A Beginning at the End

by Mike Chen

  That, and hope. He could still hope.

  Message recovered from Thomas Greenwood’s email:

  To: Portia Wiggs

  From: Thomas Greenwood

  Subject: Re: Need to vent

  I can’t get through to Kay. It’s like she’s so hell-bent (ha) on church life that she can’t see that the Metro system is weakening. I mean, what are we paying Residence Licenses for? A power grid that doesn’t work, streets with potholes, and crummy jobs? You remember how we used to camp for days on end as kids? I was an Eagle Scout, I know how to do those things. That makes more sense now, but she doesn’t get it.

  I’ve tried telling her that Reclaimed is the way to live with the land. It’s not perfect, but I don’t see any other path. I mean, you know me, I’ve always thought religion is stupid, but I even tried “it’s more godly out there.” Like, Jesus would want us to live in a commune. She won’t listen. And it’s driving Freda even further away. I’m not sure what to do.

  P.S. Is it true that Reclaimed toilets work like a dream? Because this weekly clogging from low water pressure is not cool.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Moira

  This afternoon was the social normalcy audit at the Family Stability Board.

  And now that it was here, Moira knew she was going to kind of miss it.

  Not the audit, or what it represented or the stress that it caused Rob. None of that was good or welcome. But every day, she met up with Rob and they walked to Survivors Anonymous together. The twenty minutes there, the twenty minutes back, talking the whole time. Sometimes, they didn’t even go into the meeting, instead opting to sit on a bench outside and discuss Rob’s speed dating nerves or the latest rumors out of Miami or how Sunny was doing. Rob didn’t bring up MoJo at all, so she assumed Sunny kept her word (and in turn, Krista kept hers). But even without that, Moira nearly told him the truth several times.

  Now it was gone. She would continue to go, but his need for it would be done, and then...what? That one hour a day where she felt honest, without the guard that was so necessary around Frank, what would happen to that?

  For now, there was only one way to end this. Moira stood up and walked over to Rob’s cube and saw him sitting with tense brow, fingers tented against his chin. “It’s almost time, huh?”

  “Yeah.” He stood up, grabbing the coat sitting over his chair, and blew out a breath. “Still a little early. But better than sitting and waiting.”

  Her posture went from casual to serious. “Are you ready?”

  “Probably more than I was for speed dating.”

  Her head bobbed, though it quickly became a shake and a sigh. She could see right through the words: Rob wanted to downplay the awkwardness, the weight of the moment. He looked at her again, this time his mouth trembling in slight movements, as if a question were just on the verge.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Look, I know it’s imposing a bit. But I could use all the help I can get. Krista’s watching Sunny right now, but she gave me a written testimonial. I just, I thought if it’s not too much, you might be able to come and say a few words.”

  Two weeks of going to daily support groups together, two weeks of peeling back the layers of each other’s defenses to arrive at an honesty that no longer seemed to exist after five billion people died.

  And now this.

  This person, a coworker who was nothing more than a name tag and a title a few weeks ago, now faced the unthinkable. And he asked if she’d fight the fight with him.

  Moira responded in a way that seemed to completely surprise Rob.

  It caught her off guard too.

  She hugged him.

  “Of course,” she said, squeezing him tight, as if she could funnel any good karma she’d earned over the past few weeks into the battle for his daughter, MoJo and her dad be damned. “Sunny’s a good kid. You’re a good person. It’ll be okay.” They separated, though they stayed at arm’s length.

  Rob smiled and no further words were necessary.

  * * *

  Several minutes later, the Bay Area wind whipped around them during the long march to City Hall. They passed by the edge of the reconstruction zone, tall buildings formerly offering posh hotel space now showing the wear of being government housing for non-licensed residents. Everything from the paint to the signage to the structure itself seemed to exhale, though it was a smaller building several spaces past it that caught Moira’s eye.

  Not so much the building but the glow coming from a partially exposed front wall. And the smoke trailing to the sky.

  “What the—” Rob jogged several steps forward before stopping. Moira joined him, the smell of burning stinging her nose.

  “Is that house on fire?”

  Suddenly, the front door opened and a man—no, boy, no older than a teenager—stepped outside, with a hurried look and concern on his face. His long coat over ill-fitting clothes gave away the fact that he probably lived on the outskirts, surviving from day to day. But he didn’t call for help or run toward them or do anything to stop the flames. Instead, he spotted them across the street, his eyes lit with the panic that only implied guilt, and began running down the alley next to the building.

  “Hey!” Rob yelled, a sudden burst of speed propelling him into the street. A lone car blared its horn at him, and Moira caught a quick glimpse of his eyes. They were wide, wild, a fury in them that seemed impossible for Rob. “Hey! Get back here! That’s someone’s life you’re burning!”

  From the alley came the sounds of clanging garbage cans and broken glass. Rob dodged one oncoming car, then stopped, first staring at the runaway would-be arsonist. Moira ran too, and her body naturally assumed Code Polka Dot, pushing faster than others should have seen her. She caught up with him easily.

