After America

by John Birmingham

  “It’s nothing,” he said quietly. “I am just being careful. Come on.”

  They all crossed the roadway at a trot. It was cracked and sprouting with weeds in places, and the clip-clop of the horses’ metal shoes sounded very loud after the quiet confines of the forest. But within moments they were over and safely concealed under the forest canopy again. The rest of the day passed without event, giving Miguel to understand just how empty was the land in this part of the country. They skirted two ranches late in the day on the approach to Leona, but the sun was already low in the sky and he could tell from a few minutes’ observation with his binoculars that the homesteads were deserted. Not because agents or the TDF had run off new settlers but because they had been empty for years. Grass and weeds grew to chest height right up to the front porches. The roof of one house had been badly damaged in a storm at some point and never repaired, and the other home was blackened with the telltale scorch marks of a small fire. He wondered why the whole structure had not burned but shrugged off the question. A sprinkler system, perhaps. It didn’t really matter. Only ghosts dwelled there now.

  He cantered up beside Sofia with a flick of the reins and a few clicks of his tongue. Fresh tear tracks ran like dry riverbeds through the dust and accumulated grime on her face. She was not crying at that very moment, however. At best she seemed cold and remote.

  “We shall make camp up ahead soon,” he promised. “There is a small town not far off. We should be safe there.”

  Her only reply was a vague shrug.

  As the sun dropped into the west, it seemed to grow larger and glow with an almost malevolent orange glare, as though he were staring into a furnace in the Devil’s basement. Shadows pooled in the recesses of the last patch of forest, a small wedge of uncleared brushland between Route 75 and the Farm to Market Road. Leaving the shelter of the trees, they diverted a few hundred yards to the north, where a small farm dam glistened in the sunset. As the animals drank their fill from the cool, clear lake, a dog or possibly a wolf howled from not too far off, causing the horses to step skittishly and flick their ears around, searching for the predator. The cattle dogs were instantly alert, with lips peeled back from their teeth as they growled in warning and the short wiry hair on their backs stood up.

  “Blue Dog, Red, be quiet,” Miguel warned. He leaned forward and patted Flossie on the side of her neck. “Hush now, young lady. Some flea-bitten mutt calling for its dinner is no reason for you to be fearful, no.”

  Sofia craned anxiously in the saddle, peering into the gloomy distance. Her posture tensed up more than Miguel would have thought possible as she unslung her rifle again and brought the scope to her eye. Again, Miguel fought the urge to take her weapon away from her, though it was good that she thought to scope the town for any trouble.

  “See anything?” he asked.

  Sofia shook her head. “No, Papa. It looks clear from here.”

  “Very good,” he said.

  The cowboy unholstered his saddle gun, stroked the polished wooden stock, and resisted the urge to check the loads. There could be no letting his own nerves get the better of him. Any beast or man bold enough to try his luck with Miguel Pieraro would very quickly find that luck turning sour, especially today. He stood alert, listening as the horses dipped their heads back to the dam. They heard no more of the predator. After a few minutes even Sofia relaxed. With the horses watered, he hauled himself back up into the saddle for the short ride into Leona.

  “We’ll camp here, Sofia,” he said, mostly for the sake of saying something.

  They had ridden in silence for most of the day, exchanging only a few words here and there as was necessary.

  “Fine,” she replied.

  Sunset was not far off as the last of the storm clouds broke open to reveal a deep red-orange orb peering through a haze of magenta and purple as it fell toward the western horizon. A few birds trilled and tweeted in the trees as the small caravan slowly approached the edge of the settlement. Sofia remained quiet. What little heat had been generated by the reappearance of the sun rapidly leached out of the day as Miguel scanned the ruins of the town for somewhere suitable to make camp. It looked as though more than half the place had burned after the Wave hit, and many of the surviving buildings were badly storm-damaged. Wrack and refuse littered the two main roads, and a flagpole outside the general store was bent over at nearly forty degrees; a twisted sheet of corrugated iron had wrapped itself around the pole where the flag must have flown in days past. The metal awning over the sidewalk by the ruined flagpole had collapsed and the windows flanking the store’s main entrance were broken, but structurally the building seemed fine.

