The Long Summer

by Rod Rayborne

  "You're so agreeable. I think we're going to be very happy together."

  "I think so too. But for now we need to find something to eat. My stomach is beginning to growl."

  "Is that what that was? I thought you burped."

  Gordon looked at her narrowly.

  "You got Moxie."

  "What's that," she asked, muddling over the word.

  "Nothing. Just don't lose it. Can't be you without it."

  They stopped in front of an eight-story building, the regional headquarters of a video game manufacturer. Looking up, they could just make out a railing around the roof with an orange and black helipad sitting askew, hanging over the edge. On it a helicopter was balanced. Gordon nudged Sofia and indicated the roof with a toss of his head.

  "Not so high like the hotel you got stuck on. Wanna sit up there and eat a few cans of anchovies? Nice view, I'll bet."

  "After you," Sofia said, smiling.

  The building had been mostly glass, now lying in the street, with a staircase on the inside wall. It was exposed now that the glass had fallen. They stepped through a missing frame and ascended the steps two at a time. When they got to the roof, they could see that the door was listing to the left, hanging by a piece of flashing. Gordon pushed it out of the way and they stepped out onto the roof.

  "I don't want to get stuck again," Sofia said, looking skeptically at the helicopter that sat half over the side, saved at the last minute when one of its skids had hung up in the metal railing.

  "You won't. Well go down the same way we came up. Those stairs."

  He walked over to look at the helicopter.

  "Anyone in there?" she asked walking around to the other side.

  "Nope. Nobody here but us chickens."

  "I'm the chick. You're a guy."

  Gordon didn't answer. Instead he clomped over to the railing and sat down, dangling his feet through the bars. Sofia came and sat down next to him. Pulling his pack off, he dug inside and handed three cans of sardines to her along with a can of tomato juice. Doing the same for himself, they ate in silence, looking out over the skyline. There were a few people milling along the streets, darting in and out of the empty stores, carrying their stolen goods with them in untidy bundles. Some ran, others, older people, walked dragging things to heavy for them to carry.

  "Where do you think they're going?" Sofia asked.

  "Home, I suppose. They probably think things will sort themselves out. Then they'll be ahead of the game."

  A loud crack split the silence and they both looked to the right, trying to locate the source of the boom.

  "Looks like rain," Gordon said. Maybe the weather's going to turn."

  "Last time it rained, I was on a roof."

  "The one you were stuck on?"

  "The same."

  "Maybe you're some kind of lightening rod. Attract energy from the sky."

  "Attract something, at least."

  Gordon looked at her a moment then put another sardine in his mouth. Sofia stopped eating, flicking her greasy fingers over the railing, staring into the empty street below.

  "What's wrong with me anyway?"

  "Wrong with you? Who says anything's wrong with you?"

  "I've been trying to get your attention for two days now and nothing. What do I gotta do?"

  Gordon looked at her in surprise.

  "Pardon?"

  "I'm the strike out queen. Haven't been on a real date since prom, if you can call that a real date. Is it my nose? I got it from my mom. Kids used to make fun of me. Say I'd drown if it rained."

  Gordon looked at her nose, delicate and upturned. Like it had been chiseled out of alabaster along with the rest of her delicately shaped features. He was about to slide closer to her when she suddenly cried out, pointing up at the sky.

  "Look! It's snowing!" She jumped up and ran towards the opposite edge of the roof, reaching up to catch the tiny flakes. Gordon frowned and stood up, looking into the sky. It seemed much too warm to be snowing. Above them, a layer of dark cumulus was gathering. He stood, trying to make sense if the unexpected phenomena. Then he lifted his hand as the white flakes fell around him, several settling lightly in his open palm. He peered at them closely, sniffed and took a tentative taste. Then still holding them, he walked towards Sofia.

  "It's not snow. It's ash."

  "It's not cold," she said in agreement. "Warm actually. It looks like snow, perfect little flakes."

