Are you doing OK, he said. And she said: we’re not supposed to talk about it.
Larry left his office unlocked over lunch every day. Laptop open. He was afraid if he let his computer sleep Windows would install a software update, while he was presenting. He stuck in the USB drive. It was upside down. Had to take it out, flip it, push it back in hard before the laptop fan started whining. As instructed he left it in for a minute and then pulled it back out. Only one more step to go.
Red Dawn
The new bomb punched a hole in the sky. Over the fireball the black cloud ceiling of seething H. R. Giger demon intestines broke open. You could see blue. The blast was up high. Miles and miles East. The sound came half a minute later with heat like a blow dryer too close to your neck. Then quiet. They’d come out of the tent barefoot in the mud, lower halves naked in the cool wet air, peering over the cinder block fence and squinting. Is it safe to look, she said.
If it wasn’t, we’re already fucked.
Will there be radiation?
I don’t think we can do anything. If we’re gonna die we’re gonna die. How do you feel?
I feel OK.
Me too.
Did you cum in me?
I did.
What if I get pregnant?
We’ll eat it.
She laughed.
**
Since the last strike was East they went West. Neither knew the roads. Their phones used to tell them. His had still been his pocket. She played Garage Band while they drove past caved in houses and cars, wet and slumped and coal black. She made a song with the vibraphone until the phone asking for money from a server it could no longer reach made it die. Filthy coyotes pulled at the tendons of dead children in the front yards. Scattered when the car came. He kept the revolver in his lap but it felt like it was alive and might shoot his nuts off. He held it out to her. Do you know how to use this, he said.
Do you?
Don’t be an asshole.
I used to go the gun range with Chad.
So you had cool dates together.
Are you jealous?
Fuck… kind of.
How?
I don’t know how to feel.
Me neither.
Can you just shoot any adult males you see, please. I don’t trust anybody.
OK. If I miss, run them over.
I’m serious. Everyone we’ve seen is rapists.
I was surprised you weren’t.
Well the day is young.
You’re not like that, she said.
When they found the freeway it was just heaps of black metal. Thermonuclear war had occurred during business hours. But a minor economic uptick meant one per cent more cars on the roads, which doubled all drive times. Everything had burned and exploded. Right past the on ramp was a huge ashen hole filled with charred skeletons reaching desperately for the ledge. We have to walk, she said.
Not yet.
What are we gonna do? It will all be like this.
There are fire roads in the mountains, he said. No idea if it was true. He’d spent a thousand hours in the hills seeking woodpeckers. Never seen a fire road. But he aimed the car toward the hills at random and had a piece of good luck. The houses stopped. The pavement stopped. On the leeward side from the city there was sage and green grass from the rain. Dirt that hadn’t been on fire.
Oh my God, she said. Pull over.
A dirty creek ran down a slash in the hillside and green vines grew with white and purple flowers. Bees and hummingbirds floated over them. He cut the engine in the old black Benz and it rattled for half a minute more sucking diesel out. He’d have to start using the canola oil soon. He hoped it worked. It did on Mythbusters. Wild peas, she said.
She climbed out of the car and squatted by the bank where the water ran into a pipe under the road. Picked some and brought them back to him, with one little flower. A fabaceous herb, she said. Look– five petals. The banner, the wings and the keel.
This is amazing– you know about plants?
Yeah, I love botany.
Is there anything else we can eat in these hills?
No.
Well shit.
I’m shocked this is even here. They’re poisonous. If you eat too many they’ll paralyze you.
Jesus Christ–
It’s OK. There’s not enough to hurt us.
He took one. It was stringy and made his teeth hurt but it tasted like fresh cut grass smelled. Everything tasted like life itself now. Like the Earth. A rattlesnake looked on from the mud. He could swear it blinked. When he went for the rifle it was gone.
**
They came around a bend and there it was. A water tank high up in tall grass. Sides aluminum colored instead of black. Hills high enough and far enough outside town that things were sheltered. You could still read the signs. One of them said FIRE ROAD. I told you, he thought. A pipe ran down from it and it had leaked and tall black mustard weeds sprouted yellow flowers.
