It was the third of June. I was unwinding in my hotel room after a frustratingly long day of training people who shouldn’t be let near computers. I’d crawled into bed and clicked on the television. I remember the comforter was splashed with bright colors vaguely reminiscent of tropical flowers. It’s funny, the details that stick in your mind. As I recall, I had to turn the television up to compete with the noise of the rain. There had been off and on drizzle all day, but now it was pounding against the thick glass of the hotel window. So much for sunny California, eh?
I returned my attention to the broadcast with its neatly pressed and coifed news anchors who proceeded to inform viewers about the strange and fierce strain of SVHF — Severe Viral Hemorrhagic Fever — that was quickly becoming an epidemic in southern California and Sydney, Australia. They cut to highlights of an interview with a doctor who claimed to be an expert on communicable diseases. I do not recall if he was from the Centers for Disease Control or not. His theory was that SVHF was related to the Ebola virus. He prattled on about how the two could be connected. Frankly, he was talking over my head. Somewhere during his dissertation the national news interrupted the local.
There was yet another malady at work. I could not believe what I was hearing. A Super Flu had overtaken Washington D.C. The flu was also appearing in other cities; the capitals of all the countries belonging to the United Nations. I was dumbfounded. Did the conspiracy theorists have it correct? I’m certain that I would have sat there for hours taking in the varied hypotheses of experts, ignoring the world outside, but the world outside had other plans.
I barely registered the first roll of the earthquake, but soon enough it was clear that it was a big one. I was born in California and had lived there until I was twelve. I knew I had to get out of the building. I grabbed my shoes and laptop, and dashed for the door as a major jolt thrust me forward, stumbling. The television came crashing to the floor, its screen exploding. Everything happened so fast. I was in the hall, the floor pulling down and away from my feet as I ran; there was the cracking of wood and breaking of cement. My eyes stung from plaster dust. The conditioning of growing up in earthquake country kicked in and I quickly moved towards a sturdy doorway; the emergency exit.
I was nearly there when a loud crack dominated the rest of the bedlam and I was thrown to the floor as the entire corridor heaved forward. I’ve no idea how I got up again, but I did, and now survival instinct overrode any conditioning. I was determined to get out. I started down the stairwell — half running, half tumbling.
I was only on the second floor, yet it seemed like all the distance in world at that moment. What happened next is just a blur and I can’t really tell you exactly what occurred.
I do know that I came to on my chest. The first thing that registered was the pain. I ached. Certainly worse than when Mikey O’Connell had beaten me up after school. It hurt more than the only car accident I had been in. Just trying to shift my weight resulted in spasms of agony; I was sure that I was bruised head to toe and that more than one bone was broken. The smell of ozone and copper was stinging my nostrils, and just beyond that was the wretched combination of fetid garbage and piss. I choked back the bile rising in my throat.
Finally, I opened my eyes and saw only darkness. My legs were caught under something. I could feel them, and even wiggle my toes, but I couldn’t move them. Then I heard the sounds from outside. It was a dreadful cacophony: people screaming for help, ambulance sirens and wailing children; all of it a distorted echo reverberating around me.
I don’t know how long I was there in the dark, trapped with my own thoughts of various worst case scenarios and wondering if I had even made it out of the hotel. I remember reading a website that had said that earthquake training — to get to a doorway — made it easier for those who survived to find the bodies.
Would anyone find my body?
For hours I contemplated a myriad of fates, each worse than the next. Was I going to be crushed from debris in an aftershock? Was I going to die from blood loss? Was I going to starve to death? You get the idea.
I eventually braved the pain and stretched my arms to begin exploring my surroundings by touch. I discovered there was open space above me and a metal structure to my right. I was fairly certain I was lying on my laptop case. To my right I felt debris: brick, glass, plaster, and an assortment of things I couldn’t identify. I brought my right arm back and down my side to see if I could detect what had pinned my legs. This was difficult and painful, but yielded an unexpected discovery; light. I had shifted rubble next to me and it revealed a faint glow. I began clawing at the small opening in earnest. Soon, I could pass my hand through the hole. I began failing it about, doing my best to shout for help, hoping someone outside would notice.
I found myself silently praying to a God I had long ignored, because we had a few disagreements about what was said in His book. Luck, or perhaps God had not been so offended by my absence, came through for me that night. Someone noticed and people began digging me out, which as it turns out was not a difficult task. Luck, or again God, was on my side.
I had made it.
I’d actually gotten free of the hotel, but had become trapped under a dumpster that had fallen sideways. It was holding the weight of some of the collateral wreckage of the hotel, part of which had spilled down onto my legs.
My injuries were fairly minor considering all I had been through: a few cracked ribs, a fractured wrist (which still stings a little when it snows), a concussion, and of course, bruises just about everywhere. It was a miracle that my legs were fine, that I had lived.
The next few days were hell. I found a Red Cross shelter and ended up volunteering. At first I couldn’t do much in my injured condition, but as I healed I was able to be of more help. After a week, volunteering had become my life. Everything that had come before was like a dream. I connected with two people there: Connie Van Den Poole and Miss Ruby Divine.
