by Mic Roland
He hung his head. “Yeah, to be honest, I kinda do.”
“That’s good,” she said with a wider smile.
“Why is that good?”
“It means I wasn’t wrong after all. What a relief!”
“Wrong about what?”
She started walking again. Her tone was more perky. “Wrong about you. I much prefer not being wrong, of course. I suppose that’s pretty typical, huh? Who wants to be wrong?”
“But you thought I was a Doom People and I’m not. Isn’t that being wrong?”
“Well, yes, but that’s not what I meant. It’s kind of a long story. You see, working at the bank, I came to realize that I could read people pretty well. You know, by the way they moved, or their eyes, or the little things they said. I could tell whether they were honest, or stuck-up, or if their ‘friendly’ was only an act because they wanted something.”
“Like, there was this one guy who was giving off all kinds of bad vibes every week. Shifty eyes, evasive, secretive. I trusted my feelings and told Mr. Skinner. They did a little digging and they found that he was using his employer’s account to make payments to a fake company that was really just him. Turned out I was right about him. I was thinking, hey, this would be a good skill when I became an Associate. You know, for loan pre-screening and things like that.”
“And this relates to comets and zombies by…” Martin could not see where her topic was headed.
“I’m getting there. Even from the little samples I got at my teller window, I could tell that deep down inside, lots of people were truly mean-spirited, or full of themselves, and even a few weird ones who, I think, really believed zombies were after them. See? There’s the zombies. Anyhow, over the months of you making your EdLogix deposits, my read on you was that you were one of the nice ones. You know, normal.”
“Normal. That’s a relief to know,” Martin smiled.
“Well, nowadays, yeah. Normal is kinda rare. Like with this outage, for instance. It’s like peoples’ real selves are coming out fast, and it ain’t pretty. Most people are totally selfish; just looking to get what they can for themselves and don’t care who they step on. For some, their mean-streak…Man, it is running wild. Like those drivers yesterday, or the fighting at La Quinta, all that shooting on 93? Those people were probably always mean and pushy, but this outage has scraped off whatever thin coat of social politeness they might have had. But you, you were going waaay out of your way to help someone you barely knew.”
She paused, talking to the ground more than to Martin. “That was really nice.”
Martin felt awkward again.
Susan resumed. “I mean, who does that anymore, right? Everyone is just out for themselves. So, I figured I was right — you were nice. But then, when you started talking about your house being rustic and all, and I remembered those wacky Doom People. I began to doubt myself.”
“I mean, what if I had been so upset over my apartment fire and staying in shelters and such, that I was accepting help from one of them? I knew you weren’t some lecherous creep like the Holiday Inn guy, but what if you were a Doom People? I don’t think I could handle that. They are sooo weird. I decided that I had to ask you while we were still inside of 128. If you were one of them, I could still politely decline, go my own way and go look for a hotel or something.”
Martin smiled. “Now you don’t think I’m a Doom People…person? Whatever.”
“Nope.”
Martin slowed his pace. He subtly held out his hand to catch Susan’s arm.
“What? Why did you slow down?” she asked.
“I’m not liking the scene ahead of us.” He pointed with a tip of his head. Several long plain brick apartment buildings sat very close to the sidewalk. On the front steps of the first building were a half dozen young men and women. A pair of young men, one in a black do-rag, the other wearing bright orange shoes, leaned on the low chain link fence at the sidewalk edge, watching the street.
“What does your people-reading sense tell you about them?” Martin asked quietly.
She squinted at them. The women leaned against the porch columns in carefully crafted “casual” poses. The men leaned on the fence along the sidewalk, looking up and down street like raptors.
“They look like trouble,” she said softly.
“That’s how I read it too.” He slowly took the walking stick from Susan’s hand. He felt better with it in his hand, but he wondered what he was going to do with it if the porch people made a move on them.
