THE PLAGUE DIARIES: DON OF THE DEAD
By K. R. Cook
XII. “The Calm Before the Storm”
It takes nearly two hours to get back to the city, traffic clogged like nothing we’d ever seen before. It takes us almost ten minutes just to crawl across the George Washington Bridge and when I look groggily out the window about halfway along, I see white caps maybe fifty feet tall. There’s a tugboat out there, hauling garbage, and it’s getting tossed around like a toy in a bathtub.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, watching Toni concentrate.
She’s staring straight ahead, hands white-knuckle on the wheel. The rain’s still pouring down, if anything harder than before, and the wipers can’t even really keep up.
We finally clear off the G.W.B. and head for the suburbs, but not before driving past the mother of all accidents; a city bus and an eighteen-wheeler hauling a tank of something toxic in a head-on collision. Sawhorses, yellow caution tape everywhere, guys in hazmat suits cleaning it up, cop cars and ambulances and fire trucks in a jumbled mess, red and white and blue lights, dozens of onlookers rubbernecking despite the rain. I spot Kilmeister and his busty partner pushing the gawkers back, and then we hang a left and leave the chaos behind.
Sort of.
We turn onto 34th to find sewer drains backing up. I roll down the window, stick my head out. We’re rolling through water nearly past the height of the tires.
“Toni… keep it steady, baby, or we’ll be floating into somebody’s yard…”
“I know, Joey,” she sputters through clenched teeth. She takes one hand off the wheel, swipes rainwater away from her face, then pushes her hair back. She glances over at me, twitches a little sneer of a smile for my benefit. “So, where to? Mike’s or the ‘rents’?”
“Mike’s. I’ll call Mom and Dad from there, find out what’s goin’ down.” I sit a little higher up in the seat, trying to ignore the slurping sounds coming from the back, and hoping that Janessa’s asleep. “How’s your leg?”
“Fuckin’ stiffening up,” she replies. “It’s got that dull ache shit going on.”
“Well, when we get to Mike’s, you’ll be my top priority,” I tell her.
“Bitch, I better be your top priority all the fuckin’ time,” she retorts.
“You’ve been my number one priority since that fateful grade school afternoon,” I reply.
“You’re the reason I breathe, the reason I get up in the afternoons…”
“Okay, okay, I get it!” Toni exclaims. “Just stop. All the syrup in here is giving me a cavity.”
We drive a few more miles, see none of the shambling dead, then turn into a driveway, parking next to a monstrous black Ford pickup.
Mike answers the door with an AR-15 in his hands and a scowl on his face, but sees who it is and ushers us quickly inside. He hands me the rifle, then locks, dead bolts, and finally puts one of those floor-mounted swivel club things up against it. He takes the rifle back, puts the safety back on, shoulders it, then nods at Vinnie and me to do the same. Toni sheathes her katana and we follow Mike into the kitchen where Marley and their two kids (and my and Janessa’s nephew and niece), Miland and Millicent, are making an enormous amount of pasta.
“Anything I can do to help?” Janessa asks. She sets her bags in the corner of the kitchen and sweeps Millicent and Miland into her arms.
Vinnie and Anita sit at the table.
I follow Toni into one of the two bathrooms of the townhouse. We stare at each other in the mirror; at the bruises on my face, the black scabs, the redness in my eyes from my saltwater swim, the purpling remains of Ulf’s hands on my throat. Toni’s face is like a weird camouflage of clean flesh from all the rain and the muddy blood patterns that had begun to dry, then moistened, then dried again. Both our respective manes of hair are tangled, windswept messes, though mine has drywall grit peppered in it.
Her normally bright blue eyes are murky, but they meet mine in the mirror and she steps back into my arms. We hold each other for what seems a very long time. Neither one of us speaks. Between the enormity of what the Elders appear to be doing and the depraved horror we’ve seen and participated in today, there’s no need.
I brush her kinked blonde hair away from her neck, kiss her gently. She pulls me around in front of her, plants her lips on mine. We lean together, foreheads touching for a moment, then we undress and shower away the day’s grit and blood.
We wrap up in huge towels and head for the spare room we’ve had before. Being Mike’s older brother, I’ve actually crashed here in the past and have left a few changes of clothes over the years. Toni’s got some clothes here as well and we dress for comfort in black Megadeth sweats and an old sleeveless Coroner shirt from the No More Color tour in ’89 for me, and an ancient pink Benneton rugby that’s more like a babydoll on her now, and matching workout pants. I pull the wad of bills out of my jacket and we head for the warmth and good smells of the kitchen.
