Year’s Best SF 16

by Hartwell, David G. ; Cramer, Kathryn

  But then my world ended a second time. Jon got cocky. He got lazy. When summer came around again, he skipped the usual precautions. Got sunburned and stung by insects when all those months before he’d been so careful. We’d both been careful in so many ways. The Crescent had a lot of things but it didn’t have a doctor.

  Three got sick after forage detail behind the Westfield mall. Each came down with typhoid—at least that’s what it looked like. Temperatures soared in the 40s, stayed that way a week. Jeannie fussed and fretted. She soothed Jon’s fevered brow, fed him aspirin, left poignant, wilted flowers by his pillow.

  As weeks wore on, talk turned to the need for proper treatment. Who knew what horrors lurked beyond our barrier wall? Of course there would be corpses. Dead things that attracted flies. Busted sewer pipes, open latrines. One little insect had been all it took. And this was when our haven came undone. We were all good neighbours. Better than we’d ever been before. But would we risk our lives for one other? The answer, when it came to it, was no. Were there even any doctors out there? Rumour was all we had to go on.

  I sat with Jeannie, by his side, watching her mop his sallow brow. Wishing she’d stop play acting the part, if only when we were alone.

  “You never told us where you came from. Before,” I added. For clarity.

  “Sydney,” she answered, not looking up. That girl rarely met my gaze.

  “After Sydney. There’s not much left of the place, or so I’m told.”

  She shrugged. “I travelled round. Same as everybody, I guess.”

  I’d painted my own delicious picture of her past. Sleeping her way into temporary shelters, getting cast out when she failed to pull her weight. In Crescent, she was always on hand to do the pretty jobs. I never saw her mucking out the chicken coops, digging toilets or burying the dead.

  “He might die, you know.”

  “Don’t be silly. He’ll be right. Just needs a little time to sleep it off.”

  “And what if he’s not?” I smirked. I couldn’t help it. “Life might get much harder for you then.”

  I thought she was going to let it go. Pretend she hadn’t heard, just like she pretended not to see me often enough. In my mind I was already planning reclamation of the back room. I’d make it into a sitting area. Sew some cushions, bring out some of my books from under the house.

  “I’m carrying his child,” she said, so smug as she turned to face me. “Not a damn thing you can do about it, either.”

  And with her smile, my world disintegrated. Everything I’d come to fear was true.

  “Bullshit,” I said defensively. “Jon would have told me.” But I knew he wouldn’t, even if he’d known it to be fact. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t even true. Once I’d felt such pride in the bond I imagined between us. But there’d been no bond. Just a void so desperate to be filled.

  “I’ll be needing extra room when the baby comes. I’m thinking you can probably move out back.”

  And Jon slept on, oblivious, as clueless as the day he’d left my bed. She didn’t care whether he lived or died. In a perfect world, he’d be lying awake now, listening to the honest truth unfold. His heart would swell to bursting with regret for me, the good woman he’d so carelessly dismissed.

  Jeannie sat cross-legged on the carpet. Leant back, stretched her legs out straight before her. Tuned out from my presence once she’d played her trump card. Pink toenails, crystal beads around her ankle, earrings sparkling in a shaft of bitter sunlight.

  I watched her, knowing precisely what came next. Funny how these things work. How crazy they seem in the light of day, how wretchedly perverse. I left her with him, to her mopping and his slumber, said nothing when she wasted yet another votive candle set between a chipped glass dolphin ornament and one of Al Messina’s precious roses, plucked.

  I paced the length of the Crescent and back, watching Darren and Julie’s girls raking fallen twigs and branches into piles. The street seemed strangely claustrophobic, houses packed too close together. They hadn’t been before garages were tricked out into makeshift homes. Across the road, six caravans were parked permanently in shade. A cloudless sky made no promises of rain it couldn’t keep. We’d been lucky with our water so far. I wondered how long our luck was going to last.

  I saw two choices, each as clear as day. Let Jon die or fight to save his life. Don’t think I didn’t dwell on the former. There’d be some small satisfaction in it for all he’d put me through. But I loved him and love’s a stubborn thing. How often it has its wicked way with us.

