The Breakers Series: Books 1-3

by Edward W. Robertson

  "They have that huge garden section. The food in the stores won't last forever."

  "I'm so glad you've got a brain to match your ass."

  "Be more glad I'm taking that as a compliment."

  They went everywhere together. That was the deal. He carried the revolver, she carried a knife; if she was keeping guard while he gathered supplies, they switched weapons. From Home Depot they took baskets of seeds and two flat orange carts loaded with seedlings and cuttings for raspberries, bell peppers, basil, orange and lemon and avocado trees. They took seed packets of cilantro and mint and carrots. They took shovels and pots and soil, filling the car, and spent the rest of the day weeding and planting and fertilizing, sweating through the afternoon, cooled by the steady inward breeze off the bay.

  They adapted faster than Raymond would have guessed possible. In a way, the Panhandler had been too big to grapple with its subtleties, had struck too fast to deny. Like their old house, the world had burned down overnight. It hadn't rotted for years while Raymond shrugged off the mold in the walls and the termites in the foundation. It was gone.

  So what use was it to pretend otherwise? Between driving and looting and cleaning and planting, Raymond barely had five minutes at night to be saddened with thoughts about lost friends and relatives. In a strange way, his life with Mia was hardly any different than it had been for the last six months—the two of them, together, building something they meant to last. Most of the time, he was happy.

  In part, it was the house. The approximate size of everywhere else he'd ever lived put together, it had stone floors, lush carpets, a four-story turret, spiral stairs with a gleaming black iron rail, a deck on the second floor and on top of the roof, and, most stirring of all, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ceaseless sea. He'd loved how close the water had been to the house in Redondo—he could walk to the beach in five minutes if he hurried, which he usually had—but from the deck of the old house itself, he'd only been able to see thin strips of blue between the condos on the horizon. Late enough at night for the blatter of cars to fade away, if the wind and surf had been right, he'd been able to hear the breakers whomping the shore, a cacophony like titans tearing down the walls around them.

  From the house on the hill in Palos Verdes, he could hear the surf in his sleep, the seals arping from the empty marina, the harbor bell clanging forlornly. If he opened a vent, he could smell the salt. If he opened a curtain, he could see the waves stretching until the Earth curved away. It was where he'd always wanted to live. Mia found him there on the back deck, just watching, all that sun on all that water. He wiped a tear.

  "What's wrong?" she said. "Just too beautiful for you?"

  He shook his head. "I miss baseball."

  "Jesus. Seven billion people die, and you're sad because a few of them were baseball players?"

  "We used to be so safe. So prosperous. We paid money to spend three hours watching men mill around on a grassy field."

  "You remember what made that world possible? A handful of men who let millions starve so they could buy homes like this one."

  "Yeah," he said. "But they're all dead now."

  A few days after they moved in, Raymond woke and found the toilet didn't refill when he flushed. The sink spat air and a few fizzing flecks. The lights wouldn't flick on; the clock by the bedside showed a blank black face.

  There was no longer anyone at the controls.

  12

  Walt leaned in against the trunk of the tree and reached for the knife on his hip. Downhill, boots crunched through leaves. A man chuckled. Walt didn't hear any dogs, which seemed like a stupid oversight if these yokels were at all serious about tracking down and stringing up strangers in the middle of a forest that could have been straight out of Middle Earth. If he'd been killing interlopers, he'd have dogs. Big baying ones that would put the fear of God in his quarry. With these fools, all he had to do was wait for them to pass by.

  He smelled chlorophyll. His stomach growled. A leaf fell, clicking through the branches. He saw nothing but leaves and dirt and creeping vines. Leaf-crunching footsteps faded downhill. Walt edged out from behind the tree.

  "You take one more step, better make sure you enjoy it," a voice said from the trees. "Because it will be your last."

  "What are you guys?" Walt froze. "The spirits of the woods? What do you care if I'm out here?"

  "Disease can't spread if everyone stays put." The man raised his voice. "Mark! Harold! We got our little bunny."

  "You guys have been out here too long. The virus is done. Everyone's dead."

  "You shut your mouth and keep it shut."

  A bearded man with a puffy green coat and a rifle crunched up the leaf-strewn hill. He leveled his gun at Walt from ten feet away. "What do you think you're doing out here, kid?"

