Mega Post-Apocalyptic Double Bill

by Mark Gillespie

Finally they reached his front door on the sixth floor.

  Number 29.

  Goldman aggressively jiggled a key in the lock, barged his shoulder into the door and then walked inside. Eda followed, with Frankie Boy trotting close behind.

  There were photographs everywhere. It was the first thing Eda noticed as she walked into the otherwise modest and plain little apartment. So many photographs. They were on the wall, on the coffee table, the floor, and crammed side by side on the window ledges. There were a few others parked on the edge of the silvery blue cotton couch. They were family shots mostly but Eda caught a glimpse of a few others lying around with a serious looking young man standing front and center. This was a much younger Talbot Goldman, sporting a variety of bizarre hairstyles and clothes. He’d been a handsome, clean-shaven man back then. Pre-mustache. His hair was bluish-black and when it had been at its longest, a hint of thick curls could be seen forming around the edges. In most photos, solo and with his family gathered around him, Goldman wore a combat uniform featuring the old colors of the American army – a khaki, black and gold combo.

  “Do you sleep with that uniform on?” Eda asked.

  “As a matter of fact I do,” Goldman said, laughing.

  Eda looked closer at the family photos. Goldman was surrounded by a pack of adoring women. Three cute and smiling girls bunched up tight against their dad like monkeys hanging off a tree. A pretty red-haired woman stood beside Goldman, offering a knowing smile towards the camera. In the earliest photographs the girls were babies. The latest ones however, didn’t go past their teenage years.

  Goldman dropped his rifle on the couch.

  “Back in a few minutes,” he said. “Going to fix you two something to eat. Big plates all round right?”

  “Sure,” Eda said. “Thanks.”

  “You haven’t tasted it yet,” Goldman said, disappearing into the hallway.

  While the old man was in the kitchen, Eda spent a little more time exploring the Goldman family museum. After that she crossed the living room and looked out of the small window. There was a decent view of the beach and harbor from up on the sixth floor. And she could still hear the dreamlike sound of waves in the distance.

  “You alright in there?” Goldman called out from the kitchen.

  “Fine,” Eda said.

  “Just make yourself at home. Food won’t be long now.”

  “How long have you lived here?” Eda asked.

  Silence.

  A moment later, Goldman appeared at the door carrying a bright red plastic tray in his hands. Two plates and a large metallic bowl sat atop the tray, all of them spilling over with food.

  “Can’t remember how long it’s been,” Goldman said. “Damn long. Before I got married anyway. My uncle owned this apartment and because he didn’t have any kids of his own he left it to me in his will. That was a big help back in the days when I worried about money and all that other material shit that doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

  Frankie Boy tilted his nose up at the tray.

  “Got some striped bass and vegetables,” Goldman said, making a loud announcement. “Jumbo-sized portions too. Skinny thing like you, you gotta put the meat back on. Plus, it’s a special occasion. God knows how long it’s been since there was anyone besides me in this apartment.”

  “You grow vegetables around here?” Eda asked, lifting one of the plates off the tray and smiling in gratitude. Her stomach was growling with anticipation.

  “I’ve got a garden of sorts not far from here,” Goldman said. He gazed towards the window that overlooked the harbor. “There’s a big old house down the road, they had lots of stuff growing out back. Well I found it abandoned and kept it going as best I could. It’s given me a hell of a lot more than just a sack of fresh vegetables now and then I can tell ya. Gardening and fishing, my two pastimes. That’s all I’ve got to wind down after a hard day’s soldiering in the city of Boston.”

  “You fish out there?” Eda asked.

  “Well that striped bass didn’t just show up at the door asking me to eat it,” Goldman said. “Yeah I do a little nearshore fishing. I like to go out every other day or so, preferably early in the morning if I can. It’s nice at dusk too.”

  Eda got the feeling the old man was enjoying talking to someone else for a change.

  “Catch much?” she said.

