Mega Post-Apocalyptic Double Bill

by Mark Gillespie

  Louise pointed to the empty highway over Eda’s shoulder.

  “We’re going west and then south,” she said. “If you believe the rumors, there’s some big tribes based down in New Mexico. It’s a long walk for sure, especially for my old bones, but what the hell? Northeast is dead.”

  “What do you say Eda?” Florence asked. “Will you join us?”

  Eda was tempted to say yes outright. The voice of instinct told her to accept the offer and to travel southwest with the Nomads to New Mexico. They seemed like good, genuine people. That was rare enough and it was a solid reason to turn back and go with them. Eda liked their faces too, honest and with kind eyes that didn’t probe too deeply. These weren’t the kind of people who’d squeeze her dry before leaving her for dead on the highway.

  Say yes, damn it.

  Eda smiled and slowly lifted her hood, pulling it tight over her head.

  “No thanks,” she said, looking at the two women standing in the rain. Louise’s electric blue eyes had dimmed a little. “It’s…it’s hard to explain. But I have to go to Boston. I have to.”

  “Well the offer stands,” Louise said, through gritted teeth. “Should you change your mind that is.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Eda said.

  They said a brief goodbye and went their separate ways under the pouring rain. Eda and Frankie Boy continued east towards the coast while the Nomads took the road west and inland. It was a long time before Eda had the nerve to look back. With a gnawing regret, she stood rooted to the spot, watching the caravan as it disappeared around a curve in the highway.

  2

  Eda and Frankie Boy arrived in Boston two days later.

  When she lived in New York, Eda always had a sense that something was there inside the emptiness – a presence, the possibility of running into some living thing on a street corner somewhere. The Big Apple was a shadow of its former self alright, but it wasn’t all the way gone. The Complex was proof of that. Boston on the other hand, was all the way gone. Eda was crawling around inside the stomach of a giant corpse in Boston. The skyscrapers were tombstones. The city was eerily silent apart from the steady pitter-patter of the rain.

  The scenery was familiar by now to anyone who’d traveled through various towns and cities of postwar America. Mounds of assorted debris were piled up on the street, abandoned cars sat on the road, reeking of rot and death. Shards of broken glass snapped underfoot with every step. Some of the buildings had come down, most likely in the war years, but some of them had probably only been damaged in the fighting, only to collapse later on.

  In the distance, giant piles of rubble blotted out the horizon.

  Eda slid the backpack off her shoulders and dropped it onto the wet road, dodging the puddles at her feet. Her joints were stiff and made a loud clicking noise as she moved. Everything felt tight.

  She pulled the zip open and peered inside.

  Her supplies were almost gone. She’d already eaten what the Nomads had given her and the truth was that Eda was no hunter. Even if animals showed up, Eda had no way to catch them except with the sword strapped to her waist. And that wasn’t going to work. That meant she’d have to stick to what she knew. She’d been a scavenger since leaving the Complex. She’d have to scavenge some more in Boston while looking for a woman called Pam Burton.

  She checked her boots, stamping them off the cracked asphalt several times. There were so many cracks on the road that it looked like a giant spider’s web was hovering over the surface. The muddy soles of Eda’s boots were intact, thank God. Her waterproof socks were still dry.

  “We’re going to South Boston,” she said to Frankie Boy. The dog was sniffing at the door of an Italian restaurant, Pizza Fritta. The restaurant’s front windows had been caved in at some point, revealing an empty shell inside. There wasn’t even a piece of furniture left.

  Frankie Boy turned around at the sound of Eda’s voice. Taut muscles protruded from his thick legs as he trotted back over to her.

  “That’s where Pam Burton lived,” Eda said. “Guess that’s where we should start looking huh?”

  She picked her backpack up off the road, strapped it on and shook her head.

  “What the hell are we doing here boy?”

  Eda walked along the middle of the road, eventually finding a sign that pointed the way towards South Boston. It was all she had to go on in the impossible search for Pam Burton. Not much, she knew that. But it was Becky’s last wish that Pam be found. Becky wanted her sister-in-law to know what happened to the rest of her family and Eda was the only one left who was capable of delivering that message.

