So, they began.
The stairs were populated by only a few others who’d decided to leave; presumably everyone else in the skyscraper was dutifully waiting for the lights to come on: hourly workers eager to get their full 40 hours’ pay, others too lazy to walk downstairs, waiting for the elevators to start working again, or perhaps a few people actually wanting to finish some item of work before the work week yielded to TGIF. Two athletic young men in khakis and matching-logo polo shirts saw Juni’s plight.
“Here, let us get you out of here!” Before Viswanathan knew what was happening, they’d locked hands and lifted Juni up between them, easily carrying her down the steps. He watched them disappear around the next landing and continued to make his own, slower way down the stairs behind them.
By the time he made it down to the ground floor, his aging knees aching a bit from the downstairs climb, the two young men were nowhere to be found. Juni’s pantyhose looked moth-eaten, shredded as high up as her knees. She had a gaping hole in the hip of her polyester skirt where she’d sat in the coffee. The right sleeve and cuff of her jacket was full of holes as well, where the coffeepot must have splashed. She was standing alone on the sidewalk, leaning against a wall, toe of her injured foot down, confused and shocked.
He flagged her a taxi and helped her in. She named the urgent care center near her brother’s house, and the driver took off.
XI.
Sand in Shoes
DD woke up with morning rays already sloping through the blinds. So much for watching the sunrise. I needed the rest! She jumped into sweatpants and tank top and strode out the door, following the deck around to the main house. Things she’d missed in the dark the night before caught her eye: low bushes covered with vibrant yellow poppy-shaped flowers, on the sand fifteen feet below; random pieces of driftwood on a steel coffee table between two deck chairs; a giant seashell set on the railing, filled with pieces of colored, smooth-polished sea glass. She opened the wood-framed glass door and stepped into the common room of the B & B.
“Good morning!” chirped Joanne. “Did you sleep well? Would you like some coffee?”
“Coffee,” DD agreed, taciturn until she had her cup, making a beeline for the carafe on the kitchen counter. “I slept well. The sound of the ocean is soothing.” She turned and realized she and her hostess weren’t alone in the cluttered, cozy living room. In a corner chair by the fireplace, half-hidden by the dusty Christmas tree, the man who’d helped her with the elevator was lounging. He gave her a charming little smile as their eyes met, and DD felt her clit twitch involuntarily. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? She smiled back, giving a half-wink, and then quickly flicked her eyes away. She focused on fixing her coffee. Years.
“Breakfast is ready!” proclaimed Joanne. “French Toast and sausages!”
Jeremy rose from the chair; DD noted an athletic grace which belied the age attested by the tanned crow's-feet by his eyes and his callused bumpy knuckles. She placed him in his mid-forties, a few years older that she. He was cradling another of Joanne’s big ceramic mugs, and he sat at the head of the table, she on his left. He heaped his plate with sausage patties and French toast; DD took two triangles of toast and one sausage patty as he spread his liberally with real butter and drowned it in syrup. DD couldn’t help envying him; he appeared to be one of those people who could eat anything he wanted without getting fat, while DD had to watch every bite and exercise daily to maintain a healthy weight. Perhaps it was because he worked hard, while she was a knowledge worker. She was pretty sure he had an outdoor occupation; he was lusciously tanned and his forearms were cut with wiry muscle where the sleeves of his long-sleeved T-shirt were pushed up to the elbow. His hair, though dark and wavy, had unmistakably been coarsened by abundant wind and sun.
“Are you leaving today?” he asked between bites. That accent…Texas, but also…New Zealand? Scotland? Boston? Very faint—maybe if he talks a little more—
She smiled, leaned forward. “I’m not sure. I was planning on it, but this spot is so nice, I might stay an extra night.” Yes, an answering shift in his posture, a brightening, when she said that, and her smile widened a little of its own volition. She lifted her cooled mug to her lips and took a big gulp of the bitter coffee, blotted her lips with her napkin, and sighed deeply, appearing nonchalant, before asking, “How about you? Are you headed on down the road today?”
“Oh, I live here,” he said.
