by E. R. Arroyo
“Yeah, Dad?”
He whimpered, causing a shiver to run down her spine. Greg began to speak, his mouth forming a red bubble of saliva within his lips. It popped.
Lexia watched him. He squinted his eyes, face tormented, but no tears came out. His body had no fluid to spare. A silent scream.
He clutched her hand to the point of breaking the fragile bones within. But she didn’t let on. She gripped his hand tighter.
“It’s okay. I know you’re in pain, but it’ll be okay. I made it, so you’ll make it, too.”
He shook his head slightly and closed his eyes. Greg’s breaths became labored, the sound echoing through the room, drowning out all other noises inside or out.
Lexia held his hand and listened to the death rattle rumble in his chest. She sat on the bare floor beside him until they both nodded off, unable to resist the enticing lull of sleep.
When she awoke, Lexia wished she’d been stronger, had been able to stay awake. Her father’s hand was cold in hers. His chest did not rise or fall. The terrible rattling sound was gone. And, so was her father.
She eased her hand out of his eventually, moving to the sink to do the dishes. Her hands. They needed to do something.
She scrubbed everything in sight—every countertop, every appliance. The windows.
They needed to be clean. When she looked from their light-blocking foil covering back to her father, who lay dead on her couch, it hit her. And she exploded.
Ripping each and every shred of foil off the panes and sill, she raged against the stupid silver false security, of the unfairness of survival, and the pain of having just lost her father…again.
She cried and thought of smashing everything with Louie, but changed her mind. Lexia had a better idea. Blowing her nose into yet another tissue, she began making a mental packing list. She was going to Staten Island. If Angel was there, and if it was safe, she could stay there. She could survive.
An hour later, her black backpack was stuffed full of everything she thought she might possibly need. Two handguns were tucked into inside pockets and one warmed the small of her back. Her boots were laced.
With one look back at her father, who just looked as though he’d fallen asleep, she released the locks that held her in. A gust of wind rattled the newspaper clippings lining her walls.
She silenced them by slamming the door shut behind her and stepping out into the hallway, into the stairwell, and then into the alley that ran alongside her building. Lexia eyeballed the fire escape. It was the same one that Angel had scaled to break in, the same one from which he left.
It was smart to move at night. She had dressed in dark clothes and would blend in with the shadows.
She could do this.
It could work.
Everything was still. No cars on the road. No subway trains. The only movement came from other shadows that lurked in the darkness—like her, and the bicycle that almost ran her over, its rider cursing her a blue streak as he corrected himself.
Rats scurried along behind dumpsters and the wind blew her hair into a tangled mess. But she kept walking, keeping close to the sides of the buildings. Eventually, the sun was rising and the birds were chirping happily.
It was a long walk to New Jersey, but, she’d made it. When she stopped to catch her breath and check things out, the sun was high in the sky, warming her skin and the pavement surrounding her. The Goethals Bridge stood just ahead. It was the only way on and off of Staten Island now. She’d read that little tidbit briefly while Angel had scrolled through the posts on that weird website. Prep for Doom.
Well, the bridge that she kept closing in on looked like the gate of doom. It was menacing. If an inanimate object could be frightening, this piece of architecture fit the bill.
All she could think of was her father—the fear in his eyes when he looked at the Peter Franklin Donalds logo, the obsession with clipping even the oldest of newspapers until only slivers of black and white print were left in his lap or in heaps on the floor.
His words. Above all, she heard his words in her mind.
“’s not safe.”
Learn more about Casey L. Bond
The dust was thick in the basement. Terrance Lenape didn’t make it down there much anymore. For a while, he had been in the basement almost every day, building or organizing. Like everything else since he retired, his interest seemed to wane after a while.
Floor-to-ceiling baker’s racks lined the walls and were placed seemingly haphazardly through the center of the unfinished room. Rows of canned goods stood out on one, their labels all meticulously turned forward. Another held dry goods while another held toiletries. It was well organized but abandoned, as another flight of fancy struck Terry.
Lilly teased him constantly about the basement, accusing him of wasting all that money and time, that there were a hundred other better things that he could have done with his retirement. Terry frowned as he looked at the solemn room. It didn’t seem like such a waste anymore. He clenched the paper in his hand, wrinkling and creasing it in his grip.
He heard footsteps in the kitchen and the basement door flew open, flooding the rickety wooden steps with light. “You down there, Terry?” Lilly asked nervously.
“Yeah,” he replied, “just seeing what we had.”
“The news is running another story on the outbreak.”
He took another look around their storage room—prepper pantry, as Lilly fondly referred to it—before pulling the string on the light bulb.
Terry hurried up the steps, cringing at every creak of the wooden staircase. The stairs, like everything in the basement, had been on his “to-do” list for years but somehow never seemed all that important.
“It looks like it’s spreading,” she said, from her spot on the couch. “I feel like we should be doing something.”
“Like what?”
