First Weeks After

by Jay Vielle

  “This is not a zombie apocalypse. It’s a, uh, mutate cataclysm,” I said proudly.

  “Same difference,” said Vinny, putting his nunchakus away with a smile.

  “Do you speak Japanese, Tommy?” Wendy asked.

  “A little. Just a word or phrase or two. I’m really into the culture,” he said.

  “You know I’m Japanese, right?” asked Wendy.

  “I’m not sure I did. What’s your surname again?” he asked.

  “Yubashiri,” she said.

  “Snow -chaser,” answered Tommy.

  “That’s right. Very good,” said Wendy. “How did you know that?”

  “One of the most famous swords in history is named Yubashiri. You are probably a descendent of the guy who made it, somewhere up the line. Hajimi mashite,” said Tommy, offering a slight bow.

  “Nice to meet you too,” said Wendy, bowing back. I smiled at the exchange. Tommy was beginning to warm up to Wendy a bit more, and the tension he showed before seemed to be dissipating. I guessed that lopping off the head of a mutate tends to release the tension a bit. He probably also enjoyed the fact that he got to save his father for a change.

  I got the impression from both boys that they had a hard time climbing out of their dad’s shadow. That can be a tough thing. Their dad was well known and popular at Hunter’s Run, and his legend was bigger than he was. Jake never really did anything to promote himself, but he also didn’t shy away from action, either. If something was required, Jake wasn’t timid about being the first one in there. And other people getting the spotlight is something I’ve learned can cause antipathy among people. I think some of the teachers at Hunter’s Run had less of a problem with what Jake did other than the fact that they, themselves didn’t get to do it. He had fought off marauders and rescued a family trapped in their car. He had fought off gangbangers and brought back cartloads of supplies from Wal-Mart. That very first day after the bombings, he turned us into a well-oiled unit of conservation and preparation. Sometimes, folks just want to take down whoever’s in the spotlight, regardless of how they got there. I think Tommy and Vinny were kind of like that. To small portion of the world, Jake was a hero. To them, he was just Dad. The chance to save their father for a change had to be refreshing and a real confidence builder for them. At any rate, they were both in fine spirits as we made our way towards the next stage of our journey.

  We rode for another half hour or so along the Riverdale park trail along the Anacostia. Then Jake stopped us and began to look around. He checked the map he had in his pocket, and I instinctively pulled out my cell phone to see if I could get anything. Nothing. Jake pointed on the map, then looked up and around, squinting.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “We have a couple of options, but I think our current course is the right one,” he said.

  “Well, what are the other options?” I asked.

  “If we cross this bridge, we’re already on the right side of the river to eventually get to the National Mall, which is near where your parents are, and where we saw Lauren,” he said. It was the first time I’d heard him use his wife’s name in days.

  “So, we’re abandoning the boat idea now?” I asked.

  “Not yet. We could ride to the Arboretum by nightfall,” he said. “But what troubles me is approaching the city by way of roads. Those things could be anywhere, and if we get caught in a narrow street with horses,” he trailed off. “I don’t like the idea. The mutates don’t seem to gravitate toward the water much, and even though we’ll be on foot, we can at least pull right up the tidal basin right near Constitution Avenue and avoid everything that I have trepidation about.”

  “Then we stick to the plan?” I asked.

  “We stick to the plan. Ride up this hill and get on that road. It should be Baltimore Avenue, and it will take us directly to the waterfront park.” So, we did. Up the hill and onto Baltimore Avenue, and then another ten minutes, and then suddenly we could see it--the final entrance to the Waterfront on the Anacostia River.

  “Wow. We’re here. This is it,” said Wendy. “It’s just like you said.”

  “Look,” said Vinny. “They got everything here. Look down that-a-way.”

  “Good call, Dad. How’d you find this place?” he asked.

  “I actually came here with a date with your mom, before we were married,” he said. “It’s been a while, but some of it hasn’t changed since then.”

