The Long Summer

by Rod Rayborne

  Too poor to live well, too proud to live off The State, they labored dawn to dusk cleaning windows, emptying trash cans, painting signs, building cabinets, unplugging toilets, mowing lawns and clearing rain gutters. Pick-ups, not Audis, backyard BBQ's, not poolside get togethers. Forty-hour weekers and sleep in on Sunday working stiffs. The backbone of America. His kind of people.

  Now everywhere, nothing. A quiet so absolute, so nuanced in it's subtlety, it was only with difficulty that he could make himself believe that not many days hence, the best of people had lived out their final hours here without complaint, content with a warm meal and a soft bed they dragged themselves into at end of each day. Gordon slid the back of his hand across his eyes.

  The houses stood in silhouette, black against the smoke covered sky, gray here, like a heavy twilight thunderstorm about to break over a quiet midnight street. In other places, the angry expanse less subtlety yielded to fiery bursts of rage, primary colors crisscrossing the sky in sudden bright flashes that made the shadows around him dance in Technicolor.

  A low rumble, almost inaudible, seemed to come from somewhere within the clouds, reminding Gordon of the warning growl of the crazed dogs he had so recently encountered. Again, the hair along the back of his neck stood at attention. The glow from the sky cast a hellish illumination over the city turning everything burnt umber.

  Gordon turned down a narrow, fire blasted street. He walked along hesitantly, taking slow, short steps. Other than the sounds of his own footfalls, no other noise met his ears. Though it was too dark for him to see the sidewalk clearly, every step he took told him that it was covered with debris. Rather than the smooth concrete he was used to, he could believe he was walking down a deserted country road. Such was the roll and crackle beneath his shoes.

  It was uncanny, the lack of lights. The houses stood dark and silent, like tombstones against a vaguely lighter backdrop, their shattered windows reflecting in pieces the lightening above. He walked for several more blocks, stepping over and around the fallen and then stopped, standing quietly and listening. Even on his backpacking expeditions into the wilderness, he had never experienced a silence so complete. There, away from the city with its relentless uproar, he was surrounded by the sounds of streams, birds, crickets and wind. Here, absolute zero. If quiet were cold, his teeth would be chattering.

  Oe'r all there hung the shadow of fear,

  A sense of mystery, the spirit daunted,

  And said, like whispers in the ear,

  This place is Haunted!

  The hair stood up along the back of his neck.

  Gordon turned towards a small house fashioned long ago with something that looked in silhouette like Spanish style architecture. Square abutments on either end, flat roof in the middle, twisted wrought iron grating covering the windows, rough stucco exterior. Typical LA, he mused. A small smile touched the corners of his mouth.

  Crossing at Hood, he pushed his thumbs beneath the straps of his pack where they dug into his clavicles, hefting higher up on his shoulders. Moving slowly down the block, he continued to listen for any sounds that might indicate that someone else, like himself, might have been in just the right place at just the right time when the bombs fell. Someone or something. The padding of a cat creeping through bushes, the flutter of wings in the trees above, the bang of a can being overturned.

  Surely the entire city of Los Angeles must consist of more than just one man and two dogs.

  Instead, only the crackling of cooked lumber and falling tree branches, the faint rustling of burnt ficus leaves and charred palm fronds, a seared tire suddenly exploding under the weight of a car some distance away, the scuff of his shoes crunching over chunks of broken stucco and fallen wires was all the sound left to him. The numbing cacophony of big city life had vanished completely.

  Turning at Harris, Gordon noticed that the front of the second house on the opposite side of the street was partly stove in, a piece of something massive yet oddly shaped sticking through its crushed roof amongst the splintered rafters and melted roof tiles. Crossing the street, he slipped off his pack and let it fall to the ground. Reaching into the pack's wide center compartment, he pulled out the lighter he'd found at Walmart.

