I imagine him waking up on the floor tomorrow morning, laughing about the bender he went on, going about his business wherever it is that people are still alive and well, popping an aspirin for his hangover headache, eating a bowl of cereal, drinking coffee out of his favorite mug. Heading off to work. If there are that many people still alive, if working is still happening somewhere. My brain somersaults.
I will never reach him again. My imagination knows this. I perch on the edge of the chair. I look at my hands.
I’ve always felt big in the world. Despite my relative smallness, my tiny stature and lower than average body-weight, I usually experience my physical presence on the planet as substantial, a confident taker of space, needing few things. I produce art, my gestures expansive. Wherever I go, in a crowd, on my own, I feel solid. I exude strength. I can take care of myself.
But now, I feel vulnerable, ant-sized. I picture the whirling Earth, viewed from outer space, only it’s spinning wildly. When I zoom in, through the layers, stratosphere, cloud cover, sky, treetops: there’s me, barely visible. A speck in the entire universe, my movements so minute they don’t even matter. I could be squashed and lifted from this spot like an unnoticed insect on the bottom of a shoe, my voice ridiculous and squeaky small. I am tiny and lost, blanketed claustrophobic and oppressed by the rest of the planet. I am less than a detail.
I am miniscule, but not alone in the world. Not yet. Fighting this confusing mash of conflicting emotion, I press the button and speak, “Hello, please respond,” calling out to this strange man in some unknown part of the world, intent on continuing until the generator’s propane runs out.
16
AUGUST
“Hello,” a voice says, creeping into my emerging consciousness, an audible light cutting fog. “Please be there.”
“Claire?” My voice sounds funny. The C enunciated sharply. The rest like I’m speaking through a mouthful of soup. What happened? I fell. My head throbs. Have I so severely injured myself that my speech is screwed up? I try to sit up and the room spins. Concussion?
“Come back,” the voice says, feminine, but not Claire. “Where are you? Answer me, damn it!”
The woman’s sudden anger makes me flinch, both from the volume of her voice and the commanding nature. This is not a woman to be—a woman! A speaking, living, breathing woman!
I roll to the side and off the back side of the rolling chair, flopping against the hard floor, Pinocchio with cut strings. Focusing all my efforts into my arms, I push myself up. “Hello! I’m here!”
“Please,” the woman says. “Please answer me.”
She can’t hear me.
She—the HAM radio.
Her voice is coming from the speakers. With renewed energy and determination, I get my feet under me and stand. A gravitational force, which seems to only affect me, pulls me hard to the side and slams me into the wall. I lean there, breathing, drunk out of my mind, injured, but fighting it. “I’m coming.”
“I heard you,” the woman says. “I know you’re there. Please, you have to reply. You have to. There’s no one else.”
The woman’s desperation matches my own. Somehow, like me, she’s survived the unthinkable and is now desperate for human contact, reaching out across the globe. And she found me...she found me, but she’ll never know it if I don’t make it to the radio. One flick of the frequency and I might never reach her again.
I turn my eyes to the device. It sits atop a desk on the far side of the room. It’s just ten feet away. The chair lies on the floor, blocking a direct path. In my current state, the chair might as well be the Great Wall of China. But I have to try. I’d surmount any obstacle on Earth just to reach this woman. I don’t know her, but I know she is important, that she will save me, and if she is equally alone, I might save her, too. “Coming,” I say and set my jaw. I map out a route across the room, circumventing the tipped chair. I can cover the distance in five steps and then use the table for balance.
Pain blossoms in my skull, opening from the back and unfurling through the inner space behind my eyes. I place my hand on the back of my head, smothering the sharpest pain. My hair is damp. Warm. Tacky. My hand flinches away and comes back red. I’m bleeding.
What are the signs of a concussion? I can’t remember, but they’re probably similar to being drunk, so I don’t bother with the assessment. I just assume I’m drunk and concussed, so making it across the room without cracking my head on the table is probably a good idea.