  Gordon gazed out over the city. It looked for all the world like a blizzard in Manhattan. The drift became a flurry. Then it began to rain. Large drops splashing down, creating oily rainbows on the roof tiles. They slipped and grabbed onto each other for support. The rain was warm, pouring down on them in a hot shower. Sofia laughed then, staring up at Gordon, hair plastered to her face. He stared back at her a moment and then started laughing as well. They held each other and then their lips met. Gordon knew he had never been so happy in all his life.

  They stopped at the intersection of North Fairfax and Willoughby. A few miles ahead rose the Hollywood Hills. Gordon nodded towards the left.

  "This way," he said. Sofia stopped and stared after him.

  "Where are you going?" she asked. "The Walk of Fame is over there, to the right." She pointed to the north east.

  "So?"

  "Let's go."

  "Why would we want to go there?" Gordon asked. He looked surprised.

  "Are you serious? It's the Walk of Fame."

  "Been there, done that. I live in those hills."

  "Well maybe I want to go. It's not all about you."

  He frowned. "In case you haven't noticed, that world is gone. There's nothing left to see except maybe a few bronze stars and some tacky made in China merchandise. My house is just a few miles from here, right up there."

  Now it was Sofia's turn to look annoyed.

  "Why do you want to go there? You planning on staying in LA? I thought we agreed..."

  "I just, just wanted to, to, well dammit, it's my home! There are things there we can use. Things I'd like to have with me. You understand?"

  "Was," Sofia corrected.

  "Was what?"

  "Was your home. It's probably not even there anymore. I think we ought to get out of Los Angeles as soon as we can."

  "You were talking about the Walk of Fame."

  "It's on the way."

  Gordon held up his hands.

  "How do you figure that?"

  "If we walk in any direction, we'll eventually get out of LA, right?"

  Gordon stared at her.

  "That's a direction!"

  "For fuck's sake," he groaned, shaking his head. He turned left and began walking up Willoughby. Sofia stood indecisively, looking to the left and right. She glared at Gordon's retreating back and then sighing, ran after him. The Walk of Fame would have to wait.

  Chapter Sixty Three

  R usty and Cyrus crept forward, propelling an apoplectic Conrad before them. He staggered as he went, barely able to maintain his footing, his eyes fairly popping from their sockets. He glanced at the men on either side of him fearfully and then out at his surroundings once more. His only chance now was to get away at the first opportunity and with two suspicious and well armed men keeping pace with him, weapons trained roughly at his midsection, that didn't seem at all likely.

  "What's the problem, Conrad?" Cyrus asked him, a snarl splitting his pocked face. He poked the chubby man with the barrel of his rifle, pushing an increasingly hesitating Conrad forward savagely. "If what you said is true, we're not going to find anything in this direction anyway. You seem awfully nervous for a man who's about to be vindicated."

  "I told you, the soldiers are out combing this entire neighborhood looking for me. They could spot us at any moment. We should be going the other way."

  "That's funny. You said you were over at the tire center on the other side of town. Didn't you hear him say that Rusty?"

  "I did."

  "And now you say the soldiers a
re combing this neighborhood. Looking for you. Why would they be looking for you here if you were over there? I just don't get it."

  "I meant that they're everywhere. Thousands of them. We got to get out of here!"

  They heard the sounds of gunfire somewhere ahead of them, splintering the quiet with the staccato tat tat tat of bullets hitting wood. The men threw themselves on the ground, Rusty and Cyrus pulling their rifles before them, chins half buried in yard debris.

  Between themselves and the 1600 block lay a quarter mile of city streets seemingly crawling with regular army. How they thought they could even get to their destination without attracting lead Cyrus didn't know. He looked at Rusty.

  "I have to know. I can't ask you to come, things the way they are. But I'm going."

  "We're all going. Stay low and keep quiet."

  "You guys are nuts. I didn't sign up for this. I'll wait here for you. If you make it back, you'll see that I was telling you the truth. When you get back, I'll expect a full apology! If you get back, I mean."

