by Melissa Roen
I awoke alone in a shaft of sunlight burning across my bed. The door to the terrace was open, and the memory of the night before came flooding back in. I didn’t hear the shower running, nor could I smell coffee being brewed.
I couldn’t wait to see him in the daylight. He’d come back, my heart sang. I first went to look for him on the terrace. Then, I searched the house. I called his name, but birdsong and the waves dancing in the cove were my only reply. I went to the garage and then searched everywhere in the house and garden once again.
He was gone. There was no note left behind.
I sank down on my bed, the faint trace of his scent already fading in the heat. It had seemed so real, the taste and touch of him so solidly rooted in reality. I didn’t want to believe this interlude had been merely the creation of my dream mind. My lips felt swollen, my breasts were tender, and I felt a slight soreness between my thighs. These and the languid warmth spreading through my core—these were signs I couldn’t deny.
But why would Julian come to me in a night of passion, only to vanish without a word in the harsh light of day? It seemed last night’s reunion had been merely the product of too much to drink and starlight. Just a midsummer night’s erotic dream conjured up by my own desire and memory. I could feel the dream fade as I sat there.
Even more worrying, drunk on moonlight and caught up in the madness that I was really in Julian’s arms, I had slept through the night with my terrace door left wide open—exposed and vulnerable to anything else that could have been creeping about in the night.
But even as I got in the shower to wash away the traces of my folly, a part of me, a stubborn kernel, insisted that last night magic had enchanted me, and Julian had really been in my bed.
On Litha, the night of the summer solstice, when the membrane between worlds almost disappears, Julian felt my yearning and came to me. And like lovers, separated across time and space, we had met and coupled on the astral plane.
CHAPTER 15
BLOOD OF THE WICKED
I’d been trying to get hold of Chaz since yesterday morning, ever since I heard the news of the giant quake that struck the Antelope Valley, about an hour from downtown L.A. The epicenter was located in Palmdale, smack dab on top of the San Andreas Fault that snaked most of the length of California, from the Salton Sea in the south, to just outside the Bay Area of San Francisco. I prayed she’d escaped the worst of it in Marin County, across the San Francisco Bay.
Online reports were calling it the most powerful earthquake ever to have hit California, possibly the largest ever known in our time. Some measurements put it at 9.8 on the Richter Scale. Other scientists claimed it was closer to 10. Shaking and powerful aftershocks, almost as strong as the initial tremor, were felt the whole length of the San Andreas fault line.
What couldn’t be disputed was the enormous and widespread devastation it had caused. It may not have rivaled the cinematic version from the movie 2012—in which the earth splits open in yawning chasms miles deep and continental shelves slide whole into the sea—but Cali had been torn asunder.
The central part of the state, the agricultural heartland, was burning in countless places, from the mountains down to the Pacific Ocean. Under the searing drought, the crops that hadn’t been burned by the fires were withering from the parched conditions.
Even before this earthquake, delivery of food and goods to markets had been disrupted by the worldwide oil shortage, and the state’s economy had been derailed.
Three months before this earthquake struck, Charlotte had sent me an online article from the L.A. Times which painted a horrifying picture of the desperation and descent into anarchy which was already gripping Southern California. The reporter’s byline was Anton Rodriguez.
Shortages of all kinds have led to wide-scale hoarding, which has resulted in waves of riots in the greater Los Angeles area over the bare store shelves.
Yesterday, shoppers at a Costco depot in Encino battled with any weapon at hand, willing to kill for a bag of rice. The desperation is spreading, since so many businesses have folded and jobs lost. In some places, people are starving and wandering the land, scavenging for any sustenance they can find.
Wild game has been hunted to extinction in the southern part of the state and any meat is now a potential meal. Domestic animas have to be closely guarded or they just disappear.
The whole food chain is being exhausted, and there are reports that now man has taken to hunting man. The weak, the aged, the infirm and the young are the most vulnerable targets of growing cannibalism.