Am I going to try to go all bojitsu on them? he wondered. Would the six of them stand obligingly in a ring around him, attacking one at a time like they do in cheap action films? It seemed more likely that he might hurt one or two of them with his stick, but they would eventually overwhelm him, or they would grab Susan. Neither sounded good.
“I think we need to be on the other side of the street now, even if it means dealing with this traffic.”
As they stepped off the curb to cross, the railing raptor with the orange shoes stood up tall and called out.
“Hey, you guys there. Whachu got in dat bag?”
The young woman with big hair stood beside him. “Got any food in der? We’ve got, like, starving kids in here. Could ya help da kids?” The rest of the young women stood up too, to see what their friends had spotted.
Martin glanced at the fast flowing traffic and back at the young men. He and Susan were between a rock and a hard place. Orange shoes and Do-rag began moving towards them.
“Hey. Where ya goin’? We jus wanna talk,” called out Do-rag.
Martin grabbed the handle of Susan’s bag. “C’mon. We’ve gotta play Frogger again.”
He dashed through a gap in the first lane. Susan was right behind him. The driver honked, but did not slow down. The young men fanned out, also looking for suitable gaps in the fast traffic.
Martin’s heart pounded. No good gaps were coming in the traffic flow. They were between lanes, cars whizzing by just inches away. The young men were just on the other side of the first lane, eyeing gaps to get through.
“There,” he shouted to Susan. “Behind the white minivan. One. Two. Three!” They jumped in so near the minivan’s rear bumper that Martin was certain they would smack into it. But, since the van was traveling away from them, they did not hit it. The gap got wider. The pickup behind the minivan swerved a bit to avoid them, but did not slow down. Martin pulled the roller bag up just in time to avoid it being clipped.
Standing on the narrow median, the oncoming traffic seemed to be going twice as fast. The young men found gaps. Both were through the first lane, maneuvering for gaps in the second lane.
Judging gaps in the oncoming traffic was scarier. Martin spotted what might be a big enough gap, ahead of little gray Chevy. He glanced at Susan, to tell her, but she was looking back at the young men working the gaps.
No time. Martin grabbed Susan’s wrist and leapt off the median.
* * *
Chapter 8: Roadblocks
Martin leapt into the gap in traffic, between the little gray Chevy and the generic SUV. He had Susan by the wrist with his left hand, and the roller bag handle in his right. The Chevy driver looked horrified but otherwise did nothing. No swerving, no honking, no braking. She drove straight at them.
Martin saw that the gap in the far lane, between the black Accord and the Rav4 was not large, but would align with their path IF they kept running. There was no time to swallow hard or hesitate. As he ran, he pulled Susan up beside him, intending to slingshot her ahead of him, in case he misjudged the gaps. He might get hit, but she would be clear or would get hit by him instead of a car. He fixed his eyes on the Rav4’s headlight and ran.
Susan had regained her footing and her stride, she did surge beside him. They both made it to the other side. The roller bag, however, was not so lucky.
The corner of the Rav4’s bumper clipped the end of the roller bag, spinning it around and twisting Martin with it. He made a full turn and lost
his footing. He went down on his left side and skidded up to the curb. The Rav4 driver honked long and loud, but did not brake. It was a good thing he did not slow down. People were tailgating each other so close that a sudden stop from any of them would have caused a massive pile-up.
“Oh my God! Martin!” Susan ran to where Martin lay.
He laid still, in a daze for a few seconds, going through a personal reboot. He looked around to see where the voice was coming from. He raised himself up on one elbow, which hurt.
Another loud honk from the far side of the street caught his attention. The honk was followed by a sickening sound — part thud, part moan, like someone hitting the ground after falling off a roof. Screams. The screech of tires. More honking. More screaming. Martin could not see anything beyond the steady stream of tires and bumpers in the lane near him. He became aware of Susan’s voice again.
She stared across the street, her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. One of those guys just got hit. Oh, that sounded awful.” She turned back to Martin.