  "Going to Los Angeles."

  The man's beard ruffled in a grin. "You gonna be a movie star?"

  Walt shrugged. "I'll probably have to do porn first."

  The tree beside the bearded man shook and rustled. A leg jutted down from the screen of branches. A bald man with glasses swung onto a low branch, dangled his legs, and dropped to the ground.

  "Just let me go," Walt said.

  "No, I don't think so," the bearded man said in his high rasp. "On top of putting all our lives at risk with sickness, you been trespassing. And when there's trespassing there's stealing. You hang a thief, pretty soon the other thieves quit thieving."

  "Either that or, feeling threatened, they gang up and eat you with rice and sliced ginger."

  The man with the beard shook his head. "Lewis, will you tie this punk up already?"

  The bald man knelt and rifled through his backpack. Cold anger slithered through Walt's veins. "Let me go or I will kill you. I'll leave your bodies in the woods where no one will know you died."

  Lewis emerged with a rope and a grin and wrestled Walt's hands behind his back. Rough fiber sawed over his wrists. "You hear that, Harold? What should I tell your wife? Wait, my God! I'll be dead, too!"

  Harold smiled through his beard. "You're soft, kid. Soft like mud."

  As Lewis bound Walt's hands and took away the knives on his hip, a chubby teenager—Mark, presumably—hiked up between the trunks, huffing.

  "What took you so long?" Harold gestured to his bags with the barrel of the rifle. "Grab his stuff."

  "Who's the thief now?" Walt said.

  "Just taking back what's ours."

  "The only thing I have of yours is the dirt between the treads of my shoes."

  Harold leaned in and slugged him in the gut with the butt of his gun. Walt doubled over, gasping, tears oozing from his eyes. Rage roared over his pain.

  Lewis snugged the ropes tight, jerked his wrists. "All set."

  "I'll kill your son, too." Walt nodded at Mark as the kid hoisted his bags over his round shoulders. "Right before I kill you. Not over some bullshit about apples and trees, but because it's what you deserve."

  Mark's bulging chin dropped.

  "Christ," Harold growled. "Let's get him back to town before I shoot him before we can hang him."

  Lewis shoved Walt in the back, sending him stumbling downhill. Afternoon sunlight trickled through the colander of branches. Harold lit a cigarette, the smoke trickling back to Walt's nostrils. He wanted one. He slipped in the loose leaves. Down on the road, they shoved him into the back of a pickup truck and slung his bags in behind him.

  "You too, Mark," Harold rasped. "I don't want to waste gas chasing him down if he decides to hop ship."

  "I hate riding in back," Mark said. "It's so windy."

  "Get your ass up there or I'll strap you to the hood instead."

  Mark mashed his lips together and clambered up into the pickup bed. Walt stared at him, the folds of skin on his neck, the plump softness of his wrists. The three men piled into the front. The engine rumbled alive.

  "Harold's your dad?" Walt said over the wind and the rattle of the truck on the road.

  Mark nodded, eye
s slitted at him. "Sure is."

  "Your dad's a bad man."

  "He's just trying to keep us safe."

  "Do you think I'm a threat?"

  He shrugged. "You said you'd kill us. I don't consider that something a civilized person would say."

  Walt snorted. "Nobody's civilized when men with guns are planning to hang them."

  "Well, maybe you shouldn't have broken the law."

  "How the fuck was I supposed to know there were laws? Do you have 'No Trespassing' signs posted in the middle of nowhere? Are you doing flyer campaigns? Sailing around in a blimp with a sign saying 'STAY OUT! WE'RE CRAZY AS SHIT' flapping from the tail?" The truck jolted, clacking Walt's teeth together. "If I had a couple friends and a couple guns, I could declare it illegal to walk down the street without doing a little jig, and if you didn't jig, by God, I'd spackle the walls with your brains. I could declare—"

  "Shut up!" Mark kicked his heel into Walt's shin. "You're crazy. I don't have anything to do with this. Just be quiet."

  Walt stared at him across the jouncing truck bed. The sun drifted below the hills. The wind blew cold on his skin. The truck pulled into a Shell station on the edge of town. From the blank streetlight, a body twisted from a rope, toes transcribing half a circle as they slowly rotated right to left, left to right. The truck doors creaked open. Harold popped the tailgate down and gestured at Walt with the rifle.

