by Tom Abrahams
“Play along,” suggested Dub. “Find out more.”
Michael checked with Keri, and she nodded her agreement. He swallowed and raised the radio to speak. He hesitated. The light turned green again.
“This is K6VWV,” said the gravelly voice. “We’re here on campus. Do you copy, Michael? We are here and ready to meet. Over.”
Michael didn’t hesitate this time. When the light flipped red, he pressed the PTT.
“That’s great,” he said, trying to hide the concern in his voice. “Where exactly are you? Over.”
“On the Hill,” said the caller. “We’re awaiting better directions. Tell us where you are and we’ll come meet you. Over.”
“I don’t know about this,” said Michael. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m going out there,” said Dub.
Keri arched her back and folded her arms across her chest. “No, you’re not,” she said emphatically.
“Why not?” asked Dub. “We need to find out who these people are. They could screw up everything.”
“And they could hurt you,” said Keri. “Haven’t you learned anything from that family that attacked you? You can’t be out there by yourself.”
Dub shook his head. He stepped to Keri and put his hands on her shoulders. She flinched. The expression on her face hardened.
“I’m not by myself,” he said. “Barker’s out there and he’s on his way back. Plus, these people don’t know what I look like. They won’t know who I am even if I’m standing next to them.”
“How will you spot them?” asked Keri.
“They have a radio,” Dub said. “I’ll see the radio.”
Keri’s tension eased, but the frown was plastered on her face. She shook her head. “I don’t like it. You should wait for Barker to get back.”
“Then Barker’s out there by himself,” Dub reasoned. “You two stay here. Stay on the radio. Keep them talking.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” said Michael. “He can keep a distance but find out what they’re doing. He can listen to what they’re saying that they’re not broadcasting.”
Dub widened his eyes and smiled for Keri’s approval.
She sighed with exasperation and threw up her hands. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t approach them, please.”
“Scout’s honor,” said Dub.
Keri smirked. “You’re not a Boy Scout.”
“I’ll keep my distance,” promised Dub. He put both hands on her face and pulled her in for a short kiss. She closed her eyes and kissed him back.
Dub hugged her and then turned on his heels. He jogged from the cooler and slipped around the corner. Keri and Michael stood there quietly for a moment, neither of them moving or speaking. Michael held the radio at his side, his fingers wrapped tightly around its molded plastic case.
“What do you think?” she asked Michael. “Was that a good idea?”
Before he could answer, the radio’s light turned green again. Static crackled and the raspy voice returned.
“Michael,” the transmission began, “K6VWV here. Awaiting location instructions. Do you copy? Over.”
Michael lifted the radio and responded, “We’re gathering up our belongings. We weren’t expecting you yet, so we’re behind. Give us a few minutes and we’ll be down. Then we’ll figure out where to meet. Over.”
Michael let go of the PTT and awaited an immediate response. He got one. But it wasn’t from the voice with whom he’d been communicating. It was Victor. His voice was muffled, but it was definitely him. He confirmed their suspicions.
“Michael,” he said, “this is K6VWV. We are not on campus. Repeat. We are not on campus. Over.”
***
“How far are we from the Hill?” asked Ritz, his voice muffled by the filtered gas mask he wore on his face. “Can we speed up?”
Gilda squatted in the middle of the street and unfolded a laminated street map of west Los Angeles. She ran her finger along the plastic until she stopped and tapped a spot. Ritz squatted beside her.
“We’re here,” she said through her mask. “We’re making good time, but we’re easily three hours away. Maybe four. It depends on what kind of debris we have to avoid or pick our way through. It could be five hours.”
It was true, they were making much better time than they’d thought they could, three times faster than the worst estimates. But if there were imposters on campus already, the threat was immediate, and they couldn’t help.
“I could run,” offered Danny. He wasn’t wearing a mask. “Maggie could go with me. We could help them.”
Gilda looked up at him. “That’s sweet, but even running isn’t going to get you there for another couple of hours, and you’ll be useless when you get there.”
“What do we do?” asked Ritz. “They’re helpless.”
Gilda folded up the map and stuck it in her breast pocket. She adjusted the mask strap at the side of her head. Danny stepped to her and helped her untwist the strap.
“We don’t know that,” she said as Danny worked on her mask. “They might be armed. They might be able to hide.”
Victor joined the three of them, holding the radio in his hand. His eyes bugged from behind the clear goggles of his mask. “They’re in trouble,” he said. “Whoever these people are, whatever their end game, they’ve been ghosting our transmissions.”
“Ghosting?” Ritz echoed.
“Listening without transmitting,” said Victor. “Now they’re pretending to be us, and there’s nothing good about it.”
“They probably heard the conversations about food and supplies,” said Gilda.
Victor nodded. “Probably. And now they know we know.”
Gilda slid her thumbs inside her pack straps and tugged the bag higher on her broad shoulders. “We’d better get going. We’re not doing them any good by standing here talking about it.”