I can’t believe it, she said.
It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
They parked the car and he took the Evian bottles to fill. I’m going to look for more peas, she said.
Don’t go too far. She shot him a look like you’re not my boss.
Take a gun.
It will be fine.
I don’t want to lose you.
You barely know me, she said. But she took the revolver. Walked off into the ravines.
He took a long cool drink straight from the leaky pipe before starting on the bottles. Maybe twenty minutes before he heard six loud fast cracks echoing. Ran to the car. Guns half spilling out the black duffle bag and he grabbed the one close to his hands, the rifle with the scope and the black stock and the pointy .308 bullets long as his thumb. Tried to slam the bolt home while he was running and couldn’t. Had to stop. It was sticky, fucking up somehow– finally after what felt like a ten episode miniseries he got it. Checked the safety. Red means dead. Fucking remember this time. Ran again until her head popped up over the grass and the chaparral and she was laughing. GET ON THE GROUND, GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND, he was screaming, and she was laughing and saying it’s OK, it’s OK. A man stood in blue track pants and white sneakers and a hoodie that said WHARTON.
It’s OK, she said. He had the gun at his shoulder but the scope just looked like opening your eyes underwater. The tiny bright dot with crosshairs seemed to appear and disappear at random. He couldn’t make WHARTON appear in it. You’re gonna miss, said the man. And you’re gonna scope yourself. You’ll lose an eye. It’s OK, said Marcy.
What happened.
I startled her. Honest mistake.
Is it true?
Yes, she said. He’s nice–
Don’t feel bad. She missed too.
He lowered the gun. Are you OK, he said to Marcy, and she said yes I’ve been telling you. My name’s Kent, said the man. And he pronounced the T too hard as he reached out a hand from his hoodie pouch pocket.
Kent was white. Maybe 45. Maybe five foot ten. His hair was black with a stately amount of gray at the temples. His face was like a senator from Utah. He sounded like a commercial for paying to make sure your loved ones were taken care of after the unthinkable.
You came up from LA? Said Kent.
Yes, Sherman Oaks– sorry, I didn’t mean to–
Not looking too good down there I bet.
They’re raping people.
How’s the infrastructure.
What?
The roads–
They weren’t great to begin with. Where did you come from–
Calabasas. We got hit hard too, and they keep coming. But if you came up here for the bunker I’m in it.
He looked at Marcy, then at Kent, then at Marcy.
You don’t know about the bunker, said Kent.
Is there food?
Enough for me to wait it out for a while, said Kent. But not too long.
Anyone else with you?
Just me, said Kent. Wou
ld you like to take a look?
I should lock the car.
We’ll wait, said Kent.
**
He came back with the .45 in his belt. Red means dead. Kent and Marcy had started walking and he had to jog to catch up. Over the ridgeline was a barbed wire fence on a concrete slab with a heart that said CUNT painted on it. A path through a hole in it. Nestled in the hills old blown out cement buildings. City buses picked clean. Everything spraypainted with Fuck Piss Cunt. Down a staircase cut in the hillside a giant concrete platform. Thick looking steel double doors in it, maybe forty feet long. For the missile crew, said Kent. Steel, dirt and concrete. We’ve had air blasts so far but if we get a ground hit there’ll be fallout. This was made to take it. Do you know what this place was?
No–
This was a Nike site. Military installation for missile defense. They built fifteen or so of these around the city, to intercept atomic weapons and aircraft–
Fucking great job–
Well it’s been defunct since the 70’s. But it wasn’t to protect people. They protected military assets. Ultimately it was more efficient to just move them away from population centers where the nukes would hit. I was an Air Force man myself.
By the missile doors was a small square hatch and Kent crouched down and opened it. The hinges screamed and the sound bounced around a tunnel underneath and startled sparrows out of the creosote bushes. A tiny steel ladder dropped down a chute into blackness.
