The October Light of August

by Robert John Jenson

  “That easy?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know better than that. Garland had a bunch. Monroe seemed to have a bunch. Sometimes you just have to flat out run through them. Knock them down if you have to, but decide when it's worth wasting the time to take them out, and when to leave them be. Just don't stop.”

  “We made it out of the Tri-Cities, we can do this,” she stated.

  “Yeah,” I said softly.

  We packed up our gear methodically. I noticed Lori had changed her t-shirt. It was now an amber color, with Jake the Dog's face on the front. The idea of it being clean and fresh was unlikely of course, and the point mystified me. Maybe it was a routine that helped her cope, something a guy wouldn't think to do. At least I hadn't. I hadn't thought to bring any deodorant, and I hadn't used any in some time, afraid it was a cue the dead could use. Jesus, I must have reeked.

  Ashley's pack seemed almost as big as she was, but maneuvered it onto her back with practiced ease, and had no trouble with the telephone pole ramp. I went down first, of course, spear in hand. We trekked across the lot, through weeds and rocks as it sloped gently down to Stevens Street. We stopped just short of it, using a building to block the view from Boone and the infestation in the parking lot there. Lori jerked her head towards a tavern across the street.

  “That was a fun joint sometimes,” she said. I looked at her skeptically.

  “You were old enough to get in there?” I asked.

  “There's a will there's a way,” she said, and smiled.

  We stood silently for a while, shifting and adjusting our packs.

  “Well...” Lori began, but I interrupted her.

  “Look, I have some stashes up there you can use,” I said, and proceeded to give them the locations of my mom's house, the garage off of Post, my hole in the ceiling in the bank building and even the stash on the roof.

  “You take what you need,” I ordered.

  They both fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “Seriously,” I said. “And pay attention to the crows – I mean it. They can help.”

  “You are still insisting on heading that way?” Lori asked, and tipped her head to the south.

  “Yes.”

  “Dude. Why?”

  I couldn't think of anything witty to say, so I just shrugged. I knew I had to distance myself from them. If they hadn't jumped onto that rooftop, I very well may have turned tail for home that night. I couldn't now. They seemed capable and smart, but I felt in my gut associating with them any longer would only lead to more grief. It was cowardly, but I didn't care. I would rather get ripped to pieces than face another loss. If there was any architect to the universe, I hoped he, she or it could transform any bad luck of their's into mine. I guess I decided the sisters weren't hallucinations after all.

  “Okay then,” Lori said.

  “You guys go on ahead, I'll hang back here a bit and make sure you aren't tracked.”

  “Artie,” Lori started, but I waved her off. We studied each other, then she jerked her head in a quick nod. There would be no hugs or handshakes. It wasn't that type of world anymore.

  “You take it easy then,” Lori said.

  “Bye,” said Ashley.

  They turned and trotted down the slope and then up Stevens. I followed in a few seconds, and looked south. None of the dead were paying attention. Before they turned west on Sharp, Ashley turned and flashed me the peace sign. I waved, and watched them retreat until they disappeared behind a building.

  I turned, and jogged towards Boone. I stopped across the street from the mob of dead, and struck the end of my spear against a stop sign. I didn't want to make too much noise, afraid the sisters would hear and wonder what the hell I was up to. I hit the sign again, and shoulders and heads turned in my direction. I struck down a teenage boy coming in to my right, and grinned.

  “Come on you fuckers,” I said, grinning wildly. “Let's have us a merry chase.”

  And I began to run west, with the dead following me.

  The Monroe Street bridge was gone. So was the Maple Street bridge. Jagged chunks of concrete and twisted rebar jutted out over the river channel. New rapids frothed and foamed over the remains that had fallen into the water below, redirecting the river into wide pools flooding Peaceful Valley. Wow, I thought. They were serious.

  The river looked like it was running higher than normal for this time of year. I didn't think we had all that much snow pack for runoff this season, and I wondered about the lake level in Idaho. How all that was controlled upstream – used to be controlled - I didn't know, and I could have been been fooled by the pieces of the bridges redirecting the river. But it looked to me as if the river was flowing unchecked. Perhaps it had been a strategy of the south side – get that river flowin' as high and as wild as we can, boys!

