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

by A. R. Shaw

  “Dane, calm down. She’s…going to survive. She’ll be fine…in time.” He patted her arm. “And since you noticed, you’re not waking in the county jail, so he survived, too. You nearly bashed his skull in, Dane. If he dies, they’ll charge you with his murder, but I don’t think we’re going to be that lucky. I know you tried but it’s likely not even a concussion.”

  Flinging her hand up, she said, “Least of my worries. I hope he dies. That bastard waited until our backs were turned to get to her. And she’s not fine! She’ll never be fine again. You’re not fine after that.”

  Sitting down beside her on the edge of the cot, Matthew said, “Yes, I get that. At least one good thing came out of this, though. I brought Tuck back with me this morning. He is fine. Because of this, he hasn’t even asked about how we got out of the fire. I guess our insubordination is safe for now.”

  “That’s good. You look exhausted. Go back to your tent and get some sleep before we pack up and leave.”

  “Oh, ha-ha, you’re gonna love this. I forgot to mention that the sheriff said you have to have a babysitter…guess who? Yeah, don’t glare at me like that. If you leave my sight, I have to turn you in, Dane. It took a lot of talking from me and Tuck to work that deal. We head back later today, and you have to stay right beside me, or else. So sleep off your hangover while I catch a couple of hours of sleep right here.” He went over to Rebecca’s abandoned sleeping bag on top of her cot and in a short time, he was snoring as Dane stared at the ceiling of the tent.

  A few minutes later, she rose up on her elbows while Matthew sawed logs in a maniacal drone. With her bandaged hand, she began to awkwardly unzip the sleeping bag when she heard, “Don’t even think about it,” from Matthew.

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “You’ll have to wait,” he said and went back to sleep.

  Dane, glared and shook her head. She might even have called him a name or two. But she really didn’t want to sit in a jail cell or risk more trouble for Tuck or Matthew. They were both good people and didn’t deserve what difficulty she might bring them.

  While she lay there with the company of Matthew’s snores, she couldn’t get Rebecca’s screams out of her mind, or the fact that Cal used distraction to get what he wanted. She hated him for it and hated what he did to Rebecca, but cunning he was, and using the advantage that they all had their backs turned to tend wounds, from exhaustion or, in her case, escaping past traumas with drunkenness, he got what he wanted. The twisted man got what he wanted. And as much as she hated him, he gave her ideas.

  16

  Kitty

  “Who’s going to stop them?” she called to the driver as he sped along the highway.

  “Them who?” he laughed out of the side of his mouth to his partner.

  “The…terrorists. The ones blowing up the pipelines.” She shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around what just happened. “That’s what they’re calling them, right? Even though they’re domestic. What happens now?”

  “They’ll take care of it,” the guy in the passenger seat said.

  “They who?” Kitty asked.

  “The…military or Homeland Security. The FBI,” he said as it just occurred to him, slapping his leg. “That’s who’s in charge of these things.”

  The ambulance driver looked at him and said, “I thought they took care of kidnappings and financial crimes.”

  “No,” Kitty said, “I mean…shouldn’t we do something?”

  He gave her a blank stare and shrugged his shoulder. “We go to the next call.”

  “Seems like we should all…do something.”

  “Like what? Put a Band-Aid on it? No, they’ll figure it out. Life goes on like normal. Nothing ever stops the gravy train, Kitty. It doesn’t matter who’s in office. It’s just another day.”

  Somehow Kitty didn’t think so. “Too much has happened lately, and now this. If we don’t have fuel…we can’t do our job. On top of everything else, this seems different.”

  But they didn’t hear her trailing words. By then another call came in and they sped down the highway while listening to instructions.

  “This can’t be the new normal,” she continued talking to herself. “Everyone’s gone insane.”

  17

  Dane

  Missing two on the ride back to Missoula, everyone in the truck was eerily quiet. Matthew drove with Tuck riding shotgun, his injured leg stretched out and bandaged, the seat in the farthest position back, and Dane sat silently behind Matt. In the third bench seat sat a few of the others, taking advantage of the lull to catch up on sleep.

