Atlanta Bound, Page 2

  Dad would like Lee—he respected competence. Her mother’s disdain was somewhat expected, but her father’s would be harder to bear, if it happened. Flo, of course, would take one look at him and decide Ginny was going way below the Mills pay grade. It might even make her sister stop blaming her for the great soon-to-be-ex-husband debacle.

  None of that would matter if they were alive, and well. She could even put up with her mother’s anxiety with good grace. Mom would probably go into a tizzy about how Ginny shouldn’t have traveled, fussing and fretting that would even be welcome because her mother never panicked during the emergency, only when things were settled and there was spare time for thinking about it.

  Please let them be all right, she thought, again. Please, please, let them be all right.

  She bent over the book, blinking against a sudden swell of hot water, and a few thin hard flakes of snow hit the windshield with soft pop-slithering kisses.

  If You're Gonna

  They stopped just off the freeway at a fancy grocery store, all-natural and organic plastered on every shelf. The glass doors in front were boarded up by some punctilious manager, and the parking lot held only two abandoned SUVs standing lonely sentinel at either end. Rattling bits of snow came down, more ice than flake, and Juju didn’t like the way the wind smelled of cold iron and heavy moisture on the way.

  He also didn’t like the way Mark kept sidling after him, the kid’s beaky face full of something. Like he was congested with a secret and just had to share.

  Nothing good ever came from a white boy followin’ you with something on his mind, and that was a fact.

  It was beginning to get damn eerie, being in deserted grocery stores. At least this one didn’t have a goddamn zombie hiding behind the meat counter. The side door Lee and Juju chose had been jimmied once, inexpertly, but whoever came through had left little trace except in the paper aisle, where someone had cleaned out a whole stand of recycled-paper asswipe.

  Why they bothered, Juju had no idea. Recycled meant rough, and after the Army he had no desire to ever scrape his nethers with substandard tissue ever again.Tip had laughed at him for being serious over TP, but he also used Juju’s luxury buttscrub with abandon.

  Well, Tip was past the problem of finding something to wipe with. He was past all the problems, forever.

  Juju stopped next to a display of biodegradable cleaning supplies, rubbed at his eyes, and continued on. As if good old Clorox wasn’t good enough for rich folk. Damn it all.

  It was in the soup aisle, both of them looking for dinner, that Mark finally busted. “Mr Thurgood, sir?”

  “Spit it out.” Juju peered at the shelf in front of him. Tomato bisque, what the hell was that? There wasn’t a decent can of Campbell’s Chunky in this entire place. “Whatever you been sittin on, Kasprak, just let it loose.”

  The boy’s ungloved hands dangled. He was growing into them, and filling out around the shoulders. “I owe you an apology, Mr Thurgood. And I’m gonna give it.” The words came out in a rush, and Mark hunched a little, as if expecting Juju to yell.

  Uh. What? “What for, son?” Juju’s flashlight flicked over cartons of beef stock, chicken stock, pasture-raised, organic feed. Yes sir, they were definitely in Yankee land now.

  “Mr French. When he called you…when he did what he did. I shoulda said somethin. I didn’t, and I’m sorry.” Mark didn’t quite mumble, but he didn’t raise his voice either.

  Well, now. The world was still a surprising place. “Ain’t nothin you could have said,” Juju answered, finally. Even though Steph had spoken up. Still, if French had wanted to push it, neither of the kids would have been worth a red snoot. “Get yo’self some food.”

  Whatever Mark was expecting, it wasn’t that. “I shoulda said somethin,” he repeated. “Next time I will.”

  “No need to tell me that.” Juju found a couple cans of beef stew that didn’t look like they had any weird ingredients like lemongrass or soy. “Just do it, if you’re gonna.” Maybe there was some bread that hadn’t passed, or instant rice? He was missing vegetables, truth be told, and that was a sure sign of the Pocalypse too. Spinach, or some carrots—well, maybe the carrots might still be good, even if the produce department was a little fragrant right now. Ginny had hied herself over there with a purposeful look when they separated to look for dinner.

