by Anselmo, Ray
Now Sandra shook her head. “I don’t know how you got through it.”
“Well, what choice did I have?” Kelly started laughing. So did Sandra. Soon they were both roaring – they must have been quite a sight to the people going by.
All those people – thousands upon thousands of people. Until this morning, Kelly had thought she could be the last person anywhere. Now she was surrounded by folks, doing normal everyday things – or what would’ve been normal everyday things before. No one was hauling away bodies or feeding dog packs in abandoned houses or taking baths in the ocean, at least that she could see.
When they finally stopped guffawing, Kelly signed and wiped her eyes. “I guess I needed that.”
“I guess you did. Would you like me to drive?”
“Please!”
They got out and switched seats, and Sandra started up the Ram. “I need to get back to the ERC – that’s where the Protective Service is based. Is that all right with you?”
“Fine.” Kelly sighed. “I haven’t laughed that hard since I got home naked after scaring off the mountain lion.”
Sandra stopped at an intersection for some pedestrians and stared at her. “You have had an adventure. When I get off work, I’d like to take you to dinner and hear your story, if that wouldn’t be too much.”
“No problem. Wait – did you just ask me on a date?”
Sandra laughed and waved the idea away. “No, I don’t swing that way. I’m seeing a guy who works at the East Field House … that’s the morgue. I just think you’ve probably got some great stories to tell, and I want to hear them.”
“Happy to share them. Happy … to share anything … sorry.” Now Kelly was weeping. These emotional hairpin turns were getting ridiculous. She was used to having a couple days of mania or depression at a time – going back and forth in minutes was tiring. But after all she’d been through, she could understand her reactions even if she couldn’t entirely control them. More to the point, she’d earned the right.
“Let it out, Kelly.” Another uncomfortable pat from Sandra, who was still getting used to this kind of police work. “Let it out.”
The ERC – formerly the UC Santa Cruz Emergency Response Center, and now home to the Protective Service for the city – was a huge red barn that still said UC POLICE on the front. Sandra took her to the office around the side. “I wish I could stay with you, but I have my job. I’m going to get you a counselor to talk to, and someone from the Council office to get your info. And I promise, I’ll meet you back here after I’m done. That okay?”
“That’s fine. Thank you so much – for everything.”
“No problem. Talk to you later. Reuven!”
A young man, maybe twenty-five, emerged from another room. He wore the all-black outfit that must be the Protective Service “uniform,” but otherwise he looked like a rabbi, right down to the skullcap and the full beard. “You bellowed, Sarge?”
“We got a lady here who drove all the way down from the Marin coast and she’d been through the wringer. Can you help her out? And send someone to the Council office for a clerk.”
“Sure. And Mrs. McNulty brought donuts again. I know you went out early, so …”
“Oh, bless her heart. See you, Kelly!” Sandra left to hunt the wild pastry.
Kelly found the talk of donuts had woken her stomach. Good thing she’d brought in a food bag along with the bag from the front seat. As Reuven guided her to another room, she dug into it and removed a plastic zip-close bag. “Is it okay if I eat?”
“Sure, sure, just don’t make a mess.” Reuven sat in a chair in what looked like a meeting room minus the big table, and waved her to another chair. “What is that, by the way?”
Kelly looked at what she was eating – she was verging on sensory overload and hadn’t really been paying attention. “Dehydrated cream cheese.”
Reuven asked where she got it, which led to a discussion on food preparation, which got her talking about the Zen farm, then SBN&N, and within an hour she’d given a stranger her entire backstory from growing up in Oklahoma to the recent crisis and what brought her down to Santa Cruz. She felt guilty for monopolizing the conversation – Reuven only asked a few prompting questions and wrote a lot of stuff on a steno pad – but oh, it was so good to talk to someone besides herself!
When she finally wound down, she noticed another woman sitting in the room, a fellow redhead but the next step up from her and Sandra, tall and broad like a warrior goddess from a Celtic epic. She was wearing a red pantsuit, John Lennon eyeglasses and an amused expression. “Wait … when …?”
“About a half-hour ago,” the goddess replied in an Irish brogue as thick as oxtail soup. “Ye were, uh, in the zone.” She extended her hand. ”Eileen McGowan. I’m on the Council.”
“Pleased to meet you. Um, what is this Council I keep hearing about – the City Council?”
“More or less. We weren’t quite elected so much as … willing to do the job and tolerated. We’re talking about having a real election next year when we’re better organized. But for now, we keep things running and listen to complaints and keep records. I can’t believe everything ye went through.”
“Yeah, neither can I.” Kelly smiled. Had the plague selected in favor of nice people? She hadn’t gotten a bad vibe from anyone yet – it was almost alarming. “But it was what I had to do.”
“Aye. I got most of the information I needed just listening, but I do have a few questions I’d like to ask ye. Reuven, do you mind?”
“Sure. I’ve probably got someone waiting for me out there.”
“Wait.” Kelly was confused. “Did I answer all of your questions, Reuven?”
