Page 15 of Wildflowers

“Yes.”

He takes my hand and leads me through his house. It’s the first time we’ve touched, apart from the small matter of an abduction. “Put a mask on and let’s go.”

“You said a mask wouldn’t help with the virus.”

“Yeah. But dead bodies can be a breeding ground for all sorts of shit.”

The décor in his living room is sparse. Some scenic framed photos and books. So many books. It almost makes me think better of him. One lone, sad, wilted potted plant that has a definite case for neglect. Not much else is here. It would seem he actually made an effort downstairs with the rug, cushions, and throws for me. Which is kind of both sweet and strange.

Having a stalker isn’t quite what I thought it would be like. Not that I ever gave it much thought.

In the garage sits an oversized truck with his name and number stenciled on the door. The man wasn’t lying about being a contractor. And a gleaming Triumph motorcycle with saddlebags or whatever they’re called, packed and ready to go, also awaits us as promised.

He grabs a helmet off a workbench and carefully puts it on me. Then he does his own in a far hastier manner. Blood pounds behind my ears. It’s all I can hear. Boom, boom, boom. He getson the motorcycle far more gracefully than me. Like he’s done this a thousand times or more.

“Arms around my middle,” he says. “Hold on tight. Real tight. And don’t let go.”

After endless days of waiting, this all seems to be happening in an instant. I clasp my hands around his hard body. Touching him, and being this close to him, is weird. But whatever it takes to get out of here.

The motorcycle roars to life, vibrating beneath me. Then the garage door rises, sunlight pouring into the space, dazzling my eyes. Dean guns the engine and off we go, down the driveway and out onto the street.

I don’t know if going with him is the best idea. However, until I know more, it feels like the only viable one.

Nothing about the neighborhood is quite how I remember. The world has drastically changed in the four days I’ve been in a cage. Neglect and despair have settled in and made themselves comfortable. How has everything fallen apart so quickly?

It’s more than the trash strewn across the asphalt. Graffiti covers a garage door, and someone’s smashed the windshield of my Prius.

There’s a body hanging out of the open driver’s-side door of an SUV sitting in the middle of the street. An actual real live dead body. The first I’ve ever seen, but I am sure it won’t be the last. Swollen limbs and the stench of rot. The rats and crows have more than the overturned bins to choose from now. What a feast.

It’s one thing seeing the desolation from a safe distance on the TV. Up close and personal it’s pure, unadulterated horror.

Shouting comes from behind us, followed by the sound of gunshots. Like we’re not just leaving the place for them to raid. What more do they want?

It’s a tight turn at the corner and then we’re speeding down the road, away from the house. Dean knows what he’s doing. He maneuvers us around obstacles with ease. So many of the vehicles are occupied by the dead. This is so surreal. His solid presence is welcome amidst all of this chaos.

We pass an ambulance embedded in a power pole. The rear doors of the vehicle are hanging open, with bandages and other detritus spread on the ground. I wonder if that’s what killed the electricity. There’s a beauty to the awfulness of it—seeing our world so undone. Modern art wishes it was this macabre and absurd.

Black smudges on the skyline mark the remnants of fires in the city. The collection of tents in the parking lot of a sporting goods store must have been one of the FEMA camps. And Humvees and a tank are surrounded by bodies in uniform at a military blockade outside a mega mart. Guess there won’t be anyone enforcing the curfew. You’d think sick people would head home and seek their beds. But there are plenty of the recently deceased to be seen. Humanity has been decimated by the virus during the days I was kept in a cage.

It’s almost as if my mind wants to back away from the sight of bodies. To imagine they’re mannequins or dolls or anything but people whose lives were cut short and whose bodies are now rotting in the sun. The shock of it is too much to process.

We’re soon heading away from the familiar. Dean uses footpaths and back alleyways when necessary. He must have memorized a variety of routes. Multiple times we’re turned around by traffic. Huge clusters of cars sitting silent forever more like a motor mausoleum. But we wind our way through the suburbs, moving farther and farther out. It’s like escaping a labyrinth.

My ass is aching when we finally stop at a park on the edge of the south side of town. We haven’t seen anyone alive in over anhour. However, he still makes sure to park near a copse of trees so we’ll have some cover.

Stretching never felt so good. I roll my shoulders and unzip my jacket. “We got out.”

“Yeah,” he says, taking off his helmet.

I take off mine too and place it on the grass and, oh yeah. So much better. The air isn’t too bad here. You can’t smell the dead as strongly since a breeze is blowing and the houses aren’t too close. Birds are singing and bees are buzzing. I don’t think I realized how much I missed the everyday things while I was stuck down in the basement. The blue sky and fluffy white clouds and so on. Freedom feels real good on me.

Which is when he grips my wrist and presses his pistol into my hand. And the dangerous end is very much pointing in his direction when he says, “The suspense is killing me.”

“What?”

“Are you going to shoot me, are you going to run? What’ll it be?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

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