Dusty's Diary 4: One Frustrated Man's Apocalypse Story

by Bobby Adair

  “You’re lucky we’re doing this now,” said Amelia. “It’s been cold lately. If this were summer, it would be impossible to breathe down here. And the mosquitoes, don’t get me started.”

  We were in the middle of winter, and were still being bit. I didn't want to think about the swarms at the height of the breeding season. “What does Aunt Millie do for fresh water?”

  “The guys who set up the barge equipped it with three desalination units. They use them on yachts. You can run them on solar power.”

  “They have panels on the barge?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  "But they only take out the salt, right? They don't filter out the other impurities, do they?"

  Amelia thought about that for a moment. “I never looked at them to gain an understanding of how they work. So I can’t say.”

  “So she pulls raw water right out of the bay, desalinates it and drinks it?”

  Amelia nodded.

  I shuddered. “It’ll probably kill her, eventually.”

  “I think Aunt Millie is too mean to kill. She’ll probably live to be a hundred.”

  “She’s not already a hundred?”

  We both laughed.

  It felt good. Better than any laugh should have. There had been so much tension between us, and so much of the world weighing us down. I didn’t want it to end.

  “I saw on the news once,” said Amelia, “that children growing up within a mile of the ship channel were fifty-six percent more likely to get leukemia.”

  "You're a fountain of trivia, aren't you?"

  Amelia shrugged. “I told you, I remember things.”

  “You don’t try?” I asked.

  “No, it just happens.”

  “Do you have a photographic memory?”

  “I don’t think so. Sometimes it seems like it.”

  “Too bad the world went all to shit. You probably could have made a lot of money being a doctor or lawyer or something.”

  Amelia didn’t say anything. I was learning that sometimes, talking about the way things used to be, or how they might have been, made her sad and quiet.

  “Do you miss your parents?”

  Amelia's mood changed in a snap. "Do you masturbate a lot?"

  Why lie? “More now than I used to.”

  “I didn’t need to know that.”

  “You asked.”

  “I was trying to bait you into saying it was none of my business.”

  “What?” And then I got it. “You don’t want to talk about your parents.”

  “I don’t want to think about them anymore. I’m tired of Mazzy and Rollo and their swinger secrets. I’m tired of Aunt Millie. I’m tired of being sad about them.”

  That’s something I understood. So we sat for a while longer, watching dark water flow by, listening to the sounds of used-to-be humans far away in the darkness. They were the only creatures bold enough to be noisy in Houston. Well, besides the bugs, frogs, birds, and giant ‘gators grunting from time to time.

  I finally said, “I wonder if I threw a match in, if the water would burn.”

  Amelia laughed, but just barely. “You could try.”

  I fished around in my thigh pocket, where I kept my spare matches. I pulled out a box with wooden sticks. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

  She nodded.

  “You better pull your legs up. I don’t have enough first-aid stuff with me to fix you after you catch fire.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes and pulled her legs up.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “You wanna make a bet?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t think it’ll burn?”

  Amelia said, “I don’t honestly know.”

  “You know, way back before you were born, the river running through Cleveland caught on fire.”

  “Like you said, I wasn’t born yet.”

  "It was full of industrial waste. Maybe like the bayou here."

  “Are you going to light the match? Because your attempt to build the suspense isn’t working.”

  “You don’t like having fun, do you?”

  “I don’t live in a fun world.”

  I sighed, and looked around. “You know if it catches fire, every warthead for miles is going to come to see what’s up.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “What?” I didn’t believe her.

  “Don’t act so surprised.”

  “Sorry. It’s my usual reaction when I’m caught off guard. Why do you want all the Shroomies to come?”

  “A burning bayou would make a good distraction. It would keep all the infected busy and make it easy for us to sneak downtown.”

  I didn't need any more encouragement than that. I struck the match, let it catch a good flame, and tossed it into the water. I hit the surface with a tiny fizzle and went out. I realized as I looked at the pale matchstick floating on the water how disappointed I was. Apparently, my attempt to build the suspense had worked on me.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s plenty around here to burn. We’ll find something.”

  I looked around. “One of these oil tanks would go up nicely.”

  “I think I know something you might enjoy burning a little more than an oil tank.”

  That’s when I spotted a canoe, not in the water, but leaning against a fence not fifty yards away.

  January 16th

  We spent the day sixty feet off the ground in the cab of an old crane built into the dock of an industrial yard. The wind was howling most of the day, so the crane creaked, and the leaky seams around the door whistled. The steel cables banged where there was no tension and kept waking us up through most of the day.

  By the time I finally got to sleep, it was near sunset. So when Amelia shook my shoulder to wake me for the final time, it was full dark outside.

  “We should get going,” she said.

  I sat up, irritable, hungry, and needing to take a major whizz. My head felt like I'd whacked it with a hammer or drank too much tequila. "What time is it?"

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “Jeez. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”

  "Coming up here to spend the day probably wasn't the best idea." That was as close as she was likely to get to an apology.

  “How long have you been up?”

