Clouds Before Rain

by Marco Etheridge

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Liz, is that you?”

  “Pat, oh my god, I can’t believe it. Are you okay? Where are you? Why are you calling on a landline?”

  “Easy Liz, yeah, I’m okay. Things are crazy out on the street. Everyone is trying to get out of the city and it’s total gridlock. I had to get off the road.”

  “But where are you? I was so worried. There were gunshots outside the office. Everyone else has run off somewhere.”

  “Listen to me, okay, I don’t know how long this line will be open. I stashed the truck in a building. I’m about four blocks away. I’m coming to get you on foot, okay? There is no way I can get the truck there.”

  “Okay, okay, but is it safe to be out there on foot?”

  “I don’t think there is any other choice. Besides, I didn’t see anyone on foot. They’re all stuck in their cars. Just stay put, right? I need you to stay in the office. I will be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Right, stay in the office, okay. But the cellphones aren’t working. How will you get in?”

  “I’ll break the door down if I have to, don’t worry. I’m going to hang up now and get moving. You’re going to stay put, right?”

  There was a silence at the other end. Then Liz’s voice was back.

  “This is insane. Yes, I’ll be here. Pat, you be careful, okay? Please. I love you very much.”

  “And I love you, Baby. I’m on my way. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Pat? Hurry. I’m waiting for you.”

  Then the line went dead.

  ABANDONED CARS WERE scattered up the length of First Avenue under the angled pyramid of the Key Arena. Down the hill, he could hear the sound of car horns and angry shouting. He looked up and down the wide avenue, but there was no one in sight. Why? Because First goes the wrong way, Bucko. No one is trying to get into the city. Forget it, time to move.

  Pat kept his head down, running between the cars. The axe handle bumped against his ribs, partially hidden under his jacket. Across the maze of derelict vehicles, it was easier going. Like lemmings, he thought, they all follow one another on the main routes. He turned left into an alley, heading downhill between Queen Anne and First. The alley was empty, not one pedestrian, not a single moving vehicle. Pat kept to a fast walk, fighting the urge to run.

  He saw the first corpse on the next block, an awkward shape sprawled across a sidewalk. Pat let the axe handle slip from beneath his jacket, scanning the street. There was not a living being anywhere.

  The body was that of a man. He was crumpled on the pavement, arms flung out above his head, legs tangled in the grass of the planter strip. It looked as though the man had been struck from above, flung down by an unseen missile, but there was no sign of blood. Pat peered at the dead man’s face and shuddered. The skin was tinged red over the grey parlor of death; dead lips pulled back in a frozen grimace. A trail of black vomit ran from the corner of the dead mouth to a small puddle on the concrete of the sidewalk. Pat stepped around the corpse, the axe handle gripped tightly in his right hand.

  Just two blocks to go, two short blocks. He began to jog down the hill, axe handle held at port arms. Suddenly he was in the open canyon of Denny Way, and everything was chaos. A group of people were pushing a car. As it began to roll out of traffic they let it go. The driver’s door was open. Pat could see an arm dangling out. The car lodged against a light pole on the far side of the street. Those who had been pushing the dead car raced back to their own vehicles. Two police cruisers, their lights flashing, blocked the turn-off to US 99. As Pat dashed through the river of cars, he heard gunshots. He saw a cop fall, then heard a barrage of shots, too many to count. Pat crouched in a doorway, peering down the street. The cops were in position behind their squad cars, facing away from him. Pat took a deep breath and sprinted down the sidewalk, keeping tight to the buildings.

  Heart pounding in his chest, he swung left into a narrow courtyard that ran between two buildings. His footfalls echoed against the glass walls on either side. He emerged onto a small street, swung right onto the sidewalk, and pulled up short on Western Avenue. A long block to his right, he could see the madness of Denny Way, but Western was eerily empty. Looking down the empty canyon of condo buildings, Pat could see a swirling cloud of black smoke blocking the roadway.

