The Last War

by Ryan Schow

  Strange.

  “I took it off a dead cop,” I tell her.

  “You can’t have a gun on campus,” the teacher says, suddenly switching into disciplinarian mode.

  Stanton’s eyes meet mine, then we both look back at the woman as if to say, really?

  “You have a handful of dead students on that roof, lady,” I remind her, “so get off my nuts about the only protection I have from those…things…out there and go do something useful.”

  Stanton and Macy just stare at me. It’s like they don’t recognize me. Then again, I hardly recognize myself either. I suppose I’m genial for the most part, and pretty level headed, but after today that me is officially on hiatus.

  “Go!” I shout at her, shaking her from her autocratic stance.

  To her I must look unhinged. With the blood all over my face, I must look like a serial killer who escaped the mental ward and went on a killing spree getting here. Using all the brainpower she has, she complies with only a touch of hesitation.

  “These freaking people,” I hear myself say.

  “That’s Miss Titus, Mom,” Macy says. “She’s nice. One of the good ones.”

  Am I being scolded?

  “Well after today, I think she should change her name to Miss Uptitus.”

  The joke went off like a boulder dropped in water. My attempt at gallows humor (for no reason other than I am clearly out of sorts) is not funny, even to me.

  “Where to now?” I ask Stanton.

  He looks at me like he’s right about to ask the same question. Then: “Do I dare ask about the car?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  He runs his hand through his hair, turns around, perplexed.

  “What about your motorcycle?” I ask.

  “Yeah, same,” he says, suddenly stilled by the revelation.

  He’d always wanted a Harley Davidson, and now something bad has happened to it. Something bad has happened to his bike like something bad happened to my brand new car. To this otherwise peaceful city. To the children on the school’s rooftop and the children of the child development center next door.

  “I have to get moving before I start crying again,” I tell Stanton.

  “We need to get moving before Miss Uptitus returns and gets herself shot,” he says, though his delivery is less humorous and more matter-of-fact.

  For a second I wonder if he isn’t working in a bit of his own gallows humor and is instead speaking the truth. Does he think I’m just going to shoot someone because I have a gun? After a second, I realize I just might, depending on how bad it gets…

  6

  “How can they all just cart their kids off out in the open?” Stanton asks. “Half the city is under fire and these drones…they’re still blowing things up.”

  None of us say anything.

  We follow the crowds of people down Page Street.

  The three of us blend into the crowd making its way around the corner and up the stairs of what will soon be a large urban church. Right now it’s a construction zone inside. Apparently the owner of the building was on site when the attack began, so now he’s insisting the CDC and the school use his mostly gutted building as a triage center.

  “Someone has to care for the injured children,” he tells us when we thank him.

  Like any man or woman of faith, a noble servant of God never has to tell you they are virtuous. You can see it in their actions. You can feel it in their every countenance. Like their charity comes not from an obligation to the church or even a good deed done in God’s name, but from their heart because they find joy in the very act of serving others.

  That is this man.

  We don’t even know his name, because names don’t matter when you’re in this kind of a situation. I step in and help where I can, and it takes my mind off the fear of what’s happening.

  Well, sort of.

  The dying city still rumbles at our feet and parents continue to ask each other and Stanton if they are safe in the church since it is not yet a place of God but a work in progress.

  “Whomever targeted the school and the children’s center for attack isn’t going to care if they blow up a church or kill more kids,” I hear Macy say.

  Okay, so she can sometimes be blunt.

  We work the afternoon away, still fearing we’ll be shot or blown up, but knowing that statistically there are almost nine hundred thousand souls living in this city. How many thousands of lives can a few hundred drones take at once?

  Naturally, being an ER nurse, I’m at home in these kinds of situations. There aren’t as many people to care for compared to having an entire hospital’s worth of patients, but seeing all these injured kids cuts me to the bone. To think some of them need to be rushed to the nearest hospital, but might not make it, breaks my heart.

  “Who would do such a thing?!” someone asks, clearly beside herself.

  No one has an answer. They don’t have answers like this place doesn’t have bathrooms. Twice I head to the porta-potty out front and twice I can say I should’ve held it. Sitting on that hard plastic bowl just knowing what’s marinating below turns my stomach.

  Sitting there with my pants circled around my ankles, I think about all the burgers, the hot dogs, the tacos, the sub sandwiches and the sodas that’ve gone into creating that awful smell, and honestly, when I come out (barely alive) I realize I’ll never look at construction workers the same again.

  As much as I’d never want someone hurt, dealing with blood and pandemonium is worlds easier than suffering another street-side crapper.

  But I’m digressing…

  After hours of taking care of these kids, of watching Stanton and Macy help the building’s owner devote himself fully to the tasks at hand, we’re done. Everyone’s been treated and given water and whatever food could be scraped up and distributed.

  By now, one would think the attack on the city would have stopped, or at least slowed. They’d be wrong. I can’t even imagine how much damage the city has endured by now. People came and went, looking for a place to hide from the drones. A few remain, but they won’t last long. Like us, they’ll try to get home. What is beautiful in this tragedy, however, is how the owner never waivered in his devotion to the community. He gave food and water, offered shelter to the survivors, blessed more than a few poor souls when what they needed most were the kind words of a stranger.