  “A few hours.”

  “You should have woken me.”

  “You let me sleep the last few days. Besides, we already have that canoe, and we don't have far to go."

  I stood up and looked west. In the moonlight, Houston’s skyline stood tall, clear, and generic. I suppose it could have been Omaha or Phoenix. Maybe even Denver. Some office buildings stood off to the right, marking where I-10 cut through on the way to Louisiana. A double-row of grain silos loomed into the sky between us and downtown, as did several old factory buildings.

  “You see that one there?” asked Amelia, suddenly standing beside me and pointing. “Second from the right?”

  “The old Purina factory.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Dog chow and horse food and stuff. It’s right on the channel.”

  I was thinking BFD, but whatever, Amelia did love her trivia. “Didn’t they close that factory down like ten years ago when they moved out to Conroe?”

  “They reopened it.”

  “Purina did?”

  “No,” she told me. “See the tall building with something painted there on the right side of it? It’s hard to make out in the dark.”

  I squinted in a vain attempt to help my night vision. “What am I looking for?”

  "Where the big checkerboard used to be painted. There's a new logo there."

  “Your eyes are better than mine. I can’t make it out.”

  “That’s the building we’re going to burn,” said Amelia. “It’s close enough to downtown to draw out the infected, and it’s big enough, it might burn for a couple of days.”

  “You almost sound excited about this,” I said. “Is this a pyromania
c urge coming to the surface, or are you buying into the Caribbean plan?”

  “The Caribbean plan is idiotic.”

  “You think I’m going to go off and do the stupidest thing in the world, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say it was the stupidest thing.” She muttered, “Somebody misses their coffee.”

  "When my daughters were your age, they knew everything, too." I turned away from the skyline view and started gathering up my stuff.

  “Why are you angry about this? I’m helping you find the information you’ll need in order to choose the best island.”

  I pulled my bag up over my shoulders and out of habit checked my holster where my missing Glock should have been. Nope, not there, Ass Nugget still had it at the bottom of Bear Lake, and that only added to my mood. At least I still had my rifle. "On the one-to-ten stupidity scale, where do you think I landed? Two? Three, maybe?"

  Amelia snorted as a way to disengage.

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked. “Stay here in Houston? Is that your long-term plan?”

  “Are you ready?”

  “So what? Tell me? What’s your plan?”

  Amelia worked the piece of rebar out of the trapdoor latch and swung it up so we could access the ladder down to the ground. A chilly wind blew in. “Why are you going to the Caribbean?”

  “Apparently because I’m stupid.”

  Amelia shook her head and started down the ladder. “Remember when you get to that rung about halfway down. It’s rusted through.”

  Crap.

  It was like I was arguing with sixteen-year-old Kate again. And then both of her sisters. I waited for Amelia to get down a ways before I started on the ladder, grumbling as I descended from rung to rung. But as I went, and tried to blame Amelia for my anger, I knew it was all my fault. I’d slipped into it out of some rusty habit formed from all my years of fighting with my girls when they were teens. It had surfaced, and turned me into a giant asshole, and I didn’t even know why.

  It’s hard being a dad. And it might be harder to be a friend, sometimes.

  January 16th, second entry

  We canoed for some time in tense silence, keeping to the center of the channel, watching for dangers in the nighttime shadows along the shore, and pointing out to one another one when one of the lumps in the water appeared to move.

  Our paddling stayed in sync, and we slowly gelled back into a team of two.

  Finally, I figured I’d better suck up my pride and apologize. “I didn’t mean to get angry. I’m sorry.”

  Amelia, to her credit, didn’t toy with me. “I shouldn’t have said your plan was stupid.”

  "That's okay. You were being honest."

  “Honesty doesn’t have to be mean.”

  "I woke up in a crappy mood. I think I took it out on you. It was my fault."

  That seemed to settle it, and we pushed past a low bridge, almost black underneath. Around us in every direction, the city sounded like a jungle of noisy wartheads making their pointless hoots, and animals—both large and small—caught in unexpected struggles for life.

  Amelia started the conversation again. “Why don’t you tell me why this Caribbean adventure is so important to you?”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “Petulance is never attractive in a man your age.”

  “I don’t mean to be.” I pushed the water with the blade of my paddle, trying to find the right words to collect thoughts around. In the end, I failed. “I think my reasons sound great when they’re shining bright on the billboards in my head. Having to say them out loud, it feels stupid.”

  “Are you talking about your ‘being alive speech?’ Is that why you’re going down there?”

  “Yeah, but it’s more than that. I feel like I have a duty to rebuild.”

  “Rebuild civilization?” asked Amelia. “Repopulate the earth? Is that why you wanted to meet Aunt Millie so badly?”

  "Yes and no and everything in between," I admitted. "I wanted to meet Aunt Millie because I thought she'd be beautiful and not crazy, and maybe my age or a little younger."

  “So you want a pre-menopausal woman?” asked Amelia.

