Page 68 of The End of the World As We Know It
Bill looked down at the shotgun in his hands. “Nope.”
Alan and Derek nodded, exchanging glances. Then Derek reached into the El Camino and pulled out a battered Coleman cooler, holding it up like a peace offering. “Nice thing about six-packs is they split up evenly both two and three ways.”
Bill looked at the two idiots for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, come on in.”
The three sat quietly for the next hour, someone only occasionally breaking the silence to ask an easily answered question. Bill was curious how everyone had gone, and Derek tried to find a way to get him to open up about the girls. But Bill would not budge on that front. So they drank, made the smallest of small talk, and when the sixth beerwas crumpled in Bill’s hand, the three stood up with a “Welp, time to get back at it.”
On their way out the door, Alan turned back in to face Bill. “Me and Derek have been hitting up Moonrise Video about six o’ clock. We’re usually back at our place by seven. If you got nothin’ to do and feel like being around some folk, stop by and watch some movies with us.”
“We got beer,” said Derek.
“I reckon you do,” said Bill. “We’ll see.”
Come six o’ clock, the boys were walking the aisles of Moonrise—having gotten the keys off Old Gil’s limp corpse that had, just as Gil would have wanted it, expired slumped over the front desk of his motel, never having missed a day of work due to illness in his life. Of course, how many people he may have given the Trips as a result was something he would have to stand judgment for on his own.
The electric grid was still holding up, but the boys were unsure how long that would last, so they had raided the truck stop for a power inverter and every 12V car battery they could find, making sure each was fully charged. Alan had even designed a windmill battery charger that he put a little time into building each day to make sure that when the time came, and the grid failed, they would have enough juice to run a TV and VCR for the foreseeable future. As ranch hands, they could handle the heat and they could handle warm beer; what they could not abide was living without movies.
Derek and Alan always loved walking the aisles of the store, even the ones they knew like the back of their hand. There was a bit of sadness in their hearts, knowing that there was unlikely to ever be another New Release Day there in the store (Tuesdays, when all the new movies came in). Not that there wouldn’t be a Tuesday anymore, but rather that Tuesday, Wednesday, Sunday, none of it mattered. For Derek and Alan, every day was Friday. They got up, cared for Spike’s cattle, did their daily tour through the town to clean up any remains, hit the video store, then crushed a twelve-pack ofBud watching a double feature before retiring to bed and doing it all over the next day.
But that night was different. After selecting a pair of carefully considered horror gems, the two went back to their place on Spike’s ranch (they felt it would be disrespectful to move from the ranch hands’ quarters into the main house so quickly), cracked open their beers, and sat on the couch just as there came a knock at the door.
“This is like that old story,” said Derek.
“Which one?”
“The last man on earth hears a knock at the door.”
“We ain’t the last yet, dumbass,” said Alan.
“I’m just sayin’.”
Alan answered to see Bill standing there, six-pack of his own in hand. Stroh’s. He held it up.
“I know it ain’t Bud,” he said. “But it was bought and paid for in my fridge.”
“Beer down at the market is free these days,” called Derek from the couch.
“Didn’t seem right to steal a peace offering,” said Bill. “Sorry about the whole shotgun thing. You know how it is.”
“Forgotten,” said Alan. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you much.”
That’d be the last thing Bill said all night. Not because of Captain Trips or anything, but just because it was his way. He took a seat in a ragged armchair to the side of the couch and made himself comfortable.
This was Catholic Horror Night. The boys had borrowedThe Seventh SignandThe Unholy, both new releases they hadn’t gotten to. Bill sat in silence, taking the whole thing in wordlessly, the only sound he made being the cracking open of another cold one every half an hour or so. At the end of the night, he stood up, nodded, and said, “Thanks for the evening, boys.” And he left, driving carefully, slowly, half-drunk, through the dark, silent town.
Derek and Alan thought they might run into him around town here or there over the next few weeks and certainly did not anticipate seeing him once again, seven p.m. sharp the next day, on their doorstep, sixer of Stroh’s in his hand.
“Bill,” said Alan, holding the door open for him.
“Boys,” said Bill before entering and sitting in the same chair he had the night before.
This was Slime Trail Night. The boys had discovered a movie titledSlugsand felt the proper way to chase it down would be withNight of the Creeps, one of Alan’s recent favorites. Bill didn’t think much ofSlugs—the boys liked it just fine—but he really enjoyedCreeps.Thought it was pretty funny and started to really wrap his head around the “watching horror movies together” thing the boys had going on.
Bill went the whole night without a word, thanked the boys on his way out, and was there, six-pack in hand, seven p.m. sharp the following night for Italian Zombie Night. “The good news is your dates are here,” he said with a smile.
“The bad news is they’re dead,” cackled Alan, welcoming Bill back into their home.