  I didn't dawdle to observe too closely – the dead kept me fairly busy. I followed the river from above, and would send any of the dead in my way over the bank towards the water. I drew a substantial crowd from up by the arena, but they were generally broken and tired. If I had known how bad of shape they were in, I might not have been so fearful of them – and of course that would have been a very dangerous mindset to have. I encountered a few that would have given the sprinter a run for his money, but they tumbled down the bank too.

  I hoped I was drawing them away from Lori and Ashley. I spent most of my morning taunting the dead, slashing away with my spear. I rarely wasted any time on a kill. Take out the lead dead guy, and ones behind him would usually trip right over each other. The ones bright enough to go wide I could lure to the edge of the embankment and down they went. What I sent over the bank was a fraction of what was already down there, twisting in the brush and clawing at the soil. I wondered if they had been swept away upstream and deposited there. Were there dead buried in the muck, digging their way free? Various vehicles dotted the hillsides and poked from snags at the river's edge. Much of the winter and spring runoff had surely taken the spoils of war downstream, but there was plenty evidence left of what had happened along the river to make you feel ashamed of your hometown.

  When I thought I had wasted enough time - hopefully creating a trail of dead playing follow-the-leader - I picked up my pace along the river bank. Traveling farther west, the neighborhoods retreated behind fenced-in brownfields (piles of rubble and weeds left from the bustling railroad days, more than likely) and less dead came to join the fun. Condos had been in the process of being constructed in the empty fields, looking like a new type of invasive species, monotonous in their takeover. Now they were abandoned, never to have tenants.

  I found myself where the river bends north, and it dawned on me down below was where the sisters had crossed over the river. Sure enough, the old obelisk of concrete they described loomed above me to my right, rising from its foundation of rocks as if it had been carved there like Mount Rushmore. What it once was I wasn't sure. I had a hunch it was part of an old railway trestle, perhaps leftover from the great clean up for the World's Fair in the seventies. I guess I should know more about the history of our fair city, but like a lot of my generation I guess if it didn't relate to me...then fuck it, who cares?

  I backtracked to the head of the paved trail that snaked its way down to the bridge at People's Park, made sure some dead saw me head down it, then at the first bend I took a well-trod path along the steep hillside into a stand of trees, made my way through them until the hillside became too steep to navigate safely and so I started climbing. I made it to the top in time to take down a dead woman investigating the racket I was making and crossed the road, stepping through a breach in the chain-link fence that surrounded the fields. I approached the ruin of concrete from behind, slipping up the slope to its apex unnoticed - I hoped, anyways. I was in need of a breather.

  As I sat in the dirt, leaning against a wall of the foundation, I wondered if the pandemic had happened a year or two earlier how I might have fared? I imagined myself as fat, wheezing, and out of energy as the dead closed in on
me. Certainly the gym membership had helped me with all of the running around I was doing these days. Score one for my mother. Listen to your moms, kids: do something to keep her off your back, it just might save your life one day!

  I looked around the ruin, seeing if there was any sign that the sisters had been there. All trash and debris looked ancient, as if surfacing up through an archaeological dig. Broken glass, articles of clothing, flattened cans and empty cough medicine bottles indicated I was in a once popular party spot, but there hadn't been any fun in some time. Fresh boot prints and scuff marks tracked across the dirt, though. And against the dull graffiti an unobtrusive peace sign, impossibly black and crisp, stood out against the dull sprays and brush-stroked paint. I smiled at it.

  I thought of the sisters grimly making their way through the north side, and my belly clenched. God damn it, they came all the way up from Oregon, I thought. They are tougher than you are! I pushed thoughts of them away, and peeked over the south wall of the foundation.

  It looked like most of the dead had taken to my misdirection and were following each other down the bike path. But a few were wandering along the road below, gamely following that instead. I couldn't decide if that made them dumber or smarter - or was it just the random odds of it all? What went on in those wasted minds?

