by Vossen, Doug
Jessica just stood there, staring back at her blood-streaked face in the mirror. She was still processing what had occurred not five blocks from where they stood.
“Come here, Jess.” Trent took a wet, balled-up paper towel and wiped Jessica’s mother’s blood off her face. It was surreal. He wished the last two hours were just a horrible dream.
“Look at that, I made a clean spot. Now I guess I gotta do the whole thing.” Great, a Mark Twain reference over her head and now Ellen Ripley. Good job, idiot. Ten year-old girls who just watched their mother die don’t understand references to nineteenth century authors and movies from 1986. I fucking suck.
Jess stood compliantly before the sink as Trent wiped away all the blood. “Trent, I want to know what’s happening,” she said, looking up.
“I wish I knew the answer. All I know is that whatever is happening is not normal and it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
“So that’s it? That’s your answer?” Her tone was far too jaded for a ten year-old.
“Alright, here’s the thing. Before what happened with your mom, I saw something in Braddock Park. I don’t know what it was, but I’m pretty sure I killed it.”
“Do you like killing things?”
“No, not at all. I think-”
“Because you seem to do it a lot.”
“Look, an answer now is better than an answer when it’s too late. Sometimes killing is necessary to get back to peace.” God, do I even believe that anymore?
Jessica pointed her finger into Trent’s chest. “If killing someone is the only way to have peace then I don’t want it. It doesn’t even make sense! You’re being dumb.”
“Goddamn, Jess. You’re too smart for your own good. We need to make sure you stay alive. There is a reason you have to exist.”
“Ok, I’m asking you again then. What now?”
“Alright, here’s the deal. The thing I saw in the park wasn’t a person. I mean, it wasn’t like you or me. It looked . . . different. Like something not from this planet. I’m really confused so we need to learn more about that part. But here’s what I do know. I know we don’t have power and it seems like the local government has lost control. I haven’t seen cops or firefighters. People are getting frustrated and will probably get hungry soon if they aren’t already. We have about a week’s worth of food between the two of us. Also, I’m sure you noticed those military helicopters flying down toward Jersey City. If that’s the direction they’re flying and they’re not coming back, my bet is that they’ve set up a temporary forward operating base down there.”
“So we go there then?”
“Yeah. It’s getting dark now though. We’ll eat some of the food I’ve rationed and head out at dawn. My guess is that they’ll have a refugee point there. We can make sure you’re taken care of and I can get back to looking for my wife.”
“What is her name?” asked Jessica.
“Emma.”
“That’s a pretty name. I hope she’s not dead like my mom.”
“Jess, look. What those tweakers did to your mom is worse than anything I could imagine. I wish there was something I could say or do to make it even a little better. But I can’t. It just fucking sucks. Let’s find a spot to get some shut-eye. We’ll head south in the morning.”
“OK,” said Jessica.
CALLIE
Callie stripped off the loose clothing she had recently acquired and turned on the water in the shower. Thank God for small favors. She stepped inside. The warm water splashed the back of her neck and shaved part of her head, ran down her almost completely tattooed arms and torso. She relaxed, let her mind wander. Why am I not more freaked out? I just woke up in a morgue. In the last two hours I’ve seen more dead bodies than a person should see in a lifetime. I stole a dead guy’s clothes and bike and heard gunfire a few blocks from my apartment. Yeah, let’s totally go home and relax. No biggie. She continued to wash off the grime. What the hell am I going to do now? I need to figure out what’s next. Callie shut off the water and began drying herself.
Callie’s favorite thing about living alone was that there was no one telling her how to live. Of course, she was aware this solitude had its drawbacks from time to time. At times, it was important to have someone ask, “Are you sure you should do that?” Cooking bacon without pants was a perfect example.
Callie walked around her apartment naked, drying herself. She was petite and athletic, and the time she spent in the gym showed. Her neck, traps, and shoulders were larger and more toned than her peers’. Her biceps and triceps were defined as well. Her abdominal muscles peeked through her skin in a way that made the vast majority of women hate her. Callie’s thighs were large from squats and dead lifts. They were sculpted enough to intimidate an NFL lineman.
Callie reveled in her time at the gym. She approached it as a form of meditation. She never used headphones, never talked to people, didn’t pay the slightest attention to anyone else. The gym was her time. No one could bother her - personally, professionally, or with any other peripheral bullshit that sucks energy from people on a daily basis. She simply went from one exercise to the next, working as hard as she could until all her sets were complete. Muscle failure from weight lifting was one of the few things that made her feel good about herself. Getting to that point provided a sense of being in control. This raised her self-esteem, made her a force to be reckoned with in almost anything she did. She was beautiful, confident, and smart – a deadly combination when dealing with most men, and an equally deadly obstacle when dealing with most women. Beneath her tough exterior, however, she completely embraced her femininity.