  “That goddamn kid,” he said, an anger fusing deep into his words, “that kid. What right does he have to do this? Those are people’s memories in there.”

  Moira turned and spied two citizen patrol officers down the block. Arms up, hands waving, her gestures caught their attention and they began sprinting over, one on his phone. Their whistles blew, and she then pointed down the street past Rob, in her head noting that she probably ran faster than they did.

  “Rob. Cit-pats. They’ll get the fire department. Rob?” Rob stood quiet and still while the glowing fire from inside began to eat up the house’s frame and ceiling. She went around to look at him, only to see his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Hey,” she said, voice laced with sudden concern. “We should get going. The Family Stability—”

  “My home was just like this. Burned up by looters.” His eyes remained shut. “They used my photo albums as kindling. They trashed our belongings. Our lives. Our home, gutted and destroyed. We put our lives on hold for quarantine and we come back—I come back—to find it looted. Burned.” Rob’s voice was dry, giving his words a gravelly rumble. “They must have been raiding that house. They’re getting bolder, reaching farther into the cities.”

  “I don’t think real looter gangs are brave enough to raid Metros. They’re just dumb kids. They probably slipped through the adoption cracks or ran away from the FSB dorms and this is how they deal. I mean, in a way, maybe we should feel bad for them. Who knows how long they’ve survived this way?”

  “So many places to live in this world, and they just take from others. Even now.” His eyes opened and he pointed up at the now-visible flames. From behind, the sound of a fire engine approached. “No one thinks of what’s left behind when they’re told, ‘Go to the bus today or you’ll miss your turn.’ You just fill up one suitcase and go, you hear the reports and rumors and you hope it doesn’t hit you when you get out. All I have are some old pictures and the wedding album we brought to quarantine. That’s it. Everything else, it’s in here,” he said, tapping his temple. “I can’t bring anything else back.”
/>
  “I’m sorry. Rob, I’m so sorry. God—” She stopped, further words failing to materialize in her mind. “I need something else to say, huh?”

  “I wonder how many of them kept on looting. Like those guys. Or did they return to normal when everything cleared? Back to their cars and their TVs, their little Mad Max adventure come and gone.”

  What Moira would have given to bleed her thoughts and memories into Rob’s head, to show him that for many, looting meant survival. Winter clothes. Food. Medicine. Rope, backpack, hydration, sometimes while being chased or shot at or atop buildings so fraught with water damage that the floor had rotted away.

  But she couldn’t say that. She may have been honest with him about her feelings, but those experiences had to stay hidden. Protected. “I know it’s not much consolation, but everyone was just trying to find a way. Some chose the government way, some chose the overland route. No one knew what would happen. You have the right to be angry, but you can’t hold a grudge against everyone. It’ll eat you alive. You have to move on,” she said, her deep breath louder than the gust of wind that blasted them. “We all do.”

  Across the street, the fire engine parked, its brakes squeaking, and people in yellow overcoats poured out of it. “This is how my first speed date went—” he turned to Moira “—except I was on the other side and poor Zoe had the meltdown. She didn’t almost get run over, so I one-upped her.”

  “Come on,” she said gently. “Your meeting.”

  Rob nodded, then shook his head, laughing to himself. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  “It’s okay. We all deal with PASD. But better you get it out of your system now. Shall we?” They walked, quiet but at ease. So many moments created an uncomfortable silence, but Moira wondered if there was such a thing as a comfortable silence.

  “Hey, wait,” Rob said halfway down the next block. They turned to face each other. “I really like how we’re honest with each other. There’s not enough of that. So don’t take this the wrong way, but I have a personal question. Is that okay? Don’t worry, it’s not bad. Or it won’t be bad. I just want to know.”

  So much for comfortable.

  Sunny must have said something. Moira’s defenses immediately went up, all types of fake backstories coming to her mind, from the things she’d told Frank to all new ideas sparking.

  But after a moment, all of those seemed unnecessary. This was Rob. This was what they talked about on their walks.

  “Sure.”

  “Sunny thinks you’re that pop star in the news. MoJo. She says you smile like her. I told her we shouldn’t bother you about it and I’m not going to pursue any reward. I just...wanted to know.” In the distance behind them, the putt-putt-putt of the fire engine was still audible. “It’s just funny because Elena loved MoJo. That song ‘Love This World’? I heard it so much. Elena sang it to Sunny as a lullaby. It’s like she passed it on. Now Sunny loves it. I wanted to know because, well,” he gestured around them, “it’d be kind of funny how this all works out, you know?”

  Simply hearing the name MoJo lit the spark. Reflexes began to twist her facial muscles into a scowl, something she fought to reset, all while batting away a flutter of fast-arriving memories. Lights. Recording booths. Her father yelling “One more time!” Empty booze bottles shoved between hotel couch cushions.

  All of it got pushed down, far down, and Moira managed to turn to Rob. “She’s a smart girl.”

  “It’s all right. I promise you, I won’t do anything about it. And you definitely look better without the face paint. And with that hair. We’re all hiding something. God knows I am. But—” he grinned out of nowhere, despite the weary lines around his face “—it’s nice to know the truth.”

