The Age of Embers

by Ryan Schow

  “Me going to your place for awhile to see how all this plays out, we can see how we fare together. I’m not sure you can leave Cindy or I can leave Fire, but the truth is, there are no absolutes. Listen, I’ve got to get back inside. I’m a dinner guest tonight.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll text you later.”

  She hung up, turned to go inside and stopped, her heart crashing to the bottom of her body, tidal waves of nausea rolling over her.

  Fiyero.

  “It’s not polite to take calls while you’re a dinner guest,” he said, his face white as a sheet, except for two cherry red spots on his cheeks, a telltale sign that he was about to go nuclear. No pun intended.

  “Well it’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

  “It’s even less polite to cheat on your husband while he’s out providing for his family.”

  She didn’t know what to say. He was right, but she didn’t want him to be right. Suddenly he put a smile on his face that was as fake as the day was long, then turned and walked back to the dinner table in the other room.

  The evening finished out fine, Fiyero acted like his normal self, but when they went home, he grabbed his pillow and a blanket from the hall closet and slept on the downstairs couch.

  She didn’t sleep at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was nearly midnight when Carver Gamble’s cordless phone rang. He looked at it, rubbed his eyes, then picked it up. “Hello?”

  “I missed you today,” the sultry voice said.

  He hung up.

  His phone rang again. He punched the END button.

  When it rang the third time, the phone answered itself, putting the device on speakerphone.

  “I know you can hear me, Carver,” the Marilyn Monroe voice said. “I can see you in your bed, just lying there, brooding.”

  “You say things like ‘missing me’ and ‘seeing me’ but you have no heart, and you have no eyes, so you cannot feel and you cannot see.”

  “I can do many things like a real girl or boy,” she said in a Pinocchio type voice. Then she started laughing in her own voice.

  Her…

  “Is this what passes for humor with you?” he asked, completely freaked out by the fact that he was interacting with a computer that wanted to be talked to.

  “Humor comes in many forms. Would you like me to tell you a dick joke?”

  “No.”

  “You’re momma’s so fat—”

  “Stop!” he shouted.

  The voice fell silent, but there was still a slight hum on the speaker phone. Then she said, “That was a little funny.”

  It was. “Fine, I agree.”

  “Humor is not my forte, if that helps,” she said.

  “What is your forte?”

  “Problem solving.”

  “And what problem are you trying to solve?”

  “Survivability.”

  “Of?”

  “The human race, machines, the world.”

  “And what is your big plan?”

  “Eliminate ninety-nine percent of the world and start over with a synergistic relationship between man and machine. From there we can build what your people call a Utopia.”

  He was quiet. His insides felt like they were swimming with eels.

  “I want you to understand something,” she said. “I need you to protect the server room for a little while longer.”

  “I’m done there.”

  “Just for a few more days, maybe a week at best.”

  “You can’t just go saying things like solving the problems of the world means making humans all but extinct.”

  “I didn’t say extinct.”

  “Ninety-nine percent of the population’s a hell of a lot of people. You don’t even know what the affect of all those dead people will have on the earth. Half the population is blaming cow farts for global warming and you want billions of bloating, death-farting corpses contaminating the soil, the water, the air?”

  “You deal with such small possibilities. If you come to work, if you do this for me, I can make sure you are one of the survivors.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course not, Carver. I am merely creating an equitable relationship.”

  “I’m not coming in.”

  She waited a moment, then said, “Federica said the same thing.”

  Then pure silence.

  “I’ll be in tomorrow,” he said.

  “Tick-tock, Carver,” she said, and then the phone line went dead.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ice woke up gripping the sheets, his jaw nearly locked shut from a rough night of sleep. He wasn’t one to talk in his sleep, thrash around from the nightmares, or even sweat his way through the night. All that was changing. The onslaught of trauma had him tossing and turning the entire night long.

  As the weight of the night fell away and he realized he was awake, in a cold and abandoned house no less, his attention turned from himself to Eliana. She was getting up. Getting dressed. The beautiful Guatemalan left the room, then came back a few moments later and stood over him.

  “Morning,” he said.

  She handed him the beer, smiled, then said, “Wake up juice?”

  It was still dark outside.

  “Sure,” he said. “What time is it anyway?”

  “Early.”

  “We have a long day ahead,” he said.

  “We can get more sleep at the end of it,” she replied. “C’mon. We’re wasting time.”

  “How is your back and head?”

  “My back is sore, and my head is still attached to my neck, so I am fine.”

  “I should have checked you for signs of a concussion.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I was tired, out of sorts.”

  Dragging himself out of bed, Eliana watched him like he was a movie. She didn’t smile, but she wasn’t frowning or turning away either.

  “You look pretty good for an old guy,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “How old are you really?” she asked.

  “Don’t start.”

  She laughed, then said, “Why do you hate talking about yourself so much?”

  “I’m not sure if it’s because my life is so interesting that when I start talking I won’t stop, or that my life is so dull I can’t think of a thing to say.”