  “Looks like we have lots of options,” said Tommy. “Down there are kayaks and canoes.”

  “And over there are a bunch of rowboats,” added Vinny.

  “Sure would be nice to find a way to take that tour boat,” Jake said.

  “Maybe we can try to break in, look around for the key,” I added. Jake looked like he gave that idea some thought for a moment.

  “Sun’s getting a little low. If we dig around and don’t find it, we’re paddling totally in the dark. Let’s all go grab a couple of canoes,” he said.

  “Dad,” yelled Tommy. “Look over there.” Everyone turned our heads towards the building. We saw an entrance, a map, and about two dozen bicycles.

  “What?” I asked. “What do you see?”

  “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” asked Tommy.

  “Good eye, boy. And good thinking. Everyone—We are in better shape than I thought,” said Jake. “Get off your horse and take the saddle and bridle off and lay them on the picnic tables under that pavilion.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Dad’s gonna tell you to take care of your tack. Don’t leave it out in the rain or sun to get ruined,” said Vinny.

  “Everyone put your tack on those tables under the roof so they won’t get ruined by the rain or sun,” said Jake.

  “Told ya,” said Vinny.

  “And then pick out a bicycle and a canoe paddle. Everyone gets their own canoe and bike. Now we have several entrance and escape options. Good eye, Tommy,” Jake said.

  Each of us dismounted our horses, put the tack on the tables, and bid farewell to our mounts. We grabbed our packs and then selected a bike, then snagged a canoe paddle on the way to the docks. The canoes were on racks near the walkway. They were heavier than they looked, so we paired up and each of us walked our partner’s canoe down to the docks. Jake helped Wendy move hers as well as mine, and Vinny helped Jake with his own. The dock was of the floating variety. Billets of heavy-duty Styrofoam covered by planking, attached with heavy hinges and rope.

  “What do we do with these ropes?” I asked.

  “Lines. On the water, ropes are called ‘lines.’ You should know that,” said Jake.

  “How do you figure I should know that? I’m from Emmitsburg and my parents are from the mountains of Peru. There’s no boats in either of those places,” I yelled.

  “I meant the gay thing. Aren’t you people all always looking at sailors?” Jake joked. I rolled my eyes and gave him the finger.

  “We’ll be fine as long as you’re not the one tail-hooking me, you fat old badger,” I said back.

  “You two. Still at it,” said Wendy.

  I had forgotten momentarily that Estela had nicknamed Jake, “El Tejón”, or the Badger. She had said he was short, chubby, waddled, had grey streaks at his temples, and was more ferocious than he looked. She meant it in a complimentary way, but I made sure to turn it into an insult and tried to rub it in whenever I had cause. That meant focusing on the old, fat, and gray waddley parts.

  Jake and I hadn’t had much opportunity to bust each other’s chops on this trip. Too much planning and coordination. But I reminded myself that if we lived through this little adventure, we still might never go back to life as we knew it before the bombings, and we’d better enjoy each other’s company while we had the time. Jake was at his best when he was a smart-ass, and he could take as well as he could give, for the most part. It was good to see him getting along better with his sons. The tension between them all on the trip back from Virginia was palpable, muc
h like our trip in truck getting here. But now we were too in the moment to fuss with one another.

  Before long each of us had loaded our bikes into the canoes and had started paddling southwest down the Anacostia River. I have to say, it was gorgeous. I never think of Washington, D.C. as a wildlife sanctuary, but geographically it’s flanked by water on three sides. The Potomac goes from freshwater rapids in West Virginia to brackish drowned estuary south of Washington, and other bodies of water—like the forks of the Anacostia—tie into it. The National Harbor area in Maryland and Mt. Vernon, Virginia are both within viewing distance from the capitol. As the Potomac flows into the wildlife-rich Chesapeake Bay, I am reminded that some of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen have come from this area.