  “The truth,” Moira said, tracking a pair of birds flying into the broken windows up above them. “The truth is I hate all of it. I’ve been trying to forget about MoJo for half my life. Even when I was her, I tried to forget about her. Teen stars have pretty easy access to drugs. I go by Moira Gorman now. Gorman is the surname of my old manager, Chris, the only adult in my life who actually looked after me.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Sunny.”

  “Honesty, right?” She motioned Rob forward, and they began walking again. “That MoJo smile. It’s like a reflex. My dad, he made me practice it all the time when I was a kid. I hate that bloody thing. And now I’ve done it so much, I have no control over it.” Images flew through her mind of a mirror’s reflection, practicing for hours on end. “You’ve been right all along, you know,” she said, looking straight at the passing sidewalk lines with each step. “About being honest. I’m sure the Family Stability Board will see that.”

  “I’ll keep your secret,” Rob said, hand landing on her shoulder. “I promise, no one’s going to turn you in. Some secrets have to be held tightly.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Moira knew that they walked another six blocks to City Hall, though her vision seemed to show two parallel worlds. In one, it was all streetlights and plants crawling through abandoned buildings and the same wind that haunted San Francisco autumn afternoons years and years before mutant viruses. Blended over that came images she’d long pushed away, buried underneath years of another life, another identity. Singing lessons. Dance training. Tour buses. Handlers. Greenrooms and endless backstages, one after another, first small and then bigger and bigger until the biggest in the world.

  Yet, the two lives seemed to intersect into a single thought by the time they reached the office.

  “I was thinking,” she said right when they got to City Hall’s front door, “can Sunny keep a secret too?”

  “If you tell her to keep something quiet, she will. It just depends on how you position it.”

  “Okay. This can’t get back to Frank. He doesn’t know about that life. But if MoJo really means a lot to Sunny, I’d be willing to sing a song or two for her. In private.”

  Secrets built upon secrets. This should have been a house-of-cards idea, a flash that came and went, collapsing under the weight of ill-formed logic. But while Moira awaited his response, she found herself rooting for it to be a go.

  Something felt right about the simple act of singing for a little girl, like that would burn away all of the poison music had done to her long ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Krista

  Krista had gotten to know Sunny well enough by now that she understood when something occupied the little girl’s thoughts. Sunny’s lips would purse and she’d look away, only occasionally glancing back for eye contact before dropping again. “What’s on your mind, Sunny?”

  Sunny’s piercing eyes locked on to Krista’s, and though her voice was small, its direct intensity easily cut through the noise of the diner they sat in. “Are you sure Moira isn’t MoJo?”

  Though Sunny’s school was still running on half days, today’s pickup had seemed strangely empty and hushed. Even the teachers got out of there quick. Krista didn’t spend too much time on it though, because right when she got to Sunny, she knew that Rob would probably be prepping for the audit.

  He didn’t seem to know what would happen or how long it would take. His only request was that she take Sunny somewhere “fun” while he dealt with it. In turn, Krista went on a news-and-business blackout. Just for one afternoon. She even let Sunny bring along her MoJo CD, which was as terrible as she’d expected—probably the reason why the pop star still lingered in Sunny’s mind.

  “Moira is just Moira. I’m sure of it.” Which was a gigantic lie, the complete opposite of truth. But given that the last day had given Krista enough time to weigh all the possibilities—and the fact that she absolutely refused to lose her home—calming Sunny’s curiosity was the easy way out.

  Especially since tonight, after she dropped Sunny off, Krista planned on turning Moira in.

  “Chicken fingers and fries,” the waitres
s said, putting a small red plate in front of Sunny, “and a bacon patty melt with onion rings.” A larger green plate landed in front of Krista with a clink.

  The End of the World claimed all but the biggest fast-food chains, but thankfully throwback diners still existed. Not too many displays of life from the modern era worked into everyday life, but the diner’s 1950s decor must have been otherworldly enough to be acceptable. “Thanks.”

  “Your daughter is so cute. She’s got your eyes.”

  The statement left Krista speechless, so she went to her go-to impulse for such things: avoidance. “Sunny, dig in. This diner is great.”

  The next five minutes passed in silence while Sunny ate her chicken fingers at a deliberate pace, politely dabbing with her napkin every three or four bites. Krista considered matching her level of neatness, but hunger overrode that idea. A few minutes later, Sunny’s plate was picked clean, except the fries had all been shoved to one side. “Something wrong with those?”

  “Daddy won’t let me have fries.”

  “Oh, I won’t tell Rob. See,” she said, pointing to the fries, “we had salad for lunch.”

  “I don’t see a salad.”

  Krista’s small laugh couldn’t be heard above the noise of the diner. “I won’t tell your dad that you’re having fries. I’ll tell him we shared a salad.”

  “But that’s lying. Lying is what bad people do.”

  Sunny would soon learn the world wasn’t so black and white. Especially when losing a Residence License was the result.

  “Well, yeah, but it’s just a little white lie. It doesn’t hurt anyone. Don’t you know about the one-a-year rule?”