“Like share our supplies. We have a ton. Isn’t that what the stupid prepper group was all about, helping everyone else during the apocalypse?”
“Prep for Doom isn’t stupid,” Terry said, holding up the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “They’re the only reason we know about the safe zone on Staten Island.”
“Then we should be telling other people about it,” Lilly replied, climbing slowly to her feet. Her black hair was streaked with gray and new wrinkles had appeared at the corners of her eyes. “If we’re not going to share the food we’ve got, the least we can do is tell people where to go.”
“How many people would you like to tell?” he argued, raising the same valid points he’d raised at least a dozen times before. “Staten Island has a population of around five hundred thousand. How many live in New York City alone? Eight million or so? You know the New Yorkers already know about the safe zone. They’re already going to be overwhelmed without us inviting more people from Jersey to head up that way.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t go then. I saw on the TV, the reporter said everyone should just stay in their homes.”
Terry huffed. “How long do you think our food will last? People have been looting some of the other neighborhoods. It’s only a matter of time before they come here, too.”
Lilly changed the channel to another news station. A myriad of depressing images flashed across the screen and Terry had to look away.
“We can’t stay here,” he said, more calmly. “We don’t have anything with which to defend ourselves. We’re not going to be able to keep people out.”
She turned toward him, her blue eyes stern but full of compassion for her nervous husband. “Maybe we should have got a gun. All the prepper shows always showed them with guns.”
“Lilly, I’m a retired high school chemistry teacher. You make quilts. What do we know about guns? If we got one, we’d probably just wind up shooting each other on accident.”
He took her hand. She slipped her fingers into his and gave his hand a squeeze.
“I still say we go to Staten Island. We have those old Army protective suits and
gas masks. That should keep us safe while we drive up there.”
Lilly looked around her living room, so full of character and life. Cross-stitched pictures hung on the walls, dangling over family portraits taken decades ago of a much younger, skinnier, and vibrant couple. She hated to leave it; Terry could see it on her face. Her expression seemed to sag with disappointment, knowing she couldn’t take it all with her.
“Okay,” she whispered.
* * *
Packing didn’t take long. They stuffed changes of clothes into a suitcase and filled an old backpack with some canned goods and bags of homemade trail mix. A few bottles of water filled out the bag.
Placing the bags next to the side door leading to the garage, they walked downstairs together, into the gloomy basement. Terry turned on the light, though he didn’t really need it. The meager light streaming through the narrow windows was enough to find the plastic bin near the back. He pulled off the masking tape from the edges and lifted the lid. Inside was a pair of matching olive green MOPP suits. They slipped on the pants and jackets over their clothes, pulling an uncomfortable elastic string from the back of the jacket, under their crotch, before connecting it to a hook in the front. Terry would have never been able to put on the protective suit, with all its pieces, had it not been for the same Prep for Doom group that got him started on the basement.
They pulled on the heavy rubber boots over their tennis shoes, feeling awkward as they did. They made his feet wider and longer than they had been before, making it uncomfortable to walk. The only things remaining in the bin were the rubber gloves and the gas masks, complete with hoods the color of muddy water.
Terry slipped his over his head, pulling the elastic straps in the back to tighten it around his face. He dropped the hood into place and turned toward Lilly, who had to stifle a laugh at the sight.
“Your turn,” he said, though his voice was hard to hear through the mask.
She slipped hers over her head, mimicking Terry as she tightened the straps in the back. As she raised her head and smoothed back the hood, he could see the eyepieces fogging.
“I can’t see anything,” she said, lifting the mask from her chin and wiping the inside. “Is this supposed to happen?”
“You need to clear the mask,” he explained. “Here. Put the mask back down and blow out as hard as you can when I tell you.”
She went through the steps until a tight seal was formed around her face. The fogging stopped, though he could see her shoulders moving with each labored breath. He had to admit that breathing with the gas mask was far more difficult than without. He hoped they didn’t have to do anything too strenuous while wearing all this gear, since he wasn’t sure his old body could handle the effort.
“I feel ridiculous,” she complained.
“You look ridiculous,” he countered, “but this isn’t about looking good. Come on, let’s get on the gloves.”
He had to tilt his head nearly all the way down just to find the gloves. Everything was a bit more difficult with a mask on his face. He slipped the gloves on. Almost immediately, he could feel his hands sweating. The gloves didn’t breathe at all.
Shambling as best they could, they climbed the stairs back to the main floor and collected their bags. Glancing one final time over his shoulder, Terry said a silent farewell to their house. He hoped he’d see it again.
Walking into the garage, he loaded their suitcase and backpack into the backseat. He climbed behind the wheel, feeling clunky as he did so. His gloved hands didn’t grip the steering wheel very well and the boots made pressing only one pedal at a time fairly difficult. Eventually he slipped the keys into the ignition and started the car. With a push of the garage door opener, light flooded the garage.
