[Dis]Connected

by Michelle Halket

  I help brush him off. We walk over to Wedge’s stiff body. I wrap my hands around his ankles, and Hollis gently balances Wedge’s head on his forearms, gripping under his shoulders as we carefully set him into the hole. I breathe through my mouth. This is just a body. This is not Wedge. Hollis shovels piles of desert back into the hole. I grab a shovel and with each toss of dirt, I feel better. This is just a body. This is not Wedge. But as I continue, I hesitate to cover his face. Seventeen. Three years older than me. I jump back into the hole and place my dirty fingers over the features under the sheet, along the face. I find the hands and squeeze. Wedge isn’t here in this body. A sense of relief washes over me. I squeeze them again.

  “Nell.” I hear Hollis, but I ignore him.

  This relief soothes my soul. Wedge doesn’t have to fight through this life anymore. He is free. Death has found him. She is quick, she doesn’t discriminate, she takes what is given to her.

  I pull back the sheet and kiss Wedge gently on the forehead. Rest my hand on his. “You are free,” I whisper in his ear. “One day we’ll be together. In some other universe. You check it out first and we’ll meet you there, okay?”

  “Nell.” Hollis is impatient now.

  I grip Hollis’s forearm as he pulls me out of the hole. “I want my body burned,” I say.

  I look at the group now gathered around, waiting to fill the hole with that dumb desert death-dirt. I sit, exhausted. Frustrated.

  “Couldn’t we make this work? Somehow?” I whine. “This place could be something. It really could. After all, it’s the City of Light.” Even I hear the annoying tone in my voice as their faces, dirty and swollen, turn to me, this small tribe of friends who have become my family. They too are exhausted, I know. And I know they want to stay instead of trudge on.

  Macy, well into her sixties, slowly walks over to me, her silver hair falling across her lined face. “You are not the only one going through this. We all wanted this place to be something.”

  “Our friends died getting us here!” I look from Macy to the others.

  Hollis puts his hand on my shoulder. I shrug him off, angry. “They can’t have died for nothing. Wedge is the reason we all escaped when the City of Lost Angels fell. If it weren’t for him, none of us would be alive today. None of us!” The words are getting stuck in my throat.

  Macy turns from me to the group, looking each person in the eyes. “I love you all. And with great respect, I ask for your patience. We are tired. Let’s stay one moon cycle before moving on. We’ll see what we can scavenge in this town. Now, let’s put our dear friend, Wedge, to rest.”

  Macy hugs me. “Have patience, my dear. Our utopian city will present herself when she is ready to be revealed. Until then, we must continue on and not lose hope.”

  None of this is what I want to hear. Macy may have given me a month, but she—like the others—gives up too soon. We are tired and hardened.

  Hollis stands next to me, his strong arms supported by the shovel. “Well, all right, Macy, a rest is fine. But then we forge ahead. Wedge would have said to move forward. And I would have agreed with him.”

  I want to kick the shovel out from under him. But I’m already up and walking away from the group. I can’t listen to them anymore. I hear Lauton’s flamethrower igniting behind me, burning Wedge’s resting place. Deep down, I know Hollis is right, but I just don’t want him to be. I hold tight to my satchel as I walk along the main street. A good book would be nice right now. I’d like a lemonade and a shaded hammock, too, please. And, Universe, while you’re at it, a swimming pool and a pepperoni pizza, if it’s not too much to ask. That’s where my mind goes when I’ve lost hope: to what I had and what I wish I had again.

  Now, we take whatever we find. The little gifts and celebrations we give ourselves are found in the scavenge. The belongings of the dead become our treasure. I am curious about what I might unearth here before we leave; what will I discover? What secrets does this place hide? What type of people lived here? What stories would they tell?

  Early wildflowers poke through the dust, growing along the edges of the street. Deep reds and soft blues. Abandoned cars are randomly parked, windows smashed, hoods up, with skeletons sleeping silently behind the wheels.