  Walt smiled. "You want me to help you kill me?"

  "All right, then." Harold handed his gun to Lewis, hopped up in the truck, grabbed Walt's bound hands, and dragged him out the back. Walt scrabbled; his ass clunked hard on the bumper. He dropped into the gravel, knees stinging. Harold yanked him to his feet. "Can you walk on your own, big boy? Or you want me to drag you around until I'm carrying the stubs of your arms?"

  Walt got up. Harold jabbed the rifle into the middle of his back, marching him beneath the street light.

  "Hey Lewis, get the rope?"

  Lewis pushed his glasses up his nose. "What rope?"

  "The one we're gonna wrap around this boy's neck, smart guy."

  "I don't have a rope."

  Harold planted his fists on his hips. "How the hell you going to hang a person without a rope?"

  Lewis spread his palms. "How was I supposed to know we were gonna be doing any hanging? I don't walk around with water skis just in case somebody shows up with a boat and a river."

  "Christ on the cross." Harold flung an arm at the gas station. "Mark, you take him in there and you watch him till we get back." He quirked his mouth at Lewis. "We're gonna need two ropes, you know. Second's for you."

  "Hell," Lewis said.

  "You're going to leave me alone in there with him?" Mark said.

  "He's all tied up," Harold said. "What's he going to do, shoulder you to death?"

  "Well what if someone else comes by?"

  "Oh, for Pete's—Lewis, give him your pistol, will you? Will that keep the boogeymen away?"

  Lewis patted his coat pocket. "Why don't you give him your gun?"

  "Because I'm not the fool who left the rope at home." Harold folded his arms. "Get a move on. It's getting dark."

  Lewis did some grumbling and handed over a silvery automatic to Mark, who held it at arm's length and thumbed the safety on and off. "Thanks, Lewis."

  "We'll be back in a jiff," Harold said. "You just stay in that gas station till then."

  The truck door slammed. They pulled out, spitting gravel from the tires. Mark flicked the pistol's barrel towards the dark station. "Well, come on."

  "You should let me go," Walt said.

  "So you can kill us?"

  "I was angry. I didn't mean it."

  "Come on," Mark said. "I don't want to have to shoot you."

  "You don't have to shoot me." Walt started across the asphalt. "You don't have to help your dad hang me. You don't have to do anything anymore. You never did. It's just more obvious now."

  Mark held the door open, then locked it behind them, staring out on the empty highway and the trees going black in the dusk. Inside, the shelves and counters stood grayly in the gloom. Mark flipped on a flashlight and set it light-up on the counter.

  "Now we wait."

  Walt lowered himself carefully to the floor. "Both my parents died."

  "So'd my brother."

  "I lost my girlfriend, too. I was going to marry her. She died in our bed. One of the first."

  Mark wiped his nose, glanced out the door.

  "The bed was covered in blood," Walt said. "I mean, I could have wrung out the sheets. She was all I wanted. She was so beautiful—her face wasn't striking like a model, but there was a light in it you could get lost in. When she died, I wanted to, too." He lowered his head, squinting at a stain on his jeans. "I still do. When I'm walking down the highway, I hope a BMW will zoom by and smear me across the lanes. I hope when I'm up in the hills I stumble off a cliff and crack my skull like a big pink egg. You know what I see? A hole. A great black hole in everything. My girlfriend wanted to try to make it in LA. When she died, I decided to walk there, but no matter where I go that hole's still there."

  "Sounds like hanging you would be a favor."

  He nodded ploddingly. "But when I think of my ghost after this, I think he would be angry."

  Mark tilted his head. "You believe in ghosts?"

  "No. Or in justice or fairness or any of that. But I know I don't want to die being hanged over nothing."

  Mark set the pistol on the counter with a soft metal click. "Are you hungry?"

  "Let me go."

  "If I do that, my dad—"

  "Tell him I untied myself. That I jumped you and stole your gun. He'll blame Lewis."

  Mark stared out across the empty lot. Crickets whirred in the night.

  Walt strained his ears for the rumble of the truck. He gave it a couple minutes before pushing again. "Do you think I should die?"

  "No."

  "Then what are you doing?"

  The boy grimaced. "Promise you won't hurt anyone."

