by Dan O'Brien
Julie hovered just in front of her mother, shielded from the rising day. A pink backpack looked too large for her shoulders. The wide-brimmed straw hat complete with a yellow sunflower hid her features.
“Why’s it so dark?” the little girl wondered aloud.
James stepped ahead of them. “Let me go up and see if he’s still here. Things were intense last night. I want to make sure that he isn’t holed up with a rifle thinking he’s in the trenches.”
Violet paused, drawing her daughter tighter against her. “I’m sure your father is fine,” she replied. Her voice sounded loud against the silence of the morning.
He jogged up and opened the porch door. It creaked as it always did. The screen was torn. Moving slowly, he reached the front door and turned the knob; it was locked.
“Pop?”
There was some rustling.
The latch disengaged.
The door handle turned, and then a crack in the door made visible. His father had the gray, torn hood of his sweater pulled across his features. “Jimmy, where the hell did you go?”
Opening the door wider, James heard the sliding of a chair. He stepped through so that he stood next to his father. The house was in disarray. Most of the pictures had been pulled down from the wall––frames in scattered piles. Cabinet doors thrown open and things pulled free and placed in open cardboard boxes.
Old black lettering was scrawled across.
Stepping into the kitchen, he knelt next to one of the boxes. He recognized the letters: it was his mother’s handwriting. He reached a hand inside and pulled out clean, porcelain plates. They were plates that he had not seen used for the better part of a decade. Holding it up over his head, he tilted it to get his father’s attention. “The best dinnerware? Really? What exactly do we need to bring this along for?”
His father stood just outside the linoleum barrier of the kitchen. He looked thin in the gray hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans: old. The thought saddened James, imagining him as a frail, scared old man. He shook his head and deposited the plate back into the box.
“I went looking for Violet and Julie.”
Salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose as he appraised his son. “That quiet girl from your job? The one with a drunk for a husband?”
James nodded.
“The very same. The drunk, as you so succinctly put it, was the one firing off the gun last night. Seeing him in that state, I was….” He paused, standing and dusting off his hands. “I was concerned about them.”
Robert smirked and leaned over the counter.
“Concerned?”
James moved toward the fridge, opening the door and peering into the dimly lit interior. Shutting it unfulfilled, he pressed his hands into the counter and met his father’s look.
“Yes, concerned. Given the state of things.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. “Speaking of the state of things, can you get me a glass of water?”
James turned to open the fridge again.
Robert cleared his throat. “From the tap, if you please.”
Turning the faucet on, there was a sputter and then the hollow sound of distant pipes. “What’s this? How long has the water been off?”
“Not long after you left, just before dawn.”
James hung his head, closing his eyes.
“So it has reached this far north,” he whispered.
“Precisely why we need to get this show on the road.”
James nodded.
It was the kind of nod that made the world seem very far away. That was how he felt: distant, removed from the moment, transported. All our lives we wait for something to happen. Passively watch milestones so that this life can have meaning. And when meaning is thrust upon you, responsibility so potent it threatens to suffocate you, the world seems too real.
“We can’t bring all of this stuff, Pop.”
Robert Foster had not considered the issue of space.
Survival, defense: these things had gone into his preparations. But the idea of what was feasible had not entered his calculations. “Figured we would just rent a van or something. I guess I should sort through this….”
James nodded again, the motion beginning to feel as if it were his answer to everything. “I brought Violet and Julie, the little girl. They are coming with us.” His father did not look, but instead knelt slowly in front of the pile of a lifetime’s worth of possessions. “That’s certainly going to cut down on space. We need to get out of here quick. Beat the heat if we can.”
The front door creaked as Julie pushed her diminutive weight against it. Robert made a fumbling dive, an unsuccessful one, for the rifle. The straw hat drew a chuckle from the old man. “I’ll be damned, bested by a little girl.”
Standing, using the recliner as support, Robert pushed himself to his feet. Lowering at his waist, he extended one his powerful hands. “What’s your name, little princess?”
Julie looked at him critically, pushing back the brim of her wide hat. Her large eyes evaluated him before extending her little hand forward, a fresh sticker on the back of it.
“Julie,” she said.
Robert smiled.
“Very nice to meet you, young lady.”
Julie nodded and returned to the comfort of her mother’s arms. Violet looked at James, who stood leaning against the counter. He did not look at her, so she looked back to his father.
“You have a very nice home, Mr. Foster.”
Robert Foster had a particular zeal about his home. Much of his time was occupied with finding various little trinkets and bargains at garage sales around the sleepy little town. When anyone showed even a modicum of interest, it became difficult to dissuade him from explaining every little detail about his home, world-ending disasters aside, of course.
“It has certainly seen better days. Put a hole in that door behind you there. And some damn fool shot out my window. Pardon my language. Big mess in the center of the room certainly isn’t doing the décor any favors.” He laughed to himself––a distracted, personal little chuckle. “So, I hear you will be accompanying us?”
