WIPE (A Post-Apocalyptic Story)

by Turkot, Joseph

  “Shit!” she says. Her body wriggles, and then she jerks her head down. At first I think I’m caught—she knows what I was going to do, and it’s scared the hell out of her. That I’ve violated some sacred invisible line governing our friendship that I was supposed to know about, despite the fact that neither of us have ever mentioned it. But then, when she curses again, and it’s directed toward the ocean, toward her feet, I think she’s been bitten by something.

  “What?” I say, my imagined confidence and sexy tone wrinkled by quick-returning fear, ruining the voice I had planned to use after the kiss, to tell her how strongly I really feel about her, and that it doesn’t matter what she thinks about it, because I can’t stop my feelings. Because each passing day I realize my attraction only grows stronger. Reminds me that I’m living my own conspiracy.

  “The map,” she says. And then I know, as she raises her hand from the water, finished digging and grasping the soggy crumpled mess. It had nothing to do with me.

  “It’s ruined,” she says.

  “Shit. Well we know where the mirror is now, right?” I say, even though I already forget the way. And I would never be able to get us back there by memory. I try to hide my disappointment—not in the destruction of the map, but the lost moment, my chance to finally reveal my feelings. And as she starts to tell me about how pissed she is, and that turns into a plan for what we’ll do when we get back to Acadia—what we should say to the Fathers and all—I feel every shred of my confidence slip away again. My mind works back into its usual mode of defense and protection with each passing minute she talks, and any chance I had to tell her how I feel, fleeting and powerful as it was, is gone.

  Eventually, when the water begins to numb our bodies, we wade in and lie on the darkened beach. Everything is quiet and motionless except the waves and the wind, and an occasional call of some night bird, or the flopping branches of trees by the edge of the dunes. Finally I start to fall asleep on the hard sand, despite the gnawing urge to squirm closer to Maze. So that the chill wind blowing from the sea is a little easier to take, and so that I can share some of the warmth I know is radiating from her body. I sit up enough to look at the spot where the wolves are, sleepily trying to register their silhouettes from the trailhead. It’s almost impossible, but then, finally, I see them. The only reason I catch them at all is because they both stand up, as if they might walk back down the beach and try to catch us again. But they don’t. They just turn and head back into the woods.

  It runs through my head that we can go back soon if their leaving means what I think it does: that they’ve given up at last and are heading home to the fields near the Deadlands. But when I turn to Maze to get her opinion, she’s already asleep. Her eyes are closed and I watch her breathing, hoping she doesn’t wake to see me staring. It sweeps through me how dangerous it would have been if we’d both fallen asleep, side by side, like sitting ducks for the hungry wolves. They would have just stalked down quietly, making no noise at all on the softer sand, until they could bite down, right on top of us. But still, we’re so close to the edge of the waves that occasionally a bit of spray falls on my legs. They would never get that close to the water, Maze had said. And for some reason, I don’t wake her up to tell her that they left. It’s almost like I know she would want to risk the trail during the dark. Try to sneak back into town when everyone is sleeping. So instead of waking her up and going through the terror of a black forest and the fear that the wolves are just lying in wait beyond the edges of the path, I lie back down and decide to try to sleep too.

  The wind rolls in and the lapping waves start to lull me into dream space. Every few minutes, a strong gust blows over me, tunneling up my pants and burrowing under my shirt. I tuck the shirt in to seal off the wind channel along my body, but it still bites so much that I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at all. That I’m going to be stuck here all night, left to face the wrath of tomorrow—mother and the Fatherhood—on no rest. After another few gusts, I finally get the courage to pull my body closer to Maze. At first I think she’ll wake up, but she doesn’t, and I’m practically nestled right up next to her—as close as possible without accidentally touching her. I look up at the wide stretch of stars, the distant edge of the black forest, and then the moon-reflecting sea. And as crazy and scary as it is to be stranded overnight on the beach with Maze, there’s something beautiful about it too. Like there’s magic here, lying together with her. Just us, separate from civilization—heading into the consequences together, come hell or high water. Closing my eyes for the hundredth time, and twisting so that her body takes the brunt of the sea wind, I fall asleep.

