by Schow, Ryan
“Yeah, a time or two.” With a pounding heart but a will to help these men he said, “You guys hungry?”
They both nodded and the older one said, “Yeah, man. Our neighborhood’s gone. We’re out scavenging. Not a whole lot left though. After the drones went down yesterday, this place was like a stocked pond at feeding time. Everyone looting everything.”
“Anyone die?” he asked.
“Yeah, a few people. But there are dead people everywhere and no law enforcement.”
Without responding, Ben handed the man his extra bag of potatoes figuring he’d find more food along the way when he needed it. Besides, he could go a couple of days without eating if he needed to. He’d done it before and he’d do it again.
“Wow,” the younger man said. “Thank you. You really could be him, you know? The President.”
“The guy was kind of an asshole, though, don’t you think?”
They both looked at each other and said, “No. No he wasn’t.”
“Really?” Ben said, surprised.
“We finally got a President who refused to crap on the Constitution, a true patriot who understood he worked for the people and not the other way around, and now he gets a raw deal? I mean, think about it. This guy takes on this monumental responsibility only to lose the country on his watch? Talk about a cruel twist of fate.”
You don’t know the half of it, Ben was thinking.
“If the poor bastard is alive,” the other one said, “he’s got to be devastated.”
“I’m sure he is,” Ben said. “Good luck to you, fellas.”
“Same, same,” the older one replied.
As he was driving away from The Outback with his potatoes and this new perspective, he thought back to what Miles told him on the drive down. They’d been talking about how Ben could use his former position of power to lead the new Republic.
“You can do anything, man. Anything you want,” Miles had said. “I mean, you’re friendly with The Silver Queen, and you made a decent name for yourself as President.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m friendly. And if you ever put a gun to my head and ask me to say that, I’ll pull the trigger for you.”
He laughed and said, “It’s not that bad. You’re just not seeing the big picture.”
“If I survive, die or kill myself, what does it matter?”
“You don’t get it. You’re a nobody right now. You’re a has-been that will probably never be again. Unless you decide otherwise. I can help with that.”
“You say that like I should be happy to leave the awesome responsibility that my position demanded. But I’m not. Which is why you’re right when you say I don’t matter. And if I need you to help me gain significance with the people again, then I’m a lot worse off than I thought.”
“Quit with the crybaby crap, Ben. You were the country’s last leader and you personally took down the drones that would’ve killed everyone anyway. You had no choice. We frame you as the leader who—by the skin of his teeth—saved humanity. That’s a tall wave my friend.”
“I’m not going to be the face of your new abomination.”
“You know what happens if you don’t let us tell people how to think of you? These morons, these useless eaters, they’ll go for the lowest common denominator.”
“Which is?”
“You show that stupid face of yours and you know what people are going to see? They’re going to see the man who let their country die. Every death they’ve had, it’s on your hands. Your hands!”
“People are smarter than that.”
“Do you really think that? I mean, these idiots will believe anything. That’s the cornerstone to big league politics. You tell them what they want to hear the way they want to hear it, then you get their vote and keep the back door dealings contained through your associations with the press. That’s how it worked in the technology age, and it can work like that in the dark ages, too, albeit a little slower and without the reach. Word of mouth will be everything.”
He’d turned and scowled at Miles. The man was speaking the truth, and as sick as it was to speak so openly of this ugly side of politics, he couldn’t argue the point.
“Without the media and the internet, without Hollywood to do your bidding, your word will not reach the masses for years, or ever,” Ben argued. “So what you say about me, good or otherwise, won’t matter.”
“If we’ve learned anything in politics, it’s that a carefully crafted lie travels halfway around the world before the truth can even get its pants on in the morning. Yes, there is no internet, no TV, no mainstream media for us to steer public opinion. All these people have is the memory of you being President when the modern world fell. Hundreds of millions will have died by the time we surface and they will need a leader. Think of this as a true grassroots campaign where we get you kicked off right.”
“This bleak, murderous vision you have of our future is your fault, Miles. And I’m not going to be The Silver Queen’s puppet.”
“You’re missing the point completely.”
“You’re not a human, a victim, or an innocent in this. You’re the damn devil!”
“Don’t forget, even Lucifer was granted his own kingdom by which to reign.”
This was several days ago, and now he’d left Miles to die alone in the dark. They would not be working together. They would not run the post industrial revolution together. He had his own path. A rocky road that would certainly test his resolve. Not only must he begin to rebuild the world currently being destroyed, he’d have to do so surviving his family. How could he do that? How could he live without wanting to join them by his own means every second of every single day?
Just then he hit the brakes. Pulled to a stop in the middle of the road. Ben laid eyes on a gun shop that hadn’t been looted or destroyed and an idea sprung to mind. Rather a solution to the problem he’d been mulling around. On closer inspection, the windows of this standalone store were broken, but there were bars on those same windows and a drop-down gate in front of the entrance. He got out of the car, walked to the shop, peeked inside.
The guns were still there.