Violet looked to James. This time he met her gaze. “Your son was gracious enough to invite us along. I fear we’re not prepared for what’s coming. James sounded convincing.”
He looked at his son.
“He can be quite convincing when he wants to be.”
James moved out from behind the counter.
Surrounded by his father and a woman who held a strange place deeper within him, he still felt alone. The feeling gnawed at him. Lifting a hand, he let it fall to his side with an exasperated sigh. Pointing toward the distance, he started to talk and then stopped again. “I told Mickey that I would run by his place if we were blowing town.”
“That skinny kid?”
His father had a way of simplifying things to a generalized feature: the girl with the big nose or that kid with dandruff. Oversimplification of situational and dispositional cues that often framed who a person was became his personal explanatory device. “The one who has that music store in that vacant parking lot over by the lake?”
Nodding slowly, he looked at Violet.
The sense of foreboding that hung around them should have made people want to crawl into holes, hide in the darkness; yet, this portent of cataclysm made people flee for survival. Humanity sat upon a precipice, one that in many ways it had always sat upon, waiting for the ground beneath to give way.
“I shouldn’t be long.”
Robert crossed the room.
Patting Julie on the head, he shifted the straw hat so that it partly covered her features. Robert leaned in close to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful out there, son. If this is the end of the world, then men will no longer be men. Something dark will take them over.”
He looked at his father.
“Do you want me to get anything?”
“Cash, as much as you can. I doubt many vendors will be taking plastic or checks at a time like this. The electricity is
still on. Might get lucky and the banks will be open.”
James nodded again.
The air felt thin, like he was floating away. His father handed him a leather holster, a black handle protruding from across the buckle.
He met his son’s eyes.
“Just in case,” his father said.
And again the son nodded.
He looked around his torso for a place to hide it.
Tucking it into his belt, the bulge of the unwieldy holster was obvious. Perhaps that was the intent. Maybe it would be easier to pretend the world had ended. Glancing back, he disappeared out the front door and into the burgeoning heat of the day.
*
The parking lot was indeed vacant.
James removed the gun from its holster as he stepped out of his jeep. Pressing the revolver into the back of his pants, it was hidden by his shirt. The town had begun to clear out. Few cars braved the main streets of Miranda, disappearing into the slowly smoldering distance.
Mouse lived in the Cottages, a statuesque set of empty buildings that had been meant as the sprawling renovations of the Miranda elite. A few years passed and the bloom was off the rose. The white-washed building had not fared well against the summer heat. A manicured golf course adjacent to the edifice had browned and withered.
Walking across the blacktop, he was not surprised to find that heat radiated from deep beneath him. The sun had already worked its magic, bringing the desert to a simmer. The building was quiet, much quieter than Foster would have liked given the heightened state of things.
Three stories tall, it was an eye sore.
James made his way quickly, the urge to touch the revolver at his waist growing with each second. Grabbing the burnt-colored railing of the stairs, he traversed them in a series of shuffling, jumping steps.
Mouse lived on the top floor in an apartment on the end.
The faux green carpet beneath his feet looked diseased. Thick tendrils of plastic and sun-dried green material seeped up from the ground, reaching like cruel fingers from the underworld. His mind was scattered. Thoughts assaulted him from every angle. The world had begun a spiraling descent into madness.
There was a smell in the air that Foster noticed: ganja.
He recognized the clever Fuck Off welcome mat that Mouse had been kind enough to place in a haphazard manner in front of his door. Beside the door were various declarations of the types of vendors that he did not wish to knock upon the door and disturb the relative peace of his humble, albeit trashed, abode. Jesus freaks, bible thumpers, hippies, census people: It was the usual rundown of solicitors who most people would rather not deal with––all of them except for one.
Girl Scouts.
What kind of person doesn’t want delicious boxes of cookies? Mickey Reynolds wouldn’t. It all dated back to the wonderful time of year when the solicitation of cookies was in its upswing. Mouse, much like many a panicked, yet sensitive stoner before him, had arrived at the munchies. In his drug-fueled haze, he had forgotten the cardinal rule of smoking: Always have snacks.
Not wishing to drive while intoxicated of a different sort, he meandered down to the local, yet commercial, grocery store. And wouldn’t you know: there were miniature cookie saleswomen about. The large table was covered in a purple table cloth with gold trim and boxes of cookies in measured rows.
Mickey had not thought about the repercussions of purchasing while otherwise predisposed. But, it would be a constant irritant for the rest of his days. Sauntering up to the table in the best manner he was capable, he asked for some cookies. Boxes and monies exchanged, Mouse returned to his cavern once more.
What he did not realize until later was that he had given the industrious little girl in the canvas-colored uniform a General Grant and had received only a few of his brothers Washington. Tossing his apartment, he found neither hide nor hair of his missing Grant, but he had his suspicions.
Girl Scouts.
And since that day, Mouse has never again let the marching girls wearing sashes anywhere near his residence. Reaching out, Foster knocked on the door. No answer. Knocking hard, James felt claustrophobic standing outside the apartment.
