by Ryan Schow
“Quiet. Well today anyway. The drones went through here yesterday.”
“Cool. I’ll find a place nearby,” he says. “Somewhere a little more upbeat than this oversized coffin.”
I hear Macy tromping downstairs with a piece of paper in hand. She stands in the doorway, not looking inside because she’s still pouting about not being invited in. A few of us look at her, and that’s when she decides to hold up a handwritten note and say, “I think we have a problem.”
12
Back upstairs, in the old lady’s place, Macy hands the note to Rex, who reads it again: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO THE OLD LADY.
“What did you do to the old lady?” Rex asks.
“She…she didn’t make it,” Stanton says.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she pulled a rifle on Stanton,” I say, “and when he took it from her, she stepped backwards, tripped on the carpet and hit her head on the coffee table.”
“This carpet looks a whole lot like a hardwood floor,” he quips. Yeah, we get it, there’s no carpet on the floor. No fluffy rug to blame for the owner’s absence from this place and life in general.
“No kidding,” Macy says, arms folded, being playful. She adores her uncle, so I’m pretty sure it’s just posturing so we don’t have to talk about it. We don’t really like to talk about it.
“So this carpet, the one that’s not here—”
“We rolled her up in it,” I say. “Then we sort of…found a place to stash her.”
Then it dawns on him, my smart, resourceful little brother. He gives a knowing grin and looks at Stanton.
“Ah,” he says, “the gardening.”
“Yes, the gardening,” Stanton echoes.
Looking at Macy, pointing to the note, Rex says, “You want me to solve this problem?”
“That would be nice,” I say.
“No,” Macy replies. “I can handle it. I just need to borrow Daddy’s gun.”
“No,” all three of us say at the same time.
“Whatever,” she says before heading out the front door. Seconds later she’s up there banging on the upstairs door. UNIT C, if the pattern follows. Me and Stanton trade worried looks, then both hustle up the stairs to where she’s on the third floor landing kicking the note-writer’s front door.
“Open up you sissy!” she’s saying. “It’s your pen pal from downstairs!”
Stanton gets to her first, grabbing her by the arm.
“This isn’t the way we do things!” he snaps. “Downstairs, now!” Then to me, he says, “Take her downstairs. I’ll deal with this.”
He moves to the side of the door so whomever is inside doesn’t get the bright idea to shoot through it and catch him in the chest. Macy breaks free of me, tromps downstairs and heads back inside our confiscated home. I hang out a few steps down.
“I’m sorry about that,” I hear Stanton say into the door. He waits to see if anyone is listening. “I don’t know if you’ve been out there, but it’s really bad. All this…nonsense, it’s turning people into, well…versions of themselves they’re not.”
There is nothing but silence. Then a creak on the floor. We both hear it. Stanton lets out his breath, takes another, then lets it out slower.
“We didn’t kill her,” he says. “But by virtue of us coming in here to avoid the warzone going on outside, she is dead and that…I don’t know how to make that right.”
The creaking again, then the sounds of feet walking away.
Stanton looks at me. With haunted eyes, he raises his brow, slowly releases his breath in either shame or dismay—I can’t be sure.
“It’s okay, hon.”
For the later part of the afternoon, we take the food, water and supplies from the downstairs neighbor’s home. Meanwhile, the bombing continues unimpeded. Although the drones aren’t targeting our neighborhood, we remain on high alert. When we make it through the day without incident, I won’t lie, I whisper a short prayer of gratitude, thanking Him, or whomever is watching over us. God knows we needed the reprieve.
Rex shoves off that night with a bunch of food and water stuffed into his pant’s pockets and the jacket he took from the dead guy’s closet downstairs. As he’s leaving, Stanton pulls him aside and says, “Can I see you outside? For a second?”
“Sure,” Rex says.
“What are you two going to talk about?” I ask, making a very light, very rationed meal.
“Boy stuff,” Rex teases. “No-girls-allowed kind of stuff.”
