A. R. Shaw's Apocalyptic Sampler: Stories of hope when humanity is at its worst

by A. R. Shaw

  Secretly, she and Eleanor knew that Roland always started work high as a kite. He claimed he drove and responded better that way. Eleanor and Kitty had their doubts but, so far, he’d performed well enough and she wasn’t about to nark on him. They needed him, high or not, and though she’d learned to cope with meditation, Roland had his own vices to stave off work stresses.

  “What exactly is the call? We couldn’t hear with the music up,” Eleanor asked.

  Kitty suspected she tried to purposely change the subject from politics…that was never a good way to start the day. Once they knew what scenario to expect they could get their equipment prepped on the way.

  “Three guesses. Here’s the first hint. Put your vests on,” he yelled back.

  “That’s not a hint. We always put our vests on now. School shooting?” Eleanor asked with dread in her voice since they were headed north on 77 toward McKinley High School, but Kitty didn’t think that was right. He wasn’t slowing to take that exit. They waited for his answer while he maneuvered through traffic, each of them swaying as the vehicle swerved this way and that.

  “No, McKinley’s tomb and museum.”

  “What?” both Kitty and Eleanor said in unison, their jaws hung open.

  “All hands,” Roland said.

  “Why would we need vests there? It’s probably a heat exposure case, right? Like a lot of them?” Eleanor said.

  “No…kids…it’s field trip day. I hate it when it’s the kids,” Kitty said and Eleanor looked at her, drawing her eyebrows in together so they nearly met like a long blond caterpillar.

  “Nothing else to do but get ready. Get your vests on now. We’ll be there in three. Active shooters.”

  “Shooters as in more than one?” Eleanor asked. She was always the chatty one, even in the face of mayhem.

  “Yub, yub,” Roland said.

  They did this…just before the chaos started. Eleanor asked silly questions and Roland responded in kind. It was a thing between them. Roland knew she needed to chat. He also knew that Kitty needed silence. To draw into herself, to gear up, gird her loins, and get ready for the crimson blood’s flow…and that damn sticky texture between her fingers by the end of the day. The sight of it would stay with her…never leaving. It never mattered how many times she changed her gloves, she still ended up with someone else’s blood in the creviced webbing of her hands by the end of the night. And during her sleep, she’d inevitably wake up trying to unstick her fingers glued with the dried blood she imagined there still.

  “Nearly…there. Let’s do this,” Roland said, turning the corner, and suddenly slowed as a black Lab darted across the street in front of them as if running for his life. After that, they also heard the shots in the distance as they drove through a grand neighborhood of times past.

  “Okey-dokey,” Eleanor chimed in, bouncing up and down, her long blond curls bobbing in unison with the bumps in the road.

  When Kitty first joined this team, their chatter used to bother her, but now she welcomed it. As they talked, Kitty mellowed out her breathing and tried to calm her pulse, drawing strength from within.

  The persistent shots increased in volume and time as they turned the next corner down the long oval landscaped drive; however, Kitty thought they must have called every vehicle equipped with a siren in all of Stark County at once. The typically tranquil museum and tomb monument cascaded in red and blue emergency lights. People ran across the immaculately landscaped lawn within the oval drive. Orange school buses lined the tip of the oval before the 108 stone steps leading up to the monument’s door. And what sounded like firecrackers lit on a string pierced the reverent silence.

  The shots came from above, near McKinley’s tomb. The shooters having the advantage of the hilltop, the rest of them were all sitting ducks.

  Kitty couldn’t believe her eyes, as they lifted beyond the chaos and up the long concrete stairway up to the dome of McKinley’s tomb. Not here! You can’t do this here! Like a mother to a naughty brood, she wanted to scream at them in outrage, This place is sacred! What the hell are you doing?