Marley, Janessa, and Anita are tending to the pasta. Mike, Vinnie, and the kids are playing Mario Kart on the Nintendo 64 in the living room adjoining the kitchen. Toni follows me into the living room, sinks gratefully into a recliner, and closes her eyes.
I wait for the race to be over; Millicent wins, followed by Miland, then Mike, and finally Vinnie slaloms in sideways nearly three minutes later; then I tap my little niece on her little blonde head.
She looks up at me, all innocent, trusting, big brown eyes, and she smiles up at me, minus her front teeth (but all the better for slurping up noodles), and says, “Hi, Uncle Joey! Did you get in a fight today?”
“Something like that, sweetpea,” I reply, and smile back. “I need to borrow your daddy for a minute.”
“Okay, but you gotta play the winner,” Millicent replies.
“Don’t worry,” Miland says. “I’ll make sure he plays you, too, ‘Cent.”
She shoots him the finger, undoubtedly having witnessed her charming uncle or father using that maneuver at some point, and I laugh as Mike rises to his feet.
“Millicent Janine,” he warns sternly, but she just bats her eyes and Mike and I look at each other like “Yep, she’ll be breaking hearts in about ten years.”
We head into Mike and Marley’s room and I hand him the money.
“Well, what the hell’s this, Big Brother?” Mike asks.
“Vinh was quite remorseful when I delivered his destiny,” I explain. “Two grand. He said that he hoped it would cover his tab and any repairs to the delivery vehicle.”
“Well, I’ll be go to hell,” Mike says, sliding the bills into a dresser drawer.
“He also apologized for his friend being all coked up and shooting at your delivery guy,” I continue.
“Wow,” Mike says, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.
“He still turned into a meat cloud, though,” I say. “He won’t be fuckin’ around with anybody ever again.”
“Thanks, Bro,” Mike says, and we shake.
“Not a problem. Anything for family,” I reply. “I gotta make a couple calls and then I’ll be out to challenge little Miss Speed Racer. Let her know for me, ‘kay?”
“No prob, Joe. Thanks again.” He squeezes my shoulder once, then leaves the room.
I take out my cell, decide to kill two with one, and punch in Pops P.’s number. Three rings, then it’s picked up.
“I fuggin’ knew it,” a strained, but weary voice says in my ear.
“Knew what, Pops?”
“That you’d be just fine. Tony and I were out to the docks earlier, saw some of your handiwork.”
“Cut the bullshit, Pops. Is there a hit out on us or not?”
Silence. I guess that’s answer enough.
“Tell me you don’t fuckin’ agree with it, at least.”
“Not in my heart, I don’t, Joey. Tony’s fuggin’ crazy, wanting his own children dead. Horsedick, that spastic kid of his, maybe, but not Antonia. She’s his firstborn.”
“Whattaya mean, ‘not in your heart,’ Pops?”
“What I mean is, you all have stepped on some fuggin’ toes with all your extracurricular shit and I understand the Elders’ perspective on it. You’re taking money, whores, and drugs away from a family business that’s been working well since the goddamned Great Depression, an’ that’s pissin’ off a lot of the old-timers. Now, think how this looks to less prominent mob families…”
“I don’t give a flying fuck how it looks to other families, Pops. The only opinions I care about are Toni’s and yours and Ma’s. She’s gotta be havin’ fuckin’ kittens over all this bullshit.”
“Personally, Son, I see Tony Cannavino’s point, but I’m proud of you, myself. I don’t dare show it or say it, ‘cause then I’ll wake up with a fuggin’ horse head in my bed. Should you be made an example of? So long as it’s a verbal abuse session, I say sure. But I am not about to go an’ support my firstborn son becoming a fuggin’ chalk outline.”
“I was hoping you’d say that, Pops. Tell Ma I love her,” I say. “I love you, too, Pops.” Then, before he can say anything else, I shut the phone, disconnecting the call.
I sit there on the bed, in the dark, the only light coming from the eerie blue digital read out of Mike’s clock radio, rain pattering the roof.
I don’t know how long I sit there, until Miland says from the doorway, “Unca Joe? Suppa’s ready. You awright?”