He felt exposed.
Turning the handle, the door opened.
The apartment was dark, except for flickering lights deeper in the room. Foster stepped through, making sure to shut out the burgeoning heat of the day. Noises emerged and it took James a moment to realize what they were: moans.
Was he about to interrupt his friend during a sensitive moment? Moving slowly down the darkened hallway, the moaning intensified. James held his breath as peeked around the corner of the wall into the living room. And unfortunately for James, Mouse was holding something as well.
“What the fuck?” he screamed.
Drawing handfuls of over-sized pillows and a pile of dirty clothing over his waist, he glared at his friend. The two flat-screen televisions were the only light in the room. One had a haggard-looking anchor, who droned on in silence. The other depicted the heights of pornography.
“What the fuck?” Mouse repeated. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
Foster smiled.
“Ever heard of answering your door, you pervert.”
Mouse dove over the back of the couch and with a series of shuffling movement, he was dressed once more. The moans continued. Looking up chagrined, he muted the cavorting, glistening bodies and the sound of a haggard newscaster filled the room instead.
“We are sorry to report that we are going off air. Several receivers through the southwest, extending into the gulf, have been shut off. Rolling outages caused by an unknown source…”
And with that, the voice disappeared.
A loud shriek of white noise filled the room.
“Daughter of a bastard,” roared Mouse as he pounded on the remote. The noise dissipated as quickly as it had come. They were now only left with the mammoth images of grotesque flesh tools and cosmetic mammary glands. Mouse looked at the high-definition picture in amusement.
“You mind turning that shit off?”
Mouse obliged, allowing the picture to fade to black.
“What the hell was with the daughter of a bastard nonsense? I’ve never heard something so ridiculous. No, I take that back. Most of what comes out of your mouth borders on the insane.”
Mickey shrugged. “I am trying to bring around something new, man. You ever notice how we make variations on previously existing profanity, but fail to make new ones? Word generation is an important aspect of language, my man.”
Foster looked at him through sleepy, irritated eyes. “And I imagine this is drawn from your extensive coursework at our beloved community college?”
Mouse allowed the comment to float. “What brings you down here to the Cottages? Perhaps the impending cloud of doom that hangs overhead? Have you decided to abandon our little burn-mark in the desert?”
Foster reached out and absently touched trinkets and piles of nonsensical items. The two massive screens were routed through Mouse’s computer. A keyboard sat just to his left.
A faded tattoo on his chest was of a memory past.
“Something like that. We’re heading out, bringing along Violet and Julie, her little girl. This place is about to be a monsoon of horrible shit,” replied James as he picked up a leather-bound book that turned out to be something quite the opposite of what he had anticipated: more pornography.
“Is there anything in this house that I can touch?”
Mouse shook his head.
“Not really. What’s the plan?”
“North. Ride on out of here and get as far away from this as we can.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean, then what?”
Mouse stood, taking with him a mass of sheets and disappeared into a darkened room just beyond the living room. His voice echoed out from within. “You gave me a direction. Not much of a plan really. We go north….”
“You’ve gathered that I
came here to ask you along?”
Mouse poked his head out beyond the doorframe.
“Been waiting for you to come round.”
Foster laughed and returned to his inspection of the strange contents of the room.
Mouse continued. “Going north sounds great, but we most certainly will not be the only ones. We hit the blacktop and we are bound to find ourselves in one hell of a passive-aggressive parade of people just waiting to fly off the handle. Perhaps a more cogent plan is in order?”
James continued his slow promenade around the disheveled apartment. Darkness loomed in every corner, reminding him of the clouds that had begun to build over his life. Mouse was not exactly a man of cleanliness, but rather a practitioner of the art of hoarding. Shelves filled with trinkets of sentimental value, piles of magazines long past their publication date formed paper snow-banks against the walls.
“You ever throw anything away?”
Mouse reemerged, dressed more warmly than one might imagine given the conditions around them. A beanie covered his head and dark, thick sunglasses covered his eyes. A pullover, lavender in color, hung too large over his thin frame. Ripped jeans and untied boots clunked comically like clown shoes.
“Life’s too short to throw away things that don’t fit anymore. I can look around this apartment and see the narrative of my life. Sure, it looks like I’m collecting a trash heap, but it gives me peace.”
Foster nodded, though he wasn’t sure for what.
“We should be heading out.”
Mouse arched an eyebrow.
“Something bothering you there, buddy-o-mine?”
Foster scoffed. “You mean more than the impending apocalypse hovering about our heads?”
“Let’s say besides that.”
James shook his head, touching the dirty walls.
“I’m not sure what comes next….”
Mouse moved toward the door, opening it to allow the sunlight to drift in. “That makes two of us.”
*
The heat of the day had already descended.
White-washed sidewalks radiated heat from deep within the earth. It was as if the sun never left, but instead remained dormant beneath the dirt and cement of the oasis. Foster had decided to walk from the Cottages, a decision that he quickly regretted.
