Mutant Moon (1) Milo had the whole highway to himself tonight. Which was fine with Milo; to him, it was his trinket, all that beautiful but lonely paint and asphalt, rolling out before him like a red carpet to freedom. Milo had always had a motto he lived by; You merely decide it's yours, and it IS. Another one he lived by was; What you see, is what you GET. He never deviated from these beliefs, either. Adrenaline pumping through his veins like runaway hell's fire, he leaned on the accelerator. The landscape sped past like a blur. He looked up at the moon, thinking about a time long ago............. He swerved over into the wrong lane and picked up speed: 50...60....70....80. I'm my own man, he thought, as the remains of a derelict world sped past his windows. I can drive on the wrong side of the highway if I damn well please. It's MY highway. He teased the speed up again, until the ancient Chevy Nova wobbled on it's shocks. The signs, nothing but green and white blurs, were facing the wrong way, but he knew where he was going. Nobody, he thought, I mean NOBODY, knows the wasteland like I do. Besides; I'M the MESSENGER. You never kill the messenger. Maybe chop off a finger or a toe if he brings bad news, yes, but never, ever, kill the messenger. He drove on toward Purgatory. The small town of Purgatory, Texas, used to be a thriving town, until the bomb dropped back in 2013. Now it was a human cesspool of fallout fever induced mutants, and sexual deviants, the latter prone to daily and nightly sessions of necrophiliac sex with the freshest corpses they could find. Death was a way of life, meat was abundant and cheap, and the world kept turning. Besides, folks out here had to make a buck, didn't they? And so it goes. He pulled into Purgatory around midnight, the dim lights of the dead town barely flickering as he pulled into the parking lot of the city hall. The new 10 o'clock curfew, which was strictly enforced by Sheriff Marshal Wilson, and ex-marine drill instructor, had so far been relatively successful, except for the ocassional drunken deviant who'd lost track of time while pounding away at the newest victim of the fever. Prostitution was only legal with the dead, and only if they weren't more than twelve hours dead. After that, rigor would start to set in, and Wilson considered it rude to be pounding away at someone who was as stiff as a dimestore mannequin. Even the dead had rights, he thought, under those circumstances. As Milo shut off the engine, Wilson came strolling out of the front door, carrying a bottle of bootleg hooch and two glasses. He and Milo always had a drink or two when Milo came to town. Small town courtesy between two businessmen. And so it goes. ''Milo, old buddy!'' Wilson said, plopping his big ass down on the steps. ''How's it hangin'?'' Milo cracked a dry grin. ''Same old, same old,'' he said, twirling a finger in the air. ''Just different day.'' ''I hear you,'' Wilson agreed, pouring them both a generous shot of Red Rocket bourbon. ''It's been....dead, around here lately. Get it?'' Yeah, I got it, Milo thought, disgustingly. Very funny, Marshal. Ha-ha-ha. You're a regular barrel of laughs, you sick puke fuck of a redneck shitkicker. You're a real riot. I've seen train wrecks funnier than you. Wilson had always fancied himself a comedian, so Milo just went along with it out of common respect. An asshole, Wilson was, but, he had managed to hold the town together through it all. ''Yeah, I get it,'' Milo said, cracking a crocodile smile. ''That's a good one.'' ''Thought you'd like it,'' Wilson said. ''Now, how's business?'' ''Kinda slow,'' Milo said, shaking his head, as Wilson handed him his glass. ''It's the heat.'' He sipped his drink, grimaced. Red Rocket was bottom of the barrel booze, but it was free. You didn't turn free drinks or eats down in the wasteland. It was taboo. ''When it's a hundred and twenty in the shade, even the freshest meat starts going bad fast. Those ancient refridgeration trucks they haul them in...they're just too damned old to do the job anymore. That's why I don't make long hauls now.'' Wilson nodded in agreement. ''I hear you,'' he said, sipping his bourbon. That was his favorite metaphor these days. ''It's been slow here too. I'm runnin' out of fresh meat. Speaking of meat, do you have a message for me? I mean from the big boss man?'' He was speaking of Cantrell, CEO of CHAOS meat packing co. ''No messages today,'' Milo said, shaking his head. Beads of sweat fell from his eyebrows and landed on his boots. ''Except he told me to tell you as soon as business picks back up, he'd have me let you know.'' Wilson nodded in agreement, shrugged his shoulders, took a sip of bourbon. His big, red veined nose seemed to glow like Rudolph the red nosed reindeer in the dim light of the nearby street lamp. His big gut sagged over his belt as well. He was what Milo called, ''A high velocity