by Mike Chen
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Moira
The soul of a city came from its din, and San Francisco was no different in a post-MGS world. Horns beeped, people talked, dogs barked. All of that, the whooshing of distant cars going onto freeway on-ramps or the squeak of brakes as they activated a little later than they should have, those were the heartbeat of a city. Even the areas left to decay outside of the urban farms and reconstruction zones had their own vibe.
Today was different. Despite the fact that the president, the CDC, and even Krista’s uncle told everyone to do normal things, San Francisco doubled as a ghost town during Moira’s morning: an empty bus ride into work, the lonely vibe of the office, even now during her walk to the support group. It wasn’t a calm before a storm. The silence felt more oppressive, an invisible gag order, and even though Moira kept her ears open with each stride, barely anything broke the quiet, which made it all the easier to obsess over the thing she’d seen an hour ago.
Her father. On the local news, talking about how he felt he was close to locating MoJo. Clips of him walking through City Hall, the urban farms, the Financial District. He must have worked with the broadcast team on a whole production, including clean concert footage that not even she’d seen.
Maybe the local channels wanted to drown out the fear from the death in the San Francisco Metro. Because details of it evaporated, and now only rumors pinpointed every possible variation of the victim’s details, none of them in agreement.
Though the eerie quiet of the once-bustling city allowed her to stew on things buried deep beneath layers of lies and truths, it bubbled closer to the surface with each step, waiting to exhale at a support group.
Except rather than the usual shuffling of people toward the converted church, the building mirrored the rest of the city: still, quiet.
Lifeless.
Instead of a gathering of support, a single note was taped to the front door.
My friends, it has been my privilege to guide you through the pain of PASD. With the recent news, I have had to assess where I am and who I am. I have concluded that I am a free spirit and no virus can take me.
I have turned in my Residence License and packed my things. I will be driving somewhere, no destination. Perhaps a Reclaimed settlement or my own little patch of land. Don’t worry, I’m not going to become a Fourth Path–style victim. Maybe I’ll finally explore this country from coast to coast. Either way, if a new outbreak takes me, then it’ll have been on my terms.
Stay healthy. And remember, everything will be fine. You have each other. I hope all of our paths cross again. —DF
Moira read and reread the last part, wondering where Del might go. Several years ago, she’d told Santiago that the Metros would be where the homes were. He laughed back then, simply replying with his crackpot Zen wisdom, something about “home is wherever you’re alive.”
She’d given him grief back then about his PhD in philosophy coupled with his farmer upbringing. But maybe there was more to his little sayings than mere quips.
“Moira,” a familiar voice called out. She turned to see Rob coming her way. So he’d come in to work after all. Or maybe he skipped that part and came straight here. He nodded at the closed doors. “People don’t want support on a day like today?”
“I think they’re either hiding or running.” Her fingernail tapped against the taped sheet of paper. “Del’s gone. He left.”
“What about you?”
“Me? Business as usual. I have a job to do. A civil ceremony to prepare for.” A long-lost father to evade. “You?”
“Still waiting on the Family Stability Board. Maybe this—” he gestured to the buildings around them “—is getting in the way. You all right?”
“You saw?”
Rob nodded, mouth a solemn line. “It’s on the Metronet. Directive from above. Put up anything that’s not about the deaths or the pending travel lockdown. Sorry. I argued against MoJo posts.”
Moira nodded, a reflex more than anything else. “I understand. It’s okay, if it’s not there, then it’s on TV. But tomorrow it’ll all be over. New identity. New name. New records. A final reset. If anyone asks, I have the records to prove I’m me. The new me.”
Rob’s face told two different stories. His mouth and cheeks were all comfort, smiling mouth and soft jaw. But his eyes, one glimpse and she couldn’t meet them anymore. Something else lingered behind the irises, but it did her no good to think about it.
“Shall we walk?” Rob said after several seconds.
The lump in Moira’s throat came out of nowhere, along with the stinging heat in her eyes. Her foot twisted in place, the heel of her shoe grinding against the worn city pavement, and her heart sank as she looked back at the closed doors. Wind kicked up, biting at her cheeks with its briskness. “Yeah,” Moira said, “let’s go for a walk.”
She took a step forward, then stopped when she realized Rob was digging in his back pocket. He pulled out his phone and the color drained from his face.
“It’s the Family Stability Board,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rob
One of the benefits of Rob’s job was the ability to check his email on a high-speed connection.
Today, though, that was a curse.
Because if he was on a standard Metro network, he would have had another minute or two, the load time leaving him willfully ignorant before receiving the Family Stability Board’s audit assessment. At PodStar, though, the text loaded up in a snap.
The call had been simply a recorded message, telling him that the full report would be available via email. He waited until he got back inside to load it up. Moira stood behind him as his breath shook on its way out, and a heavy weight pulled on his eyelids, the feeling of fight-or-flight in the face of the unthinkable suddenly draining all his energy. He forced himself to straighten up, focus, and reread the message.