  I told Darren and Julie I was going for antibiotics. Asked if they needed anything for the girls. Their neighbourly kindness had included not stating the obvious. Saying nothing when it was clear I’d been usurped.

  “Some vitamins,” said Julie. “But are you sure it’s safe?”

  Hell no—I’m sure I’m going to die.

  “Head for town,” said Darren. “Messina’s picked up fresh chatter on the shortwave.”

  He presented me with a hunting knife, Julie shot me a worried stare, followed by three precious pots of honey. I was touched—she’d been saving those for better days. And he knew full well he’d probably lose the knife. Good people, as I’d always said. It’s not easy hiding two little girls from the world.

  Crescent had no rules about leaving. None of us were beholden to the others. We’d thrown in our lot together because it worked. Because we were scared of what the world had become. We’d seen the cities burning before the news cut out, heard tales of roadside massacres, rape and pillage. Of poisoned water and blackened skies, most of it ninety ks from where we lived.

  The south coast had its own problems. Its own resources too. Factions formed. Barricades went up.

  I’d been amongst the Crescent’s first, comprehending the necessity of animals and seed. In our semi-rural landscape, these weren’t hard to come by. In all, we hadn’t done half bad. We had enough so long as we didn’t get complacent.

  “If there’s any help out there I’ll do my best to find it.”

  That was all the promise I had to offer. A year ago, the streets had still been full of crazy. Guns firing, hoons doing burnouts, crashing cars. We took our stations along the barricade, silent sentinels against the darkness. But our nightmares failed to flesh to substance. Gradually the violence petered out, left us alone with our chickens and our terror.

  Yet here I stood, about to leave it all behind. For what—the faded bloom of love? I’d go the back way over the creek to draw the least attention. Tell the lookout I was on the scrounge. All the nearby houses had been picked clean. Brian would presume I knew my stuff. I left him pulling handfuls of privet from the crumbling creek bank. His own yard had been spotless, even back before. Skipper lay snoozing in the shade. That lucky old dog was far too tough for eating.

  And where would I be heading? Crown Street Mall as it had once been known. A corralled space for shoppers, free of cars. Fridays had once boasted a local produce market. In the 1800s it had been a cattle track. God knows what was being made of it now. The shortwave reckoned it was hosting a witches’ market. Any medicine to be had would come from there.

  What did I have to barter with? Honey and a knife. A tube of Vegemite and the last of my precious chocolate. Better a pack of witches got those than the one who’d invaded my house.

  I went back in for one last look at Jon lying in his fevered sleep. Stared at him so lovingly, Jeannie lost beyond my line of sight. The chiselled contours of his face. Tan skin that never seems to fade. God, how I love him. My heart aches with the weight of it. A burden I’ve carried across two lifetimes now.

  I remember how the city used to look before the war. I remember how I never used to look at it at all. Took it for granted, every curbed and guttered inch of it. Cocooned myself in the luxury of ignorance.

  We’d been late teens, young and stupid, full of ourselves and naïve insight. Five of us had shared that house, a crowded space, more than not, half filled with strangers, n
ights of wine and candlelit guitar. Pretty girls, dreadlocks and nose rings. Talk of Tibet where the air was clear, the people so humble and wise. Jon occupied a central space. Everything was more fun when he was around. Girls fell for him like dominoes. He’d have them, then move on to other things.

  I wanted him, but all of him, not just the paltry crumbs on offer. I wanted his mind, his honesty, his trust. I wanted to stand amongst the handful he called friends. Poor Megan, dull and plain. Jon doesn’t have female friends, don’t you know?

  I never fucked him back then, no matter how many times he tried it on. Not that I didn’t want to—my God, it was all I wanted. But I’d seen what happened to all the girls who let him in. I wanted him to care for me. He rarely remembered their names.

  I left that house after one particularly humiliating night. Didn’t see the guy for twenty years. Fell in and out of love a dozen times. Couldn’t bring myself to settle down. I often glimpsed him from the corner of my eye. Jon on the ferry, Jon amongst the theatre crowd. Jon asking an old friend how I was doing. Of course, he was never really there. Our old group disintegrated, as such groups are wont to do. Now and then I’d hear a whisper. He’s done some acting. He’s in a band. Of course he was—anywhere there’d be women to adore him. So many options before the world got scared.

