. Men fill out paperwork and hand over receipts. A large American flag hangs wetly from an overhead wire. This land is still the USA.

He finds the bus parked between a Brinks armored car and a pickup truck with a cobwebbed windshield. Dressed in greasy gray coveralls, Anne bends over the engine, talking to a mechanic. Another man paints camouflage colors over the bright yellow skin. A woman scrubs the V-shaped snowplow mounted on the grill, a retrofit enabling the bus to slam into human beings and toss them broken into the nearest ditch. Todd notes the metal plates welded over the windows, creating slits useful as firing ports.

Looks pretty ninja , he decides.

Anne senses his approach and turns to watch him limp stiffly, like a zombie, across the mud. The mechanic, a giant of a man with long blond hair, tightens the grip on his wrench, scowling at him. He takes a step forward but is halted by Anne clicking her tongue.

“Hello, Todd,” Anne says, wiping her hands on a rag.

“Who are these guys?” he asks her, glancing nervously at the mechanic.

“I guess you could call them my crew. Marcus here I brought with me. Evan and Ramona heard about me and came here. They don’t want to stay. They want to go back out.”

“They call us Anne’s Rangers,” the mechanic tells him.

Todd likes the sound of that. “I thought you said there’s nothing out there.”

“I made a deal with Mattis,” Anne explains. “The Camp will supply us with diesel, weapons, some other things. We’ll find more survivors and bring them here. Run supplies and mail to the other camps. That sort of thing.”

Todd nods. “That’s a good job for you.”

“What about you? You staying, then?”

“I want to go home.”

Anne gives him a grim smile. “All right.”

“Is that okay with you?”

“Marcus will get you some gear. Then rest. Tomorrow, we go back out. We can use you.”

“Thank you, Anne.”

The blond giant nods and extends his hand in welcome.