  Stepping over chunks of concrete, what remained of the front walk, a gaping hole exposed the black interior at the front of the house where wall once stood, Gordon approached the house, looking for something to stand on. Climbing on ragged pieces of the fallen wall, he clicked the lighter and held it toward the object on the roof. It was a car, older make he knew from its long and low profile. Dust was still visible despite the bubbled paint. The car had needed to be washed before the bombs. Or so the message finger painted across the rear window, still announced. Through the open passenger side door, a man was hanging down, still buckled in his seat. The driver he could make out slumped over the center console. Gordon backed off quickly, pulled his pack on and strode away.

  He had walked for several blocks when he was brought to a halt by the sharp sound of scraping metal. Not too heavy. The sound of car trim being stepped on. Or a wheel cap falling off perhaps. He stopped, turning one ear towards the noise. No muffled curses, no further missteps. He looked in the direction the noise had come from. Next block over he guessed, behind the houses he was facing. He wanted to have a look but couldn't make his feet turn in the right direction.

  Dogs again? He felt a wash of fear slide over him. He knew of their sense of smell. Maybe they were already drawing a bead on him. Could they see well at night? Cats yes. He didn't know about dogs.

  He had almost decided that the sound was nothing, a vagrant noise his mind had magnified because of the unnatural quiet. Then the grating sound sang again and this time another sound with it. A high note, thin and long but not loud. Gordon froze, his heart crashing against his ribs, breathing suddenly ragged. That was no dog, but it was alive.

  Gordon turned and looked behind him. All was still. Facing forward again, he backed up slowly, one silent footfall at a time. When he reached the house behind him, he tried the doorknob. It was locked. He turned again and looked in the direction the sound had come from. Nothing. What could have made a sound like that, he wondered? He had never heard anything like it. A possum? He didn't know what they sounded like. Maybe a dying possum. He wondered if a lone possum's ticket had just been notched.

  He didn't feel much better for his mundane analysis. But as the minutes passed and no other noises came, his heart slowed, breathing settled and he began to feel foolish. Of course it was a possum or a raccoon or some such that had wandered out of the hills. They were all over LA, always had been, following the food trails people left behind. They had lived in the human shadow for so long, they'd become almost human themselves. Now with people gone, their ready source of food along with them, their own survival was in doubt.

  His heart shifting back into low gear, Gordon decided to have a look around the corner. He moved forward, the way lit by the dim glow of the reflected glow in the smoke high above. He walked to the corner and looked about for a place he could retreat to should the disturbance turn out to be less than friendly after all. Nearby was a set of apartments, the windows blown out. Satisfied, he crept behind a razed shrub at the side corner of the apartment and hugging the building, peered around the corner.

  Across the street, he could make out a car sitting on its rims, tires blown and partially melted in the driveway. On the other side of the car lay a body. Only the legs were exposed from behind the car, shoes pointed skyward. The body was jerking spasmodically and Gordon's heart leapt.

  Was it possible that another person was alive? Perhaps the man who owned the shoes was under the car at work with a ratchet, pulling on a stuck bolt. He considered calling out but decided to watch a little longer. Then he saw a movement, another form also hidden by the car, seemingly hunched above the man, just a bit, pulling at something that seemed to be resisting his efforts. A friend maybe, exhorting the other man to hurry?

  He sa
w a flutter, a quick movement, and then the second shape appeared to be looking in his direction. A dog? The form was large, not less than two, maybe three feet tall at the shoulder, he guessed. Heavy he thought, judging by the girth. Then the shape grabbed hold of something. When it did, the man's legs quivered. The form backed away from the man.

  Gordon realized the shape was that of a cat. Not a house cat. The cat was the size of a large Labrador. A Lynx, no, a Cougar. The cat continued to back up and another cat came into view. They were yanking something between them. Then he realized what it was. Entrails. The man's intestines.

  Gordon froze and then took a step backwards. As soon as he did, his foot bore down on a bit of glass and a tinkling sound shot out through the dark. Immediately it did, the cats looked in his direction, ears flattened.

