by S. M. Shade
“Oh God.” His head drops into his hands. After a few moments, he looks up, shaking his head in denial. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. He said it was an unforgivable sin. Someone must’ve killed him.”
“Okay.” I’m not going to argue with him, or mention the chair tipped over just below his father’s feet. It was obviously suicide, but if it makes him feel better to think otherwise, so be it. “You should go see if there’s anything you want to take with us. Pictures, maybe?”
“Wait out here,” he orders gruffly and walks slowly into the house.
“Take your time, but Eric, for your own sake, stay out of the kitchen. You don’t want to see.” It’s nearly an hour later when Eric returns carrying a box of pictures and mementos. His face is impassive, but his eyes are red and swollen.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he replies shortly, placing the box in the rear of the SUV and slamming the door.
“Look, man, we can find a house and call it a day if you want.” He’s upset and overwhelmed, and I have no idea how to deal with him.
“I said I’m fine! Do you want to look for Abby’s brother or not?”
“Lead the way.”
He nods curtly and climbs into the driver’s seat. “It’s not far,” he mumbles, “maybe ten minutes.” I nod silently, taking in our surroundings.
I can’t imagine what this city must have been like through the height of the plague. It took less than two weeks to sicken and kill the entire population, save for a few lucky survivors such as us. Still, that seems to have been sufficient time for rioters to loot the city and demolish everything in sight. We pass a drugstore and multiple fast food restaurants, all with shattered windows. Eric pulls into the parking lot of a convenience store and produces a camera, quickly snapping a few pictures of the place.
“Abby will want to see,” he mumbles, when I stare at him in confusion. He gestures to the sign over the door that reads Village Pantry.
“V.P.” I murmur.
“It’s just a goddamn gas station, but it’s funny what sticks with you when you leave a place. This is the neighborhood she talks about, Airen. This is where she grew up.”
“She used to meet her friends here after school, or before if they were cutting class.” Picturing Abby as a teenage brat makes me grin. “She’ll hate to see it like this.”
“Actually, if you ignore the broken glass it looks pretty much the same as I remember,” he says.
“Jesus, she told me she grew up in a bad neighborhood, but I didn’t picture this.” Most of the houses and buildings we pass are boarded up or falling apart. Gang signs mar the buildings, and I can only imagine what the area looked like pre-plague. The sickness must have been a mercy to some of these people. Eric pulls off the road again and points to a small brick building to our right.
“Where are we?” The camera clicks as he takes a photo.
“You’re looking at one of Abby’s favorite places when she was a kid. Michigan Library.”
“This is where she used to come to escape her mother, and where she decided to become a librarian. Let’s go in,” I insist.
It’s the tiniest library I’ve ever seen. A narrow table that appears to have once held a few computers rests against the right hand wall. Five small round tables with wooden chairs and a cluttered desk complete the furnishings. To the left is a small children’s section that someone tried to brighten with a blazing red carpet. It’s pitiful.
The walls are covered in books. It seems no one considered them important enough to take. My heart aches as I imagine Abby here as a little girl, sitting at one of those tables with her nose in a book. This tiny, sad, broken down, inner city library was her escape. Her safe place in the middle of a war zone built of gangs, drugs, and poverty. I have to swallow the lump in my throat when I recall she was living on her own at the age of fifteen, although she was alone when she was far younger. I couldn’t have survived this with my family by my side.
“Who wrote A Brave New World?” I ask.
“Aldous Huxley,” Eric replies, locating a dog-eared copy and handing it to me.
“It’s her favorite. She has a copy, but…” I shrug.
“She’ll like one from here,” he assures me. “We should go.”
Eric guides us onto a four lane road, weaving between abandoned vehicles. “The apartments Brandon was living in are a few miles ahead. I can’t imagine anyone would continue to live there though.”
“Maybe he left something that shows he survived. I’m not expecting much.” I’m flipping through Abby’s book when Eric slams on the brakes, and I barely manage to avoid smashing my head into the windshield. “What the fuck!” I snap.