Oh. Not what I’d figure as Joanne’s type. Too young, for one thing. In response to what must have been a puzzled look, he explained, “I live in Galveston but I’m staying here at the B&B while I help Joanne fill in around the foundations, after Gertie.” DD hadn’t noticed the slabs being exposed. Hurricane Gertrude had whirled up the Texas Gulf Coast the year before, a Cat II, which all the structures in the area were built to resist, but it had hit during a high tide with a huge storm surge.
“I didn’t notice them being washed out, but then I’m a city girl,” DD offered. “So, are you in construction?”
“Landscaping,” Jeremy replied. “I don’t know if you noticed, but that’s my truck parked up by the main drag.” DD had, in fact, noticed the gravel-filled dump truck parked on the asphalt before the vacant storefront on the corner.
She’d lived in Florida long enough to know that probably meant the road shoulders were soft sugar-sand that couldn’t support a heavy vehicle. Flash back to a night in grad school, a solo impulse trip after one of her many tumultuous breakups, from Atlanta to check out the Spring Break revelry in the Redneck Riviera. She'd pulled over to consult her road atlas (before the days of Google Maps and iPhones) onto what appeared to be a solid shoulder. And found her wheels useless in the loose sand. She’d tried wedging everything she could find—driftwood, lumber, her jacket—under the rear drive-wheels for traction, but wound up digging deeper and deeper holes with her tires until the belly of the car came to rest on the sand like the carapace of a sea turtle. She spent the night on the bench back seat of her ancient Plymouth Belvedere and woke up, at the moment of a glorious sunrise, to see a wrecker pull in ahead to rescue her.
She rose, raised her arms and stretched—caught him looking—and spoke up to Joanne, “Is my room available another night? I really like it here.” With the relocation bonus from Amrencorp on this culture project (not to mention the prospect of royalties if...when...it pans out for commercial distribution) I can afford a little splurge.
“Sure,” the landlady said, “I’d love for you to stay another night.”
“Great!” said DD. “I think I’ll go out for a walk on the beach before it gets too hot.” She slid out the door to the deck and headed for her room to change her clothes. She willed herself to relax and act indifferent, all the while straining her ears for a step behind her: none. She had her key out well before stopping at the room door. She closed the door firmly and shot the deadbolt. She changed out of her tunic and leggings into quick-dry nylon sport shorts, sport sandals, and a tank top, twisted her dark hair up, and stepped back outside.
She made her way around the deck and down the weathered wooden stairs. A breeze blew landward, carrying a rich aroma. Her famously acute nose began to catalogue its components automatically: salt water (though of course what she smelled was the iodine, since sodium chloride was as odorless as pure water itself), decaying vegetation, feathers—interesting, with no birds in sight—unrefined petroleum, and the distinctive aroma of cycloclasticus. She walked down the short street, past RV campers and beach-retreat homes of people a great deal wealthier than she, with rustic signs saying things like “An old fisherman lives here with the catch of his life.” Wind chimes made of seashells, sculptures of driftwood and tarred rope on the ground-floor concrete pads. The stilt-raised homes were clearly status-symbol beach houses for wealthy people from Houston, but many lots forewent the house completely and had just a concrete pad and a high balcony deck which doubled as a shelter for a motor home.
When she got to the beach pr
oper, she saw that the low-growing shrubs with the bright yellow blossoms formed a matrix that held low dunes in place. The tide was low, the beach wide. The sand was darker in color than that she was used to seeing on the Florida side of the Gulf. She scanned ahead of her feet for tar balls (nasty to step in barefoot) but saw none. The cycloclasticus I smell must be breaking them down. She saw a line of flotsam washed up at the high tide mark and noticed draggled feathers sticking up from the sand. Must be a nesting ground nearby. One more aroma accounted for.
Right? Or left? To her left, a jacked-up pickup truck was parked on the sand about a quarter mile away, but she didn't see the occupants. She turned right instead. Half a mile or so south was a cheerful apricot-colored house across from a head of sand pointed into the water; that was her mark. She started towards it, savoring the sun on the left side of her face. The mid-morning temperature was just right for a walk, with a breeze that was cooling but not icy, and she settled into a soft-kneed, easy pace on the sand. Low wavelets broke with soft sighing sounds. A lone pelican cruised by, south-to-north, perhaps fifty feet above the waves. She swung her arms, making huge snow-angel circles, trying to release the road tension from her neck. She paused and shaded her eyes.