He winks at Macy and I pray nothing bad happens to him. Growing up, you don’t always like or appreciate your siblings, but as long as your home isn’t some kind of a dysfunctional nightmare (ours wasn’t), then you realize later on in life that maybe you love them and want nothing bad to happen to them. I love Rex like that. I’m glad here’s here.
“When you find your home,” I tell him, “make sure it’s really, really close. And stay safe.”
“Copy that,” he says as he and Stanton head outside.
“Love you!”
“Love you too sis!”
The front door shuts and some crazy part of me almost suffers from a panic attack. What if I never see him again? What if something happens? What if—
“Are you alright, Mom?”
Wiping my eyes, going back to my dinner duties, I wave a dismissive hand and say, “Mind your own business. Go to your couch.”
That’s code for go to your room, except she has no room, only three cushions and a stolen blanket.
“I’m going to need to go to the excretorium first, if you don’t mind.”
Looking up, not sure what language she’s speaking, I say, “What? You need to go to what?”
“The excretorium. The emporium of excrement? Hello…the bathroom. Oh, hell,” she says with a monumental eye roll before going back to the bathroom.
“Just flush twice!” I call out as the door is closing.
The next morning we wake to the sounds of bombing. I wake up freezing, even though we’re in a bed with extra blankets and everything.
I get up, pull back the drapes and two of the windows are broken from the intermittent shaking of the foundation. A few small triangles of glass have rattled out, leaving us somewhat exposed to the elements. The smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air, but I’m slowly getting used to it and the headaches it’s creating.
There’s a soft knock on the door. I look at Stanton. He looks at me from where he’s at in bed. His three day shadow is a little thicker today, his hair a mess and a half. Before we can answer the door, a note slides underneath it and footsteps hurry upstairs.
I grab it, pick it up and read it. Is says: IT’S NOT OKAY.
I’m not sure what kind of juvenile game this person is playing, but I’m not going to be guilt shamed because one old woman failed to survive the apocalypse. Crumpling it up, I throw it in the kitchen where it lands next to the garbage can. By now Stanton is up, pulling a shirt on over his head.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“No,” Stanton grumbles. He’s rubbing his hair, yawning, looking around the place probably wondering how he’s going to fill his day now that he’s got a roof over his head and no job.
“Well I’m am,” Macy says from under her gigantic blanket.
“Window’s broken,” I tell Stanton.
Stanton throws Macy our blanket which she snuggles into with a welcomed smile. Then there’s another knock at the door, this time not so subtle.
“What now?” I ask.
“Rex.”
I open the door to my brother. He smiles really big, but I know him well enough to know he’s looking for Stanton. They see each other and trade conspiratorial nods. Stanton’s putting on his shoes. So now he’s just a guy in fancy shoes with ash-colored slacks and a semi-clean white button-up, except for where it was exposed under his suit and has since turned gray. He runs a little water through his hair, halfway styles it, then takes a breath and looks at me.
“You look
like a GQ model, Walking Dead style.”
“I feel the ‘walking dead’ part.”
“Where are you going?”
“He’s borrowing my motorcycle,” Rex offers. “Going into town to see if your guys’ house is still standing.”
I look at my husband, fold my arms and set my jaw. “Were you even going to ask?”
“I have to know,” he explains. Clearly he’s uncomfortable having this conversation in front of both Macy and Rex, but it has to be had.
“You need to be careful,” I say.
“I will.”
“It’s not safe out there,” I tell him, a bit of pleading creeping into my voice.
“Will you at least take his helmet?”
“It’ll keep me from having the best possible hearing,” he explains. “If I’m going down there, I’ll need every advantage I can get.
“I’ll take care of you guys today,” Rex says, smiling like he’s being extra helpful.
“You know Rex, your charm and the apocalypse go together like a fine wine and diarrhea. And we’re not kids. Me and Macy don’t need babysitting.”