False prophets have sprung up in the last year; but the most terrifying is a sect called the Blood Hand. Led by a former convict, John Slade, who has repented his past and been reborn as “a sword of the Lord’s vengeance.” He now calls himself Brother Slayer.
Playing on the mounting fears of the anarchy and starvation sweeping the southland, Brother Slayer exploits the uncertainty of these harrowing times and the resentment of foreigners and immigrants—“the infidels or wicked,” as he calls those who haven’t been converted to his way of thinking or joined his movement. With fear and famine stalking the land, many have responded to his call and embraced his message. Not only those who see these strange days as a license to shed moral restraint—as easily as they remove their clothes—but those desperate and lost, broken souls in search of an answer, any answer, and a leader who will protect and feed them.
Mostly composed of young males with weak or nonexistent family or social ties, the members of Blood Hand flout their aggression, dominance and territoriality. Under the cloak of doing the Lord’s work in advance of Judgement Day, the Brotherhood authorizes them to revel in an orgy of bloodletting and violence. For those who just want to pillage and rape, membership in the Blood Hand provides a convenient cover story.
To absolve his faithful of atrocities being committed, Brother Slayer quotes from the Bible, urging his followers down a bloody path toward salvation. Proclaiming the end of days is nigh, he preaches death to those who have sinned and brought down this punishment and promises a reward of glory and salvation to his followers, saying:
“The righteous will be glad when they are avenged, when they bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked.”
Signs of the Blood Hand are appearing around the megacity of Los Angeles, where society is splintering into tribes, and hostility towards strangers holds sway.
Schismatics from the Brotherhood have taken their license to reap and slaughter a step further, and are still more to be feared. They have taken as their motto:
“That thy foot be dipped in the blood of thine enemy and the tongue of your dog in the same.”
Preying on isolated communities, and hunting in packs with dobermans and hybrid mastiff-pit-bull mixes, these fiends have lost all humanity or restraint, perverting the Christian allegory of communion, the body and blood of the host and sacramental wine into a righteous justification for human blood-drinking and flesh-eating.
Not everyone in California has gone insane and joined a cult. Like everywhere else in America, people are armed and communities are banding together to fight back against the general anarchy and blood cults. But suspicion of strangers rules the day, and many have learned by painful experience to shoot first and ask questions later.
It’s gotten to the point that a solitary traveler or anyone without community ties coming upon a town in the southern part of the state is tempting fate. Travelers won’t know what they will find: blood-drinkers welcoming them for dinner, or normally decent people deformed by their fears into vigilantes ready to shoot at the very hint of a threat.
Like elsewhere, the wealthy and powerful in their gated enclaves defended by private armies, are insulated and have a better chance to survive. They have armored convoys and personal bodyguards, private helicopters and jets to soar above the madness crawling below.
Just like the residents of Monaco, I thought uneasily. Resources and wealth protect them for now, but the tide is turning.
The sheer numbers of displaced and desperate humanity fighting to survive will ultimately overwhelm their defenses.
The rest of California is becoming Balkanized. Whether towns, hamlets, communities or families and clans, with so little to go around, one has to take care of their own.
The article finished with, The state government is barely functioning; most public services have been severely curtailed. Cities and towns are effectively on their own. Some residents try and maintain public order, hold onto shared values and community aid. Other places have succumbed, become outlaw towns where psychopaths prey on the weak and only the strongest—or most ruthless—survive.
One month after this article was published, Chaz informed me, Anton Rodriguez’s body was found in a trash-strewn alley in downtown Los Angeles, his throat cut and his body drained of blood, the symbol of the Blood Hand branded on his chest.
The earthquake would probably be seen by the false prophets as the hand of God smiting the wicked, and as a sign of the righteousness of their ravings.
Looking at the first photos that were making their way on to the web, it looked as though a giant’s hand had smitten the land.
