“Wait here.” Alex climbs off his bike and approaches the man slowly on foot.
“Careful, Dad, he looks crazy.”
“Sir, can we help you, sir?” Alex speaks gently, softly, just loud enough for the old man to hear him.
Slowly, the old man turns, faces Alex. Alex notices that he’s covered in blood from his neck to his knees, yet he does not appear wounded. Only the blood and the deranged look on the old man’s face make Alex stop dead in his tracks. The old man stands stiffly, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, glaring at Alex.
“It’s all gone,” hisses the old man. “My home, my wife, my life, all gone.”
“We lost everything, too, but we’re still alive and so are you.”
The old man stares at Alex blankly for a moment then cackles maniacally.
“You call this life?” He takes a couple of steps toward Alex, shaking his head back and forth as if answering his own question. Alex backs slowly away. It is the first human survivor they have found and he’s covered in blood, looking deranged, glaring and coming toward Alex.
“Yes, I do,” says Alex. “We’re still standing. We survived.”
The old man reaches behind his back and pulls a handgun from his waistband. He holds it loosely yet ominously at his side, still glaring at Alex.
“Well, I can’t do this,” says the old man. Then he lifts the compact .380 automatic and points it at his own right temple.
“Please don’t.” Alex recognizes the handgun as a Beretta semiautomatic with a nine-shot magazine. He sees the old man flip the safety off with his thumb.
“Come on, you can ride with us. We’re going to Irvine Lake to find water and food. What do you need?”
“Everything I need is gone,” says the old man, still looking deranged.
Without another moment’s hesitation, he pulls the trigger. The glare turns to a blank stare and the man crumples to the pavement with a bullet hole in his temple. The man is not moving, just bleeding from the fresh bullet wound. Alex approaches the body slowly. Then he reaches into the man’s bulging back pocket and removes his wallet.
“Geez, Dad, is he dead?” Deuce stands up and stares at the body.
“Yes, he’s dead. Sorry you had to see that.”
“No biggie, I’ve seen worse in Call of Duty.”
“That’s just a game, Deuce. This is real life, real blood. This man was somebody’s son, somebody’s husband and somebody’s friend. This is not some computer fantasy where he comes back to life tomorrow. All that gaming has made you insensitive.”
Alex opens the man’s wallet and finds twenty crisp new hundred-dollar bills, two stainless steel credit cards and a California driver’s license. He pockets the cash and credit cards and tosses the wallet back onto the pavement near the body. Then he reads aloud from the driver’s license.
“Alan Wertheimer, sixty-five years old,” he tosses it next to the wallet and turns to Deuce. “Come on, let’s stick with our plan.” They mount their trikes and head up Pacific Coast Highway with two thousand useless American dollars and two useless credit cards to add to their bounty.
“You were right, Dad. Real life is far worse than my games. I just don’t understand why he killed himself.”
“He lost everything. Some people can’t adapt to that.”
Lake Tahoe
Sam Hayden huddles over the shortwave radio and scans the frequencies again. Abruptly he yanks the headset off and throws it down in disgust.
“Not a goddamned peep today.”
Julia pats his shoulder. “Well, I’ve got some news. We’re not alone up here. I found two survivors.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? Where?”
“Down by the lake, a man and a woman.”
“Why didn’t you bring them here?”
“Really, Dad? You want to share what little we have with some New York trucker and his stripper girlfriend who, by the way, curses like a sailor?”
“That’s not very neighborly, Jules.” Sam eyes her carefully.
“For god’s sake, Dad, the man’s name is Hannibal. The only other Hannibal I know is Hannibal Lechter in Silence of the Lambs, a serial killer.”
“So we’re just going to let them fend for themselves because of a man’s name and some foul language?”
“I suggested they find a cave or a good tree. They’ve got water and plenty of fish. They’ll figure it out. They’re grown-ups.”