  There were lights and sirens coming from every which way. The shooting never ceased. Then suddenly pings off the metal side of their own ambulance as the gunmen tried to isolate the buses full of children away from the rescue crews. And because of earlier that morning, Kitty threw herself onto the floor of the ambulance, envisioning the gunman from before, only Eleanor wasn’t as fast. Eleanor looked for the shot’s direction, much like Kitty had done herself earlier that morning. She’d reached for Eleanor’s hand to pull her down but never quite touched her friend’s fingertips in time before the side window shattered and her friend’s head jolted hard in the other direction. “Eleanor!”

  “Get down,” Roland yelled but he didn’t know that he was also too late. Eleanor was already down. He turned then, behind him, to see why Kitty screamed. And there was Eleanor near the back of his seat, her blond locks covering her eyes and staining crimson.

  “Kitty! Now…help her now! Stay down,” Roland yelled. His voice cracked as he threw the ambulance into reverse, but as Kitty grabbed for Eleanor, they crashed into something behind them and the next second, Kitty flew backward into the ambulance doors. Though she only recalled that later on, afterward she was told that not only did Eleanor die, but so did Roland.

  As pings of bullets rattled through the ambulance Kitty, still in shock, opened the right-side door and kept low to the ground, sliding out to the muggy hot driveway. With her head pounding and a fierce ringing in her ears, she felt a liquid running down her forehead and before it reached her eye, she caught the ooze with her left hand, held it out before her and saw the red blood from a cut somewhere near her hairline. Only then did she feel the stinging pain. But at the time, that didn’t matter at all.

  A young boy, about ten years old, all knees and elbows, wearing neon orange swim trunks and a white t-shirt with black Nike flip-flops darted between two ambulances. When his eyes met hers, he ran north toward McKinley’s tomb, right toward the gunfire, like a scared rabbit.

  “Stop! Wait!” she screamed but he didn’t listen. She ran after him as shots pinged off emergency vehicles. She nearly leapt over a gunned-down fireman as the boy weaved his way through the vehicles. “Kid, not that way!” But he paid her words no heed.

  As they neared the end of the oval drive, closer to the gunman, Kitty knew she’d have to catch him now or they were both heading right into direct line of fire in the coming seconds. She somehow neared him and stretched her arm out for the back of his t-shirt neckline and noticed, in that split second, the wire extending behind the curve of the back of his ear, tucked neatly behind his hairline. When she finally looped two fingers through his t-shirt neckline, she swiped the boy to the ground hard and covered him with her own body instinctively, but he fought her still. With a few shots fired just before them pushing up mounds of the neat lawn, the boy scrambled backward, shoving Kitty as he did. The boy saw the sudden impressions in the ground and Kitty yanked him several feet south and then the boy saw the fear in her face. He finally understood and together, she and the boy took cover back the way they’d come, over the downed bodies, away from the terror.

  She didn’t remember handing him off to the policeman; she only recalled that he clung to her side, shaking, and she to him, life to life in unfathomable circumstances. He wasn’t injured but he was scarred just the same.

  Days later, transfixed to her television, Kitty was home with only the glow reflecting off her eyes. The low mutterings came from the volume in a soothing cadence as she lay on her couch with the remote hanging loosely in the palm of her hand. Every now and then, she used her thumb to press rubber buttons of the volume up or down, depending on who was talking. Some voices she found irritating, while others droned on soothingly. With barely a scratch on her, she couldn’t believe she’d survived when so many had died the day before. Her head still ached but there was no real damage. They made her go home in spite of needing everyone
on staff. Stunned into silence, she only nodded and left. She didn’t even remember driving herself home that evening. In shock, Kitty stood in the shower, not crying, not sobbing, but literally screaming out, breath after breath, as the water turned from scalding to cold, and she finally found herself lying on the shower floor, worn out. She shivered in bed naked that night. Sleep came and went. One living nightmare after the other visited her dreams, though they were really only recent memories.

  From the television, the TV journalist said, “The militia states…they’ve kidnapped the school children and want their demands met. So far, over eighty-seven emergency aid workers, essential personnel, were gunned down either escaping the hail of bullets or trying to thwart the plot of the militia. They’re threatening to kill a child every hour on the hour starting at midnight. Many of the volunteer parents, police officers, emergency services and park staff were killed on sight. It remains a fluid situation.”