  Periodically, she’d catch Matthew checking on her in the rear-view mirror, his eyes blue and longing, edged with concern. Did he think she was going to disappear suddenly? She’d glare back at him, but he didn’t budge.

  “Dane,” Tuck said.

  “Yes sir?”

  “You did the right thing back there. I would have done the same. Stopping short of killing him, I mean. Good job.”

  She didn’t expect that from him. She held her breath for a minute. “It wasn’t intentional, sir. The not killing,” she said and suddenly Matthew cleared his throat loudly and scowled at her in the mirror.

  “I mean, I just couldn’t stop myself,” she said to appease Matthew.

  The noise of the winding road through Montana took over for a while.

  Then, in a low voice, Tuck said, “Don’t you two think for a minute that I’ve forgotten what else you did back there. We’ll talk about that at a later time.”

  Again, the road noise rumbled beneath them. Dane occupied herself by picking at the backs of the bandages covering her hands. Blood seeped through the gauze on the right one. Her rock hand, she remembered.

  “We’ll rewrap those when we get back,” Matthew said, staring at her in the mirror.

  She rolled her eyes at him, thought about flipping him off but that finger…it would have cost her, too sore now.

  When they arrived, it was nearly dusk again. Clambering out of the truck, they were all stiff from the long drive. Inside the building, someone started dinner, but Dane had already nabbed her water bottle and settled into her bunk.

  “Hey, before you wall yourself off, let me change your bandages,” Matthew said.

  “I can do it myself, Matthew.”

  Shaking his head, he retorted, “No, you can’t. Knock it off, Dane. Seriously, I’m not screwing around. Your hands need to heal so you can get back to work; you’ll risk infection. You can’t go in like this. I’m not being nice to you. Your bandages need to be changed twice a day to heal right and you can’t possibly do it yourself. So stop being…such…a pain…in the ass!”

  “All right,” she said and swung her legs off the bed. He sat down beside her with a roll of gauze, tape and ointment. After he cut off the old bandages, he redressed her hands in silence. When he was nearly done, he said, “Dane, I don’t know where you’re getting the alcohol, but you need to lighten up a little. What if we get a call and you’re…incapacitated?”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?” She took another drink from her water bottle.

  “I’ve seen you at least twice now. You’re not all there.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay…all right then. Maybe it’s my mistake. Look, we all need to talk to someone sometime. I’m here if you need to vent. If there’s something you need to get off your chest, you can talk to me, Dane. I won’t tell anyone. Don’t keep it inside. That’s like poison.”

  She dropped her chin, “Seriously? Matthew, I’m fine. Please go be a hero to someone else. Not needed here. I don’t have any problems for you to solve. So this…is wasted on me. Thank you for wrapping my hands. I’m going to get some sleep now.”

  “Fine,” he said, gathered the supplies and trash and stalked away.

  Later, Dane woke, hearing the television news in the next room. Something more major than the normal chaos had happened or t
he crew would not have the volume blaring. That and she was starving, having skipped dinner earlier. In hopes they kept leftovers for her, she walked into the living room behind the strewn couches and chairs. No lamps were on; everyone was in their sock feet with only the glow of the television. Their faces were all glued to the TV. Matthew, her constant guard, didn’t even notice her standing there.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He looked up at her, somewhat stunned. “The insanity just went up five notches. Seems the government has declared martial law in ten major cities and the pseudo-peaceful protests have turned into guerilla warfare. There’s a protest in front of the White House now. A huge militia stormed the grounds. The military’s been called in. It’s all-out mass insanity. They’re calling them enemies of the state. Chicago’s on fire. Someone set off a bomb in Houston. Every oil refinery or operation has been locked down or set on fire, bombed or both. A passenger plane crashed in downtown San Diego. A couple ferry boats were sunk in Seattle. They’re calling it domestic terrorism so far. That private DNA database they have all of us on, became public suddenly. Food shortages are increasing. It’s like those films of people standing in lines during the Depression. The news can’t keep up with it all. Oh, and they reported that the president might be dead or in hiding. This has to be coordinated somehow. But other than that, did you sleep well? That’s what’s important.”