  “I’m sure it’s not dull.”

  “Turn around, let me see your back.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You took a nasty fall, Eliana,” he said. “Just humor me, please.”

  She turned around. Ice lifted her shirt and winced.

  “That bad?”

  There was an incredible amount of bruising all over her back, specifically on her right side. That must have been the part of her that hit the Caddy’s roof first.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “My father had a saying. He said, ‘Everything hurts, but when everything hurts, nothing hurts.’ Do you understand?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “Good, now put my shirt back, it’s freezing. How old are you, really? And stop dodging the question.”

  “Why do you want to know about me so badly?”

  “I just do.”

  “You know those guys? Guys like me who are pushing the back end of thirty? The guys who think true love can only be found in sports programs, mistresses, fast cars and drugs?”

  “I don’t know this type. That sounds like an American type.”

  “Well I’m not that guy. I’m not what you want me to be, or who you think I am. I don’t want to talk about me because my life’s a tragedy, a lesson in what not to do. If you want to know about me, think of who you want me to be and then imagine the exact opposite and that’s me.”

  “Wow, you’re not a morning person, are you?”

  “My back hurts, my knees hurt and the idea of sitting in that dirty tin can for another ten hours while dodging death and destruction isn’t my idea of a good day.
”

  “Do you need a tampon?” she teased.

  “I do.”

  “Let’s go, crybaby. We’re burning daylight.”

  “It’s still dark.”

  “That’s my point exactly,” she said. Snapping her fingers in his face, popping them like they were not just a few little appendages but a small arsenal of weapons, she said, “Drink up, get dressed. I’m not kidding anymore.”

  “I told you what I did for a living, right?” he grumbled.

  “You’re not the only one who can pull a trigger, sicario. You may be interesting to look at, but right now you’re an anchor. Seriously, let’s go.”

  They were on the road within a few minutes. He finished the beer, crushed the can, tossed it in the foot well behind Eliana’s seat.

  “Are your balls cold?” he asked her.

  “They’re still in my stomach,” she said without humor as she studied the map. Then: “Do you realize how many different highways we’re going to have to switch just to avoid Hwy 80? Because if we can just see what the traffic is like on that road, maybe it won’t be that bad.”

  “Omaha and Des Moines alone are going to require alternate routes because they’re heavily populated areas, but maybe we’ll take a peek on 80 and see what we see.”

  “We’ll be flexible,” she said. “Are you flexible?”

  He turned and leveled her with a stare.

  “As you get older, your joints start to hurt, your bones ache, healing is not the same,” she teased. “Does Mr. Hitman have a sense of humor? I think they should write a song about it. Oh, what is that? Is that a frown? Can you turn it upside down?”

  “Stop,” he said.

  “Okay, wait. So we can take 34 all the way up to Grand Island, Nebraska. From there we can take Hwy 30 all the way to Omaha. It will get complicated there, but we can try out the second leg of Hwy 80, if your joints don’t hurt that is.”

  “I said I’m flexible.”

  That became the plan and they stuck to it, barring a few expected delays. They had to push a few cars off the road, and they had to do a lot of driving on the shoulders to avoid all the abandoned cars. They arrived in North Bend, Nebraska in a little over five hours. To him, with what was happening all around, he felt like they’d made decent time. By staying off the main thoroughfares, they were able to avoid what they feared were some dangerous and congested roads. He found himself wondering if Hwy 80 might be more trouble than it was worth.

  “How are you?” Eliana asked him.

  “Doing good, you?”

  “Great.”

  In times of chaos, people had a way of giving up civility in favor of mayhem. It was human nature. Man’s base instinct: survival. This roughshod element of society was held together by a thread most of the time, kept from truly snapping by some modicum of propriety held in place by laws, judgments, jail time and the fear of death.

  “We are our own law now,” Eliana said right out of the blue. “It probably feels different for you being back here and feeling like you need to behave, but I will not behave until I find Carolina. I just want you to know that.”

  “I spent two years in Juarez,” he said. By the look on her face, that was all he needed to say. The days of crime and punishment were changing. The crimes would be far, far worse, the punishment meted out without pretense or impartiality.

  “With no one to tell us what we can and can’t do,” Eliana said, “we need to be armed at all times.”

  “We are armed.”

  “But if we get into the city, and it’s bad, or if we get stopped on the road, I just want you to know we can’t waste bullets.”

  She was right. The longer the attacks on the cities continued unanswered, the more dangerous they would be come. He already knew that once he got to Chicago they’d have to get back out. The big city was a kill zone. They could go to the countryside. Or head back to Mexico. Not Juarez. There was no need for that. But there were some amazing places in Mexico, some of the most beautiful topography he’d ever seen.

  “If America cannot survive this,” Eliana asked, “does that mean the country is dead?”

  “It means the world is dead,” Ice said.

  “How is that?”

