Blaze of Glory

Little Rashad’s gaze danced across the cool lines of fast cars. He paused to stare longingly at a silver Trans Am- beautiful and fast, it would do little for the small group.

Buckley held out his flask of salt water. 'You could drink salt water. It helps.

Gert ignored him. 'Maybe a pick-up truck, Rashad.'

'Salt water slows them down,' Buckley said, raising his voice.

But Gert still ignored him, her gaze following Rashad and Nikki as they searched for a vehicle.

A maggie shot from the palm of Buckley. He held it out to her, close enough so that she had to watch. Pulling salt from his pocket, he dribbled some on the nasty beast. The maggie puffed smoke and turned to sludge.

'Nice trick,' she said.

'Maybe you can live longer. Hell, maybe the people on the ship have a cure,' Buckley said.

'That’s bullshit and you know it.'

'But I-'

Gert lunged towards him and grabbed him by his shirt. 'Don’t you do it!' Without the make-up of her profession and the hope to survive, her face looked twenty years older.

'What?'

'Don't give me hope,' she snarled, like a cornered animal. 'I can live with death. What I can’t live with is hope! I can’t die with it. I don't want it.'

Grandma Riggs kicked Buckley in the small of his back. 'Let her be. It’s her choice.'

How could he leave her be? Buckley's whole reason for being was to motivate the group and get them to safety. Now to have one of their own infected and giving up hope, Buckley felt the failure on a personal level.

Sissy interrupted his thoughts. 'Mr. MacHenry. Where are your clothes?'

Buckley spun and saw the middle-aged, former used car salesman standing behind Old Gert with a sloppy smile on his face and pale blue boxers around his private parts. No clothes meant no salt, translating to a quick death, if not corrected.

'MacHenry, what the hell are you doing?' Buckley asked.

Gert let go of Buckley and staggered to her lover. She placed both hands on his chest. 'Baby? What are you doing? You can’t do this.'

MacHenry smiled and grasped her hand in his own. 'I’m doing what I wanted to do all along. I’m gonna go out like the brightest and the best of them. I'm going to go out in a blaze of glory'

'Oh honey.'

'I’m not gonna leave you, baby. Just think of me as your Johnny Storm.'

'No. Not Johnny Storm.'

'Oh yeah,' MacHenry said, looking at Buckley. 'And it's time to flame on.'

CHAPTER 30

The old gander's weeping,

The old gander's weeping,

The old gander's weeping,

Because his wife is dead.

An old primer gray pickup truck with a black roll bar, dualies and fifty inch tires rumbled down Highway 74, swinging from one lane to the other as it wove through the parking lot of once mobile cars. Cars and trucks littered the highway as if they’d been cast aside by children who’d been called away to dinner. Grandma Riggs was strapped to the roll bar, still facing backwards, cackling with each dip and bump. Little Rashad and Nikki held onto a length of rope tied both around their waists and to the bar facing backward, as well. Buckley and Sissy sat facing forward, wind whipping their hair, sweeping away each maggie in a maelstrom of afterbirth wind as it was born. In the cab, MacHenry sat behind the wheel, driving while Gert kissed and murmured a lifetime of I Love Yous into his ear.

The truck skidded sideways causing Buckley and Sissy to grab hold, wrapping their arms around the roll bar. In their path were a pair of caddies, grazing along the asphalt and concrete of the roadway like immense Pac-Men- like caterpillars escaped from the game. One rose up, spying their approach. The other continued chewing, unimpressed.

MacHenry spun the wheel, shot into the median, the off road tires gripping, sliding and slipping across the slick grass and clay. The treads bit down, grasping desperately at the loose soil, the stress on the frame threatening to flip the truck into a gymnastic nightmare. Just when Buckley thought they’d most assuredly crash, the wheels caught, the truck straightened and shot out from the median into the westbound lanes.

Everyone couldn't help but stare at the great length of the Caddie, this one easily a hundred feet long. Smaller, strange, creatures suckled between the jointed scales, perhaps offspring, perhaps parasites. The body rippled like a caterpillar as it moved incrementally. A smooth slimy trough was left in its wake where there had once been road.

The sound of the fog horn drew their attention back to their destination. Closer now, they let up a cheer as a clear, thin, blue line striped the horizon. The ocean! Buckley's heart leaped. That he'd survived this most improbable trip was nothing less than miraculous.

They passed Lee's Cut and crossed the bridge over the channel and merged onto Highway 76. From there on, it was a straight shot across Harbor Island to the outer island of Wrightsville Beach.

But halfway across Harbor Island, the truck began to slow. Their break-neck speed had been reduced to walking speed, the truck swerving and dodging mounds of crashed cars and trucks, and the occasional mountain of bubbling Maggies, the effect of the salt air on the monsters’ surfaces demonstrably nasty.

Buckley leaned forward and pounded on the window. 'MacHenry. Get a move on, man. We're almost there.'

But there was no response. Neither did the truck speed up, nor did MacHenry offer any reason for the delay.

Buckley pounded the top of the cab. 'MacHenry. What's wrong, buddy?'

Instead of answering, the truck pulled to a halt. MacHenry turned off the engine, and slumped across the wheel.

Buckley jumped down from the bed of the pick-up and tried to yank open the door. Locked. The passenger door was locked too. Cursing, he climbed back into the cab and tried the sliding rear window. It moved easily. Sticking his head partially inside Buckley began, 'Is everything-' but stopped when he saw what filled the front windshield.

Up ahead grazed one of the largest Caddies they'd ever seen, chewing through a Home Depot. The creature seemed to expand with every crunch. A tantalizing fifty feet behind it lay the ocean along with the sand of Wrightsville Beach, empty and inviting, the promise of life instead of mere tans.

He'd thought MacHenry dead, but that was far from the truth. The man's sobs filled the cab, his shoulder's shaking, tears falling onto the upturned face of Gert, laying in his lap. Her eyes stared sightlessly heavenward. Where she'd been ugly when mad, she was most beautiful in death, the stresses of life, the fear of living and the self-loathing of a lifetime, swept away on angel's wings leaving her as innocent and pure as the day she was born. Maggies surged from her ear and trailed down across her shoulders and onto MacHenry's leg, where even as Buckley watched, they burrowed in the man's naked flesh.

Keeping an eye on the caddie, Buckley put a hand on MacHenry's shoulder. 'MacHenry, you need to get out of the cab, man.'

MacHenry raised his head from the steering wheel and gazed upon the face of his girl. He gently brushed maggies from her gossamer cheek. He sobbed once more as he stroked her skin.

'She’s dead, my friend.'

Instead of replying, MacHenry began to bang his head against the wheel. With each impact the horn sounded its ugly BLAT.

'MacHenry, come on,' Buckley said, staring worriedly at the caddie. If they drew its attention, no telling how fast it could be upon them. For a creature that size, they were no more than a cocktail weenie. 'MacHenry. You're