The Day After Never - Perdition (Book 6)

by Russell Blake

  Campfires dotted the area where enterprising squatters had managed to find material with which to shelter the flames, but Ray had no interest in warming himself and commiserating with his fellow unfortunates. He had to figure out what he was going to do, and needed to get a sense of the camp’s mood before making his move. If it hadn’t been for Mary and Rosemary, he would have been long gone, but knowing they were inside the wall had kept him there, considering his options – which as of now were nil, as far as he could see.

  The bar was only a third full and the bouncers were clearly on edge, sporting weapons strapped to their backs and in holsters at their hips, their body language more ominous than at any time Ray could remember. He signaled to a mountain of a man who knew him, and the bouncer grunted and stepped wordlessly aside.

  “We only got wine, kid,” the bartender called out when he spied Ray. “And no telling when that’ll run out.”

  “That’s fine. How you doing, Carl?” Ray asked.

  “Same as ever. Wondering why I show up to work every night. You?”

  “Kind of freaked out about the town taking off and the Chinese showing up.”

  “Yeah, well, wasn’t like the townspeople ever cut anyone any slack, so how much worse can the Chinese be?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not sure it’s a great idea to find out.”

  “Whatever they’re doing here, it’s none of our concern. They want this shithole, they’re welcome to it.”

  “You hear the shooting earlier?”

  “Yeah. Sounded like it was pretty far off, didn’t it? Wonder what that was all about.”

  “Beats me,” Ray lied. “Any good rumors going around?”

  “You name it. When these losers don’t know what’s happening, they’ll make it up – you should know that by now.”

  “Did a lot of people leave?”

  Carl nodded. “Some. A few set off trying to follow the caravan, but that seemed like a poor idea given they said they’d shoot anyone tailing them. Most of ’em just headed south. Some toward Salem, some to Eugene. Not much to choose from.”

  “What are you planning on doing?”

  “Figure I’ll see how it goes. If things get squirrely, I’m out of here.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Carl’s eyes narrowed as he considered Ray. “I’m surprised you’re still here. You always struck me as one of the smart ones.”

  “There’s still some loot to collect. If I’m going to leave, I need as much barter as I can carry.”

  “Good point.” Carl set a chipped jar half filled with the local wine on the bar. “I was planning on taking off by the end of the week anyway. No more booze, no money. Not a bright future for the likes of me.”

  “You’ll land on your feet.”

  Carl shrugged. “Until the day I don’t.”

  Ray took a pull on the wine and made a face. Carl laughed and waved to one of the waiters, who was holding up three fingers. Ray carried his wine to one of the empty crates that served as tables and sat down, eavesdropping on the three men at the next crate, who were arguing loudly.

  “Screw ’em. What did they ever do for us? Good riddance,” one grumbled.

  “How do we know the Chinese aren’t going to come out in the morning and shoot everyone?”

  “Why would they? Somebody’s got to catch fish and carry water for them. That would be stupid.”

  “Why do you think they’re here?”

  “Who cares? They are. So we have to deal with it.”

  “Not for long. I’m bailing tomorrow.”

  “Ha! Where to? One hellhole’s as good as the next. Why leave?”

  “I heard that a lot of Portland headed to Salem. Maybe there’s some action down that way.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with that bunch.”

  “I know. But what choice do we have? Head to Seattle? Get real. I heard it’s even worse up there.”

  Ray debated joining the discussion but opted not to. It didn’t sound like the men knew more than he did about the situation, and he didn’t want to risk a fight – all three were pretty wound up. He listened to the back and forth for a while and then went back to the bar, where two new arrivals were standing, waiting for their drinks. Ray took a cautious sip of his wine and nearly choked – bad as it normally was, this was foul even by his low standards.

  He nodded to the pair, who returned the gesture and eyed him suspiciously. Ray cleared his throat. “You fellas just get here? Haven’t seen you around before.”

  The taller of the two grinned, revealing two missing front teeth. “That’s right. Just in from Portland way.”

  “How is it up there?”

  “We were lucky to get out with our skin. The bikers are clamping down on everyone, and people are dying like flies. Some say it’s the virus, others radiation from the river.”

  “But you weren’t affected?”

  The man shook his head. “We lived twenty miles south, just off the Willamette. Kept to ourselves. But we saw the effects. Bad news all around.”

  “Why come here?”

  “Just passing through.”

  “You picked a hell of a time.”

  “Yeah. We heard. We just ducked in to get out of the rain. Doesn’t look like there’s much here for us, so we’ll keep moving.”

  Ray exchanged a few more words and then moved to an empty corner, the outline of a plan taking form. If he were going to stand a chance of sneaking into town to see what had become of Mary and Rosemary, it would be easiest before the Chinese had settled in and while the rain was still coming down hard enough to reduce visibility.

  Much as he would have preferred to watch for some sign of the women from a safe distance, he would have to risk a final trip into town that night – by the following day, the weather might have cleared and the Chinese would have had a chance to get organized. So if he was going to find them, and hopefully free them if they were being held against their will, it was now or never.

