Heartland Junk - Part I: The End (A zombie apocalypse serial)

Chapter 5: Janet

"Raymond, isn't it? Can I help you?"

Janet Wazowski was heavy in the way you figure a retired linebacker's heavy. She wasn't round, just thick from top to bottom, like a barrel someone screwed a couple fence posts to the bottom of to act as legs, then topped up with the kindest manikin head they could find. No neck, just the head, sort of perched there on her shoulders.

I'd only ever spoken to Janet a few times, mostly when I was downtown working the register at Collins Hardware, but she'd always struck me as one of those people with a genuine streak of kindness. One of the other part-timers at the hardware store, Skinny Lenny, called her Janet Frankenstein once and I'd threatened to take him out back and feed him a few knuckles if he ever said it again. He did, so I did, and he kicked my ass. Lenny was a smackhead, too, just not one of the decent ones. I doubted he'd really been born, just crawled from an asshole pit somewhere down in the Meadows. Dick Collins fired him later for taking an early bonus from the register. Junkies were such lowlifes sometimes.

I turned back quickly at Janet's voice, ready to apologize for interrupting her, and froze.

She looked a mess. Pale face, sweaty. Bloodshot eyes. Deep wrinkles. She was in her forties, but right now she looked like she could have been collecting her pension. Despite her large frame, she had these twiggy little arms and they were shaking like a papery cicada shell in a high wind. 

Even so, she smiled at us and asked again:

"Anything I can help you kids with?"

I flinched inside. Rivet was twenty-four, and he hated being called "kid," but he was just staring.

"Sorry, Mrs. Wazowski," I said. "We didn't mean to bother you. We were walking down the street and thought we saw someone inside. Rivet—my friend here—just wanted to make sure nobody had broken in or anything. I told him about that time you helped me out after...after my parents, you know..." I trailed off and made a show of studying my shoes. I should have gone into improv. 

"Of course, dear," Janet's wan smile faltered, then steadied.

"Rivet just wanted to repay the favor. If it was needed, you know. Like I said, we saw someone, and we couldn't walk by without at least checking. You're here, though. Again, sorry to bother." I jabbed Rivet with my elbow, let's go.

"You feeling okay, Miss Wowski?" Rivet asked.

"Caught something, that's all. Must be one of those bugs going around."

I nodded knowingly and made to leave.

"A bug..." Rivet wouldn't take a hint. "Could I ask you a personal question, Miss Wowski? Are you taking any medication?"

"It's Wazowski, dear. Just some pills for this cricky leg of mine." She slapped her thigh lightly. "Old war wound. That's a joke," she added when Rivet didn't smile. Her left eyelid fluttered. "That's a joke," she said again.

"When's the last time you took one?" Rivet asked. He backed away a quarter-step. Barely noticeable. But Janet saw it, and she matched it with a step forward.

"That's a joke," Janet said. Her frame filled the doorway and she tottered slightly on the raised metal strip at the threshhold. Her eyelid fluttered again, and the left side of her mouth sank, turning her polite smile into a narrow sideways "S." I backed up, too, and Janet stepped over the threshold onto the concrete stoop. Fuck.

"Why don't you run inside and take another one, Mrs. Wazowski," I suggested. I was rolling the BIC pen in my pocket between sweaty fingers.

"Old w-war wound. That's a j-j-joke," Janet stuttered, then snagged Rivet by his short black hair and jerked him toward her.