by Mike Chen
“I understand,” said Ms. Eswara, her lips forming a thin straight line. “It sounds like today’s altercation involved Sunny and her feelings about her mother. About missing her. Believing she’ll see her again. I understand that belief in some form of afterlife or heaven isn’t that common these days.” The way Ms. Eswara phrased the question calmed some fears bubbling under the surface. Heaven. That was one way to interpret it. “And while we of course want to encourage the individual faith of any family, it’s also important to consider Greenwood in context. Sometimes, these things go over the edge. Does Sunny mention her a lot? Does she miss her?”
“She...hardly remembers her. We only have a few photos left.”
Few was a stretch.
In the early days of post-quarantine life, when the city itself was still being sectioned and families crammed into converted hotels for a year of transitional living, he’d hoped to recover things, including photographs, from their pre-quarantine home. But one morning, when it was Rob’s turn to bus out beyond the reconstruction zone for Personal Item Retrieval, he turned the street corner to see the torched remains of the home they’d rented before MGS went wide. Charred-black beams and jagged edges opened up its left side with seemingly surgical precision, leaving enough of a gaping hole to peer inside. But the space left standing wasn’t affected by water damage and the elements as much as brute force. Smashed chairs, collapsed dressers, remains of books and papers everywhere, and on the bottom floor, at the center of what must have been the fire’s radius, was a metal garbage can.
Rob had peeked into the burned metal cylinder, a clear heat source for squatters, only to find the ashen remains of photo albums used as kindling. As he did, the sound of breaking glass came from the upstairs, followed soon by the sound of footsteps dashing away, fading laughter trailing it.
He didn’t bring anything back that day, and never mentioned it to Sunny. Even to this day, this moment, the sight of urban decay and the sound of breaking glass instantly stopped his breath and strangled his attention.
“Do you feel you’ve been able to move on?”
Every answer he’d given so far had come out as a calculated response, a statement designed with a specific purpose. But for this question from Ms. Esawara, nothing strategic emerged, just a blank stare.
The cap of her pen tapped against the desk corner. Tap. Tap. Tap. He had to say something. Something was better than nothing after pausing for thirty seconds or so.
“I wish I could tell her more about Elena,” he finally said, words rolling out without any filter. “I wish I could show her. And I wish Elena could see the wonderful little person Sunny’s become. If that could happen, I swear Sunny wouldn’t have any outbursts. But it’s not possible. That’s not the world we live in now.” He looked Ms. Eswara in the eye, telling himself to regain composure and connect with her. Suddenly, the lines he’d practiced with Krista came flooding back with clarity. “I shouldn’t complain. I know others have lost everything and everyone. I have my daughter. That’s a miracle in itself. This world isn’t easy. But we keep trying. And I believe I do right by her. I try, every day.”
Rob drew in a breath, the last few sentences draining him to the point of exhaustion. But at least it was done, and if he was going to fail, at least he failed telling his personal truth.
Ms. Eswara didn’t respond, instead scribbling down far too many notes for Rob’s liking.
Chapter Eight
Moira
Code Polka Dot.
It sounded silly, but that was intentional. Narc had invented the term when they pushed through the battleground of Pittsburgh. Most of the major cities they’d encountered at that point had become urban ghost towns; Pittsburgh, though, offered different levels of shattered buildings and violence, all neatly sectioned by the city’s rivers into gang territories and none of which were going to be friendly to their crew. Back then, Narc’s boyfriend, Santiago, had just started training Moira and the band of fifteen or so overland survivors in parkour. Scaling walls, leaping from great heights, vaulting over obstacles, climbing barbed wire fences. He’d talked about how it’d get them through the city instead of around it, speeding things up and making it easier to scavenge supplies. With the downtown completely overrun by a bloody turf war and their caravan desperately low on car supplies, they decided as a group to risk it and go on a supply raid while rival factions fought each other.
