Apartment 905

by Ned Sahin

  “Ah, thank you, little queen! I love them!” Kathleen says, leaning down and taking the flowers. She fondles the little girl’s brown hair and touches her tiny shoulder.

  “Where is your mom?” Kathleen asks. The little girl chuckles and runs back to a group of people preparing colorful signs. The lady the little girl had run to gives us a friendly gaze.

  “You are making friends already,” I say to Kathleen sarcastically. She laughs while we continue to walk and pass by more protestors.

  We are in front of the condo now. I have too many loving memories in this place. This two-story light blue house has been our family’s happy home for decades.

  Its modest look and simple front yard reflect the features of a typical condo of a hard-working family living in this city. My dad owned the entire place, but we didn’t use the first floor. We had to rent it out to help pay bills.

  Even though it’s getting dark, I don’t see any lights in the windows at either of the floors.

  I walk to the front door and ring the doorbell.

  “Hello! I am back!” I say loudly. Nobody responds. I ring the bell again. There is still no response. I look through the windows on both sides of the door. I don’t see anybody inside.

  A couple walking on the street stare at us with wondering eyes.

  “Do you have a key? Or is the key hidden somewhere?” Kathleen asks while looking around the front door.

  “I don’t…and we don’t keep a key anywhere outside of the house,” I say. “Instead, we keep a ladder.” I smile and walk to the tree at the corner of the front yard. I move the bushes and pick up the portable ladder hidden behind them. It’s a tiny and weak ladder, but it gets the job done to reach the balcony on the second floor. I used this ladder countless times to enter the house when I was late after school. The balcony door my parents used to leave open for air circulation had been my favorite entrance to the house.

  I expand the ladder and lean it toward the wall right next to the balcony. Kathleen holds it from the bottom to keep it still.

  I climb up and jump over the balcony fence. I hold the ladder while Kathleen climbs up.

  I look through the balcony door’s window. It’s dark inside. I knock on the door and yell again.

  I try to slide the door, but it pushes back. It’s either locked or it just got stuck somehow. Even if it’s locked, I know that it’s fragile.

  Kathleen gets on my side and we both try to slide it. After a strong push, we manage to break the doorknob. It slides easily this time.

  “Hello! Mom? Dad? Barry?” I say. It’s quiet inside. I check the bedrooms one by one even though the house is almost dark. I can navigate through this place with my eyes closed.

  All the furniture is where they are supposed to be. The kitchen sink is empty without a trace of dirty dishes. There is no clutter anywhere. I don’t see any sign of a break-in or fight. It looks as if they just went to a grocery store or somewhere else. Maybe they are out on the street and getting ready for the protest.

  I go to the drawer behind the dinner table where we keep family photos. One of them shows me with my parents at my graduation. Another one is my brother’s portrait in his military uniform. An older photo shows my mom and dad at their wedding ceremony. Next to it, I see a photo of myself I had taken at work.

  There is a small envelope with my name on it in front of my photo. Kathleen comes from the other side of the living room after seeing me grab the envelope.

  I take the letter off from the envelope. I recognize my mother’s handwriting right away. The words are leaning to the left with long straight lines drawn for all B and D letters.

  “My dear son, Matt,

  I don’t know how much longer we can stay alive. I wish I was able to talk to you one more time. I wanted to let you know how much I love you. You are my kind and loving son I’ve always been proud of. I am going to see you here or in another world… I love you.”

  A thin line of tears flows down from my eyes. Kathleen touches my shoulder. She hugs me when I turn around.

  “I am sure they are fine…” she says.

  It’s hard to control my feelings. I feel my legs getting weaker. I sit at the table and put the letter in front of me. Taking my head between my hands, I close my eyes.

  It’s not the time to let myself down. This letter doesn’t give any bad news. I know that they are alive somewhere waiting for me to find them.

  I read the letter again. It doesn’t say anything about them getting the virus. It sounds like it was written while they are healthy, but they are not very sure about what may come next.

  The sentence “You are my kind and loving son I’ve always been proud of” picks my attention. She says it like she doesn’t feel the same way for my brother anymore. It may not mean anything specific either. Maybe I am just overthinking her letter.

  My mom probably felt overly emotional and wanted to leave a note for me just in case they need to leave the house in a rush. I still think that they may come back home anytime soon.

  I get back to reality with the people chanting loudly outside. The protest is beginning. I turn my head to Kathleen.

  “Let’s go find my family,” I say.

  Chapter 40

  “Weck the wreck!... Weck the wreck!... We ain’t a piece of cake!” the crowd chants. There are hundreds of people walking on the main street of San Francisco with banners and posters against the dictator, Weck Highland.

  “High Land, Low Man,” one of the banners read.

  Another banner reads, “Empty Alcatraz” while someone’s t-shirt has the words, “Free Press, Free West.”

  I see a diverse crowd of younger, older, mother, father, children, white-collar, blue-collar, hippies, and survivors. These people look pissed off about how their state is governed. Even though they are aggressive and loud, I don’t see any kind of weapons in their hands.