boozer.'' Both men sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their bourbon and taking in the surroundings. Abandoned, burnt out cars littered the streets. Gutted buildings loomed like dinosaur skeletons as far as the eye could see. Only the city hall, the library, the highschool, and a few other buildings had been spared the bomb's wrath. But Wilson and the other survivors were still rebuilding, and the town was starting to look more like a town again instead of a disaster area. Even though Milo had been born and raised in Purgatory, he didn't envy it's survivors; the fever induced crazies, the sexual deviants, with their seedy, perverted orgies, spreading HIV to other folks already dying, not needing anything else to suffer from. At least the dead ones in the meatshops were a little safer. Even the female survivors who hadn't dyed from the fever gave birth to mutated offspring. Milo's acute sense of smell suddenly kicked in, and he began sniffing the motionless air, detecting ....something, but wasn't sure what it was. ''Marshal, you're not cooking anything in there, are you?'' He nodded his head toward the front doors. ''Nope. Already ate at the diner. Why?'' ''I smell......something, and whatever it is, it's close.'' ''Yeah....,'' Wilson said now, sniffing the air too. ''I smell it too. Seems to be coming from around back. Cmon.'' They walked around to the back of the building, into the alley, to discover the smell was coming from a big, green, rust spotted dumpster. Milo, ravenous after his two day drive in the desert, walked over and lifted the lid, peered in. He almost fell backward in disgust. Buzzing blackflies wreathed the decapitated head of a young woman, the eyes still open in stark terror, the mouth agape and full of maggots. The facial skin had been singed, hence the smell Milo had detected. ''SON-OF-A-BITCH,'' he said, falling to his knees, his head reeling, his stomach churning. ''It ain't worth it. It just ain't worth it.'' ''You okay?'' Wilson said, putting his hand on Milo's shoulder. ''Yeah....I'm...I'm okay.'' Stick to canned foods and water, he remembered his mother telling him now, right before she died from the fever. Don't waste precious calories pursuing scraps, and by all means, DO NOT , I repeat do not, resort to cannibalism. It's unholy. God, oh dear holy God, he missed her now. ''Fucking animals,'' Milo said, choking back bile. ''Goddamn flesh eating, blood drinking, shit sucking ghouls. What in the hell has happened to everbody? Is this the way it's always going to be?!'' He was feeling pangs of guilt over driving for CHAOS. ''Fucking animals.'' Wilson forced a smile, tried to be comical. ''What animals?'' he said, flashing Milo a stupid grin. ''We're in the wasteland, pal. The animal Kingdom is dead. That is, except for that old stray I feed now and then, the one hangs around the old city park chasing mutant pidgeons. I think he's retarded.'' Milo, rising up from his knees, forced a smile. ''Sorry,'' he said, his face pale, ghostlike in the gloom. ''Sorry, really, I am. It's just that...'' ''No explanation necessary,'' Wilson said, draining his glass. ''Happens to the best of us, it does. You can't expect to put on the tough guy act forever.'' But that's me, Milo thought, not wanting anything to put a stain on his reputation, I'm the messenger, and I'm the King of the highway, and what I see is what I get, and when I decide something is mine, IT IS, and...oh, fuck it. Who am I trying to fool? Maybe myself? ''I quit,'' Milo said, brushing off the knees of his jeans. ''Do what?'' Wilson said, almost dropping his glass. ''You heard me, Marshal. I QUIT.'' ''But...but you ....can't quit, Milo! You're the best driver Cantrell's ever had! You're the best friend I've ever had!'' Wilson looked petrified, like a child who's lost track of their mother in a huge shopping mall. ''I'm sorry, old friend. But I just realized today that I've finally had enough. All the...the...madness, that's all it is, you know. Just pure damned madness, plain and simple. We live in a world of cannibals and sexual deviant-predators, all of them feeding off the corpse of a dead world. They're...we're all no better than maggots, Marshal. Don't you....doesn't anybody realize that?!'' Wilson's face was flushing red, his veins burning for more cheap alcohol. The look in his bloodshot eyes was one of fear, not anger, toward Milo. He knew he'd be lost without him, his business partner, his friend. He could handle the town by himself, sure, but he needed a friend, a confidant in a world full of bloodthirsty strangers, maniacs who would slit your throat for a glass of water. ''But...but..what will you do?!'' Wilson said, his eyes welling up with tears. ''Where will you go? You've been running meat for six years now, since the bakery blew up. What will you....'' ''I'll manage,'' Milo said, lighting a cigarette. ''I hear there's a