Underworld Earth

by Nicholas Gagnier

  Victor leans against the liquor’s store wall with Reggie, smoking. His arms are crossed, aviators sliding down his nose. His eyes stare over the rims as I try and stay focused on the ground.

  “If it ain’t One-Moment-to-Change-the-World!” His exclamation draws eyes from all around us, and he extends his hand. My escorts break from their protective custody, spreading out in front of the store as I accept Victor’s spirited handshake.

  “Been thinking about that proposal of yours, Pete. Let’s go inside.” He nods at Frank, who thankfully remains outside with Reggie. Inside the liquor store, Walter conducts endless inventory of Victor’s looted booze, cigarettes, and guns.

  “Sent Andre, Syd and a couple other guys hunting,” he says. “Gotta feed all these cunts in my care now, so a two-hundred-pound deer ought to do it. Pure meat.”

  “I’m sure they won’t disappoint you.”

  “Where’s your kid? Everything all right with her?”

  In no mood for small talk, I ask what we’re doing here. Taking a seat next to him on the back office’s roughshod couch, I hope Fiona is alright.

  Victor lights a fresh cigarette, chuckling.

  “Like I said, been thinking about your idea. I’m thinkin’... it’s a ten-man job to purge these Army fucks. We got a few weapons here, but we’ll need something special if they decide to roll out any tank action on us.”

  He points to a map on the wall farthest from the door; cigarette smoke in his hand trails upward. Despite an obstinate craving, I would not wish to contribute to the suffocating cloud enveloping the tiny room.

  “Fairchild is thirty klicks south of Haven. I’m thinking you, me, Frank, Reggie, Walter, Andre, Syd, Ronnie and a couple other guys go in, armed to the teeth; none of these cunts will know what hit them.”

  “And if I’m wrong?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I mean, what if we’re out of our element on this thing, and that army base is packed with survivors?”

  Victor paces back and forth across the small room. His manic stare rarely breaks with the crinkled map pinned to a flimsy wall.

  “One time,” he says, “when I was about eight years old, I had this treehouse in the woods near my house. Wasn’t much. My dad was working in D.C. so we were living out in Virginia. Little town called Fairfax. Anyway, this treehouse… I didn’t have too many people I would have invited into this fuckin’ thing, but... was enough this little prick named Adrian and his gang of pissants took notice.

  “Adrian was popular; him and his buddies had dads in the army, many of ’em out on tour. So, they acted tough, ran military exercises in a tire fort out by this skate park.

  “One day, couple of Adrian’s buddies trashed my fucking treehouse. I was this small little fucker—wouldn’t have harmed a fly if it landed on me. My mother said that was life and my father was ambivalent as an old woman with her tit hanging out the sweater, so it was up to me to show Adrian’s crew I’m not to be fucked with.”

  “What happened?” I ask, if only to feign some sort of interest. All I want is to return to my daughter, before this man can come near her, Sydney can influence her, or Frank can kidnap her out from under Mara’s gaze.

  Victor chuckles.

  “One night, I bought a full jerry’s worth from the gas bar near our house, walked over to that tire fort, and sent the fucking thing up in flames. Cops came to my house, I spent one of my first weekends in lockup, and my Daddy whipped me until I couldn’t walk. But mark my words, no group of army brats ever messed with me again.”

  After a moment to let him soak in the age-old victory, I prepare my rebuttal, knowing it will be ill-met.

  “These aren’t army brats we’re dealing with, Victor. This is the United States military, okay? They’re not smacking their palms with a tire iron on the other side of a make-believe base. This is the real fucking thing, and I don’t know if I can take the risk, personally. Happy to help you plan—”

  “Oh,” Victor says. His cigarette has gone out but remains in his hand, the last bastion of ash hanging on for dear life. “So, you can send us to do the heavy lifting, and benefit from my assurances, is that it?”

  Finally, I stand from the couch, regretting having ever mentioned Fairchild.