  We paddled for about two miles, and up on our right appeared the National Arboretum. The sun was setting, so visibility wasn’t as good as it would be the next day, but looking at it from the river, as we came up the hill, it was one of the most singularly beautiful places I’d ever been. We stored our canoes well upland away from the high tide and hauled out canoes up the walkway from the river to the top of the ridge. Roads at the arboretum are paved and smooth, but on each side for miles were gorgeous plants, flowers, trees and foliage. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, we rode past the Greek colonnade in the middle of the field, just past Azalea Road onto Ellipse Road. They looked so out of place, there, in the middle of nowhere, and yet the fit perfectly at the same time. It’s hard to explain, but I was caught up in the beauty of the place. As we pulled past the Asian gardens and their circular gates, I knew what Jake meant when he said, ‘maybe we’ll move there.’

  The koi pond next to the main building was enormous, and the fish were obviously used to being fed, even this late in the afternoon. I was worried that we’d have to break in, but the doors were open. Just like I had forgotten when we rode up to the horse stables, it’s easy to forget that most of the country was caught completely unaware by the bombings. Doors were open. Lights were on—until the EMP’s knocked some of them out. We walked in unhindered. Behind the help desk lay the body of a middle-aged woman. We smelled her as quickly as we saw her. I felt queasy for a moment. Jake reminded me that this was going to be the norm now, and that we had to push through it. We went into the internal offices and looked around. Most of them were deserted.

  “They must have tried to get out of here. Maybe they died in their vehicles. She was probably the one who offered to lock up. Okay, find an office with room for all of us. The bathrooms are down the hall if you need one. I’m gonna go see if I can find a kitchen of some kind,” said Jake.

  Jake found the kitchen, but the electricity was off. We moved out into the lobby to catch the last of the daylight to eat by. Each of us had a granola bar and some water. Not much of a feast, but this was billed as a camping adventure at best, so my expectations weren’t all that high to begin with. We ate, we shared stories. Wendy told us about her days as a flight attendant on international flights. The boys argued about whose wrestling practice was tougher. Jake and I mostly listened. Before long, it was very dark, and only my flashlight offered us a glimpse of the shape of one another.

  Then Jake cleared out a place for all of us to sleep in one of the back offices that had a private bathroom. He locked every door there was behind us, then claimed the flashlight for his own because he said at his age, he would have to piss more than the rest of us, and he had dibs.

  We were far from comfortable on that hard floor, with make-shift bedding and pillows made from office furniture. But I knew I was safe and with good people, and that thought alone was enough to put me into a deep sleep. Which was good. Tomorrow we were going to need all the energy we had for what awaited us.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Let’s go check in the pastor’s office,” whispered Estela. “He always seems so smooth and above-it-all, like nothing can touch him. I bet he’s as dirty as the rest of them.”

  “Well, we actually don’t know that any of them are dirty. We know that your dad is a homophobe. Maybe all of them are homophobes. But anything past that is more like something we’d wish for, like some kind of karmic payback for being giant douchebags,” said Morgan.

  They eased into the hallway and saw two doors. There was an older wooden door with a plaque above it that read “Closet.” About five feet to the right of it was a larger one of wood and glass, with a sign painted on the glass that said “Pastor”. They had found the door to Father Joe’s office. They tip-toed closer to it and looked around the hallways. Nobody was in the church except for them and the receptionist. They reached out and tried the doorknob. Locked. They looked through the glass and saw a window in the back of Father Joe’s office.

  “I wonder if we could, like, climb the roof and then try to drop in through one of his windows,” said Morgan.

  “I don’t see how. I wouldn’t even know how to get on the roof,” said Estela.

  They checked every possible corridor. No way in. There was a moment when they looked at each other with exasperation. They both felt stupid. Their grand idea had been shot down before it had even taken off. The excitement of the moment had made them giddy, and in a quick turnaround, they had been proven young, naïve, foolish dreamers. All of that was transmitted in a shared glance.