  A mad rush to leave, possibly? Shot for their gas or personal effects, or food? Humans happened here. Scared and greedy humans turning on their neighbors to survive. Either that or some kind of out-of-this-world beast with laser eyes awoke from its nap and simply sucked the life out of everything. It’s the same scene we’ve come across in every town. It is as if time has stood still.

  I find myself entering a cabin-like diner, set back from the road. Broken glass litters the entrance. Dust blankets the room. Underneath it, tables are set for new customers. Plates with cutlery askew and wisps of napkins sit waiting for returning diners.

  It’s like I’ve travelled back to Before. I close my eyes and listen for the voices, the bell tinkling above the door, the silverware clinking, coffee brewing, deep fryers bubbling, jukebox playing, servers yelling, laughing. I can taste the cherry pie. Oh, how I want a slice of cherry pie. I laugh at myself. I massage the plastic of the dusty brown booth. I’m brought back to the present. I swivel on the squeaky bar stools, play drums with plastic knives against glass and tin canisters. The music follows me as I dance, my desert-worn boots stepping, my side holster tapping against the counter. I climb up and stand on its surface, singing into my plastic-spoon microphone, screaming to my own enjoyment, words to songs from a time I can barely remember.

  I jump off the counter and make a point of touching everything. Running my fingers over the cash register, pushing buttons, lifting the pastry-dish cover and selecting a nonexistent pink-frosted donut. Each imagined bite is sumptuously sweet. I pour from the empty coffeepot into a cracked beige mug and pretend to sip. Delicious. I put the cup into my satchel. I find a few packets of sugar hiding behind an empty napkin holder. Does sugar go bad? They go into my satchel, too, along with a set of salt and pepper shakers. It’s a gold mine in here.

  Laughter reverberates around me. I hear it plain as day. It echoes around me and then—Wait, is this real? Is this my mind playing tricks on me again?—I hear it in smaller spurts to the right, then left, then in front of me. I reach out, grabbing … nothing. There’s laughter to my left and I follow it around the counter, back through the diner and outside. It’s only the wind. I walk into the street, looking as far as I can see down the road. A few people from my group are wandering around, but no one is laughing. I hear the laughter again, behind me. I turn and beyond the diner I see a small green house hidden beneath a massive fallen tree that has split the dwelling in two. My steps quicken, curiosity burning.

  I push open the front door, fingers shaking with adrenaline. The floorboards beneath me bounce; they are weak, so I make my steps slow and purposeful as I pick my way through branches and chipped dry bark. The tree has caved in the dining area to my right. The living room is to my left, and just like in the diner, everything is covered with dust. The rays of light pouring in from the large open windows highlight dancing motes. The breeze has created swirls in the flooring. With closed eyes, I conjure my mother. Mom. Saturday mornings were for chores and I had to help dust each room of our house. I remember making designs in the dust. These swirls are beautiful, just like she was.

  I open my eyes to see someone’s remains sitting quietly and untouched in a rocking chair. It’s nothing more than a skeleton but I feel like it was a man. There’s a small hole which has created radiating cracks in the skull beneath his right eye. The bones of his hands grip a shotgun that rests in his lap, finger against the trigger. I don’t know whether it was this gun or someone else’s that caused his end.

  I kneel down next to him, eye to eye. There is a faint odor of rot in the air. I say the words I recite to all the dead I meet: “I am sorry you left this world in this way. I thank you for what you left behind for me. I promise to use it wisely.” Slowly, respectfully,
I loosen the gun from the boney grip and sling it over my shoulder. A pile of bullets at the dead man’s feet make their way into my satchel, along with a few cans of turkey chili that were hidden in his pocket. Turkey chili sounds mouthwatering right now. “Thank you,” I whisper, holding the bones of his hand for another moment.

  From his other pocket I pull a small flask, turn the top, and sniff whiskey. Two gulps and I am on my feet, coughing. I laugh to myself—my mother would kill me for drinking. I tip the flask at the older man. “To you.” One more gulp and into my satchel it goes.