  Goldman nodded. “You bet. With all the industrial scale fishing gone you won’t believe the amount of fish swimming out there. It’s funny because a long time ago they closed that beach down because the water was so damn dirty. Water’s never been cleaner than it is now. You get all kinds of fish in there –striped bass, mackerel, cod, sea bass, and so on. The ocean is paradise again. I only take what I need to keep breathing.”

  Ed glanced through the window just as a huge, towering wave was churning its way towards the beach. “Must keep you fit,” she said. “Steering a little boat in that.”

  “I’m not dead yet,” Goldman said, walking further into the living room. “Besides I don’t go out too far. Don’t have to. The fish practically jump into the boat nowadays.”

  Goldman invited Eda to sit down on the armchair and eat. Then he crouched to a half squat and put the bowl on the floor for an excited Frankie Boy. The dog’s tail wagged furiously. He shoved his snout into the bowl, slurping wildly as he ate.

  “Are we friends now huh?” Goldman said, smiling at the German Shepard. The old soldier looked like he wanted to pat the dog but after he put the food on the floor he kept a distance, watching Frankie Boy tear into a large chunk of fish.

  “Good appetite,” he said, walking over to the couch. “I had a dog once. He always liked my June better than he liked me.”

  Eda nodded, shoveling a forkful of food into her mouth. Her appetite had been jolted into life by the taste of food. As she threw it down it felt like she was sinking into the armchair. Drowning in a beautiful dream.

  “It’s good?” Goldman said.

  “Uh-huh,” Eda said, her mouth full.

  Goldman leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. He kept silent for a while apart from a wheezy breathing noise that spilled out in a gentle rhythm. He made no effort to touch his own plate. Eda thought he might have fallen asleep. Either way she was grateful he didn’t talk because it allowed her time to get stuck into the food without interruption.

  It didn’t take her long to finish. When she was done she wiped her mouth dry with her sleeve and at that moment the old soldier opened his eyes. He leaned forward on the couch, his wrinkled uniform making a dull creaking noise.

  “Better?”

  “Much better,” Eda said. “Thanks.

  “Alright,” Goldman said. “So go ahead and tell me your story why don’t you? And tell me why in God’s name you’re walking about Boston on your own like this. No offense to the big mutt there, I’m sure he’s as tough as old nails, but I thought everyone moved around in packs and tribes these days. For safety. At least that’s what I’ve seen passing through Boston on occasion. But solo travelers? That’s just asking for trouble.”

  Eda pushed herself upright on the armchair. Her eyelids felt heavy after devouring the big meal and all she wanted to do now was fall asleep. The room was just the right temperature too, neither hot nor cold. Everything was quiet, apart from the waves in the distance. It was perfect.

  But she was a guest in Goldman’s apartment. He’d just fed her and he was at least entitled to ask a few questions about the stranger he’d brought home.

  She fought back the sluggishness and told the old man about New York and the Complex. Then she told him about the swamp in New Jersey and what she’d found in there. Those were the things she could remember clearly.

  The old man sat listening, wide-eyed and captivated throughout the telling. He didn’t interrupt Eda once.

  “I always wondered what it was like out there,” he said. “I heard a lot of stories in the early days before this city emptied itself out. Seen those who passed through Bosto
n over the years. A lot of sad faces. It didn’t paint a pretty picture of the outside world.”

  Eda offered a tired shrug of the shoulders.

  “It’s a mess,” she said. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  Goldman sat forward, his straw-like eyebrows standing on end.

  “You must have known there was no chance of finding this person you came here looking for,” he said. “Surely you knew it was a waste of time. So why do it? Why did you walk all the way from New Jersey to Massachusetts for a losing bet?”

  “I don’t know,” Eda said. “Because somebody asked me to do it. Somebody who deserves to have their dying wish fulfilled.”

  Goldman scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then he fell back into the couch, drowning in photographs.

  “So there’s still a little honor left in the world huh?” he said, glancing at a large silver-framed photograph of his wife. “I’m happy to hear that. It’s good to hold onto some things. Right Junie?”