  Gordon ducked behind the shrub, looking hard between its branches, his heart hammering in his chest once more. He stepped backwards again, the apartment blocking the driveway from view. He didn't know if he was seen but he wasn't interested in finding out. Fresh from his experience with the Golden, he decided to beat a hasty retreat. Thinking a short cut might be prudent, he stood, turned and stumbled to the closest window. He tried to pull himself through the empty frame but his pack caught on it and he fell back on the dead lawn.

  His second try was successful. Behind him he heard a resonant pounding as of something trying to reach just outside the window. His heart jumped and he dashed through the apartment. Jumping through a hallway, his head collided with an open door. He let out a yelp and ran towards a faint rectangle of light in the lesser darkness beyond outlining the front door.

  He threw the door open, leaping away with every ounce of strength he could muster, confident a furry body was about to throw itself against his legs, tossing him headlong into the street.

  He crossed uncounted blocks, jumping over fences dividing properties, barely aware of his surroundings as he fled. How long he ran and in which direction it never occurred to him to consider. As he went, he could hear dogs barking behind walls, now fatally locked inside quiet houses, still trying to protect them for their dead owners.

  He ran until he couldn't, finally retreating into an upstairs apartment miles away whose door, he could see from the street, was ajar. Slamming it behind him, he made his way to a bathroom. He closed that door as well and curled up in the bathtub, pulling the rag down from his mouth and gasping for breath. There he remained huddled low, unconsciously trembling in the gloom until a strange lunatic exhaustion finally claimed him.

  How long Gordon slept he had no way of knowing. He awoke with a start, sure that he could see a huge furry creature hovering over him. And see it he did in that twilight world of waking that is neither conscious nor unconsciousness but only a foggy awareness when nothing is unreal or impossible. He jerked violently, slamming his elbows into the hard porcelain of the tub as he tried to push away. Then, eyes slowly adjusting, he knew it was just a last phantom from the night of horrors through which he had just passed and he relaxed.

  From the look of the light or lack of it coming through the tiny bathroom window, no time had passed. His sleep, tortured and dream filled, had left him feeling little rested. Yet his stomach told him that hours had indeed slipped by.

  He moved to sit up but his muscles, long idle, shot pain through his cramped body and he laid back once more against the porcelain. He stretched slowly then, one limb at a time, until he was standing. Stepping from the tub, he looked for his pack. Finding it, he felt around inside for a bottle of water. They were missing along with some of the food he had stored. Enough to last him a week, he groaned.

  That was the sounds he'd heard when he was scrambling through the apartment window. The heavy bottles of water falling from his upended pack. The cats hadn't been after him. Why would they have? They already had a meal right in front of them. Feeling foolish, he touched the bump on his forehead and winced. He reached into the pack again and took out a small bag of salted peanuts.

  Sitting on the tub edge he ate them slowly, wondering what he should do next. Perhaps salted nuts weren't the best choice for a morning meal when he'd just lost his water, he supposed. He felt for the sink. Locating the faucets, he turned both. Nothing. That would have been too easy, he thought. He shut them again, unnecessarily.

  Briefly, he considered the toilet. Then shaking his head, he reached for the door. Before opening it, he pressed his ear against the wood and listened. All was still.

  Gently he turned the knob, wincing when it squealed. Without, more darkness. Yet the light improved a bit, the ever-present fires outside casting silent cerulean flickerings across the walls through a shattered sliding glass door at the other end of the apartment. He could just make out the shape of the tiny rectangular space once considered a home; the floor covered with those things the empty shelves once held. Outside, from his second story vantage point, he could almost imagine he was looking at city lights at night, so many were the fires that burned into the distance.