  I sit on the beige couch. Soft. Welcoming. I wonder who took a nap on this couch Before? Who put their feet up on the coffee table Before? I rest my feet on the coffee table, my head against the cushions. I smell rot and desert everywhere. I wonder, when spring arrives in earnest and the mountaintops melt, will rivers flow near here? This place was the City of Light. We were told it was where we could start anew, away from the madness. With rivers, this could be our utopia—our City of Light. I’m still mad that the rest of them can’t see this possibility.

  I hear faint laughter. I pull myself to my feet and over to the fireplace. Pictures of this family from Before line the mantel. Several generations. Smiles. There’s a man in a picture wearing fishing gear, holding up a large fish by the shores of a lake. I wonder if that lake is near here.

  “You looked good. Happy … I had a family, too. Pictures just like these.” I pause. “I don’t know where they are. We’ve been separated for seven years. I was seven. Nearly half my life ago when my mother hid me in the basement, told me not to come out until she came to get me. She never did. But I believe she is still alive somewhere. I just don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.” My fingers trace the picture frame’s floral engraving. “No, I didn’t give up looking for them.” I can feel the tears threatening. “I just don’t know the way. But I have hope that the way will present itself and when it does, I will take it.” I’m trembling now—mad for getting myself so upset. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. I think of Wedge. In a way I wish that bullet had hit me instead. But how selfish am I to take away Wedge’s peace? What is done is done.

  In another picture, a young brunette girl smiles up at me, standing beside someone I can only assume is her father. I see my father and myself in this picture. I am safe there. Before. The tears surge. Deep breaths. I place the photograph back on the mantel and notice words carved into the brick wall behind the picture frames:

  It will be okay.

  I let out a long, deep sigh and feel my shoulders soften down my back. It will be okay.

  Crack! The floorboards give way and I fall, landing hard on my back, my head bouncing off the dirt floor. I feel the pain in my hands and knees as it ricochets in my head, against my teeth. I swear to myself, angry that I may have given myself a concussion.

  I’m jolted to the present as I wipe dirt from my face. I cover my face with my handkerchief and pull my knife from its sheath. I’ve landed in a basement with a soft floor. Odd. I switch on my headlamp. It illuminates soft brown earth on my hands. I rise up onto my knees, my hands sifting the ground furiously. I bury my nose into it. The petrichor is unmistakable. This is real dirt! Not desert sand—actual earth! Dirt for growing!

  I continue to scratch and scrabble at the soft floor. There must be water underneath for the earth to be so soft! Am I imagining this? Maybe I did hit my head too hard?

  “Nell!”

  “Hollis!” I scream. “I’m down here. You’ve got to see this! Hollis, oh my God! Get down here!”

  Hollis appears in the hole above me, his headlamp burning my eyes. “You okay? Break anything? Concussion?”

  “Yeah. No! I’m fine! Get down here!”

  Hollis shimmies over the ledge and drops down into the basement. “Bloody hell, I keep finding myself in holes today.” He looks around the room.

  “Hollis, it’s dirt, it’s dirt!” I take his hands in mine and lead him over to the earthen basement wall. I press them into the dirt. “We can grow here. We can stay here!”

  Hollis sits, his hands manipulating the dirt. “My God, it’s a bloody …” he trails off. “This place, once haunted by the ghosts of everything that should’ve been but will never be.”

  I throw a pile of dirt at him, hitting him right between the eyes, snapping him from his reverie.

  “Hey!” he yells, throwing a pile of dirt my way, but I move quickly and come to kneel in front of him.

  “No, Hollis. All of this can become something else. Whatever we want that to be. So many more like us will come searching. Let’s give them something to find.”

  I reach into my satchel and carefully withdraw the thing I have guarded with my life for months now. I show him a small canister holding a barely budding plant. As I dig in the soft dirt to create a small hole, the memory of this morning’s burial looms. Wedge, we’re home. I place the roots in the hole and cover it, creating its new home. Hollis reverently waters the tiny orange tree with his canteen. I’m so happy. I can see it in Hollis’s face, as well.

  “We can stay here! Call it home—Terra Firma.”