  “Perhaps over here,” he suggested as he dismounted and led the horses over to a line of wooden fencing that had survived intact.

  “Uh-huh.” His daughter shrugged, following suit and dismounting. Miguel frowned as he tethered Flossie and the string of remounts before removing his saddle gun and cautiously approaching what looked like a general store. After a few steps he paused and motioned to Sofia to be ready with her Remington. She brought the rifle up to her shoulder and waited for further instructions. Her eyes remained blank, cold. Miguel was worried for her, but he had to press on. He whistled softly to the dogs and waved them ahead of him. The dogs trotted off, sniffing and twitching their ears, but gave no sign of any trouble. Miguel took his time examining the building. A small annex, once given over to a diner, remained in stasis. No windows had broken to let in the elements, and the cowboy could see in the fading light that three of the four Formica tables had been occupied on the morning of the Disappearance. Piles of clothing, stained black and stiff with organic residue, lay draped over half a dozen chairs. In front of them sat plates of food or what had been food. Red and yellow plastic bottles stood on each table accompanied by dried-out bottles of McIlhenny Tabasco sauce.

  Miguel couldn’t help shaking his head at what the gringos called hot sauce. To his taste it was as bland and sugary as catsup.

  Except for a few bones scattered about, it seemed that rats and insects had cleaned up the leftovers. He supposed they had probably cleaned up whatever was left of the customers, too. His nostrils flared in anticipation of the smell, but three summers had probably petrified the remains. Pushing through the door of the main store, he sniffed and confirmed his suspicion. Dust and neglect and the faint iron tang imparted to human leavings by the mysterious action of the Wave were all that lingered.

  “Sit,” he ordered the dogs. “Outside,” he added. They would not now enter the building without specifically being ordered to. He did not want them pawing through any of the human remains in there. It would be disrespectful. Like almost everyone in the post-Wave world Miguel had grown used to the sight of the Disappeared, but unlike some he had never allowed himself to forget that they had all been God’s children, had possessed souls, and had left this world without the benefit of those blessings and rites with which all men should embark on their journey into the next life.

  “I am just going to check it out,” he called back to Sofia. “You keep a watch and come quickly to me if you see anyone approaching.”

  She nodded more emphatically than he had expected and moved to give herself a better view of the path they had taken from the edge of the forest into town.

  Miguel stepped up off the road and onto the front porch, which creaked loudly under his boot. The sun was very low now and it was dark inside, forcing him to haul out his Maglite, which he held in one hand while sweeping the space with his saddle gun. A pair of black workman’s boots, Levi’s, a checked shirt, and a hat lay on the floor just in front of his feet. The clothes looked stiff and blackened. Moving into the shop, he found two more piles of clothing in the next aisle over. No, make that three. He missed the baby shawl on first glance. There would probably be another set of remains behind the counter, he imagined, but for now all that mattered was that the store was empty and safe.

  He found a couple of kerosene lamps and after
a few minutes had them going, giving him ample light. He quickly walked the aisles, noting what supplies they might take in the morning and what might be useful for the night. A sealed glass jar of beef jerky on the counter he scooped up immediately. It would do for the dogs. Peering behind the counter, he was surprised to find there were no human remains, but he did note a sealed trapdoor, which was good news. The canned food on the shelves of the store would probably be safe to eat even after three years. But it would have been exposed to high temperatures even with the climatic cooling they had experienced of late, and he had no wish to expose Sofia to the danger of food poisoning. If there was a good cellar, however, any stores down there would be fine.

  This looked like a good point to lay up for the first night. He returned to the horses and was pleased to see Sofia keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. She brought up the scope of her Remington every so often, sighting on something of interest before lowering the rifle. Her movements were rigid, somewhat machinelike. Miguel thought she was in shock, as he himself must certainly be. But there could be no question of coddling themselves until they had covered a safe distance. He began unloading the saddlebags.