Callie’s apartment was a modest, 750 square foot, one bedroom apartment in West New York. It lacked a view, a modern TV, and up-to-date appliances. Visitors could tell it had been nicely renovated about twenty years ago, evidenced by the well-maintained wood flooring. Yet many other features seemed dated, namely the Formica countertop in the kitchen, the tacky cabinetry, and the gaudy adornments in the bathroom. She could have afforded a much nicer place, but she knew her looks wouldn’t last. She had a commodity that would last till her late thirties at best. Then she would be just another desperate, annoying stripper over forty. Callie just wanted to make enough money to fulfill her dream of opening a gym and turning her passion into a reality. She wanted nothing more than to transform her love of fitness and growing introspective philosophy into something that could make a living. All of this stemmed from an innate desire to help people improve themselves.
After showering and brushing her teeth Callie felt much better. She ambled to her couch and plopped down. Instinctively, she tried turning on the television and was reminded of the lack of electricity throughout the neighborhood. She lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do. I could just hang out here for a while and wait until it all blows over. I could get a night of sleep. Then take a walk tomorrow to see what I can learn. This seemed like the most logical course of action, as night was quickly falling and Callie had no idea what people were roaming around outside. She could hear gunfire in what was normally a safe residential neighborhood.
She opened the small drawer of the end table, pulled out a perfectly rolled joint and lit it. She took a hit of the high quality sativa, delivered to her apartment by the local cannabis bicycle courier service. Callie only smoked sativa because it allowed her to think introspectively about her life, her relationships with other people, and what to do to improve it all. It really was a fantastic alternative to drinking.
I’ll get a good night of sleep, pack a bag with some essentials, and hit the road in the morning to find answers. Callie felt a wave of focus sweep over her brain, allowing her to calmly and analytically contemplate what was happening. She looked atop the end table containing her stash and saw the book she was currently reading: Tao Te Ching, a Western Perspective. Callie opened it to the page saved by her bookmark. The next chapter was titled “Returning to the Primordial.” She began read
ing. Three pages into the chapter, between a reference to the Ying as the “Mysterious Female” and the ever-recurring cycle of the universe known as “The Eternal Return,” she realized just how tired she was from her day’s experience. It was getting dark.
Callie had no recollection of the past few days. She remembered leaving work near the World Trade Center on Murray Street around 2am. She remembered it had been a pretty decent night money-wise; she had spent three hours in the upstairs champagne room with a rich Arab guy. He was happy to see a woman who was no doubt far less repressed than his harem of Saudi Arabian wives. She must have taken the A-train to 42nd Street, then an all-night shuttle back to where she lived on Boulevard East. What had happened to her between the Lincoln Tunnel and waking up in a hospital in North Bergen was anyone’s guess. She started nodding off. Just a few hours of sleep. Then I can start fresh in the morning and figure all this shit out.
Sleep rarely came easily. Callie typically avoided it until she hit the wall, not only because sleep was difficult to achieve but because it was rarely enjoyable. She wished she could enjoy a nice nap from time to time, maybe even sleep in on a weekend, but it never happened. Callie often found herself in the dark recesses of her own mind, reliving the worst parts of her life over and over. The dominant theme was sexual abuse. An older neighbor had begun molesting her when she was twelve. It lasted a little over three years, and continued to be an enormous source of shame. At seventeen, she ran away to New York after stealing enough money from her mother for a Greyhound bus ticket. She cut all ties with her past.
The worst memory was her first sexual experience with a man. The memory also involved the first compliment she’d received from a man, her first kiss, and, ultimately, her first time being victimized. He was in his late forties. He appeared normal on the surface. His name was James O’Hara. He was married with two small children and an oblivious wife. In suburban Ohio, where they lived, he was the archetype of normality and family values. Callie’s mother was addicted to alcohol and whatever else she could use to escape. She was completely useless as a parent. It wasn’t hard for Callie to understand why her mother needed to escape: a string of shitty jobs, boyfriends, paychecks and life decisions.
Dreams were the worst because they felt indistinguishable from reality. In her most recurring nightmare, Callie was transported to the day a decade ago when she had gone over to James’s house. She was returning some sort of casserole dish her mother drunkenly took by accident from a neighborhood barbecue. Callie couldn’t remember the specific occasion for the gathering, but July 4th stuck out in her mind. Something hadn’t seemed quite right as she’d entered the main foyer of the O’Hara’s home on Lefferts Street. It was such a nice home. Callie yearned for their lifestyle. She always wondered why James’s two children got the newest clothes and toys, went to the best schools, participated in every extracurricular activity.
Reliving that day now was especially harrowing. There was a visceral realism to it she had not felt since she was a little girl. Callie never knew which version of the memory would come to her. The events were never in order, but the common theme was pain, misery, shame, and betrayal.
“Mr. O’Hara, I have this dish. I think my mom took it by mistake during the barbecue.”
“Come in. No problem at all.” He placed the palm of his hand on the small of Callie’s back. It seemed a benign gesture to a young girl who had never been stung by the poison of the sick, twisted people in this world.
A flash, a haze. Now they were both in the kitchen. Callie felt Mr. O’Hara’s large hands on her shoulders. He was rubbing in a pattern.
“Doesn’t that feel good?” he asked.
No! It feels terrible! Why are you doing this? “Mr. O’Hara . . . please stop.”
“Shhhh, call me James. We’re good friends. Good friends call each other by their first names. We’re cool with each other, right? You’re cool, right Callie?”
