The Apocalypse Seven

by Gene Doucette

  “No, I get it,” Touré said. “I’m not sure we should even mention it until we have a better idea what just happened. Put that out. Let’s get out of here.”

  Touré headed back to the street while Robbie tried to douse the torch.

  They were still working on torch technology. Holding a match up to the end of a table leg didn’t accomplish much other than to make the wood smolder, which wasn’t entirely resolved by wrapping the cloth around the end of it. They tried this—​leg, then match, then cloth—​after finding the matches. It caught, but didn’t stay that way for long.

  What they needed was an accelerant, which was what led to the lighter fluid. (Bethany, who evidently did know a lot about setting fires, was the one who worked this out.)

  But once the cloth was lit, there was a decent chance that flaming bits of material would fall off, right onto the hand of whoever was holding the torch. They’d nearly lit the dorm on fire three times because of this. Worse, once the wood caught, there was nothing preventing the flame from creeping all the way down and engulfing the entire leg. Holding the torch upright—​so the flame would have to go against gravity—​sometimes did the trick, but not every time.

  Robbie had a couple of painful burns on his hands because of all that. Nothing serious enough to need a doctor, which was great, because, again, they didn’t have one. But that day was coming.

  He was still trying to extinguish the torch, by waving it around to put the fire out, when Touré began shouting.

  “HEY! HEY, NO! DON’T RUN!”

  Robbie looked up, half expecting to find that the sparkling man had returned and was now being accosted by Touré.

  That wasn’t it.

  There was a teenage boy a quarter of a mile up Mass Ave. He looked skinny, and scared, and malnourished . . . and disinterested in having a conversation with the guy holding two axes and shouting at him. He turned around and ran up a side street.

  “We got a live one,” Touré said. “C’mon!”

  He dropped the axes and broke into a run.

  On any other day, they’d have the bikes, but for the axe-fetching task they’d agreed walking made more sense, because neither of them relished the idea of biking around while carrying axes. Not on these roads.

  “Right,” Robbie said. He chucked the torch into the middle of the street, where it was less likely to ignite something else, dropped his backpack on the ground, and started running.

  He was in better shape than Touré, but in worse shoes. Getting some running shoes and a decent pair of boots was near the top of the list of things he wanted to do before the snows came; he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Until he’d had to sprint in his penny loafers, it hadn’t really seemed urgent.

  He caught up with Touré eventually though, about four blocks down Mass Ave.

  “He went up there,” Touré said, between heavy breaths. He was pointing down a side street. “That road doesn’t lead anywhere. It goes right, and right again, and then it hooks back up with Mass Ave. down there. You keep behind him—​I’ll go straight and try to cut him off.”

  “Okay.”

  They broke, doing the one thing Touré was in the habit of insisting they not do: split up.

  Robbie ran down the middle of the side street, past all variety of scrambling woodland creatures who thought he was running after them.

  One of these days, we’re going to stumble on the wolf den, he thought. And of course, as soon as he thought it, he became certain he was about to do exactly that.

  But instead he turned the corner on nothing in particular. Just more disabled cars in permanent parking spaces, ruptured pavement, trees with the occasional scary-looking furry beastie, and, importantly, no frightened teenage boy.

  Robbie slowed to a walk. If the kid wasn’t in view, he had either turned the next corner already—​in which case Touré was about to meet up with him—​or he was hiding somewhere nearby.

  “Hey,” Robbie said. “If you can hear me, we’re friends. We have food and shelter.”

  No answer. A horny squirrel started chittering, but that was probably not directed at Robbie.

  “Come on, you must be hungry,” he said.

  There was a corporate parking garage to his left, about halfway down the street. He stopped in front of it and started scanning the decks, as this was the sort of place he might hide out if he were on the run. It was open, unlike all the presumably locked buildings in every direction, and it offered a raised vantage point.

  His eyes settled on the second level. There was something peculiar about the shadows up there. It wasn’t a peculiarity he could pin down, so he just kept staring in case an explanation arrived.

  It did, sort of. He became convinced something in the darkness up there was staring back at him. The shadow itself was peculiar; the sunrise wasn’t hitting the front of the garage yet, but the ambient light of the sun was reducing the bite of the shade everywhere else. The middle of the garage refused to succumb.

  Robbie decided that was the problem he had with the second floor; the lack of light was unnatural somehow.

  There was probably an excellent explanation that would present itself if he stared at the spot for long enough, he decided. So he continued to stare, as if this was a competition to see who blinked first.

  Robbie won when the darkness blinked.

  That wasn’t right. There was a better description for what just happened. There wasn’t anyone up there, and what wasn’t up there didn’t blink, and if it had blinked, it was a dark thing in a dark place, blinking darkly. He couldn’t have seen it. This was just the underutilized creative side of his brain, trying out a new and fun hallucination, right after showing him a bunch of fireflies shaped like a person.

  Or maybe the Noot bars had hallucinogenic effects that were just now kicking in.