  “Sofia, you are doing very well, sweetheart. I need you to take the horses into the garden across the road. It is fenced off, and there is a small pond for them to drink. Can you do that while I unpack and set up?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she answered. She had always worked hard, and he trusted her to look after the horses properly, even as damaged as she was by the trauma of the day. He, too, had been forced to push through his own pain and distress, and he wondered when they might have a chance to simply settle down for a day or two and grieve for their loss. Sofia led all the animals through the deepening twilight into the garden he had indicated. The house there had burned down, but the fence line remained intact. Flossie tossed her head and insisted on leading her mates through the gate and into the knee-length grass.

  “Blue Dog, Red, you, too,” he ordered. Sofia whistled to the dogs, and they followed her happily. “Guard!” Miguel called out when they were inside the fence before throwing a handful of jerky strips over the gate. The dogs fell on the treat with great hunger. As Sofia tended to the horses, he gathered the saddlebags and returned to the general store.

  Full darkness was upon them now, and the light from the kerosene lamps seemed much stronger than before. Miguel’s stomach was rumbling with real hunger, and he set up a small gas-powered camp stove on one of the tables in the diner. He took his Maglite and returned to the main area of the shop, where he soon hauled up the trapdoor to the cellar behind the counter. It was pitch-black down there, requiring him to take both the torch and a lamp down the steep wooden steps. He had to stop halfway down and consciously push away the image of his family sitting down to dinner just the previous night. The shock of remembering was like a punch to the heart from an armored fist. He gritted his teeth and forced himself back into the present. There would be time for all that later. Right now he had his daughter to look after.

  The cellar revealed itself to be well stocked, with enough canned and bottled goods to feed his family for a year.

  He shook his head in disgust at his own weakness. How could he possibly control events over the next few weeks if he could not even control his own thoughts and feelings? He returned to the diner with a can of Dinty Moore beef stew and a can of Del Monte peaches. A few minutes on his camp stove and dinner was ready as Sophia arrived carrying her own saddlebags, her backpack, and her gun.

  “Are you hungry?” Miguel asked.

  “Sure,” she said, showing very little emotion. “Thank you, Papa.”

  She joined him at the counter, where he had set up the small gas stove. She seemed less aware or possibly just less bothered by the remains of the Disappeared. The younger ones, he noticed, were like that. They seemed to accept what had happened with much greater ease than their elders were able to.

  “I am sorry,” she said, looking at Miguel. “I should be feeling something, but I can’t. Is that wrong, Papa?”

  Miguel felt as though his heart might burst from the pressure gathering around it. He took Sofia into his arms and held her close. To his surprise, she stiffened. His own tears came, but they were quiet, unlike Sofia’s from earlier in the day. They blossomed in his eyes like small exquisite pearls of acid and burned as he burned.

  He would grieve, but he would also have vengeance.

  14

  New York

  A thorough skin care treatment and a small loss of dignity saved Julianne’s life. Her hands had suffered terribly from the gang work, even with the heavy lined gloves she wore, and so, acting on advice from Jenny Janssen, one of the other women on the crew, she’d secured a bottle of Vaseline and a pair of vinyl gloves. Before laying herself down to sleep, Jules slathered the petroleum jelly all over her fingers and palms, which were so dry and cracked that they burned painfully at the first touch. She persevered, however, and soon had both hands so greased up that it was impossible to put on the gloves without smearing Vaseline all over the sheets. With a squish here and a squeegee there, both gloves went on and she was ready for bed.

  As soon as she lay down, her nose began to run.

  “Oh, bugger,” she said irritably.

  She plucked a tissue from the box by the bedside, blew her nose, and lay a fresh tissue on the pillow next to her as a precautionary measure. She hated the idea of lying on a snotty pillow and waking up looking like a glazed doughnut in the morning.

