A Beginning at the End

by Mike Chen

  “We should go.” Elena looked squarely at him and gestured to the meat on the fork again. “Both of us.”

  “I’ll go—” Rob started but Elena shook her head at him.

  “Sunny’s weaning herself. It happens. We need more food. We both need to go.”

  “I’ll ask for rations for two.”

  “They’ll never go for that. The population is restless as it is. You saw the fights that broke out last time. You ask for a second portion and you’ll get punched.” Elena took Rob’s hand. At first, he thought she was merely being affectionate, but then she opened his fingers up and put the fork in his hand. “Sunny’s not nursing as much. My body doesn’t need the extra fuel. Take it.”

  Elena’s eyes somehow remained bright, despite the nights of bad sleep, the dank and cramped living conditions, the limited food supply. Her mouth broke upward, a tiny curl that projected a sense of calm out to him. How she remained an optimist, even living in a converted prison, he never knew.

  The tough meat was the second thing Rob had to eat all day after an apple from the jailyard orchard they’d help plant months ago. He chewed it quick, swallowing and putting the fork into the small sink next to their cot.

  “Everyone will be there. We won’t be able to find a sitter for Sunny.” The distribution was at 10:00 a.m.; it might have been possible to adjust her nap schedule so she’d be sleeping during that time. He considered the possibility of locking their cell and leaving her, but their quarters weren’t exactly childproofed. No one had that luxury now.

  “I know.”

  “The crowds, they might get rowdy.”

  “We’ll protect her.” Elena’s voice radiated conviction.

  Rob stood up, a dull ache radiating from his lower back down his legs to the pins and needles attacking his toes. He stepped over to their sleeping daughter, her would-be crib a large shipping box reinforced with duct tape, folded blankets forming a mattress inside. Her black hair was wildly long, outpacing the toddler’s growing body. Her little fingers curled around a small pink dog, a toy donated by one of their quarantine neighbors. How the population of Quarantine CA14—a good five thousand or so survivors—could be so unified and fractured at the same time, he didn’t understand.

  “What if she sat on my shoulders?” he asked. “Above it all.”

  “That’s why I married you. Always coming up with ways to fix things.” Elena walked up behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist. They stood together, watching their sleeping daughter, the second hand from the cell’s wind-up clock ticking away.

  In the shadows of her bedroom, Sunny stirred, the subtle shifts under blankets pulling Rob back to this house, this doorway, this situation. And unlike that moment in quarantine, he watched his daughter alone.

  Things were going to get worse before they got better. Elena said it, but she also told him to be good to himself.

  Maybe it was finally time to do that.

  Rob closed Sunny’s door, then walked to his room and collapsed on the bed, the day’s events bowling over him. His shoes hit the floor with a thunk, and he fired up his email again on his phone, the Family Stability Board message that he’d only skimmed some fifteen or twenty minutes ago loading line by line for about thirty seconds.

  To: Rob Donelly

  From: SF Metro Family Stability Board

  Subject: Report #10213

  Dear Mr. Donelly,

  This notification is to inform you of a report from Kavita Eswara at Westerberg Elementary. As you may know, the Family Stability Board requires teachers and caregivers to report any incidents that may endanger the emotional or physical health of a child in the post-MGS landscape. As Ms. Eswara indicated emotional concerns, you are required to attend a social normalcy audit set for October 17 at 1:30 PM. At that time, the FSB will review all data and inform you of its findings at a later date. Failure to comply with the audit will result in the FSB assuming temporary custody of the child into the FSB housing facility.

  The audit was devised as a community safety net for our children in this new world. It is vital to our society’s well-being that we address any emotional or mental health concerns before they impact our next generation.

  You may file social normalcy verifications and testimonials early by sending the appropriate forms to fsb@sfmetro.gov. These will be given equal consideration to the in-person hearing. Please contact us if you have further questions.

  Temporary custody. FSB housing facility—where orphaned children in the End of the World and its PASD fallout wound up. Underfunded, understaffed, undertrained, and the last place in the world he’d want for Sunny to be. The adults in this world were screwed-up enough, their boarding school for the family-less created media stories more horrifying than the Fourth Path cult, despite the best intentions. There were the success stories, the ones released to the Metronet featuring happy adoptions or reunifications after parental rehabilitation through therapy. But those masked what everyone knew about overwhelmed staff who battled their own PASD.

  For some, it was the only thing they had. But that wasn’t the case here. Sunny had Rob. And he wasn’t going to let her go without a fight.

  Rob opened up his phone’s web browser, selected the San Francisco network rather than the impossible-to-load national search, and typed in passing a social normalcy audit. Only a few results arrived from terrified parents worrying their single mistake meant either losing custody of their child or leaving for Reclaimed Territory before it happened. Some even claimed to call the FSB’s bluff, stating that presenting evidence at the meeting was enough to bypass the overtaxed agency staffers. Rob’s day job crept into his mind for a moment, and he wondered if the lack of information stemmed from the internet’s general instability, leading to the death of forums and social media, or if the FSB initiative was simply too new to have many discussions about it yet.

