I’m not happy about dying, but I refuse to waste the few precious hours I have left moping around. Besides, puppies are kind of like Sam — they make life a lot less shitty too.
I pull Pixie close and run my fingers through her fur and the dried blood, Jesus, she’s practically covered in it, but the bullet hole is gone, no, not gone, it’s a small scar now. I check the exit wound and it’s the same, a lump of scar tissue — completely healed.
What the fuck?
This puppy was shot by a machine gun, a rifle, some big ass bullet and she’s — just what, fucking A-Okay?
She cocks her head, staring at me like she’s reading my thoughts.
Pixie just went from cute to pretty goddamned creepy.
I rub my face, reminded that my beard is slowly becoming a thing. The fine hairs bristle against my hand. I’m going to have to start shaving soon.
I pause and gently trace my fingertips over my cheek, remembering the knife wound. There’s no pain from the cut where Cart Guy wiped my knife over my cheek, no scab — no pain.
My shoulder still aches like a son of a bitch, but…
I gently lay Jem down on the stone floor and then peel my jacket off. It’s covered in my blood and Pixie’s, along with my hoodie and shirts. I poke my fingers through the jagged hole where the knife was shoved through and wiggle them.
Yeah, so that happened. I shake my head and then pull my shirts off, ignoring the cold and examine the wound.
I spit in my hand and clean the remaining blood away.
Fuck me.
It’s healed, well, not like Pixie’s, but it is healing.
I can see the drying scab, and it still hurts inside, but less than it did when I woke up moments ago. The long knife wound running down my side and the bullet grazes from last month are completely healed.
Pixie is staring at me, her head tilted to one side like she’s trying to figure something out.
I take another look at her tags.
I thought about it last night, but this morning the biohazard symbol feels much more menacing; she was bleeding out — pretty much right into my wound, into me.
Pixie lies down, resting her head on my leg.
I open up my pack and get her some more Spam. She greedily slurps it down and I join her, eating a mouthful.
I go back through what happened last night, retracing my steps.
I was pretty fucked up, maybe dying.
Pixie should be dead.
I should probably be dead too, or close to it.
And that’s where reality gets off the thruway, no toll required.
I lift the can of Spam and inspect it. Either this is magical Spam, not totally out of the question under the circumstances, but not likely, or…
Pixie is.
If she’s an escaped government or military experiment, does she have some enzyme or protein or something in her blood that makes for super healing? Is that even a thing?
I thumb her fur back, inspecting the wounds again.
Thin white lines surround thick scar tissue.
She’s healed.
There’s no two ways about it.
Last night’s pretty fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything about our wounds, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be healed this fast — I wouldn’t be healed, that’s for goddamn sure.
Okay, so that’s it.
There’s something in her blood.
The sun breaks through the trees, instantly warming the ledge.
I take a deep breath and stretch, trying to calm the fuck down and think rationally.
I feel fantastic, like way too good. Yeah, my shoulder throbs a little, but I’m not tired — at all. I’m not cold either, even without my shirt.
Pixie stands up and then walks over to Jem, and lays her chin on Jem’s cheek, licking her lips, and then whimpers as she stares back at me with those sad eyes.
I nudge Jem, but she doesn’t respond.
She saves my life last night only to die in my arms this morning?
Bullshit.
That can’t be it.
I rub my face again and pull out my next to the last cigarette and light it.
Think rationally, dude.
I stand up and walk out to the edge of the ledge. The leaf filled ravine falls away below me, the spines of trees reach for the sky, their dead fingers grasping at nothing. It should be a beautiful morning, the rays of the sunrise shooting through the morning fog, but it’s not. I shiver at the memory of my dream and Sam falling through the mist covered ground.
Pixie whimpers behind me, dragging herself across the stone floor by her front legs and then leaping into the air and racing back to Jem. I watch her as I pull on my smoke.
I remember the biker flopping around on the ground back on the State Highway.
I remember him not dying.
That was real.
So is this.
I’m not losing my mind, not about this anyway — I don’t think.
I walk back and rummage around in my bag and pull out a pocket knife.
Pixie stares me dead in the eye as I snap one of the blades open. It’s not as sharp as I would like.
I try again to wake Jem, but she’s out — I’m not sure how much time she has.
I kneel down, never taking my eyes from Pixie.
I’ve delayed long enough.
Fuck it.
“Pixie, this is going to hurt…but this is what you’re telling me to do, isn’t it?”
My smoke dangles from my lips.
I go for my Zippo to sanitize the blade and then stop, laughing. I don’t think it matters anymore.
I lay the blade against my forearm and take a breath.
I press it into the flesh, slowly, rolling the blade toward the point.
My efforts are quickly rewarded as a steady flow of blood bubbles up and over my arm.
I take another drag and watch my arm bleed, wondering how long it’s going to take to stop — or even if it will.
If Pixie is magical, then whatever healed me must still be in me, in my veins, some anyway, so I should heal, or at least a little — enough to prove the theory anyway.
Right?