  Chapter 4

  Maze wakes me up at dawn, before there’s even light on the beach. It takes me a few minutes to get all of my limbs warmed up enough to cooperate. But then, without any talk about how we’re going to handle what’s coming when we get home, we move out. Over the beach we walk in tired silence, and then up onto the trail. Once we’re surrounded by the forest again, and we pass the inconspicuous spot of woods that leads to the Deadlands, Maze says we have to ditch the knives now.

  “They’re long gone,” she says of the wolves.

  “Where’d you have these stashed anyway?” I ask her.

  “I’ll show you.”

  We walk through the densest stretch of pines until things begin to thin out again, and then, Maze steps right off the trail. She takes my knife from me and throws them both inside a hollowed out tree trunk.

  “They’re not going anywhere,” she says.

  In another ten minutes, we’re walking past Acadia’s gate, its first set of homes, and then onto the stone street that cuts through the heart of town. Right away, it’s obvious that we were missed. Faces look at us as if they’ve been waiting up all night, wondering where the hell we’ve been. As if the whole town has been suspended in a state of uproar over our disappearance. And it takes one of the Father’s seeing us to confirm my fears.

  When Father James sees us, and comes walking quickly to talk, I get the strange feeling he was one of the ones out in the Deadlands. But the truth is I’m not sure—I didn’t really get a good look at any of their faces. All I can do is hope that they didn’t see mine either.

  “Let me handle this—follow my lead,” Maze whispers to me just before he meets us by the fountain at the town square. I nod and take one more quick look around, watching just how many spectators we’ve managed to get at this early hour of the day.

  “We were worried to death,” Father James says, genuine relief and anger rolling across his face at the same time.

  “Father, it’s my fault,” Maze says.

  “Please, come to Head Chapel to see Father Gold. He’s been organizing a search party,” says Father James. And then, at once and without another word, he’s leading us along the street. I want to ask if my mother is okay, and if she’s very upset, but I don’t get a chance. Father James starts talking again, and he doesn’t slow down one bit. It’s as if we’re in a race against someone else to get to the chapel first.

  “I don’t know what happened. But I expect you to be entirely honest with Father Gold. Maze—that goes for you especially. Father has told me that you have missed your last three confessions of sin.”

  “We have nothing to hide,” Maze says, and as she’s about to continue, and offer an explanation of why she’s missed service and confession, and everything else she neglects, probably the same excuses I’ve heard a million times, little June runs up to us.

  “Go away June,” says Father James, brushing her off to the side of the road.

  “Maze—Wills! What happened?” she asks. She stands about half our height, and in her short nine years, she has shown all the errant signs of desiring to emulate Maze. For this, the Fathers have taken a poor view of Maze’s influence on the children of town, but Maze has never backed off. As many times as she’s been warned to follow God’s will in her conduct with her peers, Maze still speaks the brutal honesty the Fathers always avoid
. And just like that, in front of Father James, Maze steps aside and bends down to whisper something in June’s ear. June nods, as if she’s been given a very special assignment or secret or something, and then, looks at me and says that my mother is worried sick about me.

  “You’re going to have to cook up a good one this time, Wills,” she says, but Father James bats her away now, the idea of lying to one’s parent annoying him to no end. Once he’s successfully shooed her off, and June has finished with a quick wink at Maze and sped away down one of the lanes between houses, Father turns to Maze.

  “You know—I am one of the most...understanding…of all the Fathers,” he says. All of the sudden he stops us in the middle of the road. “But Father Gold is purer than me. And his adherence to God’s will approaches perfection more closely than does any other person’s in Acadia. I strongly advise you not to inadvertently worsen your sentence, whatever it will be.”