“No,” he whispers. My eyes widen as my gaze follows his. It appears we’re at the edge of a lake.
“White River,” Eric breathes. “The levees must’ve given. It’s all underwater.”
“All?” He climbs out of the SUV and walks to the edge of the water. His chest heaves as he takes a deep breath and turns, slamming his palms down on the hood.
“Yes, all! The whole fucking area!” he yells. “As far as we can fucking see! Fuck!” With his hands linked behind his neck, he stares at the muddy stagnant lake that has swallowed the neighborhood. “That’s the apartment building where Brandon lived.” A five story brick building stands a few blocks away, half submerged.
“I suppose we can mark him off the list. I doubt he’s in there doing water aerobics,” I remark. Eric shakes his head, overwhelmed by the day’s events. A cold misty rain begins to fall, a cherry on top of our stellar day. “Let’s get inside somewhere and get warm,” I suggest. “We can figure out what to do next.”
We back track a few blocks before turning onto a small side street lined with nearly identical houses. After dragging two mattresses into a small interior room of our randomly chosen refuge, we warm ourselves beside the kerosene heater and eat in silence. I feel like I should say something. “I’m sorry about your father.”
Eric glances up at me. “Thank you. I knew it was a long shot. At least I know he isn’t out there searching for me.” I nod and toss him the bottle of bourbon that somehow found its way into my bag. He accepts it gratefully and takes a swig before handing it back. “Brandon’s body could still be in that apartment. He lived on the fourth floor, and there’s no way of knowing when the flood occurred.”
“I suppose, but it’s unlikely.”
“I saw a boat in a garage a few blocks away. We could still check it out,” he offers.
We should, after coming all this way, but spelunking through a flooded building full of corpses isn’t exactly appealing. “Does Carson’s father live in the flooded area as well?”
“No, he’s on the south side of town.”
“All right. Why don’t we try the boat tomorrow, and then look for Abby’s ex afterward? Then we can get the hell out of here.”
“Sounds good to me. I hope there are life jackets on the boat. I can’t swim,” Eric remarks.
I cock an eyebrow at him. “You never learned to swim?” Taking another shot of bourbon, he shakes his head.
“I don’t really like water,” he mumbles.
“You don’t have to go with me, man. I can do it.”
“It’ll be safer with both of us,” he insists, wrapping himself in a sleeping bag and bedding down for the night. He’s doing it for Abby. I should be grateful. Instead, I’m pissed off. She doesn’t need him to play the hero. Swallowing the flare of irrational anger sweeping through me, I try to sleep.
Eric shakes me awake in the morning. “We need to go if we’re going to do this. It’s snowing.”
“Fuck. Next time, we go to New Orleans. It’s probably seventy degrees there right now.”
He snorts. “This is nothing. Another six weeks and it’ll be below zero. Get the fuck up.”
Luckily, the boat is on a trailer, and though the wheels are rotted, we’re able to tow it to the edge of the water. Eric finds life jackets
under the seat and we strap them on. It’s snowing like a son of a bitch, and the wind whips the water into a frenzy of choppy waves. Eric looks terrified.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” He nods and climbs in, holding on for dear life. A gust of wind cuts through me, finding every inch of bare skin and scraping it raw. It takes an hour to make it to the apartment building.
Tied to the railing, the boat sways precariously while I boost Eric onto a third floor balcony. I’m pulled up after him, and we break a window to get inside. It’s such a relief to escape the bitterly cold wind.
“You okay?” Eric asks, after we take a few moments to retrieve the sensation in our numb hands and feet.
“I could use a cup of coffee and a blowjob,” I reply, locking my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.
He smirks. “I’m fresh out of both. Come on, let’s see if the stairs survived.”
The interior of the building held up surprisingly well. We move slowly, testing the floorboards as we go. A rustling sound makes me take a step back when Eric opens the stairwell door.
“The fuck was that?” A shiver runs through me and the back of my neck prickles.
“Probably just rats.” The beam from his flashlight sweeps across the floor and up the steps.