  “I just wanted you to know.” Mark’s bare hands wrung at each other, reddened knuckles glaring. Wasn’t enough to just say he was sorry, the kid expected Juju to soothe him, too. Maybe before the wrath of God came down on the whole world Juju would have tried.

  “Well, thank you, Mr Kasprak.” Juju nodded, selecting a couple more cans. Might as well stock up. “You want some of this?”

  “Nosir.” Mark’s expression cleared. “I like tomato, myself. With some grilled cheese.”

  Well, there was bisque right there. Why they didn’t just call it plain ol’ tomato was beyond Juju Thurgood. “Was thinkin of findin some bread.” He pointed vaguely down the aisle, in the general direction of the bakery at the back. “If there’s any that ain’t gone over.” Cheese might be still good, maybe they could dig up some of that Velveeta.

  That shit never went bad.

  “I’ll go look.” With that, the kid was off, his flashlight bobbing. They shouldn’t split up further, but Juju didn’t say a word. His left hand, hidden, had turned into a fist.

  Kasprak’s conscience was relieved. That was nice for him. Real nice. All the weight slid right off him and onto Juju. They just didn’t seem to get that “next time” didn’t—and would never—do any fucking good. White people were gonna white people, and even the end of the world didn’t change that.

  Still, the boy had made the effort. That was pretty much all you could expect, even now in the goddamn ruins of civilization.

  Why did they call it that? There was nothing civilized about the world. There was technology, sure, but manners and decency were another thing entirely, and rare all down through history as far as Juju could tell.

  Real rare.

  Juju sighed, shook out his left hand, and didn’t look at the burn scar. It twinged, a reminder that he’d only known one goddamn unicorn in his life, and was lucky to have got as much even if that creature was lying dead on a bed in Cotton Crossing with his head stove in. He grabbed a couple cans of the best-looking beef stew, hesitated, and got a carton of fancy tomato soup, too.

  Might as well.

  Rapture

  In yet another grocery store manager’s office, the desk and ergonomic chair pushed against the wall bearing a whiteboard full of retail hieroglyphics, Steph smoothed her sleeping bag over the foam pad. Her pillow was gonna be cold, and it would smell like the back of Mr Lee’s truck. Still, it was better than being in a tent. “Hope tomorrow we get into another hotel,” she said, tentatively. “These floors ain’t—aren’t good. They hurt my back.”

  “You’re too young for back pain.” Miz Ginny smiled, a gentle expression. Her cheekbones stood out alarmingly, and in the soft candlelight in the manager’s office she looked like a religious statue. An icon, her hair freed from its usual braids and flowing in soft rippling waves. She drew a wooden brush through the long flow, wincing a little bit when she came across a slight tangle. “But I hear you. I was wishing up a salad earlier, myself.”

  “Ew.” Steph couldn’t help herself, her face wrinkled up, and Ginny laughed. It was a thin, tired sound.

  “Some day you might appreciate them. I found some carrots and a couple apples, but if we get back to growing lettuce commercially, I might not ever eat anything else.” The older woman sighed, laid the brush aside, and began to braid, quick and deft. If she minded having to bunk with Steph instead of with Lee tonight, it didn’t show.

  Funny how it was decided, girls in one room, boys in another. If Steph was older, she could probably sleep next to Mark and nobody would mind, right? There weren’t any parents or schools anymore, nothing to stop her from doing any damn thing she pleased
.

  The thought should have filled her with excitement, but instead, all she felt was a creeping, tired dread. Steph stared at her pillow, taken from the fancy hotel where they’d left Mr French. Now that was a good thought, the relief of getting rid of him.

  Good thoughts were few and far between. “I wish my mama was here.” The words burst out, surprising her.

  Ginny’s hands paused, and she nodded. “I was thinking about mine earlier, too.”

  You’ve got a mama? Well, of course, everyone did, but it was funny to think of grownups having them. Or thinking about them. She’d always assumed grownups only thought about things like taxes, insurance, and vegetables. “You think she’s okay?”

  “I hope so.” Ginny began braiding again. “I talked to her…oh, before this all started.” Her mouth drew down, a strangely bitter curve. She didn’t usually look like she was sucking on something sour, but she did now. It was kind of a relief to see her with an unpretty expression.