  I want to chime in, to defend her, to take the blame somehow, since I barely have any infractions against God on my permanent record. Insoluble Sins, as the Fatherhood records them. But Maze doesn’t let me—instead she kisses his ass.

  “I’m really sorry, Father. It was just about June’s birthday. We are planning something special for it.”

  “June’s birthday? Why, that’s in November,” he says.

  “It’s a very special event we have planned,” she says, and then turns to me, keeping her face rigid like stone—no sign of the usual Maze smirk.

  “Come, no more of this—Father Gold will handle things,” Father James says, and then, we go forward in silence until we reach the heavy wooden door of Head Chapel.

  Father James leads us through the red oak interior, along a shining floor where stone engravings and metal objects appear on the ceiling more and more the farther in we walk. And then, as the carvings and the statues of the minor gods and the saints and the prophets give way to the Heart of God—the very center of the service chamber—Father James instructs us to wait quietly for a moment.

  “I will make sure he is ready to see you,” Father says, and then, cutting away down a row between seats, he leaves us. I look across the wide and high chamber, a place I’ve been countless times, bored and frustrated and filled with judgment, listening to endless sermons about the Wipe, and the time before the Wipe, and the very ancient time when God directly communicated to all people. And how it was from those times—the times of direct communication—that the Fatherhood had gleaned the fundamentals of God’s will. Captured them in the scriptures that saved man after his hubris brought about the Wipe. Now, as if the memorization pops back in my head on its own, comes one of the tenets—God communicates through the Fatherhood, and through the Fathers we must seek God’s will. And from the Fathers, you will gain the power to carry out God’s will. The lines of bullshit roll through my head uninvited, and I turn to Maze and wonder if she’s thinking the same thing—mulling over the same nonsense that I am, contemplating what kind of jargon will be thrown at us when Father Gold sees us. What kind of punishment. But she’s distracted, and I notice that she’s watching someone.

  I follow her glance to one of the aisles and realize that someone is seated—a lone figure kneeling, head cupped in clasped hands. Maze turns to me and mouths the words in silence: your mom.

  Right away the spike of panic rises in my gut—because unlike Maze, I fear her wrath more than the Fathers’. As far as the Fatherhood is concerned, I already know that the biggest problem they have with me is my affinity for Maze. If I could rid myself of her company, until she is reformed at least, then I would be almost totally in line with God’s will. But my mother’s will…

  Even though I am of age—nearly old enough to earn the right to my own house in town, and work and keep all of my wages, she treats me like I am still sixteen. And when I wonder how it is she didn’t hear us come in, I realize why—she’s asleep. Right in prayer position. She must have been praying all night long that I come home safe. A wave of guilt courses through my gut, but my fear remains checked since she’s asleep. As long as I can get into Father Gold’s office before she wakes up. But then, as if in time with my nervous projections, Father James returns from the hallway. And instead of coming to us to tell us we can go in, he goes straight for my mother.

  “No, no, no,” I whisper to Maze.

  Calmly, she turns and whispers back, “This will all be over by dinner time. Remember that.”

  My mother wakes up, and then, when the words of Father James register on her face, and her back arcs up, her head spinning violently around the chamber, she cries out. Looking right at Maze and me, she almost topples over the aisles to get to us. Fighting her way out and then running up to me, she practically crushes my chest with a hug. And then, she looks at Maze. It’s the cold, loveless stare I know all too well. The only thing I truly despise about my mom, other than her firm and closed-minded conviction in the dogma of the Fatherhood.

  “You’re responsible for this,” she says to Maze. Maze doesn’t flinch, and just nods, waiting, knowing it’s not the time to argue. That she has to wait out the chastisement.

  “What’s it going to take before you learn, before you stop—endangering the lives of our loved ones?” she says.