  We walk with them for a few blocks. We walk faster to see faces in the front group. Then we wait at the sidewalk and check incoming faces. I haven’t seen my parents or my brother yet.

  I hear the sound of pepper spray launchers. The militias run from both sides of the street and form a barricade in front of the crowd. They have gas masks and armored clothes from neck to toe.

  The smoke immediately blinds the protesters in the first rows. They fall while screaming in pain and trying to remove residues from their eyes. Others run back in the street, pushing and tripping the protestors behind them.

  The militias unleash more pepper spray bottles. I also hear them firing their handguns in the air. They run after the protestors as they back up.

  We run back with the crowd. Shortly after, the people in the back turn around and try to run toward us, colliding with the front groups, I see riot control vehicles coming after them and spraying pressured water. The militias blocked the other side of the street as well.

  “This way!” one of the protestors says while holding his kid. A group of people follow him to a multi-floor parking lot. Some others try to get into buildings around to take cover. We follow another group that is headed to an empty alley.

  More people follow us. Protestors leading the group reach the end of the alley, which opens to another street. As soon as they walk onto the street, the sound of bullets fills the air. One of the protesters gets shot from her chest and falls on her face. Others step back while trying to get away from the street.

  “Militia on both sides!” a guy in the front group yells. The militia shoots from both sides at everything that moves in between them. We run back toward the opposite end of the alley, but the troops show up on the other side as well.

  Some protestors decide to take cover behind the garbage bins and wait. Others try to break in the back door of the houses and businesses.

  “Hey, Kathleen!” I say while pointing to a fire ladder. She understands my intention. It’s just like what we practiced in Salt Lake City to get to her grandparents’ apartment.

&
nbsp; I lift her from her legs. She grabs the bottom of the ladder and pulls it down. We start climbing up on the three-story building.

  On the side of the alley where we came from, I see the militias beating the protestors they caught. They haul some of them to the armored bus that is waiting on the main street.

  On the opposite end, the militias form a single line and start shooting at protestors randomly. I realize that being on the fire stairs wasn’t a good idea. We are a clear target for them.

  “Go back!” I tell Kathleen above me while I begin stepping down. She follows me. We get back to the crowd who is stuck in the narrow alley between militias on both sides.

  The desperate protestors get on their knees and raise their hands in the air, hoping to be arrested instead of killed. On the main street side, the militia is closing in. Many men and women are lying on the ground and screaming for help as they cover their wounds.

  I turn to Kathleen. She is out of options just like me and others. We look toward the protestors ready to surrender on the ground. We do the same. We get on our knees and wait for militias walking toward us. They at least stopped shooting.

  They punch and kick people randomly while yelling slurs and profanities. One protestor rises and tries to grab a militia’s rifle. Two other militias jump on him. They fall together. The armed men stand up and haul the protestor to the side of the alley. They crush his head to a door’s stairway before shooting him in the head.

  Through his helmet, a militia locks his bloody eyes with mine. He walks toward me like a hunter approaching his trapped victim. He raises his rifle at me. My hands are behind my head. I know that the handgun is still in my backpack, but it would be a bad idea to try using it. The militia would pull the trigger before I could even touch the gun in my bag.

  “Get on the ground!” another militia behind us says. He pushes my back, and the right side of my face slams to the ground. Someone else does the same to Kathleen. They take our backpacks off and throw them away. Then they cuff our hands.

  “Move, move!” a red-faced militia member says while forcing a cuffed protestor walk in front of him through the alley.

  The militias who cuffed us pull us up from our arms. They drag us to the main street among other protestor and militia pairs. We walk over people with bullet holes on their bodies lying in their own blood. The color of the letters on their torn banners is now dark red.

  We are taken to one of the armored buses. At least twenty protestors are chained on the seats. They force us to sit in the back of the bus and lock chains into our cuffs.

  “Ready!” a militia says while walking toward the driver. The driver pushes a button to close the sliding door. The bus slowly moves, bumping over the bodies of protestors along the main street.

  We get on the Bay Bridge. This is the bridge that I was ecstatic to see a few hours ago. We are now going in the opposite direction with bruises on our faces and chains around our bodies.

  “You’re okay?” I ask Kathleen as she sits on the other side of the aisle. She has bruises on her forehead and blood in her hair.

  “Yeah… We should have used the gun…” she says.

  “It would be a deadly mistake,” I respond. We wouldn’t be able to fight back against an influx of militia with one gun.

  We arrive at a two-story building right next to the ugly structure we saw earlier in the day. I wonder if Crypto is still here. We could use his help.

  Starting from the front seats, two militias unchain the protestors starting from the front seats.

  “One by one!” they say. One of the militias pushes an elderly man out of the bus. They continue to unchain and move people. Once they unchain us, we stand up and walk toward the door before they even lay their hands on us.

  We follow others in a straight line into the building. The militia takes us down to the basement. We enter a poorly lighted corridor with numerous cells on both sides.