She started marching again, moving northeast past the tangle of abandoned ash-covered cars and trucks that littered San Vicente Boulevard. The others followed in a single-file line, weaving their way around and between the obstacles. None of them said anything for a mile or more. Then Ritz eased up beside Victor.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have told them those imposters weren’t us,” he said. “You think we created a bigger problem by telling them?”
Victor turned his head to glance at Ritz. After a moment of consideration, he answered, “It’s a catch twenty-two. Either way, they’re in trouble. Is it better they don’t see it coming? I don’t know.”
“Do you think we should keep going?” asked Ritz. “By the time we get there, they—”
“Yes,” Victor said firmly. “We keep going. The radio’s been silent since my last transmission. We have no way of knowing what’s happening. For all we know the kids are hiding somewhere. They said they were inside getting ready.”
Ritz frowned. “I didn’t mean to sound…”
“Sound what?” prompted Gilda. She’d slowed and, while the men were engaged in conversation, moved next to them without them having noticed.
Danny was still up ahead with Maggie at his side. She had her nose to the ground, sweeping it back and forth, relishing the variety of scents and odors.
“Unkind,” said Ritz. “Insensitive.”
Gilda was looking at Ritz through her mask. Unlike Victor, whose goggles were clear, hers were tinted with a reflective film. It was impossible to see her expression.
“It’s fine,” she said after a few seconds. “And it’s a fair question. But we have to keep going. We’re already on our way. Turning back now would be a waste of time, energy, and resources.”
Ritz nodded through his mask and pressed forward. Gilda quickened her pace to join Danny at the point. He was talking to Maggie when she sidled up next to him, her shoulder brushing against his.
“You talking to your dog?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s happier than she’s been in weeks.”
“She looks happy,” said
Gilda. “But all of that ash she’s sniffing isn’t good for her. Just like it isn’t good you’re not using a mask. You’re breathing in all of the fallout. It’s not good.”
Danny watched Maggie for another moment, kicked at the ash ahead of his feet, and wiped the film from under his nose. He shrugged the pack on his back and adjusted his grip on the rifle he was carrying. All of them were armed.
“You’re ignoring me,” said Gilda.
“I’m not ignoring you,” Danny said, shaking his head. “But I’ve been breathing this stuff on and off since the attack. I rolled around in it. I got it in my mouth. What’s done is done.”
“That’s fatalistic,” she said.
“It’s the truth. I was exposed.”
“Why make it worse?”
He shrugged. “Am I making it worse? I don’t know. I think I’m already starting to get sick. My appetite isn’t great; my chest is tight. I find myself clearing my throat a lot, which doesn’t feel great.”
“Don’t say that,” she said.
“Sorry. I’ll keep it to myself.”
“Have you talked to Doc about it?” Gilda asked.
Danny shook his head. He blinked, his lashes flicking away particulate.
“You should,” she said. “You may not have radiation sickness. It could be a cold. You know, the fallout can lower your immunity. You could live twenty years.”
Danny turned his head and looked at a warped image of himself in her goggles. He raised his eyebrows in a disbelieving arch.
Gilda turned awkwardly and looked over her shoulder. Then she faced Danny as she kept walking. “Look,” she said, sounding exasperated. “I like you. I’m attracted to you.”
Danny’s heart accelerated, and he suddenly felt short of breath. He hadn’t heard those words in…forever.
“But,” she said.
There had to be a “but.” Danny turned his body sideways to ease between two pickup trucks, ducking between their side-view mirrors.
“You’re starting to piss me off.”
Danny chuckled nervously. Gilda wasn’t laughing.
“What’s so funny?” she said.
“That I’m pissing you off.”
“It’s not funny,” she said, pushing her way past an open car door and slamming it shut. “I’m opening up to you and you’re laughing.”
“I just—”
“You’re pissing me off,” she said, “because I can’t invest in a guy who’s bent on dying and sees no value in trying to live.”
“I never said that.”
“Yeah, you did,” she said, working to suppress her volume. “You’ve talked repeatedly about there not being a future. It was sort of endearing at first. Now it’s irritating.”
“Endearing?”
“Yes,” she said. She was walking farther away from him now. “Like a wounded puppy. But you’ve gone from wounded puppy to old dog on the porch waiting to die.”
“Wow,” said Danny. “This is a lot to digest. I mean, I went from cool to douche in, like, a day. And I had no idea.”
“Never mind.”
“No,” Danny said. “You started this. I took you for intense and no-nonsense. I didn’t take you for sensitive.”
Gilda stopped in her tracks. Danny didn’t need to see the expression behind her mask to recognize it. She stared at him for a moment and, without saying anything, she shook her head and started marching again. Her pace quickened, and Danny had to rush to catch up with her.
He reached out for her shoulder. She shrugged him off.
“Hang on, Gilda. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Being sensitive is a good thing.”
She slowed a step.
“I’m not sure right now is the best timing for this conversation,” he said. “With everything going on, you know.”
She sped up.
“Okay.” He shook his head at his own stupidity. “I’m not good at this.”
“Clearly,” she said.
“I like you too.”
She slowed.
“You’ve got to understand.” Danny sighed. “I’ve spent a long time not having anything to live for, okay? When a nuclear bomb drops in my hometown and obliterates everything, that’s not necessarily a cause to celebrate life, okay?”