  "That's what makes it all stupid. The eventual ex had me fixed years ago. So unless you know of a living microsurgeon who can perform a vasectomy reversal, I can't repopulate anything." I laughed then, and so did Amelia.

  "I guess besides the staying alive part," I told her. "And besides the being alive part, I think if I were a healthy person of reproductive age looking to rebuild somewhere safe, I’d go to one of the islands, because like I said, I could clear it of the infected. I could make it into a safe place from all the monsters. It’s the kind of place I think healthy people would go to.”

  “You think you’ll find people there when you arrive, don’t you?”

  “I hope I do.”

  “What if you’re the first?”

  “The first one to find an island worth rebuilding on?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hadn't thought that through either. “Then we’re going to do the research, aren’t we? We’re going to find the best island, and I'll start the process alone. I may not be able to have any more kids—I can still do my part. You think I’m old, but I’m strong. I have a lot of good years in me.”

  “What if nobody ever shows up to join you in paradise?”

  “You don’t think I’m the last normal person on the planet, do you?”

  “No,” answered Amelia. “Aunt Millie and your friends from the tugboat are proof of that. How long do you think you’ll wait before you go looking for more people?”

  “I guess I’m proceeding with my plan thinking I’ll be right. Otherwise, why take the risk of learning to sail. Why cross the ocean in the first place?”

  “The Caribbean isn’t quite an ocean.”

  “It’s plenty deep to drown me.”

  Amelia didn’t have a comeback for that, so we paddled on in silence again, Amelia thinking about whatever kinds of things tended to trouble her peculiar mind, and me putting more thoughts into her questions. Finally coming to a reasonable conclusion, I said, “I suppose I’ll stay for a year or two. Maybe longer. I’m sure I’ll eventually start searching again. People have to be out there. They have to be getting together somewhere. It’s human nature.”

  “Humans are communal animals, not solitary ones.” Amelia glanced back at me from the front of the canoe. “There’s a canal up here on the right. Keep an eye out. It’ll be easy to miss in the dark.”

  “Why are we looking for it?”

  “That factory is up that canal a bit.”

  Getting back on track, I asked, “What about you? Seriously, do you plan to stay in Houston and spend the rest of your life alone?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Don’t get angry with me for bringing it up again, but you could come with me. We could find civilization together.”

  Amelia shook her head. “I’m not a human anymore. I’m a freak.”

  "No, you're not."

  “People won’t accept me.”

  “We’ve had this conversation,” I told her. “You won’t know unless you try.”

  “Trying could get me killed. You do remember how it was when everything was collapsing, don’t you? People were murdering the infected, their husbands and wives, even their kids. Hunting parties used to roam the streets, killing anyone who looked like they might have a wart."

  “It wasn’t just the infected they were after. The downfall brought out the worst in us.”

  “Even now,” said Amelia. “You do remember all your rat traps at my parents’ house, don’t you?”

  I noticed a change in the depth of the shadows on the right bank ahead of us. “Is that the canal there?”

  Amelia nodded.

  We paddled toward the mouth of the canal.

  “What about your own kind?” I asked. “If there are people like me, then there have to be people like you. Maybe thousands of them out there.”
<
br />   Amelia was weirdly silent at my assertion.

  I decided to go with another tack. “You’re still young. You could find a cute young fellow. Have some kids. Have a real life.”

  Amelia turned back to face me as she pushed her hoodie back, exposing her red lumps in the moonlight. “Could you look at this and still want me?”

  Up to that moment, she’d been meticulous about keeping her head hidden under her hoodie. I’d gotten used to seeing her face, easily ignoring the lumps hidden beneath the fabric draped over her skull, and seeing them in the dark, a muted yet raging red, the grotesque symbol of humanity’s demise, I couldn’t find a quick response in my tight throat.

  Amelia pulled her hoodie up and laid her paddle across her lap as she seemed to deflate into tears, though I heard not a sound.

  Shaking my head to protest to nothing but the darkness, I came up with a response. “It’s—”

  “No,” she cut me off. “It’s on my back. On my elbows and knees. No man will ever look at me and feel love, let alone desire. I’m disgusting.”

  January 16th, third entry

  We paddled into the narrow channel, and it felt unsafe. The banks were far enough to either side that no Shroomie could hope to leap across the water and land on us, but the canal was partially blocked ahead. Up there, it would be easy for the infected to mount an attack.

  Keeping an eye on the hazard, I said, “Love is blind.”

  Amelia turned on me with fire in her eyes. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  That was all the help I needed to show me what an awful choice I’d made with that pointless bromide. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Amelia dug her paddle angrily into the black water.

  “I just meant to say that people always find a way to fall in love. That’s just the way we are.”

  Amelia let my words hang in the air with the hardy mosquitoes for a minute before she said, “The last romantic in the world, and you're going to sail off in a boat you don't know how to operate and drown yourself in the Gulf before you get past the first drilling platform."

  Taking the opportunity to follow her away from discussions about her chances at finding a boyfriend, I went with the Caribbean thing again. “What would you do if you were me, then?”

  “I wouldn’t go to the Caribbean.”