Autumn in the City of Angels

by Kirby Howell

  Then two things happened at once. The beam of light darted in my direction, and a firm hand grabbed me around the waist and another overtook my face. I didn’t have time to scream.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was surprised to find myself quickly tucked down into a nook with the chill of the concrete seeping through the seat of my pants. Strong arms trapped me so tightly I could barely breathe, and a large hand completely covered my mouth, sealing off any possibilities of screaming.

  The light beam swept past where I’d last been standing, but it never illuminated the crack where I was now being held captive. I silently struggled against my captor, but the strong hands maintained their resolve. A warm breath grazed my ear, and a quiet, gentle voice said, “Be very quiet for me. He’s almost gone.”

  I stopped struggling and sat very still. Suddenly, my senses started feeding me new information about my captor. The body pressed against my back was warm, and the strong arms holding me were clad in something soft and scratchy against my bare arms – wool? A faint lemony scent seemed to emanate from him. Maybe this man had just saved my life?

  The light slowly proceeded down the alley, far enough now that it was only a small pinprick in the distance. Then Sam’s voice echoed between the buildings, “I think she went this way. Come on.” The hand over my mouth eased and joined the other arm around my waist. He hadn’t entirely released me, but his arms relaxed some.

  I chanced a whisper, “You’re not one of them?”

  Another warm breath crossed my neck as he whispered, “No. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “... a friend.”

  I tried to turn my head far enough to see his face, but the alley was pitch black. I could only see a faint glint of light off his hair.

  “They won’t stop looking for you tonight, I’m afraid,” he continued.

  “Does that mean we’re stuck?”

  “For now. I’ve used this hiding place before. We should be safe if we’re quiet.” Then he paused a second before he asked, “Are you uncomfortable?”

  For the first time since he’d gotten me in his grasp, I considered the thought, and the answer was no. In fact, I was very comfortable. His body was bigger than mine and very warm. The heat radiating from him was a welcomed sensation in the cool night air.

  “No, I’m fine. Are you?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  I supposed that meant he wasn’t. I leaned forward and, placing my palms on the concrete, tried to push myself up. I gasped as the rough concrete dug into my bloody palms, and his arms suddenly tightened around my waist once more, preventing me from moving.

  “No. Don’t stand,” he said quickly, “There’s not room. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  I inspected my hands in the darkness, but couldn’t see a thing, so I gingerly brushed them clean on my jeans. Warm fingers caught my wrists and pulled them palms up.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly. It was unnerving to hear his voice so close and not be able to see him.

  “I tripped. A couple of times. I’m okay.”

  His fingers gently brushed the side of my palm and, as one of his hands let go, I felt him lean away from me, then I heard a ripping sound. When his arms came back around me, I felt soft cloths being wrapped around my hands.

  “The scrapes aren’t deep, but you’ll need to clean them as soon as possible.” He knotted the last cloth securely and then held my arm extended as if looking at my elbow. “What happened here?” He lightly touched the bandage covering the wound from my fall on the terrace earlier today. It surprised me that he could even see it.

  “I fell earlier today. At home,” I admitted.

  “Was someone chasing you then, too?” I detected a note of gentle sarcasm in his quiet voice.

  “No, that was all me,” I said bitterly.

  “Do you fall often?” I could practically hear him smiling.

  “Not usually. It’s been a big day for me.” Whispering, I told him about what I’d seen from my terrace this morning and then falling off the ottoman and blacking out. I suddenly felt his fingers in my hair, gliding along my scalp. I automatically pulled away from him.

  “Hold still,” he whispered, and he pulled me back toward him while his other hand continued to search. Lovely tingles shot across my skin until his fingertips brushed against the dried blood over my ear. “You really have had a big day, haven’t you?”

  Once I realized he was examining the cut on my head, I relaxed a bit, but not much. “Are you some kind of doctor?” I asked.