  Though her blood ran cold suddenly, Dane said, “Always the smartass. At least we classify as essential staff and don’t have to worry yet about food lines.” But in her mind, she was thinking about that DNA database and what chain of events that might cause. She wasn’t sure yet. She also thought about Chicago. She hoped a certain person died there today. “Any leftovers?”

  “Yeah, in the fridge,” Matthew said, shaking his head.

  As she went into the kitchen, she listened to the conversation going on.

  Matthew asked, “What does this mean for us, Tuck? We’re pretty remote here. Missoula and most of the Northwest, with the exception of the coastal regions—we’re pretty much isolationists by most standards.”

  Dane watched the chaos on the news unfold from the kitchen as she heated her leftover du jour in the microwave. By the smell, someone had made chili on one of the hottest days of the season. She didn’t mind though, even as her stomach simultaneously growled and made declarations of nausea.

  Tuck, with his bandaged leg propped up on the coffee table, raised his hand and pointed at the television. “Don’t count your blessings yet. See that screen there…Chicago? That’s next.”

  “They’re not sending us to Chicago?” Matthew said.

  “It’s that bad, Matt. We’ve got the planes and the manpower. They’ve got the inferno. Plus, the government is trying to prove they’re still in charge. A show of stability is what they’re after. They’re talking about bringing us in to help out. It’s a publicity stunt, if you ask me.”

  “We’d have to go in with firearms. Last I checked, that was against the law there.”

  “If they want their fires put out, they’ll send us in. I was briefed on this scenario last week. It’s a possibility.”

  “You mean, seriously, they’re sending us into cities now? We fight forest fires.”

  “They say we’re the last resort,” Tuck said as Matthew picked up the dishes in the living room and brought them into the kitchen.

  Dane pretended she didn’t hear their conversation and took her nuked food out of the microwave using the bandages on her hands as potholders when Matthew walked in.

  “Hey, don’t do that. Let me help,” he said and took the hot bowl from her.

  She huffed out a breath since she nearly had the bowl to the counter already.

  Ignoring her, he asked, “Did you hear that conversation?”

  She nodded. Inside her stomach clenched at the mere mention of Chicago.

  Meanwhile, Matthew pulled open the dishwasher door. Steam rose up into his face in a rush. Despite the volcanic heat of the serve ware, Matthew risked burning his fingertips by lifting the glasses, bowls, and plates, stacking them together on the counter first and putting them away into the cupboards. Then he lifted the flatware cage and dumped the contents on the counter all at once, where they clattered together in a metal ruckus.

  Why does he do it that way? There were quick stares even from the living room. No one said a thing. Dane shook her head slightly. The corners of her mouth lifted a tad as she took her food to the nearby table and positioned her chair so that she saw the television from the dining area. The others seemed glassy-eyed when she looked at them, the reflection of the TV screen glistening in their eyes. They should have all gone to bed hours ago but the man on the split screen kept them awake with the train wreck of the news day.

  “Here,” Matthew said and sat a glass of water down in front of the steaming bowl of chili along with two painkillers. “You probably need these.”

  What is with this guy?

  She did need them, actually. Her head ached and the news wasn’t helping, but the food felt good in her stomach. Ignoring him, she fixated on the television like the others and then the screen shot to the inferno that was now Chicago. Mesmerized, she saw buildings everywhere were ablaze. Shots of people fleeing in the night on bare feet through the shattered glass-covered streets. And then the screen switched to a coming news brief. A man in thin silver-framed glasses. Her hands trembled. She dropped her spoon. It clanked on the edge of the bowl. His dark hair and voice were unmistakable. She knew him all too well, since they were in grade school together for many years. She remembered him often in her nightmares, replaying the events that took place long ago. The chili lodged in her throat suddenly, causing her to cough.

  “Take it easy, Dane,” Matthew said and pushed her water glass toward her. She took it, but her eyes didn’t leave the television.