  “Most people are holding onto revenge,” Eda said. “They think it’s going to fill the hole.”

  Goldman patted the butt of his rifle, which was sprawled out on the couch beside him like a favorite toy. He was smiling.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about me?”

  “Don’t know,” Eda said. “Am I?”

  Goldman sat forward in his seat again. He moved quickly for an old timer.

  “Sure you are,” he said. “You’re…you’re…”

  He stopped. There was a blank, puzzled look on the old man’s face. His eyes went dark, scanning the contents of the living room like he was seeing everything for the first time.

  “Are you okay?” Eda asked.

  “What?” Goldman said. He looked at Eda like she’d just appeared out of thin air all of a sudden. With a soft, low-pitched groan, he removed his cap and scratched the top of his head.

  “Oh yeah, sure,” he said. “I just…”

  A pause.

  “…sometimes I forget. I forget what I’m saying. Forget where I am, what I’m thinking. Uhh, what were we talking about?”

  “Revenge,” Eda said quietly.

  Goldman nodded. “We were talking about revenge.” He said the words as if reading them off a script.

  “Your Chinaman?” Eda said. “Is that enough revenge for you?”

  Goldman was staring at the family photographs in silence. Reestablishing the connection, temporarily severed by whatever had just happened.

  “Right now,” he said, looking up at Eda. “He’s walking around the city and he’s looking for me like I’m the cure to the fatal disease that’s killing him. But that’s good. Means we’ll find each other again soon enough. As long as I get him before he gets me.”

  He wrapped his arms around the picture of his wife.

  “It’s victory for God’s sake,” he said, not to Eda but to the red-haired woman. “Victory.”

  Goldman put down the photograph. Then he looked at his plate of food, still sitting on the tray beside him. He picked it up and then put it back down again like he’d lost all trace of appetite.

  He shifted nervously on the couch.

  “I can almost feel him out there,” Goldman said, staring at the window. “He’s real close now. He’s a patient son of a bitch mind you, not the mindless bastard our superiors tried to tell us the chinks were. Those people made good soldiers, I’ll say that much for them. They were reading the Art of War when they were still in diapers. Meanwhile our kids were reading Spot the Dog books.”

  Eda put her empty plate down on the coffee table.

  “I saw a caravan of people on the way to Boston,” she said. “Nomads, that’s what they called themselves. They asked me to go south with them.”

  Goldman was still staring out the window.

  “You should have gone with them,” he said in a quiet voice. “Something big’s coming in and now more than ever, people need to join forces and stick together. Strength in numbers. Form groups, packs, tribes and learn how to work together all over again. Practice guerilla warfare. It’s your only hope of survival because the trouble that’s coming…it’s big goddamn trouble.”

  The old soldier seemed to be talking to himself now. He shook his head, his lips pursed tightly together.

  “Trouble?” Eda said. “What sort of trouble?”

  With a groan, Goldman pushed himself back up to his feet.

  “Forget about it,” Goldman said, standing over Eda. “I’m an old man rambling on, don’t listen to me. Now here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll escort you out of Boston personally. If our friend Mr. China sees you on the street he’ll shoot you stone dead. I’m telling you, he won’t ask questions like I did.”

  “Alright,” Eda said. “You want me to go now?”

  “Hell no,” Goldman said, shaking his head. “You need to get some sleep young lady. Look at you. You’re beat.”

  Eda stood up and glanced out towards the coastline. The light was growing dim and the ocean sounded peaceful now. The world was winding down to a slow vibration and Eda was ready to climb aboard, to welcome oblivion.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate the food and the bed.”

  “Sure thing,” Goldman said, smiling. “You can sleep in my Emily’s room, alright? You and Frankie Boy. Sleep as long as you like. Tomorrow you guys are going to hit the road and by God I’ll say it again, you’re going to catch up with those Nomads and get the hell out of Boston. You hear?”

  5

  Eda slept in Emily Goldman’s bedroom that night.