Getting back in the car, weighing some pretty heavy options, he finally said, “Screw it,” then put the Chevelle in reverse and backed up until he got enough road. Taking a deep breath, but resolute, he dropped the beast in gear, smashed the accelerator and steered straight for the side of the building, the muscle car devouring every last inch of the road.
Chapter Forty-One
Our Mack truck sits on half the sidewalk, mostly blocking the narrow road for traffic. The traffic isn’t here though. Everything’s changed. Life has changed, irrevocably. I stand outside, the salty breeze blowing off the ocean leaving the air tangy and somewhat tinged with the bitter nip of dissipating smoke.
To sniff the air, you can’t help thinking the smoke will always be there. I wish it would blow through already.
I use the Mack truck’s barbaric looking cattle guard to climb onto the hood. Scanning the surrounding area, all I see are drone-free skies. I scamper up the windshield, make my way to the top of the sleeper’s roof where I now have a much better view. What I see is exactly what I expected to see: a perpetual haze.
“What are you doing?” Corrine asks from below. She’s shading her eyes and her neck is craned to see me.
“The skies look like they’ve been smudged with charcoal, but you know what?”
“What?” she asks.
I glance down to where she’s standing with the start of a smile on my face and say, “No drones.”
“No drones,” she echoes with a hollow smile.
Her relief lies in her voice, but there is not much reprieve for a young girl who lost her father and nearly lost her soul in the same week.
The smile fades from my face as I wonder about the San Francisco skies. Did Indigo make it? Is she still alive? You know how when a broken mind becomes fixated on one point, and no matter the point, the mind will dig and churn and o
bsess over a billion possibilities and the only thing that will give that fretful mind absolution is an answer? That’s how I’m feeling.
The question is this: Is she still alive? Then answer to that question is over four hundred treacherous miles away.
As I stand up here, looking at the city I know will never be the same, I wonder if the answer I get will be the answer to unwind my brain, or completely destroy it.
“Nick?” Corrine asks from below.
I look down at her again, trying to pull my thoughts out of San Francisco and on to more immediate concerns. Corrine is a little softer around the edges than Indigo, and wears her loss of innocence in ways that scream and whisper so many things I cannot bear to hear. I have to look away from her because I can’t stop wondering if Indigo now has that same look. Like she lost her life, and her father. In the time that I’ve been gone, will she have become this child?
“Nick,” she says, less animated.
“I’m listening.”
“Bailey says you have a daughter.”
“I do.”
“Indigo?”
“I was just thinking about her.”
“Is she…I mean, do you know…have you talked to her at all?”
“Just after it happened,” I say, eyes back on the horizon, my attention on this sort of frenzied need to do something, to move, to scream or hit something.
“Bailey says San Francisco is under attack, too.”
“Sounds like Bailey has a lot to say.”
Corrine falls silent. The breath I’ve been holding rushes out of me at the realization that I am being rude to a girl with bigger problems than me at this point.
“I’m sorry,” she says, eyes downcast when I look at her.
“It’s okay. I’m just worried is all. Every since this happened, I’ve been obsessed with getting home, making sure she’s okay.”
“My dad could get like that sometimes.”
“Some kids, they’re kind of, well…they suck. And some kids are absolute angels. Indigo’s had a hard run of life, like you it sounds, but she’s a good kid. A really good kid. Same as it looks like you are. I try not to worry too much, but as a parent, you’re always going to worry about your kids. And in situations as dire as these, it’s even more so.”
“So long as they don’t suck, right?” she says.
I look at her, slowly nodding my head. After that, Corrine doesn’t say anything. She just puts her hands in her pockets and avoids eye contact with me. Her eyes begin to water and she takes a discreet swipe at them. Her emotion hits me and I think I might be able to understand a little of what she’s going through. I get off the rig, walk over to her and pull her in my arms where she settles in and starts crying.
She doesn’t say anything and I don’t let go of her. When I start to relax my arms to move from her embrace, she holds on a little tighter until her tears run dry. And then she lets go, tilts her head down and walks inside without even saying a word.
It’s funny how my eyes are bone dry right now. How can I think of myself so thoroughly while this little girl’s heart has not only been broken, but shattered?
When Marcus walks outside with weapons and water, he stops, looks at me and says, “We’re going to need another car. Something old. Early seventies, late sixties.”
“Why?”
“Amber and Abigail are coming with us.”
“When we first got the yacht, you were firmly telling Quentin you didn’t want any extra mouths to feed. You didn’t want extra opinions. Or infighting. Now, three people later…”
“Save it, Nick. You know what we need.”
“You just speaking your mind, or are you brainstorming your to-do list?”
He flashes me a look, one that says he’s in an extra bad mood.
“What’s your problem?” I ask, needled by my own disjointed emotions.
“This is turning into a damn caravan,” he growls. Then: “But it’s my fault. I just…I can’t let them stay here alone. They’ll die. I mean, they can’t even take care of themselves.”
“So you’re going to be their Mother Theresa?”
“Don’t confuse pity for sainthood.”
“You act like it’s pity, but I’m starting to see what you’re about.”
