by Ryan Schow
Curling into my blankets, relying on Stanton for some of his body heat, I feel him. He’s breathing slowly. He’s awake. His body is nudged gently against mine, the heat of his skin a reminder that this war has failed to separate us as husband and wife, to break us apart as a family. It’s the little things like this that fortify you, sustain you. But will this always be the case? Will this always be enough for me? For him? For any of us?
“I love you, Cincinnati,” he tells me.
He always says this at night. Most times I believe he really means it; other times I’m convinced he’s speaking out of habit while his mind is preoccupied by more urgent problems in need of solving. Tonight, I can tell (the way married couples often can) that dark things are tying knots in his mind. Darker things than normal. Eventually he rolls over on his back, laces his fingers in mine, kisses my neck and tells me to go to sleep.
This dog-tired mattress of ours sags in the middle and smells musty; these creaky springs have seen better days—just like my back, my neck and my hips. An hour passes. Stanton’s breathing remains constant.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I ask, knowing he’s still awake.
“Can’t sleep.”
He takes his time telling me what’s on his mind. Really takes his time collecting his thoughts. Twice I almost drift off waiting, but I don’t. He’s got something to say and if I’m asleep he’ll wake me anyway. This is a man who talked a lot in his former career, in his once amazing job that is no longer. This is a man who needs to be heard.
“We’re doing our best to survive,” he finally says, keeping his voice whisper quiet. I wait for the rest, but the rest isn’t coming just yet. His silence forces my mind to drift on passing tides. The truth is, I don’t like having these conversations with Macy in the room. It’s inevitable, though. We all share this corner of the living room for safety and body heat, and as I’ve told Stanton twice now, having her near keeps me from worrying so much.
Tonight, however, Macy is fast asleep. And judging by where this conversation might be headed, it’s probably a good thing.
After an eternity of silence, I feel his head turning toward me in the darkness, his eyes surely lasered in on the shadow of my face. He brushes a strand of hair off my cheek, tucks it lovingly behind my ear.
“We’re all dead, Cincinnati—you, me, Macy…all of us. It’s just a matter of time. I know that now.”
“Rex is planning an escape for us,” I tell him.
“That’s a pipe dream.”
“It’s not. He has friends in the city. Friends with resources.”
“So he says.”
The defeat in his voice is a wrecking ball destroying my resolve to press on, to live. When he says things like this, he has no idea the damage he’s causing. How fear pumps mercilessly into my heart, and my indefatigable soul shrivels along the edges.
“I’m not sure how long we can do this,” he admits.
“I know,” is all I can say.
It’s hard as hell to get any words past this lump in my throat. And I can’t tell him the effect the turn in his mood is having on me. I just don’t have the energy.
The words I ache to say lean on the edge of my tongue, trying to come out if only for that extra surge of…what?—anger, weariness, resignation? Every defeated bone in me is dying to call him a hypocrite, a selfish jerk, a quitter. I so badly want to say thoughts like these will get us killed. All three of us. But I don’t. I won’t. Had I said nothing about Macy having a gun earlier, he wouldn’t be thinking about this. Maybe the way he’s weakening me right now is the way I weakened him hours earlier. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“I’m tired, Sin,” he says.
“I know,” I reply, still holding my tongue. “Me, too. Just go to sleep.”
“It’s not that kind of tired I’m referring to.”
I know this, too.
Stanton was once a proud man, a market slayer in the business world and so confident about life a woman like me needed no help falling hard for him. Over time he amassed a nice fortune for us, and a substantial ego for himself. I didn’t mind as long as he didn’t end up in some other woman’s bed. What I did was play my part in the life we created for ourselves. Truthfully, I was thrilled to do so. We were the San Francisco success story every young couple ever dreamt of becoming. God, I miss those days. I miss that life.
Thinking of how things are now, the three of us squatting in this parceled out hovel on the edge of a war zone, my stomach makes an epic turn.
