Devastated Lands: A Post-Apocalyptic Adventure

by Bruce W. Perry

  They walked for about an hour. They found a worn dog-walking path through the stricken exurb, traversing empty yards and clumps of woods that separated neighborhoods. The backyards were silent, with chain-link fences and soggy volcanic ash floating in the built-in pools. Black ash clouds drifted like a poison tide across a luminous moon.

  The wind was cold; a desperation came over him. They had to start searching garages for a vehicle that could get them to the coast, quickly.

  They had to stop and put more layers on Amy. At one point they heard the high, whooping, juvenile cries coming from about half a mile away. They soon faded into the distance.

  They pulled a wool cap over Amy's head and zipped her up into a baggy sweatshirt. They started walking again, sticking to thinned wooded lots beside a street. They came upon a woman wandering down the middle of the road. She was morose and ghost-like, calling out a man's name, "Danny…Danny dear where are you? Danny?"

  CHAPTER 11

  They watched the woman shamble along until she was gone around a corner. They stopped in a wooded, littered gully next to a school playground. The plan was to hide out, build a crude wind-break that would get them through the night. They spread out some scavenged blankets around an old tree, then Mikaela and Cooper made a pyramid around the trunk, constructed of broken branches and loose pine bows. Building a nest inside the cone, with every soft thing they could find, the two adults took turns watching out, as the other and the child slept.

  The morning light the next day was flat, the rising sun masked by a milky haze. Cooper sat with his legs crossed on the ground. He still gripped the crossbow, as though he would have to use it at any moment. He was a killer now, he'd realized. He thought he was condemned to that label. Yet he was once a man who couldn't shoot an animal for sport.

  Silence reigned; it seemed like not a soul existed, not even a bird. The rampaging men hadn't made much of a search for them, he thought idly, but they would today.

  He decided to make a small fire. They had a few hot dogs, moldy and hard as a rock when Mikaela found them back in the freezer. They'd thawed out somewhat. He made a bed of dry twigs and grass and some cardboard litter, got it going with the flint, then added bigger sticks on top. The sticks glowed, puffed smoke, and caught; a bigger flame rose and licked in the morning breeze. He put more wood pieces on, there was plenty of it, then speared the hot dogs with other sticks and balanced them over the fire.

  He dragged a log to nearby the fire, and sat down on it.

  He made cowboy coffee with his camping container. It had a plunger and filter; you put old coffee grounds on the bottom, then poured hot water over that. The coffee seemed an integral cog of survival, like any old morning.

  Mikaela stirred and sat up, watching him, her hair flattened on one side. She pulled the cap down over her head. Amy still slept deeply, under a blanket, head on Turk's furry torso. The dog lay still, just his ribs moving slowly up and down.

  She got up from beneath a blanket and sat next to him; he handed her the cup, which she sipped gratefully with both hands. "Quiet night," she said, then she dropped her head onto his shoulder.

  The small fire made everything seem calm, unhurried, and safe, which he knew was an illusion that would only last a few moments.

  "We made it this far, we're alive," she said softly, relieved for the time. The fire made pleasant crackling noises; Cooper made a washing motion with his hands to warm them up.

  A darker shadow fell over them, from Rainier's ash cloud. Mikaela had a distasteful look as she gazed around the deadened neighborhood.

  "…Even though the rest of the world seems utterly fucked."

  "By the end of today," he said, raising his cup in what he figured was the western direction. "We'll be on the coast. I know it."

  "Hope so. Hope that's true, I really do."

  "Ever had anything bad happen before," he said, looking back to her. "I mean, really bad. Like this. You're really tough as nails, under fire. It seems like nothing phases you, like you've been through something before."

  "It's an act."

  "I doubt that."