  Living in a Metro may have had the shiny facade of the old world, but Residence Licenses and their strong-arm family guidelines showed that governments were as worried about it all falling apart as the people were.

  Rob read and reread the posts, making a mental checklist of what supposedly satisfied the boards. Written testimonials from friends. Therapy and support group receipts. Evidence of dating.

  That all lined up with what Ms. Eswara talked about. Asking him if he’d been to a support group. Bringing in a character witness.

  Asking if he’d been able to move on.

  His attention deviated, moving to the platinum ring on his finger. It stuck when he tried to loosen it; it needed a good twist to get it moving. The ring pulled up to midknuckle, cutting off the circulation below until another effort pulled it fully off.

  He moved his fingers around, noticing the difference of not having a piece of metal rub up against them when he made a fist or even just wagged them back and forth. The ring made a slight clink as he placed it on the nightstand.

  He hadn’t slept without the ring since the night before his wedding. But for tonight, just as an experiment, it’d be interesting to try sleeping without its weight on his left hand. He could put it back on in the morning. Because even though he didn’t want to move on from Elena, from the memories that lay burned up in the disintegrating remains of a house several miles from here, he might just have to in order to protect his daughter.

  It seemed everyone needed the truth these days. But especially her.

  Rob considered turning on President Hersh’s upcoming speech but opted not to. He had enough on his mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  Krista

  Despite the school only being a few miles away from her apartment building, Krista had taken the long way home—on Highway 280 down into the foothills, past the suburbs-turned-government-farmland and back. Even with the high price of gas, roaming the roads with too-loud music was often a better—and more economical—option to therapy sessions that w
ouldn’t work anyway. She’d stopped when the highway got too dilapidated around Half Moon Bay, then turned around, her mind mostly purged of the day’s weird vibe. Between Moira’s almost-departure and two hours stuck in an elevator and a stint as a babysitter, the quiet of the open road was better than any PASD support group could offer. As she got back into San Francisco’s city limits, she decided to check in on the state of the world.

  After all, everyone seemed to be fretting about it today.

  The radio came to life with anticipation of President Hersh’s speech. Host voices bantered the usual stuff about rumors, staying strong, goodwill toward humanity, all in a very business-like fashion. “Will President Hersh address the recent rumors of another outbreak? With us now via satellite are Lou Amberdine of the Modern Patriots political party, and Dr. Dean Francis, head of the communicable diseases department at Seattle’s St. Vincent General Hospital and a leading researcher—”

  Dean Francis. The name stirred nausea in Krista’s gut, and she hit the shuffle button on the car’s media player before Uncle Dean could say a word. The familiar post-punk stylings of Joy Division’s “She’s Lost Control” blared through the speakers and she increased the volume to drown out any sentiment toward her high-and-mighty uncle, Mr. Famous Researcher, for the rest of the drive.

  Mick greeted her upon her first step inside the apartment, his round gray head and white whiskers rubbing up against her ankle. “I know, I’m late,” she said. “Come on, you’re self-sufficient. Here.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the unfinished patch that she’d knitted mostly in the elevator. “Something new.”

  He sniffed the awkward rectangle and looked at it sideways before turning and mewing. “You big baby.” They’d been doing this greeting routine for almost a decade now, since New York City after college, through quarantine, and now here in San Francisco, and yet every time Mick acted like she’d never come home. She scooped the cat up, giving him a kiss on the nose and whispering nonsensical affections to him. With both of them satiated, she put him down, and his hanging belly swung back and forth as he trotted to the bedroom. “Don’t blame you. Elevator stink isn’t cool.” The TV came to life, an attempt for benign white noise as she thumbed through the mail. A news anchor appeared, a bland man in a gray suit and red tie. “...and as Russia remains mostly closed off to outside communications, reports have cited a return to a militarized state. In related news, protesters representing the Reclaimed communities continued to occupy state capitals today. Leaders in the Native American community issued a statement in support, stating, ‘We stand in solidarity with the Reclaimed community, and while they operate on many of the same post-MGS principles as our Nations, they do not receive the federal recognition or benefits we do, and that must change.’ Reclaimed protesters...” The news reporter droned further before cutting to an interview of some guy who looked like he hadn’t bathed since getting out of quarantine.

  Krista turned to the stack of mail in her hand.

  Bill, bill, coupons, flyer for a free PASD support group, and another flyer for a business mixer from the Chamber of Commerce. That one stuck out.

  “It’s not just here. Governments around the world think they can tax us,” the Reclaimed resident said. “We’re survivors, not capitalists or socialists. We live with the land, not off it. We pay sales tax for our materials. If all our resources go into our crops, our supplies—produce we provide for the Metros—what else is there to tax? We’re not waiting for the feds, the states control everything now.”

  Krista flipped over the Chamber of Commerce flyer—the organization struggled, at least in the San Francisco Metro. Maybe other Metros did booming business, free from post-apocalyptic agoraphobia and unsettled feelings. Here, they were lucky to get a single body to show up to an event.

  “But government officials note that Reclaimed communities often aren’t wholly self-sufficient,” the TV reporter said. “While most focus on self-sustaining farming, many sell produce to nearby Metros, and they take up a large portion of satellite communications bandwidth. Despite that, thousands are giving up their Residence Licenses to join Reclaimed Territory.”

