by Ryan Schow
With the shotgun aimed at this guy, Rex says, “Stay put. He shoots me he’s done. You hear that? You have a bullet. I have pellets.”
“I know the drill,” he snarls. Another arrow zips by startling the gunman, but not enough to knock him off his game. Looking at his buddy—who also has a weapon on Rex, he says, “Get the others, tell them I have dessert, but come heavy.”
The fifth guy takes off running.
Macy is moving now, one inch at a time out of the gunman’s view. Inside, I’m freaking out because in her hand, behind her back, is a handgun. Something I never expected.
Where did she get that?
Just as another arrow rips through the air, Macy’s got the gun out in front of her and I can’t breathe. Looking over, Stanton can’t breathe either. Time slows to a crawl. A smile curves Rex’s mouth into a grin, and the guy’s eyes slide sideways and find Macy.
She doesn’t speak. She just shoots him twice in the spine.
By now the fifth man is at the edge of the street. He turns to see what’s happened, but by then two arrows are headed his way. He sees them, drops and rolls out of the way, both missing their mark. Hustling to his feet, he sprints in a zig-zag pattern down the street.
Two more arrows head his way, but both miss.
“What the hell, Macy?” I scream, but she can’t hear me over the thunder in her ears.
And the guy face-down on the ground? She walking right up to him, a cold hatred in her eyes like I’ve never seen before. She aims down and fires, putting a bullet in the back of his head. Just like Stanton did with those two bullies on The Exorcist stairway.
I stifle a cry, but it’s not enough.
The dam inside me breaks open and that’s when I lose it. That’s when I go to pieces because Macy’s innocence is now gone. She’s no longer a child. No longer my little girl.
Stanton’s got me in his arms, and Rex is taking the gun from Macy, who just saved our lives. He’s telling her she did good, giving her a hug. She has that faraway look, but Rex isn’t letting her bathe in it. He’s talking her through it, telling her she just saved us.
I glance up and a young woman with a bow and quiver of arrows is walking our way. She’s tall (maybe five foot nine?) and thin but not frail. Her chestnut hair is pulled into a ponytail, a few strands hanging loose in her face. She slides the bow on her back and I can’t help but be impressed. Or scared. There’s nothing soft about this girl.
She’s wearing black boots with black jeans and a black skin-tight tank top. Her body is lithe and competent, her look slightly athletic. The closer she gets, the more I can see her eyes. They’re like cold stones: steadfast, unfeeling.
Yet she came to our rescue. My tears dry up as curiosity quickly replaces loss. All four of us watch her as she approaches.
“You guys okay?” she asks.
Her voice is a summer rain; it’s kind but strong, tempered yet poised to say more. We’re strangers though, and in the company of strangers you’re never really your authentic self.
“Thanks to you,” Macy says, still rattled. “That was amazing.”
“Do you guys know what just happened?” she asks. “It’s like all the street lights were shot out at once.”
“I think it was a power surge,” Stanton says. “But from the sky.”
“Nuclear EMP,” Rex concludes.
“EMP?” the archer asks.
“Electromagnetic pulse,” Rex says. “Detonated at the right altitude, we’re talking about a devastating weapon. The energy is powerful enough to knock out the power grid for hundreds of miles around.”
“Isn’t that what the Iraq guy told us might happen?” I ask. “The guy who gave us the extra ammo?”
“Waylon,” Stanton says.
Rex reaches out his good arm, extends his hand. The archer looks down at it, wary, then takes it. “I’m Rex McNamara, this is my sister, Cincinnati, her husband Stanton and their daughter, my niece, Macy.”
She looks around and says, “Indigo.”
Looking at her, feeling an immense swell of appreciation, I’m too overwhelmed to just stand here. I go and take her in a hug, which she hesitantly returns.
“Thank you for saving my family,” I tell her.
“I’ve been hunting these guys for days now.” That’s all she can say. This one is a great shot, but she’s light on words.
