by Schow, Ryan
“The world is full of dead people, friend,” he says, handing me a small peach. “You’ll have no problem finding a pair of shoes. Like I said, good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say, wondering how the hell I’m going to get from San Diego to San Francisco on foot. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it.”
As I’m walking out, I see the floor to ceiling box with the slit in it.
Bailey.
My heart leaps, then sinks. She’s in there, naked, isolated, in the dark. Can I leave her? After what’s happened, I know I can. I must. To try to save her without a weapon, without the element of surprise…I’m sure I’ll just end up back in that cell, eating, drinking and crapping peaches. So no thank you.
If I can find one, I’ll grab a weapon and come back.
For now I walk by, see the back door and my freedom beyond. But then I see the boy in a different cage. A small barred cage made for animals. The dog, maybe, before it died. Tyler is lying face down on the ground, his head turned at an odd angle. My bones grow weak and a spark starts a bonfire in my soul. I walk to the cage.
“He yours?” The Warden asks.
“No,” I say, barely able to keep the sob out of my voice. But it’s him. “He alive?”
“Not sure. He didn’t like peaches,” he says. I turn to him, the flames inside me turning to an inferno. “I mean, for shit’s sake, who doesn’t like peaches?”
That animal inside me rises. It scales the walls of my insides, claws digging in for purchase, a vicious growl in its throat, saliva dripping off its fangs. My hand lashes out, grabs The Warden’s stupid Adam’s apple, grips it in a fist as I squeeze and charge him at the same time.
His eyes fly open and he’s stumbling backwards. But then the gun is stuffed in my face. I slap the weapon away fractions of a second before it goes off. Ears ringing, halfway to insane, my other fist is now crushing his Adam’s apple. I’m driving a vicious knee up into his crotch, softening him. He doubles over and all I can think about is his Adam’s apple. The death button. Beyond reprieve, lost in this mania, I uppercut the absolute hell out of his throat. The Warden drops the gun, stumbling backwards, clutching at his neck, unable to breathe.
As his throat is swelling shut, I’m huffing and puffing and seeing only red. I’m seeing him dying and I want it to happen faster for what he did, for the boy, for Quentin and Bailey, for the surfer who was a decent guy as far as I can tell.
He collapses to his knees, topples over, eyes bulging, his skin turning beet red. That’s when I see the peach. It’s on the ground a few feet away where I dropped it. Looking over at the boy, then the Warden—who is now flat on his back—I grab the peach, bend over and violently stuff it into his mouth. His nostrils flare like mad, his eyes flashing.
Don’t do it, I think to myself. I take one more look at the boy.
He’s dead.
My heart is giant and broken, my soul a weeping, aching thing. Eyes narrowing, I lift a knee and stomp that damn peach down into his throat with a mighty, vindictive force. The boy’s parents were dead already. I was all he had. He trusted me. He waited. But then he was caught, thrown in a cage and starved to death by this dying, wheezing animal.
Staring down at him, hatred suffusing this sick, sad loss of self, I wonder, how has it come to this? How have I become this person?
Bending over, I scream in his face with everything in me. I scream until my throat is hoarse and my eyes are running with squeezed out tears. Then I watch him die. He just lays there, not trying anymore, slack faced, gone. My rage dissipates leaving behind only emptiness and remorse. My eyes boil over with fresh tears that spill down my burning cheeks. I can’t stop the surge of pain that boils up inside me. I let it out. I sob, I howl, I curse this demon. Beating his chest, hammering his dead face, I thrash out a tantrum and then I pull myself together.
I have a daughter to think about.
Indigo.
Mopping up my tears, looking at the dead, peach-stuffed face of my captor, I say a brief apology, not to him but to God for what I’ve done.
Slowly I close his eyelids.
Look away.
Reaching into his pocket, I fetch his keys, then stand up. The boy’s cage opens with a squeal. I kneel beside him, cold inside, empty. Taking his shoulder, I turn him over and his face is sallow, lifeless. His eyes are vacant. No soul. Dead.