  Steph pulled her knees up and hugged them, wiggling her toes inside a double pair of thick woolen socks and her good cushioned boots. You couldn’t sleep if your feet were cold, Mama said, and the office here had a skylight, which was gonna let any heat right out. Maybe she should put on yet another pair of socks. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. She was telling me about my sister, and about how they’d closed the bridges into the city—into New York. I should have left then.” A deep, probably unconscious sigh finished the sentence.

  “There was no way you could have known.” It was a grownup thing to say, but Steph found out she meant it. The worst thing was, she couldn’t figure out what else to say to make it better. Still, she gave it a try. “It was all just little things. Isolated things, they called ’em. Incidents.” A prissy little word, with a hiss in the middle and at its ass-end. “They didn’t have the Pocalypse on the news, you know.”

  “Not as such, no.” Ginny’s face softened. “You’ve been talking to Juju. He thinks it’s the Reckoning, or whatever—when all the people vanish, right?”

  “Rapture.” Steph hugged her knees harder and tried not to feel scandalized. How was it possible not to know that? And the older woman was a librarian, too. Maybe she didn’t church, though. Liberals were always godless, Steph’s Mama said, and librarians were probably all close to flag-burning Commies if Daddy could be believed. “When Jesus takes all the good ones home.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that’s big in mega-churches. They just don’t say how.”

  Was Miz Ginny joking? Steph couldn’t tell; she let go of her knees and rubbed at her scalp, her nose wrinkling again as her fingers slipped. Her hair was a little easier to handle now that she wasn’t washing it every day, but it felt wrong. Greasy, but dry at the ends. “Well, they’s—they’re supposed to vanish and their clothes’ll be left.”

  “Does it say that in Revelations?” Ginny’s eyes turned thoughtful. “I don’t remember that bit.”

  So Miz Ginny had read the Bible? But if she didn’t church, how was that possible? “I…dunno.” Steph realized she should know. Imagine, going to church every Sunday and not knowing about something important like that. There were whole sermons about the clothes left behind, not to mention the cars and planes that would go wild when their owners were taken up to heaven. “That’s what they say in church.”

  “Hm.”

  Now curious, Steph worked her boots off and settled cross-legged on her sleeping bag. “What did they say at yours?” Was Miz Ginny an actual atheist, instead of just unchurched? She seemed too nice, though.

  Ginny turned somber, her thoughtful gaze directed past Steph at a corner of the manager’s office. “I think the Torah’s pretty silent on the matter.”

  “The whatnow?”

  “Torah.” The librarian finished her braid and tied it off with an elastic.

  Steph blinked. “What’s that?”

  “Jewish holy book.” Now Ginny looked amused, her mouth softening.

  “You’re Jewish?” Oh, wow. Mama wouldn’t mind so much, but Daddy said an awful lot of things about “the Jews.” According to him, they were all rich and nasty, and wanted the United Nations to govern the world or something. They were supposed to all be snooty.

  As far as Steph could tell, Miz Ginny was city but she wasn’t, you know, rich, not like rich people on TV. She wasn’t snooty either.

  The corners of Miz Ginny’s pretty dark eyes crinkled up as she smiled. “Well, my mom is, so I am by default.”

  Was that how it worked? “And you read the Bible?” Go figure. Jewish. Steph would never have guessed in a million years.

  “In high school.” A single shrug, like it was no big deal to read the Good Book cover to cover. “I wanted to see what it said.”

  “Oh.” Come to think of it, had Daddy or Mama ever read it? Both of them were big on church, though Bull Meacham often muttered about the youth pastors and their guitar-playin’ foolishness. Mama didn’t mind that as much, but her people had been Clutters and hardcore Baptists, so she didn’t want to let Steph go to any school dances, not even the cotillion.

  Now have you told Steph about how we met? Daddy had said, and Mama threw up her hands and taken Steph dress-shopping for “something modest.” Lord, how many dresses had Steph tried on that trip?

  Steph had also tried to work up the courage to ask Mama how they met, but failed. Daddy solved the mystery one hunting trip, while Steph shivered in early-morning mist. We was in a bar—a honkytonk, you’d call it if you were our age. Your mama was somethin then, Stephanie Mae. Prettiest girl I ever did see until you was born.