“Oh no. You get hit too? Oh my God, what do I do?
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t think I’m hurt too bad,” said Martin. He rolled onto all fours then sat down. A quick mental assessment suggested no broken bones. He saw no bleeding. His jacket sleeve was ripped open from the left shoulder down to the elbow. His shirt was too. He had a bad case of road rash on his upper arm, but it was not bleeding much.
Susan gasped when she saw his arm. “Your arm. Oh this is terrible.”
Martin slowly stood up. “I think we need to get out of here in case those people try to come after us again.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re supposed to stand up. You should lie down maybe? And tip your head back, or something?” She began looking around, as if she expected to see paramedics that she would call over to the scene. There were no paramedics. The few people there were on the sidewalk were fixated on the scene across the street.
“I’m okay,” Martin said. “A bit beat up, but nothing serious.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure you should get up?”
“No, I’m not sure, but I’m getting up anyway.”
She helped him stand. “Oh, look at your arm. Oh dear.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a nasty rash. Let’s get over behind those cars for now, okay?” Martin took some hobbling steps across the sidewalk. His knee hurt. The palm of his hand had serious abrasions too.
“Where’s my bag?” he asked.
“It’s still on your back,” she said, with a worried look, as if suspecting that he might have brain damage too.
“Oh, so it is. Let’s go up against that wall there.” He pointed to a section of wall between overhead doors of a tire shop. He leaned his back against the wall. With his good hand, he fished out his first aid kit. He tore open an alcohol wipe packet with his teeth and rubbed it across his palm. He winced at the sting.
“Where’s your roller bag?” he asked.
“What? Who cares? You’re hurt. I need to help.”
“I think I’ll be okay in a few minutes. But seriously, what happened to your bag? That’s everything you have. I had ahold of it when we ran through, but I lost it.”
Susan looked up and around. “Oh. There it is. It’s over by the curb. Your walking stick is still out by the median.”
“While I dab at my hand, why don’t you go get your roller bag and see how bad it is?”
She looked from him to the bag then ran over to pick up her roller bag. The duffle and canvas bag were knocked loose. One of the wheels had been knocked loose, but other than that the roller bag itself seemed to have only suffered scuffs and dirt.
“We need to put some distance between us and those people over there,” Martin said. “I’ll try to clean up a bit when we’re clear.”
The scene across the street spoke of injuries worse than Martin endured. Orange shoes was still lying face-down on the street. His friends were ringed around him. Big-hair was shouting and flailing her arms. Do-rag knelt down beside him, dabbing at his head. For the time being, the pack had forgotten all about Martin and Susan.
Martin limped for a while. His knee felt stiff. “Let’s go around the corner of this store. We should be far enough from those apartments, and out of sight. Martin wanted to pour some water on his upper arm, but his abraded right hand trembled and would not close enough to hold the jug.
“Here, maybe you better do this,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yeah. Could you pour a little water on my scrape. Need to get the dirt off. I can’t hold this jug worth beans. Then, if you could use one of these alcohol wipes too? Need to clean out the scratches, so it doesn’t get infected. Who knows what’s been on those streets, eh? What if they had a circus parade yesterday — with elephants — and swept the poop to the curb…”
“Don’t joke at a time like this. You’re hurt.”
Susan took the wipe and dabbed ineffectually at the edges of the scratches.
“Don’t worry,” Martin assured her. “Just wipe gently along, in the same direction as the scratches. It’ll be okay.”
She did as he asked, but the alcohol stung worse than he expected. He flinched and grimaced.
“Oh sorry. I’m hurting you. Sorry. I don’t know how to do nurse stuff.”
“No, no. You’re doing fine. It’s the alcohol, not you.”
She reluctantly dabbed and wiped more.
“Okay, now rub some of the ointment on and rub it into the scratches.”
She frowned the whole while. His right hand was trembling less, so he was able to assist. He rubbed some ointment into his palm scrape too.