Dear Rob Donelly,
Thank you for your participation in the Family Stability Board’s social normalcy audit. Following the in-person discussion with Bernard Langston, the FSB has determined that Sunny Donelly is at risk due to elements of PASD that have affected a number of issues, including:
Her mother’s status and whereabouts
Violent behavior at school
Difficulty processing the loss of friends to Reclaimed Territory
Lack of support system
It is the decision of the board that in order to remain a San Francisco Metro resident, Sunny should be rehomed and supervised in the FSB dorms by Union Square. An appeal and extension may be filed up to 30 days following this notice. Any appeals must include significant testimonials from previously unheard sources. Quarterly hearings will assess the situation to determine if it is safe for the child to return to the parent’s living situation.
We understand that this may be difficult to process. Our counselors are available around the clock to discuss the matter (note: counselors are only available for emotional support and cannot affect audit decisions).
Rob knew he had work tasks to accomplish, things to do to keep the Metronet updated and connected and stable. But none of that mattered right now. He sat, head in hands, unable to comprehend what he’d wrought by telling Sunny a lie five years ago. A lie that was supposed to protect her. A gentle weight landed on his shoulder in the form of Moira’s hand, but he couldn’t find any solace in the gesture.
Excerpt from “The Most Dangerous Gun Incidents
Following MGS,” Counting Backward Magazine:
Though the Metros offered a sense of stability, many found their biggest benefit to be infrastructure rather than security. That translated to a lucrative black market for guns. Technically outlawed in the Metros as part of the Populace Entry & Community Safety Agreement, dealers sold from caches miles outside of Metro borders—buried or booby-trapped or both. Desp
ite the lack of firearms within Metro borders, occasional gun violence still found its way into communities. One of the most famous cases in the years after quarantine has become known as the Greenwood Incident. Since then, activists argue that the Greenwood Incident was preventable and gun smuggling requires greater oversight in a PASD world.
Chapter Thirty
Krista
Krista had hoped that the announcement of deaths, travel lockdowns, and all the other stuff that triggered the wrong type of flashbacks in most of the population would at least mean a lot of sudden engagements. She was partially right.
Not that people needed her to run around and coordinate with a bunch of vendors and venues. But many people seemed to be taking the lead of Moira and Frank, and in a time when fewer people wanted to engage with anyone in the outside world, they asked Krista to go into the fray—or at least into City Hall to get paperwork and sign up for available times—on their behalf.
It wasn’t much, but money would at least change hands. Once Krista finished dealing with elementary school kids. Sunny glanced up at her, big grin on her face but no blue-and-green scarf around her neck. Rob had originally been slotted in for this presentation, but Krista was apparently deemed cooler. So there was that, at least. Krista sat on a too-small stool, waiting for another adult to finish talking about her job as a manager on the urban farming initiative, when her phone buzzed again, displaying an unknown number. “When it rains,” she said to herself, excusing herself to step into the hallway. “Atmosphere Special Events, this is Krista.”
“Krista Deal?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Speaking.”
“Krista Deal of Rochester, New York, graduate of Hofstra University?”
Did outbreak anxiety amp up the amount of client vetting? Despite annoyance tickling at her sensibilities, Krista reminded herself to be cool, professional, someone that the woman would want to give a giant wad of cash to. “That’s me. What can I do for you?” she said, grabbing a pen from her purse and removing the cap.
“Ms. Deal, my name is Anna Haden. I work for a company called Reunion Services. We specialize in reconnecting people.”
Reunion Services. Was this a gig offer? Something about Moira?
Or worse—someone from her past?
Krista looked at the phone’s big red End Call button, weighing whether she should just hit it now. “Is this a job offer?” she finally said.
“Not exactly. I’ve been hired by Jaswinder Deshpande to see if I could locate you. I’ll be honest, there were conflicting reports that you were dead. But Mr. Deshpande insisted we get the truth.”
Jas. Alive. Though the odds of him having made it this far did seem favorable, seeing that he was straight edge, vegan, ran marathons, could carry a tune and play four instruments, and rock a five o’clock shadow on his great jawline. Nostalgia flooded over Krista, and it took all her strength to push it back and stifle it into a one-syllable response. “Oh.”
“He contacted me last night. With your business licenses, it wasn’t that difficult to locate you once I figured out you weren’t in New York State.”
“Yeah, Jas could be sentimental.”
“It seems to be how people are reacting. I’m booked all day.”
Clearly Krista had picked the wrong time to disable notifications for her account. Reunions and marriage proposals. The news reports earlier talked about runs on canned goods and food dehydrators, so however people were getting together, the food wouldn’t be very good. “How did he know I was in San Francisco?” Krista asked, buying time to sort out her thoughts.
“Educated guess. In his notes, he said your grandparents lived out here. He has a message for you but instructed me to ask your permission first. May I play it for you?”
Jas asking for permission; the thought of it brought a smile to her face, one that she consciously tried to avoid. Of course he’d ask for consent. If Jas ever quit being a doctor, he should take over Reunion Services and make that company policy. “Sure. Why not? He’s just a guy I dated in college, so, you know, whatever. Couldn’t hurt.”