Connie was a nurse, Ruby a drag queen. They were a combination that injured people needed. Connie would tend to aliments of the body and Ruby those of the spirit. They complimented each other well and both kept my spirits high. When Ruby and I were alone she would share what news she had gleaned from gossiping with those in charge.
The Super Flu that had appeared was moving rapidly through the country, and the fatality rate was high. Way too high. When we were alone, she would cry on my shoulder, wracking sobs that shook her whole body. With me, she was able to let herself go, feel her grief, her fear, her frustration. I comforted her the best way I knew, cooing and wiping away her wet raccoon eyes. It was the least I could do for her and everyone else she made smile. She did so much to keep everyone happy with her saucy wit, painted face and bright red wig. I prayed that she would not get sick, or Connie.
By the eighth day, three people had died of SVHF. That number had more than doubled by the second week. I can’t recall when the first flu case came in, but it was not long after that our fate was clear to me.
I sat with Connie. The rain coming down was cleaning away the noxious smell of the funeral pyres. We talked about what was to come. I tried to change the subject, to make light of things, poking fun at the medical masks we all wore now. She finally confessed that she had a fever. There was no question in her mind that she was as good as dead. Connie would not cry and she never did. She asked that I be there at the end. I was and held her hand as she slipped away. That was almost the end of July. By August, Ruby and I were the only ones left. We got drunk that night in the darkness of a once popular watering hole.
She ranted about how help was not coming, how the end was indeed nigh. Her voice reverberated throughout the abandoned pub, giving it the sound of some powerful goddesses from Greek Myth; prophesying doom and destruction. In my drunkenness, I remembered something, a memory of my life from before. I can’t tell you why I remembered it then, but I did. At first, it was just a wisp dancing at the edge of my recollection. As she raged, I recalled more of the moment. A silly
one to be sure, but in the haze of my inebriation I was convinced it could offer a ray of hope. I interrupted the drag queen to share my news.
I explained it to Ruby, as I will explain to you. The first thing I should mention is blogs, as I imagine they will not be part of the new world. Blogs, short for web logs, are diaries, or logs, which are maintained on the Internet, sometimes called the World Wide Web. The Internet was an interconnection of computers which allowed for almost infinite data to be shared with whoever owned a computer with access to the Internet.
Shannon is my partner, and while many things, just happens to be a bit of an enthusiast of all things apocalyptic, like zombie movies and nuclear winter. It’s a little quirky, but I don’t mind. Our friend Karl also shares this odd hobby and it was really him that set this in motion. A couple of weeks before I left for my trip, Shannon had invited Karl over for a night of “end of the world movies” and typically, it dissolved into a good natured debated over what locations in Seattle would be highly defensible and well equipped should the apocalypse come. Shannon always came back to this fancy retreat spa in the mountains we frequented, because it has its own water source and hydroelectric capabilities. That’s when Karl jumped in with this idea he had read about in a blog of a woman named Kayley.
She was musing, rambling really. She had dreamt about a man, a friend of hers, Monte. He represented survival to her and after speaking of what she had dreamt, they agreed to meet in Grants Pass, Oregon, if the apocalypse ever came. Shannon had found the idea amusing and after researching the place online, we all agreed that should the world end, we would meet there. It was silly and not serious at all. We laughed about it and soon it was forgotten. Who ever really thinks the world is going to end?
Ruby laughed at me. She laughed long and hard; so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks like black rivers. As she collected herself, tucking her false crimson hair behind her ear, she smiled. It was a large, full smile. That moment is forever burned into my memory.
“My dear, the fucking world has ended and you are still a geek. You plan to find salvation in an online journal. Javier, you still tote that damn computer around, as if you are ever going to be able to connect to the internet again. It’s all gone now.” She gestured with her slight wrist, rolling it as she swept her arm, indicating the world.
“It is all gone Javier.” She sashayed towards me, her black scarf trailing behind her. “You should go, find Shannon. You deserve to be together.” She kissed me then, gently on the mouth. It was slow and sweet. I could smell her perfume, rich and heady. It suited her well. I asked her if she would come with me. She smiled a slight smile, but her eyes were sad and reminded me of Connie’s eyes when she had come clean that she has contracted the Super Flu. “That is very sweet of you to ask. However, San Francisco is my home. I was born here. I came out here. I was fabulous here…and Javier, I shall die here.”
She sauntered away from me, glancing back over her shoulder; a performer until the end. She knelt down to her purse, wavering just a bit. She removed something from within, stood, pivoted flawlessly on her spiked heals and tossed me what was in her hand. I caught it despite my intoxication. It was a prescription bottle for valium. It was empty.
Ruby looked me in the eyes, tears once again trickling down her cheeks. “Dance with me until I’m gone Javier, then lay me out with candles on Hibernia Beach.” I nodded and we embraced, slowly dancing in the silence of the pub.