As much as I don’t recognize this life, I’m starting to recognize even less of the man beside me. It takes a little more of me than usual to remember the finer details of him. I try though. If anything to remind myself that when this is over—if it ever is over—we’re going to find our way back to each other. And possibly back to ourselves.
My ears tune in to the sounds of Macy sleeping. She’s balled up on the couch, her body turned away from us. Her breathing is deep, consistent. A few minutes later, Stanton begins snoring softly. Now that he’s leveled me with his anxieties, with his defeat, now that I see the error of my ways, I’m left with the weight of him, the weight of this impossible burden, and the crushing weight of yet another sleepless night.
15
Once upon a time, our day used to begin with an alarm clock. Now we wake to the symphony of a rapidly declining civilization. The distant thunderclap of a city being bombed into oblivion is the new five a.m. rooster.
“I’d just about kill for waffles and bacon right now,” Macy says over the noise.
She’s curled up on the couch next to us, rubbing sleep from her eyes, a little dust from the ceiling sprinkled in her hair and on her shoulders like an advanced case of dandruff.
We all have it living here. The drywall dust. It’s something we stopped talking about, and mostly because this is a symptom of aging homes perched on compromised foundations. When subterranean tremors rock these old buildings, sometimes a wall falls, or a ceiling collapses on you. Most times it’s just a little dust raining down on you at first light.
“Am I the only one freezing here?” I ask.
“No,” Stanton says, yawning. “You’re just the only one talking about it.”
When no one responds to Macy’s plea for waffles, she says, “They sound close today. Don’t they sound close today?”
I meet my daughter’s gaze. I’m looking at her, trying to remember what she used to look like. A couple of weeks ago she was a slightly chubby, well-fed girl. She’s dropped some weight now (too much), but she says it looks good on her so I’m not freaking out yet.
“Waffles sound amazing,” I tell her, smiling even though inside I can’t seem to shake this constant anxiousness. How you feel when you’re right about to sneeze, but just can’t get it out—that’s how I feel about my anxiousness. It’s like I’m on the verge of a panic attack every single second of the day.
“I know, right?” she says, getting out of bed. “Waffles with strawberries and whip cream, and bacon.”
Watching her, I’m overwhelmed with love. My beautiful baby. She’s such a pretty child, and this scares me. Although beauty is good for the soul, the more restless parts of me know good looks don’t always mix well with a lawless society. Stretching, pushing out a yawn or three, I work to fill my mind with more positive thoughts.
Stanton’s now at the window, turning his ear to the noise outside. He’s listening to the concussion bursts following each explosion, trying to figure out if the attacks are moving closer or further from us. Macy heads into the bathroom, closes the door.
Looking at him now, un-showered, unshaven, his black hair longish and messy, my mind wanders back to that first time he looked at me from across the restaurant. There was so much promise in that look. An unwritten future between us. Since that day, he’s always made me feel cared for, spoiled even. Now the light has died in his eyes, like that impossible burden he’s carrying has become too large for a man his size. Turning away from him, sn
uggling up in the blankets to ward off the early morning chill, I can’t help thinking we haven’t made love in three months. We always reconnected that way.
Whenever I bring this up, though, it’s like it pains him to talk about things like love, a brighter future, the rest of our lives together. It’s as if the very mention of personal indulgences is me ripping an old scab off a deep wound knowing how badly it’s going to bleed.
The toilet flushes, the sink turns on then off, and Macy comes out of the bathroom saying, “So about breakfast…”
“We’ll eat in a bit, doll,” I tell Macy. “Dad just needs to make sure it’s safe, and I want to wait for Rex and Gunner before we even contemplate food.”
“Might be an indoors kind of day,” Stanton announces. “They sound close. Plus drone traffic is a bit heavier than normal.”
“Any pee-dee?” I ask.
“No,” he answers. “Not that I can see.”
