by David Lovato
“You don’t know—”
“Tylor would be alive, and I wouldn’t be wasting my breath right now!”
The two remained silent for a moment, and then Beverly started up again. “I’m going to get something to eat. Don’t you dare come to me again, Emily!”
Beverly stood up, and as she walked toward Martha, Martha reared back her hand. It made a sickening slap against Beverly’s cheek. Beverly grunted in pain, pinching her eyes shut. When she opened them, Martha’s eyes were the first thing she saw. Beverly opened her mouth, and a small trickle of blood ran down her lower lip. She wiped it away with a shaky hand.
“Are you quite finished?” Martha said. “I can’t believe after all the times Emily has been there for you, all the things she’s done for you, you would act like that toward her! You are so ungrateful! You know, I can take the things you said about my husband, because damn it, I know they’re true! But Emily doesn’t deserve this! She was just being loyal to her family, so don’t act like you’re being brushed under the rug. I get what you’re going through. Look around you! I bet a lot of these people have lost someone along the way. So I suggest you start realizing that you’re not alone here, and shut your damn mouth!”
Martha sniffed, tried to hold back the tears, blinked, sat down on her cot, and began picking at her food. The others were silent for a moment, and Francine sat next to Martha, starting on her own food. Beverly sat down, a tear running down her cheek. Emily looked at her, then her mother, and then scanned the others in her group. Finally she looked back at her broken friend.
“You know you’re not alone, Bev,” she said. “As long as I’m here, you’re not alone. I just hope you know that.”
“Just leave me alone.”
When the situation felt diffused and people stopped staring, the others in Martha’s group headed for the breakfast tables. But Martha had lost her appetite.
****
It was 1975, and they had brought two children into their lives. Though Charlie and Martha could both feel things changing, they had Emily and Angela to think about. At seven and five years old, the girls would never understand what was happening between their parents. Martha and Charlie didn’t even understand it.
It was a very warm and dry Saturday in June. The kids were staying with Martha’s parents for the weekend, so Martha and Charlie had that time to themselves, except for part of Saturday. Charlie had told Martha he had to work a few hours in the morning. Little did she know, he had actually promised time to Meredith, one of Martha’s good friends.
Charlie got home on time, which made Martha happy. She smiled and greeted him at the door with a hug. He hugged her quickly, trying not to seem suspicious; he knew he must smell like Meredith, and was hoping Martha wouldn’t notice.
“M, let me shower, and I’m yours,” Charlie said, pulling back from Martha.
“Okay.” Martha gave Charlie a funny look and cocked her head. “Off with you then. I’ll start lunch. I’m getting pretty hungry, now that I think about it.” Charlie headed off.
While Charlie was in the shower, Martha went downstairs to the laundry room. She sorted through the clothes that rested at the bottom of the chute. On top of the pile were Charlie’s pants, socks, underwear, and his button-up shirt. Martha picked them up and noticed they smelled strange, but familiar. Martha held the clothes to her face and inhaled deeply, wondering if she had previously used the wrong detergent on them, but that hope quickly died as Martha recognized the smell as perfume. One more inspection told Martha that it was not her own, and it didn’t take long to recognize it as Meredith’s.
Martha was crushed. She guessed Charlie hadn’t meant to throw his clothes down the chute at all, but old habits die hard, even when one’s own red hands are on the line. Sure enough, shortly after the sound of water rushing through the pipes faded, Charlie rushed into the laundry room. When he saw her, he slowed to a halt. His eyes were wide with regret.
“M…”
“Oh, Charlie.”
“I’m so sorry,” Charlie said. He walked up to her, unsure of how she would act.
“I thought you loved me! The vows you spoke, I guess they meant nothing!”
“It’s… It’s not like that. It’s more complicated than that. I’m sorry.”
“Then simplify it!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t, but I promise you, it’s over.”
“Why should I believe you? I trusted you to be there for me, to love me, and look what that’s gotten me!”
“I do love you. Things have just changed. I just felt lonely. I don’t know what else to say.”
“You felt lonely? What does that mean? I’m your wife! Why couldn’t you tell me—God, Charlie, what’ll the girls think?” Martha began to cry.
Charlie looked down at his feet. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know how I can ever make this up to you, M, but you mark my words, I will. I made a mistake. I’ll fix it.”
Martha didn’t reply for a long time.
“I loved you,” she said. “Hell, even now, I still do. I don’t know what to do right now, Charlie. I’m going to go stay with my parents until we can work something out.”
“I’ll do whatever I have to do to regain your trust,” Charlie said, eyes watering. Martha headed for the stairs, but stopped at the bottom. She turned back to Charlie, and a long stream flowed down her cheek.
“I sure hope so,” Martha said. Afterward, she walked up the stairs and called her father.
****
Martha was sitting on her cot, thinking about her outburst, and feeling a little guilty. She sneaked peeks at Beverly, who she could tell was crying. Alan put down his tray and walked over to Martha’s cot. She motioned for him to sit down.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Martha said.
“It’s really all right,” Alan said. “The girl was out of line.”