  "We're all going! I'm not letting you out of my sight until we know what happened to Deenie. Get moving," Cyrus said.

  They stood and Rusty put a hand on Conrad's shoulder, spun him around and shoved him forward. Conrad began to say something and he put his gun against his back.

  "I said no talking."

  When they got to Santa Monica Blvd, they knelt in the shadow of a denuded Elm tree, it's uppermost branches blackened by the heat that had cooked so much of forty odd square miles of the surrounding Los Angeles basin. Hiding there, they watched a procession of soldiers, one hundred strong, forcing a throng of civilians forward in a line where they merged with another mass of rag tag people walking down a cross street. The scene reminded Cyrus of a parade, other soldiers standing on either side of the street looking on like bored spectators at a country picnic.

  As they knelt, Rusty kept his hand on Conrad's shoulder. He wasn't sure just what the man might do, but he wasn't in the mood to be surprised. They waited while the procession passed down the street, around the corner and out of sight. Blocks away in the opposite direction, they could make out another group of people being marched away from them. Soldiers were spaced between them every twenty feet or so, as best as Cyrus could guess.

  The uniforms were running thin, he knew, being located in so many parts of the city. The war of attrition was having an effect on them and their civilian counterparts alike. The army had more and better weapons but the other side had numbers on their side. To Cyrus, things looked to be shaping up into a genuine civil engagement. It was a conflict he had no intention of riding out, either he or his friends. They needed to get out and soon, Deenie or no.

  When the street was clear, they dashed forward, aiming for an alley between two store front businesses on the other side of the broad street. The walls of both buildings had collapsed and they were forced to scale a mountain of bricks to reach the 1200 block beyond. The way had grown quiet now, houses in various states of disrepair. As they proceeded along a quiet street, they glanced this way and that, listening for anything that might indicate that they'd been seen and were possibly being stalked. But all was still.

  Cyrus found the quiet uncanny, having lived in the neighborhood prior to the Blow. Now instead of the bustle of traffic, only the sounds of their footsteps could be heard. Here, he felt almost as though he were running through a movie set on some huge Hollywood sound stage. An apocalyptic movie production, though this felt a bit more real than he knew a movie setup would. Seeing a pair of legs beneath a roof slide pointing toes up brought home the authenticity of their situation more than he liked.

  They ran forward four more blocks, ducking behind a scaffolding house painters had placed against a two story home. The house sat a half story shorter than it had days before, a fresh coat of olive green paint decorating it's splintered wood. On the street nearby, eight men stood, army all, chatting and gesturing at the houses just beyond.

  Conrad looked towards the faded white house three doors away where he'd left Deenie with something akin to terror. Then he glanced back at the soldiers talking ahead of them. Next to him squatted Rusty and Cyrus, quietly waiting to see what the men were going to do, their rifles resting muzzles forward on the ground next to them.

  Suddenly before either Rusty or Cyrus realized what was happening, Conrad grabbed Cyrus's rifle and swung it around by its barrel, the butt connecting with Rusty's left temple. Rusty fell backward while Conrad in one fluid motion struck out at Cyrus. The blow tumbled Cyrus onto his side, a fountain of blood erupting from his left eye that had taken the blow face on when he turned toward Rusty.

  Conrad jumped up then still holding Cyrus's rifle and charged towards the startled soldiers who were already running in his direction, guns pointing forward.

  "Help," he shouted, the rifle in his hand waving frantically. "These men..."

  Several shots rang out, peppering Conrad's bloated body with a spray of hot lead. He threw a hand up to his suddenly torn jaw as he twisted around on one foot. Blood spouted from between his closed fingers. Dropping the rifle, he reached up with his other hand, a cry of pain and surprise piercing the quiet like a four a.m. siren. He staggered backwards, his feet tumbling out from under him, crashing into a waist high chain link fence. A half inch by three foot piece of galvanized steel brace, originally fashioned to hold the links against an end pipe, caught him in the left side, slicing neatly through his body, piercing his left kidney, lower intestines, spleen and lung, slipping back out though his trapezius, pinioning him to the ground in an excruciating embrace. He gurgled, kicking out and immediately regretting it. Blood seeped from where what was left of his jaw still hung, painting his throat lipstick red.