Sam Hayden eyes his daughter suspiciously. She has always been the first volunteer to help another human being, no matter what the circumstances. This is a side of Julia he’s never seen before, cold, dispassionate and inhumane. He suspects she is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. He feels it in himself, too.
He wonders if there’s anyone left without some kind of post-traumatic stress. Most of all he wonders why he, his daughter and the two strangers at the lake have been spared by the apocalypse. It doesn’t take an astrophysicist to know that they have survived a global mass extinction. Two billion shortwave radios in the world and Sam’s is the only one still transmitting.
Earth’s moon had been reduced to a broken fragment drifting farther out into space with each passing hour. Sam resigns himself to watching it leave its celestial home after more than four billion years. He resigns himself to the notion that most life as he knew it on Earth has perished. Though history has surely been made, Sam doubts it will ever be told unless he tells it himself, starting with a New York truck driver and an ex-stripper.
“So how are your serial killer and stripper supposed to catch fish, Jules?”
“They’ll figure it out.” Julia is determined to avoid them.
“What if they come looking for us? Do we try to scare them off or welcome them as fellow human survivors?”
Julia scowls at him. Part of her knows he is right. Hannibal and Satin might, indeed, try to find them. Maybe Sam is right. Maybe survivors need to stick together in these circumstances no matter how little they have in common. Probably better to go to them with a peace offering.
She quietly fills a backpack with a few eating utensils, some protein bars and a spare blanket. Sam can’t help but notice.
“There’s the daughter I know and love.”
Reluctantly, Julia straps on the backpack and climbs out of the shelter. She gets halfway to the lake when she smells cooked fish and sees the campfire below. She shakes her head in disbelief reminded of something her mother once said when Julia was still in college at LSU. “Just because a person looks dumb, sounds dumb or acts dumb doesn’t mean they are dumb.” To Julia back then, the Louisiana State students from the South all sounded like hicks. So she was beside herself when she realized that several were pulling better grades. Her mother had been right. It’s wrong to judge people by how they look or sound.
She finds Hannibal and Satin in the same spot where she left them earlier, laughing like teenagers sharing some private joke.
“Hello! It’s me again, Julia!”
Surprised by her unexpected return, Hannibal and Satin stop laughing. Julia approaches and slips off the backpack.
“Sorry I ran off earlier. I thought you two might need some things. We don’t have much, but I brought you some eating utensils and protein bars and a blanket.” Julia removes the items from her backpack, sets them on a big rock.
“Much appreciated. You were right about the fish,” says Hannibal. “This trout tastes damn good.”
Julia is almost afraid to ask how he caught it. Hannibal grins at her and then, as if reading her mind, he holds up his primitive ‘fishing net’ made from some gauzelike material stretched between two sticks.
“Satin didn’t need them pantyhose anymore. Made a good net. You want some trout?” Hannibal gestures toward the cooked fish.
“Oh, no thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“I would love some trout.” Sam Hayden startles them, abruptly steps out from behind the trees and extends his hand to Hannibal, “Sam Hayden.”
/> “Hannibal Morrone,” Hannibal shakes Sam’s hand and passes him some trout wrapped in a broad leaf. Sam takes a bite, grunts with pleasure then gobbles the rest.
“This is excellent. Julia says you’re from New York. What brought you here?”
“I drive a big rig. This was supposed to be my last delivery stop. You?”
“Professor at Caltech,” says Sam.
“Wow, a professor. You must be some kind of fucking genius,” says Satin. “So are we going to make it, Professor?”
“It appears we have already survived.” Sam’s logic is matter-of fact.
Satin glances up at the receding moon. “I’m talking about our runaway moon. How are we supposed to survive without that?”
“Quite well, I suspect. Back in 2014, my astronomer friends at NASA and the University of Washington asked the same question. All of our research suggested we could survive without a moon. Sure, we’ll lose most of our ocean tides, but the effects will be long-term. Our days will slowly grow shorter as the Earth’s rotation quickens, and climate change will intensify as the planet’s tilt destabilizes, but that will take hundreds of thousands to millions of years. The truth is we can still survive.”
