by Ryan Schow
All along the horizon, the sky is the color of beaten concrete, the rain poisonous, but still holding at a steady drizzle. My heart sinks thinking of our situation. If the outside world is like this, we’re going to die no matter what we do.
It’s an eventuality.
The sound of something like a river rock hitting the metal side of the SUV startles me. The driver swerves and behind us a grenade goes off, blowing out the back glass and lifting the rear end a good foot off the ground. Grabbing a hold of what we can, we wait in horror for more grenades to hit.
Thankfully none do.
I turn and look at Rex and Gunner. Gunner’s visibly shaken, but Rex is trying to calm him. It’s not going so good since the back of his neck has pieces of glass embedded in it.
It takes what feels like forever to get to the edge of the city. The front passenger, who’s proving to be as rowdy and as reckless as the driver, opens the window, hangs out with a restored M5 and blasts a fake checkpoint of five guys who look official but most likely aren’t.
At this point it wouldn’t matter if they were.
The men in black clothing open fire on the vehicle but hit nothing that wasn’t already reinforced for small arms fire.
“Hang on!” the driver yells.
By this time, bullets are smacking into the windshield’s tempered glass. The driver has the gas pedal buried as we swerve to slam into three of the men, the impact of the truck hitting the bodies almost doing nothing to the passengers inside.
Behind us, run over barriers and strands of barbed wire skid down the street in our wake. The other men were smart enough to dive out of the way as we crashed through their wooden barrier while laying down a barrage of gunfire from prone positions as we passed.
Macy and I cling to each other for dear life. Rex pulls Gunner down, but it’s too late. Gunner takes one through the neck and two through the back. This stills Rex for a second, but then he gives a hearty jolt sideways. Looking down at himself, he sees his own blood.
“Get your heads down!” the driver barks.
The surviving men pump two more full clips of ammo into the back of the truck. The rear glass was already shattered, making us vulnerable from behind. A dozen rounds explode into the cabin. Macy and I duck. The front passenger takes one in the back of the skull. Rex is already slumped over, out of the line of fire. Now this guy in front of me is dead.
“AR 15’s!” the driver shouts in warning, but then he steals a look around and sees the damage has already been done. “Son of a—” he roars, pounding the steering wheel.
Rex’s arm is bleeding, his gaze distant, his face beyond stricken.
“Rex?”
Our eyes barely meet. He can’t hold them. I see Gunner and my insides tear open at the sight of him. I can’t look. I force my eyes back to Rex whose eyes are haunted and showing his pain. A lot of the color is draining from his face. He’s back to staring straight ahead again, breathing fast and shallow.
“This your first time?” I ask.
He nods. Tough but distant. There’s a dark, bleeding hole in his arm that’s not so pretty. Macy averts her eyes, clearly afflicted. From my back pocket, I pull out a small knife, flick the blade open, cut a strip of fabric from the shirt sleeve of the dead guy up front.
Rex’s face is growing whiter and more pasty by the minute. His already dirty forehead is now a shimmering mask of perspiration behind the rainy filth we’ve been forced to run through. I wipe his face clean. Scrub away the dark residue on his forehead.
“Lean forward,” I tell him.
We’re both bumping and jostling around in our seats, but I manage to get the strip wrapped around his brachial artery, not so tight that he loses feeling in his arm, but tight enough to staunch the blood flow. My only hope is that it clots and he doesn’t suffer internal bleeding.
Fortunately the round ripped clean through and didn’t shatter any bone, but it was going to hurt. Despite the brutal run through town, we push past old cars and lots of manageable debris while doing our best to avoid random gunfire. No one says anything about Gunner, or Rex, or the front seat passenger.
Then again, I can’t speak because the pain of losing Gunner is that sharp. I’m proud he made it this far. Sad that he’s gone.
“He’s the lucky one,” Stanton says, and it becomes clear he’s thinking of the boy, too.