  He finished his wine with a grimace and burped, the sour grog burning his stomach as he paid with a few bullets and made his way to the door. Carl called to him as he reached the entrance.

  “Stay safe, kid.”

  “You too, Carl. Stop by my place if you need anything.”

  “Yeah. Will do.”

  Ray pushed past the bouncers and stepped outside, gritting his teeth at the chill from the rain. Further along the shore, at least a third of the tents had disappeared since that afternoon, additional evidence of an exodus before the other Chinese shoe dropped. Ray pulled his jacket tightly around himself and frowned, leaning into the wind as he walked toward his place, his footsteps urgent on the wet gravel track.

  The crack of a pistol split the night from ahead of him, followed by another two shots in rapid succession. Cries of alarm drifted from the area, and he picked up his pace as he neared. A man he recognized looked up at him from his position by a tent, an ancient sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in his hand.

  “What happened?” Ray asked.

  “Couple of guys tried to rob Ben. He got the drop on ’em and shot ’em,” the man said.

  “Anyone we know?”

  “Nah. Couple of scavenger trash.”

  Ray gave no comment but glanced at the town, wary of the Chinese sending a patrol out to investigate. He increased his speed when he reached a group of squatters standing around two bodies, not wanting to linger at the scene of the shooting. Theft was rare in the tent city, or had been until now. Neighbors had looked out for one another, everyone equally dependent on the collective policing the camp. The shooting marked an ugly new chapter in the unfolding saga, the attempt to steal from one of the tent city stalwarts a sign of increasing desperation. If the rule of the gun replaced the relative civility that had been the norm, he didn’t want to be a part of it. A downward spiral into chaos was inevitable when force became the substitute for decency.

  He owed it to Mary and Rosemary to at least reconnoiter the town and see h
ow they were doing, but beyond that, the smart move was to head for greener pastures before morning light, which could well bring an entirely new level of ugly he didn’t care to see.

  Chapter 11

  Ruby sat with her back against the concrete wall of the jail cell she and the other women had been herded into. The room was black as pitch and the air dank, cold, and smelling of decay and mold. The memory of the Chinese soldiers methodically bayonetting the helpless wounded had shocked the women, and Rosemary had cried for an hour while her mother attempted to calm her. When the soldiers had half dragged them to the police station, Ruby had whispered to Rosemary to stop the histrionics lest she attract the kind of attention she didn’t want.

  Rosemary had taken the older woman’s words to heart and fallen silent on the forced march to the station, and remained quiet even as they’d been locked into cells, the men at the far end of the hall and two empty vaults separating them. One of the guards warned them in broken English not to cause any trouble or try to talk to each other, and that any violation of their orders would result in harsh punishment.

  Several hours passed, and when it had become evident that the Chinese guards were going to stay in the more comfortable main area of the station, Sylvia had dared a whispered discussion with Mary and Rosemary that Ruby had decided to sit out. The other two women, Sarah and Jessica, had been unprepared for the council’s evacuation order and lingered too long packing their valuables; now they were sitting near the bars, mute as statues, their shoulders slumped as they tried to snatch sleep under impossible circumstances.

  “What do you think they want with us?” Rosemary asked, her tone frightened.

  “No way of knowing,” Mary said. “They might just want to have everyone in one place until they figure out the town.”

  “That’s some wishful thinking,” Sylvia said. “They’re animals. You saw what they did.”

  Rosemary’s whisper was louder. “It was so cold-blooded. Mom, she’s right.”

  “Whatever happens, you have to be strong, do you understand, Rosemary?” Mary hissed.

  When Rosemary answered, her voice was tight. “Do you think they’re going to rape us?”

  “Don’t think like that,” Mary said.

  “Why not? Why pretend we’re not in bad trouble?” Rosemary pressed.

  “What good will it do to panic?” Sylvia asked. “Whatever happens, we’ll have to deal with it, same as ever.”

  “This is a nightmare,” Rosemary said. “And those poor men. All dead. And…Ben. They shot him like a dog.”

  “We were all there. I for one don’t need to relive it,” Sylvia snapped.

  Mary nodded. “She’s right, Rosemary. Try to rest.”

  “How can you say that?” Rosemary demanded. “I’m never going to be able to sleep again.”

  “At least try. We need our strength.”

  The steel door at the end of the corridor creaked open, and a flashlight beam played along the floor. Boots clumped past their cell. Four soldiers glanced at the women in the lamp’s dim glow and then continued toward the one holding the men. The chain the soldiers had used to secure the door rattled as they unlocked it, and one of the Chinese growled in fractured English, “You. Get up now.”

  A man’s voice echoed down the hall. “What? Why? What did I do?”

  “Up. You get up.”

  “I didn’t–”

  The sound of a truncheon thwacking against bone silenced the protest, and the women heard the sound of a body being dragged along the corridor. Rosemary’s hand flew to her mouth at the sight of two of the soldiers hauling a barely conscious man named Ed toward the main cell-block door. Blood streamed down one side of his head, and the toes of his shoes scraped tracks through the muck accumulated on the concrete floor.

