two things I’m going to ask of you.'
Lori spoke because Jon could not manage a coherent word.
'What two things?'
'First, I need to know you’ll follow me. That’s not something you’re used to. That’s not how things used to be with us. But that’s how they have to be now. I need to know that you’ll follow me without question, without debate. This is my world now. I’m in charge.'
'And the second thing?'
'Never call me ‘Dick’ again.'
8. The South Side Suicide Club
A week into Jon and Lori's move to the estate, Sheila felt the mansion had grown too crowded and retreated to her room. Each day she sat on her bed with knees curled to her chin, crying to the point that tears seemed scarred into her cheeks.
She held fond memories of the 'good old days', those first three days after her rescue. Since then, she endured the sting of rejection and paranoia that Trevor would kick her out.
At first, Lori invited Sheila to work in the garden, organize supplies, play cards, or some other outreach program of the day. Eventually, Lori stopped asking. Sheila did not mind. If she stayed quiet and out of sight, maybe they would forget about her.
The lights in Sheila’s room flickered. She tensed. Those flickers came and went but she feared that one day the lights might go dark permanently. She kept them on all the time, even as sunlight filled her room and despite Trevor's warning to conserve power. Those lights meant a lot to her; a fantasy of civilization.
The lights stopped flickering and remained on. Sheila calmed.
She pried her hands from her knees, opened the top drawer of the side table, and pulled out a notebook and pencil. Sheila sniffled, wiped away another threatening teardrop, and then took aim with the pencil.
– 'What do you see?' Jon asked.
Trevor held binoculars to his eyes.
'I see a dead city.'
The two stood atop a mountain on the southwestern edge of the Wyoming Valley, a panoramic view before them.
The Susquehanna split the valley in two. Wilkes-Barre lay to the east of the river where several tall, 1930’s vintage bank buildings and the classic but long-deteriorating Hotel Sterling dominated the downtown skyline. Those older structures shared the space around ‘Public Square’ with 1970’s era buildings built with a massive influx of tax dollars following the disastrous '72 flood. Neighborhoods sprouted to the south and north of downtown and reached from the riverbank to the valley's eastern mountain wall.
Further away, the gargantuan Veteran’s Hospital and the Wyoming Valley Mall dominated the terraced mountainside in the northeastern quadrant of the basin. Not far from those two landmarks sat shopping centers and restaurants surrounding a new arena, itself constructed next to an Interstate 81 on-ramp.
On the near side of the Susquehanna, Route 11 paralleled the western bank of the river, running through suburbs and past strip malls. Similar to the homes on the eastern banks, the homes on the 'West Side' included gothic Victorian residences that had survived the floodwaters mixed among Nixon-era ranches and duplexes built where those waters had swept away less fortunate houses.
More neighborhoods-comprised mainly of smaller homes and double-blocks-lived on the mountainsides book ending the valley.
Several bridges spanned the river, linking east to west. These included the Cross Valley Expressway to the north, two smaller bridges near downtown, a third span connecting the southern neighborhoods, and another expressway even farther to the south.
Despite all he had seen in the last few months, Jon found it hard to believe that the serene picture under that cloudless blue sky hid unspeakable monsters, decaying bodies, and other assorted nightmares. Nevertheless, he knew they were there.
For the first few days, Jon had followed Trevor because his mind was shell-shocked by the estate, the dogs, the equipment, the guns, and the horded food. He simply could not wrap his mind around the situation. Of course, his questions did not stop at the stockpiled supplies.
'Where did you learn to shoot?'
'How can you can break down and clean a rifle as fast as me?'
'How do you get those dogs-I mean K9s-to do what you want?'
Trevor's answer: 'I picked it up.'
Nevertheless, Jon played his role…thus far.
That role started with easy patrols. Jon suspected those patrols aimed to test his willingness to take orders.
Four days after the Brewers came to the estate, Trevor took Jon to the scattered collection of up-scale housing developments and small farms known as Shavertown. The K9s had tracked the scent of a Devilbat to a supermarket there.
Trevor led them into the dark market with so little fear that it served as a challenge to Jon. Indeed, he dared not retreat; not when Trevor actually stepped forward to attack in the face of the creature's flapping, fibrous wings and hissing, fanged mouth.
Jon had watched in fascination. Could that really be Richard Stone?
No. His name is Trevor.
When the smoke from their firing cleared, the Devilbat lay dead, Trevor had shown his mettle, and Mr. Brewer understood how much the world had changed.
Back atop the mountain, Jon asked, 'You said someday you want to clear the city? You want to go in there and root everything out?'
'You still don’t get this, do you? You need to understand-'
A noise interrupted the conversation: a vibration chopping the air over the valley.
'There,' Jon pointed to an object flying south to north: a blue and white helicopter with ‘POLICE’ stenciled on the side. The chopper traced the Susquehanna River with its engine emitting a wounded chug.
The helo flew above the residential neighborhoods of south Wilkes-Barre on the east side of the river but the more the engine chugged, the more altitude it lost.
'They’re going to crash,' Jon said.
'Yes, and we’re going to rescue them.'
To Jon, that sounded suicidal. It meant the two of them with a small compliment of K9s fighting their way into a city infested with hostiles.
The chopper fell from view behind trees and rooftops. The sound of a heavy metallic thud reached the observers’ ears. No fireball or explosion.
'Let’s go,' Trevor said.
Jon hesitated.
'Jon, this is what it's all about. What's it going to be?'
Jon swallowed hard, nodded, and followed.
– Stone guided the motor home around hairpin turns as they descended the twisty, paved road of 'Plymouth Mountain.' Overworked brakes filled the cabin with a dusty, burning smell and the entire vehicle threatened to rollover with each hard bend. Isolated homes and trailers populated the mountainside but they saw no living beings, human or otherwise.
During the drive, Jon transmitted offers of help via the CB radio on multiple frequencies but received no reply.
After half-an-hour, they reached the bottom of the mountain and the borough of Plymouth.
Tiny shops, corner bars, and pizzerias lined the steep side streets of the tiny town. Some of those streets angled up the mountain, others down toward the Susquehanna. Route 11, the major road on that side of the river,