Turning to my daughter, who is now standing next to Stanton, I say, “Macy, baby, are you okay?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because you just killed that man,” I say, unable to escape the fact that this dark day has finally come—the day I warned Stanton about, the day I’ve long since feared.
“No, Mom. I didn’t kill him,” she says. “I saved us.” Then, looking at Indigo and Rex, she adds, “Well she did. And uncle Rex did.”
“It was a group effort,” Indigo says, unsmiling, and we all agree. “Did you have anything to do with that helicopter going down?”
“That was our ride,” Stanton says, finally speaking up.
“Drones?” she asks.
“How’d you know,” Rex replies, sarcastic.
The way my brother is looking at her, I can tell he’s smitten. It never fails to surprise me how the world can come to a complete stop the second a guy sees a pretty girl Then again, this girl isn’t pretty in the girlish sense of the word. It’s more like she’s tomboyish, and capable. Two things a guy like my brother appreciates. Obviously.
“Why were you hunting them?” Macy asks. “Who are they?”
Indigo leans down to the one with the arrow in his head, pulls up his shirt and on his ribs is the tattoo of a large black snake that’s accordioned in a series of S’s. It’s dark, scaly and menacing. Worst of all, the ink looks fresh.
“They call themselves The Ophidian Horde. They’re a new gang from what I’ve gathered. Offshoots of the SoMo gangs and fresh out of the wrapper.”
“SoMo?” Stanton asks.
“South of Market.”
“Like the Mission District gangs?” Macy asks.
“Yeah, I guess. I think they formed out of…whatever it is that’s happening, or happened, here. The last two I tried to talk to, they didn’t make it.” Looking at Rex, she asks, “Why did the EMP go off? Who would do that?”
“Most likely the military. No other way to stop the drones.”
“You enlisted?” she asks.
“In between tours in Afghanistan. I was heading out in a few weeks, but I’m thinking that’s all a moot point right about now.”
Indigo grabs a hold of the arrow in the man’s head, gives it a tug, testing it. It doesn’t budge. She gives his head a little kick, then goes to the second guy. Bending over, she yanks the arrow out of his throat, sloughs off the blood and meat, sticks it in the quiver on her back.
He starts to squirm a bit; he’s not dead. Not taking her eyes off him, she reaches a hand back and says, “Gun.” Macy hands over her weapon; Indigo fires a round into his forehead then turns and hands the gun back.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Uh…you’re welcome?” Macy replies while the three of us just stand there slack jawed and speechless.
While collecting the other arrows that missed their targets, to no one in general Indigo says, “So where are you staying?”
“Off of Turk,” I say. “But we were ambushed by guys like these. We made it out alive, but lost one along the way.” When I confess this, I’m thinking of Gunner. It’s all I can do not to start crying again.
“Uncle Rex?” Macy asks.
“Yes, niece Macy?”
“We thought…I mean, well…mostly I thought—”
“I was a goner?” he asks. We all nod. “I was turned while running and shooting and somewhere along the way everything just went black. Next thing I know I’m in the weeds and these clowns are dragging me to my feet.”
“I thought you were shot,” I say. “By the drone.”
“‘Fraid not,” he says with a sly grin he turns on the archer. Oh
, Lord. I clear my throat audibly, disappointed in him for the first time right now. He pretends not to notice.
“There’s a few vacancies in our neighborhood, if you want to try to find someplace nearby,” Indigo offers, ignoring Rex. “At least there you’ll have heat and shelter.”
“Hate to break it to you,” Rex says, “but that power surge that just broke open the skies—if that’s what that was—it means no more drones, but it also means no more heat, no more electricity, no more anything electronic.”
Now she’s all eyes on him. The concern in her eyes, that’s the first truly identifiable emotion. At least now we know she’s human.
“For how long?” she asks.
“Could be awhile,” Stanton says, his tone rather ominous. “Months. Years maybe. Possibly even decades depending on the altitude and damage.”
“So what does that mean for us?” Indigo asks.
