by Ryan Schow
“Underage hookers?” Macy says.
“I, uh…”
“Told you, Dad,” she grins.
“Teach her to shoot when you can,” our new friend says, sitting back down on his old red crate. “That’s what the box of ammo is all about.”
“What if this is over in the next few days?”
“It ain’t gonna be,” he says, nonchalant. “It ain’t gonna be over for awhile.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“That’s not the government flying them drones. It’s the drones flying them drones. This is Artificial Intelligence. AI. It’s 2017 all over again, but this time those morons in Palo Alto have no way to shut them down. Not unless they set off an EMP, but that’d have to be nuclear and you can damn sure bet they won’t be doing that anytime soon.”
“What’s a nuclear EMP?” I ask.
“Electromagnetic Pulse. Nuclear suggests it’s high altitude, the higher the better. Eighty thousand feet is ideal if you want the widest coverage. A blast like that basically shuts down anything with electronics in it, including the electrical grid. If the charge is enough, if this isn’t an isolated incident—and I suspect it isn’t—then two of these nuclear EMP’s can shut down the entire country. Considering the National Guard ain’t here, and the Air Force ain’t here, I’m thinking we’re going to be in it real quick. And a lot worse than this. But I’m a man of war, and paranoia is my drug of choice so maybe I’ve just seen too much combat.”
“Either way, you’re saying we’re pretty much on our own right now,” Stanton says, swallowing what looks like a hulking lump in his throat.
“Indeed. Unless you want to bunk with us.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I say, “but we’re headed home.”
“Where’s home?” he asks, his eyes alert.
“850 Powell Street, just off Sacramento Street across from The Fairmont in the Financial District.”
He whistles like he knows the place, like he knows how nice it is. Suddenly I’m self-conscious of where we live and scared I sound pompous when I’m anything but that.
“Nice digs over there. Real nice digs. Well, they were nice, but now they’re not. Probably just rubble by now.”
“You can’t know that,” I say.
The guy leans forward, grabs something, then comes up with a huge pair of binoculars and says to Stanton, “Get up here, see for yourself.”
He obliges the man, then returns the field glasses, his face bloodless, his expression clearly that of someone shaken by what they’ve seen.
“Stanton?” I ask.
He climbs off the truck, thanks the man, then looks at me and Macy and says, “We should leave him to his post.”
“You have a place to stay if yours ain’t around,” the man calls after us.
Me and Macy wave, but judging by the way Stanton’s moving, there is a pretty good chance our home is no longer standing.
9
We make our way up Masonic, trudging along the sidewalk like a pack of derelicts. At Fulton Street, Stanton decides to keep going. Where is he going?! Is he just walking for the sake of walking, or is he actually thinking? Or clearing his head? Perhaps he’s pondering the meaning of life now that life is being stamped out by rogue technology.
“Do you have a destination, Stanton, or are we just getting in our ten thousand steps?”
“No,” Stanton says. “And yes.”
He keeps moving.
“Then why are we even walking?” Macy asks. “Because my legs hurt, my back hurts, I’m tired and that granola bar didn’t do squat but make me more hungry.”
Stanton stops and turns to face us both. Half manic, he says, “We need a place to stay. We need water, food and shelter, so if anyone has a suggestion, I’m open to it.”
“You look insane,” Macy says.
“Maybe I am!”
“So that’s it then?” Macy grumbles. “We’re going to be squatters?”
Stanton starts walking again.
“What did you see?” I ask. “Is our home there or not?”
He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps walking, so I stop asking questions. Behind me Macy’s shoes are slapping the sidewalk in protest. There’s a bit of an incline past Fulton, but it feels more like we’re walking up the side of a mountain as tired as we are.
“Do you want to sleep in a car again?” I ask her.
“As long as no one died in it, at this point, I don’t care. Then again, if it’s a comfortable car, I don’t care if five people died in it.”
“That’s morbid,” Stanton grumbles.
“This whole situation is morbid,” I tell him. After awhile, to my kind, loving, patient husband (I hope you’re catching my sarcasm at this point), I ask, “Do you ever think things will be normal again?”
“Are you looking in these people’s eyes?” he says, a long, sharp edge to his words. “Half of them look like they’re in shock, like their brains just melted out of their ears the moment all their precious things were destroyed.”
“I feel like that,” I say, my voice rising. “I feel like that and you’re not telling me if all our precious things are destroyed.” Rushing up to him, I grab his arm, haul him around. “Are our things destroyed?”
He shakes off my arm and says, “I don’t know!”
“Stop!” Macy screams.
We all stand together, huffing and puffing, nostrils flared, ready to kill each other, unable to understand each other.
“Are we homeless, Stanton?” I ask, softer now, my vision blurring behind the threat of tears.
“I…I think…I don’t know. But we can’t make it home today and I can’t sleep in another car that someone’s died in.”
Macy folds her arms, looks away.
In the distance, the smoke is billowing again, turning the skies gray. All around us, flakes of ash are falling like the first winter’s snow. We almost don’t even notice, but then it’s hard not to. Glancing around, seeing people mill about, watching them walking aimlessly, absent mindedly, like they’re complete freaking space cadets, I wonder if this is our end.