  And then they heard voices.

  “Oh shit,” said Morgan.

  “Hide,” said Estela.

  They both took off towards the ladies’ room, which was fortunately the closest bathroom to the pastor’s office. They each went into a stall, sat down quietly, and held their breath. The footsteps and voices were coming closer and more quickly. Whoever it was had rounded the corner from the other hallway and had made it to the very spot that the girls had vacated only seconds ago. One of them tried the doorknob to Father Joe’s office. They could hear the glass rattle as he shook it.

  Then they heard what they thought was cursing.

  In Russian.

  The second voice chimed in. The only word Morgan heard that she recognized was nyet—Russian for no. They she heard it again, mixed with numerous phrases she couldn’t understand. The second voice then turned a knob again--but this time it sounded different-- and this time the two men disappeared. Their voices died down to nothing, the sound of their footsteps trailed off. They were just simply gone.

  “Are they gone?” whispered Estela.

  “Sounds like it,” said Morgan. “Let’s go take a peek.”

  “No,” Estela urged. “We’ll get caught.”

  “We are two girls going to the bathroom, just like we said we were. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re not even doing anything unexpected. Take a breath, act natural,” said Morgan.

  The girls eased their way out of the bathroom and looked in the hall.

  “Where’d they go?” asked Morgan.

  “No sé,” said Estela. “The office door’s still locked, and they’re not inside.”

  “I know I heard a knob turn,” said Morgan. Then she looked to the left and noticed the closet door was slightly ajar. “You don’t suppose,” she said half to herself. She carefully and quietly pulled the closet door all the way open. To the left were a broom and a dustpan. To the right were mop in a bucket. Oddly, the middle of the closet had nothing in front of it.

  “This is so weird,” whispered Morgan. “Where did they go?”

  Just then they heard the muffled voices again on the other side of the closet wall. Morgan made a weird, confused face, scrunching up her nose and silently mouthed the words what the fuck to Estela, who shrugged and shook her head. Then they heard a door slam. The sound came from beneath them and from outside simultaneously.

  The two men were speaking in Russian outside, walking to a large, white van in the church parking lot. The girls could see them through the glass in Father Joe’s office, then outside of his window.

  “How in the hell did they,” Morgan started.

  “Mira,” said Estela. “Look there, in the corner.” Es
tela walked in the closet, and in the corner on the back wall was a tiny indentation. Estela put her fingers in the indentation and pulled to her right.

  And slid the back wall of the closet to the right.

  It was a pocket door.

  “Holy cow,” said Morgan. “It’s a secret door in the back of the closet.”

  “Do we go?” said Estela.

  “I don’t know. What if those men come back?” said Morgan.

  “Then we are in trouble. The bathroom maybe we could explain. But in a hidden room in the back of the closet?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do,” said Morgan. Then they heard steps again. This time they were the unmistakable sound of ladies’ high heeled shoes. And they were headed this way.

  “We go,” said Estela.

  “We do,” said Morgan.

  And the two of them pushed the door to the right. They entered at the top of a stairwell that was carpeted. They tip-toed quickly to the bottom of the steps into a darkened room.

  “I can’t see,” said Morgan.

  “My watch has a little LED light on it,” said Estela. “See if you see a switch somewhere.”

  They crept step by step, feeling their way, Estela’s dim watch providing the only light.

  “There, on the wall. A switch,” said Morgan.

  Estela reached out for the switch. It occurred to her that when the lights came on, they could be spotted, or find something they didn’t want to find. She summoned up her courage and flicked the switch.

  And nothing happened.

  “Turn it on,” said Morgan.

  “I did,” said Estela.

  “Then why isn’t there any light?” Morgan asked.

  “It must not be the light switch,” Estela said.

  “Duh,” said Morgan.

  “You asked,” said Estela.

  Then suddenly, as Estela lowered her arm, the lights came on all at once.