  And I know the wording—our loved ones. Maze has only opened up about it a few times, but I know how much it bothers her. The way that everyone in Acadia sees her as something separate, a non-member of the community, because she wasn’t born here. Because she was brought in against the consensus of the townsfolk. And it was Father James, as old as he is, and closed-minded like the rest of them, who had made the case for her originally. That it was God’s will to foster her here in Acadia. Even as much as he’s come to regret that act of compassion over the past eight years, I can’t ever take that piece of respect I have for him away. But I hate that my mother treats Maze the same as the rest of the town, even though she is my closest friend. And now, even the Fathers have started to view her that way—the sin-minded outsider that the rest of town has silently convicted her of being. I know that Maze is so used to it now that it must hardly bother her anymore. Still, sometimes I wonder, even though I’m afraid to ask. And she just keeps nodding for my mother, and when she senses the rant is over, she speaks up to confirm that it’s true—to appease her for my sake.

  “You’re right. I will change. I can’t keep pulling Wills into my stupid stunts.”

  And then, before my mother has a chance to reject this placation, Father James signals to us.

  “Father Gold will see you now,” he says. And just like that, after one final squeeze for me and admonishment for both of us, my mother leaves.

  “I’ll see you at home,” she says in the worst kind of way as she goes. And all that crawls through my head is that I don’t ever want to go back home. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. That I want to ask Maze if we can leave—run away together. Get to the bottom of the mirrors and the tower and the Ark. Expose the Fatherhood for all of its chicanery and pseudoscience. But as quickly as the explosion of rebelliousness courses through my blood, it dries up when we get into Father Gold’s sanctuary.

  The walls are covered with metal relics—most of them are not only the kind that only Fathers can touch, as is the case for all metal, but the kind only a Head Father can touch. The most sacred and dangerous of metals. Gold and silver and polished steel ornaments. Some of them are swords, and some of them are relics from the ancient world—unrecognizable gears and shafts and rings. One looks like a pre-Wipe memory circuit board. Some kind of computer artifact that serves as a reminder of what true sin looks like. The Fatherhood has from my earliest years worked hard to explain their need to keep the forbidden objects so close to places of worship—let us keep close and in plain sight the sins of the past, lest they are lost to memory and destined to be repeated. The floors and walls are otherwise plain, a contradiction to the shiny and elaborate decorations and statues. Three high candles burn on his desk, and from the soft glow of t
heir light in the windowless room, he studies our faces.

  “Sit down,” he instructs from sagging jowls. The bags under his eyes look heavier than usual, and it again crosses through my mind the impossibility that he’s younger than Father James. But I know he is—I’ve been told by so many over the years. But everything about him looks skeletal—from his flabby skin, meshed with endless wrinkles, to his filmy eyes and his tired, ancient voice. Neither of us say a word. I want to look at Maze, to get some clue as to what lead I am about to follow, but I don’t. I know she’ll get it started, and I can pick up from there. Then, for almost twenty seconds, Father Gold scrutinizes our appearance. As if he’s divining what we’ve done from how we look. I think for a moment that we’re really fried now, because he knows that Maze has stolen the map. That she’s stalked his home at night and broken in. And he’s toying with us now, waiting to use his trap.

  “You have touched metal,” he says finally.

  “What?” says Maze, caught off-guard.

  “Both of you.” He pauses to analyze our reactions. “Do you deny it?”

  I think of the knives—but their handles weren’t metal. Still, we climbed the fences, and we turned the doorknobs in the Deadlands. We definitely touched metal—but how could he know? And it comes to me, after Maze finally responds to him, that he can’t know. There’s no way he can know.

  “I’ve never touched metal in my life. And neither has Wills. We spent the night on the beach. We shouldn’t have done it. There were wolves though, and we were trapped there overnight.”

  “At the beach?” Father Gold says, his face perking up at her admission of guilt. “You know that the beach is off-limits without the guidance of a Father.”

  “I know. It was my fault, Father,” she says. I think she’s done it—given him enough to get him off the idea that we touched metal.