The distant truck's occupants turned out to be a white man and woman, now seated on a blanket and watching a small beige child play with a pail and shovel. DD spotted the oil rigs, just far enough out that one could see them only on the clearest of days, like today. And there was something moving near the rigs, a boat, too far out even to get an idea if it was a small, slow, close craft or a large, fast, far one.
She reached her goal point, the orange house, and decided to walk further. She picked a wooden picket fence, placed randomly between the dunes and the beach, about another half-mile along. But first, she bent and put her hands on the ground, exhaling as her thighs stretched. She shifted her weight onto her hands and felt her calves come to life as well, lunged as she walked her hands forward, and held a plank for four deep, easy breaths. She lowered her body to the sand, then lifted her head and shoulders up using only her back muscles. She took another deep breath, then pushed up with her hands to arch like the cobra who lent the asana its name. She let her chest down again and added an overhead stretch, before walking her hands back to her feet, standing upright, and saluting the sun. Her mood popped through the clouds of worry that had been shading her, clear as the sunlight, and she smiled the rest of the way down to the fence where she turned around.
XII.
Heads Up!
The POTUS turned away from the cameras and microphones as soon as he finished signing the bill. His staff efficiently led all the congressmen and lobbyists involved in drafting the bill out of the Oval Office. POTUS asked Steve, his primary handler, “Now what?” He expected to be ushered by his Secret Service detail and the rest of his retinue to the Marine One helicopter in order to be transported to Andrews Air Force Base, to board Air Force One, as usual, for a flight to...he wasn’t sure today. He’d be briefed en route. But the Secret Service agents weren’t moving. In fact, they’d formed a protective cordon around him, very close, very tense.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. This was the White House, after all. Surely, he wasn’t under any threat in this room, one of the most secure spots in the entire world!
“Problem with the helicopter,” someone said, a Secret Service man or a Marine, he wasn’t sure. The guy turned his face into his collar and began murmuring into the microphone.
“Mechanical trouble? Terrorist threat? What the fuck? Tell me!”
“Well, we’re not sure whether to believe it ourselves. But it appears that the fuel in the aircraft has been compromised.”
“Compromised? How?”
“We’re not sure, Mr. President. But we’re getting word from Andrews that the fuel in Air Force One isn’t optimal either.”
“What? But do they even take the same type of fuel?”
“No, that’s right, they don’t, Mr. President.” He insolently put his hand up to silence the President, pressed the earbud in his ear; they all did, in fact, and all appeared to be listening intently. Just as he started to object, bodyguards grabbed both his elbows.
Steve was walking backwards in front of him. “Mr. President, we need to go to the secure room for an emergency briefing. Right now. GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!” He turned and led the way, catching up with the door sentries who were getting the same message.
Before the President knew it, the wedge of Secret Service agents had formed around him and hustled down the hall outside the Oval Office; even if he'd wanted to break free, their rock-hard athletic bodies were no match for his sedentary spread, despite his height; in fact, he could barely keep up with them without stumbling. They steered him down the hall, towards the secure White House safe room maintained for the direst emergencies.
XIII. What Happens at the Beach...
DD reached the short street back to the B & B from the beach in an ebullient mood. Swinging her arms and breathing deeply, she reveled in the warmth in her limbs that came from a brisk walk. She pushed her hair back where it’d slipped from its knot, barely damp in the cool breeze. As she approached the steps up to the deck, who should be leaning against the bannister but Jeremy? Too easy.
“Good morning.” Jeremy smiled. He was standing hip-slung, trying to look sexy without looking like he was trying.
“Good morning,” she said quietly, taking his hand and gently tugging him after her as she mounted the stairs. Life is too short to waste time playing games. He barely hesitated before surrendering to her lead.
She stopped in front of her room door, smiled, and reached into her sports bra for the key, watching his eyes follow her hand. She opened the door and stepped inside, standing in the middle of the room and turning to face him. He smiled easily, came inside and shut the door and locked it.