Gilda kept walking. She kept her gaze ahead.
“But if you’re saying you like me,” he continued, “that for some crazy reason you’re attracted to me, then that gives me a reason to live.”
She stopped again and pivoted toward him.
He waved his hands in front of his face. “Wait, that sounded creepy. See, I’m horrible at this. And—”
“Just shut up,” she said. “You’re right. This is bad timing. It’s like in horror movies, with the psycho killer on the loose, two teenagers end up doing it. Or when two people are on the run in an action movie, they still find time to fall into the sack. I get it. We can talk about it later.”
Danny handed her his rifle and held up a finger. Then, in the middle of the road, he shrugged off his pack, unzipped it, and fished out his gas mask. He slid it onto his head and stared at Gilda for a moment. He smiled.
“What?” she said.
He slugged his pack on to his shoulders. “You said sack—” he chuckled “—like some old lady.”
She shoved the rifle at him. “Irritating.”
Victor and Ritz caught up with them, and Victor’s eyes danced between Danny and Gilda from behind his mask.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked. “It feels like I’m interrupting something.”
Gilda shook her head. “Not really.”
“Good,” said Victor, “because the imposters are transmitting again.”
***
“I think that’s one of them,” said Clint. He, Jesse, and Filter were pressed against the side of a building at the edge of a plaza.
They were watching a tall blond move cautiously across the plaza. His masked face swirled back and forth, as if he were searching for something. And he was armed with a handgun.
“You think he’s looking for us?” asked Jesse.
“Could be,” said Clint. He held up the radio. “They know we’re not K6VWV.”
“What do you want to do?” asked Filter. “Follow him?”
Clint suppressed a cough and slid back behind the corner of the building. He closed his eyes and swallowed against the sensation of razors in his throat.
“You okay?” asked Jesse.
Clint opened his eyes and blinked past the blur until he pulled focus. He swallowed the thick mix of phlegm and blood that pooled against his cheeks and under his tongue.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice somehow raspier than before. “I’m fine.”
“So?” asked Filter. “Plan?”
Clint glanced over Filter’s shoulder. A hundred yards downhill, the remainder of his men sat on a bench. They were waiting for a signal. Tactically, having them sit out in the open wasn’t the best idea given that they’d been made as imposters. But Clint wasn’t a tactician, he was a convict. He liked to project force even when it was counterproductive.
He touched the radio at his hip, making sure it was still there, and scratched his neck. It itched constantly now. “Jesse,” he said, “you go around the back side. Follow that kid. Surprise him from behind.”
Jesse tugged on his shirt, trying to pull it over the hang of his gut. “Got it.” He offered Clint a weak salute and headed toward the path the tall blond kid had taken.
“And me?” asked Filter.
“You and me,” said Clint, “we’re going to join the others down there and try to draw the rest of them out.”
“The rest of them?”
“The other three,” said Clint. “There’s four of them, right? One of them is out there in the plaza. Jesse’s got him. That leaves the rest of them for us.”
“We don’t know where they are,” said Filter.
Clint held up his index finger and waggled it in a circle. “They’re in these
buildings,” he said. “It can’t be that hard to find them. We search the buildings.”
Filter looked around at the high-rise complex of dormitories and sighed. “Okay. That’s a lot of work.”
“Hang on,” said Clint. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth onto his chin. He licked it clean and pulled the radio from his hip. He keyed the PTT button on its side and held it up close to his mouth.
“We’re coming for you,” he said, drawing out the words. “We know you got food. We know you got supplies. We know you got soft pillows and pretty girls. Ready or not, here we come.”
Filter squeezed his brow with confusion. “Pretty girls?”
Clint shrugged. “It sounded good.”
“What was the point?”
“They’re going to panic now,” said Clint. “They don’t have the luxury of taking their time to figure out how to avoid us. Their little hearts are pounding now.”
“How does that help us?” asked Filter.
“Panicky people make mistakes. They’ll give away their position. Just keep your eyes on those windows.”
Clint pointed skyward toward the banks of windows that lined the floors of the dormitories. Some of them had curtains drawn; some didn’t. His eyes scanned from floor to floor across one building, then another.
“I don’t see anything,” said Filter.
“Keep looking,” said Clint. “I’m going to get the others. I’ll bring them back here and we’ll start searching. We’ll find them. No doubt.”
***
Jesse saw the student from behind. The tall, athletic man was wearing goggles and a mask made of some rough fabric. Jesse couldn’t see his face. He had no concept of how old the target was other than a guess that he was in his late teens or early twenties.
The man was armed with a handgun, but he wasn’t handling it the way a skilled shooter carried a weapon. Jesse had seen plenty of those people in his days. They held guns like they were bodily extensions, indistinguishable from the carrier’s hand.
This man, whoever he was, kept readjusting his grip. He was consciously aiming the weapon away from himself and toward the ground. His finger danced in and out of the trigger guard. Nobody who knew anything about guns would carry the semiautomatic the way this guy did.