That night I laid her out, surrounded by red and white candles. She was like sleeping beauty, if the princess had been a trollop. Ruby looked good tarted up. I stayed there and watched over her until dawn. I then returned to my bed at the Red Cross station. I woke in the afternoon and started packing provisions. I was going to make it to Grants Pass and if there was nobody there, I would continue on to Seattle to see if by a miracle, Shannon had survived.
I met a few people on the way; Lindsey Porter and her daughter Sam were the first two I met. They had had a run in with an unsavory man. I helped them out. Thankfully, I had taken a gun with me on my trip north. This man — Walter was his name — had apparently decided that the end of civilization entitled him to anything he wanted; and Lindsey was something he had wanted. He had been keeping her daughter near him at all times with her hands bound. He had threatened to kill Sam if Lindsey didn’t comply with his demands, which were all sexual. I shudder when I think of what the two had to endure at the hands of that man.
I met Lindsey as she was gathering berries for Walter. She had a wild look in her eyes; disheveled and dirty. I smiled at her and she just stared at me for a minute.
“Are you a good man?” she asked.
“I couldn’t say,” I replied. “I try to be, I guess. Do you need help?” She nodded, tears trickling down her face as she explained to me about Walter and her daughter. I believe I did what any decent person would have done. I took the gun from my pack and followed Lindsey back to their camp, such as it was.
Before Walter could even grab for Sam, I had the gun trained on him and ordered him to step away from the girl. Mother and daughter ran to each other. Lindsey removed the rope and as they were coming back to me, Walter made a jump for his gun. I shot him. I wasn’t sure if I had hit my mark at first. Everything slowed down. Walter’s body slowly twisted and fell, crimson seeping across his chest. It was comedic and horrific as his face twisted with surprise and what I would imagine was pain. Time returned to normal when his body hit the ground.
I remember that I couldn’t catch my breath; my heart was pounding in my ears. I absently dropped the gun at my side. I sunk to my knees and vomited. The women rushed over to me, thanking me, and looking for assurances that I was alright, but I just waved them away.
They gave me a few minutes, but soon Lindsey’s mothering took hold. First she insisted that we move away from Walter’s body and soon after that she had me eating berries and drinking water. I didn’t talk much for the next few days and most of that was asking them to stop thanking me.
Even now I have a hard time accepting that I killed another human being, even one as wretched as Walter. I still have nightmares about it, his twisted grimace accusing me; mocking me. I stand before God — who is sort of back in my life — desperately trying to hide my bloodied hands from him. I can justify it every which way, but still it haunts me.
Sometimes I wonder if Lindsey hadn’t seen me vomiting — hadn’t seen the glazed horror that turned my skin white and made my hands shake — would she have accepted my invitation for her and her daughter to travel to Grants Pass with me?
Somewhere near the border to Oregon we found a little boy, seven years old. He had been living in a gas station, eating the food from the snack mart. His name was Oswaldo Fuentes. He spoke no English, but I had learned Spanish years ago. Strangely, he seemed to have adapted quite well. I think mostly because he couldn’t comprehend what had happened. We took him with us too.
We are all now in Grants Pass. As are many people, nearly a hundred and more arrive each day. The town is becoming a real refuge. We have no way of knowing if there are other places where survivors are gathering, but we here in Grants Pass are doing our best to build a future out of what has been left to us, which sadly is not much.
Monte, the friend mentioned in the journal is here, but everyone is still waiting for Kayley — I hope she makes it. It’s the one thing that is preventing this community from moving forward. Nobody wants to go beyond what she started without her. Many here believe she is destined to be our leader; a couple even think of her as our messiah. I believe she’s just an insightful girl with a brilliant idea. I hope she’s safe.
As for me? Well, a friend from Seattle made it here, Annie Nguyen. She told me that Shannon died in his sleep. The Super Flu. She burned his body, as he would have wanted. My gut clenches every time I think of it, but I know it’s time to let go of the past, to embrace the future, grim as it may be. I have adopted Oswaldo. Not officially of course, but in my heart, where it matters. Ruby w
as right, I do cling to a world that once was.
In fact, I carried that damn laptop all the way from San Francisco to Grants Pass. After locating a battery for it here, I decided to start a new journal. So if you’re reading this, then it means you’ve found my laptop — better yet, you have a power source for it.
I ask, whoever you are, to remember that Shannon Patrick Conner was loved. Please remember Miss Ruby Divine as the bright light that she was — raccoon eyes and all. I hope that I, and the others here, have been able to build something good for Oswaldo, Sam, and all the other children.
Farewell to the past, may the hope of Grants Pass be fulfilled someday soon.
With all regard,
Javier Antonio Gutierrez.
Biography
James M. Sullivan
James M. Sullivan has been spinning tales since his formative years, entertaining his family with tape-recorded stories and skits. As he matured, so did his medium — from school book fairs to essays to short stories.
Then Jim discovered gaming. He did not settle long for the role of participant and was soon creating plots and his own worlds. Live Action Role-Playing (LARP) was his next step. He has co-run a four-year fantasy LARP and a five-year vampire LARP. When a player asked Jim why he did not write stories and pointed out the plots he created were stories, he returned to writing short fiction.
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