Every week, the radius of his search expanded and every week he heard fewer and fewer sounds from the outside. One day he happened to be sitting in someone’s living room, in a cozy leather recliner, gazing out the window from afar, when he saw a child stagger down the street. He’d obviously been crying. Sandy thought he heard the boy wail, “Mommy, Mommy…” He couldn’t be more than three. There was a ragged diaper strapped to his waist, hanging low. Sandy did nothing. He said nothing. He watched that poor boy walk down the street and disappear. He felt like a coward.
“You are nothing,” he told himself. “You are worse than nothing.”
Still, he survived. Still, he scrounged. Still, he watched.
Sometimes he would take the gun and roll it back and forth between hands.
“You don’t even have the courage to kill yourself,” he told himself. That’s when he knew he was tilting toward the crazy. When you talk to yourself like that, you must be crazy, right?
It was all starting to feel like a dream: two days, three days, four days, five days—all the same. Wake up, sip some water, go back to sleep. Wake up, sip some water, eat some Spam. Wake up when it’s dark, go searching for food, go back to sleep. Wake up in the morning, do it all over again.
Then one night, when the hunger was really tearing at his stomach, he stumbled into a home reeking of death.
He avoided those homes, but for some reason, he went looking for it this time. He found them in the basement, piled. There must have been fifty. He couldn’t look away. Men, women, and children. Who had done this? Stacked bodies like trash. That was the night he decided to leave town. He packed what meager belongings he had, stowed his food away carefully, and picked a direction. He’d always wanted to live by the ocean. Maybe this was his chance. He pointed his feet east.
Sandy started walking, freer and freer with every step he took.
Free from life, free from death.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chuck Yarling
Those first days were hard, not the physical exertion of it. Chuck found that his body could be pushed to limits he didn’t remember having since he was a 20-year-old boy.
A boy. That’s what he’d been. He hadn’t reached the status of man until that bomb obliterated whatever sense of universal justice he’d been holding onto. This is what it was like to have the light of truth shine until it blinded you and burned the skin off your face. The suffering of others, the bodies scattered like driftwood on a deserted beach, cities burned down, towns ransacked, cars lining highways as far as the eye could see—the light of truth.
They followed a highway strewn with abandoned vehicles. One, a BMW, was graffitied with obscenities. Who the hell wanted to leave their mark in that fashion? Chuck thought. How unaccomplished in life the so-called artist must have felt. He almost cried for the unknown vandal.
Up ahead, a brown splotch was moving toward them. Dottie put her hand out in front of Chuck, like a mother does out of instinct even to a grown child. The rest ceased their march behind him.
As the splotch came into focus, they realized it was the form of a child.
If you could call it that.
The thing that stumbled toward them was an emaciated, mud-caked little wren of seven or eight years of age.
An 8-year-old girl, a 20-year-old boy... what was really the difference anyway these days when life doled out the same punishment in equal measure?
“What’s your name?” said Dottie, clutching the girl gently by the shoulders.
The little girl didn’t speak.
“Come with us, okay?” said Dottie, standing up and offering the girl her hand. “Will you do that for me? I’m scared and I need a hand to hold while we walk to the beach.” Her voice had a balm to it.
The mud-caked girl took her hand, and the ever-growing group resumed their march.
In a week, the girl began to speak. Her tale was harrowing, though not unlike many they’d heard.
Like Chuck, they were all advancing toward a new level of vitality. If Chuck forgot about it one day, all he had to do was look to his left and his right at the others marching east. They took vehicles when they could, but the roads were so clogged that it was just as easy to walk. It might’ve been a long hike to a Boy Scout Jamboree if it weren’t for the weapons in everyone’s hands.
They made camp and Dottie disappeared.
“She’ll be back,” Chuck assured, holding his hands up, palms open. “She just went to look for food.”
“There’s no food anywhere,” cried Bill, one of the newer arrivals. “We checked.”
“Bill, we need to trust in Dottie, okay?”
Bill was quelled for the time being. Chuck wondered how long this trust in their leader would last.
Such a pitiable thing, he thought, that they needed to trust in one person to bring them such safety and security in their lives.
Then he thought about how he needed the same thing.
Within an hour, Dottie came back into camp with three reusable shopping bags on each arm, filled with food.
She let the others partake before her, like a good general, even going so far to refuse the food offered to her until everyone had eaten.
“What’s it going to be today,” said Chuck, stretching in the morning light a few days later. “Tactics training? Weapons training?”
“Apple picking.”
“Target practice?”
“Fruit salad.”
He laughed, then wondered what went through her head when she made these decisions. How did she know the group needed a day of relaxation under apple trees?
He didn’t want to ask. There was magic there, and he didn’t want to learn the secret. Maybe he was still a boy after all.
He looked over at Dottie, who, even though she watched the scene, was keeping one eye out on the horizon.
Sometimes he asked who she was looking for. He wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t all good people that were left. Dottie answered in a carefree tone, “I’m just being careful.” Chuck could see that she’d taken it as her solemn duty to protect the rest of them.
