by A. J. Powers
“Screw it,” he said under his breath as he slid the card into a slot on the side of the tablet and waited for the operating system to recognize the device.
Several long seconds later, a folder finally popped up with dozens of icons inside. He hesitated again, this time only briefly, before he tapped on one and a video player popped up.
The first thing Clay heard was the sound of two young boys shouting in unison…
“Happy birthday, Daddy!”
Chapter 8
Clay watched helplessly as Smith stared at the tablet screen with his hand over his mouth. As soon as one video ended, the next one popped up, each more unbearable to watch than the last.
Glancing down at the bed, Clay noticed a pink Post-it note stuck to one of the papers with a note scribbled on it:
Here are the videos you wanted. Now would you please sign the papers so we can both get on with our lives?
The papers scattered around the bed were divorce papers. Smith—or Justin Akers as the legal documents declared—had never signed them. Clay could only speculate why, but judging from his body language whenever the woman showed up on camera, he still loved her.
A video of twin boys chasing the family puppy around the yard ended and the screen quickly snapped to a new scene: a serene moment of peaceful bliss and the miracle of life. The same woman held a newborn baby on her chest. She smiled contently; the baby was asleep. But as Smith’s body began to bounce up and down from the weeping he could no longer suppress, Clay realized these joyful moments from his past had become the very nightmares that would terrorize him for the rest of his life. And even though these people had never been alive to him—merely pixels on a screen—Clay couldn’t help but share in the sobbing man’s heartache in his agonizing despair.
“Hello Jola,” a softer-spoken Smith said on the video as a hand appeared on screen and gently rubbed the baby’s back. “Welcome to the family,” he said, which prompted a glowing smile from the exhausted mother.
The media player went black as the notch on the timeline found its end and displayed the folder of files again. Smith didn’t bring up another video, he just stared at the blank screen until the inactivity dimmer kicked in, snapping him out of his trance. Clay subtly cleared his throat, which startled Smith, causing him to turn around. His bloodshot eyes screamed of pain and the grim look on his face further supported that claim. Tears streaming down his cheeks glistened from the subtle glow of the tablet screen. He didn’t say anything; he just stared at Clay with that unmistakable expression of loss and remorse.
He turned back around and looked at the tablet. He raised his hand to tap another video, but couldn’t bear to subject himself to anymore tonight. He started shaking again, an audible whimper this time. Ten minutes ago, Smith was a rock that instilled fear into Clay, and despite his prosthetic legs, Clay suspected that he would have been an intimidating sight even to the toughest of Screamers. Yet, here he was, broken, crushed, defeated; brought to his knees by videos on a computer—like digital terrorism, striking horror and pain into the brawny man’s very soul.
Clay wanted to say something, but he knew the last thing Smith would want to hear was some obligatory condolences or the unfounded optimistic pep talk. So, Clay waited for Smith to speak first; silently mourning with the man he had just met, yet somehow felt as if he already knew better than some of his closest friends.
“You always think there’s going to be a tomorrow,” Smith spoke with a broken voice. “‘I’m busy today, we’ll play tomorrow’…or, ‘Daddy can’t take you out for ice cream, he has work to do—maybe tomorrow.’” At this point the screen on the tablet had turned off completely; the drab hallway light spilling in from the doorway prevented the small bedroom from falling into total darkness. “There’s always a tomorrow,” Smith repeated, “until there’s not.”
Clay shifted awkwardly as he tried to find the right wording for his question. It was never easy asking someone how they lost their family, but somehow, after witnessing the desolation Smith had just been put through, Clay found this particular instance even more difficult. “How’d it happen?” he finally asked.
Smith looked as if he was wrestling with numerous thoughts. He rubbed at his eyes as he let out a weary sigh. “I happened.”
It was not the response Clay had expected—it was almost unsettling.
“Running your own store is a tall order. Even though business was great, it didn’t mean I could just sit back and count the money. There were always more things to get done and keeping customers happy was a fulltime job in itself. I finally convinced my brother, Phil, to move down from Pittsburgh to help me run the place. He was smart, always got good grades, good with numbers and all that, so I wanted him to handle the business side of things while I dealt with the inventory, customers, and repairs.
“It wasn’t long before we were one of the biggest, private owned shops in the state. We had a three thousand square foot store, and that’s not including the ‘invite only’ section of the shop, which is where we sold the big, scary guns that had been banned. Usually, just one transaction a day in that room kept the lights on for a week.”
“Sounds like you had a pretty good thing going,” Clay said, reaffirming the man’s own words.