“I know you’re worried,” he says, taking a step forward. I raise my hand. Yeah…stop means stop. Thankfully he’s got the good sense to halt his advance.
“This isn’t about us not being able to handle ourselves,” I argue. “I’m worried about my husband. About the drones and how they’ve been bombing and killing people for days now.” Looking at Stanton, who’s looking extra sheepish right now, but determined, I say, “You have no idea how bad it is.”
“I made it out of there before,” he reasons.
“It’s different now. We’re on day four of bombings and they seem very focused on downtown. Which is right where we live. Rather where we lived.”
“I know where we live,” he says like there’s nothing I can do or say to change his mind.
Knowing his stance on this, I go to him, give him a hug and a long kiss, then tell him to come back home to me and his daughter.
“She has a name, you know,” he says.
“Yeah, I know.”
He kisses me again. When he leaves, I pretend I need to lay back down, that I didn’t sleep well, but instead I lay down, curl into a ball and cry. Macy pretends not to hear me. Rex pretends not to hear me. I pretend I’m alone and none of this is happening and thankfully, I finally do get some sleep.
Maybe a bit too much.
13
All throughout the day, as I’m turning in and out of sleep, I’m hearing the pop, pop, popping of gunfire. I’m hearing these harsh back-and-forth reports along with the distant sounds of things exploding. Then the sounds are near. Not the bombs, but the gunfire. Finally I open my eyes and try with all my might to keep them open. I look up and Rex is in the window, the drapes mostly shut.
Macy sees me awake and says, “They’ve been at it for awhile now.”
“Who?”
“The cops and the dirt bags.” I sit up, rub my eyes. She says, “Me and Rex don’t think the police are going to make it.”
Rex says, “Buddies of mine say the Sureños hit the Northern District Police Station on Fillmore and Turk.”
“That’s like—”
“Seven blocks from here,” Rex says. “Yeah. Close.”
I’m getting off the mattress, feeling out of sorts but straightening my rumpled clothes and gathering my wits about me.
“Where are they now?”
“Literally right around the corner. At that church. The Serbian Orthodox something or other.” I join him at the window. He points to a peach-colored building across the way and says, “It’s on the other side of that.”
“This is bad, Rex,” I say, looking at him.
“I know,” he tells me.
“Is there a way to warn Stanton so he doesn’t ride into the thick of it?” He shakes his head, no. “So then what do we do?”
“Hope that the cops win. The problem is they’re looking severely outnumbered. For every one or two volleys coming in, about nine going out.”
“Which means?”
“The Sureños have the high ground and plenty of weapons. There are about seven of them on the top of the church shooting down on the cops. With emergency services spread out all over the city, police and otherwise, these felonious douchebags apparently got ballsy enough to blow open up the PD with an RPG.”
“Wow,” I say. “Felonious douchebags?”
“What’s an RPG?” Macy asks.
“Rocket propelled grenade. It’s a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher.”
“Ah,” she says.
“So after they blew a hole in the police department and gutted the armory, it would seem the cops ran them down and now we have a shootout a hundred yards away.”
“Great,” I mutter.
Looking at me, he says, “I know, right?”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“About four hours.”
Later that evening, as the shooting dies down, then stops completely, there’s a finger tap on the front door. Rex pulls his gun, I grab the shotgun, and Macy appears with her tactical assault sock in hand.
“Yeah?” Rex says into the closed door.
A muffled voice on the other end. “It’s me, Stanton.”
Oh, thank God!
Rex opens the door to Stanton. He looks like nine kinds of hell. Moving inside, he shuts the door behind him. He’s covered in soot, blood from an open cut on his right eyebrow has dried in a long line down his face, his elbow is road-rashy and his pants are torn at the knees. He’s even missing a shoe, which has his dress sock looking the worse for wear.
“What happened to you?” I say.
“What didn’t happen? Good Christ. It’s worse than a warzone. It’s…it’s indescribable what’s going on downtown. The drones are everywhere. You look up and it’s like the whole sky is full of them!”