Sitting back on my heels, I cover my mouth and cough out a sobbing fit. Finally I sit back against the small cage, let my emotions run their course.
God, I hate this new world.
Standing up, I go to Bailey’s box, open the door, look inside expecting to see the same, sad sight. The light hits her naked, curled up body. I see her move and the breath I’ve been holding expels in a rush.
“Bailey,” I say. Slowly her head turns and a hand pulls her hair out of her face. One weary eye looks at me.
“Nick?” she says, shading her eyes from the light.
“It’s me,” I say, taking her hand, trying not to look at her nudity. “Can you stand?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
God, she looks so thin. She looks so thin it hurts. I bend down, circle her arm around my neck. Slowly she gets to her feet and again, I try not to see her, but it’s hard not to.
“I figured we’d be together like this,” she says, weary, “but this isn’t how I imagined it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I kind of like you, stupid,” she says with no humor in her voice.
I walk her to the kitchen table, sit her down and say, “Can you sit up while I look for your clothes?” She nods. “Good.”
When I find her clothes, I bring them to her, help her into them. I won’t lie, once or twice I caught myself thinking of her like this before, but now it’s different. Avoiding looking directly at her privates, I get her in her clothes then I head back into the prisoner’s chambers where I release the surfer.
“Bro…” he says this with laughter in his voice, or joy. It’s like me getting him out is the last thing he ever expected. The guy we beat, the dude with the beard, he’s still asleep and breathing through his throat. The broken nose can’t be helping. I don’t bother waking him, but I do leave the cage door open.
When we walk out to the kitchen, the surfer walks past the dead warden with the stomped peach in his mouth and he spits on him.
“Sick son of a bitch,” he mutters.
In the kitchen I introduce him to Bailey and say, “I’m going to make us dinner, or lunch. Whatever. I’m going to make us something that doesn’t involve a damn peach. You in?”
“Hell yeah,” he says.
“What’s your name?” Bailey says with a hoarse throat.
“Sebastian.”
“How’d you get out here Sebastian?”
“My mother lives in Irvine. I was out here to meet a girl. Thought I had the right house when this freaking weirdo shot me with a taser gun and dragged me in here.”
We eat together (a grilled cheese sandwich with mango/pineapple juice and fresh carrot sticks) and then we invite Sebastian to come with us to San Francisco.
“I got my own road, guys. But I appreciate you. Thank you for getting us out of there.”
“Thanks for kicking that douchebag in the ballbag when he needed it.”
“Yeah,” says the voice we didn’t expect. We all jump, then see the beaten guy with the swollen nose and the trendy beard. “That hurt. Still hurts, if I’m being honest. Which I am.”
“Grilled cheese?” I ask.
He gives a slow nod, then says, “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s not,” I say.
So yeah, I guess this is what Stockholm Syndrome feels like. For whatever reason, this idiot who peed on me, he was in the same predicament as me and we got out. So maybe I shouldn’t make him a sandwich, or be nice, but I don’t need any more anger, and more people equal more distractions.
Eventually, however, I’m going to have to do what I need to do.
So after lunch, I find a shovel, head out back, find a soft plot of soil and dig a shallow grave for the boy. Sebastian and the thug left by then and Bailey was sleeping in a “guest” bedroom after taking a hot shower when I decided to bury the boy. I lay him to rest, say a few words, then toss soil on him as the sun goes down. By then Bailey is up, looking and feeling better, much more alert.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, slipping her hand in mine.
I don’t know what this gesture means, but I’m thinking we’re just two people who survived a nightmare we shouldn’t have survived. But here we are, together, clinging to each other because we’re all we have.
“Thank you, Nick.”
I stop, turn in to her and give her a hug. She holds on for dear life, as do I. It feels good to hold someone, to not feel so alone. There is a connection between us, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe she feels like I feel and that’s enough. We’re attracted to each other, but this is not Autumn in New York, or a sunset stroll on the beach. This is a hell and we’re not out yet. I have no idea what’s happening and I need to get home, but in the meantime I allow myself this much needed moment.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her.