“Wonderful.” Pitch dark, surrounded by water, and wading through rats. Not at all disturbing. We manage to make our way to the fourth floor without getting chewed on. “This is it. Apartment four D,” I murmur, forcing open the door. Staring around the tiny dilapidated studio apartment, it’s instantly apparent we’re wasting our time.
A moldy mattress and rotting sofa with no cushions take up most of the room. A small grease caked stove and mini fridge are tucked into a corner. The furniture is so tightly packed together I could have sat on the sofa and grabbed a beer from the fridge. There’s barely enough space to turn around in the bathroom. A grimy shower stall and toilet take up the entire space.
“Christ, I can’t believe anyone lived here.” I shake my head in astonishment, and Eric cocks an eyebrow at me.
“Abby lived here for a few years when she was a kid.”
“Are you shitting me?”
He shakes his head. “On the top floor. She said she used to sleep on the balcony when it was too hot.”
I don’t know what pisses me off more, the fact that Abby lived in such a place, or that Eric seems to know so much about her childhood. “Let’s go,” I bark. The stairwells are dank and dark, enclosed by mold streaked walls. When we open the door to the third floor, something sweeps by us in a dark blur. It almost looked like…
“Was that a fucking monkey?” I blurt, feeling like a grade A asshole.
“It’s possible.” Eric laughs while we sweep the hall with our flashlights. I’m really on edge now, just waiting on some creature to pop out at us.
“If you’re going to tell me that monkeys are indigenous to Indiana…” I warn.
Chuckling, he points to a wide white roof in the distance. “That was the Water’s Building, which was a part of the Indianapolis Zoo. The animals had to go somewhere.”
“Great, I’ll be sure to watch for tigers.” I shake my head in disbelief.
“Can tigers swim?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
An odd crackling sound is followed by Eric’s yelp as a section of the floor gives way beneath his feet. The top of his head drops below the spongy, mold covered wood before I can react, and a loud splash echoes through the room.
“Fuck! Eric!”
“Airen?” His voice, thick with confusion and edged with panic, floats up from the darkened hole.
“Eric? Are you all right?”
“I’m freezing…the water’s over my head…I can’t swim.” He’s losing it.
“You’re wearing a life jacket. You won’t drown. Calm down. I’ll get you out.” I have to figure out something fast. Between his panic and the icy water, it won’t take long for him to go into shock.
“Calm down?” His high pitched shriek is like an ice pick through my brain.
“What can you see? Is there a window? A staircase?”
“I can’t see my goddamned hand in front of my face! It’s pitch dark down here.” Okay, first thing we need is light. Jerking my pack off my shoulders, I dig through it, scrambling to find the military grade glow sticks.
“Airen! Oh fuck. I’m standing on something…mushy…I think it’s a body.” Tingles race up my spine, the hairs on my nape prickling at his words. He’s trapped in a pitch black room, submerged in filthy arctic water with God knows what floating around him.
“It’s not a body, Eric. Do you hear me? You’re standing on the back of a couch or chair.” The glow stick lights up quickly when I crack it over my knee. “Tell me you understand.”
Breathing hard, he chants, “It’s not a body. It’s a couch. I’m standing on a couch. Oh God…get me out of here.”
“I’m dropping a glow stick down to you. I need you to dial down the hysterical elderly woman act and tell me what you see.”
“I’ve got it!” he cries out, relieved. “I can’t see a window. There’s a doorway, but it’s barricaded with debris. Shit…there’s no way out.”
“Can you see where you fell through?”
“Yeah, it’s about five or six feet above my head.”
“All right, listen. Take your backpack off and find the coil of rope in the back compartment. Tie one end around your chest, under your arms. When I lower my rope, tie it to the end of yours. Tight, Eric. If the rope snaps, we’re screwed.”
“I outweigh you by fifty pounds. You aren’t strong enough to lift me.”
“Quit arguing and do it before you freeze to death, asshole. I can do it.” I hope I sound more confident than I am. Drywall has crumbled away from the ceiling, exposing thick wooden beams. I toss the rope over two that run side by side, tying the other end around my waist. After the floor gave, I don’t trust the wood to hold, but I don’t see much of an alternative.