“And what’s that, Nick?”
“You don’t want to care about people, so you keep them at a distance. If you don’t, then you’ll start to care and that’s a problem for you.”
“You and I are in each other’s proximity,” he says with a fair amount of sarcasm. “Do you see me caring about you? Getting all broken hearted at every little tragedy?”
“I can’t say I do.”
“I almost don’t like you 24/7, so I’d say your theory blows.”
“You think I don’t know you care about me or Bailey at least somewhat? Why? Because I don’t tip toe around the big bad bearded wolf?”
Now he’s ignoring me, arranging the sleeper enough to fit maybe Corrine and Abigail. In truth, I’m glad we’re bringing them. They can’t survive on their own here, and if they do, it’s going to be at a cost.
“You just keep pretending to be Mister Bitter Isolationist,” I continue, “but sooner or later, you’re going to have to just be who you are, even with others around.”
“And who’s that, Nick?” he spins and says. “Who am I going to have to be?”
Now there’s something different in his eyes. He’s seeing me seeing him and he doesn’t like it. “A decent human being,” I say, standing my ground. “But only by a small margin because you have these moments, like this one—”
“And?”
“It makes me think you’re a lost cause.”
Something stiff and unrelenting in him unconsciously softens. I must’ve broken a nerve.
“My father used to say that,” he said under his breath, not angry, or hostile, but like I dragged him back to a place where he was smaller, insecure and completely vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying, even though I’m not.
Looking at how big and brooding he is, wholly unconcerned with the size and might of his demons, I wish I could retract my apology. Alpha males are slow to apologize; betas do so willingly, sometimes against their will. But in this day and age, my thinking is, if you’re a beta without alpha aspirations and alpha behaviors, then your chances for survival begin decreasing by the day in massive increments.
This has me asking the question I have not wanted to ask because I do not know the answer: do I have what it takes to survive on my own? Could I find out? Just leave the group and head home on my own? If I didn’t have to stop in Sacramento for Bailey, if I didn’t have to find a car for our two tagalongs, what kind of time could I make? It all starts by leaving Marcus and Bailey behind. But mostly Marcus. He is my safety net, which I hate admitting.
That questions continue: can I shoot a gun? Yes. But can I shoot someone point blank if they get in my way? Probably not. In that sense, Bailey and I are alike: we’re both going to be mentally crippled in this new world. Or maybe we’re the smart ones. The decent ones. The point is, we need Marcus, and this makes me the beta male, which—as I said—is a really crappy thing to have to admit to yourself.
“You going to stand there all day or are you going to help?” Marcus asks, startling me back to the moment. “This isn’t all about you, you know.”
“I know that.”
Shaking his head, he says, “What are we going to do about getting an old car?”
“You asking me because you don’t know or are you asking because you know and want to see if I know.”
“Look at you, figuring it all out,” he says.
When we’re all packed up, Marcus heads back in the garage, goes through a tool box, then comes out with a flathead screwdriver, a Phillips head, wire strippers and a small hammer.
“What’s that for?” Abigail asks.
“We need to find us a car that isn’t ruined.”
“Yeah, but with thos
e?” she says, pointing to the tools he’s got stuffed in each of his big, roughed up hands.
“These are how I’m going to start the car without keys.”
“Why don’t you use the keys?” Abigail asks.
“This is just a precaution.”
“What’s a precaution?” she asks.
Shaking his head, Marcus just walks away leaving Amber to explain it. I hand Bailey the shotgun, tell her to use it on anyone who tries to come in either the front or the back door that doesn’t first identify themselves as us.
“You remember what I said in the boat about guns?” she whispers. “About not being able to shoot someone?”
“These are dangerous times, Bailey.”
“Yeah, but…”
“I’m not sure when we’ll be back, before sundown at the latest,” I call out over my shoulder.
Then, taking a page out of Marcus’s book, I leave her there with the gun and the girls and no room to argue with me. Hopefully she’ll come to see she has to be the alpha female if she’s the one in charge of protecting the house and the girls. And somewhere along the way, she may have to do some things she’s not terribly comfortable with if she wants to live.
Inside the Mack truck, the big diesel turns over, sputtering to life. Marcus gives it a minute to warm up, then he says, “Have you ever driven a truck like this before?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll have to teach you. You a fast learner or just a pretty face?”
“Save your sexual attraction for me for another time, Grizzly Adams. We’ve got more pressing things to do.”
Nodding his head, he jams the truck in gear, the gears whining and grinding at first, really making him fight them before they slide in place.
“Yeah, you’re going to be an amazing teacher,” I say knowing this will rile him just enough.
“Shut up, Nick.”
It takes us the morning and the better part of the day to find an old car that works. We found it in a used car lot under a ton of dust. It’s a lime green and white Chevy El Camino with rusty hinges and tires that are damn near bald.
Marcus breaks the lock, gets inside the car, searches for keys. There are none. He jams the flathead screwdriver into the ignition, gives it a few taps with the hammer, then tries to turn it.