  “Where is my lawyer! You can’t keep us here!” somebody yells from his cell.

  “Let us go!” another one says while trying to extend his hand to hit one of the militias.

  I see several prisoners sleeping on the floor. They don’t even bother opening their eyes when people yell. Who knows how long they have been kept here for?

  “At least give us new masks and move the dead!” a man yells from another cell.

  I look at the people lying on the floor again. They are not sleeping. They are dead.

  The militia pushes me, Kathleen, and three others into a small cell with two people already inside. These conditions are beyond even the standards in a dictatorship regime.

  “Get your hands off me!” I push the militia’s hand before entering the cell.

  “What are you charging us with?” Kathleen asks. One of the militia men looks at her and smiles.

  We sit on the floor in the back corner of the cell, but it’s impossible to leave distance from the other five people sharing the cell with us. I can feel their breath right above us. We fold our legs to put some space between us and lock our arms on our knees to somehow cover our faces.

  The militia leaves the basement and closes the door. I can see at least fifty people in the cells. They look hungry, terrified, and sick.

  Many of them are coughing. Some look too weak to even stand or talk. The new arrivals like us keep checking around to find a way to escape. I don’t even bother about it. The railing is from floor to ceiling and there are only small fenced windows.

  I lift my head and turn to Kathleen. “This is not the end…” I say.

  She glances at me and nods before putting her head back behind her arms.

  After several hours, two militias show up at the door. They throw canned dog food to the cells. People go loud again. Some of them throw the cans back to them. I am not against eating dog food if it makes the difference between life and death. The nutrition in dog food can keep one alive even if the taste is not very desirable.

  Once I see one of the militias getting close to our cell, I stand up and bump others around to go to the front side.

  “Find Crypto and say Battle Mountain. Please…” I say to him.

  He gives me a confused look, then he switches back to his dull face and rolls his eyes to the corridor.

  Crypto is our only hope to get out of this hole before we get sick. I hope this militia carries the message.

  I go back to the corner. Kathleen looks at me as I sit next to her.

  “I hope it works…” she says.

  One of the prisoners, who was in the cell before we arrived, starts coughing. It gets intense quickly that he can’t cover his face with his hands because of the strong waves coming from his abdomen.

  “Get away from me, prick!” One of the new arrivals pushes him toward us. He tries to hold onto others, but they move away quickly, leaving him in free fall. He falls on Kathleen, making her scream and rush behind me. I push the guy as fast as I can, but the saliva from his coughs land on our faces before he drops to the side. He lies down on the floor and stays there a few seconds while trying to find the strength to get on his knees and hands. We wipe our faces with our sleeves right away, but it might be too late.

  “Sorry… Sor…” He coughs again. Kathleen leans her face on my shoulder while trying to hold herself from crying. I circle my arm around her and pull her back to me. We have each other no matter what happens.

  This is going to be a tough night.

  I close my eyes and think about a way to get us out of this basement. I didn’t come all the way from the other side of the country to die in this dark dungeon.

  Chapter 41

  “You are gonna be okay…” I say to Kathleen and caress her hair. She is lying on the floor with her head on my knee. She has been having difficulty breathing. I can feel how much each breath hurts her.

  We are still in the same corner of the cell while the darkness of night turns to the first morning light. Most of the others are still sleeping.
Some of them continuously cough while staring hopelessly at the walls. Across from us, a teenager is crying quietly. What we are in right now is more like a room for prisoners who are held while waiting for the execution of their death sentences. At least a quarter of the people are not showing any sign of life anymore.

  I couldn’t sleep much while worrying about Kathleen. She started showing symptoms around midnight. Without any food, water, or fresh air, she got worse every hour.

  “You… should… stay away,” she whispers. She can’t even move her lips or lift her eyelids while whispering. I hope they bring something for us to eat so her immune system can have some kind of fuel to fight against the virus.

  I hope Crypto comes to rescue soon. We established trust between us during our ride together. I know that he will at least attempt to help us if he hears that we are here. He is my only hope.

  “Please…” Kathleen whispers again. Even while fighting with the deadly virus, she still thinks about others.

  “Shhh…” I say. I know that this is the time to tell her what I did.

  “Just rest… Don’t worry about me. I won’t get sick,” I say. She doesn’t respond but I know she is listening.

  “I need to tell you something…” I say. She tries to move her head to look at me, but she is too weak to change her position.

  “What…” she whispers.

  “I… injected one of the vaccines at the hotel.”

  She moves her lips, but I don’t hear anything.

  “I wanted to try it on myself first to make sure it’s not dangerous. I wanted to tell you in the morning but… things got chaotic quickly,” I say. We left the hotel in a hurry. Then the bikers’ attack made me completely forget about the vaccine.

  She moves her lips again. She squeezes my hand stronger. “I… understand…” She says while gasping.

  I take a deep breath. I want to scream. I want to attack the first militia I see. I want to make the company and Republic pay for what they did to us, but I have to fight with my emotions and carefully plan what I do next. Emotional reactions can only make the situation worse.