  If he really wanted to prove nobody was up there, he could charge up the ramp. It wasn’t far; just one flight. But that wasn’t happening, because he needed his legs for that and his legs didn’t feel like moving.

  Robbie was still standing there when Touré ran up. It had probably been just a minute or two, but felt longer.

  “Did you see him?” Touré asked.

  “Who?” Robbie asked. He broke off from the staring contest with the darkness.

  “The kid. Did you see him? He didn’t come out the other side.”

  “No, man,” Robbie said. “I didn’t see him.”

  He looked up at the garage again. It looked perfectly normal now.

  All in your head, Rob, he told himself.

  “Are you sure he came this way?” Robbie asked.

  “Pretty sure. You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I need some rest, is all. Come on, let’s head back. The kid’s gotta resurface eventually.”

  Carol

  Carol walked along the river, alone. She had her cane, and her ears, and that was enough to get around during the day in a world without cars and only a few predators. Probably.

  She needed the air. They’d been living in the dorm for only a week, but the place smelled stale and artificial, like the air had already been used by someone else. She’d explored every floor at least once, in search of . . . well, not really in search of anything so much as just keeping busy.

  When it came to looking for stuff that was of use to the team, she was not the person best equipped to be on point. She could hear things better, perhaps—​although this wasn’t really true; she just listened better—​but that was only helpful if they wanted to know how many mice were living in the walls. (The answer: quite a few.)

  Everyone else wanted her to be safe, so they insisted she stay inside. Carol appreciated their concern, especially since they could just as easily have concluded it would be best for them if she went away and died somewhere. They’d have more food, and they would be more mobile.

  It was conceivable that were it not for the burden of the blind woman, Robbie and Touré would have already biked halfway across the
state to wherever the people were . . . if there were in fact any people to be found. Like the others, she continued to hold out hope that this was just a temporary existence, even if she was also the one arguing that they needed to plan as if it was permanent. It was an attitude she tried not to push too hard, because without that hope, she didn’t know what the others would do.

  She stopped on the path to listen to the world around her. Every now and then, she got this sense that Burton was near, but of course he wasn’t. It was her mind playing tricks again, twisting what she desperately wanted to be true into an illusion of reality.

  Carol had been struggling with the implications of this evident human apocalypse a lot in the last couple of days. It kicked in once she felt safe for the first time since the day she and Robbie awoke in an empty dormitory. The scope was just too vast to absorb all at once, so it rolled in slowly instead, in waves of understanding.

  Everyone she ever knew—​her parents, her high school classmates, the first boy she ever kissed—​was dead. And yet, as she came to grips with that, the one she missed most painfully was her dog.

  Something scurried over her foot. She jumped back in surprise, and then laughed.

  There were so many animals moving around her now. She found it terrifying at first; a week later, it was fascinating, and somewhat entertaining as long as none of them was trying to eat her. Had all these creatures always been there, just biding their time until humanity exited the food chain?

  Up ahead, she heard what had to be a Canada goose squawking angrily at . . . well, not at her—​of this she was fairly certain. A disagreement between the geese and some other creature was heating up to her right, toward the riverbank, and that was enough of a reason not to head in that direction until it was resolved.

  She found a tree and sat down under it.

  There was a cat of some kind over her head. It didn’t sound heavy enough to pose a threat. Of course, it did pose a very real threat, because she couldn’t see it in order to defend herself properly. But it didn’t know that.

  Presently, she heard Bethany coming down the path.

  “Hey,” the girl said, “I don’t think you’re supposed to be out alone, are you?”

  “I’m not alone,” Carol said. “You’re here.”

  “I’m here now. For real, these animals are whackjobs. I don’t feel safe, and I can see . . . Shit, sorry. I mean, I know they’re coming.”

  “It’s not a secret, my being blind. You can talk about it. It’s perhaps a blessing right now, not to see what’s around us. They’re leaving us alone. As with bees.”

  “Not sure I know what you mean,” Bethany said. “You know, there’s a bench right over here. Probably more comfortable. Fewer ants, for sure.”

  “Is there?” Carol held her hand up. “Help me over.”

  Bethany was a little thing, not quite finished with puberty. She had to really lean back to counterbalance Carol. Then she helped her to the bench.

  “This is better, thank you,” Carol said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What I mean is, bees are harmless if you don’t try to swat at them. They only attack out of a need to defend themselves.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that. Cool.”

  Carol leaned back and enjoyed the breeze coming off the river, while Bethany sat there and struggled to come up with a way to verbalize what was on her mind. She fidgeted, and inhaled as if to speak, but then did not. Carol waited her out.

  “That thing you were saying earlier,” Bethany said, finally. “About knowing the time of month.”

  “Oh. Yes. What about it?”

  “Do you . . . how do you . . .”

  Carol reached out and took Bethany’s hand.

  “Have you had your first yet?” she asked the girl, wondering if she’d just been elected to have the talk with their resident pubescent.

