by G H Edwards
Claire still felt the pain of his death eleven years later, like it had just happened. Shortly after his accident, she developed a crippling fear of heights that she constantly had to deal with. In a mega city where nearly every building was over 150 stories tall, merely living became a struggle. But as she sat on the couch next to her dying husband, her fear of heights was overshadowed by her fear of losing him.
“Looks like the storm died down,” Michael said. It was the first words he’d spoken in hours.
Broken out of her trance Claire answered, “Yeah”.
“What are you thinking about?” Michael asked.
Suddenly feeling cramped and caged in, Claire could barely stand just sitting there. Talking about it somehow made it real and she wasn’t ready for that. “I’m thinking I want to get some fresh air. Do you feel up to going for a walk? Maybe there’s some good damage to see.”
“I don’t have the energy to walk very far. I’m going to lie down. Will you lie down with me?” Michael said, sounding defeated.
Claire badly wanted to lie with him, to hold him and make everything better, but she couldn’t. Her mind jumped from one subject to another, never stopping for rest.
“I don’t think I can sleep right now. I’m going to take a walk. I’ll be back soon. Okay?” she said, feeling a little guilty that she wanted to leave him, but she wasn’t ready to sleep or talk.
“All right, honey. I’m going to bed. Just make sure the streets are open before you go,” Michael said as he slowly stood up with a groan.
When Michael first started to feel sick, Claire made fun of the increasingly loud noises he made when he stood up or sat down. She’d call him “Grandpa,” and they’d laugh, but it wasn’t funny anymore.
Michael brushed his hand over Claire’s shoulder then carefully walked to the bed. Claire watched him shuffle away; his black socks were bunched up around his ankles again. She knew she couldn’t stop the tears from coming. But she wouldn’t sit there and cry in front of him. He had enough to worry about, and she didn’t want to upset him even more. Once she knew that he was lying down and comfortable, she slipped on her running shoes; grabbed her cell phone, her small handgun, and her black rain jacket; and walked silently out of the dark studio apartment.
CHAPTER 4
After her long trip through the halls and a quick elevator ride, Claire glanced at the clock near the lobby door; it was 5:30 a.m., and the sun was just rising. She burst out the door of her block, took a left, and headed toward High Island Ward Beach. The first thing she noticed was the lack of people on the streets. Usually it didn’t matter what hour of the day it was—there seemed to always be a crowds of people on the sidewalks—so when she saw the emptiness, it was bizarre. The wind was blowing, and the what little of the sky she saw through the buildings was a heavy blanket of clouds. It was almost always dim in the belly of the giant city, but today it was even darker.
She crossed the street and navigated through the forest of steel and glass. Contrasting with the cold concrete were thousands of shiny leaves lying on the ground like a scattered painting. It looked as though someone had collected all the leaves in the city and sprinkled them on the sidewalks and streets. Claire didn’t even know there were that many trees in this area of the city. The gutters that ran along the streets had turned into impressively raging torrents as the newly fallen rain tried to find a place to go. Thunderstorms often occurred in the city, but she’d never seen the roads flood like this. As she progressed, she felt a perverse desire to see some damage or at least a few downed power lines. Her wish was fulfilled almost immediately when she saw a few thick black cables lying across the street like long thin snakes. She crossed a few more blocks and saw that while there weren’t any busses running there were lots Evergreen Power Company trucks splashing about. They were the only power company in the city, so she assumed they had a lot of work ahead of them. She wondered if her power was out; she hadn’t even noticed because she and Michael had sat all night in the dark.
The wind had picked up to near gusts that turned the miles of roads between the giant skyscrapers into wind tunnels. Claire zipped her jacket and was making fast progress toward the beach. She was amazed at how fast she could cut through the city with little to no traffic. As she got into her walking rhythm, she asked herself the tough questions she’d been avoiding: What if he’s really sick, like incurable sick? What if he dies? She couldn’t take thinking like that; she had to think of something else. She wondered if the streets were open, like Michael had told her to check. She didn’t see anyone else on the streets, and the city police weren’t exactly friendly to people who didn’t follow the rules. Every year it seemed the cops got more and more aggressive. Years before, she had learned the police weren’t to be trusted.
The emptiness of Claire’s city and the fear of being out when she wasn’t allowed to made her switch to the smaller back streets. Her decision to get off the main roads added time to her trip, but she was okay with that. As she walked, she fumbled with her small handgun, which she always kept on her. It was a small, light .22 caliber that wouldn’t do a lot of damage but just enough. Almost everyone in the city carried a gun, and Claire felt naked when she didn’t have hers. She wasn’t quite sure who she’d ever need to use it on since the city was fairly safe. They didn’t have problems with criminals and homeless people like they did in the other six cities, but it made her feel more comfortable, like nothing bad could happen to her if she carried it. As she crossed more dim, empty backstreets, she was happy she brought it.
