by William Oday
The shapeless plain cloth was designed to remove all hints of sexuality. They were both a practical tool and a psychological one. Practical because they were cheap and easily discarded when blood or bile splattered all over the front. And psychological because they were a uniform a doctor wore to exude a sense of authority, of trust. Beth wore the same blue scrubs and also a white lab coat on top.
The white coat was an even clearer subconscious signal of authority that nearly all patients accepted from a young age.
Coat or no coat though, Iridia’s long limbs and perky chest defied the asexual scrubs in a way that Beth found altogether irritating.
Not all the time.
But some of the time.
Beth hated comparing herself to the former supermodel. It wasn’t a fair comparison, but when were they ever?
A woman’s self-judgement and fairness were two travelers on roads that rarely converged.
Ms. Lafferty narrowed her eyes at Iridia, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe you could teach an old broad new tricks. While no comments were forthcoming, the air in the room got noticeably thicker with tension.
And Beth wasn’t up for dealing with it.
“Iridia, why don’t you grab the food coupons from my purse and pick up groceries? I’ll finish up with Ms. Lafferty and close the office myself tonight.”
Iridia’s mouth twisted to the side and she nodded. “Sure. I’ll pick up Noor on the way home.”
“Sounds good. Isn’t Miro coming over for dinner tonight?”
Iridia’s manicured eyebrows jumped up. It was amazing that she still maintained a fastidious plucking regimen despite the depth of her depression. “Is that tonight?”
“Yes. Aren’t you the one that invited him?”
Iridia ran her fingers through her long, sandy blonde hair. “Oh my God! I totally forgot!”
Beth laughed out loud, again. She’d never met anyone more inept in the kitchen than her husband until, that is, she watched Iridia try to assemble a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Absolute dining disaster.
“Do you know what you’re making?”
Iridia’s normally pale skin blanched a shade whiter. “I have no idea!”
Beth patted her on the shoulder. “You’d better get—”
Iridia flew out of the exam room. Doors opened and slammed shut as she raced out of the office.
Ms. Lafferty sniffed in annoyance. “Well, then. If we are all ready to return our attention to the more important matter of Jelly Wiggles’ puffy pecans.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It took entirely too long to convince Ms. Lafferty that Jelly Wiggles was in no serious danger, and that the size of his pecans was in no way abnormal. Beth didn’t try to convince her that her cat didn’t need a loving relationship. She suspected that was an expression of the owner’s needs more than the cat’s.
With Ms. Lafferty gone and the cleaning duties that were normally Iridia’s taken care of, Beth filled a small baggie with dog food and a bottle with water. She had a stop to make on the way home.
Besides, the promise of Iridia’s cooking didn’t make her want to rush home.
She tucked the supplies into her messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder. She gave a last look around the small office and, satisfied that all was ready for tomorrow, locked up on the way out.
The dense fog swallowed her almost immediately. She looked east down Golden Gate Avenue and noticed for the umpteenth time just how dark a city could be without all the usual illumination that existed before the outbreak. While they had electricity in the Green Zone, it was still a scarce resource. The days of leaving every light in the house on were long gone.
Not that she personally did that.
But she knew plenty of people who did. Now, no one did.
Every residence was strictly allotted a weekly amount of energy and those who went over were fined. The fines weren’t paid in cash as the government quickly discovered that was an ineffective prohibition. The government provided food coupons, electrical allotments, housing, jobs, you name it. A functioning economy had yet to be formed, so people had cash in abundance.
More than they knew what to do with.
There was the black market of goods stocked by the scavengers that illegally entered the Red Zone. But from what little Beth knew of that scene, it was still mostly barter because no one knew how to value money yet.
The inherent value of money had finally surfaced.
Paper currency had always been a confidence game. It worked fine before the outbreak. But when enough people realized that it had no more intrinsic value than the flash of warmth provided from burning it, the whole system came crashing down.
Fines were paid in the denominations that mattered. The things that money used to buy. Electricity. Food. Clothes. Water. Household goods. The essentials.
Fines for using more than your electrical allotment were paid with decreases in future allotments, on a two for one basis. So you lost twice as much as you inappropriately gained. Jail time quickly followed for serial abusers.
It was a harsh system of control and justice, but life was harder since the outbreak. And so the systems that made it possible mirrored the change.
Beth stared down the street at the isolated pockets of illumination afforded by the street lights burning orange through the gloom. Without all the ancillary lighting of storefronts and homes, the spaces in between the street lights quickly dropped into darkness.
She counted three glowing orange balls receding down the street before the fog swallowed them completely. It had become her routine for measuring the gloom. On clear nights, she could count all seven street lights before they disappeared over the hill. On one light nights, she practically needed a compass to not get lost.
The heavy blankets of fog that regularly descended on the city in late summer felt appropriate. They suffocated they city.
Just as the outbreak had done to humanity.