  God, if only that wasn’t true.

  If Pam Burton wasn’t already dead she was long gone from this big pile of nothing. And even if Eda found Pam alive, it still wouldn’t be enough to erase the memory of Becky’s grisly fate in the swamp.

  Eda was thinking about the Nomads as she walked. Wondering how far they’d traveled since their meeting.

  Frankie Boy strolled a hundred yards ahead of her. Now and then he’d stop and turn around, waiting for Eda to catch up with him. Eda thought she detected an impatient look in the dog’s eyes. Or was it frustration?

  She threw her hands in the air, signaling for him to keep going.

  “I know!” she yelled. In the silence of the city she could hear the blood pumping to her head. She could hear her breath, her heartbeat. “You don’t have to say it for God’s sake.”

  The German Shepherd tilted his large, wolfish head. The tip of his snout glistened in the pale glow of mid-afternoon.

  “We had to come here,” Eda said. “We left her there to die in the swamp, you and me, trapped in those metal jaws. Alone. Do you know how scared she must have been, sitting there and waiting for the end? I told her I’d try to find her sister-in-law and that’s what I’m damn well going to do. So just fuck off with your dirty dog looks Frankie and keep your nose in the air. Alright?”

  Eda kept walking, her anger not yet fully exorcised. It wasn’t Frankie Boy she was pissed off with. Truthfully, she didn’t know what it was. A lot of the time there was no reason and so the brain tried to find one. To make sense of the madness of modern life.

  As Eda followed the road, her eyes combed the empty streets, looking for something meaningful. Something to grab onto. Before getting here she’d hoped at least to run into some people – to find a small community grouped together in the likes of a train station or in a hospital or somewhere like that. There was nothing. Even the birds had fled the city of Boston, or so it seemed such was the absolute silence overhead.

  Eda found a large road marked ‘90’. This led her southeast towards the region of the city where Pam Burton had once allegedly lived. She kept to the road following the signs marked ‘S. Boston’.

  Even when she reached South Boston, Eda found herself thinking about the Nomads traveling along the western road. They couldn’t have gone far, not hauling that trio of large carts and all the supplies.

  New Mexico, she thought. I’ve never been to New Mexico.

  The abandoned neighborhoods of South Boston offered no clues to the whereabouts of Pam Burton. Eda walked up and down the streets for about two hours, reading nameplates on front doors, checking mailboxes, and looking at the intercoms on apartment buildings.

  Nothing.

  Soon she was back to where she started, not far from the highway marked ‘90’. And definitely no further forward in her search for Becky’s sister-in-law.

  Eda decided to take a break. She’d sit down, regroup and organize her thoughts. As things stood she was walking around in circles, chasing ghosts and getting nowhere. Not to mention wasting time.

  She found a small park sealed off by a metal fence.

  “C’mon Frankie,” Eda said, walking through a large gap in the fence where a gate might once have been.

  Eda flopped down onto a damp wooden bench. Now that she’d stopped moving, a sudden coldness stabbed at her skin. She sighed loudly. The park
wasn’t much to look at – the grass was badly overgrown, spilling over onto a zigzag maze of concrete paths that ran through the park like a series of ancient symbols.

  So it was true – Bostonians were officially an extinct species. And that had to include Pam Burton. But where did that leave Eda? She felt caught between the promise she’d made to Becky and the grim reality of her situation. Without help there was no way she could ever hope to find Pam or even her remains. This was a big, empty city. It was all questions and no answers.

  Frankie Boy leaned up tight against Eda’s legs. He felt warm and heavy.

  “You win boy,” she said, scratching the back of his neck with all five fingers. “Looks like we’re going southwest with the Nomads. New Mexico it is.”

  She sat with her back pressed up against the bench. Eda tilted her head towards the sky and felt drowsy.

  The tree limbs, wild and unencumbered, reached for her. There was an air of menace in those fairy-tale arms – arms with crooked, wooden fingers that wanted to throttle her. Beyond the branches there was a gray swirling pattern in the sky, a rhythmic churning that threatened a fierce downpour.