Polka Dot was Narc’s code for a status of heightened caution. He’d originally called it that to bring a tiny bit of levity to the situation, as “humor calms the nerves,” he’d explained. Moira still put herself in Code Polka Dot once every few weeks when she left the safety of the reconstruction zone and pushed herself through the outlying areas—the same path every time through the remains of Haight-Ashbury, a shortcut through Golden Gate Park’s converted farm sections, and into blocks of urban decay, the long rows of homes that would probably fail any eventual repurposing inspections—and that didn’t even include the bullet-ridden cars and other remaining scars of a quarantine-period gang war over San Francisco.
She propelled further despite her burning lungs, mind in a heightened Code Polka Dot state. Every sense tuned in to her surroundings. Shifting shadows meant someone or something moved inside a boarded-up house. The smell of burning meant someone was trying to stay warm. Voices meant squatters nearby—and their tone told a lot.
And in her hand, the handle of her hunting knife. The blade folded outward and pointed down. She opened the weapon once she left the reconstruction zone and mentally entered Code Polka Dot, though in her six months or so of doing these runs, she’d found the squatters here were nothing compared to the anarchy she’d faced traveling overland. Still, she maintained Code Polka Dot, taking the least conspicuous routes and staying on her guard the whole time, leaping through the boards and concrete of burned-out houses and scaling over battered cars that once probably got used for a defensive structure of some sort. Over and through, quickly and quietly until she hit Ocean Beach, with about an hour of sunlight remaining.
The stillness of dead neighborhoods gave way to the lapping of ocean waves and the blend of pinks and golds in the sky. The wide, flat beach remained bordered by man-made walls holding back what used to be a parking lot; she jogged out to the edge of the wet sand with plenty of visibility around her.
The blade of the knife folded closed with a click. And she was out of Code Polka Dot, with nothing around her except nature partitioned off by the failures of humanity.
Moira pulled out her phone and stared at it, the corner icon showing full signal strength despite technically being in a reconstruction zone.
She’d texted with Narc from time to time, given that bursts of text characters often got sent more reliably than an actual call these days. So she expected Narc to give her grief when she reached out. Yet when he picked up, resentment didn’t color his voice. “Moira!” he said with palpable excitement.
Typical Narc.
“Narc. How are you?”
“I know these connections aren’t great these days but I swear that’s an American accent I hear.”
“Yeah.” She spun around, making sure she was still alone in every direction. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget which one is the default these days.” The American accent had started during the cross-country trek as a joke, but became the go-to since arriving in San Francisco.
“You grow your hair back?”
She had, in fact. A neat bob cut, typically matched with muted work attire and light makeup. “Shaved head is more of a wasteland look,” she said. “I do miss the convenience though. You never have to worry about it when it’s shaved.”
“Blending in, huh?” Narc asked.
“I prefer ‘life incognito.’”
“And that accent is some real uncanny valley shit there.”
“Uncanny what?”
“Never mind. It’s an admirab
le effort in covering up who you were. Say ‘you know you need unique New York.’” She could practically see his grin from the beach.
“Theater dork,” Moira said, returning a laugh. “‘You know you need unique New York,’” she repeated, emphasizing the Americanized R sound for his benefit. His reaction, a jovial full-bodied chuckle, triggered a rush of memories, and though they’d fought through life-threatening situations together, the brightest memory was a simple one of Narc giving a monologue from As You Like It in front of a fire. She thought that was the play, though she was never really into Shakespeare. “All right,” she said, reverting back to her native northern English accent. “More normal for you?”
“Yeah. It’s not as jarring.”
“How’s the farm?” The farm being the Reclaimed Territory community that Narc led on the old UC Davis campus some one hundred miles east of where she stood, up by Sacramento. More of a college-sized off-the-grid commune than a farm, the “reclaimed” part of the name coming from reclaiming existing infrastructure and buildings into something new. Though farming was still a significant part of it.