  Holy Shit, fire on the left, a fire-fight on the right, and me in the middle. Yeah, and Liz right across the street. Time to get moving. He sprinted across the empty street, running towards a circular tower of black glass. Hang on Baby, I’m almost there. He held the axe handle like a baseball bat, ready to smash down anything that stood in his way. Panting now, he reached the glass security door, but they stood open and abandoned. Pat passed through the open doors, then thought better of it, and pulled up short. He yanked the doors closed, making sure they locked, then ran for the fire stairs.

  Chapter 3

  Rachel

  Bamboo panelling glowed in the dim studio lights, making the very hot room seem even hotter. Deep trance music filtered in from hidden speakers, the volume pre-set to the optimum scale for relaxation. The sweet scent of lavender wafted from an aroma-therapy diffuser. A single yoga mat, made of sustainable, natural rubber, lay at the very center of the studio floor. On the mat was a woman’s sinuous form.

  The woman tried to calm her mind, struggling to fall into that space of stillness where she so often led her students. Body calm, spirit calm, feeling every muscle, conscious and aware. But even here in the sanctuary of her studio, the safest place she knew, her mind could not shut out the dying world. The images forced their way into her conscious mind, stark scenes of fear, of death, of panic.

  It was so obvious. She had always known it would come to this, the planet rebelling against all of the human beings. Too many people, too few resources, people poisoning the land, poisoning the water. It was the Gaia Theory becoming a reality, the earth shrugging off the parasites. But she was not one of the parasites. Always striving for harmony, for yoga, working hard to make the least possible impact to the planet she loved. This was not supposed to happen, not for real, not in her lifetime. Yet now the storm was sweeping over all of them, taking the earth conscious environmentalists along with the Walmart shoppers.

  C’mon, Rachel, get a grip. You are in the studio, and that insanity is outside. Breathe in, breathe out, start the pose. You know you can do this, no matter what. Only start the sequence and the rest will follow. She arched her supple body, flowing into the Downward Dog. A pony tail of bright auburn hair fell past her beautiful face. The simplest of poses, yet her arms felt weak and shaky. She pushed against the weakness, wiling her arms to be still, but the trembling in her elbows only increased.

  What comes next? Is it the Cow Face Pose, or the Wide Angle Bend? How can you be confused over the simplest of beginner routines? She allowed her body to sink to the mat, her breath coming short and sharp.

  Okay, you are better than this. You cannot be freaking out, not now. You have trained for this for years; trained your students, taught them the tools for dealing with whatever life dishes out. Yeah, it’s madness out there, but that doesn’t mean you have to allow the madness in here. You’re struggling because of the stress, the fear. Who wouldn’t be afraid? That’s natural, go easy on yourself. Let’s just work into the next pose. The yoga will help with the stress, then we can deal with the madness outside in a calm, rational way.

  By the time she twisted into the Reclined Eagle, things were not going well at all. With her legs bent one way and her body another, she struggled to remember where she was. The lights seemed to be pulsing, and something had gone wrong with the aroma diffuser. Why do I smell bacon? Who would be cooking bacon, and why does it smell so good?

  As she pushed herself to a sitting position, the room reeled around her. Her head ached. Her green eyes blinked against the pain, trying to focus. Forcing herself into the Lotus Position, she closed her eyes, willing the room to be still.

  It had all gone
wrong so quickly. The crazy news, the quiet panic after the last class, sweating students milling about. Nervous inquires rustled through the group: Where will you go? What do you think? And quiet lust, even as the world came apart. Rach, you going to be okay? You want to come with me? No, thank you Robert, I will be fine.

  Her upper body wavered, slumping out of the position. She brought herself upright, chasing the train of her thoughts. Sure, she knew them, the hopeful ones, men and women who sweated through a hot yoga session just to see her in a leotard. So what? If it got them into the yoga studio, it was the greater good, right? Right, Girl, and you love playing the Goddess, don’t you. Yes, they come to see your bendy loveliness, but they have to pay the price in sweat and hard work. Dammit to hell, who is cooking bacon in the studio? No meat allowed, you people know that! Bacon, wow, how many years since we had a bacon sandwich?