She pulled off her T-shirt and wedged off her running shoes, leaving herself standing in sports bra, shorts, and socks. She stepped towards him and undid the snaps on his Western-style work shirt (only in Texas do you actually see men wearing these for work!), one at a time. His chest was lean and lightly furred with dark hair; her pulse quickened as she flattened her palms on his bare skin.
He pulled her close and lifted her onto her toes, kissed her. Soft lips, hard kiss, just shy of painful. Her tongue as it swept over hers had a barley taste, and he wore some sort of citrusy aftershave. She grabbed his belt with her hands and pulled him tight against her, wrapping one leg around his calf, and he pivoted to fall on top of her, on the bed.
He slid his hand under her sports bra. Yeah, that's it. She moaned and fumbled for his belt buckle. While she undid that, and then his fly, he worked his kisses down her throat, breathing deeply, savoring her workout sweat, then applied his mouth to her breasts. She sighed, reaching for his trophy, but he quickly stood and dropped his jeans. She looked him in the eyes as she lifted her hips and pushed off her shorts and panties. He gave a little growl and dropped on top of her; his skin was beyond delicious against hers from thighs to collarbone; she sucked his tongue and he nibbled her lips, jaw, earlobe. She pressed her softness against his hardness. He broke away and she felt momentarily cheated and empty, reaching out for him with blind urgency.
He stood over her again, working his boots off so he could step out of his jeans and underwear. She lifted her head to look. What am I getting? As he stood back up, his cock was thick, curved, medium length. He slowly stepped towards her and she beamed with eagerness. She suddenly sat up and grabbed it, rubbing her cheek against its velvet while squeezing the shaft and feeling the steel beneath it. Nothing like that texture. The aroma, male hormonal yeasty warmth, suffused her senses. He took her head in his hands and pushed it away, proceeding to push her back on the bed. He fumbled with a condom, eager to fall atop her once again (He's taking too long). She squirmed her hips, working him against her in a rocking movement. He paused, kneading her breasts, then backed his cock away from her clit and slowly
, ever so slowly, eased into her. She sighed and squeezed, smiling at the low moan that elicited from him; he pulled back and thrust...hard! Shit, he's going to come too soon... but he didn't. Swiftly, she found her muscles knotting up in rhythm until, abruptly, surprisingly (I never come the first time!), she climaxed in an iridescent burst of pleasure. Waves coursed through her, she felt her shoulders shudder against her will, and she was barely conscious of him coming as well, just like in the movies.
He pulled out and lay beside her, propped on one elbow, smiling and running his hand absently up and down her body. Well, that was that. Simple. Purely physical, and wow! Not that he isn’t nice, but.
She smiled at him fondly and ran her hand through his hair. I wonder if Joanne will mind if I cancel that second night?
Two hours later, she was in her car, suitcase in the trunk, driving up the Bolivar peninsula with a huge smile on her face. I haven’t done that since college. I guess middle-aged hookups are much better than college hookups because there’s no pretending; you really, truly don’t care if there’s a future.
A flock of brown birds, thrashers maybe, broke from the yellow-green bushes. She caught one in crisp silhouette against a far-off rainstorm headed her way down the highway, and the image began to echo in her brain, generating a wave backwards through time: bird, egg, bird, egg…
An old-fashioned foxtrot came up next in her eclectic playlist. She reflected that perhaps ten generations had passed, since this music was first written. Ten generations of humans; maybe 500 generations of thrashers; and how many thousands of generations of bacteria? She started to calculate in her head: about 3 hours for one generation, eight generations a day, 240 generations a month…over half a million generations. Half a million generations ago, the ancestor species of humans, gorillas, and chimpanzees were just beginning to differentiate from their common ancestors. Now, humans were directing the evolution of bacteria (Viswanathan had shown the way on that). Now people like him, and DD, weren’t just selectively crossing creatures for the way they looked or acted, but snipping DNA for specific genes, encoding specific enzymes, which turned on in specific circumstances.
Eupocalypse Box Set Page 5