At some point, the decision might be made to quarantine the state like was done with Japan. Then, troops would be called in to maintain the restricted zone, and people trapped behind the lines would be abandoned and left to deal with the aftermath of death and destruction on their own.
The wildfires burning in the central part of the state were actually a blessing in disguise for the northern part, since they created an impassable fire zone. For now, they kept the terror in the south from spreading north. It added one more layer of protection for Leah’s band across the border in Oregon.
I worried that I couldn’t get hold of Charlotte. I wanted to tell her where to find Leah. I knew Leah would take her in, and it wouldn’t be that far for Chaz from Marin County to Coos Bay.
I knew Leah was standing at the crossroads, and that danger from the south was rolling up the coast like a bad storm and would inevitably arrive. I also knew if anyone could survive, it’d be her. With her innate bossiness and organizational skills, I wouldn’t be surprised if Coos Bay had elected a new Sheriff. Leah was born to run countries, maybe even the universe. I’d vote for her in these times.
I sent both Chaz and Leah emails, tried their cell phones numerous times, but I got no reply from either. I maintained a vigil, reading the reports coming in and the first accounts from survivors. As the updates arrived, the situation grew bleaker by the hour; the death count kept being revised ever upward until the half-a-million mark was breached, and this was just the first few days. I shuddered to imagine what tomorrow would bring.
California had been my first home and the land of my birth. I remembered it as a golden land where summers seemed endless when I was young. I mourned her passing.
Cali was broken. God help them; no one else could.
CHAPTER 16
DILEMMAS
The day hung hot and humid around my neck, though when I’d left home in the first cool rays of morning light, there had been nary a cloud to mar the day.
It was late afternoon, and I sat with my legs dangling from the observation deck of the Astrarama, eating my tuna sandwich. I saw from my aerie a cloud wall of menacing cumulous mounding ever higher over the sea. A smear of darker charcoal gray etched a sharp line along its lower edge. The sky underneath the towering mass was a green-hued band backlit by streaks of yellow crackling down from above. The unmistakeable funnel shape of half a dozen tornadoes swirled downward from the thunderstorm and danced across the slate-colored waves.
Cali and Japan had been torn apart by earthquakes, and closer to home, the hills of Tuscany were trembling these days. At the heel of Italy, lava was flowing down the slopes of Mount Vesuvius over the ruins of Pompeii yet again. Here on the Cote d’ Azur we’d been spared such terrors. The earth neither trembled nor did mountaintops explode, but the violence of thunderstorms and the tornadoes they spawned was increasing ominously in frequency and intensity. Any day, destruction would come howling our way from beyond the horizon.
So far, the waterspouts had stayed offshore, creating an eerily beautiful spectacle on the horizon. But they could cross any body of water and become a tornado that could rage uphill as far inland as where I sat on my mountain throne.
I felt a paw resting on my arm and broke my sandwich in half. Buddy took it gently between his teeth from my hand. When I arrived at the Astrarama, I filled his bowl with dried dog food from the large sack of kibble I left here last week, mixing in scraps of chicken that I’d brought from home. Even though he licked his bowl clean in seconds, he’d been staring longingly at my lunch for the last fifteen minutes, practicing the golden retriever mind-meld, a special technique unique to the breed, not unlike the Vulcan mind-meld that Spock deployed on Captain Kirk in reruns of Star Trek. Goldens typically use this technique on susceptible humans whenever any tasty treats are present, which they believe should be shared.
It had taken me the better part of two weeks for Buddy to trust me. The first time I went back to the training center after the Midsummer’s Eve party, near the end of June, he’d stayed hidden for the first hour, though I felt his eyes watching me as I searched the buildings and abandoned grounds. Wind sighing through a row of empty kennels, a grooming brush left behind on a shelf, a training harness hanging from a hook, the door to the dog runs clanging against the wall—these were the only traces of former tenants.
