by Ryan Schow
“So they’re not here to help the survivors?”
“They’re here for clean up, and not one single one of them has a personality.”
He thought he understood this, being a soldier. “It’s probably because they’re just like us. They have dead friends and family, dead wives and kids, and here they are, basically doing housecleaning. But for those who’ve suffered like us, they see the dead and it reminds them of who they lost, too.”
“Thanks Dr. Phil,” she said.
He glared at her and said, “You are one gigantic pain in the ass, you know that?”
Ignoring him, she said, “If you think this is bad, you should see one of the burn piles.”
“Yours was bad enough.”
Not saying anything, she dropped the car in gear again, popped the clutch and swung them around, heading back where they came from.
“Who cleared these streets?” he asked. They weren’t perfectly clear, but he could see cars and debris moved out of the way.
“National Guard,” she said. “I already told you.”
He blew out a sigh, then let himself escape in the nightmare scenery they were passing, albeit at a much slower pace than before. Entire buildings had crumbled and come down. There were bullet holes in everything, glass windows were blown out, the evidence of bombing was everywhere.
“How do you know which way to come?”
“I explore the city,” she said, grumpy. “It’s still our city.”
“I’m sorry, Indigo. For whatever happened to you, for what you survived that made you this way, I’m sorry you had to endure that.”
She stiffened her upper lip and nodded her head. After a moment, she slowed the car to a reasonable speed and looked away. He risked a glance in time to see a tear drip from her eye. Discretely, she brushed it aside.
Taking a chance, he put his hand on her arm as it rested on the gearshift. She gave a “get-your-hands-off-me twitch,” but he kept his hand on her anyway.
“Why are you touching me?”
“Because it’s okay to hurt, but it’s better to have someone who understands than to just sit and stew in the things we both want and don’t want to sit and stew in.”
She looked at him and said, “You just want…what people like you want.”
He knew she was referring to sex, and though she would have been right yesterday, she was too lost in whatever triggered her today to see the change in him.
“Actually, not anymore.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He removed his hand from her arm, settled into his seat and lost himself out the window. When he realized they were heading up Castro and would pass the Panhandle and merge onto Divisadero, he said, “Where are you headed?”
“Same place you’re headed,” she said, not coy, not mad, just like…meh.
“Which is?”
“Target on Geary.”
“No way,” he said. “It’s not good up there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we lived right there, in Anza Vista. The Public Storage collapsed into the street blocking traffic, and the two times we went to the nearby Target, the place was looted and full of homeless.”
“There’s a Safeway on 7th and Cabrillo, just by the 8th Avenue entrance into the Golden Gate Park.”
“That will have been picked clean a long time ago,” Rex said.
“Yes, but we can work the surrounding houses.”
“You want to break into them?” he asked, confounded. “In broad daylight?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“You have a family to feed, or did you forget? Besides, I’m doing this for you, not for me. I’m set for awhile. You, on the other hand, have crumbs on your pantry shelves and little more.”
“We check out the Safeway first, then move from there,” he said.
They moved steadily up Divisadero until they came to Fulton. Indigo swung a hard left going a little too fast.
“Someone might be crossing the street when you run them over,” Rex said.
“You don’t like my driving?”
“I like it just fine if we’re in stock cars on a track,” he replied. “But we’re not.”
“If you’re worried about pedestrians,” she said, speeding up a little and dodging abandoned cars right and left and on the sidewalk, “then consider there’s a veritable beast of an engine operating here, and it isn’t quiet. Further consider, we’re moving through entire walls of two story homes packed so tight against each other you couldn’t squeeze a mouse fart through there, which is to say, the people four blocks down know we’re coming, and if they’re not smart enough to get out of the way, then they deserve to be run over.”
He huffed out a depleted laugh, an I-give-up laugh, a you’re-too-much laugh.
“What?”
“You know, you have one twisted sense of humor.”
“Who says I’m kidding?” she said with a smirk. He looked at her with hesitant eyes and an air of concern, to which she said, “I haven’t hit anyone yet.”
“You ran over a dead body earlier,” he said. “I could hear the limbs getting dragged up under the wheels.”
“Let me rephrase this for the literal crowd,” she replied. “I haven’t run over an alive body yet. Nor do I plan on it.”
They drove for what felt like forever before the edge of the park came into view. They were getting close, but it was slow going and there were people mulling about, as usual.
“Man, I thought this city had a homeless problem before…”
“These people have homes,” Indigo said. “It’s just they probably aren’t theirs and if they are they probably don’t want to be in them.”
When they got to the Safeway, the parking lot had some abandoned cars in them, but half the glass storefront was broken out from a car that jumped the curb and smashed through it. They parked the car, got out and looked the place over.
“Lock your door,” she said.
He did.
Walking inside, they found the place was indeed stripped clean. There were a few things here and there, and some sleeping bags with people in them and their stuff spread about.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“You don’t have to convince me,” he replied, following her back outside where a kid on a bike was waiting for them.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hey,” they said in unison.