  The areas reserved for the senses had to be largely unaffected, right? How could the virus, fungus – whatever - effect areas of higher thought, yet leave the others alone? I can understand it spreading itself by biting, but Jesus – couldn't it just have the decency to stay at the cough and snot stage? I guess it wouldn't be the same if it could be defeated by washing your hands regularly and a surgical mask. And that's why I maintain it was manufactured. Maybe it got out of control and the biting was a side effect, but it just seems so conveniently tailored to wipe us out while scaring the shit out of us to boot.

  Seriously. Who were the happiest in the early days? Who was the most smug about the whole thing? Seems to me you couldn’t go anywhere without tripping over some 'end-of-days' propheteer trumpeting “I told you so!” rapturously. They were way worse than the wannabe warrior in their eagerness for the shit-storm that came (I have to wonder if the luster wore off for them after awhile?).

  No matter if it was a manufactured virus or newly discovered fungus, I am certain it was utilized as an intentional, terrorist act. To what point, when it could not be controlled and it wipes out everyone? Again - who was the happiest when it all went down? Self-fulfilling prophecy, anyone? Yeah, yeah, hand me my tinfoil hat…

  I grabbed my binoculars and stared across the river into apartment complexes and neighborhoods west of downtown. Beyond, I could see the railroad tracks the sisters had traveled on. The dead were everywhere. Not a constant flow of corpses, but they permeated the streets and lots and yards and hillside. Almost always in motion, dried blood staining the remnants of their clothes - some falling off their frames and hindering their progress, tattered rags dragging behind by an ankle.

  How? I asked myself for the hundredth time. How could it have gotten so out of control? Never underestimate the ability of people to freak the fuck out, I guess.

  The bridge the sisters had crossed was as they described – chock full of burnt-out cars and trucks that were slowly rusting into their own monument of waste and fear. Some of the dead had followed the path down to the dam of metal, and were milling around uncertainly. They already have forgotten why it was they were down there, I thought.

  How could the other side have hoped to keep any of us crossing over? Jesus, all the damned boats in this town would have gotten a lot of people across. I could only reason it was to try and stop a flood of the barbarians – they had been doing something. Well, based on what I had seen last summer, I had no cause to blame them. Still, it rankled. You can't tell me what to do! a stubborn voice in me said, and I laughed.

  I thought about fighting my way down to the bridge and crawling over the dead cars and trucks to cross, but I already had my sights set on another bridge downstream I wanted to see. It had been far too long since I had set foot on it. Surely, that was intact? Maybe barricaded, but intact?

  I continued to follow the river, taking my time. I took trails below the main roads when I could and went largely unmolested on those. I avoided houses and trailer parks, had to cut through neighborhoods and avoid the dead there, but these were already less populated than back south. I was beginning to settle into the fear of the living once more instead of the fear of being overwhelmed by the dead.

  I was able to follow the Centennial Trail for awhile, blissfully free of bicyclists screaming for the right of way, until the ruins of another bridge broke it up - no surprise they took that one out, really. Still, there were enough paths and trails below West Downriver Drive that hadn't been completely overgrown, and they urged me on. I wondered if there were dead golfers on the course above, wandering through the dried and desecrated greens? I camped for a night on the roof of a building at the waste-water treatment plant, and the next morning I found myself swearing at the destruction of the suspension bridge at the Bowl and Pitcher.

  Riverside State Park was my favorite place, so close to town and yet you felt you were in the wilderness. I gladly paid the thirty dollars each year the car's tabs were due so I could get the pass to hang from the rear-view mirror. The ice-age floods that had repeatedly scoured the Inland Northwest had exposed the basalt, and for ages the river formed rustic sculptures to honor the power of water. Even as a fatty, I would regularly cross the bridge to hike the trails or perch on a rock to read, or just watch the river flow.

  Now, one of the cables – cut, torn, or blown loose - had caused the bridge to twist cruelly and drop on its side into the river, the waters rushing and exploding over and through it. It would not be long, I knew, before it would be gone for good. The river would tear the bridge free, and it would be nothing more than snags and logs, and then not even that.