  What I didn’t expect was to find him staggering down the Princes Highway, in shock, half naked with a fearsome case of burns. Had he been searching for me? I convinced myself he had. Fate or providence or perhaps some act of God. Nowadays, I don’t believe in any of those things. I’m back on the highway leaving my home behind.

  I could almost pretend the war had never happened. For all I knew it hadn’t—it’s not like there was much to see. Radio silence. Television snow. Intermittent Internet for a month or two. Then Al Messina raised some chatter on the shortwave. We learnt about the witches’ market and other groups like ours. After the initial exodus from Sydney, not much. The flotilla to New Zealand. Planes flying overhead. I often wonder how many of them made it. We had some trade with other friendlies, then that business with the gangs. Swore you’d never have gotten me off the Crescent after that. Six months of sporadic gunfire and ceaseless hungry dogs.

  I kept my head down, hoed cabbages along the verge. Collected rainfall, boiled it fresh and clean. Thanked God for the fecundity of chickens and the fact we were the first to raid the Westfield ruins.

  Truth is, the world has fallen silent. None of us know what’s out there any more. Beyond the shortwave, the best we’ve got is Jeannie’s stories. Quite frankly, I don’t believe a word. That girl never suffered a day in her life. Never worked either—she’s far too smart for that. Her sordid tales run like half remembered movie plots. Teenage novels. Television dreams.

  Three roads lead me to the city centre. I pick the one least convoluted. Fewer opportunities for ambush—or so I hope.

  I mount the hill that rises up behind the Crescent. So bare and naked with half the houses burnt. I hope the rain has washed away the details. I don’t want to know what happened here.

  I’m scared for Jon and I’m scared for me. I keep the knife gripped tightly in my hand, eyes scanning left and right for movement. But there’s nothing. Where did everybody go? There were people up here not that long ago.

  The tar is cracked, strewn with leaves and broken branches. I make a note to tell the others—all this excellent firewood. When I get back . . . I put one foot before the other. When I get back covers so many things.

  Down the dip and up the second hill. I’m too far gone now. Out of safety’s reach. Now might be the time for feeling lucky. I’m not falling for it. Too many movie moments crammed inside my mind. My heart sinks when I spot the barricade. It looks abandoned but I’m going to play it safe. Find another way to join the main road. Dogleg down around the kindergarten, a steep decline to where the station used to be.

  I move quickly, no time for indecision. If I stop too long to think I might change my mind. Take fright and run back home to Jon and Jeannie. But how would I ever live with myself if he died?

  There’s something moving around inside the kindy. I hope its only possums and jog quietly down the hill. The train tracks would be quickest but there’s so much room for ambush. No. I’ll take my chances on the road.

  A row of garbage bins still standing, their plastic wheels choked thick with weeds. A lone ibis prowls the pavement. Keeps its distance. Checks me out.

  Ugly white and purple agapanthus flowers have claimed these ruined suburbs as their own. Bowing sagely in the breeze acknowledging my predicament.

  I hear the rumble, spin around but it’s too late. A gang is bearing down upon me. Rollerbladers with helmets, weapons raised. I can’t outrun them. There’s nowhere to hide. I’m stunned like a rodent caught in headlights, the sound of their wheels thunder like a road train.

  So I drop to my knees, cover my head, kiss the tar goodbye. The road shakes so hard it might swallow me up. Yet it doesn’t. I wait for pain that isn’t going to come. They have passed me. They didn’t even stop. Skated around my whimpering form like I was a pothole or a log.

  I sit in the road for ages chewing my fingernails. The world has ended, right? There really was a war? Because some times I can’t be sure, and this is one of them. Skating the post-apocalypse simply never occurred to me.

  I wish Jon were here. It’d have made him laugh. But he wasn’t laughing, was he? He was dying.

  Dusting off my faded jeans, I put the knife back in my hand. Scan first the empty gardens, then the train tracks for . . . whatever. Continue my trek into city central, sticking to the cyclone fence this time. Figuring I’d be able to see anyone approaching from the tracks.