“You’re not coming back, are you?” the woman says. “You’re either gone, dead, or don’t give a damn that you’re the only other person on the planet.”
She’s really getting angry. I’m about to lose her.
A deep breath fills my lungs, but does nothing to restore balance or clear my thoughts. I focus on the imaginary path and strike out with the boldness of Magellan, reaching for what seems an impossible and impassible distance. Three steps in and I’m doing fine. But I’m listing to the side. The arced path that would have taken me around the chair becomes a straight line. The chair rears up, an iceberg set to sink my efforts. I stretch out, my gait matching that of Sasquatch, and I step forward. Front foot planted firmly on the floor, I lift my rear foot and bring it up, missing the chair but clipping my leg. My knee pops forward and I sprawl out, reaching, grasping.
The table top greets me unkindly, driving its edge into my ribs. With nothing solid to grasp, I slide to the side and fall. As I lose sight of the table’s surface, I reach out and take hold of something solid. Instead of slowing or stopping my fall, the clutched prize comes with me.
An act of mercy by whatever cosmic being might have created the universe and destroyed mankind spares my head from a second impact. I land on my side, the blow knocking the air from my lungs and sending a jolt of pain from my elbow to my shoulder. But I’m conscious, and looking up at the table’s edge, a skyscraper’s height above me. An unattainable goal.
“Whoever you are, or were, goodbye.” A click sounds as the woman removes her finger from the transmit button. I can see her in my mind’s eye, angry and alone, reaching for the power button, or frequency dial. I reach for the table’s edge, desperate. But my hand isn’t empty. I’m holding the microphone, its cable stretching up and over the table, still plugged in!
I push the button, and with the little air left in my lungs whisper out a raspy, “Wait.” It’s all I can manage for the moment. I remove my finger, and focus on breathing, on replenishing the oxygen to my lungs, hoping my thinned blood will carry enough to restore a measure of lucidity.
“Oh my god.” The woman’s voice returns like an angel riding a beam of light from the clouds. “Are you there? Was that you?”
A click signifies that she’s released the button. She understands how the HAM radio works. I push the transmit button, and after a deep breath, manage to say, “Catching...my breath. Hold...on.” Then, to make sure we’re not cutting each other off, I add, “Over,” and release the button.
“Uh, copy?” she says, unaccustomed to the awkward radio talk lingo. She understands the radio, but isn’t used to it. “I’m just glad you’re there. And alive. Is there anyone else with you? How far does this reach? Where are you?” I hear her breathing for a moment, and she adds, “Over.”
Her barrage of questions fades as I focus on the one thing that really fills me with hope, her breathing. The fast-paced in and out sigh of a living person’s lungs. A loose smile slides onto my face as I lean my head against the cool concrete and press the transmit button. “Let’s start with names. I’m August. Over.”
“Poe,” she says. A literary name. “Where are you? Over.”
“Arizona. An hour outside Phoenix. You? Over.”
I catch the tail end of a curse, which tells me she’s far away before she confirms it. “New Hampshire. Is it the same where you are? Over.”
“You mean, is everyone dust? Then, yes. And I’m alone. And before you ask, yes, I’m drunk. And I think I have a concussi
on. Over.”
“I heard the singing,” she says. “I knew you were drunk, but even still, Bon Jovi? Really? Over.”
She’s got a sense of humor despite the circumstances. I smile. “The song seemed appropriate. And, I might add, my prayers have been answered. Over.”
“You prayed for the world to end? Over.”
“For you,” I say. “In a non-specific, mostly drunk way. Over.”
After a brief pause, her voice returns. “So, August from Arizona, what are we going to do? The way I see it, we’re partners now. Over.”
She’s right about that. The question is, “How do we do this? Should we meet halfway? Over.”
Her response comes fast. “You need to come to me.” A moment later. “Over.”