  I dropped my pack, and sat down heavily. I had known for some time I had no real reason to cross the river, but I still felt defeated. Just cross it. Go over and take a shit - my way of planting a flag. Kiss my ass, I made it! I could go back to People's Park and cross it like the sisters, I supposed, but I was done. I'd had it in mind the last day or two to cross the suspension bridge, to feel it bounce and sway as the river roared below me. But the fuckers thought of that too, and destroyed it. Well, why the hell not?

  There were a few abandoned vehicles in the parking lot, but not a lot of dead at all. Across the river, other than the bridge cable being sabotaged, there weren't any other signs of destruction. If there had been a battle, the river had washed away any signs of it. Around 12,000 years ago, an ice dam in Montana had repeatedly formed a lake and then thawed to loose unimaginable amounts of water to scour the state – all the way down through the Willamette Valley in Oregon. This happened at least forty times.

  Would that it could happen at least one more time, I thought bitterly. Scrub this city off the fucking map for good...

  I stayed in the park for several days, trying to let the roar of the river wash away the melancholy stench that clung to me, but my mood only darkened. I realized I was wasting time anyways, hoping the sisters would be clear of Northtown and I could go home. I decided they probably had gone on to Idaho by now. I was convinced their parents were gone or dead. Hopefully, the girls didn't discover any bodies – but would that be worse, never knowing? Something as simple as a suspension bridge being destroyed gutted me. Finding your parents dead after such a long journey...

  So I left the park and began my customary trek through neighborhoods after dark, the night-vision goggles strapped to my face. I made a point of taking Wellesley past the library, but I could see no campers there.

  The sun was fairly high when I made it home, the office building blazing white against blue sky. The crows seemed ecstatic to see me, and I was truly touched. As I began my cautious ascent up the stairwell, I noticed a peace sign drawn on the wall. Later, I
would discover Holtom's famous design in the most unexpected places all around the office tower and neighborhood, and it would never fail to make me grin.

  So where were we? Ah yes, I had just helped kill a guy – the wannabe warrior. To be honest, I didn't think we would make it this far. I have a fever, and my hand hurts anytime I move it. My hand writing has deteriorated, I'm afraid. Can't be helped. But I think I can get this done – feel we're in the home stretch.

  I lay quietly in my sleeping bag, dozing off and on, but the events of the morning kept me restless. I hadn’t had that sort of desperate excitement with the living since... Jackie, I guess.

  I replayed the events of the morning, from my initial spotting of the warrior as he strode confidently up the alley towards the office building, to his final grisly end. I wondered if the man had spotted Pink coming up the alley and that was what had made him turn towards me by the fence? However much I would have liked the idea of Pink coming to my rescue, it was just bad luck on the warrior’s part that she made her rounds at that time. Did some part of her associate the office building with a certain time of day – the time of the morning when I would make it back home? Instinctively, she may have been looking to grab me as a snack, and got the warrior instead. My heart gave a little stutter-thump at the thought that Pink actually might, in her own ghoulish way, be hoping to run into me.

  She’s got a crush on me, I thought, and started laughing. I tried to contain it but after several wheezy grunts I gave into a full-on laughing fit, tears streaming down my face. Oh, that was just too perfect. Lord knows I hadn’t tried to keep her from hanging around. One could say that I was pretty much leading her on… I laughed so hard I felt a headache coming on.

  Jesus, I had to control myself. I didn’t think I could be heard unless someone was up on the sixth floor with me, but my survival instincts were screaming at me to stop – which only made it all the more funny. I repeatedly quieted down, then giggled and built up to laughing again. I finally felt in enough control to slip from the bag and down to the door-platform. I ate a granola bar and had a bottle of water, then stocked my small backpack, making sure the sling-shot and hammer were secure. For some reason I thought about taking my spear with me today – I didn’t do that as much since my journey to the river, but after a few moments thinking it over, I decided to leave it. I listened carefully for any sounds, slipped the acoustical tile aside, listened again, then quietly dropped to the filing cabinet and then the floor.