  Other people have the same idea. We maintain a respectable distance. I long to ask all the usual questions. Who are you? How well are you surviving? But I don’t. I keep on walking, eyes firmly fixed upon the prize.

  Some are ragged, others dress like joggers, pre-apocalypse. Shamed, I put my knife away. No-one else is wielding weapons, although several walk with staffs. I keep my distance, shun eye contact, yet all the while I’m filled with wonder. Something’s going on here. Something strange.

  Garbage blows down Keira Street. I try to picture what the shop fronts once contained. They’ve all been looted, the glass smashed long ago. That fact aside, the structures seem in place. At the end of the street, a paved and shaded plaza. The centre of town as much as it ever was. The stage still stands, once the domain of fashion promotions and teenage beauty pageants. Today it’s filled with jamming musicians: guitars, flutes and clarinets. A sax to the side. Two dreadlocked girls with bongo drums. People join or leave as they see fit. The sound they make is surprisingly melodic.

  At the foot of the stage little children sit in groups. Children in the open. Unprotected! I stare at them as though they’re apparitions. Surely no parent would take such a risk. Am I the only one who understands?

  I feel invisible as I move amongst the crowd. And it is a crowd—the largest I’ve seen for years.

  They’re garbed in many colours, a hodge-podge of pre-war fashion trends. Some clearly enjoy the art of it. Diamonds over khaki camouflage, suits and swimwear mixed. Definitely something Caribbean going on with hair. And makeup. Too many clown eyes for my liking. Some look like they’ve been living in pyjamas for eons.

  Vendors hoist wares up high on sticks. Clothing, paperbacks, tools. Others seem to be selling potions. Pharmaceuticals mixed with other things. Or maybe it’s all just lolly water. How am I ever supposed to tell? I need a doctor, a pharmacist, a nurse. None of this lot looks to fit the bill.

  “What have you got for typhoid?” I shout up at one of them. Up because he was wearing stilts to make his presence felt.

  “Sounds serious,” he says as he rummages in coat pockets. Draws something out for me to see. “Take three spoonfuls and call me in the morning.” He laughs like an ocker Baron Samedi.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.” The stuff he’s
selling looks suspiciously like Vegemite. He’s not getting my honey or chocolate in trade for that. I push on past. There’s plenty more clowns where he came from. Plenty more of everything except what Jon needs.

  A blanket spread with children’s toys brings me back into the moment. Little plastic action figures from shows no-one will ever see again. More traditional items. Plushie animals. Coloured blocks. Jeannie and his baby. I keep walking.

  Further down the mall I see more serious types of shopping. Bearded men in greatcoats, hunting rifles unconcealed. Smoked meat strung across a doorway. What kind is anybody’s guess.

  And, inevitably, arguments. Squabbles over details of exchange. But I don’t see a single fight. Impressive in itself.

  The wafting tempt of ganja. Two scruff-haired teenagers, both stoned. No-one has bothered to tell them the world has ended. Like it makes the slightest bit of difference.

  And then, finally, a group of women cooking pancakes on a skillet, looking like they might have stepped out from a Sunday bingo hall.

  “I need medicine. Real medicine,” I tell them, crouching. “Know anyone who can help?”

  “Not ’round here,” says one of them, dusting sugar. “Feeling poorly are we, love?”

  I tell them about Jon and the other two sick neighbours, omitting all mention of Jeannie and other things.

  “You want a dispensary,” says the one who still sports relatively suburban hair. “Last one left’s at Corrimal Surf Club. The bike track’s your best bet.”

  They give me a pancake. That was nice of them. I remember that bike track since back before the war. A haven for muggers and rapists, even then.

  When night falls, things begin to change. I realise I’m no longer safe. Daylight was such a civilising factor. I look for the pancake women but they’re gone, back to their fortified bingo hall, or wherever. I curse myself for being stupid. For taking my eye off the ball. Would the beach be safe? Would anywhere? All I know is that I can’t stay here.

  The music has gotten heavier, skaters on battered boards muscle in as people drift off into twilight groups of two and three. This is tribal country and I do not belong. I grip my knife, certain I’ll have to use it. Knowing I’ll be lost if I even try.