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, yes, I have. But, um, I don’t know when it’s supposed to happen again. Or if it even will. And, like . . . I don’t have any other clothes right now? Underwear, I mean. I was gonna go out and get some, because I don’t want to ask . . . I mean, that’s the last thing I want to tell Touré, and . . . maybe Robbie would be cool with it, he seems okay. So I was gonna go out and find some on my own, but I don’t want to leave you. I’ve been washing my stuff in the sink, but man.”

  “You don’t want to soil yourself.”

  “I’m saying.”

  “I have pads. I made Robbie find some for me on the third day. The poor boy, I think I could hear him blushing.”

  Bethany laughed. Carol thought it might be the first time she’d heard the girl laugh genuinely. She had a witheringly scornful artificial laugh that was reserved for whatever came out of Touré’s mouth, but this was very different.

  “What’s up with you and Robbie, anyway?” Bethany asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I dunno. You guys are like . . . a team. Whenever there’s a vote, you two always agree on everything. Even what month it is.”

  “I guess we do,” Carol said. “But you seem to always abstain.”

  “I what?”

  “You decline to vote.”

  “Well, yeah, it doesn’t matter. If I agree with you two, there’s no point saying so. If I disagree, I’m siding with the asshat.”

  It was Carol’s turn to laugh.

  “Touré is a challenge, but he’s not so terrible.”

  “Right, well, anyway, you and Robbie are in charge, so . . .”

  “Are we?”

  “One of you is. I can’t tell which. You’re a team, like I said. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  Bethany pulled her hand away.

  “I can give you some pads,” Carol said. “And you’re right—​we should task the boys with fetching some undergarments. But tell me: Why did you say ‘if it will’?”

  “Why did I say what?”

  “Just now, you were talking about your time of the month, and you sounded uncertain as to whether you’ll have another. Do you have questions? Biologically?”

  “Oh. No, I know it’s supposed to happen again, you know, if this was normal. I meant because of how things are now.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, forget it. Maybe . . .”

  Carol reached out to take Bethany’s hand again, but the younger girl had stood. She was still there, but out of reach.

  “Bethany, what did you want to say?” Carol asked.

  Bethany was dragging her toe along the sidewalk. Carol could hear it sliding around; auditory indications of a deep reluctance.

  “I figured it was obvious,” Bethany said.

  “I don’t understand,” Carol said.

  “But either way, if you’re still doing it, so will I, so I should prepare for it. Wasn’t sure if everything was put on pause, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. ‘On pause’?”

  Bethany sighed.

  “I mean,” Bethany said, “I can’t be the only one who figured it out.”

  “Bethany, what? Tell me.”

  “We’re all dead,” she said.

  Bethany

  1

  When Bethany’s family first moved into the house on Fayerweather Street—​she was eight—​they gave her the bedroom with the windows that opened over the roof of the carport. She’d been taking advantage of this ever since.

  Sometimes, it served as a makeshift porch, where she’d lie down on a towel placed over the too-hot shingles and roast herself in the sun. Or she’d use it whenever she needed to win a game of hide-and-seek. It was also where she would go to get away from her younger brother, Dustin, who had perfected a kind of annoying designed specifically for her torment.

  It wasn’t until she turned twelve that it became more than a secret extension of her bedroom. That was when she got her hands on an old wooden ladder.

  The ladder lived under the window, where it couldn’t be seen from the street, except when she
needed it. Then it lived on the back side of the carport.

  Late at night, if there was a place to be—​or even if there wasn’t and she just felt like it—​she’d hang the ladder over the side, climb down, and then go do whatever. Later, she’d come back and pull it up after her.

  Mom and Dad were either not wise to this, or were indifferent. It was hard to tell with them. Dad was a big deal with a local bank (CFO or CEO or CIO or something else that began with a C) and Mom was . . . Actually, she didn’t have a job. Her existence seemed defined by who she was married to and how many charity events she could cram into her schedule. She was always busy, anyway, with whatever. Bethany didn’t mind; it freed her up to pursue her own personal interests.

  Locks were always her biggest interest, although she couldn’t say why.

  She figured out how to pick a lock on her own, when she was six, using the underside of a barrette. This was in response to the nanny’s decision to punish Bethany by locking her in her room for an hourlong timeout. Bethany didn’t remember what she’d done, or much about where they were living then—​it wasn’t as nice, and it wasn’t in Cambridge—​but she did remember figuring out how locks worked by trial and error, over the course of that hour.

  Half that, actually. She got the lock open in thirty minutes, then tiptoed down the hall and used the house phone to tell her mom that the nanny hit her and locked her up. She hadn’t hit her, but since the rest was true, how much did it actually matter?

  The nanny was fired, and that was cool.

  By the time she was twelve, having already figured out how to pick all the locks in the house and in the midst of a crescendo of boredom that only mandatory summer reading lists can engender, she used the ladder to sneak out in the middle of the night in order to start a personal, largely harmless, crime spree.

  She picked the neighbor’s locks, just for kicks, not even going inside at first. For some reason, she thought it would be funny if there was an argument about who left the back door open the night before. That got boring—​and less funny—​fast, though, so then she started sneaking through the doors she’d opened.