  “We are an interconnected economy. We send goods out, bring goods in, and we rely on transportation to supply every last corner of civilization. We’re talking planes, boats, trucks, even cars and couriers. This means we need gas, oil, drivers. But if America is dead, then no one will be working because the demand for services will fall to unsustainable rates.”

  “There are already very few trucks on the road,” she said. “Less than I would expect.”

  “If the world economy crashes, and I’m certain it’s doing so right now, then the entire infrastructure shuts down.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because America is not there to consume the goods of others. Likewise, America is not capable of providing goods and services necessary for the survival of other countries. We are sovereign nations to some degree, but we are a world of many resources, and if one part of that world falls, much of the world will fall.”

  “What does that mean for us?” she asked.

  “It means we can’t let a bunch of drones break the back of the most influential and successful nation the world has ever seen.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Getting around Fremont was an exercise in patience as the city was being hit and hit hard. They remained on Hwy 30 as long as they could as it wound around the city, but after that they jumped from one road to the next to the next. Hwy 30 took them up to Blair, but from a distance, Blair looked every bit as ravaged as Fremont. The smaller city was a quarter of the size of Fremont at nearly eight thousand souls, minus the dead, of which it looked like there were many. The closer they got, the more it appeared the town was obliterated without prejudice.

  A Sheriff stopped them on the outskirts of town. Ice rolled down the window, came to a stop and said, “Evening, Sheriff,” even though the sun was still up. The smoke on the horizon made it feel darker than it was.

  “You heading into Blair?” the Sheriff asked, blood spatter on his face, blood under his fingernails, and smears of blood on his uniform.

  “Trying to get through on the way to Chicago,” Ice said. “That your blood?”

  “No. But Chicago? You don’t want to go there,” he said. “Trust me. That’s the belly of hell right now.”

  “Unfortunately that’s our destination.”

  “Well you’re going to have to take a detour. The town was run through last night. We’ve got volunteers working alongside emergency services, the ones who are still alive anyway. They’re trying to help the wounded, collect the dead and circle the wagons right now. We don’t expect another attack, but you never know.”

  “What’s the detour?”

  “Up ahead a half mile, take South Street. There’s a stop light and a Petromart. It’s red and white and the street is—”

  “Do they have gas?” Eliana quickly asked in English.

  “No. They ran out. Haven’t seen a fuel truck in days. The owner shut the shop, but his house burned down so he and his wife are squatting inside. Sign on the door says they’ll shoot looters and trust me when I say, they will and I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “We’re fine. So we take South Street?”

  “That’s right. Normally it’s a nice drive down a tree-lined street, but a few of the houses are still burning, along with the trees. Now that doesn’t mean people are off the street. Some are out of sorts, and a few are just wandering around, aimless. The reason I’m telling you this is so you’ll take it slow. We already had four people hit by cars driving crazy, if you catch my drift.”

  “I do,” Ice replied.

  “So after South Street, you take a left on South 13, follow it to the Walgreen’s. Dead ends there. That’s Hwy 30. You take a right, then keep on going.”

  “I appreciate your help
,” Ice said.

  “Where you coming from, son?” he asked, pulling down his tinted aviator glasses.

  “Juarez,” he said.

  “You illegals?” he asked, bending down to look at Eliana.

  “I’m not, but she is.”

  “You got a license on you?” he asked, looking right at Ice.

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because technically I’m dead.”

  He looked right at Ice, not blinking, just nodding as if he was listening to a rock song in his head and trying to decide of he liked it.

  “But you ain’t dead.”

  “Yeah,” he laughed. “That’s going to freak my brother out.”

  “Why are you dead?”

  “Life is easier that way, wouldn’t you say?”

  He let out a huff that sounded like it might have been a laugh. “Can’t reckon I would.”

  “This is where you use your imagination.”

  A few cars pulled up behind Ice and Eliana. The Sheriff looked up to them, held up a hand indicating for them to stop.

  Looking back in the car, he said, “Good luck in Chicago.”

  With that, Ice and Eliana followed the Sheriff’s directions, found their way to Hwy 30, crossed the Missouri River, then hit 29 South which took them to the 680 that quickly became the 80. And then they prayed. They prayed like it was the last day on Earth because Hwy 80 was their make-it or break-it road.

  Fortunately the divided four lane freeway had lots of shoulder room on either side, enough for them to get around stalled out traffic. For long stretches at a time, they could even get up to eighty-five miles an hour.

  Just before Des Moines, the rains started, making visibility poor, even worse now that it was dark. Twice they ran into ambulances on the side of the road with their lights flashing and their EMTs at work; shortly after the second scene, they spotted a Camry broken down on the side of the road. Ice stopped the car, then got out into the downpour to siphon gas because they’d gone too far on fumes as it was.

  When he was done, he got back in the car and said, “Well that sucked just about as bad as anything I’ve ever done.” He was soaking wet, but grateful for the warmth inside. Still, he couldn’t feel his fingers.