Beth headed east and took a right on Franklin Street. She passed by City Hall on the left as she went. Mason would no doubt be inside going over every detail to ensure the inauguration ceremony tomorrow went off without a hitch. She hoped he wouldn’t stay too late.
Otherwise, there would be more of Iridia’s cooking for everyone else.
Mason’s job consumed more than its fair share of his life, and that was before adding in the complication of big events like an inauguration.
He kept promising things would settle down soon.
Beth believed it because she wanted to, not because she thought it was true.
The lighting dropped away as she approached the perimeter fence running along Fell Street. She touched the chainlink fence and the metal sent a cool chill into her fingertips. She followed it further south along Tenth.
She made it to the usual spot and stopped. She stared through the fence into the fading gray of the Red Zone and saw no movement.
She whistled.
The pitter patter of four-legged movement signaled his presence seconds before his sleek brindle form parted the fog. He ran to the fence, tail wagging so hard that the back half of his body swerved back and forth like it was hanging on for dear life.
“Come here, boy,” Beth said in a high pitch voice. The kind of voice that would make a person think you were being a patronizing idiot.
But with dogs, it worked wonders.
And this beautiful boxer mix was no exception.
She shoved her hand through the nearest hole in the fence, taking a little skin off the knuckles in her haste. “Hey, little guy. How are you doing?”
He wiggled over and jumped up with his front paws splayed against the fence. He leaned in to position his neck for a good scratch while his back half kept up its exuberant swinging.
Beth studied him with a practiced eye honed from years working with animals at the Los Angeles Zoo. Her old job. One that was quite a bit more exciting than inspecting Jelly Wiggles’ testicles. But at least she still got to h
elp God’s creatures.
God’s creatures.
It was a phrase her mother used for all animals of the non-human variety. Before the outbreak, Beth had always thought it a little too melodramatic.
But now, it fit.
He was looking better. Filling out more in the torso. A short coat flowed over his ribcage rather than accentuated every bone as it had done when they first met a few weeks ago. A chance encounter on her walk home had quickly transformed into a regular stop for the both of them.
Not for the first time, she wanted to tear the fence down and curse at it in the process. She’d considered asking Mason if they could cut it in order to rescue the dog. It wouldn’t have to be a big opening. Something small and easily fixed.
But her husband wasn’t in the business of creating security breaches, and he barely had time for a meal at home lately. He loved animals, but he wouldn’t be a receptive audience.
Still, she would ask.
She just had to find the right opening.
Beth made smooching noises through the fence as she scratched up and down along the irregular patch of white fur that ran from his neck down to his belly. He was a boxer with a little something extra thrown in to account for the curled tail and more elongated nose. Around thirty pounds and six months old or so. The size of his paws showed he still had some growing to do.
Having satisfied his itch for attention, he looked through the fence expectantly. His soft brown eyes regarded her with unbridled hope. He whined when she didn’t move fast enough. A pitiable whimper that would’ve broken a heart of granite.
“Okay, okay. Give me a second.”
Beth dug into her bag and pulled out the plastic baggie of food. She gingerly pulled apart the sides careful not to rip it open. It was strange how something designed to be disposable could become otherwise when the promise of the next truckload disappeared.
“Here you go, baby,” she said as she spilled dog food through a hole above the concrete barrier foundation.
He gulped it down almost as fast at it tumbled to the street. His tail didn’t stop wagging.
Beth smiled, in a sad way. She missed their old bullmastiff Max like a child. His gruesome end added to the ache in her heart. It was time for the West family to add a furry member to their number. Another furry member, more accurately.
Their cat, Mr. Piddles, and the two-month-old Bili chimp, Clyde, might not like the news, but this spunky little guy deserved a good home.
He swept up every last bit of kibble and then frantically sniffed around hoping he’d missed one.
“Come here. Come,” Beth said as she dug the water bottle out of her bag.
His looked up at her and tilted his head to the side. The pose all dogs used when they were trying to understand something.
“Have some water,” she said as she pushed the tip of the bottle through the fence. She let a little stream pour out so he would get the idea.
He jumped back up and a wide pink tongue with black spots lapped at the water.
Beth slowly tilted the bottle further as he drank. “Since we’re going to adopt you (she’d clear that up with Mason later), you need a name.” She watched him lap up the water, tail wagging wildly. He couldn’t have been more friendly.
“How about Buddy?” she asked. “We could all use another friend these days.”
He wagged his tail even harder. She wasn’t positive it was a sign of agreement, but she went with it.
“Buddy, it is then.”
He finished the water and then started licking her fingers. His soft tongue warmed her cool skin. She reached through with her other hand and petted his head. Loving on an animal recharged her batteries in a way that few things could.
Buddy licked her fingers like it was his only job in the world.
And then he froze.
His head shifted slightly as his ears perked up. A low rumble rose from his chest. A ridge of fur down the center of his back stood on end. He dropped down to the street and turned away looking into the darkness. The rumble escalated to a low growl.