The quick and firm reply feels strange. Like a demand. But I’m not totally opposed to it. I can make the drive in just a few days, if I drive flat out without sleeping much. I’ve had enough sleepless nights at work to know I can handle it. And it’s not like there’s any traffic to slow me down, other than empty cars, and there are no police to enforce speed limits. If only I knew how to fly a plane, I could be there tomorrow. Of course, I need to sober up before I drive anywhere. Still, her fervent reply strikes me as odd. “Why? Why not meet?” I leave out the ‘over,’ but she understands the natural break.
“I can’t leave,” she says, sounding a little desperate, but then clarifies. “I’m—I’m pregnant. And there’s at least three feet of unplowed snow outside. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to.”
If she wanted to. Despite the conditions preventing her from leaving, it’s clear she also doesn’t want to leave. A sudden fear for her wellbeing slips out of my mouth. “Are you okay? I mean...you know, mentally? Emotionally? You must have lost people.”
“I’m...” I hear a sniff of tears. “I vacuumed my parents today.”
Holy. Shit.
While Claire is gone, I didn’t have to endure that kind of personal, mind-bending horror.
“Who did you lose?” she asks.
“My daughter,” I say. “Your voice sounds a little like hers. She was twenty. Still a kid in my eyes. I couldn’t find her...remains, and her apartment burned down, along with the rest of Phoenix.”
Silence follows. There’re no apologies or condolences. We’ve both lost everything.
The small mental connection between Claire and Poe is enough to kick my fatherly instincts into gear. I’m not much of a Silverback, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the desire to protect my girl—or in this case, someone who reminds me of her. Poe lost her parents. I lost a daughter. Maybe we can salve those wounds for each other?
I push the call button again, “I’ll be there as soon as I can be.” I put as much confidence into the words as I can muster. If New Hampshire is under three feet of snow, despite the unseasonable warmth in the Southwest, then I’m going to have to deal with that problem when I get there. Maybe it will melt? Maybe I can requisition a snow plow and carve my own path North? Problems for the future. Right now, she needs to know I’m coming. But there’s no way I’m going to cross the country without a way to get in touch. “Can I call you? On the phone?”
“Power’s out,” she says. “There’s no cell service.”
“Landline?”
“Hold on.”
I picture her leaving the HAM radio in search of whatever landline phone she might have. Maybe she has to dig the thing out of a closet? How many people still use landlines? I haven’t had one for two years now, which is probably foolish, but I’m a slave to modern technology, for better or worse. While she’s gone I manage to right the chair and hoist myself into it. The cushion feels like Heaven, smothering me in a hug, tending my bruised body.
My eyes drift across the table, past photos of exotic women with creative nicknames: China Doll, Lima’s Got Legs, Russian Roulette. My slow visual tour of the desk stops next to Good God Geisha, a Japanese beauty who is now most likely dust. Sitting next to the woman’s smiling face is a phone. But it’s no ordinary phone, it’s a satellite phone, capable of calling anywhere on Earth via satellites that will continue functioning when the cell towers and land lines fail, and there is no power to fuel HAM radios. I pick up the phone and reach for the microphone’s call button. Poe beats me to it.
“No luck,” she says, her voice surprising me. I nearly drop the sat phone, but cling to it. “No dial tone. The power outage must be wide enough to affect the phone lines now. Any ideas?”
I look at the phone in my hands. “I don’t suppose you have a sat phone?”
“A what?”
“Satellite phone.”
“I’m at my parents’ house,” she says. “I doubt they’d have one.”
She’s right. Most people have no use for a sat phone. Phil, on the other hand, must have used it for transcontinental dirty talk. What a strange guy.
“You can get one,” I say. “But not at a RadioShack or anything like that. It needs to have a service plan in place, a satellite to connect to. If you can find that, we can stay in touch. And if the power goes out, there are solar chargers. And those you can get at RadioShack.”
“Where am I going to find a satellite phone?” she asks.