  After a minute she said, "I had a twin, Missy. Missy Brand, my dear sister. She drowned when we were twelve. She went swimming at night in a lake, during a sleep-over." She swallowed a morning lump in her throat. "She never came back; we all looked for her. All night. Kids and parents standing on a shore under the stars, with blankets on their shoulders. The police, putting a boat in and divers and flashlights everywhere. The sun came up, the divers found her. I cried my eyes out, then I was mad. So angry, at her, that she had left me that way. Alone. Without saying anything. No goodbyes. One minute she's stealing my Pepsi and drawing on my arm; the next she's dead. Forever. After doing something, probably dumb, definitely risky. It was the forever part that made me so confused, so mad. I couldn't yell at her anymore; I couldn't tell her not to do dumb and risky things, that she was my sister, my twin, and I needed her around. She was only twelve; so…dumb."

  She reached over and tapped the fire with a stick, as in lightly beating it in frustration, then she tossed the stick in. "That weekend, I went to the MMA club and started training. Competing. I never stopped."

  "Wow."

  "What about you?"

  He looked away, opened his eyes wide at nothing; the adjoining yards, once active with families, were vacant.

  "I lost my dad, when I was seventeen. He flew small planes. He crashed one into a mountain in California. Him too, probably made a dumb mistake; flew at night, in bad weather. He was my hero, he was a risk taker. He took me hunting once, for black bear in Vermont. I was scared shitless, but I thought he could do anything, feared nothing. He shot a bear and dressed it on the floor of the woods, and I knew it was nothing I'd want to do, but he was King of the Mountain.

  "We played baseball together, went fishing, he was going to teach me to fly. I remember when my mom told me about the crash, about how he was dead. I couldn't believe it; I was in complete disbelief. I didn't talk for days afterward. The part about him being my dad went by way too fast. Boy, did that change my way of looking at everything."

  "I would have liked to know him," Mikaela said. "Knowing you, I can picture what he was like."

  Amy watched them silently from her blanket, until she mumbled in a high voice, "Where are we?"

  Cooper looked at her and smiled, glad to have the subject changed, even though he'd liked telling Mikaela.

  "Still in Orting. We getting out of here today though. Do you want something to eat?"

  CHAPTER 12

  They ate the hot dogs, gathered up everything into the rucksack and gym bag, then moved on. They could rely on Turk's nose as a warning signal, because Cooper knew that they had to stick to a road to get anywhere. The morning had a preternatural stillness, as if the agitated earth was resting but ready to crack open again, releasing its malignant contents.

  Cooper had the dog on the leash; Turk led them down the cluttered road. Mikaela carried Cooper's pistol, in her left hand as her arm hung to the side. She walked behind him, her other hand in Amy's, who scrutinized the silent road with her curious eyes. The street headed west, towards Tacoma and the Pacific Coast. That was more than 20 miles away.

  In not long, they came upon a woman sitting on a stoop. She smiled, her eyes, rather than focusing on them, gazed through them and beyond.

  "I hear you!" she said. "Friend or foe?"

  "Friend," Cooper and Mikaela said, at the same time.

  "Where are you headed?" she asked.

  "Out of town," he said. "Towards Tacoma."

  "I know where we can get a car," she said matter-of-factly.

  "Where?" Cooper said. He'd seen her before, the woman walking down the middle of the road. She had cocoa skin, short, dark hair, and a slim body beneath a sweater, which she tugged around her.

  "My home."

  "Where's that?"

  "Daffodil Ave., just after the school. A lavender house, you can't miss it. But you're going t
o have to show me. Cuz I'm blind."

  Cooper looked quickly at Mikaela then said, "Sure, come along."

  She stood up, still smiling, and stretched out her hand. He stepped forward and took it.

  "Strong!" she said. "And warm…I'm Beatrice. My friends call me Bea."

  "I'm Cooper. Shane Cooper. This here's Mikaela Brand."

  "How do you do?" Mikaela said, offering her hand, which the lady took in both of her's. "This little girl's Amy."

  "My friends call me Ruff," Amy said, reluctantly pushed forward by Mikaela. Beatrice hugged her and called her "dear." An air of recently lost civility hung over the gathering; meeting new people, shaking hands, exchanging greetings. Cooper thought maybe when they reached the coast, things would return somewhat to normal. The coast stood for promises, for events that might or might not happen. They started walking.

  "I don't have a street map," Cooper said. "If I found the school, could you lead us to Daffodil?"