  He walked to the kitchen, glancing outside momentarily through the window above the sink and then reached for the refrigerator. The smell of spoiled food sent him back a step. Gathering his wits, he bent to peer into the black enclosure. It was too dark to see what was inside but he had already decided to reject anything that came in a carton. His hand found a plastic pitcher. He popped the lid and brought it to his nose. Not water, possibly orange juice though the warm rancid odor challenged identification.

  He put the pitcher back on the shelf and closed the door. Turning, he leaned against the sink and closed his eyes. It would be the same in every refrigerator in the building. In the city. Opening his eyes again, he found a cup in the sink and made his way back to the bathroom. He paused once again before the toilet and then lifted the lid from the tank.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three weeks before...

  M ika had been out in the back of the house tending her small garden when he wandered into the yard. At that time Mika had lived alone. Survivalism was more of a weekend hobby that she practiced with her friends than a serious undertaking.

  She had always had an uneasy feeling about international tensions, but unlike some people who either ignored the ominous signs or other's who lived each day in dreaded anticipation, she decided to turn her unease into an excuse to learn something she thought just might save her life one day. She learned about food preservation, weapons training and outdoor survival techniques. She took more interest in staying abreast of current tensions, ran into other people who thought as she did at the shooting range and eventually they formed a loose confederation of like minded individuals.

  But the day that Conrad came into their lives, Mika had been alone working in her backyard garden. She was weeding her rows of tomatoes when she felt someone staring at her. Her conceal/carry permit allowed her to wear a gun beneath her clothes and now she reached towards it, looking up to see who had entered her yard without permission.

  The man approached her casually, smirking in a patronizing manner that oozed both confidence and arrogance. "Don't shoot," he said with a grin. He held up his hands in mock fright.

  "What are you doing in my yard? The sign on the gate says no trespassing."

  Conrad touched his Southern California Gas Company hat.

  "Just checking the meter."

  He swaggered closer. Mika could see that he was wearing shiny new cowboy boots and his turquoise encrusted belt buckle was twice as large as any she'd ever seen before. Despite his rough and tumble gear, his hands were small, pink and soft.

  "You must be new here, a..."

  "Conrad."

  "Conrad," she continued. "The meter's in the front, just like every other meter on every other house in this neighborhood. Now if you don't mind."

  "I know where the meter is. I just saw a pretty lady out here puttering around in the dirt. Thought you might like a little male assistance?" He winked knowingly.

  Mika's face turned red but she kept her composu
re.

  "Not necessary, but thanks. Now, like I said, please leave." Her hand still hovered over the bulge beneath her shirt.

  Ignoring her request, he continued, "What kind of weapon you got under there? My guess is it's a Glock 9mm. Personally I carry a 12 mm but I can see why a woman of your stature might want a lighter weapon."

  Mika looked at him hard. In spite of herself, she was impressed that he had guessed accurately. She kept that to herself.

  "You train much?" Conrad asked. "Me, I'm certified in semi and auto. Make my own bullets too. I could show you how sometime, get you started. Sell you a few hundred 9 mils at a decent price. Or give you a few."

  "I'm good on ammo. And I wouldn't trust that from just anyone."

  "Suit yourself. You're making it very hard to help you. You really ought to take advantage of what I have to offer." At that he laid his left hand on his belt buckle.

  Mika, seeing a large tigers eye on his ring finger, scowled.

  "Your wife know your ways with other women?"

  The smile vanished from the man's face. He looked down at the ring and then back at Mika.

  "My wife takes care of herself and I take care of myself."

  "I need you to go now, Conrad. I have things to do. Close the gate behind you."

  "You done any basic survival training? I've been into it for a peck of years. Trained to survive in Death Valley as well as Alaska. The big one is coming. This whole fucking planet could go up at any time but me, I'm gonna survive. You can trust me on that. I practically have an entire armory at home. Come by sometime. Compare notes. I have a room devoted just to firearms. I live up in Kingston Heights. Ever driven through there? My house is one of show places in the neighborhood. Been in Home and Garden magazine too. Just a picture, no article. But not many around here can say the same."