  A bacon sandwich, are you kidding me? What the hell is wrong with you? Gluten and meat at the same time? You would heave chunks all over the yoga mat. What is this, what is happening to me? The pain in her head grew fierce, stabbing her between the eyes. The room fell away, replaced by a kaleidoscope of images, sounds.

  She was laughing, bobbing up and down, giggling burbles of laughter. Her father’s face hovered next to her, smiling, trees moving past behind him. The smell of sun on leather and hay; the smell of fresh manure. Her first pony ride, Woodlawn Park Zoo. Her father walking next to her because she was afraid, his hand on her tiny knee, and then everything was fine. The green of the park was gone, replaced by a squealing roomful of squealing girls, all faeries and maidens. She was the princess in a shimmery home-made gown. Her mother’s hysterical laughter in the background, the flash of snapshot bulbs illuminating sequins and bows. Now it was dark, only the gleam of headlights, music blaring in the car, pushed close against the girl next to her, feeling the heat and sweat of her, sweet and thick. Then a wash of light rolling over them. Alone, the pounding heat of India, the dusky sun outside the quiet Ashram; straining into a difficult pose, making it perfect. And then dark again, stars and moon, Arjun’s brown skin under her hand, falling into him, swept away into darkness.

  Under the dim studio lights, her head sagged, drawn down closer and closer to her folded legs. A lifeless forearm slipped from her right thigh. Her body toppled from the yoga mat, head striking the hardwood floor with a hollow thump. Trance music played softly. The scent of lavender hung in the air. Cheek pressed to the heated wood of the floor, her empty green eyes stared at the glowing bamboo wall.

  Chapter 4

  The Hunter

  A deadly silence hung over the streets, a pall of quiet. A tall man stood amongst the dead, mourning in his own silence. Even the ghosts were quiet. This neighborhood, his neighborhood, it was gone. There was nothing left of the smiling shop vendors, the purple-haired barista, the flower woman. They were gone, all gone or dead. The denizens and habitués of his enclave, this small piece of the city, wiped away. He closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed.

  He resumed his slow pace. The tip of his heavy walking stick rang against the concrete of the sidewalk, the only sound to be heard. Abandoned vehicles were scattered up and down the street, some empty, some with an awkward corpse still at the wheel. The time for fleeing was over. Those that could flee had fled. Now there was only death, and the few survivors trying to cope with a dead city.

  Walking, taking the measure of his neighborhood, pondering his fate. How have you found yourself still amongst the living? Always the survivor, but this is worse, much, much worse. I will not run, not again. This is my place, right here. If it dies completely, I die with it. Besides, where was there to run to anyway? Those that didn’t die here, they only died somewhere else. No, I will wait here. Someone has to guard the neighborhood. I have food, I have water, a safe perch above the city, my aerie from which to watch.

  The silence was broken by the sound of gunfire, distant, ominous. The faint echoes died away. You are not quite alone, are you? No, but just the same, I do not believe I care to meet any of the new neighbors. The last death throes of the city do not sound pleasant. Others have survived, and they have found the guns. Maybe they will finish each other off, fighting for the last of what is left. The last, dangerous few; the few the plague forgot.

  Maybe I am only a ghost. That is as valid an explanation as any other. An entire city wiped out in a matter of days. If that is possible, why not a ghost? But no, he felt the stick in his hand, the pavement against his feet, the smell of the corpses in his nostrils. A ghost, that would be too easy. This is no dream. This nightmare is real. You know that all too well, don’t you?

  How long since the silence began? Four days now? Five? The exodus had swollen too large for the escape routes, tangled on itself, and died. From his balcony above the city he had seen it. The double-ribbon of I-5, now become a graveyard of vehicles, each silent truck or car marking a solitary tomb. No, they had not gotten far, trapped in one final gridlock, the last traffic jam from hell. Order died along with those appointed to keep it. Police officers, the National Guard, they perished as quickly as the panicked civilians. Whatever this silent killer was, it had no regard for a uniform. Then it was chaos, pure and simple. And now, now there is the silence.