I just sit there, staring off into the darkness. Miland comes in and sits next to me, takes my hand. It occurs to me that although Miland is almost seven years old, I have barely been in his life, outside of stuffing hundred dollar bills in birthday and Christmas cards. Granted, Mike and Marley are partially in the life, too, but are trying like hell to keep their children out of it. The kids are tutored at home by Marley’s brother during the day, then Marley’s home by three in the afternoon, just in time to bake cookies and watch Sesame Street and Pokemon.
Miland looks up at me with big, dark eyes. I think about Toni and I getting married, having our own kids. If we live that long. I’m not exactly scared, but I’m not exactly thrilled by our current situation. I look down at Miland’s tiny hand in mine and sigh.
“Well, let’s put it this way, little man, your Uncle Joe and your Aunt Toni are in some fairly serious trouble.”
His eyes widen even more. “Weally, Unca Joe? What kind? Are Mom ‘n’ Pop in trouble now, too?”
“If it comes down to that, we’ll leave, but not before we make sure you’re all safe. Okay?”
He squeezes my hand, trying to be tough. “Okay, Unca Joe.”
“Shall we go get some o’ your ma’s pasta?” I ask.
“Sounds good to me, Unca Joe.”
“Wanna piggyback ride?”
“Yeah!”
So, I pull the happy little dude up on my shoulders and head for the dining room, careful not to bop his head ducking through doorways.
One hour, two heaping plates of angel hair with Marley’s homemade garlic marinara, half a loaf of crusty garlic bread, and four good glasses of sparkling cider later, we’re in the living room, watching Disney’s The Little Mermaid and those rumors about clandestinely drawn dicks is fucking true. Toni’s legs are stretched across my lap so I can massage her injured calf.
We’re on one end of a ridiculously long sectional couch that actually reclines in some places, Marley and Millicent are on the other. Mike and Miland sit in matching father and son recliners. Vinnie and Anita are off somewhere, no doubt exchanging or consuming each other’s bodily fluids. It fuckin’ figures, you know, society’s crumbling, the city’s flooding, the Elders have a hit out on us, the fucking dead are walking around, and ol’ fuckin’ Horsedick’s worried about busting a nut. Janessa spends the movie out in the kitchen on Marley’s laptop, searching the net for info and crying periodically. I guess she really did like Doc Sinclair, even if she barely knew him.
By the time the movie’s over, both the kids and Toni are asleep. The rain’s still tap dancing on the roof as Mike and I pick up Millicent and Miland, respectively, and take them to their rooms. I linger in Miland’s room, watch his little cherub cheeks as his breathing slows into a sleeping rhythm. I look at the posters on his wall; Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Power Rangers, then turn off his overhead, leaving a light saber night light glowing red in the dark.
I join Mike out on the porch, where he and Janessa are smoking. Rainwater’s running freely down the street, garbage floating in it; the drains can’t keep up as it reaches tire height and starts creeping into lawns. Mike takes a drag, the cherry glowing bright orange in the ten-thirty gloom. We watch a few shambling figures splash by in the knee-high water (one is actually floating along with the current like a rotting piece of driftwood) and listen to the distant sounds of sirens all the way over in Brooklyn and Jamaica.
I hold out my hand; Janessa gives me a dirty look but hands me her cigarette. I take a drag and wish I hadn’t, but the urge is just so strong right now. I take another drag and hand it back to her. Never did like fucking menthols.
“So, whatcha think, Brother?” Mike asks.
“The truth?”
“No, fucking lie to me. What do you think?”
“I think we’re fucked, Mike. That’s what I think.” I sit down on the swing bolted to the ceiling of the porch. “Between all those dead things wandering around, the shit Mother Nature’s throwing at us, and now the hit on Toni, Vinnie ‘n’ me, the deck’s pretty well stacked.”
Mike inhales deeply, tosses the butt out into the swampland of his front yard, then exhales, staring at me with pain in his eyes.
“Joe, man, you know I’d do anything for you, ‘cause you’re my brother,” he says, “but I can’t have my kids in any kind of danger.”
“I know, Bro. We’ll leave in the morning,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” he continues. “If there was some way to guarantee that no one’s come after you, I’d let you stay forever.”
“It’s okay, Bro. I’d do the same thing, I was you.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m gonna turn in. I’m sure things’ll look better in the morning.”
Dead Renaissance 