  "Yes, of course. The school is on the main street. My husband, Danny, I know he's there waiting for me. At home. He must be sick with worry. We have no way to call each other. He wouldn't leave without me. We'll go there, we'll get the car, it's a Subaru, and we'll all go."

  "There's a dog, too," Mikaela said.

  "His name is Turk," Amy said, more eagerly than before.

  "Oh how nice," the lady said. "I must pet him." She stopped and put both hands on her knees, with the wide-open, looking-beyond eyes that made them appear visionary. Turk ambled up to her; she clutched him while looking in another direction, and roughly stroked the long fur, from shoulder to back. "He is so beautiful, and soft," she said.

  "We better go," Cooper said. They went around the corner as a group, back to the main drag. The lady said that if they hadn't passed it already, the school would be close, on the left.

  When they reached the long, single-story brick building, they found a wind-swept yard that carried the invisible presence of children. The building was empty. The wind clapped a roped fitting against the metal flag pole, with a clanging sound like a lone schooner at sea.

  "The first right," Beatrice said. They crossed the street. The sky was dark with clouds and ash, for so close to noon. Flashes could be seen on the horizon east, toward Rainier; small explosions or eruptions. They turned right on the sidewalk down Daffodil Ave.

  Beatrice seemed confident in her directions. She walked with a marked grace, short steps, one hand balancing on Turk's back. The dog walked beside her without deviating, as though trained to. Before long, Cooper saw the lavender house; he stopped in front of the mailbox.

  "This here's 78 Daffodil Ave.," he said.

  "We're here," Beatrice said. "Oh Dan! Oh Danny," she called out, her head tipped back. "We're here! It's Bea!"

  Cooper noticed that the house seemed quiet with no lights. "Do you know where the car keys are?" he asked.

  "I have a copy on me," she said. "But Danny will also have a set with him. He always does. He always has piles of keys to the house and car with him!"

  They all walked toward a connected garage on a clapboard house. They opened a door between the garage and the home. To the right, Cooper could see the car parked inside. "Car's still here," he mentioned. Another door opened to a kitchen; the door was unlocked, he held it open for Bea. She called inside again, but still nothing in response. She walked inside the house, through the kitchen, calling for "Danny."

  Amy, Mikaela, and Turk came in behind them. Mikaela went into the refrigerator. "Food. There's old pizza in here, and milk, and carrots and mayo." She pulled them out, the pizza partly eaten in a carton, and set them on a table that had three chairs. Cooper walked through the first floor hallway with Beatrice, who continued on, calling out her husband's name, into an office. "I guess he's not home, now…" he heard her fading voice. He turned onto a staircase, to the second floor.

  He noticed mud on the stairs, bootprints. He got to the top of the stairs; an overturned chair, a portrait of a ballerina hung askew on the wall. More smeared mud around the floor. "We found lots of food!" he heard Mikaela's voice from below, encouraged by the discovery. He entered a bedroom. A bed was pushed against the wall with the mattress yanked half off of it; a bureau of drawers was pulled out, rifled. Next to the bed, a man's body lay facedown in a pool of blood. A neck wound leaked onto the wooden floor. One arm was flung outwards, as if in the middle of a swim stroke. The man wore blue trousers with the back pockets pulled inside-out. Eyeglasses lay broken and flung to the side.

  Cooper walked up to the body and knelt down. He felt along the neck, which had been cut. No pulse. The side of the man's face was blue and cold; the right eye stuck open. He closed the eye, which shut like it was on a hinged lever. He stood back up. He heard Beatrice coming up the stairs.

  "Did you see anything?" she asked, feeling her way to the room's entrance.

  "No," he said, coming quickly out of the room. "The bedroom's empty." He stood in the doorway. She brushed past him to enter the room, saying, "I should get some more clothes." He stood aside; she immediately walked to the right, to a closet, and opened the door. She took things down with hangars–she found them by memory–and made a pile in her arms. "It's funny…" she murmured, paused, then shook her head and kept taking things, until she was done.

  "When all this happened, I was across town, doing errands; the supermarket, bank, library. I got stuck over across town, then I finally reached him, and he said he'd come pick me up. He never did. Yet the car is still here. I wonder where Danny could be?" She was still talking when she left the room, and he followed her down the stairs.