When we get back to the boat, there are no lights on. We look for Marcus, but he’s not there. Closing the door, locking it, we head to our separate rooms, but then I go to her because it seems silly to be so far away from each other.
“Nick?” she says in the darkness.
“It’s me.”
It’s pitch black, but I hear her pulling the blankets aside. I crawl into bed next to her and she says, “I’m glad you came. I wanted you to sleep with me.”
There are no sexual overtones, just the pleas of a woman who spent too much time curled up in a box by herself. She moved her back toward me and I realize she’s wearing a shirt but nothing else. She pulls my hand over her so it’s laying across her chest, and then she slides her hand into mine and before long she’s asleep.
I don’t understand what this is, or how things will turn out with us, but in the morning everything will change. We’ll have to assess our food, supplies and weapons. We’ll also have to either discuss this—what’s happening between us—or we’ll have to ignore it completely. Pretend this isn’t happening. I’m not sure which. But it doesn’t matter because for now—
Interrupting my thoughts, Bailey wakes up, rolls toward me, then reaches up, curls a hand around my neck and pulls me toward her. Her kiss is soft and inviting, her lips parting to meet mine. I shouldn’t kiss her back, but I do. Everyone needs someone. I don’t have my daughter and some other man has my wife, so for now—on this boat, in the middle of this war—Bailey and I will have each other. But tomorrow is a new day, and there will be new challenges. I just hope I survive it long enough to get home.
And if things go well, then perhaps Bailey will come with me. I think Indigo would like her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ten days had passed and The President sat across the large table, sanctimonious, emotionally devastated, ready to EMP the nation, if only he had a spine. He did.
It needed to be done.
Everyone was pushing for it, everyone but Cooper who now looked defeated.
“Don’t press it, sir,” Director of Homeland Security Miles Tungsten said.
He looked at the man.
“Why not? The nation is being ransacked!”
Director Daniels said, “When you press this, the warheads will be deployed and the war with the machines will be over. It’s your duty to protect your country. Not Miles’ duty to change your mind. Just press the damned button, sir.”
Tungsten looked across at Daniels and said, “What the hell are you doing, Coop?” He understood though. His friend and co-conspirator got cold feet ten days ago.
“This isn’t right,” he told Tungsten.
The President saw it right then. He saw the traitors, the conspiracy. He saw a man who knew what was about to happen and didn’t want it happening.
“You son of a bitch,” the President growled.
The traitor had been sitting across from the President, waiting, watching, deciding how exactly they’d stop the President from employing the EMP. He wanted the machines to kill the humans. He wanted the extermination.
Before he knew what was happening, Miles Tungsten drew a weapon, shot Cooper in the head, then opened fire on everyone. When he ran out of ammo, he drew another pistol and emptied that magazine, too.
In the end, DHS Miles Daniels shot all but one man.
“Miles,” the POTUS said, mortified, bone white and shaking, “why?”
“This was inevitable, sir.”
“But you’re in charge of Homeland Security,” he said, incredulous. “This was your country as well as mine.”
“The operative word here is ‘was.’” Pulling back the hammer, checking the chamber for a round, Director Tungsten sighted down the President and said, “The world is their homeland now and I’ll be damned if you’re going to nuke it just yet.”
Looking at the Director of Homeland Security, thinking of his wife and girls, of the world he was leaving behind, the dead nation, he stared at the man and his gun feeling conquered. “Well what are you waiting for you sick Judas goat? Pulled the damned trigger already.”
And with that, Tungsten had a thought…
END OF BOOK 5
Chapter Twenty-Six
The drones moved inland, laying waste to Irvine and moving steadily towards Tustin and Orange. Newport Beach was an obliterated mess. Heading further south, toward Laguna Hills and Mission Viejo, the skies were black. To the north, Huntington Beach was an inferno. Everywhere Marcus looked there was destruction. Everywhere but out to sea. He had to get back to the boat, get supplies, wait maybe one or two more days at best for Nick and the kid, Tyler to return. If they weren’t back by then, they were on their own.