  Walt looked him in the eye. "I promise. I'll be long gone before they're back."

  Mark circled behind Walt, knelt, tugged ropes. Fibers chafed Walt's wrists. Dusk deepened beyond the window. He'd be out his bags, all his stuff. He thought no particular thoughts, just a dull red roar that thudded in his ears like tribal drums.

  Mark fussed and fiddled for minutes. Finally, the ropes fell away. Walt rubbed his wrists like any prisoner—not because they hurt, but more as if to reassure himself they were no longer bound.

  "Thank you." He rose, eyes locked with Mark, and took the pistol from the counter, then two packets of peanuts from the ransacked shelves. Headlights peeped down the highway. Walt smiled. He stepped outside and pressed his back against the pumps.

  Mark stood in the gloom of the doorway. "What are you doing?"

  "It's too late to run."

  The headlights poured over the parking lot. The truck ground to a halt. Harold cut the engine and jumped into the twilight, laughing; Lewis got out from the other side, rope in hand. Walt clicked off the safety of the pistol.

  "Dad!" Mark screamed.

  Harold reached into the truck. Walt rolled out from behind the pumps. He pulled the trigger, shattering glass over Harold, the crash of the shot crackling between the hills. Harold came up behind the door and fired a wild shot from the rifle. Walt strode forward, pumping shots into the door. Harold swore, wrenched open the bolt, jammed another round home. Walt fired again and the man's head snapped back. Blood gleamed black in the moonlight.

  Lewis had frozen on the other side of the truck, knees bent, shoulder stooped. "Don't shoot, man. I'm unarmed."

  Walt smiled and circled around the truck. "What's that in your hands?"

  The man glanced down as if he'd forgotten the weight of the rope coiled in his arms. He met Walt's eyes, mouth slack. "It was Harold's idea. He just wanted to keep us safe."

  With his left hand, Walt pointed to the corpse hanging from
the street light. With his right, he pointed the pistol at Lewis' flannel-covered chest and squeezed off three shots.

  The rope thumped the pavement. So did Lewis' body. His hands twitched on his chest, tendons so tight they looked like they'd tear through the backs of his hands. He gurgled wetly and went limp.

  Mark moaned from beside the pumps. Walt whirled on him.

  "You promised," Mark said.

  Walt sighted down the silver weapon. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He flipped on the safety and stuck the gun in his waistband. He took the rifle from Harold's hands. His bags waited for him in the back of the truck. He slung them over his shoulders and started down the dark road.

  "Where are you going?" Mark hollered. "What am I supposed to do?"

  "Whatever you want," Walt said. "It doesn't matter now."

  He walked for an hour, waiting for headlights to rush up behind him and Mark to leap out rifle in hand, but he hadn't seen another car by the time he dropped off the shoulder into the woods to eat some peanuts and unroll his sleeping bag. He felt calmer than a pond, as if he'd spent the day reading Zen or napping on the beach. He examined the pistol until he figured out how to eject the clip, then thumbed out the shells. Three left. The rifle had a catch beneath the bolt to release the magazine, which had four rounds of its own.

  He didn't think seven shots would hold him all the way to LA.

  Before he went to sleep, he resolved to pick up more ammo and find something that didn't require any. A big steel sword. Possibly an axe. Something that would never jam or misfire or run dry.

  He smashed in the window of a house in the woods and ate cold SpaghettiOs. He added cans and a can opener to his duffel along with a bag of dried bananas, a jar of cashews, and two new knives to replace the ones the men had stolen from him. Water bottles grew dusty in the garage. He drank two, used another to shave his beard, and added five more to his backpack. With no bodies in the beds, he decided to stay there overnight.

  In theory, he'd go thirty miles a day. That had been his original goal. It hadn't seemed farfetched: eight hours a day at a fairly easy pace of four miles per hour. That would leave him another eight or so hours a day to forage, rest, and nap. Los Angeles was around 2800 miles by road from New York—rounding up for diversions, call it an even 3000—thirty miles a day, a hundred days of walking. Even at a 20% margin of error to account for injuries, detours, and the like, he'd planned to enter the city limits in four months, which was amazing when you thought about it. In April, he'd been swimming in the Atlantic; by August, he could be paddling around the Pacific.