“All right. One second.” The line crackled for a moment, then beeped before a low hiss came and went.
“Hello, Krista.” Nearly nine years had passed since she’d walked away from Jas, yet the way he spoke with his crisp but blended accent, it rolled into her mind like it had never left. “If these hired stalkers actually find you, then you’ll be hearing this. Otherwise, I suppose I could turn it into song lyrics, except I don’t have a band right now. Can’t find a drummer and being a doctor is kinda busy. In any case, I know you’re careful about your space and boundaries, so don’t worry, I’m not trying to cramp your style. I just wanted to know if you’re still alive. That’s it. That’s all I want. And if you’re wondering why I’d blow money on such a binary piece of information, well, it’s simple. Given everything that happened this morning and the fact that we don’t know what will happen to us surviving two billion or so folks, I thought about it and somehow, I find the idea of Krista Deal taking charge in a world gone mad a bit reassuring. I thought that, and then I thought you might want to know. By the way, Walk Among Us is still a better album than London Calling. I listened to both tonight back to back and I’m sure of it. Take care of yourself.”
Krista listened to the whole message without blinking, her body as frozen as her eyes. “Ms. Deal? Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” she said, her dry voice barely capable of pushing the word out.
“Can I confirm with Mr. Deshpande that we connected?”
“Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Do you want to leave him a message or contact information?”
The question bounced around her mind, answered by what-ifs and could-have-beens, but she forced it all away. Jas got what he wanted and that was that. “No. I really have to go.”
“All right, I appreciate your time. I’ll text you Mr. Deshpande’s contact information if you—”
The phone beeped, cutting off the woman as Krista hit the End Call button. As she slipped back through the door into Sunny’s classroom, her phone buzzed again, this time with the icon of a text message. True to her word, the Reunion Services woman sent what looked like Jas’s phone number and email.
“Whatever,” Krista said to herself, promptly hitting the Delete button before any bad ideas could creep into her mind. Ms. Eswara, the school’s principal-turned-substitute-teacher, glanced at her, then nodded at Sunny, who’d already begun explaining Krista’s job with semi-accuracy. Krista walked up and stood beside her, blinking any thoughts of Jas away.
“And after she plans weddings, she likes ice cream and a bath,” Sunny finally said. Little titters sprinkled through the watching group, and Sunny turned to Krista, as if their reaction didn’t make any sense to her.
“And if you have any aunts or uncles or big sisters or brothers that are getting married, I can help them out.” Krista pulled a stack of business cards out and put them on Ms. Eswara’s desk. “Just take one of those.”
“All right, thank you, Sunny,” Ms. Eswara said from her chair. “Class, do you have any questions for Krista?” A boy with disheveled red hair raised his hand. “Okay, David, go ahead.”
“Does they always kiss at the end?”
“Most of the time. Except when one has cooties.”
The class let out a collective “ewww,” and Krista checked with Ms. Eswara to make sure her level of sarcasm hadn’t destroyed their potential academic careers. A girl with big blond hair and bigger glasses raised her hand, and Krista pointed at her. “Do you help the brides pick their dresses?”
“If they ask me to. Sometimes they pick it with their friends and family.” If they’re not all dead.
“Will you help Sunny pick the dress?” the same girl asked.
“Well, I think Sunny’s a little young to
get married. Unless,” Krista said, raising a knowing eyebrow at the class, “one of you likes her.”
“Not for her. For her mom.”
“Excuse me?” The playfulness disappeared from Krista’s demeanor, and she couldn’t figure out if this kid was being stupid, cruel, or both.
Ms. Eswara stood up and walked over next to Krista. “Thank you, Lark, that’s enough.”
Lark apparently didn’t think so, as she continued on. “When her mom comes back. Aren’t you helping Sunny plan the wedding?”
“Lark, that’s—”
“No, wait,” Krista said. She turned to Sunny, who stared straight at the floor. “When her mom comes back from where?”
“From treatment. When she gets better.”
“Sunny, what is she talking about?”
Sunny looked up, her bottom lip sticking out in full pout mode. “It was supposed to be a surprise for Daddy. And now it’s not, no thanks to you,” she said, giving Lark a death stare probably reminiscent of when she’d hit her classmate a few weeks back.
Ms. Eswara clapped her hands, drawing the classroom’s attention back to her while the dots created by all of the different statements from Rob and Sunny began to connect in Krista’s mind. “Class, take out your notepads, I want you to write down what you want your wedding to look like, and we’ll share with Krista, okay? Right, Krista?” she asked, but Krista had already started marching toward the door, phone in hand. “Krista?”
“Be right back. I need to call someone.”
The teacher’s footsteps hurried behind her, tracking her out into the hallway. She grabbed Krista’s arm, shaking her off balance, then met her with a wide-eyed stare, before shaking her head. “Don’t.”
“How long did you know about this?”
“Last week. Mr. Donelly told the board at his audit.”
“And you didn’t say anything? I thought teachers were supposed to be more involved these days.”