  “You could say that. I was pre-med before The Plague.” His hands dropped from my hair, but the tingles continued as though the ghosts of his hands were still gliding through my hair. “It doesn’t seem to need stitches. I think you’ll live. So what led you outside after witnessing The Front’s cruelty this morning?”

  I finished my story about hearing The Reconstruction Front’s message on the radio and meeting Sam, then recognizing Karl from the incident on the street.

  “Why are they doing this? He can’t really think he’s helping people,” I finished.

  “You’re right. Karl doesn’t care about anyone. His main concern is power.”

  It was sad so many had easily fallen under his spell. “Someone has to stop him,” I said. “On the surface, what he’s doing is good, getting people back together and organizing a society again, but the way he’s going about it and his motivations are all wrong.”

  “I agree.”

  “How many people does he have?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. He’s been spreading them out so it’s hard to tell.”

  “Are they all like Sam?”

  “Most are. They’re not all bad people, but they’ve been convinced to take up arms for Karl’s cause. In times like this, even good people can be... influenced. You’ve seen the armed guards? With the way they handle their weapons, I’m sure most have never held a gun before.”

  “They hardly need guns. Karl’s scary enough without one,” I muttered more to myself than to him.

  “They’re guarding supplies against theft, and probably subtly letting everyone know who’s boss.”

  “That’s what Karl said, but who would try to steal from them?” I asked as I thought about the muscular man who’d shot the boy in front of my building.

  “Guilty,” I heard him say quietly beside me, and a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. So he was not only extremely street smart but brave as well.

  “Aren’t there easier places to get supplies from? It’s a pretty big city.”

  “It is, but The Front’s amassed some of the rarer supplies we’re in need of.”

  “We?”

  “There are some others, people who aren’t joining The Front. There aren’t many of us yet, but we’re growing. I’ve been gathering supplies so we can establish a more permanent place in the basement of Hollywood High School.”

  “Are you going to take me there?” I asked timidly. I wanted to stay with him.

  “No. Not yet. It’s not safe enough.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed and leaned forward and hugged my knees, embarrassed at the rejection.

  “If you’ve gone undetected for six weeks where you are now, you should stay there,” he explained. “When it’s safe, I’ll come for you. How are your food and water supplies?”

  “Fine for now. My dad liked buying things in bulk.”

  “You should try to ration your food and your water. Some people are joining The Front because they’ve run out of supplies. Keep tabs on what you’ve got and –”

  I cut him off, more irritated by the rejection than his lecture, but unable to separate the two. “I know how to ration. I’ve been doing it for the past month and a half.”

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to sound demeaning.” His voice was quiet beside me.

  “I’m not a child. I’m seventeen,” I said, trying not to sound too offended at this boy who’d saved my life. “How old
are you, anyway?”

  “Only a year older than you. I’m eighteen.” I felt the warmth from his body as he adjusted his sitting position next to me.

  “You seem older,” I whispered back at him, trying to keep my voice level.

  “I read a lot,” he replied in a hushed tone less than an inch away from my ear. His exhale sent a shiver down my spine, and I suddenly had butterflies in my stomach. I was nervous. I wished I could see him, but this alley was blacker than anything I’d ever experienced. Then I suddenly wondered how he’d seen me before. He had grabbed me like he’d been watching and waiting for the right moment.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, breaking my concentration.

  “Autumn,” I answered, distracted, then asked, “How did you see me? When you grabbed me earlier?”

  “When you spend as much time as I do in the dark, your eyes learn to adjust.”

  "So you did see me.”

  “Not exactly. I could see a faint silhouette. But I could sense your location more. I heard you coming and when you stopped. And then I heard you again when you tried to move.” He paused for a second. “Think about it this way. When you close your eyes and you hear a noise, you have a general idea where it is, right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Now imagine you’re in an environment you know well, like your room at home, and you hear that same noise. You can sense where it’s coming from, if it’s next to your desk or over by your bed, or coming from the hall, because you’re intimate with your surroundings.”