“Questions? I was here to let you vent and see if you needed psychiatric care. But from what I heard, you’ve got things in hand – you’re not bottling things up, you’re taking your meds, you’ve probably been through the worst of the trauma. If you feel you need regular counseling, it can be arranged, but you’re doing very well as far as I’m concerned. I’ll see you around, maybe.” Reuven left.
Kelly turned back to Eileen – or would it be Councilor McGowan? “Never would’ve guessed he was a psychiatrist.”
“He’s not – he was a rabbinical student who’d taken a few psych classes.” Eileen smiled. “But people just naturally open up to him, so we put him to work here. Just like I’m not a politician – I was a poli. sci. professor fleeing to America after a messy divorce, got stuck here when the world went pear-shaped, and threw my lot in to help.”
“And I managed a grocery store … whoa. Are you the Professor Bio I was told about?!”
Eileen laughed a belly laugh. “Oh, no, no, no. That’s Dr. Eric Bayo – he taught history and Black Studies here at the university. But when everyone started dropping like flies and the rest of us were in a panic, he kept his head, got us working together, helped us keep track of food and water, kept the electricity going. And when we had the chance, he started sending out teams to find others in need and put up signs like the ones ye saw … he’s an honest-to-God hero, he is.”
Kelly thought Eileen sounded like she was in love with Dr. Bayo, but she decided to not say that. “So what else did you want to ask me?”
“Oh, basic items –full name, age, family, some more of yer background. With all the systems gone down, we’re trying to rebuild a record of everyone here, so we can make sure everyone and everything’s taken care of. And find something for everyone to do. Ye managed a grocery store, so if ye wanted we could use ye in Refrigeration, or in Food Distribution or Dehydration – ye mentioned ye did some of that where ye were.”
“Yes, I did. But how are you managing refrigeration without elec … no, let me back up. Did you say you kept the power on? I lost mine in August.”
“We did, by the skin of our teeth. Dr. Bayo managed to find a couple of electricians, and they built a new grid around the local solar panel installations. Since then we’ve been hunting down more panels and growing the network.
We don’t have much – just enough for refrigeration, emergency use and a few hours of light in the evenings – but we’re expanding capacity as fast as we can.”
“My word. And how do you pay for it?”
Eileen laughed and shrugged. “Mostly we don’t. I mean, we use pre-plague currency still, but right now we don’t have the structure to support a capitalist economy. Most of what’s going on now is closer to communism – with a lowercase C, ye understand. Drives some people batty … drives me batty on occasion. But it’s the easiest way right now to make sure everyone eats and everyone works.”
Kelly shook her head. “And here I was worried I’d be driving into The Road Warrior. It’s closer to Star Trek.”
“Ye’re not the only one who was expecting survival of the fittest. We’ve had a lot of self-styled survivalists come here and be very disappointed. But most of them adjust.” Eileen held up a clipboard. “Now, down to business. I should probably ask you one question before anything else. Are ye planning on staying here?”
Kelly was taken aback – she hadn’t really thought about what to do in this situation. It had never even occurred to her that it might be an option. “Well … I didn’t plan on it, no. I only packed for seven days, and this is day two. I didn’t know what I’d find, so …” She shrugged.
Eileen made a note. “Well, we can use everyone we can get. This was a city of 65,000 before and … well, even with people coming in from hither and yon, officially ye’re number #8,970, so we’ve got a lot of spots to fill. We certainly wouldn’t mind having ye, especially with yer experience …”
Kelly couldn’t believe her ears. They were more or less recruiting her to join the best place in the new civilization of Earth, or at least the best one she knew of. The only one she knew of. She should be jumping at the chance. Part of her was jumping.
Part of her was thinking about the life she’d made for herself the last two months – and in a way, the last few years since she moved to Sayler Beach to manage Ashcroft Store #17. She thought about watching movies at the farm and harvesting the vegetables. She thought of bathing and washing in the ocean. She thought of sitting at the breakfast table, journaling and planning her day. She thought of the doggos, and the kittens, and the horses. She thought of the ledger, and all the food she’d stored away.
She thought of home. Sayler Beach was more home to her than Stillwater or Berkeley had ever been. And after the last ten weeks, it was more so than ever.
Kelly looked at Eileen, one of the big shots here in Santa Cruz. And she decided honesty was the best policy. “What you’ve got here is terrific. I’d really like to be a part of it. But … I’d also really like to go home too. So I’m not sure what to do.”
26
HOME
In the end, Kelly got to do both. What made it possible were all those food stores – and more than that, the ledger.
It was a brilliant bright March day, and the recent rain clouds had cleared off to the east. The winter hadn’t been bad, but it had been colder than usual – the sudden elimination of most of the world’s people had caused a dramatic drop in greenhouse gases. The skies were clearer than they had been in a century, though, and the water purer, and the traffic far more manageable. For all that and more, she was prepared to deal with some shivering through January and February.