He hadn’t forgotten her comment back at the mansion, back where it all started, back when he’d watched her first miraculous entrance. She said she’d been one of them, but one of who?
They were sitting on the edge of a large field. The sun had just gone down, and the low fires lulled the other survivors to sleep. Chuck couldn’t sleep. And he found Dottie, who was just coming in from watch. She always took the hardest watch, the dog watch, when you expected the enemy to attack. Or when, if you were on the attack, you did attack. He watched her move from pod to pod, sometimes saying a kind word, checking in. Other times, stroking the head of a young one. The kids in early teens would soon outnumber the adults. He waited for his moment.
She sat down like she always did, legs crisscrossed, weapon across her lap, sipping on a bottle of water.
“How’s it looking out there?” Chuck asked by way of greeting.
“Quiet,” Dottie said. “It’s so quiet.”
Chuck nodded and took a seat beside her. “Does it freak you out? The quiet, I mean. Does it scare you?”
Dottie took a long pull of water and looked up at the moon. “I love the quiet. Maybe it has something to do with the way I was raised. An only child, I had to fend for myself and developed an active imagination. Sometimes I would talk to myself.”
Chuck loved these moments when she would drop little morsels of her life before X-99. It was like she was on her own path to searching her soul, to finding who she was truly meant to be, though there was never any hesitation when it came to action.
He decided to take his chance. “You can tell me to shut up if you want. I don’t want to offend you, but you said a while back that you were one of them.”
Dottie’s gaze drifted from the moon back over to Chuck.
“I told you that on the day we met,” Dottie said. “I was wondering how long it would take you to ask.” She smiled like she
’d been reading his mind for all the weeks they’d been together. “Are you sure you want to know?”
Chuck nodded eagerly, once again feeling like that 20-year-old boy. Dottie nodded, re-centered herself on the moon, and began her tale.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dottie Roth
She was 15-years-old when she ran away from home the first time. Her father found her and dragged her back, kicking and screaming. He locked her in her room for a week, beating her whenever he felt like it. She gazed on drugged-out eyes, frozen in a forever stupor.
By the time she was 17-years-old, she had perfected her act. She got perfect grades. She never acted out. She rarely met her father’s eyes head-on. She built a schedule that kept her far from home most days. She knew when he’d go on a bender. She saw the signs, whether it was a little bit of grumpiness after work or an early-morning delivery from his favorite drug dealer.
She didn’t have friends because she was too skinny to be cool, not well-dressed enough to be pretty, and too quiet to be noticed. But Dottie saw everything. She could feel danger coming like a storm front creeping over the horizon. Like a meteorologist, Dottie Roth watched the world around her, devouring the details because she had nothing better to do.
At 17, she graduated early. She thought about emancipating herself from her parents, but she knew that would only cause a stir. So she took every penny she had earned from working at the drive-in movie theater and hit the road. And how glorious that first year had been. Free, away from the shackles of her parents, she could be whomever she wanted to be, and no one could say differently.
Then came that unfortunate incident at the truck stop. She’d managed to hitchhike her way to California and wound up in a tiny dive on the edge of nowhere. Migrant workers were clustered in one corner, having finished their long day in the fields. The truckers on the other side, tired and morose from their long journeys. And then there were the locals, a brazen bunch who taunted the farmers, laughed at the truckers, and eyed young Dottie as she made her way to the counter.
All she wanted was the corned beef hash. Something about these tiny places. No frozen bags of pre-cooked slop prepared to bland corporate standards, shipped in and stored for months. No, this was made-to-order slop, dropped fresh and fatty into the grease of a thousand breakfasts, enticing all weary travelers with the aroma of paradise. She knew they’d do it right here, and that’s all she wanted.
She took a seat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee to start. It arrived a moment later in a chipped mug. It tasted like tar. She didn’t care.
She was suddenly aware of a presence. Someone was standing next to her. She turned to see a man, early twenties, grinning at her with a slimy expression.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Hi.”
She gave a half smile. “Hi.”
“My buddies and I wanted to know if you’re available later on tonight.”
She heard snickering and poked her head around the man’s body. A group of four more were sitting in a booth behind him, all wearing the same swaggering grin as this one.
“I’m... just passing through,” she said, and turned her attention back to her coffee.
“Awww, now that’s not nice,” he said in a tone of false injury. “You can’t turn down the welcoming committee like that.”
She looked at the waitress behind the counter, who quickly turned around and busied herself at the coffee machine.
A hand appeared next to her, as the guy leaned on the counter. “How’s about you reconsider our kind offer? You look like you can use a little relaxation.”
More snickering.
“I’m good, really.”
“I’ll bet you’re more than good.”
“Excuse me?”
His grin widened. “Come over here and show us how good you actually are?”
She looked him in the eye. “Listen, I’m not interested.”
The guy turned around to his giggling friends. “She’s not interested.”
“I don’t blame her,” said one of them, a carbon copy of this one. “Not with an ugly pig like you.” He bowed his head slightly toward Dottie. “Right, girlie? Ain’t he ugly?”
