Friday Flash - 13A, Part 2
Thursday, December 10, 2009 at 10:02PM 
Part two of the serialized version of my story, 13A. Missed part one? Read it here.
13A
Part 2
“More tea?”
“No, ma’am. This’ll be a plenty.” He forced a smile.
“Sorry about all that with Bertha and all, you know, there at the door.” The old woman sat on the couch beside him still dressed in her fatigues. Her fingers traced the outlines of the shotgun at her side. “A lady can’t be too careful, as I’m sure you understand.”
Gerald faked another smile. “Things happen.” He grabbed two peanuts from the dish on the coffee table.
“That it does. I think we can both attest to that.”
The room was hot, almost stifling, and a smell that Gerald likened to boiled cabbage permeated the air. “I like how you’ve got things arranged in here, decoration I mean. I have the couch over there.” He pointed toward the opposite wall.
“I like it cozy. Helps me forget it’s just me here. Since Jim died, I get so lonely. I close that door behind me and sometimes it’s so terrible I feel like I’m the last person on earth.”
“Oh you were married?” The small talk felt painful and awkward. Aside from the mailman and the delivery boy, he hadn’t really talked to anyone since Nicole left.
“Forty-seven years. Stroke took him back in ’02. It was quick at least, thank God. Jim was such a strong man. A marine, career man. I just always felt safe with him. Oh, I wish he was here now.”
Gerald thought of Nicole again. For the first time in months, he wondered where she was, who she was with, if she was happy. “I’m sure he’s out there somewhere, wishing he could be here with you too.”
“In some ways, though, I’m glad he’s not here to witness this. The world, it just seems to have gone right to Hell. Just right down the commode.”
“That it has.” They both fell silent. Feeling awkward again, Gerald began to look around the room. A black and white picture of a young woman and a man in uniform sat on the end table beside him. Jim, he assumed, was tall and thin with a strong jaw and warm, dark eyes.
Looking to his left, Gerald noticed a half dozen cases of bottled water, stacked from carpet to ceiling. Beside them, stacks of Chef Boyardee in 16-can cases. Perched atop the cans, two boxes of 12-gauge buck shot. Something about the scene made Gerald shiver despite the heat. “What’re those for?”
“Silly question.” Mrs. Kratz grabbed the Browning and sidled over to the window. She parted the shades, and peered down to the street below. “Hell of a thing.”
Gerald drained his tea and balanced the empty cup on the arm of the sofa. “Well, I think I should be going,” he said. “Thank you for the tea. Again, I’m sorry about the misunderstanding with the paper. I swear I thought it was mine—“
“You’re not going anywhere, cowboy,” she said, not moving from the window. “Not out there.”
“Well I’d love to stay, believe me, Mrs. Kratz. But I need to, uh, be getting to work soon.”
“You and I both know you’re not going to work today. Now you sit your ass down.”
“No, ma’am, my boss’ll have my ass if I’m late again.” He took two steps backward toward the door. The old woman continued to stare out the window.
“You’ll be staying right here with me,” she said. “Don’t be a fool.” She took a step away from the window and pointed at the stockpile of cans and water. “Unless of course you think we’re better suited at your place?”
Gerald had no clue what the woman meant. Better suited? For what? He took a guess. “I think I’ll be okay on my own, really I do. Since 9/11 I’ve been keeping emergency supplies too, stocking up. If the terrorists come after us again, I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Mrs. Kratz tilted back her head and let loose a shriek of laughter. “Terrorists? I’d hardly call them terrorists.”
“Oh? What would you, uh, call them then?” He wanted nothing more than to be free from the old woman, to be back in his own apartment. He took two more steps toward freedom, the door now only four big strides away.
“Well hell, I’d call them zombies.”
“Ma’am?”
“Zombies, cowboy. You know, the walking dead.”
Gerald’s mind reeled and the air rushed from his lungs as if he’d been punched in the gut. “I know what zombies are,” he said.
Tune in for more next Friday!
Reader Comments (1)
Josh - I like this quirky story. Your descriptions are terrific - I can totally envision the scenes. Do we get to meet the zombies in the next installment? ;-)