He had a general lay of the land, but what Marcus didn’t know was where he could go for supplies. He knew there was a gigantic retail shopping center across Highway 1 on the other side of the golf course, but he wasn’t looking for Bloomingdales, Nordstrom’s or Macy’s. Someone he’d run in to (a lady and her dog) said there was a Whole Foods but that there was also a Starbuck’s and a Cheesecake Factory as well. She said the center was huge.
A looter’s paradise.
“Anywhere else?” he asked. Half her hair was burnt away and her dog was wearing diapers for some silly reason he never understood.
“There’s a Ralph’s across the bay and up Dover,” she said, irritated. “That’s a mess up there, though.”
“You been there?” Marcus asked.
“No. Just heard.”
“Looting?”
Now she looked at him funny. She looked at his big shoulders and barrel chest; she looked at his beard and his big legs swung over his stolen bicycle; she looked at the .357 tucked in a stiff leather side-belt holster on his right hip.
Glancing back, her eyes were glazed over, her skin corrupted by smoke, her clothes caked with soot rather than grime. Did she start out homeless, or was she made this way by the attack? She could have been an admin assistant, a lunch lady, someone who sells insurance out of a strip mall brokerage firm. Who could ever be sure? And did it even matter anymore?
And that dog…
The woman’s four legged companion was an English bulldog with watery eyes, a mammoth under bite and an open sore on her right shoulder. She just looked up at Marcus, snorting and licking her lips, panting and sounding like her lungs were congested. Marcus tried not to get upset at the state of the dog, but it wasn’t easy. He held his cool, forced a smile. These were difficult times for everyone, dogs notwithstanding.
“We gotta go,” she said, pulling the dog’s leash.
“How old is she?”
“It’s a he and he’s four. Now if you’ll excuse us…”
“You said I should head up Dover,” he said. “Dover to what?”
&n
bsp; “Go left on Westcliff,” she said, leaving. “Other end of the block. Behind the CVS.”
Oh, a pharmacy, he thought. Good.
“Thanks,” he grumbled.
After Nick and Tyler left him at the yacht to try to find Bailey, they hadn’t come back that night or the next. He didn’t want to make assumptions, but the reality was, they were probably gone. Like gone gone. How could he be sure though? He couldn’t. While he was waiting for them to return, he’d hit up a few empty homes on Balboa Island before being confronted by a pack of angry neighbors led by a retired Police Chief who made a great case of him not robbing the residents.
At gunpoint by decent people, Marcus finally relented.
It was the right thing to do.
Now he was on a stolen bicycle cruising the streets looking for a grocery store that hadn’t been looted already. He’d come across the Pavilions on Bayside, and the Rite-Aid, but the buildings were half demolished and unstable. Looters were still traipsing in and out, grabbing what they could. Several fights erupted in the midst of all that chaos, and then someone shot someone else and he decided to move on from there.
Marcus had wandered up the highway, weaving around rows of obliterated and abandoned cars, moving past the dead, the destroyed, the left behind. He broke a few car windows with the butt of the .357, managed to get some water and another gun. A Beretta 9mm with a full mag. He liked the weight and balance of the .357 better, but a gun was a gun and after the violence he saw in the Pavilions, his primary concern for now was his safety. And that’s when he came upon the lady and her dog.
They’d come from The Bayside Village Marina where the community had held some sort of gathering to figure out what was going on.
“Bunch of unorganized twats up in there,” she’d said. “Everyone wants to yell and whine about everything they lost. Least they got themselves, you know?”
“I do,” he’d said. “They still in there?”
“Most of ‘em.”
That was on N. Bayside, just up from Balboa Island, across Hwy 1 overlooking the waterway to Upper Newport Bay. For a second or three he thought of taking the yacht up the waterway, but strategically, it would be a bad move. If the drones returned, they could flank him. He’d be a sitting duck.