“Shouldn’t we put a big bandage over your arm? It looks awful.”
“I don’t have anything big enough for that. I’ll just have to leave it covered with my clean shirt, I guess. I think it’ll be okay just getting some air. What are they doing over there?”
Susan peeked around the corner. “Two of them are still with the guy on the street. The others are running back to the apartment building.”
Martin fished in his backpack with his left hand and tugged out his old flannel shirt. He pulled off his jacket with some difficulty, as his left arm did not want to flex much. He started to unbutton his torn shirt, then noticed Susan was watching.
“Um. Could you turn around?”
“Oh. Sorry, sorry.” She blushed and quickly turned away.
“I’ll let you be all shy about your feet. If you’ll let me be all shy about my unimpressive physique, okay?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“That’s okay. I’m mostly kidding.”
Trying to pull the shirt on with one hand and a claw was awkward, but he managed. Buttons with one hand was a challenge, but also managed.
“Okay. I’m decent again. What’s going on across the street?”
Susan peeked around the corner of the building again. “They’re still standing around the guy on the road. I think I saw him move. Why aren’t any of these drivers stopping to help? Where is everyone going in such a hurry?”
“Beats me, but I want us to get moving before that group starts looking around for us again. They could be really angry at us.”
“Why? We didn’t do anything to them? They were trying to get to us,” she protested.
“Won’t matter to them. These days. society teaches people that they’re all victims of something. Injuries demand vengeance. I’m sure they won’t see themselves as responsible for anything. It’ll be all our fault, somehow.”
Martin pointed to her roller bag. “Looks like we need to tie up your bundle again, but I’m afraid you’ll have to do most of it. I think I can salvage my jacket, for the most part, with a bit of duct tape. But this shirt is toast.”
Susan stuffed the stray socks and pant legs back into the duffle and tugged on the cord to tie new knots. Martin pulled off a strip of duct tape to secure his torn jacket sleeve to the shoulder. Putting on the jacket was as awkward as th
e shirt had been, but his arm was feeling less stiff.
“There we go. Looks like I’ve got a unit patch now, doesn’t it? Duct Tape Brigade.” He smiled. She was not amused. He shrugged. Apparently, he was as good at humor as he was at reassurance.
“Ahem, well. How about you help me stick this square bandage on my hand, then give me a hand tying my old shirt’s sleeve around it? It will look a bit hobo, but it will help keep the bandage on.”
Once they had their things in order, Martin peeked around the corner of the store. The apartment gang was still gathered around the young man who was now leaning up on one elbow. Cars continued to stream by quickly.
“They’re still occupied with the guy who got hit. He’s conscious at least. Let’s go back around this hedge and come out a bit further up the street. I got that loose wheel to snap back in, but it’s in bad shape.”
Around the hedge, they emerged into the parking lot of a CVS pharmacy. Like Walgreens before it, the parking lot was full of cars and people. Some stood upon the parking lot’s retaining wall so they could look across the street at the injured man. Most had their attention focused on the line to the door. Martin steered between the groups, trying to keep low, without looking obvious. He tried not to limp as much as he could manage in order to not attract any attention.
The parking lot sat lower than the street, so they would be harder to see if the apartment gang started looking for them. Martin tried to stay mingled among the parked cars: more difficult to see.
“I wonder if that guy will be alright,” Susan said.
Feeling battered and sore from trying to escape the apartment predators did not encourage sympathy in Martin. The whole group of them was intent to take whatever they wanted from him and Susan. The fact that they had been waiting for a target of opportunity to walk near them contradicted the hungry-kids story. What mother of hungry children strikes poses, waiting for food to come to her?
As for the young man lying in the street, he chose to dodge into traffic to chase them. Martin felt very little compassion for the man. In his mind, he paraphrased a Bible verse, Those who expect to gain by violence can expect to die by violence.