  “I guess you’re right. I never thought about it that way.” I paused another moment, thinking. “So, what do your senses tell you about me now?”

  I could tell my question caught him off guard. I waited, nerves beginning to mount in anticipation.

  Then I felt a slow, deliberate exhale of breath cross my shoulders. I shivered again. Finally, he spoke. “Well, I suppose I can feel you calming down, or at least, your effort to be calm under the circumstances. Your breathing feels about normal to me.”

  I was disappointed. I’d wanted more. “That sounds clinical.”

  He chuckled quietly. “I didn’t claim to have extra-sensory gifts. Based on what I hear and feel, I can fill in what I can’t see.”

  “Do you want to know what I sense?”

  “Dare I ask?”

  I smiled, even though I knew he couldn’t see it. “I sense you’re uncomfortable now,” I said, while trying to mask a yawn. I was growing sleepier in the darkness of the night as the adrenaline began to subside.

  As soon as I finished those words I felt a rumbling deep within his chest. He was quietly laughing. “Very astute,” he said. His soft chuckles were cut off by a clicking noise echoing down the alley. I froze, sitting up straight, my heart rendered cold, and I held my breath.

  “It’s just an animal. It’s okay,” he assured me. I let my breath out, but couldn’t reclaim my calm. I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, and he leaned forward to whisper to me, “You’re safe with me. Nothing bad will happen to you,” he paused, then gently pulled me back next to him. “Tell me about where you live, Autumn. So I’ll know where to find you again.”

  I leaned back against the brick wall, his arm warm against my shoulder, and I suddenly felt safe. “It’s where the 90 freeway dead ends on Lincoln. It’s called The Water Tower.”

  “The big blue glass building?” he asked. “I’ve seen it.”

  I told him about our penthouse at the top and explained the security features my dad added.

  “Sounds like you’re pretty safe up there. What does the inside look like?”

  It felt nice to describe my home – the layout of the penthouse, the pool on the rooftop terrace, my dad’s photographs on the walls. Painting a picture for someone who seemed so interested was oddly gratifying. He asked very specific questions about the arrangement of furniture and even the color of the pillows on the couch.

  The detailed level of his questions confused me at first, but then I recalled an extremely turbulent flight to San Francisco I took with my dad last year. I was so scared and grabbed him every time the plane was jostled. He talked to me, asking questions about school, friends or homework, anything he could think of. Before I knew it, we were landing and the terrifying flight was over. The boy was probably trying to do the same thing now, so I played along.

  I leaned my head against the wall and described my own room in vivid detail. Somewhere during my ramblings, my head unintentionally slid down to rest on the boy’s shoulder. I straightened quickly and mumbled an apology.

  “It’s okay,” he murmured quietly. “Tell me about your dad’s pictures.”

  I let my head settle back on his welcoming shoulder and began describing my favorite photograph. It was a black and white picture of my mother standing in a doorway, the light blown out white around her. I could feel my lips not wanting to move anymore as my eyelids closed. He asked another question, and I tried to answer through my growing weariness.

  My mind drifted into that place just outside sleep. I sank deeper and deeper into the warm cocoon of slumber and let the scent of lemons drift around me.

  When I opened my eyes a second later, I was on my living room couch, a blanket tucked around me. The rising sun sent orange beams of light into the room, dazzling my eyes. I sat up, confused. I blinked twice, double-checking that I was awake and not in a dream.

  A piece of paper on the coffee table caught my attention, and I reached out for it. I stopped suddenly, staring at my hands. They were wrapped expertly in medical gauze, and I could smell the faint sharpness of rubbing alcohol. Then I remembered suddenly. The Front. Karl. The dark alley. The boy. I looked around the room, half-expecting him to be here. But I was alone.