“Good thing you don’t surf, eh, Hannibal?” Satin pokes him playfully.
“Yeah, one more thing I can cross off my bucket list.”
They share a laugh. Even Julia is amused, thinking about her own bucket list and about the unlikelihood of having something in common with Hannibal.
After they finish eating, they sit by the campfire and take turns telling stories about their former lives. Despite their circumstances, there is something very natural about four adults sharing tales over a campfire by a beautiful alpine lake. It feels almost like a vacation. It feels almost normal.
Their survival has made them equals. With no jobs, no status, no gated homes, bank accounts or fancy cars, they have only each other and a collective desire to stay alive no matter what comes.
Dana Point
Alex and Deuce arrive home just before dark with their bounty from the Irvine Lake trip. They have the three recumbent tricycles, two thousand dollars in cash, two stainless steel credit cards, an arrowhead Deuce found at the lake and some fresh water.
“So what do you think, Mom?”
“I think you two robbed a bike shop.” Jessa eyes the trikes as she carries the freshly filled water jugs to the bomb shelter door and sets them down. Deuce unchains the trikes and points them all toward Pacific Coast Highway.
“These rigs will get us to the lake and back in a few hours if we don’t stop.”
“What about Samson?”
“He can ride with me.”
“We can also give him some exercise,” says Alex. “He loves to run.”
“He’ll need to eat more if you run him like that.” Jessa pets Samson and scratches him behind the ears.
“We saw a survivor, Mom.”
“We saw a survivor commit suicide. The cash and credit cards were his, Jess.”
“Bad luck to keep anything with his name on it.”
“I know. It’s all probably useless anyway. Like him dying.”
Jessa snatches up the cash and credit cards and buries them beneath the ash and debris. “Why some people cannot accept change?”
“He lost his whole family, Mom.”
“Still, living is always better than dying.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Wertheimer didn’t see it that way,” says Alex.
Alex’s family has enough supplies in the bomb shelter to last them almost six months. If they stay in Dana Point, they will use up their supplies, then hit the road to Irvine Lake where they might survive indefinitely on fresh fish and water. If the sun ever reappears, they can even try to grow their own vegetables from the seed packs Alex keeps stashed in the bomb shelter.
Alex had picked up some very useful survival tips by binge-watching eight straight hours of Doomsday Preppers. The day after his binge, he stocked up on vegetable seeds, wooden matches and backpacks for the three of them to use as emergency bug-out bags.
Despite all that they have, Alex really only values the one thing they cannot take with them, the bomb shelter itself. He knows they will be far less protected once they leave it behind. He has even toyed with the idea of shuttling to the lake and back by bike so they can remain in the shelter. Yet the frequent road trips might also compromise their safety. He puts the question to a family vote.
“What do you guys think we should do?”
“I vote we stay here and do road trips.” Deuce sits cross-legged on the floor while Samson nuzzles his leg. Deuce strokes the dog’s head. “It’s still home, only less boring now that we have some transportation and Samson here.”
“Up to you guys,” says Jessa.
“I’m inclined to stay here, too. It’s relatively safe and we know the area.”
“We can still go exploring,” adds Deuce.
Samson’s ears suddenly perk up and he lets out a low growl. He stands and growls again, this time locking his gaze on the shelter door.
“What is it, boy?” Deuce instinctively grabs the rebar, which Jessa has left leaning against the wall. They hear the sudden insistent scratching on the outside of the bomb shelter door. Samson, barking loudly, charges toward the door.
“Samson, no!” yells Deuce. Fortunately, the shelter door is too heavy to be opened by the dog without help. “Samson, quiet.” He kneels and puts his free arm around Samson’s shoulders to calm him, holding him back at the same time. He can feel the dog straining toward the door. The scratching from outside grows more vigorous and insistent. Deuce holds Samson tighter.
“Shush, quiet,” says Alex.
Samson continues growling fiercely.