roadhouse up by Deadman's Gulch? Pays free room and board, all the eats and drinks free for a good bartender. And, it's past the neutral zone, where the air is clearer, the water cleaner. I don't know why I've put off going as long as I have.'' Wilson could tell by the look in Milo's eyes he was serious. ''So....that's it, then?'' ''Guess so,'' Milo said, stomping out his cigarette. ''You can have what meat I've got in my trunk, you want it. It's not much, just a an wino I found lying out on highway 69#.'' ''I appreciate it,'' Wilson said, choking back tears. ''I can use it for making a big pot of my famous chili.'' Milo grimaced; he'd eaten his chili before. As Wilson walked Milo back to his car, Milo said, ''Do me a favor, okay?'' ''Sure, Milo, anything. Just name it.'' ''Send Cantrell a message for me, tell him what happened. He'll be pissed, but....'' ''He'll kill you,'' Wilson said, shuddering. ''And you know it. You got too many of his secrets lodged inside that brain of yours.'' ''He can't kill me if he can't find me. '' ''True.'' Milo grabbed Wilson's hand, shook it, then climbed into the Nova. He started the engine, and with a spit and a sputter it came to life. Wilson had walked back to the trunk to get the wino. He came walking back up a minute later. ''Well, good luck, Milo. Take care now, you hear?'' ''I will,'' Milo said through the open window. ''And you do the same.'' As he pulled out of the lot, Wilson yelled out, ''You know what you get when you cross a mutant nigger and an octopus?!'' ''No! What?'' Milo yelled as he neared the blacktop. ''I don't know either, but it sure as hell can pick watermelons!'' ''I hear ya!'' Milo replied, getting in the last word for a change, as well as using Wilson's own favorite metaphor first. ~**~ Milo had the whole highway to himself again. You merely have to decide it's yours, and it is, he thought, leaning on the accelerator. What you see is what you get, too. Remember that, Milo old chum, and you just might make it out there all alone. You're your own man, remember? Yeah....I remember. He looked up through the windshield, the fat, full moon grinning at him like a big white skull, it's yellowed teeth shrouded in fallout mist. He drove on through the night, and all the next day, and didn't sleep until the night that followed. As he dreamed, the world sped past like a blur. And so it goes. ~**~ IT didn't take long for Cantrell Moon to get wind of Milo's defecting. The solar panel operated telegraph system had the word relayed within hours, too late to catch up with Milo before he reached the neutral zone, but not too late to use Wilson as an example of what can happen to someone who relays bad news in the middle of the night. By early morning, around 8 a.m., Wilson walked out of his office and into the early morning sunlight, to come face to face with the shadow of death. There at the bottom of the steps stood Ricky the Zip and Joe Bob Briggs, two of Cantrell's assassins. Wilson recognized them immediately, having done business with them for years. ''Ricky...Joe Bob, up early, aren't we?'' His voice was quivering; he didn't like the feel of this. Joe Bob, the bigger of the two human monoliths, stepped forward first, brandishing a large hunting knife, using the honed tip to clean his fingernails. ''Morning, sunshine,'' he said, his left eye twitching like it always did when he was getting ready to inflict bodily injury. ''Heard any good jokes lately?'' He was smiling, and Wilson took that as a good sign. ''Matter of fact,'' Wilson said, trying not to act nervous, ''I have. You know what happens when you put an odor eater in a nigger's shoes?'' ''No,'' Ricky piped up. ''Tell us.'' ''He disappears!'' Wilson said, smiling and pinching his nostrils shut for emphasis. ''That's a good one,'' Joe Bob said, cracking an evil grin. ''Now, I got one for you. What did the gravedigger say to the corpse he was burying?'' Wilson swallowed hard. ''I...I don't know, Joe Bob. What?'' ''I'm sure glad you came along, things have been so dead around here lately.'' He put emphasis on the word dead. Wilson emitted some mock laughter, feeling his stomach cramping, his bowels loosening. ''That's a good one, Joe Bob. A real knee slapper.'' ''Glad you liked it,'' Joe Bob said, glancing at his fingernails, apparently satisfied. ''Wanna take a little ride with us?'' Ricky asked, stepping forward now. He had an old, rusty meat cleaver stuck into his belt. ''It's such a nice day and all. I thought we'd grab a bottle of Red Rocket, take a trip out to the old gravel pit for a little fishing.'' Wilson's heart was jack-hammering now, his mind racing. ''I...I don't think so, fellas. It looks like it's gonna be a busy day. Deliveries and all.'' ''Deliveries?'' Ricky said, acting bewildered. ''That's funny, ain't it, Joe Bob?'' ''Sure is,'' Joe Bob said, gripping the knife tightly in his right hand. ''Considering his main