“Ready!” Eric shouts.
A glow stick tied to the end makes the rope easier for him to find when I thread it through the hole. After cautioning Eric to move back, I tear at the jagged edges of the pulpy wood, expanding the hole so he can climb back through. Christ, I hope this works, and I don’t get jerked into the darkness with him.
“Okay!” I yell, grabbing the rope with both hands and taking a few steps backward. The beams groan under his weight, and the rope slips under my shirt to rub a band of fire across my back, but I keep moving. One step at a time.
“It’s working!” he calls. “Just a few more feet!” I’m breathing too hard to answer when one of the beams supporting the rope snaps in half, nearly jerking me off my feet. It feels like someone is pressing a wire cheese slicer across my back and under my arms. “Airen!”
“Hang on!” Two more steps back, I turn from the hall into an apartment, letting the rope brace against the doorway, taking a little of Eric’s weight.
“Almost! I can touch the edge!” he calls. Every muscle in my body screams in pain, my head thumping in sync with my racing heart. Despite the freezing temperature, sweat rolls into my eyes. I hear the scrabble of fingers on wood a few seconds before the weight lifts from my body, and Eric yells, “I’m out! Where the fuck are you?”
If he doesn’t shut his hole, I’m going to shove him back in the water. “Having a drink on the beach,” I shout. Any further attempt at humor dies on my lips at the sight of him standing in the hall, trembling and white as a republican. Adrenaline has gotten him this far, but if we don’t warm him up, hypothermia is going to set in. “Get those wet clothes off. I’ll find you something to wear.” He follows me into an apartment, stripping off his shirt and jeans as he goes, putting the wet life jacket back on his pale chest. “Leave it off. You have to get dry.”
“N-no, I’m not risking another rotted floorboard. Blue lips pressed together, he sits on the floor, his knees drawn up tight. “I feel dizzy, my heart’s trying
to beat through my chest.” His breaths come faster until he’s almost panting.
Fuck. “Take it off. I’ll give you my dry one.” He fumbles the straps with clumsy fingers until I kneel beside him to unfasten it. I pull a dusty blanket off the single sized bed in the corner, wrapping it around his shoulders. “Stay put. There’s bound to be clothing here somewhere.” After raiding three apartments, I’ve collected a pair of sweatpants, socks, and a knitted winter hat. The only sweater I can find will never fit across his wide chest, but I can wear it, and give him my oversized sweatshirt.
When I return, he’s wrapped tightly in the blanket, his eyes drooping as he tries to nod off. “Wake the fuck up. I found you some clothes.”
“Can’t move,” he murmurs.
Jerking my sweatshirt off, I quickly pull it over his head, topping it off with my lifejacket. “You have to stand up. I’ll help you.” Even with my arms supporting him, standing is difficult. “Lose the boxers. They’re soaked. I’ve got some sweat pants.” Fully dressed and wrapped again in a blanket, he sinks back to the floor. I’m never going to get him out of here at this rate. Taking him back across the flooded area in the snow and wind is out of the question until I get him warm.
Another ransack of the pitiful apartments produces two more blankets, some pots and pans, and a half empty can of instant coffee. A rickety dining set is demoted to firewood. It breaks apart easily and I stuff the wood along with some dusty newspaper into two long metal roasting pans. Within minutes, two fires brighten the room, throwing patterns on the peeling walls.
“How are you?” I ask, moving one pan on either side of him, surrounding him with warmth.
“Okay,” he mutters. He’s barely speaking, and it’s freaking me out.
“You’ll feel better soon.” All the running around has at least kept me from feeling the cold. “I’d better not hear any more shit about my survival bags after this. We’d be screwed without them,” I grumble, digging out two bottles of water, a large jar of peanut butter, and a baggie of deer jerky. The water goes into a small saucepan over the fire until it boils. Adding the instant coffee granules, I stir it up, and carefully pour the hot coffee into the water bottles. “Voila,” I announce. “Shitty coffee. Drink. It’ll warm you up.”