by Schow, Ryan
It was not a matter of if, it was a matter of when.
Chapter One Hundred Seven
I wake up to the warm spray of water on my face. My eyes slide open only to get doused with hot, burning urine. The guy I beat up last night, he’s standing over me, business out, taking a leak on my face. Covering my eyes with a hand, trying to block the stream, the urine burns the cuts and for some stupid reason, I can’t help wondering if this is going to be a problem. I wonder about infection. Who knows what this guy ate, or took, before he got here.
The next thing I know, the surfer is up and kicking this guy in the uprights from behind so hard, he buckles forward and howls.
The stream peters out.
“Again,” I growl, pawing the liquid out of my eyes and trying not to gag.
The surfer kicks him again. Then he kicks out his knee and The Urinator goes down hard, grabbing the side of the cot for stability.
His face sees mine and in that instant I spit in his eye. Twice so he can’t see. I spit and then I smash a hammer fist down on the same nose I broke yesterday. I won’t lie. It felt pretty good. But now this idiot’s become a big, baying brute with a pair of broken balls, and I’m not liking the attention it’s going to bring.
On the high side of things, I guess the surfer’s come through for me.
The new guy crawls back to his cot, curls up, snivels like a beaten puppy while his buddy is on the floor, his head beaten in from last night’s fight.
For a second I wonder if he’s dead. Then for another full second I realize I’m not really sure and I don’t really care.
“What happened?” the familiar snuffling voice says from behind me. It’s been a good half hour since the fight and the guy’s piss feels a bit sticky on me.
To The Warden, I shrug my shoulders, take a second look at my knuckles. They’re red, swollen, cut open. On his cot, The Urinator looks like he’s sleeping even though I find that impossible after the kind of ass-kicking he’s taken. Then again, he could be one of those guys who could fall asleep in the middle of a war zone just by laying down, closing his eyes and deciding to sleep.
In the corner, the surfer sits on his cot. The injuries he suffered at the hands of the geezer (right before the fight was broken up by the fire extinguisher) have turned green and yellow on his face. I see the surfer now has my shoe. I’m not sure how it got there, but he has it.
“He take that?” The Warden asks, nodding at the surfer.
“I’m gonna get it back,” I say, unconcerned.
“Then what?”
I shrug my shoulders, narrow my eyes on the surfer, as if to say, what are we going to do about this psychotic slop donkey.
“If you could get out of here,” The Warden asks, quietly, almost conspiratorially, “where would you go?”
Now I look up at him, a glimmer of hope in my eyes. “Home, of course.”
“If you even have one,” he challenges.
“Home isn’t a place anymore,” I reply, “it’s a person.”
“Your wife?”
I shake my head, hold The Warden’s eye, just to make sure he isn’t lying, that he isn’t putting me on to torment me later.
“Girlfriend?”
“Daughter,” I reply, opting for the truth.
“She got a name?” he asks. There is a sort of innocent curiosity in his eyes, almost like this is not the same person who’s obsessed with peaches.
“Of course she’s got a name.”
“You want another peach?” he asks, a bit of that old darkness moving through his eyes, “or am I wasting my time on you?”
“Her name is Indigo. And yes, I’d like a peach.”
“Indigo. That’s a beautiful name,” he says, un-holstering his weapon and taking out his keys. In a softer, more human voice, he looks at me, smiles and says, “It was my grandmother’s favorite color.”
With that, he points his gun inside the cell. None of us move. He opens the door, steps aside for me, then waits as I stand and walk through the door.
“Good luck, friend,” he says.
I stand and look at The Warden, eye to eye to see if he’s going to offer me my freedom only to put a bullet in my back. His eyes tell me he’s on the level. I walk from the cell and say, “Thanks.” Then: “You got any extra shoes? Size ten maybe?”
“The world is full of dead people, friend,” he says, handing me a small peach. “You’ll have no problem finding a pair of shoes. Like I said, good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say, wondering how the hell I’m going to get from San Diego to San Francisco on foot. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it.”