  “No—”

  “Then you’re coming with us, and that’s final. Wouldn’t want you to miss your one moment, after all. Any questions?”

  Crashing and yelling from beyond the tiny office saves me having to answer. Walter and Reggie’s voices argue with a third I don’t recognize. Victor lunges for his top desk drawer, retrieving a pistol from its depths.

  “Always fucking something,” he says, holding its barrel at his temple, exiting the room. A conflict at the store’s entrance gives the shouting context as a man in his fifties verbally accosts the door guards, trying to force his way in.

  “I want to talk to him!” the man screams over Reggie’s massive shoulder. He is thin and wiry and hard to make out. “Him, and Frank fucking Lancaster!”

  “Frank took off a few minutes ago,” Reggie explains. The man tries to look for an opening, throwing himself at the door, only to be hoisted back by Ronald.

  “Motherfucker is sticking it in my wife! You tell Victor I’m not leaving until this is settled! Fucking asshole!”

  Out of the man’s view, Victor rolls his eyes. The stout pistol in his hand now points to the floor, and he lights another cigarette.

  “Better deal with this cunt, I guess.”

  Touching Reggie on the shoulder, his subordinate steps out of the way. Given the audience he asked for, the intruder calms himself as the other men disperse.

  “What’s the problem here, Wes?”

  The man, whose wife is another of Frank’s unfortunate life victims, paces back and forth as Victor indulges him, impatiently tapping the pistol’s barrel against his thigh.

  “What’s the problem? Are you serious? My wife Tina? Your boy Lancaster has sure been busy!”

  A white and blue plume trails from the smoke in Victor’s hand, dancing upward into open space. Slipping his arm around Wes’s neck, the burning cigarette hovers close, waving around uncomfortably close to his nose. The two stroll away from the storefront, leaving Reggie, Ronald and I to share tense glances. I don’t catch what is spoken between them, but the look on Wes’s face as Victor whispers violent nothings in his ear says everything neither of them need to.

  “What did you tell him?” I ask Victor upon his return. The intruder slinks away, hanging his head in defeat as Victor nonchalantly flicks his cigarette into the wind. “Gave up pretty quick.”

  Victor scoffs.

  “Why,” he replies, cocking his entire upper body, “that it only takes one moment to change his world, dear boy... less time for me to end it, if he ever bothers me with his mundane bullshit again.”

  Victor squeals with laughter and skips as he returns to his base of operations. Walter submits an arrogant nod, hugging his inventory clipboard in the doorway. Reggie couldn’t be less bothered if the world was burning around him.

  Not wanting to push my luck, I return to our room at the Row. Thankful Mara agreed to watch Fi while I talked to Victor, I have a few minutes to collect my thoughts.

  I should have never put that idea in his head. If the attack on Fairchild is successful, Victor Quinn will be the most powerful figure in the northwestern United States. With the army’s stockpile of weapons and ammunitions at his disposal, and no governmental forces left to save us, nobody will be safe.

  If the attack succeeds, it will all be my fault.

  A knock at the door pulls me from the rabbit hole of what-ifs. Anticipating Mara and Fiona, a very different face waits behind it, holding up a glass bottle; its contents are unclear, sloshing against the bottleneck’s sides.

  “Thought you could use the company,” Sydney says. “You know, being the end of the world and all.”

  Alcohol on her breath hits me square in the face as she pushes me aside, entering our ro
om. I’m not sure where Margaery Tickson went, or where Mara could be with my daughter, but I hope neither return while this woman is in the apartment.

  “Oh,” she says, stumbling back to face me, “I told Frank’s bitch to keep watching your kid. They’re playing outside by that park. Guess you left them there?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, unsure as to what her purpose was in coming here. “Did Victor already talk to you about the base?”

  “Fairchild?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sydney snickers.

  “Fuck yeah, Pete! Told me it was your idea, too. Who knew you had it in you?” Placing her bottle of fermented liquid down on a table, she stumbles towards me, almost falling over herself. And when I catch her, if only to stop her from taking me down too, I can smell the darkness on her lips.