“Yes, she was. She’s a good friend of Emily’s, but Emily comes first. She and Angela mean so much to me. My children and grandchildren are all I have left.”
“Of course.” Alan smiled, but it was brief. “I feel like it’d be prying, but…”
“What is it? My husband?”
“I was just wondering why she called him a schmuck.”
“He cheated on me. Back in the 70s. Nothing was the same after that. We never divorced, but it was just not the same.”
“I’m so sorry,” Alan said. “Why did you stay with him, if I might ask?”
“A lot of little reasons, I guess. I think mostly, I wanted to see if we could fall in love again.” Martha began to cry.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” Alan put an arm around Martha’s shoulder. She looked at him, and smiled.
“No, don’t worry about it.” Martha looked away a moment, then looked back. “You must think me such a fool for still holding on to such feelings for Charlie even though—”
Alan shook his head. “Of course not, it’s like you said—”
A commotion cut Alan short. Martha saw people rushing to the front of the stadium. The crowd thickened, exploding with nervous chatter. Martha and her group joined the procession.
Martha could see some men standing on the food tables not far off. They all held guns, pointing them toward the crowd of confused and frightened stadium refugees. The men didn’t look like police officers.
“What’s going on?” a teenaged boy asked. He stood beside a girl who appeared to be close to his age. She was short, and her hair was barely longer than a buzz-cut.
“What? Are you deaf, kid?” one of the gunmen said. His lips formed a cruel, cold smirk. He held an assault rifle tilted toward the ground. “I said we’re the kings of this castle! You answer to us, or you get the fucking guillotine! That’s what’s going on!” When he finished, he cranked his arms upward, pointing the rifle toward the sky. He looked down, and Martha saw a row of police officers. Bits of wire bound each officer’s hands and feet as they knelt on the turf. Their mouths were gagged and taped shut. They
looked terrified, with the exception of Francis, who only looked tired; he stared at the ground, his eyes half open.
The lead gunman looked to the cell not far from the tables. There were five men inside, and Martha recognized one as the food thief from the second night in the stadium. Another was heavy-set man, tall, somewhat menacing. He seemed to be grinning at someone. The other three men stood near him, like they were friends of his.
“I wonder what we should do with these guys,” the lead gunman said.
The man who had blown the whistle on the food thief stood near the front of the crowd. He spoke up. “You’re not going to let those dumbasses out just because they’re bad people, are you? What makes you think they’ll even help you?”
“Shut up!” the food thief said. He looked at the man with the assault rifle. “I’d be more than willing to help you guys, if you let me out.” The other four men nodded in agreement.
“We could always use a few extra helping hands,” the lead gunman said. “What do you think about it, boys?”
“I say let ‘em out!” a gunman said.
“Yeah, let’s do it!”
“All right then! Let those fine men out of there!”
As someone headed to the cell with the keys, the lead gunman looked at the whistleblower. “I suggest you and everyone else keep your stupid mouths shut about the decisions we make in our stadium. We run the place now, or weren’t you fucking listening?”
The gunman opened the cell, and men exited. They joined forces with the gunmen, smiling as they were given guns themselves.
“That’s ridiculous!” a woman near the front of the crowd said. “Those men are creeps, and all you’re doing is proving that you—”
“Shut up!” one of the gunman said.
“Do you want a bullet in your fucking head?” the lead gunman said, pointing his gun at the woman. She flinched, and remained silent after that. The lead gunman continued with his terms.
“I don’t want to see anyone getting out of their cots for any fucking reason.”
A Hispanic man said, “What about food, or water? My daughter—”
The lead gunman motioned to one of his comrades. The gunman in question quickly stepped down from the table and pointed his gun at the man, stopping just a few feet away.
“Shut your motherfucking mouth, you stupid prick! We ask the questions. Comprende, señor?”
The man dropped to his knees in tears.
“Please, don’t shoot me. I’m all Gabrielle has!” The man put his arms up in defense. His little girl stood next to him, tears rushing down her little cheeks. She pressed her face into the man’s side.
“Keep quiet then, and we’ll have no problems!” the gunman said, backing up. He returned to the table.
“Now, all of you assholes get yourselves back to your fucking cots before I start using you all for target practice!” the lead gunman said. The crowd shuddered, and people headed back to their cots. “I don’t give a shit if you’re hungry, or if you have to take a piss. I don’t even care if your babies are withering away in your arms! Nobody moves a muscle until I fucking say so!”
After finishing his speech, the lead gunman pointed his assault rifle down at the first officer in the line, and pulled the trigger. He moved his arm like a sprinkler head, showering dozens of bullets over each of the officers. The remaining masses watched in horror as each police officer was murdered, one by one. The officers that hadn’t been shot yet moaned in distress. Some cried. Soon, their deaths came, and it was all over.
Martha made it back to her cot, surrounded by her family and friends. She was shaking as she drew the photograph from underneath her cot. She wondered if she would suffer a similar fate as the officers, though after some thought, she realized it probably wouldn’t hurt at all to be shot in the head. Rather, it could have been relieving for her. She envisioned her and Charlie reuniting in a better place, a place the terrible creatures could not reach with their bloody, grabbing fingers and their gnashing teeth.