Rex gives her a grim smile, then says, “What my brother-in-law is so eloquently trying to say is, until we hear otherwise, we’re pretty much screwed with a capital F.”
END OF BOOK 1
Chapter Twenty
Some people are always talking about how when you need someone, anyone, that when your friends fail you and your family abandons you and humanity plummets into a mire of its own making, at least you have God.
But what if you need Him and all He’s got for you is closed lips and a cold shoulder? Well, the answer becomes simple: you’re on your own.
I tell myself it’s better this way. But it’s a lie. It was a lie when the world was normal and it’s a lie now that it’s not. Every so often, when I think back to the beginning, to just before all this happened, when I think about all the drama that used to breed, gestate and grow legs not only in school but between my parents at home, I think I might actually believe in the high merits of solitude.
At one point I might have even told myself the apocalypse would be a welcomed reprieve from real life. That if civilization fell, I’d no longer feel so alone. Surely the threat of extinction would bring us all together, not as one social group or another, but as human beings, right?
I allowed myself the indulgence of these grand, foolish thoughts because the unthinkable had happened and I suddenly found myself grappling with a new reality, one with ragged edges and the everyday reminder of my mortality.
The pillars of this once cultured world shuddered and disintegrated. Much to my dismay, to my absolute horror, people didn’t turn to each other the way I had hoped, rather they turned on each other with a sort of sick desperation. Now that I’m up to my teeth in it, my perspective has shifted. I am no longer that naïve girl from before. The world is different, I am different, and nothing is guaranteed, not even the survival of our species.
My name is Indigo, and this is my story.
Chapter Twenty-One
My dad is leaving me, and honestly, it feels like the worst time ever. This day was coming, I knew it was, and I knew it would feel like this, but still…
“I won’t be gone long,” he says. “Two days for sure, three tops.”
I give my father a pair of big empty eyes; I show him my most neutral face. This will be my first time at home all alone and though I’m eighteen—certainly no child—a first is a first.
First my mother, now him.
My mother was a different circumstance though. She fell for some high society pretty boy who pitched her the dream life, and a few months after that, she left me and my father for him. Leaving tore a gigantic hole in our life, one we’re still raw over. At least we have each other, though.
But now he’s leaving, too. Unlike my mother, however, he’s coming back. I wish I weren’t so dependent on him, but he’s all I have, and even though I’m not very good at telling him this, I’m grateful to have him.
“What am I going to do for the next three days?” I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders and gives me a sheepish grin. He knows I don’t really have any friends. He also knows I’m not prone to getting into trouble, so perhaps he’s thinking that leaving me here by myself is a no-brainer. Well, it is for him. But it’s not for me, not at all. I make the face.
“What?” he asks with a laugh.
“I guess sometimes I just wish Mom were here,” I admit, although I know the weight behind this statement is too much to bear right now, for either of us.
His subtle amusement fades.
“Join the crowd, Shooter,” he says, gathering up his things—car keys, cell phone, wallet.
My dad calls me Shooter because it sounds better than archer. Mostly I’m into archery, but I shoot guns, too, therefore, I’m a shooter.
Shooter.
Mom split a few years back. She’s gone now, but not all the way gone. Every so often she calls to see how I am, how school is, how life is treating me.
“It’s amazing, Mom,” I answer, deadpan. “Just amazing.”
She once said she loved my dry humor. I’m still not sure if she was being sarcastic, or if she was for real.
Now when she calls, I say, “Hang on, I’ll get Dad,” to which she says, “You know I’m calling to talk to you.”
Of course she is. She doesn’t talk to my dad. Even though he’s super chill, good looking and usually on his game, she’s avoiding him like the plague. Even I know she doesn’t want to take responsibility for what she’s done, for how badly she hurt us.
When she first went and demolished our family for this promising new beau of hers, after a few weeks passed, she called and I asked how things were. To her, everything was fairy dust and rainbows. She was in love. Now two years later, she’s doing everything she can to hide the remorse in her voice. It’s there, though. I can hear it.
