After The Apocalypse

by Roseman, Josh

  Like right now. I want to enjoy having the powers again before he starts in on me about responsibility and such.

  So I run.

  In less than a minute, I’m at Piedmont Park, and the joggers and walkers only perceive me as a gust of wind. Maybe a blur in their vision that they only think they saw but really didn’t.

  I really, really missed this. If the cost of getting my powers back is what I had to do last night--

  No. I slow to a walking pace, and if anyone saw me pretty much blink into existence, they’re not saying.

  Last night was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill that guy.

  I find a bench to sit on and stare off into the middle distance. I feel like every time I really start reveling in the fact that I have powers again, last night keeps coming back to haunt me.

  Danny haunted me for a long time too. But, like Danny, this guy was doing something terrible. He hurt a girl in a way that she might never recover from. He deserved to have something bad happen to him, and I’m glad I was there to help.

  I just wish it hadn’t gone that far. Or that I had been more careful.

  I sit for a long while, long enough that my skin grows hot from the sunshine and my arms -- and, undoubtedly, my face -- have turned pink. My healing powers will take care of the sunburn -- I never could tan back when I was Alexandra; my body must have seen it as damage to be repaired. I realize that my pants are slipping down on my hips a little more now than when I was at Starbucks.

  Well. That makes me feel a little better.

  I wonder what will happen if I run a little more.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RESTLESS

  +++++

  I run.

  I run away.

  I run away from my regrets, from my anger, from all those hours I spent moping around instead of trying to improve my life. I run from fear, from blame, from powerlessness.

  I just run.

  By the time I come to a stop, I’ve left the city and must be halfway to Tennessee, somewhere up in the mountains. I’m not exactly sure where, but I’m not really worried. I can get home if I need to.

  It’s nice and quiet here. Maybe that’s what I need right now.

  Just to check, I push my hand a little way into the waist of my pants. I’m not in danger of losing them, but it’s close. That’s okay, though; it’s not too hot up here, and my powers make it easy for me to hike -- okay, walk, whatever -- along a well-worn trail.

  I haven’t done this in a long time -- just walked for the sake of walking. I haven’t been able to. At my size, walking leads to all sorts of unpleasantness -- aches, pains, chafing, whatever. But the healing powers take care of all those things and I can just enjoy the quiet sounds of nature around me.

  I eventually come to a spring and decide it’s as good a place as any to stop. The water burbles along, making me remember that I had two cups of coffee earlier. I deal with that little problem and then kneel on a flat rock at the edge of the water. I cup some of the water in my hand and drink it -- which looks a lot easier to do on television, by the way -- and the coolness feels good as it spreads through my chest. I drink three more handfuls and then find a convenient stump to sit on.

  Almost without thinking, I draw my legs up into the lotus position, rest my hands on my knees, and allow my eyes to close.

  Soon enough, my thoughts turn inward. As I was taught, I let them flow through me, like the spring flowing from... well, wherever springs flow from.

  I wonder why I didn’t do this sooner -- I’ve always liked nature, and when I was a kid my favorite part of summer camp was hiking through the wilderness. Maybe not so much with the tents or the peeing outside, but just being there, just being part of the world... back then, that was what I wanted.

  Then came the powers. Then came Alexandra. I didn’t get away much when I was in high school; Professor Wedlund told me I shouldn’t leave, that evil would follow me wherever I went and at least if I stayed near him I’d have his support in fighting it. I listened to him, and I stayed close.

  I didn’t have enough time to think about how unhappy I was. I was powerful; I was strong; I was making a difference. To me, that was enough.

  And then it all went away.

  I was never diagnosed with depression, but looking back, I know that’s what was wrong with me in college -- and after. I stayed in my dorm room; I didn’t make friends or go to social events. And I ate way too much.

  I sigh and unfold my legs, opening my eyes slowly. I wasn’t sitting there long enough to get pins and needles. I stand up and stretch, looking around the clearing. Maybe I’ll make this my own little place; maybe I’ll come back again sometime.