“I’m scared, Stanton,” I say, feeling a tear skim my cheek. Wiping it quickly, dragging a finger under my other eye to mop up the puddling tears, I say, “Aren’t you?”
Speaking low under his breath, he says, “I feel broken, Sin. It makes me feel weak.”
“You’re not weak,” I whisper back, taking a step towards my husband, the father of my child, my soul mate.
He falls into silence.
As his wife of sixteen years, I know this stillness in him. I know exactly what it means. It means that behind that teetering façade there’s a strong, competent man loosing his grip on life. He can handle almost anything, but force him to consider his mortality and he becomes this sweet, fragile thing. Another step forward and I’m in his arms. Holding him. Trying not to cry on his shoulder because his shoulder smells like the downfall of civilization.
“I don’t know what to do, Sin. For the first time in my life, I’m truly at a loss.”
“Me too, baby. We need to figure this out though. If we don’t…if we don’t we’ll die. Macy will die.”
His body stiffens and I can tell he’s biting back the tears. Seconds later another set of arms curls around us both and I feel Macy hugging us and this about breaks my heart.
“Two days ago I would have been so embarrassed about this, but now I could care less,” she says. Me and Stanton can’t help laughing. “I love you guys. Thank you for coming to get me.”
Moving out of my arms into hers, he pulls her close, kisses the top of her head and says, “I might not have if I knew you were going to wear those butt-ugly pants.”
Now we’re all laughing, and maybe crying, but the moment isn’t long because we hear the sounds of explosions getting closer.
My eyes find Macy’s face. She’s wiping her eyes, the light of joy leaving them dim once more. She’s quite a sight. The cuffed fuchsia pants undern
eath the black skirt with the non matching red sweater and the black (now grey) platforms, my eyes go to the collar of her white blouse (how it’s half smoked and half spattered with Trevor’s blood) and I’m overwhelmed with sadness.
She needs to change her shirt, get into something that doesn’t remind her that her friend didn’t make it.
“We have to go,” Stanton says. “We need to find a place to stay. Maybe a vacant building or something.”
“If we find a house, honest to God,” I hear myself saying, “I’m taking the longest, hottest shower ever.”
“I just want something to drink,” Macy says. “My mouth is like the desert right now. I can practically use my saliva as chewing gum.”
“That’s gross,” Stanton says.
“I’m not exactly camera ready,” she replies.
We’re walking up Masonic Street having gone God knows how many blocks uphill and I can’t stop feeling we’re not getting any closer to where we need to go. Which is a house. There are tons to choose from, but not on this street, so I’m not sure what the deal is.
“Are you headed to a neighborhood?” I ask. “Because we’re passing up a lot of beautiful homes.”
“I know you want a house, but the bullets guy, back in the truck, he said people are better off in buildings rather than homes.”
“It’s because the machines expect them to be empty,” Macy says, still dragging her feet, “so that makes them safe.”
“You have to get past the idea that anything’s safe, honey,” I say. “At least for now.”
We’re coming upon an intersection full of abandoned cars. There are normal people rooting through them now. Not gang bangers. Should we be going through them, too? We have a weapon, but no food, no water, no shelter. Suddenly I’m feeling very vulnerable.
An anxiety is arising in me, one I have to force down.
It’s when we hear some of these cars still running that we put two and two together. Inside these cars are dead people. Shot-to-death people. Blown-up-by-drones people.
Logically we know these are the best cars to search because nothing was taken from them (yet). You just have to hope the doors are open, unless you have something solid enough to break the glass. We do. Stanton has the butt end of the pistol.
We go to work on this Honda Accord, breaking the glass on the second try. Someone nearby says, “Hey, have some respect!”
Me and Stanton fall into a moment’s pause as we eye this woman with two bottles of water stuffed in her pockets. Macy doesn’t skip a beat, though. She opens the door from the inside, drags the driver out (it’s a hippie-looking kid with a scraggly beard and a man bun) then steps over him and gets into the car.
If only the Accord wasn’t packed in between a bunch of other cars, all three of us could have climbed in, buckled up and fled the scene. But this is just wishful thinking right now.
The woman stands there fixated on Macy, her jaw hanging slack, disbelief coloring her eyes all shades of red.
“Have you no respect for the dead?” she barks.
“I have more respect for life than death at this point,” Stanton calls out. “Now go back to your own cars before we shoot you in the face and take your water.”
Mortified, she abandons the hunt altogether, stomping up the street in a huff, muttering things that sound like an argument, then turning and screaming curse words at us that we are too busy to pay attention to.
“Would you use it?” I ask Stanton when the crazy lady is gone. “The gun, I mean? Would you use it on another human?”
“Jackpot!” Macy says. After finding nothing useful in the center console or the glovebox, she’s heading for the backseat, squeezing her body in between the seats and wiggling over the center console. In back there’s an old box with the flaps ripped off. Inside is a big blanket that Macy’s pulling out and pressing to her face. “It’s not going to be so cold tonight ladies and germs!”
“In Darwin’s world of survival of the fittest,” I say, “I think we’re going to be okay.”