He was a scrub of a thing, unwashed from the toxic rainstorm the other day. He handed them a flyer.
“We’re having a community meeting tomorrow night,” he said, shoving a piece of paper at them with directions and a map drawn in crayon. In his hand was a thick stack of more flyers just like it. Whomever put these things together did quite a bit of work. “You’re from Balboa Hollow, right?” he said. The kid couldn’t be more than twelve years old.
“Yeah,” Rex lied, “right around the corner.”
“So show up then,” he replied.
When he rode off, Rex said, “I should’ve taken his bike.” He looked at Indigo for a response; she gave him pursed lips and a frown. “You could’ve shot him and then I could’ve taken the bike.”
She shook her head and said, “Let’s go, dork parade.” Inside the car, she said, “We need access to some backyards, but first we need to do some light recon.”
“What did you have in mind?”
She pulled to the side of the road on Cabrillo a few blocks down and said, “All these homes have backyards, easy access points. But first, we start knocking on doors, see who’s home. I’ll take one side, you take the other.”
“Sounds good,” he said.
They both got out of the car, both of them locking their doors behind them. She pointed to one side and he nodded, taking the other. He went up the street and found that only one of the residents answered the door. When she did, it was with a double-barrel shotgun to his face.
“I have
kids, so if you’re thinking anything funny, take it somewhere else.”
Perhaps she was startled by his knocking. He’d knocked on each door the way cops knock on doors—like they’re about to kick them down and this was their first and last warning.
“No funny business ma’am. Just wanted to let you know there’s a community meeting for the Balboa Hollow residents tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where at?” she said, shotgun still in his face.
“Frank McCoppin Elementary. We don’t know how many to expect in terms of attendance, but you’re welcome to join us.”
“You set it up?”
“Do I look like the party planning type?” he asked, sarcastic.
A toddler with blonde pigtails and a stained pink and white outfit appeared behind the woman. The girl was cute, and smiling. When the woman saw him looking at her daughter, she turned and said, “Go back to your room.”
She put her eyes back on him and he said, “If I meant you harm, lady, you’d already be dead. Before you posture up and tell me I’m wrong, consider you just took your eyes off me with your weapon in reach. Meaning I would’ve taken it from you and beat you to death with it rather than waste whatever rounds you’ve got packed in the tubes.”
Startled by his forward approach, she backed up, kept the shotgun leveled on him and kicked the front door shut. The locks were thrown quickly, and just as he was leaving, she screamed, “Go away!”
He moved on from her house to the next. There were twenty-three homes on his side and though shotgun lady was the only one who answered the door, he heard movement in four other homes, which he noted.
He met Indigo on the other side of the block, which was Balboa. He said, “There are residents in homes eleven, fourteen, seventeen, eighteen and twenty. I could only get physical confirmation on house eleven though. She’s a middle aged woman with a dirty kid and a shotgun.”
“I counted twenty one on my side with four answers and two others I noted as possibilities.”
“Numbers?”
“One, seven, ten, twelve, fifteen and sixteen.”
“So we go back to Cabrillo,” he said. “There’s a fence we can jump, and we’ll hit the empty ones together.”
They returned to the Oldsmobile where she keyed open the trunk. Inside there was a cutout square of a moving blanket, a blue roll of two inch painters’ tape and a hammer. She gathered them up.
“You have your gun with you?” he asked her.
“Don’t pretend like you haven’t been staring at my butt,” she said. She was right. Her weapon was stuck in the back of her pants. A small caliber, ladies handgun. Black, a .22 if he was right.
“We going to go to that meeting?” he asked as they headed for the gray painted gate.
She lobbed the tape, the hammer and the blanket over the other side. Then she said, “Give me a boost,” and he did, trying not to look at her butt, even though he was.
“Get a good look?” she asked when she landed on the other side.
“Sure did,” he replied. “Thanks.”
A second later there was a massive noise, causing him to step back and check both sides of the street for witnesses. Fortunately the only people out were down the street a good block or two. Her next kick broke the lock. He opened the gate, snuck in and pulled it shut behind him.
“Very subtle,” he said.
“I’m sure someone’s calling the cops right now,” she said, strutting into the open backyard between the homes.
They jumped two fences, using the cover of a large tree to block the potential views of prying eyes.
Inside they found some of what they were looking for, but it wasn’t enough. They hit two more homes without incident, gathered up the loot then hauled it back to the car. By the time they got back, both of them were breathing heavier, but the car was full with dry food and supplies.
“You’re good at this,” he said. The way she knew exactly where to look and how to clear a house showed him she was well versed in post-apocalyptic breaking and entering.
“We’re going to have to do this a few more times to get you guys situated.”
“This is a good neighborhood,” he said.
“Yeah. Just remember that when you’re sitting in that school with the neighborhood watch.”
“I’ll try.”