  “Hey.” Miss Ginny tucked her brush away. “Sweetie, it’s okay. It’s all right.”

  Steph realized her cheeks were wet. She snuffled, her nose full of slimy heat, and her fingers had somehow gotten tangled in each other, pulling and knotting hard. They hurt, but she kept tensing up, a fish pulling on a line, maddened as the hook tore through its cheek.

  “Oh, honey,” Ginny whispered, suddenly on her knees right next to Steph, who kept trying to hunch over around the hole in the world that had just walloped her with no warning.

  It was a big hole, and deep, and it was full of Mama’s biscuits and hip-bumps in the kitchen, and Daddy’s aftershave and his snoring swallowed by his old recliner in the fourth quarter of almost every football game. Then he would wake up, irritable, and wonder who had won the damnthing—said all in one breath, damnthing.

  Ginny was warm and soft and she held Steph, rubbing the girl’s back in little circles just like a mama, but oh, it wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same, it was all wrong, and they were in a cold, shitty manager’s office in a hoity-toity grocery store, it was the end of the world, and there was nothing familiar or comfortable.

  Steph wanted her mama, her very own, and each little thing she missed about her parents led inevitably to those few horrible minutes when zombie-Daddy was in front of the truck, and then zombie-Mama in the kitchen, trying to chew her girl’s throat out.

  Maybe Jesus had just taken the souls of the blessed, and left their bodies behind to chew and chew. Everything had gone wrong, and it wouldn’t ever go right again.

  There wasn’t a damnthing Steph could do, and there wasn’t a damnthing any of the grownups could do, either. Everything was gone wrong, the Rapture had probably happened and called Jesus’s chickens home, and Steph was left behind, stumbling around in the wreckage like the bad girl she always suspected, deep down, that she was.

  It wasn’t a surprise, but oh, it hurt.

  It hurt a lot.

  Good News

  “I remember this rest stop.” Ginny leaned forward. Her window, down slightly, sent a cold breeze riffling through the truck’s cab, and her hair was neatly braided and pinned again, no stray curl escaping. “At least, I think I do.”

  She was getting right sunny the further east they went. Lee touched the brakes and the chains bit in. A moment later, Juju’s brake lights flashed.

  There was movement around th
e low concrete rest-stop building, and a large, battered Ford Explorer sat neatly parked, its outline blurred under fast-falling snow. Looked like it had been there since the weather started. Movement at one end of the building was a canary-red coat, and the walkie-talkie crackled.

  “Contact. Looks human.” Juju swung the four-by wide, pointing it for an easy getaway. “One armed, I repeat, one armed.”

  The red coat was on a tall, slim woman; the other shape was a stocky dark-haired man with a blue knit cap and a rifle, business end pointing down. The woman waved, excitedly, but the man stood still, watching the two vehicles through the falling snow.

  If it was a trap, it was a piss-poor one. There wasn’t enough cover, unless there was someone a fair ways away with a sniper rifle. Why bother lying in cold bushes with the damn critters roaming around, unless you were dumb as a post?

  Still, caution was best. Lee reached for the talkie. “Stay ready.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Lee studied both figures, waiting for the little tickle along his nerves that would tell him stay or go. Traveller wriggled with delight at the prospect of a stop, making a low moaning noise. Ginny, her fingers tangled in the dog’s collar, sucked in a small wounded breath, staring at the broken-down Ford. The woman in the red coat waved again, and the man, deliberately and very slowly, lowered the rifle still further, carefully not pointing it their way. He lifted his hands, the universal signal for “peaceful,” and beckoned them closer.

  “We can go,” Ginny whispered. She’d gone pale, again. The circles under her eyes weren’t as dark, but she was still drawn tighter than a piano wire. “We can just go, Lee.”

  So she’d learned. There wasn’t any joy in the fact, not now.

  The red-coat woman stepped from under the overhang, shading her eyes with one slender coppery hand. Something in the set of her head said ballerina, that pretty grace you only got from classes with tutus and special shoes.