“Darwin can suck it,” Macy quips, getting out of the car.
By now she’s got the blanket draped around her shoulders. She’s pulling it tight across her chest, telling us how warm it is.
“Maybe you should get his pants, too,” Stanton says. Macy looks past us, at his pants, and says, “Too much blood on them.”
This silences us. This and the whirring sounds of the drones.
For a second we all drop to our knees, ready to scurry underneath the car in case those things show up and start shooting again.
Just ahead is Geary Street which will take us to Laurel Heights. It’s not the Financial District, or a multimillion dollar condo, but the homes there are nice enough.
Scanning the air, our ears attuned to the sounds of the UAV’s, I see the University of San Francisco and it looks like a bombed out ruin. To the right, just up the street is Raoul Wallenberg High School. Judging by the giant plumes of smoke billowing into the sky, it’s the same story there.
Forcing myself to think of circus clowns or whatever (a beautiful steak dinner), I try not to think about all the murdered students. About how many are still in there. About their families, the ones living in other states or countries who have no idea what’s happening here.
“They’re gone,” Stanton says, speaking about the drones.
We get to our feet then finish searching the cars. Now more than ever, I’m feeling how sticky my lips have become, how my throat is so dry not even the summoning of saliva is enough.
“We need water,” I say.
Seconds later a pair of drones zoom by not fifteen feet over our heads. Macy and I duck into the backseat of a nearby Ford F-150; Stanton jumps into the front passenger seat next to a dead guy who’s face down on the steering wheel, the spider-webbed windshield painted red.
When they’re gone, Stanton says, “Check the glovebox.”
Inside is a map of the city, a two-pack of Bic lighters and a locking lug nut for his custom wheels. I grab the lighters and the map.
“Get the lug nut,” he says.
“Why?”
He rolls his eyes and I get it.
“Macy, open the driver’s side door for me, please.”
She gets out and does just that. Stanton gets on his butt, braces himself, then uses both feet and his leverage to shove the man over. The dead guy spills out of the car without an ounce of grace. He lands on his head, his body not quite making it out.
With his head wrenched sideways, half his face is smashed into the pavement, but his body is propped up on the truck with his legs half in the air. It’s like a handstand of death, but with no hands. Macy looks away. Maybe it’s his position, but maybe it’s that one of his eyes was blown out.
Stanton gets out of the truck walks around and perfectly deadpan, he says, “Hot dang, that couldn’t have gone better.”
He grabs a leg and begins unlacing the man’s right shoe. He pulls it off, tosses it over his shoulder then peels a long beige sock off his foot.
Did I tell you I hate seeing other people’s feet? I do. Most of them…they’re just plain nasty. Especially this guy’s. I don’t even want to tell you what’s up with his toenails.
“Lug nut?” he says, hand out, palm up.
I hand him the heavy silver nut and he drops it into the sock, tying the top of it into a knot.
“Stand back,” he says.
We oblige him.
He swings the thing in the air and now I see it. He’s made us another weapon. In case bullets don’t work, we can beat people to death with this here sock.
Macy’s smiling now, which makes me smile.
Turning his attention to the F-150, he stands back, swings it as hard as he can and hits the back window, shattering it.
“Bingo-bango, baby!” he says, surprising us both with a look of satisfaction.
“Nice, Dad,” Macy adds, and even I’m nodding my head in approval. He hands the sock to our daughter, almost like he�
��s handing over the keys to the kingdom.
“Anyone gets out of line, swing this down on their forehead as hard as you can.”
“Stanton,” I say.
“What?”
“Won’t this kill a person?” Macy asks, swinging it around.
“You could always go underhand and catch them in the baby maker,” he says.
“Hold this?” Macy asks me.
She bequeaths me the gigantic blanket and I take it. She then walks up to the truck and starts swinging the loaded sock backwards, really getting it going. When she’s got the timing down, she steps forward and shoots it at the truck where it smacks the back door with a ferocious bang!
“Holy crap!” she says, looking at the huge dent the nut left behind.
“Impressive,” Stanton says.
And me? I’m having a hard time with my husband teaching my baby how to hurt people. Maybe I’m being too overprotective of her. Maybe Stanton’s right.
A few cars up, we hit what Stanton believes is an even bigger jackpot. Macy pulls something big and green and tightly packaged out of the center console.
“What about this?” she says, holding up a brick of weed.
“I almost want to say yes,” I tell her, “but given that the bottom’s fallen out of this city and we need to be on our toes, I’d say leave it.”
“Are you kidding?” Stanton says. “We’re taking that with us.”
“Since when do you do drugs?” I ask.
“Never. But we’re in gang territory, so maybe this is our get-out-of-death card.”
Macy’s sniffing it, then turning away and making a face.
“As much as I appreciate your logic, I’m not toting around a big bag of weed so you’d better make sure you know how to use your gun.”
“I do.”
“But would you?”
He knows what I’m asking. He knows I’m asking him if it came to protecting his family, could he pull the trigger.
“These are different times. Maybe they won’t always be this way, but right now they are. So yes. If it comes to it, then yes.”
“Are you guys talking in code?”