“Maybe it’s those mongrels from the market,” says Deuce.
“I doubt it. They have more food than we do. No reason for them to bother us.”
After several minutes, the scratching against the shelter door finally ceases. Samson calms noticeably. Alex creeps up the steps, unlatches the door and opens it a crack. It appears quiet and dark outside so he opens it another few inches.
That turns out to be a big mistake. He leaves just enough space for a wild coyote to lurch forward and jam his head into the space between the door and the heavy frame. That turns out to be an even bigger mistake for the coyote. With almost blinding speed, Samson pulls away from Deuce’s hold, leaps forward and lunges straight for the coyote’s head. He clamps his powerful jaws down over the smaller animal’s snout and practically rips it from the coyote’s body. At the same time, Samson presses his own body weight against the door.
Deuce passes the rebar to Alex, who opens the door wide enough for Samson to drag the yelping coyote up the last two steps, away from the shelter. Alex follows the two canines outside. Just as he closes the door behind him to protect Jessa and Deuce, the second coyote leaps from the darkness and lands right on Samson’s back. As the second coyote bites into Samson’s shoulder, Alex raises the rebar over his head with both hands and brings it down full force onto the wild animal’s skull. There is an audible crack as the animal falls off Samson and collapses in a heap at Alex’s feet. Samson finally releases the first coyote from the deadly grip of his jaws and drops the lifeless body to the ground. Alex notices that the coyotes are all skin and bones and would have soon died of starvation, anyway.
“Good boy, Samson, good boy!” Alex drags the dead coyotes away from the bomb shelter and leaves them near the ruins of his home, then he and Samson return to the bomb shelter. Alex closes and locks the door behind them.
“Geez, that was close. We’ll bury them tomorrow.”
“See,” says Jessa, “it’s not safe here, either.”
Chapter 6
October 21
As the days and weeks pass uneventfully, Alex keeps track of time in a spiral notebook. It’s been weeks since the coyote attack, and Alex and Jessa have decided that it’s best to stick with their original plan, exhaust mo
st of the supplies in the relative safety of their bomb shelter then relocate to Irvine Lake. The shelter has already saved them from marauding coyotes and the ubiquitous airborne dust that continues settling around them.
They take long walks during the day and play card games at night. The weather doesn’t change much. Temperatures don’t vary more than a few degrees between day and night. It’s just one unbroken string of deep gray, sunless days that continues unabated, like an extended June gloom. They haven’t seen a single sign of human life in forty-two days.
On day forty-three, everything changes. They hear something they haven’t heard since the day before The Crash, the once-common metallic clicking sounds of gasoline-powered engine pistons on an approaching motor vehicle.
“Holy Honda, it’s a car!” Deuce launches out of the shelter excitedly.
He spots the half-rusted, half cream-colored, beat-up Ford panel van creeping up Pacific Coast Highway from the South at about fifteen miles an hour. Alex, Jessa and Samson come out to join him just as the van sputters to a stop. The driver and another man get out. They are both medium height, stocky, swarthy-looking Mexicans.
Deuce and Alex notice the Baja, California license plates. They crouch low among the gray weeds and watch as the two men talk animatedly then stand together and piss on the ocean side of Pacific Coast Highway.
When they finish, they zip up, walk around to the back of the van and open the doors. To Deuce’s surprise, two adult women and three children file out of the van, two girls and a boy who looks about Deuce’s age. The youngest girl looks maybe six and the older one barely twelve. They cannot see the Jacks family spying on them from the bluff about fifty yards away.
“It’s a family,” says Jessa excitedly. “Let’s see if they need help.” She moves to stand but Alex grabs her, holds her down.
“Let’s just stay low and let them pass.”
“But they have a van,” says Deuce, “and they survived.”
“What if they’ve run out of food, water or gas, and we can’t help them,” says Alex. “We’d be outnumbered and we don’t have enough to feed seven more.”
RUNAWAY MOON Page 9