  Maybe.

  But as nice as it is up here, it doesn’t feel quite right. It’s like this isn’t really me anymore. The girl who hiked with her friends, the girl who communed with nature... that girl is gone. The woman she became might still return, but right now... “Right now,” I say, “it’s time to go home.”

  Before I leave, though, I take out my phone and load up the maps app to bookmark this location so that I can find it again.

  Just in case.

  Neither cat comes to greet me at the door when I finally get home. Professor Wedlund isn’t waiting for me -- if he had been, I’d have just kept on running. Probably to lunch, because I’m starving. I recognize the feeling; it’s the same one I used to get when I forgot to eat.

  Well, I can handle that problem pretty quickly. I pull a three-pound bag of apples out of the fruit drawer in my refrigerator and start chomping my way through them. It only takes moments for the sugar rush to hit -- the Professor told me once that my powers convert food to energy much faster than normal people. I suppose it makes sense; I can run at an absurd rate of speed, so why shouldn’t my internal workings be fast too?

  I do try to eat at a reasonable pace, though; no need to throw up.

  After five apples, I walk into the bedroom. The pants are slipping off my hips; I push them down and off, along with my shoes, and go into the bathroom. “All right,” I tell the scale. “Do your worst.”

  I step on.

  Last week, I weighed 225 pounds.

  The digital readout resolves. My eyes go wide.

  Just to be sure, I step off, hit the reset button, and step on again.

  Nope. It wasn’t wrong. I’ve lost fifteen pounds since yesterday.

  Willow peeks in the bathroom door. “Are you all right? You smell like sunshine.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “In fact, I feel pretty good.”

  “I’m glad,” Willow says.

  I lean down to scoop her up; she lets me cradle her in my arm, belly-up, and I stroke the soft fur there. “So am I, little girl.”

  Willow purrs at me, her eyes drifting closed.

  “So am I.”

  I set Willow down on the couch and go back into the kitchen. The apples placated my hunger, but it’s still on the horizon, a storm that’s going to flood the plains if the residents don’t do something about it. I take the carton of eggs and two types of cheese out of the refrigerator, drip a little oil in a pan, and proceed to make myself an omelet. The shakes I used to drink -- I’m going to have to buy more of that powdered stuff, I decide, if the powers really are back -- were mostly protein, and eggs are mostly protein, so...

  So I eat the omelet -- wolf it down, really -- and the only thing that prevents me from making another one is that I’m now out of eggs. Going to have to go shopping again, I think.

  In the meantime, I’m restless. Restless, edgy, and itching to use my powers again.

  Fortunately, I have a target for all of those feelings.

  We had a cleaning lady when I was a kid. Her name was Becky, and every other Wednesday she’d come to the house and handle the dusting, the vacuuming, the bathrooms, the kitchen, and whatever laundry we left for her. She was nice. I wonder what happened to her; after my parents died and Professor Wedlund sold the house, I never heard from her again.

 
These days I don’t have a cleaning lady. Or a service. It’s just me. I don’t like cleaning, and I don’t get the joy out of a clean house like some people do. Sure, it feels nice seeing the results of that work, but then I get grumpy because I know that, in a few days or a week, my tub, toilet, and kitchen will once again need to be sprayed, scrubbed, and sanitized. It just feels like such a waste of time to me.

  Now, though, it’s almost fun. I’m only constrained by the physical, and not even my own physical. I can clean the bathroom mirror as quickly as the Windex hits the glass; I have the strength and endurance to scrub the range top until it’s as white as the day I moved in; I mop the kitchen and bathroom floors so quickly that they’re done almost before I start. In fact, the only thing that takes as long as usual is the vacuuming, because it only works if I’m not zooming it over the carpet.

  When I finally get to the litterboxes, I find myself having to slow down, at least a little, so I don’t make too much of a mess. “About time,” Buffy says, sitting on the counter and watching me. “Do you know how much I hate using those things?”

  “I’m not letting you outside,” I say as I tie the bag of old litter.