“What do you think these people hope to accomplish having this meeting?” she asked as she was rolling down her window and taking them home.
“Maybe just taking stock of the human inventory,” he said. “Or maybe someone gets the concept of ‘strength in numbers.’ That’s going to be a thing sooner or later.”
By the time they arrived home, the mood between them seemed more settled, almost like they might be able to be friends something. When they turned onto Dirt Alley and crept up on the house, they saw Macy and Cincinnati out back digging a hole.
“What’s that for?” Rex asked with the window down.
“A place to put our crap,” Macy said.
He looked at Indigo and said, “Well, on that note…”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Dust and smoke caked the inside of Lenna Justus’s mouth. She regained consciousness in the middle of a hacking fit. Her throat was filthy, on fire. It brought her to. Everything was coming back now, not fast, but slowly, like the information itself was being dragged through a thick gel separating her brain from perfect awareness. Things were returning, though. Pieces of a puzzle she had yet to arrange, much less put together.
Then it hit her: a bomb went off outside. She remembered everything.
While the bottom of the second floor had collapsed into the first floor, the roof had collapsed into the second floor where she was at. Now she was trapped in the rubble of a place she could no longer call home.
Boards, dust, a rafter beam—it all sat on her, trapped her in a hole of her own making. She tried to move, found herself squirming in slow motion, but barely.
She wondered, how long have I been out? With the return of clarity came an immediate concern for her boys. Oh my God, the boys!
“Hagan,” she called out, her ragged voice sounding like hell. “Ballard!”
She dry swallowed hard, tasted dust and blood, called out for them again. It was dark. Too dark. And her voice wasn’t working. In that moment, Lenna’s calm began to crumble. First she wept, then she cried, then she sobbed as she thought of how far the world had fallen in these last weeks.
“Hagan!” she screamed, not caring if she tore a bloody seam in her esophagus. “Ballard!”
She called their names until each scream died a brutal death in the back of her throat and her voice was but a scratching whisper. Eventually she succumbed to exhaustion, her body giving up the fight.
“Mom?” the voice said, pulling her from nowhere into somewhere. Her eyes were swollen shut. So puffy it took a divine act just to crack them open. Slivers of light drove the pain home. Her eyes pulled shut in protest. Then she heard the voice again, further away this time. Somewhere in the house.
“Mom!”
Is that…Ballard?
Her mouth opened, a weak gasp of air escaping, the closest thing she had to a reply. She’d obliterated her voice last night. Without water, it would be of no use to her.
She tried to move. Couldn’t.
Sometime during the night, the debris settled, pinning her to more rubble. Beyond the stuffy air, the onslaught of body aches and terror, Lenna fought to keep her wits about her.
She told herself she wasn’t a woman in a bad situation; she was a mother who needed to look after her boys, no matter what.
Slowly, tightening her muscles, flexing her body against the crushing wreckage on top of her, Lenna began to move, to writhe, to pull and stretch things like her legs and hands.
Pinpricks of pain brightened her fingers and toes.
The rush of feeling sizzled up her arms and legs; she suffered an uncomfortable burn, a debilitating pain. Lenna fought her way through it.
S
he had to.
It had been a good half hour since she’d heard Ballard calling for her. She tested her voice, but it was impossibly dry, coated with debris from the dust clouds of the collapse. And her body...she felt drained, malnourished, dehydrated.
This is how people die, she told herself.
This is how you’ll die, Lenna.
She couldn’t help it—the doubt, the almost bitter resignation. She was trapped under the weight of a house she loved and she didn’t possess the strength necessary to escape it. Again, her body shut down, dragging her under, into the nightmares that ran nonstop in her head.
She woke to new sounds. To movement all around her. Her eyes were feeling more swollen than ever and stuck shut. The intense pressure crushing her chest and legs began to ease. Then it was gone. Hands slid into her armpits, gripping her, dragging her free.
“I think she’s still alive,” the voice said.
“She has to be,” Ballard replied.
“Mom, can you hear me?” Hagan asked.
Her oldest son sounded miles away. Like he was at the end of a long hallway full of corners. Like he was tucked into the shadows of shadows. Her body wanted to cooperate, but her mind was squashed delirium, her thoughts a swimming, syrupy tangle of worms and fireflies.
Is this delirium? Am I already dead?
The voices were louder, then quieter, and finally non-existent. Then something touched her lips, something cool and wet, and above all things, this worked to pull her out of the great abyss, toward the light, toward the living.
Her eyes creaked open and through the slits between her eyelids, spears of light burned her retinas, forcing her lids closed again.
She felt herself turn away, slowly, painfully.
“Just relax,” Ballard said, supporting her neck. “Try to drink the water.”
The water soothed her, broke some of the filth loose. She moved her lips, but even the tiniest adjustments split the skin. Blood seeped into her mouth, leaving behind a coppery tasting-stain on her tongue. She didn’t care. Her boys were alive and that’s what mattered most.
