Fifty-nine
Gene Packerson awoke from the depth of shock to
confused self-awareness while wandering a dark side street of Eagle
Junction. The air had grown humid, filled now with strange and unpleasant
odors. He kicked his way through raw earth with each stumbling step, and
occasionally a piece of rotting wood, a shred of cloth, or even a human
bone. Abandoned by a world gone insane, the bulk of his ego huddled in a
tiny and well-protected corner of his mind where no more horror could
touch him.
A car passed him in the street moving at less than
twenty miles an hour, bouncing and rocking every few feet over a piece of
rock or debris. It took a moment to recognize the badly dented vehicle as
his own patrol car. Why had he abandoned a perfectly functional car to go
running off into the night on foot, he wondered.
The driver, John Hartman, did not see him as he
passed by. John was accompanied by his dead wife and his sickly
ten-year-old boy, except that David was no longer ill, and Marlene Hartman
no longer dead. His best hypothesis for being marooned in this strange
new world remained the same as it had been earlier. He had blown a blood
vessel having sex with Sheila Davies. His brains were addled. The
enthusiastic twenty-six-year-old had been too much for an old man. He
should have known better than to fall prey to a temptation of that
magnitude.
Crimson taillights vanished in the direction of the
Ridge. In time, it occurred to him that he had a spare radio clipped to
his utility belt. He tried a call to the substation and sighed in relief
when Sheila answered, except that there was a tremor of fear in her
usually confident and cheerful voice.
"Are you okay, Gene-honey?"
Gene looked around the deserted night to assess his
situation. He studied the sky, but the green light was gone.
"I think so.”
“Gene, I'm scared," Sheila said in a carefully
controlled tone of voice. "Do you understand what any of this is about?"
He looked around the deserted and sinister night, the
town he used to know, and shook his head emphatically. "No, but I know
who to ask. I'll let you know what he has to say, but don't tell anyone.
I don’t know nothing. That’s my official stance. I'm not taking any crap
from anybody."
He took a deep breath of foul air. When he finished
choking, he said, “In fact, I think I retired tonight."
"Where are you, Gene?"
He judged that he was a half mile from the
substation. "Give me a few minutes. I’m on foot. John Hartman stole my
fucking car."
"Want me to put on some fresh coffee?"
He all but burst into tears. "God, yes, please do.”
He put his radio away. He brushed the stinking dirt
from his hair and shoulders and picked up his pace along the deserted
sidewalk. There was nothing more to be done for the evening. He was free
to go home to Sheila and a fresh cup of coffee. What more could a madman
ask of the world?
The End