That’s what we call the new police: the pee-dee. The group of men and women formerly known as the San Francisco Police Department, or the SFPD.
These new cops…they aren’t cops at all.
When the attacks first began, presumably the police leapt into action. Time and violence would have thinned their numbers though, and after that it wouldn’t take long for everything to tunnel south fast. Odds are, half the force took off their uniforms for the last time. They had families to think of, homes to defend. Those brave officers who chose to remain in uniform and behind the badge hunkered down for the fight of their lives. These were the last real cops.
The now dead cops.
After what went down at the church, Rex said the biggest threat to law enforcement was probably the gangs. These days, on the block, that’s all anyone can talk about. The Mission District threat. According to Rex’s buddies, four hardcore affiliations rule the roost: The MS-13, the Central Divis Playas (CDP), the Sureños and the Norteños.
The word on the street is that it was the Sureños who crashed the Northern District Police Station with an RPG. With this much confirmed, you don’t need boots on the ground to know the Sureños raided the station. We’re talking guns and ammunition, spare uniforms, medical supplies. And you want to know why people don’t trust the cops anymore?
There’s a saying you’ll almost never hear, but one that bears relevance in this day and age: you’re only above the law if you are the law. These self-righteous thugs stopped being a gang and instead decided they needed new colors, badges, and a new way to rule the Mission District post-apocalypse style. So they became the law.
Needless to say, Rex said if we see them, we need to hide. He says not to be heroes. He says we should shoot them before they shoot us, but only if there are less than three in the group. Anything more than three…run.
Stanton still thinks there might be good cops in those uniforms, but I think he’s way off base. Of course, I’ve been wrong before. And it’ll happen again. Either way, Rex tells us we have half a second to read their faces. I personally don’t think that’s time enough to fully clarify their intent, but it would have to do.
To Macy, he says, “You need to be sure. So as you’re aiming, in that fraction of a second before you pull the trigger, you need to see them. Really get a read of this human being you’re about to kill.”
“Tattoos first, right?” Macy asked.
“You’re not killing anyone,” I say to Macy. To Rex I add: “Don’t encourage her, please.”
He nods, then says, “Before you launch your lug nut into their lug nuts, size them up by their stance and posture, get a quick read of their eyes and intentions. These guys will be wearing their false authority like a pair of stolen Nikes. They’re as arrogant as the day is long, they’re heavily armed and they have a gang member’s mindset. This means they operate in packs and they don’t treat anyone with respect. A real cop is different and you need to be able to feel this difference before you pull that trigger. Or launch that sock, if you will.”
Looking at me, he smiles, like he’s following my rules. But he’s not. I don’t want Macy fighting anyone, or killing anyone, even if it’s with a stinky sock and a metal plug.
So that’s the lowdown on the pee-dee, but we’ve got other problems. Like we’re going through our food stores too fast. We’re not rationing enough. And there are only so many homes you can break into looking for food before you choose the wrong one and get shot.
“Where are we going to search for food and supplies that we haven’t searched before?” I ask Stanton.
I don’t want to be too negative here, but lately my patience is for crap. Maybe it’s because looking for food has become dangerous, or maybe it’s because I’m not sleeping well. When I close my eyes at night, all I see are the insides of other people’s homes and how we’re always getting caught, or killed. I can’t tell you how many times in the night I wake up in the middle of the night sweating, terrified, crying.
“I have a few ideas,” Stanton mumbles as he’s surveying the neighborhood below. “Couple places that might have some stuff. I’m thinking we take another run at Jordan Park, or even Laurel Heights. It’s been long enough. How many people do you think have died since we went there last? Surely there’s an empty home with something to eat.”
I don’t even know who he’s asking this question to, so I say nothing. Macy looks at me and I shrug my shoulders.
The way Stanton’s talking, he sounds like he’s a million miles away. Like he’s speaking what’s in his head, but only because his mouth is subconsciously giving voice to a host of barely-arranged thoughts. Why do I even bother anymore? If me and Macy leave the room right now, will he even notice?