  “Kiss me, Peter.”

  Taking advantage of an intoxicated woman requires certain characteristics I don’t possess. Even inebriated, Sydney senses hesitation, bringing out her trademark scowl.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say, avoiding her maneuvering eyes, trying to lock onto mine. “Just... you’re drunk.”

  She scoffs.

  “So what?”

  “So? You don’t think this is inappropriate?”

  “Inappropriate?” she chuckles. “What the living fuck about our situations is ap-ap-appropriate?” She hiccups. “Fuck you think I am? Some prissy prude?”

  “No,” I reply, helping her stand upright. Sydney’s feet find tenuous balance. Unsure what to do with my hands, I place both in their respective pockets, shrinking in posture. “I mean, I just lost my wife, and…”

  “Oh what, you’re too good for me, then?”

  “No!’ I stutter. “I’m just not ready for this, Sydney.”

  The next moment might not change the world, but happens too fast to process, nonetheless. On the other side of it, Sydney is gone, the ring of a slamming door echoing along the floor.

  And I am alone, asking what in the living fuck that was.

  Samantha

  Trauma is a bleak affair.

  The woman in front of me bites her lip, standing amidst rows of cars filled with corpses. She is the only survivor of two hundred people who died here, going about their day when a tractor trailer overturned in the middle of nowhere. Those not killed on impact died of the disease that spread like wildfire, manifesting in their sinuses and respiratory systems. Few who died here were sick on arrival. Thinking they could wait for authorities who ultimately never came, a petri dish of debris, bacteria and airborne illness killed the rest of them.

  And now, this lonely blond woman with seaweed eyes and a raspy voice that can barely manage words has been rescued at last.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, lowering the gun in my grip; thankful her near-death experience at my hand did not end quite differently.

  “Angela,” she replies, “Angela Woloski. My family… they’re dead. Back there. I can’t... I can’t look at them. Would you?”

  Is this what awaits when I get home to Connecticut?

  “No,” I say. “You don’t have to look at them, okay?”

  “Are you going to hurt me?”

  The weapon, already pointed at the ground, finds my back waistband as the question sinks in. This woman has lost her family and will never be the same.

  I wouldn’t appreciate someone holding a gun to me, either.

  “No, Angela. Nobody will hurt you now. I’m Sam, and this is my friend Mark.” I cast my companion a glare. He takes one of her hands in his, keeping the other on her shoulder, helping her to the side of the road. “He’ll stay with you until I come back.”

  “You’re leaving?” Mark asks.

  “Just to see if there are any other survivors, ’kay? Sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Mark helps Angela sit; judging by how long it takes her to be lowered, she must have been on her feet for a while. Baring the handgun, I wade into an armada of lifeless vehicles, keeping it pointed ahead of me. The last thing I need is another Frank trying to rob or kill us, or worse, putting male appendages in my mouth.

  Air between idle cars is quieter than anything I have ever experienced. Growing up in a small town, noise always prevailed over absolute silence—be it the chirps of birds, shaking branches of trees through Haven on breezy days, or rattling trucks and cars going up and down the main boulevard.

  In comparison, wind carries no relief against the quiet, and no other signs of life persist.

  “Sam! Come quick!”

  I immediately identify the scream as my companion’s but it sounds nothing like him. Turning back, my fingers tighten around the gun as I retreat to where I left them.

  The woman we found wandering between the pileup seizes against the gravel shoulder. Mark cradles the sides of her head, keeping the neck straight as her body shudders. Her feet clap the ground, shoulder blades smashing against it.

  “Are you going to stand there, or help me?” Mark cries.

  Just as I break free of paralysis, moving toward them, Angela falls still. Her eyes still open, no life remains in them. The pretty patterned dress is ripped at the seams running down her armpit; its yellow petals stretched and blackened where fabric dragged along the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” Mark sobs, pressing his forehead against hers. He apologizes to the corpse over and over; not wanting to pester me with his guilt, the incessant apologies eventually fall under his breath.