  Both Rusty and Cyrus, woozy from the attack, fell backwards, sliding on unseen obstacles while the soldiers, paying no more heed to Conrad, opened up on them, their rifles stuttering in their arms. Rusty was thrown back in slow motion, his chest popping in front of them like a watermelon. Cyrus grabbed out at his own gun, rolling away from Rusty as he brought the rifle to bear. Two of the oncoming soldiers lost their footing as bullets tore through their bodies.

  Cyrus turned to run then when the six remaining soldiers turned their weapons in his direction. He flew apart, speckling the burnt fescue lawn with bits of gore. He sunk to his knees, a gasp slipping from between his broken teeth. Then he tipped back, legs still tucked beneath him, his head touching the roots of an elm tree.

  Of the three men, only Conrad was still alive, his body convulsing in spasms of agony few people in like circumstances have lived long enough to experience. There he sat, staring at the corpses of the men he had betrayed while the six remaining soldiers lifted their fallen comrades and limped away.

  Chapter Sixty Four

  A t approximately 0400 on the morning of July twelfth, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty nine, a Thursday, the door leading to the temporary prison for now defunct Lieutenant General William Brooks and Deputy Commander Joseph McCann was thrown open and the men, now attired in bright prison orange, were tipped from their bunks still half asleep and dumped onto the floor. There they were held while handcuffed, hands and feet chained together. Then they were roughly dragged to their feet and linked together by another chain around their waists.

  The roust had its expected demoralizing effect on the two men. Their hair was askew and a day and a half of beard served to give them an unkempt, lascivious look perfect for mug shots, usually distributed to the press for publication. The unshaven, bedraggled appearance of the individual in question was enough to convince the casual reader of the rightness of the prosecution's case against him or her.

  The men were marched barefoot down the long, brightly lit corridor to a door before which they were halted. The chains around their feet allowed only small steps. When McCann tried to protest the pain and the violation of their rights, he was backhanded by one of their guards, his head thrown back, blood spurting from the corner of his mouth. He
righted himself immediately, standing straight, lifting his head with a pride some of those escorting them quietly admired.

  The door opened and the men were ushered into a small room. Taking up one wall was an oak dais with an ornate Judge's bench on top. In the room were several men and women, uniformed and not, who'd come as witnesses. A photographer was present as well, stepping close to the prisoners to capture the most unflattering pictures he could manage. For the record.

  A door behind the chair open then and a man in a black gown walked out followed by his stenographer. The Bailiff standing on the other side of the dais called out, "All rise." Those seated on the benches in the main assembly stood in unison.

  "The honorable Judge, Richard C. Leek, is presiding."

  Once the Judge was seated, the stenographer walked to a small side table, sat and opened a notebook. Then she looked at the Judge and nodded. He, in turn, nodded to the Bailiff.

  "You may be seated," the Bailiff called out and the audience sat again. Then he looked at the Judge who nodded again and turned to face the audience.

  Front and center stood Brooks and McCann, still chained together, hands and feet.

  The Judge sifted through his notes and then straightened to address his audience.

  "This tribunal has been called to deliberate on the cases of Former Lieutenant General William Brooks and former Deputy Commander Joseph McCann. Both men stand accused of planning a coop against the rightly seated President of the New States of America, Adam Lowry, fomenting said insurrection through force, assaulting the President in the Command Center of this facility and conspiring to commit murder. The Court has appointed a legal representative for the individuals in question, Harvey C. Andrews. Nice to see you again Harv. Hope it wasn't too early for you."

  "Not at all, your honor. Anything for the cause."

  "Good, good. Well have to get together again once all this business is behind us, eh?"

  "Absolutely, and thank you for the pot roast. Judith is a wonderful cook." The man was fairly beaming.