  As the last of the parents disappeared on foot, the three of us just stand at the top of the concrete steps overlooking the carnage wondering if the people of this city have any idea what’s in store for them.

  Hopefully the attacks will end soon.

  Judging by the thick pall of smoke and the concussion bursts still hitting deeper in the city, I wonder if there’s even an end in sight.

  “Who do you think is doing this?” the owner of the building asks. None of us heard him arrive. Fortunately, we’re all too tired to startle.

  Stanton turns and says, “Hard to say. I can’t seem to hold a signal, and no one I know is answering their phones when it does ring through.”

  “My internet is down, too,” he says. “I have friends all over town and they say the same thing. UAV’s, but no idea who is controlling them.”

  “UAV’s?” I ask.

  “Unmanned Aerial Vehicles. Drones. And lots of them. They seem to be ranging anywhere from the size of a normal drone like you’d get at Best Buy to ones almost the size of a small fighter jet.”

  “Does anyone know anything?” Macy asks.

  Some of the color has come back to her face, but it’s only temporary. There are moments when she thinks about her friends and what happened to Trevor and she gets very quiet and teary eyed. Other moments, like these, she almost seems ignorant to it. I’d tell her it’s okay to cry, but I think if I said that, I might break down first, and I can’t do that.

  Perhaps she’s like me and Stanton, old enough and wise enough to tell herself to wait for safety before coming apart.

  “Do
you have somewhere to go?” the man asks us.

  “Home,” Stanton says. He doesn’t even think about it. The answer just comes out and I like where his head’s at.

  “I hope it’s still standing after today,” the saint replies. Offering his hand to Stanton, the men shake hands. Turning to me, he says, “You are a gift from God, young lady.” He gives me a hug and what I feel from him is a graciousness and an appreciation you just don’t get from normal people.

  “And you are a good Christian,” I tell him with a warm smile. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done, for who you are.”

  It’s time to go.

  When we leave, as we start in the direction of home, I wonder what Stanton’s plans are for us getting there safely.

  “So the Land Rover,” he says, a desperate look in his eye, “is it drivable?”

  My heart sinks. I hope that’s not his plan.

  “The Land Rover was blown up by one of those things.”

  “What?” Macy asks.

  “What about your motorcycle?” I ask.

  “One of those UAV’s—”

  “Drones,” Macy interjects.

  “One of those drones,” Stanton says, not skipping a beat, “blew up a twenty story apartment building that nearly came down on me. The dust ruined my suit, my eyes and my lungs. Somehow in the process of being dust-blind, I managed to hit a car. So no, at this point, it’s not drivable.”

  “So what was your big plan for getting us home then?” I ask, trying not to sound manic and neurotic at the same time. I’m tired, though, so I can’t really help it.

  “My big plan was to ask you about your big plan,” he says, totally serious.

  “You’re no help at all,” I grumble.

  All the aches and pains of playing Smashup Derby are coming back at a relentless pace. Without a distraction, without the life-and-death situations earlier to subjugate my mind, I’m starting to realize how dire our situation really is. Well, for the moment. I don’t want to sound like a drama queen or anything, but the idea of not being in my own bed tonight is beyond tragic.

  “Can’t we just catch a cab?” Macy asks.

  Me and Stanton forgive her of her ignorance. She’s just fifteen. Her friend died in her lap and we’ve been treating a bunch of injured kids. She’s seen third degree burns, lacerated faces and limbs, crushed bones. No one really goes through that without residual effects.

  “What kind of cab is going to tackle this kind of traffic,” Stanton asks, his own weariness showing.

  All around us, traffic has come to a stop and cars are all but abandoned. Not because people felt the need to run, but because buildings toppled both in their own footprint and sideways, blocking roadways and cars and killing pedestrians. They ran because the drones were targeting cars, and the force of the missile’s impact was vomiting out the burning bodies of its drivers and passengers. People didn’t just leave their cars because they felt it was the best alternative, they left them before they became the drones’ next target.

  Now that the attacks in this area have seemingly stalled, some of these brave San Franciscans are back collecting their possessions. A few are even trying to get their cars out of traffic and parked along the road. None of these attempts last long.

  Unless you have a motorcycle, you aren’t getting anywhere in this city.

  “How far of a walk is it home?” Macy asks.

  “About three and a half miles,” Stanton says. “Maybe more if we have to detour, or run for our lives in the opposite direction.”

  “That’s not bad,” Macy says, but I’m looking down at her shoes and I’m thinking that as bone tired as I am, three and a half miles for either of us feels more like a hundred miles right about now.

  The good news is that back at the church we were able to wipe away some of the grime of the day, so at least we don’t look like flesh eating zombies from the apocalypse.

  That’s when we hear a faint whirring sound. Dread overtakes me.

  “Hide!” I hiss, and we all nearly freak out because we’re on Masonic crossing over the panhandle. For the non-natives, the panhandle is a long strip of grass and a few scattered trees that sit like a thin rectangular thatch of park off the main Golden Gate Park.

  In other words, we’re sitting ducks.