“We did,” he said as he absent-mindedly rubbed his hands together. “But success doesn’t come without sacrifice. Some people give up sleep, others give up hobbies…some give up their family…I did all the above,” he said as he lowered his head, shaking it with regret. “The average day for me was at least sixteen hours. Everyone was asleep by the time I got home unless Amanda made the effort to stay awake so she could let me know just how bad things were between us.” Smith took off his cap and threw it on the bed so he could run his hands through his hair. He interlocked his fingers and rested them on top of his head. “I used to get so mad at her for the lectures she would give me—about how I worked too much, that I needed to spend more time with the kids…that I needed to spend more time with her. My response was always the same, ‘Gotta pay the bills,’ or something stupid like that. But she was right… She was right,” Smith said with a quivering voice that matched the shudder in his body as painful memories from the past resurfaced. “Things got better for a while. Phil and I hired a buddy of ours from Austin to help out. So, I started trying to be everything again. Faithful husband, loving father, successful business owner...
“Then Jola was born. It was early August and I even managed to take a few weeks off to spend with the family. They were…they were the best weeks of my life,” he said with a genuine, albeit momentary joy. “But, by the end of the month, business picked up again and, despite the hired help, I was forced to return to my old ways. Work all day, sleep a couple of hours, rinse and repeat.”
Clay knew where the story went. Though his own father had not been absent to the same degree, his line of work, both as a police officer and a paramedic, caused for long shifts where the family would see very little of him for days at a time. And even though his father was still very much dedicated to his family, the strain on everyone during those weeks was still significant. It wasn’t an uncommon sight for his parents to have some heated discussions on the matter.
Smith continued, “I was working so hard to create a successful business so that I could give my wife and kids the great life I thought they deserved. I hadn’t even noticed that my marriage had fallen apart. Amanda had come to me more than once about working things out, about us going to get some help. Every time she brought it up, though, I was in the middle of fixing this or inventorying that. ‘We’ll do that soon, Amanda. Just give me some time for things to slow down,’ I always told her.” Smith paused and let out a single, ironic laugh. “I was always telling her ‘tomorrow,’” he said as he wiped his forearm across his face.
“One day, after staying at the shop for three days straight, I came home to an empty house. No wife, no kids, no note. And I didn’t hear from her again until Jola’s first birthday. She was ki
nd enough to do a video chat so I could say happy birthday to my only daughter.” Smith was barely able to finish the sentence before his emotions took over.
Clay stood in silence as the man fought with the agony of his past.
After a few minutes, Smith collected himself enough to continue. “And that…that was the last time I spoke to my baby girl.”
The eruptions, Clay thought at first…but no. Somehow, he knew it was worse.
“A few months later, out of nowhere, Amanda calls me. She was so frantic I could barely understand her, but when I heard her tell me that Jola was sick and that I needed to get out to California right away, I knew it was bad. It took her eight months to finally tell me where they lived, and it was only because my daughter was dying.” Smith’s face was twisted with a mixture of sorrow and rage—it was unclear if it was directed at his wife or himself, and Clay wasn’t sure if Smith even knew. He stared at the wall in front of him as he went on. “By the time I got to the hospital, Jola had already died. Meningitis or something like that. The doctor assured us that there was nothing that could have been done, that it hit too quickly. But it didn’t stop me from blaming Amanda.
“I wanted Jola buried back in Texas, but Amanda wouldn’t have it. And since her new boyfriend was some big-shot lawyer, she made it very clear that that was a battle I would never win. I hated her for that,” he said, a dark contempt in his voice. “But, rather than put my boys and myself through that ugly situation, I let her have her way. I stayed in California for a few weeks after the funeral—spending time with my boys was the only thing that mattered to me. And after getting back to Texas, I decided to sell the company off and was already making the arrangements to move out to California to spend more time with Kyle and Marcus. I offered my half of the company to my brother, but he didn’t want to run the product side of the business. It took less than a week to find a buyer—one of those big chain sporting goods stores that you could find every fifteen miles.”
“So, you sold?” Clay asked.
“Yep. Big money, too. Phil and I split it down the middle, and each gave some of the profit to the people who had been helping us over the years. The house was already under contract, and we were just a few days from closing when I got the Presidential alert on my phone.”
Being reminded of that moment sent shivers down Clay’s spine; a moment when the world—his world—would forever be changed. Clay had watched silently as his mom gasped while reading the emergency alert on her phone before running to turn on the TV. It was just minutes after it had occurred, so the information was only just starting to trickle in. All that they could confirm was that the USGS reported a 9.6 earthquake had just struck off the coast of Washington state. The live feeds came online just minutes before the tsunami delivered a devastating blow to the west coast. Then, San Andreas went. It was only a paltry 7.5 in comparison to the Cascadian quake early that morning, but it was more than enough to ravage the major cities along the faultline—many of which were already battling the floods from the tsunami. That night there had been dozens of earthquakes greater than 7.0 around the world, and all eyes were on New Madrid, which had already started to rumble. Clay remembered the intense shaking he felt when the New Madrid roared to life. He had never felt an earthquake before and the only thing he felt at that moment was fear.
Clay’s family had been glued to the TV all day, watching as new footage of catastrophic destruction around the world surfaced every couple of minutes. It was terrifying for the thirteen-year-old boy to watch. And then, airing on live TV, Clay and his family witnessed the Memphis-Arkansas bridge collapse, plummeting down to the Mississippi and taking with it hundreds of souls. It was in that horrifying moment that the pit in Clay’s stomach told him this was not going to be a disaster the world would recover from. A feeling that was reaffirmed when Yellowstone began to clear her throat.