After staring at the photograph for a while, Martha discreetly scanned the stadium turf. Everyone was silent, except for the gunmen. They made their way around the stadium, making sure there was no one they had to kill for acting out. They slinked around sets of cots, like snakes.
Martha peered over at one fearfully, and then lay down, trying to relax her stiff muscles. She was exhausted. She decided she’d try to get some sleep.
****
Martha’s eyes cracked open. She lay face-up on her cot, the way she’d fallen asleep, and she felt dizzy. She sat up, almost blinded by the light. It felt like her head was in a vice. Her face was wet with tears and sweat, and her eyes burned. She rubbed them, which helped a little. Martha looked at her watch. It was past one o’clock, and she was hungry.
“Grandma, you doing okay?” Francine asked. She brushed a lock of hair out of her face.
“Oh, dear,” Martha said, using her bedding to wipe her face. “Just a bad dream.”
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” Francine said. “Do you maybe want to talk about it?”
“It’s fine, Frankie. I think this is one battle I’ll have to fight all by my lonesome.”
“I won’t pry, but you know, Grandma, it’s not healthy to bottle up your feelings. They do have a way of getting shaken up, and when they do, it can’t be pretty.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I suppose it is best to talk about it.”
“It’ll make you feel better,” Francine said with a smile.
“All right,” Martha said. “I dreamt of Charlie.”
“Grandma—”
Martha raised a hand to cut Francine short. “Frankie, it’s fine.”
“You know, we all miss him, but he wouldn’t want you to go on like this.”
“You’re always thinking of me. That’s why you’re my favorite granddaughter.”
Francine chuckled. “I’m your only granddaughter.”
“That just makes you even more special,” Martha said.
They spoke for a little under an hour, keeping quiet when the gunmen came near. It was 2:34 when Martha leaned back with her picture frame. She thought about the times she and Charlie had shared. She remembered their honeymoon; they’d spent a good deal of it in bed in Charlie’s hometown, a small place in Colorado called Belford. It was a romantic time, very intimate because the town was so small. Martha smiled at the memories.
The images of their honeymoon were quickly replaced with the cold reality that Martha now faced. She heard the incessant moans coming from the masses outside the stadium. She didn’t know how long she’d lain there with the old picture.
“Mom?”
It was Emily this time, and she looked at Martha with sad eyes. Emily got up and sat with Martha. Martha cried into Emily’s shoulder for a while. She hadn’t cried so much since before Charlie’s funeral.
****
Sometime after five o’clock, Martha woke from a power nap. She sat up and looked around. All of the cots were occupied, by order of the new “higher ups” of the stadium. None of the refugees were allowed to wander very far from their own cots. In addition, the new order of Lynnwood Stadium was not allowing its subjects the privilege of eating. Almost everyone remained silent, at the risk of confrontation. There was some going on from children, and the occasional banter of the gunmen, but that was the extent of the sound within the stadium.
Outside, more and more bloody hands clawed and scratched on the exterior walls. It was maddening to some of the survivors, especially those closest to the entrances.
Alan lay on his cot, his arms draped over the sides. His right hand brushed against his bag. On top of that was his notebook. It was closed, with the pen stuck in the coiled binding. He stirred a bit, then jerked out of a nap.
“You okay?” Billy said.
“Fine, I think.” Alan stretched, in a sitting position, and was attacked by a huge yawn. “Sleep is hard, here.”
“Sleep’s hard everywhere,” Phil said.
; “It sure makes me wonder how far this goes,” Angela said.
“Who knows?” Francine replied.
“Someone out there does, I bet you,” Billy said.
“How do you mean?” Phil asked.
“Well, this shit didn’t just fall out of someone’s ass. Someone did this to us. That’s all I really need to say. Just wish I knew who.”
“God,” Alan said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Billy said, glaring at Alan.
“I’m not fucking kidding you, Billy.”
“Someone needs to get their mind out of the Old Testament and back to Earth,” Phil said. “I don’t believe in a God that would do something like this. It’s utter bullshit.”
Alan shrugged. “That’s good for you then, I suppose. “Or maybe not. You’re trapped in here like everyone else. Just because you don’t believe in bad things, doesn’t mean you’re protected from them.”
“God is a merciful being who loves His children. He would never—” Phil stopped, and sighed. His eyes became wet.
Alan’s face hardened. “Do you know what I was doing before I met all of you?”
“No,” Phil said. “What?”
“I was killing my mother,” Alan said. “She went crazy after somebody broke into her house. I didn’t make it there in time. She was going to kill me, so I had to kill her to survive. What kind of loving God does that to a man?”
No one answered for a few minutes. Finally, Phil did. “I’m sorry that happened, but God has a plan for everyone.”
“And God’s plan for my mother was this? Bullshit!”
“Alan, bad things happen to good people,” Angela said.
“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t repent properly for past sins. That’s why He punished me. What a blood-thirsty beast God is. You lie a few times and covet your neighbor’s lawnmower, and you lose your mother. That sounds fair.”
“Life isn’t always fair,” Phil said.