“I didn’t hear you come up,” Rex says.
“Your bike?”
“Yeah.”
“I stashed it around the corner. Not sure if you know what was going on, but all that gunfire was the cops basically getting slayed by a bunch of thugs holed up in a church.”
“We’ve been listening to it all day,” Macy says.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” I tell him with a kiss. “Now go take a shower then let me look at those wounds.” What I really want to ask him is if our home is still standing, and if so is it inhabitable.
“Have you got something?” he asks. “Because there is all kinds of crap packed into the cuts. Dirt, soot, fibers from my pants and shirt for sure.”
“I had a chance to go through that backpack that belonged to the couple downstairs. The medical backpack. It’s like a hospital you can wear.”
“I just need ointment, antibiotics and some Band-Aids.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I say, relieved that he’s finally home.
When he comes back out, he needs his leg stitched, his head wound glued shut and ointment on his elbow. Naturally I’m ready for him. It’s not a pretty sight, but Macy steps out of the room and Stanton just sits there and takes it, grimace and all.
At the dinner table, by candle light, we eat and talk. Rex has gone home, so it’s just the three of us. Ever since he walked into the house, I’ve been dying to know about our condo. I’m not hopeful, but until he tells me otherwise, I’m trying to stay positive.
“It’s gone. Our condo, the building, the entire block. Even the Fairmont is sitting in a pile of rubble where it once stood.”
I’d like to tell you I handled the news with a bit of grace, but I’d be lying. I don’t take it well and it’s showing. Setting down my fork, I walk away from the table, unable to finish the miniscule amount of food I’d put on my plate. Standing in the bathroom with the door shut and locked, trying not to hyperventilate, my body decides that now’s the time to let it all out.
The prickle of tears hits me and I feel myself making the ugly cry face. Gigantic
, warm tears leak from my eyes and my heart opens up with a kind of grief I can’t explain. This moment makes everything real. There is no home to go to. No more things. Our entire life was in that condo. All our valuables, my clothes and jewelry, Macy’s baby books, our computer which had our whole photographed life saved on it. Pictures from our wedding, our honeymoon, all our vacations, the for-no-reason-at-all photos (my favorites), everything. We even had an extra hundred thousand in emergency money in a floor safe that’s now probably pulverized, according to Stanton.
When I’m all done, when my body is exhausted from the upheaval of emotion, I return to the table where Macy and Stanton are still sitting. “So it’s all gone?” I ask, hiccupping, my eyes still damp, my body feeling as weak as its ever felt.
He looks up at me with heavy eyes. “I’m sorry, Sin.”
The three of us finish eating in silence. Well, the two of them let me finish since they’re already done. Stanton blows out the candle as soon as my plate is clear, but none of us leave the table. Where else would we go? Besides, I can tell he’s got something to say.
He’s just not ready yet.
“I need to talk to you guys,” he finally says. Then, after a long contemplative pause: “I don’t want to scare you, but the world isn’t what it used to be. At least, San Francisco isn’t. Whatever’s making those drones…do what they’re doing…it’s clear they don’t want the city or its inhabitants to survive.
“I talked to a guy down there who says the Bay Bridge is impassable. He says the drones have taken out the center section of the Golden Gate Bridge. He says they don’t want us leaving. I can’t argue his logic. I know this is me humanizing them, which I can’t do, but they clearly have an agenda and it’s not looking good. So what I want to say, what I have to say, is that we can’t be the people we were last week. We can’t afford to think civilized thoughts anymore or we won’t survive. The word is that this isn’t an isolated incident—”
“You mean other cities are getting hit, too?” I ask.
He nods, solemn, slowly.
“This isn’t an attack on the city,” he continues. “I think it’s an attack on humanity, and though this might be a bit presumptive, maybe even an assumption based on not enough facts, it’s obvious that life isn’t going to be the same for awhile.”