  “We’ll go in a minute Frankie,” Eda said, her voice thick and sluggish.

  The cool breeze was soothing and gentle. Her head flopped forward and the drowsiness began to overwhelm her.

  Just before she drifted off, Eda heard a rustling noise behind her.

  Her head shot up. The first thing she saw was Frankie Boy standing on all fours in front of her. He was staring at something over Eda’s shoulder, his ears up, the black tail erect. A low-pitched growl spilled out of him.

  “Easy Frankie,” Eda whispered, slowly getting up. She held her hands flat out, hoping he’d take the hint and stay put. Then she raised them higher, surrendering to the unseen threat behind her.

  Slowly she turned around, hands over her head.

  There was a man in the park with them. He walked towards Eda, each step full of caution, as if the park was rigged with landmines or some other hidden danger. There was a rifle in his hands.

  It was pointing at Eda.

  “Just stay right where you are young lady,” the man said. “I’ll shoot the dog and I’ll shoot you too if I have to.”

  He was an old man. She recognized the familiar gray-blue uniform of the United States army that he was wearing. She’d seen many photographs of American soldiers over the years in her history books, mostly taken at the start of the war with China. Eda could also vaguely recall seeing that same uniform as child, wrapped around many a bedraggled and drunken soul during the wild years. Those were the soldiers that hadn’t died during the war. At least in terms of physical death.

  The famous bald eagle patch was visible on the old man’s upper left arm, a little faded but the red, white and blue colors were hanging in there. A wrinkled army cap sat on his head.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. The majority of his mouth was hidden under a bushy but well-groomed white mustache. “Are you spying on me? Start talking or I swear to God young lady I’m going to put you and the dog to sleep right here, right now. Just to be on the safe side you know? Don’t think ’cos you’re a woman I won’t pull the trigger.”

  Eda kept her hands up.

  “I’m not a spy,” she said. “I’m just passing through with my dog.”

  The man pointed the rifle at the sky. His mouth twitched as he squeezed the trigger and a loud cracking noise whistled through the air. Eda leapt backwards, almost tripping over her feet. At the same time, Frankie Boy bolted. He ran all the way to the gate before stopping to turn around again. His tail was tucked in between his legs.

  At the sound of gunfire, a pack of birds fled a nearby rooftop.

  Eda hadn’t heard a gunshot in years. She continued to back away towards the exit.

  The old man lowered the gun and grunted.

  “Stop right where you are,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

  But Eda didn’t stop. To stop was to defy nature. Some deep-rooted survival instinct had taken over, urging her in simple, easy to follow commands to get far away from this man and his killing machine.

  Turn around. Run. Get the hell out of here.

  Eda dropped her hands and ran for the gate. Frankie Boy was barking at her as she charged over the long grass, pumping her arms and legs as fast as she could. The sweat fell off her. Her eyes were glued to the gate, on the barking, overexcited shape of Frankie Boy.

  She could feel the gun pointing at her back. Like there was a red-hot heat coming off it.

  “Stop!” the soldier screamed. “I said STOP! I swear to God young lady. I’ll shoot you dead right now. RIGHT NOW!”

  Eda heard him chasing after her, his heavy army boots crushing the long grass as he ran towards the gate.

  “STOP!”

  He fired at her.

  3

  Eda charged towards the gate, somehow managing to stay upright as the second shot rang in her ear. Her heart was pounding. Her mind was scrambled with unfiltered spurts of information, a massive pileup of survival instinct that all came down to the same thing.

  Run.

  Frankie Boy was still waiting for Eda at the gate. He’d jumped at the second shot but he hadn’t run off, not without her. Now he was barking wildly, screaming at her to catch up with him so that they could leave this park and the crazy old man behind.

  “Go!” Eda yelled, waving her hands frantically in the air. “Run Frankie!”

  There was another spurt of gunfire behind her. Eda ducked and ran at the same time, her insides contracting into tightly coiled knots. Either the old man was a lousy shot or he was just trying to frighten her. She wasn’t going to hang around and ask him.