Or am I crazy?
I stand up and walk back to the edge, blowing smoke into the morning air as my arm hangs at my side, blood dripping onto the stones and down the face of the cliff.
How long do I wait?
I try not to think, just smoke — let the time pass.
A few minutes later I study my arm, picking at it, and goddamn it if the bleeding hasn’t slowed down. The wound isn’t scabbing over yet, but it’s not bleeding as much, and truth be told, I cut deeper than I meant to. I probably needed stitches.
I glance back at Jem.
Her breathing is even worse, wet, ragged and uneven — she’s wheezing like Denise.
I snub my cigarette out in the blood dripping down my arm and flick it away.
“You up for this, Pixie?”
She whimpers and crawls over to Jem.
Looks like a yes to me.
Pixie’s been licking Jem’s lips, but that hasn’t gotten it done so far. I think this is the right thing to do. I think. Shit, this all feels like I woke up on the wrong side of the Looking Glass — like I’m still at the Del Ray Motor fucking Inn.
That dream is going to haunt me for weeks.
I feel tears coming.
Fuck me.
Why am I crying all the goddamned time?
Because you’re about to cut open a puppy?
To save a little kid.
But you’re still cutting open a puppy.
Only a small cut…
There’s a special place in Hell for puppy killers.
I’m not going to kill Pixie, she’ll heal, it’s…
Says who?
Fuck!
I take her leg and lay the point of the blade against her skin.
She looks back and tries to pull away, but I hold her leg over Jem’s mouth.
I take another breath, afraid to exhale.
If not now, when?
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I push the point of the blade forward, puncturing her skin, and then pull it back in a quick jerking motion, slicing deep. The blood gushes and Pixie cries out, whimpering as she tries to pull away again, but I hold her firm, letting her blood run.
Are Pixie’s eyes always this sad?
Stop staring at me, Pixie, you told me to do this.
She’s just a dog, a puppy — you’ve lost your mind. Pixie isn’t talking to you.
The blood washes over Jem’s face and into her mouth, but I have no idea how long it will take, or even if it’s going to work at all, not to mention how much blood is necessary if it does.
I feel tears running down my cheeks, but I don’t know if they’re for Pixie or for Jem.
The blood begins to slow from Pixie’s wound in just a few minutes; she heals even faster than I thought she would.
I don’t have the guts to cut her again, not yet.
I give her some more Spam and she gobbles it down before returning to Jem’s side, nestling in next to her.
I stretch the blanket back over her and then lay my jacket over the both of them, praying Pixie will forgive me.
If this works and I’m right about it — about Pixie — Jesus, I have to keep it a secret. People will kill for her, and then they’ll just kill her.
I’m not going to let that happen.
I grin at her. “One more mouth to feed, huh? Samantha, Emily, Jem, if she makes it…and now you, you, Magic Mutt.”
I stand and walk into the sunshine again. It’s a warm morning, probably in the 40s.
I rub at my shoulder; the throbbing has already dulled, it’s more of a distraction than real pain, and the cut on my forearm has closed too, leaving an ugly red line.
I look back to our little camp and notice Casey’s shoe is lying next to my pack. I don’t remember bringing it. Last night is kind of fragmented, though, I don’t remember much, and what I do — I wish I didn’t. I must have uncovered it when I kicked my pack.
I look out over the ravine; the forest is quiet this morning, critters slowly emerging after the rain.
I can hear a few birds up in the trees, probably crows. And the hawks are gliding higher, above the treetops, ever watchful of the forest floor. I saw a show on PBS about them back in the Before Time. Hawks watch for movement, for weakness, for opportunity.
Scavengers and predators.
That’s all the world is now.
§§§§§
I spend the rest of the morning and afternoon drying out my clothes, feeding Pixie the last of the Spam and hoping that Jem will wake up.
Her face is flushed, but the small scrapes and bruises are slowly fading.
The cut on her forehead is thinner too.
I swear I can almost see her skin becoming smoother as I watch.
I light my last smoke and try to enjoy it.
Jem is breathing deeper and dryer. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it, she’s getting better.
I glance over at Pixie. She’s licking at her leg where I cut her and flashing angry puppy-dog eyes at me.
Well, that last part might not be real.
“Enough with the guilt already, you know I had to do it,” I say.
She ignores me.
Christ.
The end of the world sucks.
But Pixie really is — I can’t believe I’m thinking this, even after everything I’ve seen with my own goddamned eyes — she’s a magical puppy.
My head is spinning.
I need to find out where she came from, find out if there’s any more go-juice without the puppy carrying case. I can’t keep cutting her.
Jem mumbles and curls up.
I rest a hand on her hip. I can feel the warmth through the blanket and her jacket.
She’s burning up. I check her forehead and it’s even worse. I don’t pretend to know how this works. All I can do is ride it out and pray, if God’ll forgive all that shit I said last night that is.
I study Casey’s shoe. It’s so small.
Maybe I’m not ready to square things with God after all.
I’ve just about fucking had it with this world.