  The heavy door slamming shut behind the Chinese rang like a rifle shot through the cells, and Rosemary’s words were terrified when she whispered to her mother, “What are they doing?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart…”

  “Shut up, unless you want to risk the same,” Ruby cautioned – her first words since they’d been locked up.

  “I–”

  Mary shushed her, and for a moment the only sounds were the patter of rain outside their high window and their breathing. A muttered conversation carried along the hall from the men’s side, and then that too faded, leaving the cell block silent.

  The first muffled scream of anguish through the station door was bloodcurdling, the sound more like a wounded animal than anything human. The scream abruptly ceased for several long moments, and then another howl echoed the first.

  “Oh, my God,” Rosemary exclaimed.

  Mary clamped her hand over her daughter’s mouth. “Don’t talk,” she ordered, her tone hard.

  They sat wordlessly as the screaming continued for what seemed like hours, and then the wailing stopped, leaving them staring at each other in horror in the dark. Sylvia cried out and quickly muffled the sound with her hand when something scuttled across her skin – a beetle or cockroach or worse – and leapt to her feet to pace the cell, her breathing a rasp.

  They waited breathlessly for the soldiers to reappear with Ed, but when they didn’t, the women fell into an uneasy trance, dreading the return of the guards and the unspeakable that was now their likely fate. Rosemary heeded her mother’s advice and stopped giving voice to her panic, and they sat in silence, visions of torture or worse vivid in their minds, the reality of their situation chilling as they waited for morning – and the atrocities the rising sun would surely bring.

  Chapter 12

  The drizzle had eased to a mist by the time Ray made it inside the town perimeter. He stuck to the shadows as he worked his way along the waterfront, past the wharf that at one time had hosted the commercial fishing fleet, long since sunk to the bottom from corrosion and the devastating effects of a half decade of winter storms. He had no particular destination in mind, no plan other than to start at the herb shop and work his way past Mary and Rosemary’s haunts, which consisted of the church and the hospital.

  He could see no reason for the Chinese to take the women captive, but then again he wasn’t sure of the end game, so he didn’t rule it out. His hope was that they were in hiding, not prisoners, but he was making no assumptions, preferring to assume the worst while remaining as optimistic as circumstances warranted.

  Wind and the last vestiges of rain dimpled the surface of the bay, the anthracite water churning from runoff and the swollen Columbia dumping into the ocean. He’d heard too many stories from new arrivals of the devastation in Portland to buy into the theories circulating in the tent city that the radioactivity was a rumor designed to stampede the squatters. That hadn’t made any sense to him, but he’d held his tongue when some of the dimmer bulbs opined that everything was a plot by the town council to run the refugees off the land – it wasn’t good for business to contradict willing customers, so he’d allowed the loud and the uninformed to speculate about improbable conspiracies that were more comforting than the obvious truth: that they needed to leave and do the work to find a new area that could sustain them.

  Ray slowed at a sound from ahead and ducked behind a stone wall that ringed a large old home just as a patrol of three Chinese soldiers appeared. An LED flashlight beam swept the street and the surrounding buildings as they clomped toward the eastern perimeter. He crouched low as the men passed, the only sound the crunch of grit beneath their boots as they made their round. When the light disappeared around a corner, Ray rose and continued west, estimating that he would be at the shop in under ten minutes if he proceeded cautiously.

  He took his time, sticking to the smaller streets once he was sure of the way, and hurried across the intersections, running hunched over as he traversed each junction, wary of any spotters in the darkened hulks of buildings. He paused at a familiar abandoned two-story house he’d used as a crash pad before he’d established himself in the tent city, and a small smile tugged at the corners of
his mouth. He’d come a long way since those desperate times and was now relatively prosperous by post-collapse standards, entirely self-made, having received no help from anyone.

  Ray entered the foyer and stopped just inside, listening. The regular tap of water dripping from a leaky roof mirrored the hammering in his chest, but there was no evidence of anyone else in the house. He took the rotting stairs two at a time and worked his way along the familiar dark central hall.

  The door to what had served as his bedroom for several weeks was ajar, exactly as he’d left it, and he exhaled in relief. Nobody had been in there for years, which didn’t surprise him – there was nothing to loot and no reason for the townspeople to spend time in a derelict dwelling that was collapsing under its own weight.

  He moved to a window and looked over the town, nodding to himself at the glow of lights from several of the buildings near the hospital; it was unsurprising that the Chinese had chosen the larger industrial complexes in that area for their headquarters – they were in the best repair. He made a mental note of the location of each of the illuminated structures and then made his way across the hall to the room that overlooked the water.

  Off in the distance beyond the mouth of the bay, he could just make out the Chinese ship with its brightly lit decks, the engines or generators supplying power in abundance. He hesitated at the sight, remembering before the collapse, when he’d taken for granted the electricity coming out of the wall or the gasoline that powered his motorbike – now as improbable to him as levitation or the sudden appearance of a unicorn.

  He shook off the melancholy that threatened to overtake him and muttered to himself. “No use crying over spilt milk,” he said, repeating one of his mother’s favorite expressions. The old days were as gone as any other bygone era, and there was nothing but the present for him, the future impossible to protect and anything but guaranteed.