“Oh, you know, it’s fall. Days are getting shorter. But we had a good haul this summer, and we’re selling well with the Sacramento Metro. They have a great farmer’s market.” His voice shifted into seriousness. “I saw the news. Are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m sure Hersh’s speech won’t be a big deal. I’m not as worried as a lot of the people here. Don’t tell me you’re freaked out about it.”
“Come on, Moira. I know you. If your dad sent a single Reunion Services agent to find you, that’d be enough for you to dig ten miles underground. But this production? Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay, Narc,” Moira said, forcing a brighter tone than the hurricane of emotions inside her. Then it hit her: if she couldn’t be honest with Narc of all people, then who? “No, I’m not.”
“You’re welcome to hide out here if you want. We’re a long way from any Reunion Services agents. And if any of these outbreak rumors are true, we’re self-contained enough to run our own quarantine.”
She could theoretically do that. She could get in her battle-worn Jeep, the only sliver of her life that she’d kept from her overland days, and make the trek out there, drop it all, and start over yet again.
Maybe that would be easier. But not the normalcy she longed for.
“I’m not sure. There has to be a way to just erase my identity.”
“Sure, it’s simple. Everything rebooted when quarantine got out, right? Records are still fluid, no one knows which are accurate and which are leftovers from those who died. Get on the record with a common last name and you’ll disappear. You’re still Moira Gorman right now?”
Moira gave a “mmm-hmmm” into the phone, giving a quick silent thanks to Narc’s friends who’d hacked into records to create that name.
“So you’ll want to establish a new identity. Restart the paper trail. Preferably with a name like—”
“Smith?”
“I was going to say Jones.” Narc chuckled. “But Smith works too.”
“Well, good news. I’m engaged to a Smith.”
The line went silent and Moira checked to make sure the signal didn’t drop. Around her, the last of the afternoon sun began to duck down beneath the low cloud layer, dulling the colors that had been lighting up her view. “You’re engaged?”
“For a few months now.”
“You didn’t tell us? This seems newsworthy. I’m...” Narc’s voice trailed off and his hesitation said enough about how he felt. “Can I tell Santiago?”
“Yeah.” Moira blinked the tears that suddenly arrived at the mention of her old friend Santiago, reminding herself to stay on guard. The beach was mostly harmless these days but she had to stay safe. Getting caught up in nostalgia wouldn’t help anything.
“Well.” Narc took in a deep sigh. “That would do it, I think. Marriage or birth records are better than, say, a bank account. Government seems to value those like gold now. I suppose Santiago and I should probably get on the record as married one of these days too. You know, that’s one of the nice things about the government in this world. They don’t care if you’re queer as long as you get married. ‘Can’t make a baby? Adopt one or three!’” Narc caught himself right away. “Sorry, that’s a bad joke. I shouldn’t make fun of the orphan epidemic.” His voice tilted back into his usual Zen self. “It’s just nice to be accepted. It only took an apocalypse,” he said with a laugh. “Anyway, sounds like you’re set, then. Does your hubby know about our time together?”
“No. Not at all. That’s why I didn’t tell you about the wedding. I didn’t invite anyone on my side. All the guests are his family. As far as he knows, everyone I know died. Pandemic is a pretty good excuse these days.”
“You’re serious, huh?”
“I told you I wanted a clean break when I left,” she said, kneeling down. The butt end of the knife handle dug into the sand. “I still do. I need to be in a place where no one knows who I am.”
She expected one of Narc’s usual nuggets of wisdom, a piece of Zen that hit the target much better than his ability to shoot a gun. But he didn’t offer any of that. Instead, several seconds stretched into a space that seemed larger than the hundred miles between them.
“Well, then,” he finally said. “There you go. Guess I’ll let you off the hook this time.” Another hesitation, and for the first time all conversation, Moira couldn’t picture his face. “But when Santiago and I get married, I expect you to make a cameo. Moira Smith-that-speaks-American. You can even bring Mr. Smith.”