Kent brushed the rust off his hands. I’m glad you’re here, he said. I don’t know when they’re coming but they will be. The Russians, the Chinese– the Arabs. We’re going to resist. They want to take this country, they can pry it from my cold, dead hands. Come take a look and we’ll talk, said Kent. He gestured at the ladder. You go ahead.
There was something about the air. Not a smell but something cold he could feel in his lungs. He hesitated. Then held his breath and climbed down into the dark.
Evaluation
He needed a raise. To save enough money to quit. HR was six months behind on his annual evaluation. This meant they knew he’d ask.
He’d had to follow up. The meeting was this morning. 9AM. The HR head would review his evaluation. They’d have budgeted an amount. But they wouldn’t mention money unless he asked. They’d pass his request to some anonymous personage. Come back with a smaller amount. A prior evaluation noted he did not always dress for the job he wanted. He would need to wear his crisp white shirt. It was custom tailored at Men’s Wearhouse. A client. He’d had to buy it for a wedding. All cotton. No armpit stains.
He’d got up at five to iron it. Hung it on the shower curtain rod in the hope the shower steam might soften it. It didn’t. He had to spritz it down with the water gun from the iron. He took care to rinse out the chamber three times in case the old water had rust. Laid the shirt on the carpet and laid the iron on it and nothing happened. He waited for the iron to get hot. Tried again. This time it hissed. The fabric got marginally smoother. He spritzed it again. Ironed it again. It was still wrinkled. This was one section of one side of the sleeve. The whole shirt was spread out on the floor. It looked like there was a schooner sail worth of gesso white fabric left to go. He dragged the iron on the shirt intently. The correct speed took many tries to calibrate. Slow enough to flatten the shirt but fast enough to not leave iron shaped burns.
When he was done he took the tupperware of chili he’d packed the night before. And the wet smooth shirt. Not folded. Not on him. The seatbelt and his back against the car seat would mangle it into a state far worse than when he’d started. Carefully draped the long unfolded shirt over the back seat. When he got to work he parked. Carefully hoisted the shirt up and out. Carefully slipped it on. It was hard to chicken wing his left arm into the sleeve with the right arm in, without wrinkling the shirt. Hard to bring his hands to chest level to button the cuff buttons. Even this movement left an accordion of deep folds at the inner elbows. He bent his body only where this area was already ruined. Closed the car door. Locked the car. Picked up the heavy tupperware and his briefcase off the trunk lid. When he got to the dark glass door from parking garage to office, he put the briefcase down. Then the tupperware. Pulled the door open. Held it with his foot while he picked up the tupperware. The briefcase.
The meeting was nine o’clock. Later he would heat his chili. Take it to the park. Sit on the bleachers by the baseball diamond. Eat in the sun watching starlings and squirrels. A celebration. At 9:10 he got an email. We have to delay until this afternoon. Apologies.
The bleachers might be dirty. Instead he microwaved his chili. Ate in the break room. The florescent lights sputtered. Made a sound like Tuvan throat singing. He opened the tupperware. Steam twirled out. The edges of the chili were molten. Bubbling. He dipped in his white plastic spoon. Held it aloft. Regarded it.
An amoeba-shaped hunk of meat squatted in the red grease in the spoon. It formed a face. Frowned malevolently. You know what I’m going to do you, it said. To that fucking shirt.
He did know. He paused. He blew on the chili in the spoon. Hand shaking slightly. It rippled in the hot liquid like distant tyrannosaur footsteps in Jurassic Park. He waited. Waited. The searing meat hunk glowered. You think I won’t get you, faggot. It was ninety nine per cent cow and one per cent the thumb of a man from Chiapas. He’d walked miles in the dark desert under the Milky Way. Forests of dry branches, hooked spines crawling with scorpions. To work the blades overnight at the meat packing plant. What he’d loved was playing his requinto. He’d been due for a raise too.
Go ahead, pussy. You’ can’t wait forever. His hand shaking like he was reaching out to get it cut off and he stretched out his lips and the meat sensed its moment and jumped. He shifted back fast. Caught it on his black pants and his other hand instead. The soft place between his finger and thumb burned like a hornet sting. That’s right bitch, he said.