delivery boy done flew the coop. Real funny, it is.'' Wilson slowly lowered his hand down to his gunbelt, to realize he'd left it on his desk. Joe Bob smiled at him like a snake cornering a rabbit. ''Time to go fishing,'' he said, raising the knife in the air and twirling it. ''Yeah,'' Ricky said, pulling the meat cleaver from his belt, ''And you're the bait.'' Before Wilson could turn to run, they fell upon him. ~**~ Milo kept thinking about Wilson. It was only 10:30 in the morning, but the heat was already so thick it could make shadows sweat. Beads of perspiration ran down into his eyes, stinging, burning. He elbowed the steering wheel, knuckling the sweat from his eyes. A mutant buzzard, with a wingspan like a learjet, hovered above the car as he pulled over to the shoulder, amidst the derelict cars and other discarded remnants of a past life. Wilson, he thought, as he shut off the engine. Smoke poured from under the hood. Why did I leave him alone back there to relay a message to Cantrell? MY message, even. I've always been the messenger, not him. The buzzard landed on his hood, perched there like some kind of macabre hood ornament, staring through the windshield at him with big, bulbous, fever - green eyes. Crazy eyes. Hungry eyes. He honked the horn, attempting to startle it away, but to no avail. It just sat there staring at him, like a boa constrictor eyeing a lab rat. They'll KILL him, he thought. As sure as shit shoots through a goose like a rocket ship, they'll kill him for relaying MY message. He honked the horn again, but the bird didn't budge. Fine, he thought, reaching behind him into the back floorboard, grabbing his .357. I'll have buzzard burgers tonight. He rolled down the driver's side window, the beast's eyes on his every move, like it had built in radar. Milo cocked the pistol, leveled at the creature, and squeezed off a shot. The sound was deafening, even in the open terrain. The beast's head exploded in a haze of blood and brains, it's body toppling over the end of the hood and into the dust. Some time later, as Milo turned the meat on his Coleman stove, he was still thinking about Wilson. He couldn't get him out of his mind. He couldn't help but get the feeling ill health had befallen him, and it was his fault. I better go back, he thought, glumly, and maybe, just MAYBE, I'll get there in time to back him up. He ate. The meat was tough, like leather. He threw it back up, then fell asleep in the front seat of the Nova for awhile. As he slept, he dreamed of his mother, and her fine home cooking, and of a time long ago, when the world had really been his for the taking. ~**~ Cantrell said, ''How was your fishing trip?'' Joe Bob smiled. ''Caught us a big one, didn't we Ricky?'' Ricky smiled through a mouthful of cigarette smoke. ''Yep, we sure did. Had a helluva time skinning him, though. Sonofabitch wouldn't quit squirming, even when I chopped off his feet.'' ''Damn,'' Cantrell said, shaking his head. ''Did you keep the fingers?'' ''Right here,'' Joe Bob said, holding up a string of filament line laced with pudgy human fingers. There were pale, bloodless. ''Got the toes, too. Knew you liked them.'' ''Makes good hordeurves,'' Cantrell said. ''Finger sandwiches.'' ''Kept the ass, too,'' Joe Bob said, grinning. ''He was a real porker, he was. Figured it'd make a good rump roast.'' ''I can smell a cookout coming on,'' Cantrell said. ''What about Milo? Did you manage to get anything out of him about where he was headed?'' ''He was a tough little bird,'' Ricky said. ''Didn't say anything about it until we cut off his dingus.'' ''Says he's in a roadhouse past the neutral zone,'' Joe Bob threw in. ''Gonna be a bartender.'' ''Find him,'' Cantrell said, sipping a glass of brandy. ''I mean like yesterday. He knows too much.'' ''Cool.'' Joe Bob said. ''By the way,'' Cantrell said, ''Bring me his head.'' Milo almost didn't see her for the glare through his windshield. A tall, slim woman with waist length, honey blond hair. Green eyes like emeralds, a cute little pug nose. Pouty lips. She was wearing a lime green sundress, faded by age, and open toed sandals. He didn't really want to pick up a hitchhiker considering where he was headed, back to Purgatory, but he knew what it was like to walk out there in that blazing sun, and felt sympathy for her. Besides; she was a knockout. She lowered her thumb as he pulled over, using her hand as a visor so she could see him more clearly. He reached over, rolling the passenger's window down, saying, ''Hey! Going my way, baby?'' He immediately felt like a fool; she looked to be around eighteen or nineteen, college age, if there'd been any colleges left standing. The last college Milo had seen had been converted into a makeshift morgue. He felt like a damned pervert; she was young enough to be his daughter. He'd been on the road too long.
Go to part: 1 2
Copyright © 2003 David Boyer |