  “I have claws.” She lifts a paw and flexes, showing me.

  “Yeah, you do.” I give her an evil grin. “That reminds me...”

  Buffy darts out of the room, but I’m faster than her, and not afraid of retaliation anymore, and in no time at all I finally have her claws clipped. The moment I release her, she runs off somewhere to sulk. Willow, by comparison, is much easier. She doesn’t like this, but it’s been way too long since I’ve done my cats’ nails, and given that Buffy is my pre-dawn alarm clock, I’d rather not have her hanging onto me with her claws while she meows in my face.

  Finally done with the apartment, I take a quick shower, weigh myself again -- still 210, although I feel lighter than before -- and plop onto the couch with a half-empty gallon jug of orange juice. Willow walks over and rests her head on my thigh. “You’re happy,” she says. Her own happiness is transmitted from the purr in her throat, through my clothes, and into my skin.

  I rest my hand on her head and stroke her ears. “I am."

  “It’s been a while.” That’s Buffy, glaring at me from the bedroom doorway, sitting pretty like a princess, like she isn’t thinking about how best to take her revenge for what I did to her. “Maybe you should do this more often?”

  “What, clean?” I chuckle. “Maybe I will, now that it doesn’t take half the day.”

  Buffy gives me a slow blink. “You know exactly what I meant. These powers you’re so happy about having -- the more you use them, the happier you are. So use them.”

  I look down at Willow, feeling my brow furrow as I do. “What do you think?”

  Willow’s eyes are already half-closed. “I love you,” she says sleepily, rubbing her cheek on my leg. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Buffy says. “All she cares about is petting and sleeping.”

  “Petting’s not...” Willow hums, a pleasant little noise. “Not so bad.”

  And then she’s asleep.

  Careful not to disturb Willow, I open the juice and drink straight from the jug. Ah, the life of a single person -- no one to tell me not to indulge my bad habits. Mom just used to stare at me, incredulous, as I stood at the open refrigerator and polished off a quart of milk at a time, straight from the carton. When I put down the orange juice, I see that Buffy is sitting on the coffee table now. “What?”

  “What was it like the last time?”

  “The last time?”

  Buffy stretches out down on the table, the end of her tail doing that little tip-tap wag cats sometimes do. “The last time you changed from a normal person to a powerful person. What was it like?”

  “You know,” I say, my tone turning contemplative, “it’s been a long time since someone’s asked me that question.”

  What was it like when I first got my powers?

  Fucking awesome.

  For my entire freshman year of high school, I’d been something of an introvert. Redistricting had sent me to a different place than most of my friends, and I wasn’t much good at making new ones. The smart girls in the unstylish clothes tend to have that problem. I guess I’m overstating it a bit, because I did meet a few people, but no one like my old friends from middle school. Over the summer I went back to the sleep-away camp I used to attend, this time as a junior counselor, and that was fun, but I dreaded the return to school.

  The night before Goodbye Day was always a big party at camp, and while I wasn’t really happy about going home, I didn’t let it bother me too much because I was having a great time with my friends. Especially Doug. Doug and I had been going to this same camp for years, and we’d corresponded via e-mail and the occasional phone call during the school year. I still remember my eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C., when his school was there at the same time -- he lived in Indiana -- and we snuck away from our groups at the hotel for what turned out to be my first kiss.

  Two years later and much more mature -- in my own mind, anyway -- I didn’t stop him when he made it to second base, and no one was around to stop us, either. No one from the camp, anyway.

  So there we were, making out and feeling each other up, with only night-time insects and a couple of flashlights for company, when I heard something crash through the woods, heading in our direction.

  I quickly pulled away from Doug, tugging my shirt back down and readjusting my bra, hoping it was just some of the kids playing a prank. I definitely didn’t want to get caught -- I wanted to come back next summer, and fooling around wasn’t allowed. Not that it didn’t happen, but it was important to me to be there next year. Doug too.

  I only wish it had been one of the senior counselors, or the director, or even some of the younger kids. Getting thrown out of the camp would’ve been better than seeing that... that thing bearing down on us.