  Eda closed in on the gate, running in a zigzag pattern. It was an incredible feat of instinctive memory – this was how she’d been taught to run as a girl back in the days when guns were common in America and bullets hit the streets like confetti.

  “Stop!” the old soldier’s voice yelled at her back.

  Another explosive blast from the rifle made Eda flinch. A fresh flock of birds flew higher, seeking solace in the sky.

  About a hundred yards from the exit, Eda’s legs finally gave out under her. Her body was out of juice. Even as she fell, survival commands swirled around her brain – get up, run, zigzag, run! But the communication lines between mind and body had been severed. Eda toppled onto her hands. As she fell she twisted over onto her side, rolling onto her back with the backpack wedged in between her upper body and the wet grass.

  Eda saw something move out of the corner of her eye. It was Frankie Boy. He was running back into the park.

  “No,” she groaned.

  Up ahead, the soldier was galloping towards her now. Eda felt a sharp stab of fear in her guts. Behind her, Frankie Boy was racing over to intercept this strange, terrifying threat to his companion.

  The soldier saw Frankie Boy coming. He stopped dead. Quickly he pulled the butt of the rifle tight to his shoulder and took aim at the charging beast.

  “Stop!” Eda called out. With the last of her strength she scrambled back to her feet. Frankie Boy was on the brink of going past her. He was a dark blur, moving with purpose. Eda dropped into a wide crouch, her arms stretched out to make herself look big.

  The timing had to be perfect.

  When she leapt on top of Frankie Boy, she pushed him to the ground with all the strength she could muster. It felt like she was jumping into a fast moving brick wall but she managed to wrap her arms around his bulk quickly.

  “No!” she said, her voice dripping with panic. “Frankie.”

  She pinned all of her weight on top of the dog. It wasn’t easy to restrain him – he was a big block of solid muscle and he was putting up a damn good fight. As he tried to wriggle free, Eda could see the confusion in his brown eyes as she continued to force him down.

  “Frankie! No. No!”

  He stopped moving. It happened so suddenly that the stillness was jarrin
g. Eda glanced over her shoulder at the gunman. He was peering over the rifle now, a confused expression on his wrinkled face.

  “What the hell?” he said. “Is this some kind of mad circus or what?”

  “Don’t shoot him,” Eda said, in between labored breaths. “Please.”

  The soldier’s eyes zipped back and forth between Eda and the dog underneath her. Frankie Boy’s head was flat on the grass, his brown eyes fixed on Eda, trusting yet confused.

  She stroked his head.

  “Easy,” she whispered, easing up on the pressure she used to keep him down.

  The soldier approached through the long grass. By now the rifle was slightly lowered to his waist but it was far from being in a relaxed position. Eda had to make sure that Frankie Boy didn’t suddenly break free and lunge at the old man. It would be the last thing he did.

  “Are you a moron or something?” the soldier said to Eda.

  “No,” Eda said, still breathing hard.

  “I said stop and then you ran away. What’s that if it’s not a moron?”

  Eda didn’t answer.

  The old man took a close look at her, his eyes peering across the park as if to check for others. “Are you American?”

  “Yeah,” Eda said.

  She felt the ground trembling underneath. It took her a moment to realize what was going on – it was Frankie Boy’s low-pitched warning growl going straight through her. The man was getting too close.

  “Look mister,” Eda said. “Is it okay if I sit up now? I’ll keep a hold of the dog I swear. He’s just frightened that’s all.”

  The soldier didn’t blink. He stood there, a flesh and blood statue rooted in the middle of the park. Eda could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he tried to process.

  “Alright,” the man said. “Nice and slow.”

  Eda loosened her grip on the dog’s torso. Frankie Boy’s muscles felt like coiled springs, waiting to explode. He jerked upward. At the same time, Eda wrapped her arms underneath his thick neck, firmly but not too tight. With great difficulty she slid to the right, shifting onto her backside and into a reasonably comfortable sitting position.