  Off went the bedside light, and with her hot, greasy begloved hands at her side, Julianne finally laid her head down to sleep. But after a few minutes of lying on her back she turned over. Instantly, a searing pain shot through her right eye, and she sat up in bed, blinking wildly.

  The tissue was caught inside the lid of her eye.

  “Godshitfuckdamnshit!” she cried out, blinking rapidly to clear the obstruction but only dragging the corner of the Kleenex in deeper under her eyelid.

  She tried to grab the tissue, but her hands were so clumsy with the greased-up gloves, she managed only to poke herself in the other eye, smearing Vaseline in there. Shrieking with frustration and pain, Jules tried again. She could only imagine what she looked like, sitting up in bed in a tattered pink Teletubby T-shirt, her tiny ponytail standing straight up on her head and greasy rubber-gloved hands yanking wildly at a Kleenex that was stuck inside one eyelid, flapping up and down on her face while she cursed up a storm.

  “God shit fuck goddamn motherfucker!”

  Not quite the queen of the seven seas image she’d cut as master and commander of the Aussie Rules. She smashed the bedside lamp while reaching blindly for it in the dark, tried to lever herself out of bed, and crashed to the floor when her slimy hands slipped on the dresser. Mercifully, the fall yanked out the tissue, and she stumbled to the bathroom, cursing again as she flicked on the light and got a look at her raw, red eyeballs in the mirror.

  It took a long time to settle down after that, perhaps an hour. For a while, she sat gazing out of a dirt-smeared window at the Lower Manhattan skyline, which was dark for the most part with the silver wash of a full moon haunting the empty and occasionally burned-out skyscrapers. A flicker of tracer fire could be seen in the distance, but she could not place the exact location. After calming down, she returned to bed, where the fearful crash of artillery from the firebases on Governors Island sounded like a distant thunderstorm. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and grainy sore, closed of their own accord as she recalled a party on the roof of a nearby building. The Rhino, Manny, and a bunch of private operators sitting around a barbecue grill smoking cigars and drinking high-end bourbon while the glowing artillery shells passed through the clouds with a brief lightning flash before traveling on to their targets. Helicopters of a dozen varieties hammered the night sky above, but soon Jules fell into sleep and the memory was lost to dreams.

  She slept through her alarm, only waking to the sound of Rhino hammering on her door.

>   “Come, Miss Jules, your carriage awaits! And verily the driver is pissed!”

  For the briefest moment she dreamed herself in a Cinderella world where a handsome horse-drawn buggy and a charming young prince did indeed await, but the Rhino’s bellowing and hammering quickly ended that.

  “Come on, they’ll dock us a week’s pay if we make them late,” he yelled through the door somewhat more prosaically.

  Julianne wondered groggily why he cared, given that salvage work was strictly a cover for them and the payday they’d get when they delivered the Rubin package back to Seattle would dwarf the money they were earning here.

  A sharp, stunning discontinuity cut off her thoughts with a giant boom.

  The dirt-smeared windows shattered and exploded into the room. Shrapnel whistled through the air, burying itself in the plaster walls, and pepper-black smoke rolled into the room as the building shuddered all the way to its foundations. The explosion shook the building so violently that she was seized with a fearful certainty that it would collapse around them. Jules tumbled from the edge of the bed onto the floor with the pillow over her head, falling painfully on a few broken shards of the lamp she had knocked over in the night.

  The eruption began to subside, only to be followed by a barrage of smaller, sharper explosions she recognized as rocket fall. Burps of Gatling gun fire spit upward at the rockets from some improvised navy missile defense weapon on the roof. If they had any effect, Jules couldn’t tell.

  Memories of battles at sea came crowding in: a chromatic rush of images, remembered sounds, and foul smells and then a sudden tug of sorrow for the friends she had lost. All that passed in a twinkling as another explosion blew in the one remaining window. The heavy drapes protected her from flying glass but not from the remains of the broken lamp base, which fell heavily on her bare foot.

  “Jules, you okay?” the Rhino yelled.