  Hollis thinks on this for a moment, the wheels turning. Suddenly, he grips my upper arms. “We’ll find a way to reach the underground water. Tear this building down, plant other plants, make a sort of greenhouse. We could do this. We could do this! We’ve got to tell the others!” He grabs me around the waist and twirls me around.

  He boosts me back up through the broken floorboards, into the living room, and I walk out the front door. I can hear Hollis coming behind me.

  I pause outside and step back from the house to look over the buildings lining the town. What is this that I feel right now? Hope, joy, home—foreign but familiar. Something I haven’t felt in a long, long time, not since Before. I hear the rest of the group, faint. I am thankful.

  The sun has emerged from behind the clouds and beats hot against my face. Hollis puts his arm around my shoulders and smiles down at me. I smile back at him.

  “Welcome to Terra Firma,” I say. “City of Light.”

  Impermanence

  SARA BOND

  i will write about you in our moment

  when you’re here and i will speak as we speak

  penning each word, memorizing their scent

  here, where you can hold me, i’m most complete

  i’m a million miles across your mind

  i laugh when you get me, smile when you do

  and drown in your eyes, beautiful and kind

  i learn the patience you simply breathe through

  but i won’t feel cause i know i can’t stay

  as this part of me will fade when you go

  i etch into memory our today

  for all our tomorrows i’ll never know

  but what we are, i will have forever

  sweetly, in our history of ever

  Ultra

  BY YENA SHARMA PURMASIR

  YOU NEVER LET THEM TAKE YOUR PIC-ture, you hear me? You smile, you say, ‘Thank you for having me,’ and if anyone so much as points their camera at you, I swear to God, you do whatever you have to and then you march your little butt home. So help me, no one’s keeping a piece of my baby.”

  Mama raised us on her own, a house full of girls, though it wasn’t really a house. We lived up on the third floor and every summer when the heat would rise, we would fight like animals over the bathroom for a cool shower and a few moments of privacy. And when the door-banging and screaming stopped and one of us was nursing bruised knuckles, Mama would call us out into the living room. “I am raising a house full of girls,” she’d say, her voice tired. And the three of us would look down at our feet, quiet and sorry. Because Mama only ever called us girls when we had really fucked up.

  Otherwise, she called us her babies, and she loved us even more than she was afraid for us. It didn’t matter how old we were, Mama said. When she looked at us, all she could remember was what it felt like the very first time. I was the oldest, whic
h meant I was with her the longest. That’s what I would tell my younger sisters when they were particularly irritating, stealing my doll or my favorite sweater. I’d even say it when I came home from college and they were screaming at each other about some boy or some party or something so stupid it didn’t even matter.

  Mama raised us on her own, which meant any mistake she made, she made alone. So, she created and enforced her own rules: no boys, no make-up, no nail polish, no cereal on weekends, no knocked salt, no spoiled milk, no cameras, no pictures, no movies with nudity, no movies with violence, no shaving above the knee, no tampons until fifteen, no babies until twenty, no crying at weddings, no laughing at funerals, no swearing on Sundays, no black underwear, no red underwear, no thongs, no hair dye, no perms, no broken dishes, no rain checks at the supermarket, no disrespect on the street, no disrespect in the house, no taking sides, no shoes on the furniture, no cats, no mice, no unturned penny, and no lying.

  Mama had reasons for all of them, though they felt more like warnings. Like her great-aunt who used a tampon during her first flow and never got married. Or a neighbor who saw Fatal Attraction and killed his wife. Or even my father, who was x-rayed as a child and died from metastatic cancer before he was thirty.

  Mama told us that she got the scans from his family, put them in his casket, and buried them both. “That’s what you have to do, if things go wrong; you have to try to put them back. You have to try.”

  It was something about cameras, about the lens, the shutter, the roll of film developing in a darkroom. Implements meant to capture. Was it any surprise that when a child went missing, her photos were suddenly everywhere?

  Not to Mama, who made us promise we would try our best to avoid the blue backdrop on school picture day, who also made us promise never to open the door to strangers pretending to be friends. It didn’t matter how old we were. It was her biggest fear that someone would take us away.