Finally, after forty minutes of brisk watchful strides she heard the thunder of crashing waves. As she passed the last of hundreds of higher-end of apartment blocks, the beach came into sight. She liked living on the northern side of the city because the nearest beaches were unguarded by the Mega City Houston barrier islands. The water and the waves were usually much better on the north side of the bay, but today she wished she had the islands to block the force of the waves. They were bigger and more violent than she had ever seen, crashing with such force that she felt the impact in her chest. Debris covered the beach and overflowed onto the sidewalk that ran between the road and the sand. Jagged piles of sandy wreckage lined the shore and were repeatedly lashed by the thick mist the waves threw at them.
Claire felt a ping of fear as she watched the scene in front of her. It seemed like a dark, wet alien planet she should be nowhere near. She paused at the last intersection and wondered what she should do now. She didn’t want to go home yet, and since she had walked all the way there, she decided to keep going and explore the beach. There were still very few vehicles on the roads and not a police officer in sight. She looked left then slowly right, took a deep breath, and jogged across the wet street over the sidewalk and onto the sand. She glanced back at the towering buildings that ran along the beachfront. Usually she could see the unbroken line of towers for miles in both directions, but today it was hard to see even a hundred feet ahead. The steel forest loomed over her with its tops hidden by low clouds and mist. The wind was blowing much harder, and the seawater, pulled off the waves, slapped her face. She pulled her hood down tightly and stepped over piles of green plants. The beach resembled a junkyard with an ocean backyard. There were discarded boards, piles of seaweed, and strange washed-up items Claire had never seen before. She was reminded of her Blast bottle and her father’s warning.
“Things made in other cities are dangerous,” she remembered him saying. “The big companies there put poison in their foods and sharp needles that stab people when they grab them. Yesterday I heard on the news that a company in Miami was using human meat in their foods. The worst part is that the mayor and police are fine with that. In fact, they were helping. You should count your lucky stars we don’t live in another city. They’re a bunch of animals.”
The major news stations in the city covered all kinds of stories about the other six cities. Stories poured out about mass murders, corruption, and slavery in Miami. There als
o were stories about New York and the garbage that piled up in the streets. Reports of diseases and constant food shortages in Chicago were common on all the stations. And reports were increasing during the last few years of people fleeing the other cities and moving to Houston. The newscasters jokingly called the city “The Ark.” There were fewer stories about the three western cities, but there were still some. All the news about the other cities was so bad that Claire counted herself lucky, just like her father had advised.
Walking down the beach was quite a challenge for her. Even though she was athletic, her small frame had trouble jumping over debris and slugging through the wet sand. Her socks and feet quickly became soaked as the waves reached out for her. She stopped for a while to examine a pile of what seemed to be an old wooden shed. It was still held together by a few rusty nails but bent in awkward angles. She found all kinds of dead sea life, most of which she’d never seen before. She’d give a light tap with her foot to anything that could be alive, but nothing was. She saw all kinds of products, wrappings, and plastic bags from companies she’d never heard of. It was as if a whole city made of trash had washed up in her backyard.
She paused to look around for anyone who might be watching her. She slowly examined the apartment blocks that soared over her, but there seemed to be no movement. It must have been a long night for everyone in the mega city. She saw no vehicles on the road so she continued her walk. She looked at the waves crashing just a few feet from her and knew it would be death for anyone caught in them. Despite the rough conditions around her, she felt strangely at peace for the first time in hours.
Claire zigzagged around knee-high piles of branches and leaves till she spotted a large white rectangular object about twenty feet in front of her. She made a beeline for it as a gust of wind blew hard and nearly knocked her over. The wind and water seemed to go right through her clothes, and she shivered. As she approached, she could tell it was a refrigerator but a brand she had never heard of. She hoped she could get the door open and see what was inside. She knelt next to the fridge to examine it. It was lying on its side, half buried in sand, and had trash stuck to it. She started to brush the sand away from the door when she saw that she wouldn’t be able to get it open because the door was half buried. She wiped the sand off her hands and saw they were shriveled and shaking. She decided it was time to go back to her warm apartment. As she stood to leave, she noticed a movement on the road. Quickly she crouched and peered out to see. It was a white-and-black police car driving slowly down the street toward her direction. The only thing separating her from the open street was ten feet of trash-filled sand and the sidewalk. She knew the only place to hide was where she was, behind the washed up appliance. She dropped her head low and pressed herself against the refrigerator door. The door was cold and wet and the papers that were stuck to it were sliding off. She was terrified of the thought that the police might arrest her. When she was in high school, she had witnessed what she thought was the police kidnapping a girl. The girl’s name was Shelly, and she was one of the prettiest girls in school but was very poor. Claire was three grades behind Shelly but knew she lived somewhere near Claire’s block. Rumors were that Shelly and her family were homeless and lived in alleys around the city. People said her parents were addicts, and Shelly had to take care of them and her younger sister. Often the school asked for donations for the less fortunate, and everyone would donate something. Without fail, shortly after the donation drive, Shelly would come to school wearing the clothes one of her classmates had given away.