“What is it, Buddy?” she whispered.
Another dog ready to compete for free food?
A tall biped silhouette appeared in the fog some fifty feet away. It moved like a human, but with less studied grace. Its movements were more fluid, direct, primal.
Beth stared knowing what it was.
Four more shadows appeared in the fog. They spread out as they crept closer.
Buddy’s growl grew louder.
They weren’t after dog food. They were after food that was a dog.
“Leave him alone!” Beth shouted.
They broke into a run converging on Buddy.
“Run! Run, Buddy!”
Buddy understood the danger. He bolted along the fence at top speed.
The delta in his path bared its teeth. He reached for Buddy.
“No! No!” Beth screamed.
Buddy ran right at him. At the last second, he leaped to the side and then darted by as the delta thrashed at empty air. The little fighter receded into the distance as the five deltas shrieked in frustration.
One turned to her and howled. He ran at the fence sending her sprawling backwards in surprise. He pounded on the barrier between them. His lips curled open revealing brown, filthy teeth.
Beth scrambled to her feet, thankful for the fence separated them.
If only Buddy was on this side. She’d have to bring it up to Mason.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The acrid scent of something burning hit Beth before she climbed up the first stair to the front door of their classic San Francisco Victorian house. Above the recessed garage door on the ground floor, a warm light shone from the large three-panel center window on the first floor. Pacific Heights being one of the posher areas of San Francisco, this house featured a two car garage. The impossible dream before the outbreak.
Parking had once been such a prized commodity.
No more.
No one outside the government drove anything anymore because gas was perhaps the most scarce resource of all.
Beth hated that aspect of the new world.
She was a tinkerer, a fixer. Few things gave her more pleasure than wrenching an old bike back to life. She hadn’t ridden since leaving Spock behind back in LA.
She didn’t mind walking everywhere in the Green Zone, especially considering it took less than an hour to walk from one end to the other.
But she missed the rush of the wind slipping by. The rumble of the engine in her chest. The freedom of riding left a hole in her heart.
One of many.
Some day, maybe, she’d find another old beater and bring it back to life. But even if she did, what would it run on?
And so their garage door only opened once a week when they had to haul their trash a few blocks down to the central collection point for the Pacific Heights neighborhood.
Beth climbed the steps to the front door. The white railing on both sides ended in ornate pillars that supported an overhang. The overhand the small porch and also offered extra square footage for the second floor above. Two elaborately framed windows on the second floor placed equidistant above the central window completed the style. The narrow footprint only worked for their family because there were three floors.
Similar houses lined the street on both sides.
The architecture was common to the city, but still strange to Beth. It was nothing like their mid-century craftsman back in Venice.
If the west side of Los Angeles was crazy expensive back before the outbreak, then a house like this in Pacific Heights would’ve been astronomical. Several million dollars easy. And yet now, they couldn’t sell it if they tried. For starters because everything in the Green Zone was controlled by the government. But also because there were more houses than people that needed them.
The outbreak hadn’t just flipped the curves of supply and demand. It had utterly destroyed the latter.
Beth peeked through the large w
indow into the living room on the first floor. The few lights inside illuminated the scene like a diorama at a museum.
Noor danced around in a circle leading Clyde through a series of unrelated moves that sprang from her imagination. It was both flowing and jerky. Twirling one way and then the other. Dipping and dancing with carefree abandon.
It was beautiful. They were beautiful.
She bounded up the remaining steps and threw open the door.
And almost gagged as the burning stink in the air hit her full force.
She prayed letting Iridia cook dinner wasn’t going to turn out to be a huge waste of precious food. The stench wasn’t reassuring.
Clyde squeaked and grinned absurdly as he dove into somersaults, rolling in her direction. Noor followed right behind with her arms open wide and a precious smile on her face. Clyde jumped through the air and grabbed a hold of her thigh climbing up to sit perched on her shoulder with one long arm curled behind her neck.
Beth patted his head with one hand and wrapped Noor in a tight hug with the other. The little chimp squeaked and chattered with pleasure and then nibbled on her earlobe. He brought joy into their household. To Noor as they danced and played. To Theresa and her for being the son of his mother Jane, the female bili chimp Beth had raised from birth and to whom Theresa had bonded like a sibling.
She hugged Noor until she’d had her fill and pulled away. Like Iridia, the twelve-year-old girl had also lost her father in Los Angeles. The circumstances surrounding the two deaths were radically different. Noor’s father had sacrificed himself so that his daughter and all of them could make it to safety. Iridia’s father had been left to die as punishment for his role in developing and releasing the Delta Virus.
While their deaths couldn’t have been more different, one thing that was the same was that they had broken their daughters’ hearts.
Iridia’s frantic voice echoed in from the kitchen at the rear of the house. “It’s ruined! Totally ruined!”