  “What are the demands?”

  “The police have yet to release the list of demands.”

  “Thought we stopped negotiating with terrorists.”

  “Seven busloads of children from the ages of six to twelve—how can this happen?”

  Shaking his head, the guest said, “We’ve allowed society to crumble through tolerance. We’ve forgotten how inhumane man can be. Children are soft targets, and no one has taken the safety of our most vulnerable in schools or elsewhere seriously at all. They’ve only argued or championed the gun rights issue and yet airports are so protected, we argue our civil liberties are dropped at the door. But nothing to protect children. If you were just walking into this, you’d find this an issue of insanity. How many need to die before we take our most coveted possession in this world seriously in this society? Ill intent, in any form, goes for the path of least resistance to commit its crime. And by ill intent…that means anything. We now feel we can cause pain for any slight. Any perceived injustice. There’s nothing logical about how we got into this position. It’s all about greed, manipulation and violence. And that only describes the lawmakers.”

  Kitty changed channels then. Politics was always a loathsome topic for her and that’s all there was on the news, that and mayhem as a fire blazed in Chicago. Entire buildings along the Magnificent Mile were on fire. Set, apparently in protest. “All those stores…at least it wasn’t a residential area.”

  Mob boss unions make good on threats to set fire to Chicago

  “God,” Kitty said as two children, six or seven, clung to one another as they fled down the street, their blackened silhouettes bobbing like shadowed marionettes against the flames, their sleeves over their noses. Sisters, Kitty decided. “Run, babies,” she whispered desperately at the television, wondering why the hell the cameraman didn’t put down the camera and help them. Then she remembered there were many hotels and upper-class condos building in that area, though Kitty had only visited Chicago once during Saint Patrick’s Day years before.

  An image of Eleanor and Roland flashed through her head. She knew she shouldn’t watch the children on the screen, fearing the worst, but she held out the remote again. She was tempted to change the channel and then tempted to remain on the same station as she watched the events unfold. Finally, someone in a fireman’s getup corralled the girls and pulled them away from danger as the cameraman continued to film the disaster. Her heart rapidly drummed as the remote shook in her hands.

  “Someone did this on purpose, for demands not met. They’ve murdered countless individuals. Chicago is held hostage by thugs posing as civic leaders. Look at this.” The reporter’s voice cracked. “They’re making…orphans of American children in the streets today. Way to go!” As the harsh camera lights reflected off the reporter’s reddened face, his grief turned to rage. Reporters were not supposed to show bias, but Kitty didn’t see how that was possible. He was human at least.

  Tears streamed across the bridge of Kitty’s nose and down onto the pillow below, a steady stream of them, until finally she pressed the rubber mute button on the remote and closed her eyes.

  13

  Dane

  It seemed as if half the working life of a firefighter was waiting around in dank waiting rooms of hospitals. It was depressing. Dane picked at a knot on the arm of the dirty beige upholstery of the couch she sat upon. A balding man in a lab coat down the hall, looking as if he’d just read an economics textbook, headed right for them with a clipboard in hand. They stood. His nametag read ‘Dr. Barber.’ “He’s going to be fine,” the doctor said with a sudden smile. “Mr. Johnson has a minor concussion and we’ve treated the burns. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation, but he should be released tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What about the others?” Matthew asked.

  “We’ve already treated and released those from your unit. There were a few burns and scratches. I’d say you guys were damn lucky. You can head back to camp now. We have your number if we need you.”

  Matthew reached for the doctor’s hand. “Thank you.”

  “I’m just doing my job, like you do yours. You guys be careful out there.”