Beneath the reflective surface of those still waters, an undercurrent of discontent is churning. It’s a restless undertow she’s desperately trying to hide. Sometimes I think when she’s done with Tad (yep, the home wrecker has a name and it’s a really dumb one!), I wonder if she’ll come crawling back to my dad. Even worse, I wonder if he’ll take her back. I hope he doesn’t. She doesn’t deserve someone like him.
Anyway, I’m no psychologist and I’m not going to pretend I understand anything that has to do with relationships—especially marriage—but even I can see she’s not where she needs to be in life. The woman has no clue what she wants. If she hadn’t cheated on my dad the way she did, I would almost feel sorry for her. But she did, so I don’t.
So now she lives with Tad a few miles from here, and it still feels too close. I’ve been to their home half a dozen times and I swear to God, I don’t like it. It’s too large and too ostentatious and it’s really cold inside. Not cold like the weather, or ice cream—rather it feels cold the way you describe something as empty, something devoid of a soul. That brings me to Tad.
Oh, Lord…Tad.
I don’t like talking about him since he pretty much stole my mom from us, but whatever. He’s a small part of my life whether I like it or not. I’d tell you all about the guy, but I don’t want to waste too much time subject of Tad because teenage angst over your mom’s new squeeze is just a tad too juvenile and annoying, even for me.
After going to my mom’s new place for dinner for the first time, my father asked me how it was. What he was really asking for was intel, gossip, my most judgmental take on what has become enemy territory. Naturally, I embellished.
“Tad is a bit of a douchebag with a tad more hair gel than a man his age should have and he’s a tad bit condescending when he talks to me, acting like I should be more of a girly girl like mom and not some practically flat chested tomboy who likes to shoot things and drive muscle cars.”
The way I said it, honestly, I’ve never seen my dad squirm like that. Was I being a bit too dramatic? A tad too self-deprecating? Perhaps.
“That kind of language is unbecoming of a woman,” my dad said, completely ignoring what I thought was a brilliant play on words.
“Did no one ever tell you? Douchebag isn’t a bad wo
rd. It’s an adjective people like me use so we don’t have to say a-hole.”
“Whatever,” he said, half amused. “And don’t say those things about yourself. You’re perfect the way you are.”
The one thing not lost on me was my dad referring to me as a woman. I’m a senior in high school and ready as ever to get out of the cesspool of bullies and narcissistic cliques and over-liberal California teachers telling me how I should think rather than how to do math or science or where to properly place a dangling participle. I feel like an angsty teenage girl who doesn’t quit fit into the world around me. What I don’t feel like, however, is a woman.
To me, a woman has a job. She has bills and credit cards and appointments with the salon and maybe even a personal shopper. She has a place of her own, a few different guys wanting to please her, and she has sex. Lots and lots of mind blowing sex.
So no, I’m not feeling so much like a woman. But if I’ve got to start somewhere, then staying home by myself for a few days will be the next step in the evolution of yours truly. It’ll be like a trial run of growing up. And I’ll tell you this…the first thing I’m going to do is not get up at six a.m. The second thing I’m planning for is more sleep!
Not that I’ll tell my dad any of this.
I won’t.
Right now the two of us are standing in the kitchen with a morning chill pressed on our windows and the outside world black and silent. I’m in my pajamas with bed head and sleep crusted eyes not wanting my dad to leave.
“Will you let me know when you get there?” I ask, folding my arms. “Because San Diego is a long ways away.”
He’s eating toast, skimming his itinerary one last time.
“I will. You have a list on the counter. Alarm code. Emergency credit card. Keys to the gun safe if you need it. Plus there’s a hundred dollars in there for food and gas. And you know where all the emergency numbers are, so…”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He glances up at me, gives me a look, then opens his arms and says, “Come here.” I go to him, and he pulls me into one of his amazing hugs. I won’t lie, I’m a daddy’s girl. He lets go after a minute or two, tells me he loves me then says, “Will you please, please, please make sure you go to school?”