  All I saw at first was a dark shape with glowing red eyes. I grabbed Doug’s hand as he turned to start running, but he tripped over something and went sprawling to the ground. I tried to pull him to his feet, but it was too late. The thing barreled into me and I went flying. I hit a tree, back-first, and pain exploded along my spine. Then I fell on my face, unable to move, barely capable of breathing.

  There was a crunch, and Doug yelled in pain.

  I closed my eyes. Whatever this thing was, it was going to kill us both.

  And then...

  And then.

  I heard the thing still moving in my direction -- how far had it thrown me, anyway? -- and managed to gasp out something totally cliché. “Mom... Dad... I love you.”

  The next breath should’ve been my last. The thing was right on top of me, and I felt waves of cold pouring off its body like it had spent days in a walk-in freezer. It grabbed me by my left arm and yanked me into the air -- I let out a hoarse half-howl as my shoulder popped out of its socket, but that was nothing compared to the burning cold of its hand -- or tentacle, or whatever -- around my arm.

  And the cold was spreading. It went into my shoulder, then my chest, and then up toward my neck. I closed my eyes.

  But the cold... stopped.

  No, it didn’t just stop. Something made it stop. Something that felt like a blow-torch against the back of my neck.

  I screamed again and started to struggle, started to kick out at the creature, and when I finally connected, I felt it drop me to the forest floor.

  The cold was gone; all I felt was a burning in my neck, like I was hooked up to a live wire. The thing grabbed for me again, and I ducked out of the way, faster than I’d ever moved before. Adrenaline, thought the tiny part of my brain still capable of being rational. Cool.

  That was all the time I had to think, though; the thing was coming for me again, and I only had one working arm -- though the dull ache in my shoulder was starting to be less awful. I kept moving, still at that unbelievable speed, and managed to get to m
y feet. It glared at me, standing there, and roared.

  There was only one thing I could do: I screamed back.

  Then I charged it.

  Running into the thing was like running into a wall of ice. I hit it shoulder-first -- the right one, not the left one -- and it sounded exactly like a hammer smashing a concrete block. I powered through its body, driving it backward until we plowed into a tree. It roared again and slammed its fists, or whatever it had, against my back, but I was somehow strong enough to break away from it, set my feet, and throw the most technically-awful punch in history in the direction of its eyes.

  Another sledgehammer noise, and the sensation of gooey stuff on my knuckles. But one of its eyes wasn’t glowing anymore, and as I watched, it fell to its... its knees, I guessed... like it was cowering in fear.

  Good.

  I moved away slowly, in Doug’s general direction, until I heard him moaning at my feet. I knelt, not taking my eyes off the thing. “You okay?” I whispered.

  “Broke my arm,” he said, voice shaking. “Just... just stomped on it! So... cold!”

  “I know.” I touched his hair. “Can you run?”

  “R-run?”

  I nodded, even though the flashlights were too far away for him to see me do it. “When I say, you get up and you get help. I’ll hold it off.”

  “Andrea, no! You can’t!”

  “I have to,” I hissed. “Doug, something’s happening to me-- oh, crap!”

  “What?”

  It was on its feet now. I stood up and put myself between Doug and the thing. “Run!” I shouted. “Run!”

  I didn’t watch him go, or listen to the sound of him crashing through the forest. I kept my eyes on the thing and flexed my fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” I said, and to my immense surprise, I didn’t sound scared. Why am I not scared? “Just go... leave, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  It shook its head. My eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness, and I didn’t like what I saw. It was only six feet tall, but it was wider than Doug and me combined, with no nose and an enormous mouth filled by sharp teeth and a slavering tongue. Its arms ended in long tentacles that seemed to act like fingers, and its legs were thick and surprisingly stumpy, given how fast it moved. And, of course, there was the one remaining red eye. Somehow it had overcome the pain of me punching it so hard that I’d busted the other one. And how the hell did I do that, anyway? I mean, I wasn’t exactly a weakling, but I wasn’t that strong.