  “It can’t be,” she said to herself, studying his thinning hairline, second-guessing, not meaning for anyone to hear her words.

  “Can’t be who? Do you know that guy?” Matthew asked.

  Tuck yelled from the living room, “That’s that guy in Chicago they keep talking about.”

  “What do you mean?” Matthew asked Tuck.

  “He’s a modern-day success story. One of the few. Came from nothing and now he runs some company there, but he won’t spend any of his money. Nobody can figure out why.”

  “How do you know this?” Matthew asked.

  “I have a sister who used to live there. She’s says he’s rare. I mean, who does that anymore? At least have a nice car or something. He’s like that actor…oh, what’s his name? Keanu Reeves. He just lives a normal life.”

  “What’s his name?” Matthew asked.

  “Heck if I know. Something benign, like Philip or Patrick something.”

  But Dane knew exactly what his name was, and it wasn’t one of those. And even if his name was something benign, he was worse than any monster. He was an animal. Her hands began to shake at the memory and mention of his name. And then the screen shifted back to breaking news and his image was gone. He was forgotten to those who didn’t know him, but Dane could never forget him or what he did to ruin her life.

  Dane slid her spoon back into her chili, having lost her appetite, and went back to the kitchen. She’d seen enough. After discarding the remainder of the meal, spooning clods of thickened cold chili into the trash, and cleaning her dish, she felt the powder packets lined up in her pants side cargo pocket and took another water into the bedroom.

  Not long later, she sank into oblivion, thinking about recent events and how Cal used the chaos around them to get to Rebecca. He was an opportunistic rapist. The scum of the earth, but it wasn’t a bad plan. Hit when there’s a distraction. Get back at those who’ve done you wrong when they least expect it.

  18

  Kitty

  Nearing dark, Kitty blinked the relentless rain from her eyes even as she sat in her broken car driving home, soaking wet from running acro
ss the parking lot. Her back window, still covered in thick plastic sheeting, made the inside feel like a coffin. And the extra road noise made her feel as if she was driving around in a flimsy, wet, cardboard, coffin.

  Stopping off at the gas station on the way home after her shift for gas and to pick up a can of soup for dinner, she stalked under the neon lights of the dingy store after fueling up. Buying dinner, with a pull top, in the gas station convenience store on her way home was a new low. The aisles were all short enough for the cashier to keep watch over. She couldn’t bring herself to make another stop on the way home. As it was, the paper bag containing her can of soup was soaked through. When Kitty checked out, the dour-faced cashier gave no greeting and neither did she. She only accepted her change, not even making eye contact with the guy.

  She’d made one turn around the block of her apartment building but her usual spot along the street was taken. This little injustice sent her over the edge and she had to clear her eyes of tears before driving on in the hunt for an empty spot to park her car. Two blocks later, she had to hike in the pouring rain back to her apartment in a total daze, and the can within the sodden bag threated to escape at any moment. When she finally reached her door, she just stood there in the rain in her drenched windbreaker with a soaked paper bag in the crook of her left arm as she pointed her key fob at the entrance to her apartment building. She even pressed the rubber button twice, thrusting the device forward a little more toward the door. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she kept hearing Eleanor’s voice…replaying those events just before her blond hair was streaked with crimson again and again.

  In the distance she heard the beeping of her car’s locking system, but it wasn’t until the third time she realized she was trying to open her apartment building door with her car key fob. Mumbling a word she typically didn’t use, Kitty flipped her keys over and grabbed the right one, inserting it into the lock and opening the door. As she stepped inside the can, with a loud thunk, hit the floor, cracking a corner of the cheap ceramic tile in the entranceway. That word she never used came out of her mouth a second time, a little louder. Throwing the torn, wet paper bag away she said, “I’m probably going to have to pay for that!” She reached down, not for the can but for the broken triangle piece of tile, and slid it up on the half wall beside her, next to the little brown ceramic pig with three legs her father gave her years ago. “Maybe I can glue it back together later.”