“I tried calling her,” Smith continued, “but I could never get through. So, I grabbed all the food, supplies, and guns I could fit into my Jeep, and drove west as fast as I could.” Smith paused for a moment as he continued to battle against his quivering body. “I was about a hundred miles from Vegas when the roads started to become impossible to drive on. I kicked in the four-by-four and went off-roading, but after a while even that was no longer traversable.”
The anguish radiated from the man like a furnace. Clay could only imagine the torment Smith had been through in his life. Before and after the eruptions. It was far more than any one man deserved.
“I’m so sorry, Smith,” Clay said with heartfelt sincerity. “Two days after the quakes hit, my dad was one of the thousands of people who volunteered to fly out to the coast for relief efforts. Being a paramedic as well as fifteen years with the police, he felt convicted to go help out any way he could. He told us he’d be gone at least two weeks, maybe a month. But then he decided to stay an extra couple of weeks as things were just starting to settle down there.” Clay’s own eyes started to water up as he told his own depressing tale. “Yellowstone erupted a few days later and he, uh…”
Smith looked up at Clay and simply nodded. There was no need for further explanation.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room, which prompted Smith to stand from the bed. “Well,” he said as he walked toward Clay, sniffling away the last of his emotions, “let me set you up with a room for the night.”
Another night in the bathtub at the Screamer house sounded almost as appealing as the awful smelling concrete coffin Clay slept in last time. But much to Clay’s surprise, Smith turned right out of the door, heading away from the elevator. Clay followed him and they ended up in another bedroom like the one Smith stayed in.
“I imagine this will be a bit more comfortable than the piss-box downstairs,” he said with an unenthusiastic grin.
There was an actual bed, dry blankets, no chilly draft, and best of all, no toilet next to his head. Clay looked around and then over at Smith. “Yeah, this is great. Thanks.” Clay stepped inside and dropped his pack on the bed and sat down.
Smith turned around to leave, but came back to the door. “Please let yourself out in the morning. The code to open the gate is 513972.”
Clay was taken aback. “Why would you give that to me?” he asked, realizing Smith was making himself vulnerable by offering it to someone he barely knew.
Smith opened his mouth, but couldn’t speak. He tried again, but no success. Finally, he managed to spit out, “You earned it, Cowboy.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you, Clay,” he said solemnly. “I, uh…” he trailed off for a moment then cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Uhm, anyway, if you come back toward the end of the month, I’ll have your firing pin ready. It would be sooner, but I have a lot of things to take care of before then.”
Nearly a month without his rifle did not sit well with Clay, but he wasn’t about to berate the man for the long turnaround time—especially after the thrashing he took tonight. Clay was just happy to have a solution to the problem. “All right, that sounds good. I’ll be back at the end of the month, then.”
Smith turned and walked away with Chip loyally following behind, and a few seconds later Smith’s whooshing steps and Chip’s clacking nails faded into silence. Clay fell back on the bed with his knees bent over the edge. He looked up at the peeling paint on the ceiling and wondered how life might have been different had his dad returned home when he said he would. Would they have still been forced out of their home? It seemed unlikely they would have ever ended up in the tower, and even less likely they would have ended up in Northfield. But the most curious thought of all was whether he would have ever met Kelsey. The answers to all his speculative questions was an obvious no. No, they wouldn’t have been forced from their home; his dad would have stood his ground. No, they wouldn’t have ended up in the tower or at Northfield. And no, Clay never would have met Kelsey. And as much as Clay’s heart ached from recounting the stories from his past—which forced him to remember all the
losses he had experienced—he wondered if he would have changed anything. Kelsey was his wife and he loved her more than any other woman on earth—past, present, and future. So, he wasn’t surprised when he realized that, no, he wouldn’t have changed a thing about the past if it meant he would have never been around to hear Kelsey’s cries for help on that road three years ago.
Chapter 9
“I hope you have something for me, Arlo,” the well-dressed man said before striking a match and lighting up a cigar. Taking a seat on a bench just next to the back entrance of the office building he had temporarily claimed as his own, the man took a heavy drag on the tightly rolled tobacco, enjoying the temporary euphoric sensation as the smoke gently slipped back out of his mouth. “Because,” he continued, “we’re runnin’ short on time here.”
Arlo’s eyes locked to the cigar in the man’s hand; he wondered how he continued to acquire such luxuries so many years after society collapsed. It was both impressive and bothersome that he had the resources to waste on trivial things like bad habits, but such was the vanity of the man sitting in front of him. Suppressing his contempt, Arlo feigned a smile. “Yes, sir. I’ve had a team of scouts in the field for several weeks now collecting data on the location—everything is still looking good.”
“So why this town? From the sounds of it, it’s pretty well defended, and I imagine there are other places nearby that would put up less of a fight,” he said before placing the cigar back into his mouth to await Arlo’s reply.