For most of the last five and a half months, she’d been in Santa Cruz, getting used to being around people again until she found her usual balance and spent time with them but not too much. Sgt. Sandra Galbraith, who couldn’t seem to get enough of her stories about how she’d made Sayler Beach livable for a population of one, had talked her into moving in with her. The Protective Service member had gotten a three-bedroom house on Cardiff Place, walking distance from the ERC, so there was plenty of room for them both. Too much for one, Sandra said.
But the second she mentioned the ledger, how she’d made notes on every house in town, her future had started moving onto another track. A lot of people had come from a lot of places to Santa Cruz – Monterey and Salinas and Castroville around the bay, King City and Soledad inland, Gilroy and Morgan Hill farther north, all the myriad cities of the South San Francisco Bay, the San Mateo Peninsula, even Marin County. The survivors in San Rafael and Tam Valley and Sausalito had left for Santa Cruz (and other destinations) before she got there.
But she was the one who’d stayed, because she didn’t know where else to go. And more to the point, she was the one who’d kept records. Which meant that when the Council met to discuss establishing colonies elsewhere, tiny, barely accessible Sayler Beach flew to the top of the list. Someone – her – had already prepared it for people to move in, without even realizing it.
And when it was approved, by the Council and the population, to restart civilization outside their town, Sayler Beach was one of five spots they picked. And the person they chose to be in charge was –
“No. No. that’s a bad idea. I’m too young. I have no political experience, zilch. I wouldn’t even know how to run a town. I’m bipolar! You really want people to have to follow the dictates of a manic depressive? I barely run me! Nuh-uh, you need someone else for this job.”
Dr. Bayo sighed and waited her out. The half-Senegalese half-Irish “mayor” of Santa Cruz was nothing if not patient. “So who do you suggest?”
“What? Anyone. Anyone but me.”
“Who knows the town better than you?”
“Well …”
“Who knows where people can live? Where they can work? Which land they can farm? Who has food for all of them? Who has dealt with the local animals?”
“Okay, I get that, but I’m talking about people skills. I’m not all that sociable, and I need pills just to make it through the day.”
“So you can organize the cleanup of three hundred bodies, you can organize the food supply of an entire town, the fuel supply, the farm, but if people are added to the mix you fall to pieces.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And yet you’ve dealt with people around here quite well, as you did when you were running the grocery store. And managed your medications without any problems that I’ve heard about. Ever read about John F. Kennedy? He was taking a lot of meds too – not even as good as the ones you take.”
“But Kennedy had help. And I had help at the store – Ganj and LaSheba, and Mr. Ashcroft if things got really hairy. I’ve had help here – Sandra and Rufus and Pat and Eileen and Whatserface and – and you!”
“So you won’t have help there? Even though we’re planning to send over a hundred people with you.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes. I do. But you don’t know what you mean.”
“I … what?”
“You don’t lack the skills for the position, Ms. Sweeney. You lack the confidence. And I am telling you that you shouldn’t. You are as capable of being in charge of your town, and its new citizens, as you were of chasing off a puma.”
Egad, they loved the mountain lion story around here! “But I didn’t know I was until it happened!”
“Precisely.”
She got it then. She wouldn’t know what she was capable of until she tried it and succeeded. “You really think I can do this.”
“I really do. But don’t worry – if you can’t, you can have me come up and fire you. Though I suspect your fellow citizens would beat me to it.” They both laughed, and Eric continued. “You already knew how to do this. And you’ve learned more since you came here. You can take this role. I know you can do it well. You just have to show yourself you can.”
Against that kind of logic, she had no defense. Especially when she was also hearing it from Eileen, and Sandra, and Whatserface (whose real name was Ntxawm Fang and who’d given up on teaching white people to pronounce it correctly, so she went by the nickname). And of course Pat – Pat most of all. She really had no defense against Pat’s logic – or anything else about Pat, frankly.
When the Council asked
to see the ledger, she confessed she didn’t have it with her and explained why. They understood and asked how long it would take her to get it, because they were impressed with her story (Eileen must have really laid it on) and wanted to see her work. “Two days, maybe three if the fires in S.F. have spread,” she told them. “Unless you have someone with a motorboat to get me there and back.”
As it turned out, they had someone with a motorboat – Patrick Dobbs, who before the near-end of the world had run a marine repair shop in Carmel. He was forty, lost his wife and two kids to the plague, and was trying to keep as busy as he could to prevent himself from thinking about them. Most of his time was spent ferrying scavengers and their scavengings to Santa Cruz from the other towns around Monterey Bay.
But he had no qualms with using his smaller vessel, a Bayliner Element E16 powerboat, to run taxi service up to Sayler Beach for a day. She left with Pat early in the morning, ran up to Sayler Beach, showed him around a little, fed the doggos, and got back to Santa Cruz with her records by dinnertime. That night at the wharf, he cried on her shoulder (much to his embarrassment), mourning the family he’d lost. Within a week, they were good friends.