Oh God, please just stop. “James . . . I just want to drop off this dish.”
Another flash, a lapse in time. Callie felt the rough surface of a wool comforter rubbing against her bare back. She focused on that scratchy, itchy feeling, instead of the pedophile pumping his small, uncircumcised penis into her, over and over. The first thrust was the most painful. Eventually, lightning bolts of pain shot through her abdomen from her hymen tearing. The pain subsided, followed by an enveloping numbness. I will never trust a man again. Callie repeated this phrase to herself over and over as the torturous seconds dragged forward.
Even worse, the third time he’d raped her, she had her first orgasm. It was pleasurable and ridden with shame and disgust at the same time. This monster had ruined sex for her, forever.
These memories were what Callie had to look forward to every time she wanted to get some rest. Even now, they were as vivid and real as if she were living them for the first time.
HUGHES
Trent tossed and turned on a couch in the facility administrator’s office. To Jessica, it looked as if he were having a terrible dream. There was a pained look on his face.
Jessica finally nudged him. “It’s time to wake up, Trent. Something isn’t right.”
“Huh? What do you mean? I have the alarm on my watch set for 6am. We’re fine.”
“No, we need to leave now.”
“What the hell? OK, OK, I’m up. What’s going on?”
“You don’t feel that?” asked Jess.
Trent put on his gray sneakers and dug a new shirt out of his assault pack, throwing the crusty, foul-smelling Jets shirt on the floor. The new shirt had “PRIDE FC” printed at chest level.
But the soiled Jets shirt bothered him. It had been hard to find. He’d had it for so long. I’ll never be able to get that fucking stain out. The shirt was lime green and fitted perfectly to Trent’s toned chest and shoulders. The sleeves clung to his biceps. It had a jumbo-jet airplane from the 80s printed on the front, along with the word ‘JETS’ over the plane. It had old stains, and the neckline was worn. The plane looked like something a child had drawn, but Trent loved the shirt. He loved anything that symbolized something that had existed before, during, and after the difficult periods of his life. During the worst of his post-war depression, Trent eagerly anticipated fall Sundays for no other reason than to watch the Jets, get shitfaced and fall asleep in the ugliest way possible. He hated it, but the Jets represented a consistency he could appreciate. God, I just want a few more hours of sleep.
“Trent, now!” Jessica tugged Trent’s hand.
“Jesus, fine. I’m up.” Trent pulled the quick release straps of his assault pack tight to his shoulders, picked up his M4. It was 4:00am, pitch-black outside. Any buildings with emergency power had likely lost it by now.
They stepped out onto the boulevard. Jess looked petrified.
“Jess, what’s wrong? Nothing’s here. Let’s start walking.”
“Trent, come on! How can you not feel that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you don’t lower your voice, someone could hear us,” Trent whispered.
“They’re coming!” Jess took off running west, toward the side streets, leaving Trent to catch up to her.
“Jess, hold on! There’s nothing here! Goddamn it.” Too early for this shit. “Jessica, you had a bad dream! Everything’s fine!” Well, not really, but whatever.
Trent ran to Broadway, two blocks west, then turned left to chase after Jessica. He began to feel more fatigued than he should have given his physical condition. What the hell? I’m not even hung over. He heard a faint scraping sound similar to white noise. It started as a moderate hum, then quickly lowered in pitch as it got louder and louder. His head hurt. It was a dull pain that quickly escalated into a full-blown migraine. Nausea and blurred vision followed.
“Jessic—” Trent tried to scream but could not keep his strength. He watched her small figure disappear into the distance, his knees buckling. The low-pitched sound was unbearable. Trent was now vomit
ing uncontrollably. He hit the ground face first. Hard.
When Trent regained consciousness he could taste a mix of blood and bile in his mouth. He opened his eyes and realized the left side of his face was planted on the pavement. He saw the tire of a broken-down car three feet in front of him. Fuck. I haven’t been that bombed since CJ’s wedding in Buffalo ten years ago. Trent took a knee and began looking around.
He immediately realized his assault pack was missing, as were his weapons. Did I get robbed? What time is it? Where the hell am I? His watch was stopped at 4:07am. Now my fucking watch is broken? How much did I have to drink last night? Did I even drink last night? Fuck, Jessica!
“Jess! Jessica! Where are you? Come to the sound of my voice!” Trent yelled as loudly as he could.
There was no reply. Trent got up, brushed the dust off his pants and t-shirt. Something was wrong with his surroundings. The sky had a reddish twinge. A cloud of smog, dust, and what appeared to be snowflakes hindered visibility. What the fuck just happened? Trent was utterly confused but intent on finding the girl. I will not let another one die. Get your ass moving. Do not fail again.
Trent scoured the immediate area for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. He then noticed a piece of all-weather electrical conduit hanging from the side of a two-family house on the west side of the road. He grabbed it hand over hand and used the leverage from his left foot to pry it loose from the side of the building. It had a duplex electrical outlet encased in protective metal on top and useless wires hanging from the opening where it had been torn from the concrete. Trent now had a makeshift club.