  “Come on,” I tell him, placing a hand on his hunched shoulder. “This wasn’t your fault.”

  This seems to assuage him and after another moment, he separates his head from hers.

  “She just…. she was fine one second, and... the next…” A sob escapes his throat, but the sadness will not benefit Angela Woloski any longer, nor us.

  “She’s with her family now,” I remind him, “but we can’t stay here, Mark. Post Falls is at least another thirty miles. We’re losing light, and I don’t know what else is out there.”

  He scurries to his feet. I begin drifting in the direction of the next town; something closer to my family than the Hell we’re in now. Mark wipes his eyes, briefly following in silence before he stops.

  “Wait,” Mark says.

  I don’t have time for this.

  “What?”

  He gestures at the pileup around us.

  “Why are we doing this the hard way, Sam?”

  I’m so tired of riddles.

  “What are you saying, Mark?”

  “Think about it. How many cars are here? A hundred? More?”

  “Full of corpses, but yes.”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’re not willing to bet someone here was driving alone, stumbled out, died elsewhere? And not only that,” he proposes, venturing to the nearest still vehicle, examining the trunk, “what do you want to wager some of these cars have supplies in the back?”

  “A woman just died, and now you want to rob the dead?”

  He shrugs. “We’re alive. They’re not going to use them. Between my life and dignity, guess which one I’m willing to separate from?

  “It’s easy,” he continues, “we take only as much as we require. Maybe there’s a jerry can in all this mess; we can siphon the other cars for enough gas to get us to the next populated area and track down others who might have survived.”

  Nobody survived, I want to say. Civilization has fallen and we are the only audience to its twisted remnants.

  But I can’t say that.

  It might not be the worst idea in the world. After all, we were ready to walk to Post Falls only minutes ago, and a half hour sounds better than three.

  “Okay,” I say, conceding control. I’m tired of making all the decisions, and Mark clearly needs a distraction from what happened. “This is your show.”

  Trauma is a fucking bleak affair.

  Nathan

  My mom once told me there was nothing in the world that couldn’t be solved. She is all that
religious, and yet, there was some onus on God. He would never put a trial in front of you that couldn’t be solved.

  Stumbling over my father’s spread-eagled body on the upstairs bathroom floor, I began to think God was just a scam to make gullible children behave. Based on Dad’s bloated face and puffy eyelids, I wasn’t sure God would have created such a merciless disease. Its impact was all over CNN. Newscasters stifled coughs and the camerawork was jerky. Banners across the bottom said things like STATE OF EMERGENCY DECLARED and CITIZENS ADVISED TO STAY IN THEIR HOMES. Video footage of the Army showed many of them hacking into their own sleeves, service weapons shaking in their grip.

  There was no time to mourn my father. He was rarely home, and we aren’t terribly fond of each other.

  The keys to Dad’s Lexus were left on the kitchen island. I learned to drive from a YouTube video last year. Even if I didn’t think of driving to Haven right away, I had to find help.

  He’s dead. There’s nothing you can do about that.

  I couldn’t stay in that house.

  Locking the door—Mom would kill me for leaving it wide open—I began rifling through the garage, which only held junk and boxes full of more junk. Setting a couple old White Pages on the driver’s seat, I was greeted by a deafening silence. After two years of begging my dad to teach me the basics of driving, it took his death to let me near the driver’s seat of his precious car. I’ve sat behind the wheel of Mom’s Jeep a hundred times, but this was my only and final opportunity to stick it to the old man. I don’t feel anything over his death; that will come later. But for now, I can live with the reality, and keep tears at bay.

  Come Hell or high water, I’m getting to my Mom.

  The drive from Stamford, Connecticut to Haven is, according to the modern wonders of GPS, thirty-eight hours in regular conditions. I know that from planning it out as Mom told me she was visiting Grandma in Washington State.

  Can I come? I asked, sitting at the kitchen table.

  That depends, she replied. How badly do you want to sit beside a dying woman?