Moira opened her mouth, ready to spill everything over the past twenty-four hours, including the decision to meet up with Krista to call off the wedding and Krista’s request for her to think about it. Narc was filled with wisdom, he always knew the right thing to say to defuse a situation. Which helped when everyone was starving and looking for supplies, or in less dire straits like this. Yet, the words didn’t want to come out. This time, the silence was all Moira’s fault. Not even a polite chuckle at Narc’s joke made it out.
From the parking lot beyond the beach, Moira heard a car door slam.
“Narc, I gotta go. Code Polka Dot.”
“Polka Dot? I thought you were in the Metro?”
“I’m on the outskirts.” She scanned over, looking for anything, but the silhouettes didn’t give away any threat details. “Past the reconstruction zone. I wanted to run tonight.”
“Okay.” Suddenly, they were both all business. “You know the drill.”
“Right.” Moira popped up on her feet, momentum carrying her forward. “I’m glad we talked.” With only minutes of sun left, details started to get obscured in the shadows. Best to get home.
“Don’t be a stranger. One phone call a year won’t kill you.”
“You’re right,” she whispered. “Gotta go. Love to Santiago.”
Another car door slammed. Moira shoved her phone into the pocket of the body belt she wore under her workout gear, then ran parallel to the parking lot, identifying the origin of the sound, sprinting past it before cutting over to the wall, obscuring herself from any possible angle. She pushed herself, calves and lungs burning for a good quarter mile at top speed before getting to a dilapidated concrete structure that somehow meshed in with a natural stone wall. Moira vaulted up it, legs catching footholds and using all limbs in unison to balance and scale up until she hit the street level. One look down saw four silhouettes in the distance standing by the car, now barely the size of her fingernail. But it didn’t matter—Pittsburgh had taught her you can never be too cautious. She opened up her knife and held it blade down.
She moved, a light jog at first as she tuned back into the environment, scanning for threats and risks. It was time to head home.
Getting married. Tying off loose ends. Shutting the door on the past.
That meant no more runs to Ocean Beach, no more making up excuses about why her hand was cut or scraped from climbing over stuff. And definitely no more parkour.
She wouldn’t need those skills anymore.
A new life. A new identity. And then she could stop running.
Someday, the city would rebuild this neighborhood. But for now, she sealed it off in her memory, then started a full-speed sprint home. And in the morning, she’d start figuring out where she could possibly go from here.
Chapter Nine
Krista
Ms. Eswara had disappeared before Krista managed to get a business card out of her purse.
So much for that.
“You’re friends with my daddy?” Sunny looked up as the question lingered, her blue eyes wide open without blinking. Funny how this was plain creepy when adults did it, but Sunny seemed to infuse spirit into her every word. Amused as she was, Krista reminded herself that she was getting paid for this whole excursion, and to treat it like a gig.
A gig that veered into babysitting.
“Sure,” she said. Krista and Sunny lingered in the small waiting area of the office. Outside, hurried voices discussed President Hersh’s upcoming speech, though their hushed tones gave away where their minds were at.
It was easy to direct young kids around when it was for a wedding or party or whatever. Usually, she’d have to remind them to follow their parents’ directions about germs and masks, then stand in a certain spot and wait for the adults to talk. This was a little different. “So, uh, what did you learn today?”
“We’re reading maps.”
“Maps. Oh, that’s good. Learning to get here from there.”
“Uh-huh. Did you know there used to be cities everywhere? Big ones and little ones. My friend Rory says a lot of them are haunted now.”
Haunted might be a stretch. Krista had driven through a bunch of the deserted suburbs just south of the Bay Area to clear her head, and while no ghosts popped out at her, the abandoned cars and squatter-ruined homes probably hid something. “Yeah, there were a lot of cities. Well,” Krista said, grasping for any kid-friendly responses, “sounds like you’re learning a lot.”