  No, not a ghost, but why not? There has to be a key to this horrible puzzle. Why have you survived when everyone else, or almost everyone, died? He looked about the empty street, searching for an answer. The last links with the outside world were gone, cut off in a crescendo of speculation and contradiction. Terrorism, divine retribution, plague, the deadly possibilities blaring from news screens and webpages. The result was the same, whether caused by an alien virus, or the hand of a vengeful god. Everyone died, and the news of the world died with them. The internet was the last to go, servers running on after their master died. The last, desperate gasps from around the world. Then nothing.

  And yet here you are, alone, seemingly the last survivor in the neighborhood. You are not a ghost. You are not playing a role onstage. This is not the theater, even if it seems like some nightmare from the theater of the absurd. That corpse in the gutter, that is real. Welcome to your new world, My Friend. Your days in front of an audience are over. I doubt that there is a happy ending to this final act.

  First there was the shock of finding himself still alive. He searched his condo building, but it was now a concrete tomb. Those few former tenants that remained would never again need the food on their shelves. He gathered what supplies he could salvage, leaving the rest. Each unit was searched and sealed, methodically, the locks rendered inoperable with super glue. His eighth-floor condo unit became a cliff dwelling, his refuge from the dead world below. Water, food, shelter, he attended to the basics.

  The balcony became his window on a dying world. Those first horrible nights, he watched the lights of the city begin to flicker and die, each night darker than the one before it. Then came this morning, the silence becoming too heavy, the walls of the condo pushing in on him. So he had taken up his walking stick and stepped out of his fortress. The lights might gleam in some corners of the city, but here there was nothing. The power grid was gone. The elevators were dead and useless. A methodical man, he locked the condo door, clipped his keys onto a pocket loop, and descended the stairwell.

  Now, on these streets he knew so well, he walked and mourned. In his mind, he greeted the familiar faces, and his greeting was returned. Phantoms of voices laughed just outside the edge of his hearing. A coffee cup clinked against a saucer, a newspaper rustled. He fought to clear his head. No, My Friend, that is the way to madness. You must see things as they really are.

  Ten steps away, a corpse lay crumpled across the sidewalk. The dead thing lay on its side, eyes open, staring sightlessly. It was the body of a young man, bearded, a dead hipster in workingman’s clothing. He peered at the dead face, searching his memory for any remembrance of this young man. Then the dead eyes blinked.

  Frozen in ho
rror, he saw the body lurching upwards, its hands scrabbling against the concrete. The face snapped up, its eyes focused on his own. There was nothing human in those eyes, no shred recognition or compassion, only animal anger. The thing lunged from the ground, arms reaching for him, closing the distance between them with a rush and a snarl.

  Then his arm was moving without conscious thought, hand gripping the heavy walking stick. The polished wood broke across the young man’s skull, snapping the head to one side. He saw his attacker reel, waver a step, then the animal eyes swung back to face him. It took another step forward, screaming in pain. He met the scream with sudden cold rage and the point of the broken stick. The splintered end of the walking stick stabbed through one of the raging eyes. The stabbing blow ended the scream, toppling the charging body backwards. The body twitched, hands clenching and unclenching, then went still.

  Heart pounding in his chest, he stood above the motionless body. He watched, careful, waiting, but the thing did not move again. He felt anger, a wave of hatred, pure and clean. It washed through him, over him, leaving him free of remorse. His voice broke loud and strong against the silence.

  “No, do you understand me? No! This is my neighborhood, my street, you cannot have it. I may be the last human being left, but I swear I will send you back to hell. Do you hear me? I will send you back to hell!”

  His words rebounded on nothing. The corpse at his feet remained still. He looked down at the dead thing, felt his heart slow, tasted the metallic tang of adrenaline across the back of his tongue. Realization dawned on him, a sharp focus. Is this what I have become, a killer? No, I am not a killer; I am hunter. Yes, this is our new role, the role of the hunter. Then we must prepare for it, as for any new role. The tall man moved suddenly, kicking the bottom of a dead foot. The ornate head of the walking stick wobbled above the pierced eye. He kicked again, watched, waited. Satisfied, he moved to the head of the corpse. He peered at the dead face, upside down below him.