The Youth
They were on Skype. Hello baby, said Joy.
Hello beautiful
She was in her hotel uniform. White polo shirt with purple piping. Hair tied back. He could picture the big teak desk in front of her. Feel the jungle air like the bathroom after a shower. Did you do it, she said.
Yes.
OK there is only one more thing. You will get a text with an address. You need to take the drive there.
OK, then maybe–
Yes, baby. After. Bring it to Four Finger Fritz. Her mouth fought to not put vowels between the letters. Four Finger Fritz. It is very important.
And then I'll come–
OK baby I have a guest, she said, and she made a kissy face and her fingers got impossibly huge and he was back on the home screen. Hold music.
The destination was outside Inglewood. A scrapyard. Look for the white Winnebago outside. He went on a Saturday. The hills above Burbank were on fire and the air smelled like Burn-In-Bag Match Lite charcoal smoke all the way down the 110. A client. Ty Pennington hosted cable segments on grilling targeted to dads and dads at heart. Co-branded with a gel men over 50 could rub on their thighs. They said it increased testosterone.
It was a hundred fifteen degrees. The sidewalks sprawling with pup tents and blanket forts and the buildings were plumbing parts stores that had steel cages pulled down over windows spray painted TAMIKA GOT A FAT PUSSY. He parked the black 1979 Mercedes SD with the blistering roof paint in front of a party store with a donkey pinata hanging. The side facing the window bleached white like the bones of an old fish on the beach. A skeleton with skin like pork rinds blew its way around the tents and stacks of bike frames in a black electric wheelchair. Cinder block shaped head cocked out wildly at a Stephen Hawking angle. Wrinkly loose eyelids stuttering. A barefoot man in wet yellow silk shorts ambled by with a 1987 boombox on his shoulder playing Run DMC. Another man built like Kimbo Slice speeding up the street on a 23 inch pink girl's Huffy bicycle jumped off it at full speed. He began beating Yellow Shorts as the bike caromed into the gutter. The boom box shattered o
n the street with a sound like a thundercrack. The origin of the dispute was unclear.
The Winnebago was the kind with the orange and white trailer bolted on an 80's Toyota pickup truck. The front wheel by the curb was off and the truck sat on a jack that made you want to kick it. Rusty brake caliper dangling like a bear trap. Someone had spray painted the windshield. Road cone orange letters:
CHINKER PUSSY = SIDEWAYS
- RUPI KAUR
It was true.
There was a door on the side. He knocked. It opened out. A face.
It was him.
The boy with the public radio mom he'd fucked on coke five years ago. He'd be seventeen but he looked like a man. Forty. His head grown gigantic. A bristly blonde beard with no mustache and where his hand gripped the aluminum doorknob his knuckles looked like bags of molars. His ring finger was missing. His black T shirt had death metal calligraphy you couldn't read. A succubus. The boy squinted for a second. Holy shit, he said.
You recognize me?
I think you fucked my mom.
I did, I'm sorry–
Hate to break it to you bro– you weren't the first. You're the guy from Philippines?
I guess.
Come on in.
Inside, the trailer was trimmed in fake pine veneer and the floor was stacked with filthy copper pipes. Coils of old wires only shiny where the bolt cutters clipped. How you been man, said the boy.
What the fuck happened to you–
I ran away. Don't tell my mom you saw me.
We haven't spoken.
And here I thought you were a gentleman. Do you have it?
He took the thumb drive out of his pocket. Passed it to the boy, who hit the space bar on an old black Dell laptop that booted up to Windows XP. Next to it a big silver cordless phone with a fat black antenna. Toothpaste green lights stammered behind the number pad. The boy plugged in the USB. Upside down at first. Flipped it. The computer burbled. Sounds like an old ball joint creaking on a washed out dirt road. It'll take a minute to see if it takes, said the boy. You want a Monster? Fridge works.
No thanks. Dude how are you living like this–
Finally, Some Good News Page 6