Finally, I’d sat down on a patch of grass with my back turned to where I thought he was hiding. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of the breeze rustling in the trees, and waited. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him, and I heard his approach; his nails clicked every other step on the cement path. He was limping, from the sound of it, but I didn’t move until I felt his nose nudge me in the back.
I turned around to find him wagging his tail with a tennis ball in his mouth that he promptly laid at my feet with a bark of encouragement. I obliged and played with him for the next half hour, until he finally tired and plopped down by my side.
I spent hours with him that first day, trying to accustom him to the sound of my voice and the touch of my hand. I noticed he favored his left hind leg. Searching the clinic office for veterinary supplies, I found oxygen peroxide, Betadine and gauze, with which I cleaned and dressed his wound. Luckily, it wasn’t too bad. He’d probably tangled with barbed wire; the four-inch gash was only lightly infected, since he’d kept it clean with regular licking.
I went to the facility every other day for two weeks, always bringing him a special treat. We spent hours climbing the adjacent trails and playing ball. He let me bathe him and seemed to enjoy the feel of water streaming down his coat. But despite my entreaties, he wouldn’t follow me down the trail that led towards town and home.
I wondered if he knew something, in that uncanny way animals sense the coming danger of an earthquake or fire. Regardless, he was firm in his conviction that there was nothing good for him down below. Maybe he could smell on the wind the violence, fear and despair, the end of a chapter for our species. Or he was staying close to the center because this was where he’d last seen his owner, and awaited his return. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t blame him wanting to freely roam among these beautiful hills.
He’d found the sacks of dog food stacked against the wall in a storage room and systematically pawed them open, one by one. Golden retrievers were hunting dogs, so his natural instincts must have come to the fore; he hadn’t starved. There was water leaking from a faucet. He had shelter and bedding in the kennels.
They say goldens have the intelligence of a six-year-old child and can recognize and understand hundreds of words or commands. This was one smart and resourceful pup; he’d figured things out on his own. I would have to say he seemed more like a very smart kid of at least ten, and he’d certainly earned his boy scouts badge for survival. I thought about changing his name to Scout or Troope
r; he definitely was one.
Part of me wished I could take him with me, but I didn’t know how much longer I would be safe staying in my own home, or what I was going to do thereafter. He seemed a part of these hills, and I knew I wouldn’t really be doing him any favors, taking him down to civilization only to abandon him all over again if I had to run.
I finally got word from Charlotte. Within seventy-two hours of receiving my email, she got in touch with Leah and was only too happy to leave the devastation of California behind. She was hysterical when they had first spoken, overwhelmed by the carnage, the fear that was overtaking everyone there. She’d gotten out of San Francisco on her own and met Noah and Jack in Garberville, halfway to Oregon.
I was safe in the south of France for the time being, but just like the storm that lay in wait over the horizon this morning, something bad was brewing and it wouldn’t be long in coming. Either Slava would take over, with his special brand of brutality, and Monaco would become a prison with gilded bars; or the tide of desperate humanity surging towards us from the southwest would one day overwhelm the security perimeter and ravage our stores of food, resources and wealth. Every day, kilometer by kilometer, this desperate human tide was gaining ground. The end—one way or another—was nearly at hand.
In all the movies about the end of the world, which had been so popular a few years back—whether a super-plague turned your neighbors into an army of vampire zombies, a volcanic super—eruption, or an earthquake-induced tsunami, taller than any Manhattan skyscraper—the end typically unfolded in the space of ten graphic minutes; in a spectacular display of technicolor FX, most of mankind was wiped from the Earth.
What was happening here was a slow-motion breakdown of our ecosystem and society simultaneously. There wasn’t one specific event to point to, or escape from. It was as though a Pandora’s Box of ailments and afflictions had been opened, and pockets of death festered everywhere on our globe. It would probably be a long, slow illness—lasting perhaps a score of years—till the patient finally died.