As I’m walking out, I see the floor to ceiling box with the slit in it.
Bailey.
My heart leaps, then sinks. She’s in there, naked, isolated, in the dark. Can I leave her? After what’s happened, I know I can. I must. To try to save her without a weapon, without the element of surprise…I’m sure I’ll just end up back in that cell, eating, drinking and crapping peaches. So no thank you.
If I can find one, I’ll grab a weapon and come back.
For now I walk by, see the back door and my freedom beyond. But then I see the boy in a different cage. A small barred cage made for animals. The dog, maybe, before it died. Tyler is lying face down on the ground, his head turned at an odd angle. My bones grow weak and a spark starts a bonfire in my soul. I walk to the cage.
“He yours?” The Warden asks.
“No,” I say, barely able to keep the sob out of my voice. But it’s him. “He alive?”
“Not sure. He didn’t like peaches,” he says. I turn to him, the flames inside me turning to an inferno. “I mean, for Jesus’s sake, who doesn’t like peaches?”
That animal inside me rises. It scales the walls of my insides, claws digging in for purchase, a vicious growl in its throat, saliva dripping off its fangs. My hand lashes out, grabs The Warden’s stupid Adam’s apple, grips it in a fist as I squeeze and charge him at the same time.
His eyes fly open and he’s stumbling backwards. But then the gun is stuffed in my face. I slap the weapon away fractions of a second before it goes off. Ears ringing, halfway to insane, my other fist is now crushing his Adam’s apple. I’m driving a vicious knee up into his crotch, softening him. He doubles over and all I can think about is his Adam’s apple. The death button. Beyond reprieve, lost in this mania, I uppercut the absolute hell out of his throat. The Warden drops the gun, stumbling backwards, clutching at his neck, unable to breathe.
As his throat is swelling shut, I’m huffing and puffing and seeing only red. I’m seeing him dying and I want it to happen faster for what he did, for the boy, for Quentin and Bailey, for the surfer who is a decent guy as far as I can tell.
He collapses to his knees, topples over, eyes bulging, his skin turning beet red. That’s when I see the peach. It’s on the ground a few feet away where I dropped it. Looking over at the boy, then the Warden—who’s now flattened on his back—I grab the peach, bend over and violently stuff it into his mouth. His nostrils flare like mad, his eyes flashing.
Don’t do it, I think to myself. I take one more look at the boy.
He’s dead.
My heart is giant and broken, my soul a weeping, aching thing. Eyes narrowing, I lift a knee and stomp that damn peach down into his throat with a mighty, vindictive force. The boy’s parents were dead already. I was all he had. He trusted me. He waited. But then he was caught, thrown in a cage and starved to death by this dying, wheezing animal.
Staring down at him, hatred suffusing this sick, sad loss of self, I wonder, how has it come to this? How have I become this person?
Bending over, I scream in his face with everything in me. I scream until my throat is hoarse and my eyes are running with squeezed out tears. Then I watch him die. He just lays there, not trying anymore, slack faced, gone. My rage dissipates leaving behind only emptiness and remorse. My eyes boil over with fresh tears that spill down my burning cheeks. I can’t stop t
he surge of pain that boils up inside me. I let it out. I sob, I howl, I curse this demon. Beating his chest, hammering his dead face, I thrash out a tantrum and then I pull myself together.
I have a daughter to think about.
Indigo.
Mopping up my tears, looking at the dead, peach-stuffed face of my captor, I say a brief apology, not to him but to God for what I’ve done.
Slowly I close his eyelids.
Look away.
Reaching into his pocket, I fetch his keys, then stand up. The boy’s cage opens with a squeal. I kneel beside him, cold inside, empty. Taking his shoulder, I turn him over and his face is sallow, lifeless. His eyes are vacant. No soul. Dead.
Sitting back on my heels, I cover my mouth and cough out a sobbing fit. Finally I sit back against the small cage, let my emotions run their course.
God, I hate this new world.