“Emergency services. Hospital maybe. Police station. Fire station. They might have them to stay in touch if the phones go down.”
“Might,” she says. “You’re not sure.”
“I’m not sure of anything anymore, except that I’m coming to you. Today. Once I’m sober enough to drive.”
I hear her chuckling on the other end. Then, “Better give me your number so I can call you when I find a phone. And in case I can’t reach you again, I’m in Barrington, New Hampshire. 40 Stinson Lane.”
After scrawling down the address, I power up the sat phone and read her the number. Rather than hang up, we spend the next two hours sharing bits and pieces of our lives, talking about what happened, what it means and how I’m going to reach her. Neither of us has any understanding of what has happened, and she skirts the story of how she survived in such a way that it’s clear she’s not comfortable talking about it. Probably still too raw.
That she’s still functioning is a testament to her internal fortitude. While I emerged from the underground to find everyone turned to dust, she witnessed her own parents crumble and fall apart. I can’t begin to imagine what that felt like. We talk for just two hours, but I feel like I know her now. Like we’re close friends. And maybe we are. We’ve skipped past the small talk that typically fills conversations and got right down to it, maybe trying to prove our worth to each other. After all, why were we spared and not everyone else? What makes us worth saving? When I’ve sobered up enough to drive, I finish the conversation with, “It’s time for me to go.”
“I don’t want you to go,” she says.
“The sooner I leave, the sooner I can reach you.”
There’s a pause, and then, “Drive fast, but safe. You need to make it here, but slow and alive is preferable to fast and dead.”
“I will,” I say. “There is nothing in this universe that could stop me.” Not a God-damned thing. “I’m going to pack and leave inside the hour. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be half way there.”
“Okay,” she says. “Okay. August?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not being dead.”
“Any time,” I say. “Over...and out.”
“Over and out,” she says, her voice quiet and afraid once more.
I feel a tug on my heart. Stay and talk, it says. Don’t leave that voice. By the time I reach the door, steady on my feet now, the tug has changed. Instead of being pulled back, I’m propelled forward, a spacecraft slung around the moon back toward Earth, toward home.
Toward Poe.
17
AUGUST
It’s three in the morning and I’m still wide awake. Normally, this might be a nuisance, but tonight’s foray into the sleeple
ss dark is purposeful and fueled by hope and horrible-tasting caffeine drinks pillaged from a corner store. After taking several smaller roads north from Superior, I’ve reached Interstate 40, which will take me clear across the country. The highway is almost completely empty, mostly because the world came to an end on a Friday evening and few people would have good reason to be on this barren stretch of road. It would be a commute to nowhere.
There are a few cars on the road. Some dark, a few still running, idling on one side of the road or the other, their lights acting as beacons in the otherwise pitch black night, attracting swarms of desert insects that assault my SUV’s high beams as I pass. In a day, any still-running vehicles will run dry and cough their last, never to run again. All around the world, the last vestiges of the human race, left running and unattended, will begin to break down, overheat or run out of fuel. And yet, the satellites above will function for decades.
My thoughts turn to Poe and her quest for a satellite phone. I’ve looked at my sat phone, resting on the seat beside me, powered up and plugged into the cigarette outlet at least once a minute, hoping to see the digital screen light up with an incoming call. My intellect knows there won’t be a call. Poe, locked in the frozen North, can’t go in search of the device until the sun is up and some of the chill has been sapped from the air. She’s also got a sore ankle and a baby on the way.
On the surface, she’s not exactly the best person with whom to share the end of the world. The child she carries will not only sap nutrients from her body, slowing her down and making her less physically able, but it will also distract her from the realities she has to face. But maybe that’s a good thing, and if I’m honest, she probably has a far worse opinion of my survivability. I’m a subterranean-dwelling scientist with his mind on the outer reaches of space and the physical capabilities of a jellyfish...a jellyfish with a skeleton. Not that I told her that. I didn’t think sapping her hope would be a good start to our relationship.
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