The memory of Shelly being taken was burned into Claire’s mind. They were both walking home from school down the same street. Shelly was a block ahead and across the street from Claire. Claire still couldn’t believe what she saw. The police car pulled in an alley next to where Shelly was walking, and a uniformed officer got out of the passenger seat and began talking to the older girl. Shelly obviously didn’t want to talk to him and tried to walk away. Claire saw the officer point to the car, but when Shelly turned away from the officer, he grabbed her. He wrapped one arm around her waist and dragged her into the backseat with him. Then the car simply drove away. No lights or sirens—it just took off like nothing had happened. When the school reported Shelly missing, an official report came out; it said her and her family were kidnapped by drifters who lived between the cities—people who were commonly called “Billies.” Claire knew the truth and wanted to tell someone but was afraid. She was afraid no one would listen to her and mock her. And she was afraid of the police. If they could just take a girl right off the street Claire didn’t want to tell anyone what she knew. She cried herself to sleep for weeks. That was the first time she suspected maybe things weren’t what they seemed. She knew the police had all the power, and she damned sure wasn’t going to trust them.
She stayed crouched behind the refrigerator listening as the car slowly drove toward her. Her head was bowed low, and she heard her heart pounding, even over the loud waves. She held her breath and shivered as the police cruiser coasted by. Slowly she lifted her head to see the road out of the corner of her eye. The car had rolled down the street and was disappearing into the mist. Letting out a huge breath, Claire turned around to survey the area again. She was relieved when she didn’t see anyone else, but something else caught her eye. It was a word on a piece of trash stuck to the refrigerator. She leaned back so she could read it. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the word—the word that was now beginning to destroy her life: “gerivirus.” It seemed as though she couldn’t escape that word. Even miles from her home, surrounded by trash, the virus had found her. This was supposed to be her escape from thinking about that. The thought of her husband’s possible death hadn’t crossed her mind since she had reached the beach, but now it was back and worse than ever.
She was about to stand up and run home, but something about that slip of paper made her stay and read. It was a soaking wet, nearly transparent page that looked to be a magazine ad. She could tell that if it hadn’t had been wet, it would have been bright and colorful. That was odd—why would anyone put such bright, happy colors mentioning this deadly virus in big, bubbly font letters? She wiped her eyes and began to read the soggy page. As she read the words, all color drained from her face. Her mouth dropped open as confusion filled her. She reached out and gently peeled the page from the refrigerator door. She held it in both hands as it sagged over her fingers, dripping wet. The bold white letters over an orange background read, “From the company that brought you the cure to gerivirus comes the next generation of weight-loss pills.”
CHAPTER 5
The cure to gerivirus? Claire’s mind raced. What the hell were they talking about? There was no cure. This had to be a joke or some kid’s school project. This couldn’t be a real magazine ad. Claire quickly examined the page. It was beat up and wet, but the words were real. She looked at the bottom of the page; even with the wind blowing saltwater in her face, she could read the print in the bottom corner: “Miami Fashion / August 5th / page 12.”
This couldn’t be possible. Today is August fifteenth, she thought. She held up the page and looked at the back, which was full of pretty women in nice dresses. What’s going on here? she screamed in her head. There’s a cure for gerivirus? Is this some advertising scheme to get business? No way—no one jokes about a virus that’s responsible for half the deaths in the city. Then again, this is from Miami, and they’re pretty sick and twisted there. Or maybe it is real and it’s some new medicine that hasn’t reached us yet? She thought she must be imagining this or reading it wrong.
Almost by instinct, she reached her hand into her jacket pocket and retrieved her cell phone. With one swipe, she accessed her camera. She held the wet sheet in one hand while photographing it with the other. A sudden gust of wind drowned out the click of the cell-phone camera. Then the gust caught the wet page and blew it out of her hands. Claire sprang up and ran after it, but it tumbled and plopped into a puddle in the sand. She slid her cell phone
back into her pocket then jogged over and gently scooped up the page. As she raised the sheet to read it again, she saw what looked like the same police car approaching in the distance. She now stood in the open, away from the debris. With the sun starting to peek through the clouds, she knew it wouldn’t be long before someone would catch her on the beach. She had to make a quick decision. Weighing her limited options, she bolted upright and sprinted to the street. She held the soggy paper in her hands as though it was a frog, ready to leap out at any second. She ran as fast as she could as she passed over the street, across the intersection, swallowed by the mammoth city. Without slowing, Claire turned sharply then turned again into the first alley she saw and ran down it. Desperately looking for a place to hide, she spotted an alcove in the wall and clambered in, pressing her body flat against a steel door. After two long, silent minutes she decided no one had seen her and she could continue home, on the back roads of course. She was wet and exhausted yet energized. She walked quickly with her head down and hood pulled tightly closed. All the way to her building, her mind raced with possibilities. Maybe there was a gerivirus cure or maybe she had just read the ad wrong or imagined it all. Maybe she’d wake up and everything would be back to normal. But what was normal anymore? For the last six months, nothing had been normal. Claire gently squeezed the cold ball of paper inside her coat pocket and hoped she wasn’t going crazy. She saw busses on the streets and people on the sidewalks, looking for damage. The rivers of rain runoff that streamed down the streets were now making pools at the intersections. She continued down the wet roads, shooting nervous glances in all directions, like she was holding a bag of stolen bank loot. She was so lost in thought that she was stunned when she looked up and saw that she had reached her rectangular 111-story apartment complex known as block 33.