  They sat down on the kitchen table and feasted on the scraps that Mikaela had found, including a box of stale Wheat Thins, a glass jar of caky, dried-out peanut butter, and the stiff-crusted pizza. It all tasted good, and was quickly consumed. He fed some of it to Turk, who chewed the pizza with an exaggerated, wet, clamping-down of his jaws. Mikaela spooned mayo, spread on nothing else, into her mouth. To the hungry, everything edible is a sumptuous feast. They quietly stood up; Cooper wanted to leave. They could drive into the dusk.

  Beatrice leaned on the kitchen counter tentatively. She shook her head. "This is so unlike Danny. I hope nothing has happened to him."

  Cooper was completely torn asunder inside, and he felt guilt. He shook his head at Mikaela, frowned. He wondered why he didn't just tell her; he thought she'd collapse, refuse to let them take the car, and thus endanger them all. A debate took place silently, in his mind, but Mikaela could read it on his face. They could take the car to Tacoma, then he'd drive Beatrice back.

  It's not like they could acceptably tell her, then transport her husband's murdered body in the trunk.

  "Why don't we get going, get to Tacoma," he said.

  "I suppose…" Beatrice said, then she dug into her pockets and produced a metal loop with a few keys on them. She handed them to Shane.

  CHAPTER 13

  The car rolled slowly out of the driveway. The vehicle was full; Turk curled up in the cargo area, with the rucksack, gym bag, and a bag of scavenged food. The street was empty, as if it was a mellow afternoon on any Sunday.

  The sun fought through a massive debris cloud that drifted toward the sea. Flakes of ash floated lazily in the rearview mirror. Over the roofs of the homes, he could see a thick column of black smoke rise in the distance.

  Beatrice sat next to him in the passenger seat. "I can't thank you enough," he said. "For the use of the car."

  She'd located a pair of sunglasses and put them on. She gazed out the window, regardless. "You found me. I wasn't going to make it home alone."

  Then she reminded him. "A middle-aged man, salt-peppery hair, wearing a sweater. If you see him, slow down and I'll call out." She rolled down her window, as if she could pick up his scent.

  "Ok." Cooper scanned the street watchfully. Empty yards, overturned trash barrels, an abandoned car jerked to the side of the road with one wheel up on a curb.

  He could hear Mikael
a and Amy playing some kind of a word game in the back, then Amy said, "Put that gun away, okay."

  "Not yet, kiddo," Mikaela said, her forehead leaning against her own window placidly. "It's not loaded…" But Cooper knew it was, and that it only contained a few more rounds.

  "How long have you lived here?" Cooper asked. They drove through the neighborhood, then accelerated onto the main route out of town.

  "Forty years, off and on. I'm a townie," Beatrice said. "I worked in the Sheriff's office for most of my adult life."

  "The sheriff's?" His eyebrows raised.

  "That's right."

  "We've had run-ins with this violent gang here. Maybe you know about them. In fact, except for you, they're almost the only other people we've seen. A bunch of nut-cases with white-painted faces. They attacked us…we've seen them assaulting people…"

  "I think I know who you're talking about," she said. "We arrested members of that gang. The local D.A. would prosecute them, but they'd always come back out on the street, like zombies that won't die. They have a ringleader named Gladys. You'd more likely give her a bouquet of flowers than a set of hand-cuffs. Yet, she's a devious, conniving woman. She owns a chain of laundromats that are used to launder ill-begotten gains, from drugs and guns. Looking at her, you wouldn't think… Not that I've seen her picture…" She laughed dryly.

  "But the local cops just say she's apparently a clever and persuasive criminal; she takes in these local losers like they're all of her bastard children. So you say you've had confrontations?"

  "I've killed a couple of them." He coughed. "They were going to take Amy, kill us."

  He caught her looking at him, with her sunglasses. He imagined the visionary eyes behind them. "My!" she said. Then she turned away. "What's the world coming to? Really."

  Cooper looked in his rearview mirror and saw a pickup truck cross the intersection two blocks down. He stepped on it, aiming for the highway, and soon they were on the entrance ramp to Route 162.