  This flyer, though, looked different. The San Francisco Chamber of Commerce presents Hope and Business: A Friends And Family Event. Join San Francisco’s leading business minds in a family-friendly mixer at Last Splash Cafe.

  Dangling a PASD therapy session in front of business owners? That just might get people out. But family-friendly, Krista would stick out like a sore flu-ridden thumb there. Maybe she could bring her cat?

  Graphics flashed and music rattled beneath a compilation of ads for free PASD support groups. “Up next, the search for MoJo continues. As MoJo-mania sweeps the UK, in the United States, all eyes are now on the San Francisco Metro with the most recent statement by Evan Hatfield.”

  Krista looked at the TV for the first time since turning it on, half listening to the bloviating man talking about the release of unearthed recordings and other such trivial bullshit, all with the grand announcement that he’d narrowed MoJo’s location to the San Francisco Metro. Further details fell by the wayside, and instead her mind bounced between the idea of the business mixer and the MoJo search. With everything else seeming to slip through her fingers, this felt like fate telling her to take back control of her life. She’d done it before, several times in fact. But that first time, just the mere idea of steering her own destiny was such a simple but profound—and new—idea that it burrowed deep into her core, synthesizing into her very instincts to this day.

  Freshman year of college at Hofstra University and there she was, somehow roped along to a frat party by the people on her dorm floor. It was only one month into the school year, and though she ultimately gave in to the nonstop “you should come” urging by her dorm-mates, Krista clearly wasn’t having a good time.

  “Krista!” her roommate yelled over the din. “They’re playing beer pong!”

  Krista pretended not to hear, and instead wandered through the sweaty air and mass of humanity. To her left, a couple was making out like they needed to repopulate the planet right then and there. To her right, a girl sat, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes puffy and hair matted while one of her friends insisted that she drink some water. Noise seemed to waft above that, a horrifying mix of bad 1990s music and pop singles from the late 2000s, all jammed in with wave upon wave of voices. Talking. Laughing. Yelling. And a lot of screaming of the word fuck, all blissfully unaware that in a few years more than half of them would be dead. In that slice of time, though, all that mattered was the euphoria of being young and dumb.

  Except for Krista. She wandered the house, wondering if she should walk back to her dorm, but decided against it, just in case her roommate drank too much and needed help back. Instead, she found an empty corner and sat against it. For about ten minutes, no one seemed to notice her.

  Not even the guy who’d been standing next to where she sat. Tall and lean, the purple and pink lights of the party glowed off his brown skin and clear eyes. He glanced down and they met eyes, though she didn’t match his brief smile.

  “Don’t bother asking if I want a drink,” she said.

  Rather than reply, his arm shot up, showing what looked to be an X tattooed on the back of his hand.

  “Am I supposed to be impressed with that?” she asked.

  “It means I make my own choices,” he shouted right when someone yelled about beer, his English accent barely noticeable.

  “You chose to use a magic marker on your hand. I can see why Hofstra accepted you.”

  “Look.” He sat down, not to a creepy space-intrusive level, but to point across the room at the silhouette of a skinny guy drinking beer down a hose. “See that dumb arse doing keg stands? That’s my twin brother. He can’t resist this shit. He’s visiting me for the weekend from London and wanted to go out. So I’m here to indulge him. But fuck that noise. I don’t need it.
I’d rather be in control of my life.” He held up his hand again. “Straight edge.”

  Krista knew the term, the Minor Threat song that it came from, and the whole idea of a no drugs/no booze punk lifestyle. Suddenly, a flush came over her cheeks and she was glad they were in a dark room with sporadic party lighting; she should have recognized the symbol given her almost encyclopedic knowledge of punk.

  “I know what that means,” she bit out sheepishly.

  “So, don’t offer you a drink. Nailed that one.”

  “I don’t need Minor Threat telling me to do it though.” Krista told herself that she wasn’t name-dropping or showing off, not using a hard-core punk band’s name as some kind of secret code word to test this guy. But she knew that was all a lie. This guy was intriguing. “I made that choice on my own. So are you one of those anti-everything people?”

  “Anti-fascist. Anti-capitalist. The usual bad stuff.”

  “The anti-capitalist is hanging out at a frat party. Okay, that makes sense,” Krista said. She didn’t even know why she said it at the time, though looking back later on, she’d eventually recognize that verbal kickback was her best attempt at flirting.

  “The anti-capitalist still loves his brother. Even though said brother makes dumb choices.” He glanced back at his brother and laughed, shaking his head. “My name’s Jaswinder. But people who like Minor Threat can call me Jas.”

  “Krista. And they’re okay, but Ian MacKaye’s better band was Fugazi. And they both pale to The Clash.”

  “So, Krista, you come to a frat party and you’re not drinking and you know your punk bands. What’s your story?”

  “My mom is an extraordinary fuckup.” The statement came out so fast, so firmly etched into existence that it surprised her. Until that point, she’d never fully admitted such a thing. Now, to a stranger at a frat party, hundreds of miles away from her childhood, the door finally cracked. “That kind of explains everything.”