It turns out the trip to Laurel Heights pays off.
We find a few bags worth of canned foods and a countertop water filter. A good one. We’re talking stainless steel with the word Propur on it and two replacement filters (still packaged). When I saw it, what I saw was us not having to boil water all day. What I saw was less work for the same result.
Dinner isn’t spectacular, but we’ve got food in our bellies and water to wash it down. Not a whole lot has gone on in the neighborhood either, and though this should give us a moment’s peace, it doesn’t. This is usually when bad things happen.
We’ve come to rely on the nights being quiet. Tonight, however, something wakes me. I’m not sure what it is that jolts me from my sleep, but when my eyes open, Stanton is out of bed, knife in hand, tip-toeing toward the door.
Rubbing my eyes, I sneak a glance at Macy. She’s still asleep, thankfully.
“Stanton?” I whisper.
“Shhh,” he says, now at the front door.
That’s when I hear the soft wiggling of the lock. My breath catches high in my throat. A cold horror washes through me, leaving my skin prickled with fear. Is someone trying to break into our home? I keep waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but dammit they’re taking too long!
“Should I get Macy in the closet?” I whisper.
Stanton’s hand shoots up. He wants me to be quiet. Or does he want me to hold? Either way I’m sure he’s every bit as scared as me.
For whatever reason, I can’t peel my eyes from the outline of the big blade in his hand. It’s a rusted kitchen knife the old lady had for cutting…well, everything. It’s not exactly lethal on the serrated edge, but the point is sharp and that’s all that matters.
Suddenly the wiggling stops. My eyes are finally adjusting to the darkness, enough for me to see my husband at the door, listening, poised to attack, to defend this place.
For a second, I find my breath again. They must have gone when they realized the door was locked. Stanton looks over at me, like the threat has passed, and that’s when the knob flinches just enough for us to know we’re still in danger. Whoever’s out there, there’re not just checking the door, they’re picking the lock.
This old door knob is keyed on the outside with a turn button on the inside. It’s now turning, presumably moving from the vertica
l position to full horizontal. If before we were worried there might be trouble, now we’re sure of it. Oh, God. I can’t breathe again.
The door knob slowly turns and Stanton readies himself. Using all the stealth I can muster, I’m off the mattress like a wraith, whisper-quiet as I’m grabbing the shotgun we keep on the floor beside us. I raise the weapon, spin in time to see the silhouette of a man creeping through the front door.
He doesn’t see Stanton. I’m nearly overwhelmed with a shot of dizziness, one that thankfully goes as quickly as it arrived.
The second the intruder is inside, Stanton drives the knife up into the man’s throat. For all the times I’ve questioned my husband’s ability to operate at one hundred percent in tough situations—and there have been a few over the years—he seems to have picked up a thing or two about survival of the fittest. So instead of just sticking the man and stepping back, Stanton palm strikes the butt of the hilt brutally quick, jamming it further into the man’s neck; he then savagely twists the knife back and forth with both hands to do maximum, lethal damage.
This is Rex’s doing. Stanton was never such a savage.
There’s a gurgling in the intruder’s throat, a wet sort of choking. Stanton yanks out the blade and the intruder drops to the floor in a violent heap. Stanton kicks him over; he topples sideways, all but dead.
“Drop whatever weapon you have or I put one in your head,” a man growls from a giant pool of darkness just beyond the front door’s threshold. There is gravel and apprehension in that voice, a certainty that he is not kidding.
I step forward, rack the shotgun and say, “If he gets it, you get it.”
“You won’t shoot me,” the would-be intruder halfheartedly challenges, this disembodied voice in the darkness beyond the door.
“Grab your friend, get him out of my house or I paint the hallway with your brains,” I snarl, my tone having never been more serious. It’s intestinal fortitude powered by explosive terror and a indomitable will to protect my family, to survive.