Standing up, I go to Bailey’s box, open the door, look inside expecting to see the same, sad sight. The light hits her naked, curled up body. I see her move and the breath I’ve been holding expels in a rush.
“Bailey,” I say. Slowly her head turns and a hand pulls her hair out of her face. One weary eye looks at me.
“Nick?” she says, shading her eye from the light.
“It’s me,” I say, taking her hand, trying not to look at her nudity. “Can you stand?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
God, she looks so thin. She looks so thin it hurts. I bend down, circle her arm around my neck. Slowly she gets to her feet and again, I try not to see her, but it’s hard not to.
“I figured we’d be together like this,” she says, weary, “but this isn’t how I imagined it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I kind of like you, stupid,” she says with no humor in her voice.
I walk her to the kitchen table, sit her down and say, “Can you sit up while I look for your clothes?” She nods. “Good.”
When I find her clothes, I bring them to her, help her into them. I won’t lie, once or twice I caught myself thinking of her like this before, but now it’s different. Avoiding looking directly at her privates, I get her in her clothes then I head back into the prisoner’s chambers where I release the surfer.
“Bro…” he says this with laughter in his voice, or joy. It’s like me getting him out is the last thing he ever expected. The guy we beat, the dude with the beard, he’s still asleep and breathing through his throat. The broken nose can’t be helping. I don’t bother waking him, but I do leave the cage door open.
When we walk out to the kitchen, the surfer walks past the dead warden with the stomped peach in his mouth and he spits on him.
“Sick son of a bitch,” he mutters.
In the kitchen I introduce him to Bailey and say, “I’m going to make us dinner, or lunch. Whatever. I’m going to make us something that doesn’t involve a damn peach. You in?”
“Hell yeah,” he says.
“What’s your name?” Bailey says with a hoarse throat.
“Sebastian.”
“How’d you get out here Sebastian?”
“My mother lives in Irvine. I was out here to meet a girl. Thought I had the right house when this freaking weirdo shot me with a taser gun and dragged me in here.”
We eat together (a grilled cheese sandwich with mango/pineapple juice and fresh carrot sticks) and then we invite Sebastian to come with us to San Francisco.
“I got my own road, guys. But I appreciate you. Thank you for getting us out of there.”
“Thanks for kicking that douchebag in the ballbag when he needed it.”
“Yeah,” says the voice we didn’t expect. We all jump, then see the beaten guy with the swollen nose and the trendy beard. “That hurt. Still hurts, if I’m being honest. Which I am.”
“Grilled cheese?” I ask.
He gives a slow nod, then says, “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s not,” I say.
So yeah, I guess this is what Stockholm Syndrome feels like. For whatever reason, this idiot who peed on me, he was in the same predicament as me and we got out. So maybe I shouldn’t make him a sandwich, or be nice, but I don’t need any more anger, and more people equal more distractions.
Eventually, however, I’m going to have to do what I need to do. So after lunch, I find a shovel, head out back, find a soft plot of soil and dig a shallow grave for the boy. Sebastian and the thug left by then and Bailey was sleeping in a “guest” bedroom after taking a hot shower when I decided to bury the boy. I lay him to rest, say a few words, then toss soil on him as the sun goes down. By then Bailey is up, looking and feeling better, much more alert.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, slipping her hand in mine.
I don’t know what this gesture means, but I’m thinking we’re just two people who survived a nightmare we shouldn’t have survived. But here we are, together, clinging to each other because we’re all we have.
“Thank you, Nick.”
I stop, turn in to her and give her a hug. She holds on for dear life, as do I. It feels good to hold someone, to not feel so alone. There is a connection between us, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe she feels like I feel and that’s enough. We’re attracted to each other, but this is not Autumn in New York, or a sunset stroll on the beach. This is a hell and we’re not out yet. I have no idea what’s happening and I need to get home, but in the meantime I allow myself this much needed moment.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her.