  So yeah, Oak and Masonic might as well be a killing field if we don’t do something quick. Macy turns and runs straight to what looks like a low-bottomed Christmas tree that’s hearty with dark green needles sitting so low on the tree you have to almost crawl on hands and knees to get under it. So we do. She goes first, then me, and finally Stanton. We wiggle our way up into it. It’s not pretty. These same soft needles are now pricking our skin, but it’s the branches that hurt the most. They’re scratching up our faces and our arms, and at this point I’m hesitant to think about all the bugs and spiders crawling around.

  Naturally, my mind goes to Stanton.

  He’s a neat freak.

  So consumed with being clean it’s an old obsession I once suggested he seek therapy for. He did. His nervousness has tapered down, but his reaction to being dirty is still an anxiety with teeth. First it was the fires. Then it was the smoke and his ruined suit. Now this. He has to be going out of his mind right about now.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  Something blows up and we all cringe.

  Giant drones are targeting the homes all along Oak Street, turning it into a shooting gallery. Fortunately we remain untouched, but I can’t stop thinking of all the people who took refuge in those homes, all those people who are now homeless, injured or dead.

  We’re all wasted. Too in shock to speak. I mean, seriously, me and Stanton are professional people working in high stress jobs. We have thick skin. This constant assault, however, is pulling on even our strings.

  Like a bunch of contortionists, we hide in that tree for a good thirty minutes until the explosions finally stop. When we drop down to our hands and knees and army crawl out, there’s a weighted stillness that hangs in the smoke filled air. Buildings are burning and people are stumbling around in the streets, not sure what to do, where to go. They’re burnt, dazed and sobbing. They’re plopped down on the curbs, talking to themselves, just standing there with that unblinking, thousand yard stare.

  There isn’t an ambulance or police responder in sight, but in the air, the uncomfortable hush that’s befallen us is a weighted emptiness that feels beyond eerie. This is what the old battlefields must have felt like after the enemy had retreated and only the dead and the victorious remained.

  “How much more of this can the city withstand?” I hear myself ask.

  “Forget about the city for a second,” Stanton says, brushing the needles from his hair and shoulder. “How much more of this can we withstand?”

  Macy is in shock. She’s wiping dirt and grass off the knees of her white tights. She’s got that look like she’s thinking of Trevor again and it’s starting to twist up her face.

  Did Stanton really think this was all over after we left that church? That all we had to do was just walk home, slip into bed and call it a day? Was I thinking that? Hoping for that?

  Not me. I’m not that naïve. Then again, neither is he.

  “We can’t go home in the dark, Stanton,” I tell him. “We’ll freeze before we make it. Or be killed.”

  The falling temperatures usher in the cold, and the cool, damp air is pressing the acrid smells of the neighborhood deep into the city. Our noses burn. Our eyes are rimmed red and constantly watering.

  “There are cars everywhere,” Macy says.

  “I know, honey,” I say.

  “It’s not an observation, Mom. It’s a suggestion. We can sleep in one.”

  “Great idea,” Stanton says, thrilled (in an irritated sort of way) to finally have some reasonable input.

  The three of us scout out cars, trying the doors of those vehicles we’re certain aren’t going anywhere. Most of the cars are abandoned, their doors locked. Then we find
a van with the engine running, the passenger window shot out. It’s a Honda Odyssey with tinted back windows and plenty of space for three.

  We didn’t see the problem right away because we came up on it from behind. Inside in the driver’s seat, however, is a mother, her body riddled with bullets, her eyes lifeless and open, staring into another world. Outer space, perhaps.

  Macy cuts between us, pulls the door open and drags the woman out like she’s an old piece of luggage. Me and Stanton step back, aghast. Maybe it was her lack of respect for the dead that shocked us. Maybe it was just that she was doing what neither of us could. To our absolute horror, she shoves the woman under the van, then stands up, wipes blood from her hands on her skirt and says, “It’s got gas and heat. So I opt we stay here.”

  “Why didn’t you just kick her while you were at it?” Stanton asks without a trace of humor.

  “Maybe next time,” she replies.

  So I guess she’s not so naïve for fifteen after all.

  7

  We’re able to fall asleep, but not stay asleep. The attacks seem to have stopped, but sleeping in someone’s van isn’t the same thing as sleeping in my bed and my body is officially protesting. We’re all sleeping off and on, adjusting ourselves, readjusting ourselves, and then sitting up and trying not to cry, or scream.

  “This is a nightmare,” I whisper to Stanton when we both happen to be awake enough to fidget and groan at the same time. That’s when the engine sputters out.

  “Out of gas,” Macy grumbles.

  No kidding.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  Stanton checks his watch and says, “Three-thirty.”

  “It’s gonna get cold,” I tell him.

  “I know.”

  It didn’t just get cold. It got freezing. By five a.m. we were huddled together, our teeth chattering, trying to gather enough body warmth between us to ward off an impossible chill.

  We manage a few more hours of sleep until we’re pulled from our slumber by the far away declarations of buildings exploding and the super close sounds of glass breaking. Groggy, ill-tempered and feeling a hundred years old, I’m ready to bite people’s heads off.