Looking at Rex, I feel a stab of pride. Not for getting shot, but for keeping it together on his first time. A lot of people go to pieces the second they see their own blood. And Stanton? He hasn’t spoken a word of complaint.
“Can you still feel your fingers?” I ask Rex.
He nods.
“Keep light pressure on the wound,” I shout over the drone of the engine, finding something inside me—a toughness I’m going to need now that he’s been injured and is no longer in charge. He nods his head, the wind blowing a few strands of his hair around, his eyes sort of wobbling in their sockets.
The memories of our youth come flooding in, unbidden. It makes me wish we were back in those times. Back then, we were too happy to even consider the future we might now be forced to endure.
“Don’t pass out,” I say, taking his hand. “Stay with me, Rex.”
Right now, all my training as a nurse means nothing. In the ER, things aren’t always the epitome of control, but at least you weren’t racing through a city ravaged by ten thousand enemies in an atmosphere rife with chaos, death and sloppy rain.
Rex nods slowly, his head lolling to the side as he passes out.
I grab his shotgun, set it on the seat between me and Macy, my grief held at bay once more. Now that we’re out of the main warzone, the going is a little easier, even though the Suburban is sustaining irreparable damage and is now making a harsh clicking sound in the engine. Rather than worry about our ride, I focus on Stanton (who says he’s okay), and Rex (who’s still unconscious). I’m thinking of checking his field dressing, assessing whether or not he’s going to need a full tourniquet when the driver screams, “Drones!”
He turns to the dead passenger, then his eyes flick up into the rear view mirror looking at Stanton, Rex and then Gunner. His eyes finally land on me, only to find I’m looking right at him. He passes me a plastic black box and says, “When I tell you, push the red button.”
I sit up straight, keeping the driver’s face in the rear view mirror in sight. It’s a battle tested face for sure. Almost handsome. Certainly pumped full of adrenaline. And certainly former military.
“This is a detonator?” I ask. He acknowledges me with a quick glance and a nod, then his eyes are back on the road. “To what? A bomb? IED’s? An exhaust-pipe flame thrower?”
“Just push it when I say,” he orders. He’s checking his side mirrors, slowing the truck, waiting for the right moment.
Looking backwards, I see a platoon of light attack drones moving in from on high. My eyes go to Macy, who’s looking at me. She’s cradling the shotgun, which looks huge next to her. This image will be seared into my mind forever. My baby with this cannon.
Clearing my thoughts, pushing aside my grief, my fear, I tell myself this isn’t the end, but I don’t believe it. No one survives the drones. Up ahead, it looks like the Presidio and the ocean beyond that. It’s a beautiful last sight.
“I love you so much,” I turn and tell her.
“You keep saying that,” she says, her eyes finally showing signs of life.
It’s because I keep expecting this to be the last time I can tell her. If Gunner’s death proved anything, it’s that one second you can be sitting here, breathing, being alive and everything, and then the next second you could just be slumped over, full of holes. I don’t want to make the mistake of taking Macy’s life for granted. Or Stanton’s or Rex’s either.
With the drones closing in on us, my brother and my husband injured and our lives in the hands of a stranger behind the wheel of a truck that may or may not be eviscerated when I push this red button, all I can do is pray.
Taking Macy’s hand in mine, I can’t get a sunny thought to enter my mind. I look at her, memorize every feature as if I haven’t already done this a million times before.
This is my daughter, I tell myself. All that’s left of me. This is the girl I will die protecting, if only dying was enough.
Looking down at the red trigger, I fear what’s ahead. What pressing it will mean.
“Now!” the driver screams.
Squeezing my eyes shut, bracing for…something…I press the button.
Our truck dies suddenly, all power gone. Eyes back open, I look behind us, out the broken window, in time to watch the drones fall from the sky. EMP. Electromagnetic pulse. Meaning I just killed anything and everything with electronics in it, including this truck.
A deep sigh escapes me. My relief is palpable.
“We need to go,” the driver says, grabbing a few things before kicking the door open with a booted foot. With him, there’s not a moment to spare. For a short second, I think: definitely ex-military.