  Dane reached for the bag of belongings the nurse handed her as they were leaving. The donated shirt she wore had too-long sleeves that hung well past her hands. She and Matthew were both bequeathed clothing from the hospital bin just to get home in. Many of the other stragglers from the fire roamed the hospital and were also wearing castoff items in uneven sizes, as if they were refugees in a third world country. She didn’t mind walking around in her skivvies, but the stares were annoying and near nakedness seemed to bother Matthew. Once everyone’s fight or flight sensation had calmed, humanity brought back appreciation for the female form. Matthew had noticed too but now he was too busy scratching where the clothing irritated his skin to notice.

  “Let’s go. I think my new threads have fleas. I need to change,” he said as they headed out from Kootenai County hospital to their camp set up in McEuen Park. As they drove through town, the lake and surrounding area looked as if they’d been bombed. No longer were the evergreens framing a picturesque lake scene. Once Tuck was ready to head back, they’d leave Idaho for him to recover from his injuries and drive back to Missoula, Montana, two and a half hours east along highway 90, where they would rest for the night and rotate back into the flames if needed. Already, after seeing the devastation here, she knew the drive home would look like a war zone. They’d already served their two-week rotation and another team would take their place for now.

  “It’s a good thing they got out when they did,” Matthew said as he watched the scenery through the window.

  His tone meant something more. She knew he was testing her. He wanted to know if she had the empathy trait. She’d shown that with Tuck but didn’t mean to. And though she had Matthew fooled, she tripped up with Tuck, so he tested her again.

  “They survived,” she said as she parked the truck.

  “We…almost didn’t survive, Dane. By all the rules in the book, we should have left him there. You took chances you shouldn’t have. And he’s going to want to know why.”

  “Wait, you came back after me and didn’t leave when I told you to. You’re the one that didn’t follow the training.”

  Throwing his hands in the air, he replied, “Neither of us followed training, Dane. I’m asking you why.”

  She opened the truck door. “Look, report me if that’s what you want to do. But you’ll have to implicate yourself if you do. And what are they going to do, fire us? There’s too much work to do and no one’s crazy enough to do this but us.” She slammed the door but then noticed her hand trembled. Already she was thinking of how long she’d have to wait for the next drink…just a little relief from the craziness of the day.

  “Dane, we saved his life. But I’m telling you, we better get everyone to agree on a story here tonight and stick to it, or he’ll have all our heads, even though we saved his life. I don’t think he’ll be happy about it, if you know what I mean.”
/>   “I…defied orders and saved his life. You just helped me. Let’s get that straight.”

  When Matthew dropped the bag on the ground, dust puffed up. “Dane, dammit, you are such a pain in the ass. You know what I mean.”

  She just walked on, ignoring him entirely. There was only one thing on her mind then, and she needed privacy to do it.

  By late afternoon, the sun blazed down. They set up camp, tended wounds, and kept track of the news. At sundown, the townspeople provided free food and music to enjoy. Coeur d’Alene, Idaho was always a tourist draw in the past, but after the devastating fire, it was obvious it would take work to get the town back to the gem city of Idaho it once was.

  She and Rebecca shared a tent, which Dane didn’t mind because Rebecca was relatively quiet and didn’t snore as much as the guys. As the day turned into dusk and the firefighters mingled around the camp eating and drinking, Dane took advantage of the distraction and went back to the truck. On the way, a woman suddenly screamed. Dane crouched down in the dark and turned quickly. Her pulse raced. “That’s not me,” she whispered to herself. Then the same voice screamed again, followed by laughter. Standing, Dane continued, shaking her head as she tried to calm her racing heart.

  Matt would have questioned her motives earlier, but since Matt wasn’t around now, she pulled out her personal pack from the others in the back of the truck and reached inside the side pocket, pulling out a stash of vials of the powdered drinks. The fancy labels were written in cursive in pastel colors: tequila sunrise, lemon drop, Manhattan or screwdriver. She no longer paid attention to the variety of flavors like she once did. At one point, she convinced herself that she preferred the screwdriver over the mellow lemon drop. The flavor didn’t matter now. Had they written Alcohol across them in black and white in plain government text…that was at least honest and that’s all she wanted. Honesty and relief. Only she knew honesty was a long shot in life. That would never happen.