  I snatched the paper up, inspecting it. It was ripped from a newspaper. Small, neat handwriting was written in the narrow aisle between the typed paragraphs. I read the short message:

  I’ll come back

  for you when

  it’s safe

  If you

  need me

  come to

  Hollywood High

  through

  the H&H

  underground

  metro

  Grey

  Confused by the last sentence, I thought for a moment, trying to put it together. Surely the gray metro line wasn’t still running. Was there even a gray line? Why would he want me to take that to Hollywood High?

  I leaned back on the couch, head swimming. I stared out the window at the blue California morning sky, and a sudden realization crashed through me. I’d forgotten to get his name. And I’d never seen his face. How would I ever find him again?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A strangled gasp escaped my lips as I heaved the heavy potted lemon tree over the top step and into the sunshine on the terrace. Panting, I leaned against the interior wall of the vestibule covering the stairwell and stared in triumph at the plant. Its leaves were slightly yellowed and there was no fruit growing on its branches, but I was going to remedy that. The book said citrus trees need eight hours of sunshine a day. Where it had been sitting on the landing of the stairwell, it got maybe half an hour of light as the sun sailed by in the afternoon.

  The book was Care of Tropical Plants. I had found it buried between two larger books: Waterfowl of the American Eastern Seaboard and 70 Years of the Oscar. My mother had an irrational love of hardback coffee table books as decoration. She bought loads of them to stack haphazardly around the place, but I never saw her actually read one. Ten minutes earlier, I’d begun paging through Care of Tropical Plants and a sudden urgency to save the one plant residing in our apartment surged through me. It made me feel more alive knowing something else depended on me for survival.

  Leaving the plant to hopefully flourish in the sunshine, I trotted down the stairs to tackle a project I’d been putting off: reassessing my food situation. I was lucky my dad was a big fan of buying things in bulk: when the Crimson Fever struck, I had two dozen cans of
tuna, three boxes of cereal, four containers of frozen English muffins, and so on. I’d been good at rationing so far, but the cabinets were looking frighteningly bare.

  I paused on the landing, catching a smell I hadn’t noticed before. It was fresh, citrusy sharp and clean. I looked at the corner where the lemon tree had stood. It was strange I hadn’t noticed it before, especially when I was shoulder deep in the plant, hauling it upstairs. But there was no fruit on the tree.

  I sighed, wondering how long it would take for lemons to appear. I could almost taste the lemon juice, how it sharpened a glass of plain water to a tooth-chilling freshness. I could make lemonade. I chuckled and muttered, “When life gives you lemons...” and continued down the stairs to the kitchen.

  The sunshine filled the room to an almost unearthly brightness. It must have been the light contradicting the darkness that made me notice a black shadow in the silhouette of a man flashing across the floor of the kitchen. My heart seized in my chest, practically halting altogether, and before I could stop myself, I called out.

  “Hello?” My voice was small and childish and was met with silence. My breath stuck in my chest. I blinked, and suddenly, the shadow was gone. What if The Front had just found me? I had to get out, now.

  I ran to the front door at full speed, half expecting to see the owner of the shadow as I ran. But when I reached the door, it was shut tight and locked, as always. Why would they lock themselves in? A cold chill ran down my back as I fumbled with the lock. I was afraid to look over my shoulder. My mind immediately ran down a mental list of possible weapons within easy reach. The lamp on the table, my shoes at the door, an umbrella on the coat rack... the coat rack itself. I grabbed the automatic umbrella and spun around to face the very empty kitchen. I stopped and carefully looked around. I could see into the living room, empty as well. I looked at the front door again, reminding myself it was still locked and didn’t look tampered with. To be sure, I carefully walked around the apartment, inspecting the halls and each room.

  When I was finished, I realized I was still alone. My heart wasn’t threatening to jump out of my chest anymore, but my hands were still sweaty as I tightly gripped the plastic handle of the umbrella. I took a deep breath to further calm myself when a great, flapping noise caught my attention and something big and black jumped up in front of me. I shrieked and leapt backwards, flinging my weapon at it, ready to run.