Rex is coming back around, but that’s only because I’m half hanging over the seat shaking him awake. Shoving his shotgun back into his hands, I shout his name directly into his face. His eyes flutter. Doing the only thing I know how to do, I slap his cheek with all my might.
“We have to go! Now, Rex!”
He sits up, takes my extended hand then sits up and crawls out of the truck, wobbling a bit before staggering onto solid ground. He nearly falls but manages to stay on his feet.
“You’re like a newborn calf,” I tell him as I’m sliding the medical backpack on.
He smiles, but it’s weak. He has no idea where he is.
The four of us and the driver are on the move, not a single word between us. We clear the main road, hustle past some burned out houses, make our way into a field of damp, waist high grass.
Rex seems to be okay now. Well, as good as he can be. And Stanton looks like he’s okay, too, although I’m not sure where we’re going. The rain drops to a light mist, still it’s wet and nasty and it’s making a bad situation worse.
The driver’s on the move, cutting through the field faster than we can keep up. He breaks into a run. We follow his lead. He looks back, puts on a slight burst of speed, but not so fast that he loses us. He knows we’re trying.
He also knows Rex and Stanton are holding us back.
“Keep up with him,” I tell Macy, not sure how much more we’re going to have to keep this pace, if where we’re headed is a destination or if we’re running from everything coming after us.
Macy doesn’t do as she’s told, as usual.
She hangs back with me while I’m hanging back with Stanton and Rex, now certain they’ll both get us all killed. Stanton being out of shape and injured, and Rex being off his game because he’s been shot, is telling. The agony in their eyes, their lack of sustainable energy and the realization of both is now showing in a slower pace accompanied by a shallow, more rapid breathing high up in their chests.
They’re both winded, sucking down each breath like it’s their last.
Up ahead, through a clearing in the only expansive patch of green in sight (although it’s coated with a glob-like layer of wet ash, so it’s not as much green as it is a muted sage color) is a large helicopter, an old-school Huey painted a flat, forest green. Already its rotors are turning, the noise of the engines rising to a roar.
When you can’t escape the bombing raids, when the city seems to be suffering the mother of all apocalyptic events, when low level radiation may be the weather forecast and at any time you’ll either be killed by drones or assassinated by gang bangers posing as cops, the only escape is to escape the city itself. This was Rex’s plan for us and he’s come through. Now, God willing, it appears we might survive this thing after all.
Something in me feels reinvigorated. Like this wasn’t all for nothing. I think of Stanton who said we were already dead, and I think of this world that’s trying with all its might to end us, and then I think that we’re finally leaving this war zone behind. It’s a good feeling that doesn’t last long. In the back of my mind, I can’t help thinking we’re also leaving our home, our jobs, the grand summation of our lives. Is this what going savage means? You can only care about the things you can reach out and touch?
“I’ll hold our ride!” I shout before picking up speed. “Don’t stop!”
Grabbing Macy’s hand, knowing Rex will make it, the two of us fight to catch up to the driver. After all, he’s our ticket out of this place.
I let go of Macy’s hand because my backpack is punching my back with every step and I can’t sprint at top speed like this.
“Stay with me!” I shout over my shoulder.
My run becomes a full out sprint. If the three of them can’t keep up, I can at least get there fast enough to stall the helicopter, giving us enough time to board.
I’m fifty yards behind the driver when he jumps into the Huey. He puts a large pair of headphones on, leans forward and says something to the pilot. A smile creeps on my face for a fraction of a second. Right now my lungs are burning. I have a stitch in my side and my limbs are protesting, but I’m going.
We’re going!
The ride out of this cesspool of death and destruction is going to be a new life for us. A fresh start. The driver then makes a circling sign to the pilot with his forefinger, the classic sign for, “Let’s go,” and my heart all but sinks. The big helicopter lifts out of the grass, sending sharp waves of dread coursing through me.
No, no, no, no, no!