He backed out slowly, unsure what they’d find behind them. As the car rolled onto the street and Terry shifted into drive, he was surprised by the sight around him. Their neighborhood looked completely unchanged. A bike was abandoned on the neighbor’s lawn. Lights glowed from living rooms where families gathered around the television. Had it not been for what they were watching, it would have been easy to mistake the scene for one of familial tranquility.
After seeing so many horrific scenes from around the world—of bodies being piled in the streets and hospitals completely overwhelmed, to the point that the sick and the dying were sharing gurneys in the hallways—he expected something worse. Seeing a level of normalcy in their neighborhood was unsettling.
They drove out of town in silence, Terry’s mind ablaze with a million questions, the least of which was how, logistically, they’d make it all the way to Goethals Bridge by car. The freeways would be packed bumper to bumper with people trying to get out of the cities. He didn’t even want to think about the Turnpike.
He glanced over at Lilly and saw a different emotion reflected in her eyes. Noticing his stare, she quickly looked out the window, where she watched the subdivisions roll by. She didn’t care about the supposed Staten Island safe zone. The news had recommended they stay in their house, but if it hadn’t been the recommendation of the news, she would have found another way to try to convince him. He knew that she would have stayed, boarding up the windows and doors if need be. It had been her life during all the long years of Terry’s teaching, until he was finally able to retire and they both started drawing Social Security checks. Neighbors had come and gone; they had watched children be born, grow, and move out, all from their front porch while sipping on a glass of tea.
Terry sighed, though the sound of it was lost in his mask. Reaching out, he took her hand. It felt alien, with two thick rubber gloves between them, but she glanced back all the same, her eyes glistening through the plastic lenses. He couldn’t tell if she was smiling, but he assumed she was.
* * *
The easiest way to Elizabeth, the town outside the Goethals Bridge, was I-78 East to the Turnpike, but even as they approached the first on-ramp to I-78, they knew it wasn’t a good choice. Cars were backed up nearly two miles from the entryway, a never-ending single-file line of brake lights stretching as far as they could see. A second muddled row of cars sat at a stop beside those entering the freeway, drivers who thought merging at the last moment would be a quicker option. With I-78 at a dead stop, however, no one moved, causing more and more congestion.
Lilly drummed her gloved fingers on the console. “I thought everyone would be driving away from New York, but they all look like they’re heading toward it. How many preppers were on that silly website?”
Terry shook his head as he watched the never-ending line of taillights. “Not this many. Someone must have leaked the location.”
“Well, we’re not going to make it using the interstate. Do you know another way?”
Terry sighed and drove around the gridlock, choosing instead to stick to back roads. The route wouldn’t get them all the way to Elizabeth, but they’d be moving, which was a far cry more than they would be doing on the interstate.
Once they were well past the traffic, Terry pulled over to the shoulder and turned on his hazard lights. They blinked a steady cadence as he reached into the back seat, retrieving an old, battered atlas. He didn’t own a smart phone or a GPS. Finding the map of New Jersey, he let his fingers trace some of the numbered State Highways that would get them closer to where they needed to be.
Cars passed them as they sat on the shoulder, some slowing to gawk at the two people in drab olive MOPP suits. Terry tried his best to ignore them, but he felt the same creeping sensation he’d felt when the gaggle approached them earlier, as though being in the masks made them targets for those who would take from people who were unable to defend themselves.
The car rocked gently as each vehicle passed, the wind pressure shaking their Oldsmobile. He dropped the atlas onto the back seat as a semi passed them, violently rattling their car.
Terry frowned as he turned off his hazards and turned on his left blinker. Waiting for a gap, he merged into traffic and continued driving east.
“What’s that?” Lilly asked, pointing ahead of them.
Terry couldn’t see well around the SUV in front of them, but he could see smoke rising above the vehicles. In a cascade of lights, cars slowly applied their brakes and rolled to a stop.
The driver’s door on the SUV swung open and a man climbed out onto the running boards, staring over the traffic in front of him. He shook his head slowly before disappearing back into the vehicle. Glancing in his rear view mirror, Terry saw others climbing out of their cars before throwing their hands up in disgust.
Curious, Terry unbuckled his seatbelt.
“What are you doing?” Lilly asked, surprised.
“I’m going to see what’s causing the traffic jam.”
She shook her head. “Just stay in the car. It’ll clear up soon enough.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do. If it’s a bad accident; we may not be able to keep going this way.” As he reached for his door handle, she grabbed his arm. He paused and patted her hand affectionately before opening his door and climbing out.
He immediately saw why everyone wore a look of disgust. Less than a quarter mile ahead, a semi had jackknifed before flipping onto its side. It blocked the whole road, even covering the gravely shoulders. A few four-wheel drive trucks and SUVs were rolling through the sloped grass on either side but most vehicles were turning around and driving back the way they came.
He leaned down and looked into their car. “Jackknifed semi,” he said blankly.
“Can we go around?” she asked.
Terry laughed, though the sound was flat and mechanical through the mask. “Not in this old clunker. Our best bet is to—”