When Jem wakes up, we’re going to find those kids, at least what happened to them. And if they’re alive, we’re bringing them home, well, back to the caravan anyway — let Cam figure out what to do with them.
I blow smoke out into the forest. It looks like a plain old regular day from before the…
Jem screams.
Pixie jumps to her feet and begins pacing, walking in circles around Jem.
Jem mumbles something I can’t understand and then she sits up, my coat and the blanket falling to the side.
She closes her eyes and holds her hands over them as she shakes her head, whipping her dirty brown hair around.
“Jem?”
She opens her eyes, but I’m not sure if she’s aware of me or where she is.
“Jem?”
She looks to me as a change falls over her, like she’s shaking off a bad dream, and then stretches her arms over her head and yawns a great big, huge, little-kid yawn and then smiles — a great big, huge, little-kid smile.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” I say, smiling in return.
She pauses for a moment, like she’s reorienting — remembering, and then her smile crumbles into a frown.
Tears pool in her eyes. “I did bad stuff,” she says guiltily.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say.
“How?”
“It just will, you’ll see.” I can’t look her in the eye.
“Promise?” Her voice reminds me of Emily and Sam; she’s trying to be strong but can’t quite make it happen.
I glance back at her.
She’s like goddamned kryptonite. It’s Lisa all over again, Emily, Sam, Denise, Jose’s mom and mine, my sister too — she’s everyone, even Jen. Shit.
I dig deep and fake a reassuring smile. “I so promise. I have someone for you to meet when we get done with our adventure. Her name is Emily. You’ll like her.”
“Emily?”
“Yeah, she’s tough like you.”
Jem looks out over the ravine, and then down at her filthy hands as she unravels a thread in the blanket.
“Jem, how are you feeling?”
“I feel…I feel hungry. What tastes funny?” She smiles as she wipes her tears away.
“Nothing, here.” I hand her a water bottle and she takes a long drink. She hands it back and I splash some water onto her face, cleaning the blood off, revealing the little kid beneath the trauma.
The circles under her eyes are fading too, the glow of her skin is returning and the recoil bruise on her forehead is barely noticeable.
She’s got freckles. I didn’t notice that before.
I ruffle her hair and kick my pack toward her. “Eat what you want. When you’re ready, we’ll find Casey.”
“Thanks.” She pilfers around in my pack and then comes out with a bag of pork rinds. She rips it open and stuffs a few in her mouth, and stares out at the forest with faraway eyes. “I think I’m ready, if you are?”
Pixie runs in little circles like she knows something’s up.
I laugh.
Through the Looking Glass, no joke — zombies and superheroes, what a trip.
§§§§§
Crawling back up the hillside is a lot tougher than last night, running down it in a blind panic. Pixie refused to be carried this time. She’s loping along beside us, frolicking even, but never going far, and Jem seems to be holding up pretty well too.
She’s not complaining anyway.
I’m not seeing any traces of the Cart Guys from last night, not even the one Jem shot. Nothing’s left except waffle-soled boot prints.
We reach the gravel road by mid-afternoon, but I can’t tell if we’re anywhere near last night�
�s shootout. I stand in the mud staring down the road, tracing the still visible ruts until they disappear into the woods below.
I’m not seeing any signs of our friends either, but I’m not sure which way they ran, down the road or up the other side. We all scattered.
The way back up the road is just as desolate and unforgiving.
“I wonder where our friends are hiding,” I say.
“Were they your friends?”
I laugh. I’m not sure what she’s getting at, then again, maybe she’s just way perceptive.
I kneel down and study the tire tracks. They’re skinny, like a boat trailer or something. I can’t see the hoof marks of the horses, but their shit’s still here in places. The trailer was loaded down enough to push the mud into deep ruts, not deep enough to have gotten stuck, but the ruts look like the trailer must have been skidding all over the place. They definitely came through here well into the night, after the storm began.
There’s only one motorcycle rut, and it comes and goes, skipping across higher ground, like he was riding carefully around the worst patches in the road. He came through after the storm too.
I wonder why we didn’t hear him.
I stand back up and pull my pack around and unzip it. “Jem, I need you to stay close from here on out. Watch out for the bad guys, okay? If you see anything, don’t scream, okay, just grab my hand?”
“Okay,” she says quietly.
I open one of the inside pouches and pull out a small automatic.22.
It’s chrome and reminds me of Sam’s .38.
I pull the slide back, it's got a bullet in the chamber.
I tap it against my temple. She’s so fucking young.
“Jem, I need you to grow up some,” I say as I turn and look down at her. “Think you can do that?”
She looks scared, but she salutes me like she did yesterday afternoon.
I sigh and hold the gun out to her.
“This is yours. It’s not as heavy as the one…as the one you used last night. Remember how it hit you in the head?”
She nods and rubs the fading bruise.
“This one won’t do that. You know what happens when you pull the trigger?”
She nods again, but her face is getting more sallow by the second.
“Tell me.”
“It kills stuff,” she says flatly.