My lungs are skewered with pain, but that doesn’t stop me from screaming, pleading and cursing. I pull to a stop directly under the helicopter, under the damp, churning winds and it’s still leaving.
Some kind of visceral moan for being left behind escapes me.
I drop my hands and just stare at the belly of the thing, and that’s when four drones appear from where we’ve just come. There are two large ones armed with missiles accompanied by two light artillery drones. From inside the Huey come the boisterous sounds of heavy caliber automatic weapons’ fire. The two largest drones go down, but not before one of their missiles is loosed. Seconds later the Huey explodes, turning sideways in mid-air, then falling out of the sky and crashing onto someone’s home in a fiery wreck.
The whirring of the remaining drones ignites my nerves. I keep my eyes fastened to the two of them now knowing why the driver wanted to leave so quickly. The EMP had too short of range to catch all the drones and we couldn’t wait any longer to set it off before facing certain death.
And so we missed these ones.
Macy reaches me, but in the distance, Rex and Stanton slow to a walk. I’m screaming for Rex, telling him to look up. I’m pointing at the approaching drones.
Rex sees them, turns as best as he can and starts shooting despite his injury. He hits the first one, wobbles it, then takes out the other, but not before going down hard in the field and disappearing in the tall grasses.
A mortified whimper erupts from me.
“Rex!” I scream.
The wobbled drone is diving earthward though, heading toward Macy and me and now Stanton is running for us, screaming. Me and Macy start backpedaling, then turn to sprint when the thing plows straight into the earth only feet from us. We’re both diving the minute it slams into the earth.
With the shotgun and the last of my strength, I put two rounds into the downed drone, then drop the shotgun and pray to God I don’t go to pieces. But it’s happening. I can feel it. If Rex is dead…oh, Rex.
He has a plan for us, a voice inside me whispers.
“No He doesn’t,” I hear myself say, fresh tears standing in my eyes. “There’s no plan at all, unless death is God’s plan.”
Stanton reaches me in a hug. I barely even feel it. I’m about to run to Rex when Macy does something neither me nor Stanton have ever heard her do: she breaks into a wild, cursing fit of anger that soon becomes a brutal crying jag. All I can
do right now is hold her and tell her everything is going to be alright, even though it won’t be.
“We’ll catch another one,” I say, composing myself for my daughter’s sake. “One that won’t blow up.”
“No we won’t,” she says through a fit of hiccups and sobbing.
“I have to see about Rex,” I hear myself saying. I’m moving out of Stanton’s arms, saying, “He could still be alive.”
“Are you kidding me?!” she cries, looking at me with sopping wet eyes. “He’s not alive! He’s dead like everyone else!”
“Macy,” Stanton says.
I try not to think of all that’s happened—of my injured husband, of Gunner and my now dead brother—and I try not to think about how I’m going to survive this world under these conditions, but I have to. Maybe not now, not in this moment, but I have to look ahead and create a way where there isn’t one.
Macy pushes off of me, her eyes still soaked, her chest shaking, the persistent sounds of her crying reminding me she may be fifteen, but she’s still a child.
Nearby, I hear the sounds of more drones.
“Run!” Stanton yells, pointing to a grove of trees nearby.
Beyond him, around the clearing, also taking cover from the drones are five men with guns. What the hell? I can only think one thing: the helicopter going down and the shooting must have attracted attention. But then I think something else. I wonder, are they here to help, or will they be a problem?
By the hard looks of them, I’m thinking they could be a problem.
19
Wasting no time, Macy, Stanton and I run for cover, which is really just a canopy of trees weighed down with the gunky residue left behind by the toxic rain. I don’t know if other drones will find us here, or if the men in the field will follow us. I hope not. We’re not exactly safe anywhere. At least we’re not out in the open though. Crouching down at the base of a tree, Stanton joining us, we wait in absolute silence. Seconds tick on. Entire minutes pass.
“I think we might be okay,” Stanton whispers. His head wound has opened up again and is bleeding, but I’m not as concerned about the blood as I am the possibility of infection.