“Guys, please.”
“Oooo, please!” said the first, nudging his pal. “You hear that? Please. So polite.”
“I’ll bet that’s just a front,” said the second. “I’ll bet she’s really pretty nasty. Huh, girlie? You a nasty girl? Come on and show us how nasty you can be.”
Dottie grabbed her coffee and threw the scalding brew in the first one’s face, then smashed the mug against the face of the second.
After that, things progressed with lightning speed. Number One wailed like a baby and put both hands to his face, while Number Two sobbed about the splinters in his eye. Dottie then socked Number One in the jaw and Number Two in the nose.
Then there were Numbers Three and Four, who jumped her, each taking her by an arm. She countered with an elbow to the ribs of one and a kick in the jewels of the other. Bodies moved in like bulldozers as two truckers rushed in to break up the fight and caught punches themselves. Number One landed on the floor. Dottie seized the opportunity to stomp on his hand. The guy wailed like a struck beast.
One of the others moved in on her. Someone’s fist landed on her jaw and she fell backward in a daze against the counter beside an overturned stool.
She wasn’t sure how long she lay like that before the police showed up and took statements. They took Dottie down to the station along with the others in separate cars.
“Hey, it’s the Wild Cat,” said a cop passing by her holding cell. He had a friendly face with soft features. His tone was as friendly as his countenance. “You alright?”
“I’m ok,” she said.
He leaned in. “Those guys you fought with, nice job.”
“Huh?”
He looked around as if scoping the area for an audience, then turned back to her. “We’re all on your side here. Those guys are locals who’ve been harassing folks in that truck stop for a while now. People look the other way because one of them is the son of some high-powered businessman in the area. Those punks get away with murder.”
“Sounds like a groovy crowd,” she said.
He chuckled. “You hang tight. We need to put you through the system, but just so you know, we’re on your side.” With this, he tipped his hat and went off to another part of the office.
Later that day, a man arrived. He had cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses and wore the type of suit and tie that made him look like an accountant from Central Casting. He introduced himself as Mr. Smith, and then he escorted Dottie to one of the interrogation rooms. After making sure the cameras and microphones were turned off, Mr. Smith began his questioning.
“You’re a long way from home, Ms. Roth. Would you like to tell me about that?”
For some reason, Dottie wasn’t afraid of this man. If he was a lawyer, so be it, maybe he was her public defender. But there was something in his attitude, the way he looked at her, the way he strolled through the police station as if it held no command over him. She decided to tell him the truth. She told him about her father, about her deadbeat mother, about the way she’d raised herself, and finally about the fight. At least what she remembered.
He took no notes. He did not nod. He barely blinked.
When she’d finished, he asked, “Would you like something to drink? Some water, a coffee, a soda, maybe?"
“I’ll take a Coke if you got one.”
Mr. Smith left the room and returned with a plastic cup filled with ice and a can of Coca-Cola. He poured it for her, half a cup, until the fizz rose to the top.
She had so many questions for this Mr. Smith, but she sensed that questions were the last thing he was prepared to answer. So she waited and she sipped her Coke, remembering how the popular kids in school would bring Coke and laugh at Dottie for drinking her government-issued milk.
“The police want to call you
r father,” Mr. Smith said, retaking his seat at the table across from her. A twinge of alarm ran up Dottie’s spine. “Don’t worry. I told them that might not be a good idea. Though, you are still a minor for what? Another month?”
“Yep.”
“Okay then. So let’s say the police let you go, let’s say there are no charges. What’s your plan? Where do you want to go?”
Dottie hadn’t really thought about it. She expected some kind of trial. Her worst fear was that her father and mother would be called, and that they’d come and pretend to be perfect parents. And then once out of sight, they would beat her into submission. But this Mr. Smith seemed genuinely interested. Even if that interest meant she was only a novelty to him.
“I wanted to go to LA,” she said quickly.
One of Mr. Smith’s eyebrows rose, “LA, huh? Seems like a fanciful choice for a young lady of your upbringing. Have you ever been to Los Angeles?”
Dottie shook her head.
“Look Ms. Roth, I’m sure you think what you did in that truck stop was bravery. Some kind of… I don’t know, we’ll call it female machismo, that you can take on the world.” He leaned forward a bit, “But let me tell you, Los Angeles will eat you alive. It will take one look at you, grab you by the throat, slam you to the ground and bite your face off.”
“Where do you think I should go?” she asked impetuously. She wasn’t going to let another man dictate who or what she was.
Mr. Smith drummed on the table with his pinkies, then looked up at the ceiling as if the answer was there. Dottie knew intuitively that he had the answer and was merely putting on the show. There was a plan running around his head.
“I was a lot like you, you know,” he said. “Pissed off at the world, wanting to have nothing to do with my deadbeat family. I know who you are, Ms. Roth, because I am you.”
Dottie pointed at his suit. “So what do you want me to learn from you? How to wear a crappy suit and visit police stations?”
The Next Dawn Page 10
