Perkins and I sat on the chairs we had fit into the room - one from the computer desk, another from the kitchen table. A pile of ten or twelve flattened CapriSun pouches lay at my feet, and I had finally mustered the patience to use the straw on the one I was holding. Phil, Matt's dad, still lay in the same position. We had placed milk container full of water on his bed, along with a long straw so he wouldn't have to lift it. "God bless you, boys," he said, more robustly than he had before. "Been here for the last week. I lived off these cookies, and that there bottle of water. I finished it off two days ago. Thank God y'all came to help me out. These cookies and stuff I happened to have here on my bed by chance...I'll be straight with ya. The last couple of weeks I've just been laying here on this bed. I didn't have nobody, there wasn't nothing to do. I worked like a dog all my life, might as well spend my last days livin' it easy." He forced a chuckle, then continued. "Anyway, I decided to make my way outdoors and see what was going on, 'cause I was tired of being cooped up in here. I walk a few blocks that way when I see one of those guys in the jackets. So you better believe I turned tail and ran. You don't want to get caught by them boys, they'll haul your ass out to Brunot Island."
"What's that?"
"It's where they took everyone that lived. The Crisco guys. Cisco. Sorry." Phil saw us put our hands on our heads and stare at the floor. "What?"
I waved an arm. "Go on. Sorry."
"All right. So I turned to run, but he heard me running I guess. He yelled for me to stop, I told him to fuck off, he shot me here." He gestures as much as he can to his side, near his kidney. I managed to run my fat old ass back here. It started to hurt real bad, but I managed to run fast enough to keep him from chasing me. I got to the yard and just fell down, so I had to crawl the rest of the way. I made it to my bedroom and boom, here I am. Can't move much at all, but as long as I stay still it don't hurt too much." He studied each of us. "So you boys are friends of Matt?"
"Yeah. You know where he is?"
"Yeah, he left for Cincinnati a few months ago. He said something about wanting to go to D.C. but that it was too dangerous."
Perkins groaned, but I couldn't help but start chuckling. Phil's brow furrowed. What?"
I did the honors. "A couple of years ago we worked with Matt on some computer modem stuff. We put some stuff in those modems that people are starting to take to heart, and we were just trying to get in touch with him and figure out what was going on."
Phil scoffed. "Hell, I don't know anything about all that stuff. I'm the village idiot when it comes to computers and all that stuff, though. Matt's always been into that, though. He told me some stuff about it."
"What did he tell you about what he put in his modems?"
"The, uh, RCAs?" Phil squinted. "He was freakin' out an awful lot about that. 'Cause see, right after the shit all rained down, me and my wife and Matt got ourselves up to Cleveland to get supplies and stuff. On the way back we almost all got killed at the hands of a bunch of nasty-lookin' fellas. They were in trucks that had RCA painted all over 'em. I guess they saw my truck bed full of stuff and they decided they wanted it, so they were rammin' my poor truck all across the road. Matt managed to get the gun out of the glovebox and shoot the guy in the driver's seat straight in the face. Guess they didn't see that comin'." He let out another laugh. "That boy sure can shoot."
I smiled as well. "So what--"
"Oh yeah. Anyway, he was all upset because he said he wrote a bunch of nasty things in there. As a joke. He was talking about how everyone should form little groups of families, like 50 people. The only people they help are other people with RCA on their shit. Everyone else they rob and kill if they can. What I didn't understand for the longest time was why so many people bought into it. But really, I don't think most people did. They knew it was a bunch of silly bullshit. It's just that the few who did buy into it -- the people who thought it was a message from God or something -- they were probably a bunch of fundy Bible-thumpers to begin with and took it as a matter of fact that it was something God had wanted them to see. They're what we call the noisy minority. They're the ones doin' all the robbing and the killing. Along those highways they kind of run the place."
Something clicked in my head. "Those Cisco guys, what do they look like?"
"They all have green jackets. Little bars on the back." I interrupted. "Fuck! Those were the guys! The guys at the campsite! These guys raided our campsite. They had green jackets. Little bars on the back."
"Y'all ran into them too?" Phil cocked an eyebrow. "Them boys shoot to kill. They're the ones in charge of Brunot Island. It's a few minutes north of here on the river. They have some sorta perfect society going on there, they say. Can't see how. It's an itty bitty island. Only about a mile long maybe. The deal is, if you can recite the Six Rules or whatever the hell y'all's friend Wes put in those goddamn computer boxes, you can get in. If they see someone who can't, they take 'em to God knows where. Probably kill 'em. They have some sort of belief about a master race or something, God's chosen people. The shit Wes wrote said that those people are gonna be the ones to create Heaven on Earth, but everyone else has to die. Fucked up, huh? But it's just like the RCA fellas. Almost nobody buys the shit, but those that do, they're the noisy ones."
I nodded. "All right. How about we get some modem contents for you to memorize and get you to that island. You can't stay here. You need help. Maybe they can fix you up."
"That's the trick. A lot of people have the Cisco modems around here, but nobody's got power. Except for on Brunot Island. Wait till it gets dark, you'll see the lights from here. Y'all boys would need to find somewhere that's got power, plug the modem up, write it down and get it back to me. If you did that for me, boys, I'd be about the happiest man in the world. I don't care what the hell I have to say to get in there. I don't care what their rules are. I'll do anything to get me some help. I can't die like this."
Perkins and I were in agreement. "We can do that," we said at the same time. "What about your wife? Where's she?"
He stared for a minute, then looked down, then out the window into the back yard. His eyes grew moist. "She passed...she passed. About a month ago. She was sick. I couldn't do nothin' for her. I didn't know what to do. She got real bad a little bit after Matt left. Worse and worse, and then one day I wake up on this here bed, my arms wrapped around her and...she wouldn't wake up. She wouldn't say nothing. She wouldn't..." He began to sob. "Boys, leave me be. Thanks for comin'. Make yourselves at home in the living room, we should have some blankets there. Check on me in the morning. For now, leave me be."
Perkins and I couldn't get out of the room quickly enough. I ran my hand across my mouth. I had to get some air. I walked along the blood trail and out the back door, and I noticed a wooden cross in the yard. Two pieces of wood nailed together. A few vacated nail holes were dug into the wood where the other nailed were hammed. Carved into the wood, faintly, was "Sarah. Wife and friend. I love you baby."
I stooped to the ground upon seeing a sturdy wooden box next to it, wrapped in plastic. I opened the box. A picture of Sarah, a slender young woman, eating wedding cake with Phil. Another photo of a middle-aged Sarah posing with Phil and a young Matt on the beach. A pearl necklace and a wedding ring. A letter, written in sloppy cursive, presumably by Phil, addressed to Sarah. I didn't dare read it.
After a moment, I gently closed the box, wrapped it gently in plastic, rose, and walked indoors. It was getting dark.