  The room was neat and tidy. It was a small space with a single bed and Goldman had obviously kept it in good condition over the years. It smelled of scented candles – vanilla and fresh spices. And of course, like every other room in the house, it was filled with family photographs. Every last memory of Emily had been crammed into something tangible, locked inside a metal frame.

  This was a sacred room in the Goldman shrine. After she’d said goodnight to the old man, Eda had sat on the bed with Frankie Boy for a while, not sure if she could sleep there or not. She felt like an intruder.

  Pretty soon however, exhaustion overwhelmed all trace of discomfort.

  As she lay in bed waiting for sleep, Eda’s attention lingered on Emily Goldman’s face on the other side of the room. It was only early evening outside and Eda hadn’t bothered to pull the thick drapes over. A dull streak of light touched the surface of one of the metal frames sitting on the ledge. Emily was a black-haired girl with blue eyes and a strong jawline. She was the eldest of the three girls and if Eda were to guess, she’d say that Emily hadn’t made it past seventeen at the most.

  The rest of the bedroom – the bookshelves, a closet, a small TV standing on a chest of drawers, paled in comparison to the photographs of the young girl.

  At last, the room began to swim. Eda sank deeper into the soft sheets while Frankie Boy slept beside her, curled up on the end of the bed. He was snoring. His body felt warm against her legs.

  Eda slept through the night without interruption. In the morning, she was bursting to pee. She slipped out of the sheets, her legs whipped by a blast of cold air. With Frankie Boy behind her, Eda crept out of the apartment, went downstairs, opened the front door and slipped around to the back of the building. She relieved herself, trying to shake off the fog of sleep at the same time.

  It was a mild, dry morning in South Boston. Eda lifted her head to the sky and inhaled. Rain was coming.

  Maybe even a storm.

  After she was done, Eda stood up and stretched her legs. They weren’t as stiff as she’d thought they were going to be after all the miles she’d covered over the past week. That was something at least. If she could set a good pace, she had every chance of catching up with the slow-moving Nomads.

  She walked the length of the apartment building out back, following a narrow concrete path down to a small dirt strip. A faint rectangular outline on the dirt suggested that some sort of structure, a smal
l building or a hut perhaps, had once stood there. Eda encircled the outline, almost in a trance and found herself looking at Goldman’s apartment building from a distance. She noticed a row of six plastic trash bins lined up against the exterior. Something else was there, poking out behind the bins. It was barely visible. Eda walked over that way and saw that it was a large wooden chest, about the size of a coffin and of a similar width. The wood was damp and worn down.

  Eda pinched forefinger and thumb over her nostrils. Something reeked badly. A small cloud of files buzzed furiously around the trash bins.

  Resisting the urge to run, Eda took a closer look at the box. The lid didn’t appear sealed or locked. She stepped closer, despite a voice in her head running through the worst possible outcomes of this investigation.

  Frankie Boy rummaged ahead of her, nose to the ground. The rotting garbage cans were driving him crazy. Or was it something else? Was there something inside the chest? Someone? Eda’s insides tightened up at the thought of finding the remains of one or more of the Goldman girls in there. The thought repulsed her but she couldn’t shake it. What if the old man had killed his family in a violent, frenzied bout of postwar madness?

  His mind was going, that much was obvious.

  Eda’s fingers trembled as they yanked the lid upwards. It flipped over easily and spilled to the side with a thud.

  She took a step backwards, one hand clamped over her mouth. The box was full of weapons. A lot of weapons. Eda saw rifles, handguns, knives with serrated edges, and little ball shaped objects with turtle shell exteriors that she suspected were hand grenades.

  She scoured the surrounding area, checking to see if anyone was watching. As far as she could tell, the coast was clear.

  There was a sudden noise that almost made Eda’s heart explode. It sounded like the front door to the apartment building opening and then being slammed shut.

  Light, hurried footsteps. Coming towards her.

  “Oh shit,” Eda said, swatting a gang of marauding flies away from her face.

  “Hello!” Goldman’s voice called out from the other side of the building. “Are you there?”