When we get back to the boat, there are no lights on. We look for Marcus, but he’s not there. Closing the door, locking it, we head to our separate rooms, but then I go to her because it seems silly to be so far away from each other.
“Nick?” she says in the darkness.
“It’s me.”
It’s pitch black, but I hear her pulling the blankets aside. I crawl into bed next to her and she says, “I’m glad you came. I wanted you to sleep with me.”
There are no sexual overtones, just the pleas of a woman who spent too much time curled up in a box by herself. She moved her back toward me and I realize she’s wearing a shirt but nothing else. She pulls my hand over her so it’s laying across her chest, and then she slides her hand into mine and before long she’s asleep.
I don’t understand what this is, or how things will turn out with us, but in the morning everything will change. We’ll have to assess our food, supplies and weapons. We’ll also have to either discuss this—what’s happening between us—or we’ll have to ignore it completely. Pretend this isn’t happening. I’m not sure which. But it doesn’t matter because for now—
Interrupting my thoughts, Bailey wakes up, rolls toward me, then reaches up, curls a hand around my neck and pulls me toward her. Her kiss is soft and inviting, her lips parting to meet mine. I shouldn’t kiss her back, but I do. Everyone needs someone. I don’t have my daughter and some other man has my wife, so for now—on this boat, in the middle of this war—Bailey and I will have each other. But tomorrow is a new day, and there will be new challenges. I just hope I survive it long enough to get home.
And if things go well, then perhaps Bailey will come with me. I think Indigo would like her.
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Ten days had passed and The President sat across the large table, sanctimonious, emotionally devastated, ready to EMP the nation, if only he had a spine. He did.
It needed to be done.
Everyone was pushing for it, everyone but Cooper who now looked defeated.
“Don’t press it, sir,” Director of Homeland Security Miles Tungsten said.
He looked at the man.
“Why not? The nation is being ransacked!”
Director Daniels said, “When you press this, the warheads will be deployed and the war with the machines will be over. It’s your duty to protect your country. Not Miles’ duty to change your mind. Just press the damned button, sir.”
; Tungsten looked across at Daniels and said, “What the hell are you doing, Coop?” He understood though. His friend and co-conspirator got cold feet ten days ago.
“This isn’t right,” he told Tungsten.
The President saw it right then. He saw the traitors, the conspiracy. He saw a man who knew what was about to happen and didn’t want it happening.
“You son of a bitch,” the President growled.
The traitor had been sitting across from the President, waiting, watching, deciding how exactly they’d stop the President from employing the EMP. He wanted the machines to kill the humans. He wanted the extermination.
Before he knew what was happening, Miles Tungsten drew a weapon, shot Cooper Daniels in the head, then opened fire on everyone. When he ran out of ammo, he drew another pistol and emptied that magazine, too.
In the end, DHS Miles Tungsten shot all but one man.
“Miles,” the POTUS said, mortified, bone white and shaking. “Why?”
“This was inevitable, sir.”
“But you’re in charge of Homeland Security,” he said, incredulous. “This was your country as well as mine.”
“The operative word here is ‘was.’” Pulling back the hammer, checking the chamber for a round, Director Tungsten sighted down the President and said, “The world is their homeland now and I’ll be damned if you’re going to nuke it just yet.”
Looking at the Director of Homeland Security, thinking of his wife and girls, of the world he was leaving behind, the dead nation, he stared at the man and his gun feeling conquered. “Well what are you waiting for you sick Judas goat? Pull the damned trigger already.”
And with that, Tungsten had a thought…
END OF BOOK 5
Chapter One Hundred Nine
The drones moved inland, laying waste to Irvine and moving steadily towards Tustin and Orange. Newport Beach was an obliterated mess. Heading further south, toward Laguna Hills and Mission Viejo, the skies were black. To the north, Huntington Beach was an inferno. Everywhere Marcus looked there was destruction. Everywhere but out to sea. He had to get back to the boat, get supplies, wait maybe one or two more days at best for Nick and the kid, Tyler to return. If they weren’t back by then, they were on their own.
