'Til Death Do Us Part

CHAPTER TWENTY

G, BT and D

The group had to stop one more time for gas. BT picked a gas station right before they had turned on to the Massachusetts turnpike. The station was of the old traditional variety; no Slush Puppies, no hot dogs, candy bars, or rows upon rows of gourmet coffee dispensers. There were no aspirins, feminine hygiene products, or even newspapers. There was a counter where a person stood to take your cash or run your card through an old handheld device to imprint an image of your card. Checks were not welcome, neither was American Express; and if you wanted the proprietor’s gun, you would have to pry it from his cold dead hands—at least according to the bumper sticker adhered to the side of the counter.

The station looked like it had last seen upgrades at around the time of the Nixon administration and that was just fine with him, it would draw less attention that way. The truck rolled up, Gary morosely hopped down from the back. BT figured that the closer they got to Maine, the worse his friend was going to become. Mrs. Deneaux stayed in the cab; she at least kept a watch out for anything directly in front of her.

“Getting some gas,” BT said as he got into the back and grabbed his hose and pump.

“This’ll be the last fill up before we get back home,” Gary said more as a statement of fact. “My father is going to blame me for this.”

BT stopped what he was doing for a moment, not liking the added time to their stop but it was necessary. “Gary, listen to me, no one is going to blame you for this.”

“Not even Tracy?” Gary asked with red-rimmed eyes.

“Especially Tracy. Everyone including Mike knew the risks. Every time we open a door there is the chance we will dance with death. I miss your brother more than you can know, and I don’t blame you for what happened. You did all that you could…we all did. We go forward, Gary, we make those responsible pay.”

“When does it stop?”

“When we’re in a box, until then...” BT left the comment hanging. He opened the hatch to the tank and began to fill the tanks.

Gary made a few circuits around the station. When he was confident there was nothing to be overly concerned about except for a skunk that was going through some trash he stopped.

“Want a cigarette?” Mrs. Deneaux asked Gary.

BT had watched her get down out of the truck and go behind the station to do whatever is was that reptiles do. A few moments later she had come back to where Gary was sitting.

“Do you mind?” BT asked.

“Quit your bitching. It’s diesel and not as flammable as gas,” she said as she stuck the cigarette she had offered into her mouth and lit it up.

Within a few minutes they were ready to go; Deneaux up in the cab with BT and Gary sitting on the bench in back. He was leaning up against the canvas, his gaze peering through the hole up top that the zombie had fallen through. The truck got off to a slow start, then jerked to a stop.

“Sorry!” BT yelled in the cab loud enough for Gary to hear. “Skunk walked in front of the truck!”

“Run the creature over next time. You made me crush a cigarette on the dashboard,” Deneaux seethed.

As the truck passed, Gary watched the skunk waddle off. It seemed to be doing fairly well given the circumstances. Gary wondered if a skunk crossing one’s path meant anything. When he was certain it didn’t, he returned his gaze skyward. As they crossed into New Hampshire, Gary’s feelings of trepidation grew tangible. He could taste it on his tongue, he could feel the weight of it on his chest, and he did not know how he was going to face those he loved the most.

After another half hour or so, the truck came to a stop.

“What’s up?” Gary asked.

“Bladder break!” BT yelled back.

Gary got back down, riding in the back of the seemingly shock-less truck on a pine bench was not doing his spleen any favors and he welcomed the chance to stretch and pop. They had just crossed the Maine state line and Gary felt like his knees might buckle under the added weight of guilt.

Mrs. Deneaux was staring at the sign and the surrounding forest of trees when she commented on the state’s motto. “Maine, the way life should be. For who? Chipmunks? I certainly wouldn’t want my life to be like this. Looks like the land that time forgot.”

“That’s the point,” Gary said morosely.

“Like the dark ages?” she asked.

“More like the fifties,” he told her.

“The fifties weren’t all they were cracked up to be. People were still assholes…there was just not twenty-four hour news that catered to the insanity like we have today.”

“It’s more the idea of the time, I suppose,” BT said, defending Gary who looked like a whipped dog.

“One thing that was more in the open than today was racism. I wouldn’t think you’d be in such a hurry to revisit those times,” she said to BT offhandedly.

“You must miss that?” BT asked sarcastically.

“At least there wasn’t all this phony politically correct bullshit. You knew where people stood.”

“Yeah, in a circle with hoods on watching crosses burn,” he said heatedly.

She scoffed at him, “Are we done here or do you need to tinkle some more?”

At some point, Gary just left the argument and got back on the bench. The truck pulled away moments later, Gary struggled for breaths as dismay and disquiet warred within him.