by Sergio Gomez
Charlie did as he was told. He lit it with a match from his pocket and handed it to Alejandro, and then side by side they climbed up the dark staircase.
*
There turned out to be none of the scary things Charlie was anticipating at the top of the stairs; The Boogeyman, Pennywise the Clown, that serial killer with the chainsaw from the old movie he saw at Ricky’s house one night on Halloween—(what was that called? Something about Texas?). None of that, to the disappointment of his imagination.
The only thing up in the attic was junk. Unlike the junk littering the ground downstairs this junk was more organized; a sign that the previous raiders hadn’t come up here, or if they did they didn’t ransack the place.
Poking through some of the boxes and moving things around, Alejandro quickly realized that there wasn’t much value to be found up here. The boxes were mostly full of restaurant extras like straws, spoons, knives, forks, cups, plates and old cooking utensils spotted with rust.
He picked up a butcher knife that looked like it still had some cut to it, a bit of rust, but the sharp edge looked fine. He took it to the side of the cardboard box it was in and it sliced through with some resistance. He pulled out the Swiss army knife tucked into his belt and sliced the box with that. The Swiss army knife cut better, so he put the butcher knife back in its place.
That was as close to finding something useful in the boxes as he got. The rest of it was all miscellaneous objects that were useless in this day, the kind of junk that for some inexplicable reason is found in the attic of every restaurant. Broken frames, children’s toys, pieces of plastic that belonged to a piece of machinery from decades ago, old cell phones, remotes, deflated balloons, and a slew of other crap were stuffed into the rows of cardboard boxes.
In one corner of the attic, next to the only window the floor had, was an old writer’s desk. The legs of it were freckled with rust, and it looked to be leaning to one side like it was drunk. There was also a chair with a thick cushion sitting in front of it. In this sea of useless junk, this desk and chair were a godsend to Alejandro.
Alejandro threw his backpack on the desk and took out the camp stove and two cans of beans. One was regular baked beans and the other was baked beans with pork. “Charlie, go make dinner. You remember how to start the stove, right?”
Charlie let out a heavy sigh. “Dad, you show me every day. And the tank is still full on gas, before you ask.”
Charlie was only twelve years old, but already Alejandro could see the teen-years attitudes coming to possess his son. He didn’t care, though, if it somehow made him tougher and more likely to survive, it didn’t matter if his sweet twelve year old boy who liked being read Gary Paulsen novels before bed would be long gone soon. All that mattered was that he could take care of himself…if anything ever happened to him and Charlie had to be on his own.
He rid the thought of that happening away and forced a smile. “Alright then, esquinkle, go and find a spot to make dinner. Come get me when it’s done. And don’t burn the place down!”
Charlie grinned, and then he grabbed the stove and cans and found a spot in the middle of the attic to setup.
Alejandro turned back to the desk, it was stored away in its own dark corner, away from the rest of the junk like a scolded child. Or perhaps like the showcase car at an expo, he thought.
He wasn’t going to find a better workshop than the one here, so it was time to work so he sat down in the chair. A puff of dust came shooting out from the sides of the cushion that made him cough relentlessly.
When his fit ceased he could hear Charlie laughing from where he was kneeling over the stove.
“Don’t laugh so much you forget about cooking and burn it all,” Alejandro said, looking at him with a pretend evil look on his face.
“I never burn them!” Charlie said, still laughing.
“I’m just saying, don’t start today. Dad’s got a lot of work to do and he’ll have an appetite after it’s done.” As if on cue, his stomach growled. It was the kind that could be felt as well as heard.
Charlie laughed again. A second later Alejandro joined in. Charlie laughed harder now that they were both laughing, so hard that tears rolled down his face. Alejandro's laughter grew, to the point of discomfort, and he got out of the chair and walked around clutching his stomach.
Charlie fell forward, resting his head on the ground.
“Papi, I love you.” Charlie said.
Alejandro leaned down in front of his son and moved some hair from Charlie’s forehead—the thought that his wife would kill him if she could see how long her son’s hair was crossed his mind for the hundredth time, she had always kept his hair nice and trimmed, it was one thing Latin mothers were particular about. He kissed him on the forehead.
“I love you too, Mijo.”
“I love you from here all the way to the moon.” Charlie said.
“I love you from here all the way to infinity.” Alejandro responded.
Charlie snickered. “No fair!”
Alejandro rubbed his head and then got up. “I should get back to the radio now.”
Charlie nodded and then turned back to the stove. Meanwhile, Alejandro marched back to the workstation, ready to give this another crack.
His backpack, with all of its unzipped zippers was waiting for him on the table. He pulled out the radio parts and the screw driver he needed to put it back together.
For the sake of storage he had taken it apart into four pieces. The back, the front, the “motherboard” (as he called it, since it was the part with all of the chips and electronic pieces that made the thing work) and then the battery pack.
He had found this beat up radio in the cellar of a lonely house when they first crossed over into Pennsylvania. The radio had been the only thing of use in rummaging through that old house. If there had been anything else, it had long been taken by previous raiders. When he had first turned on the radio he was surprised to find out that it still worked. He had pushed the power button, half expecting the thing to be dead, but to his surprise the LCD screen lit up and green digital numbers that read 8:34am appeared.
A strange sensation had coursed through him when he saw those numbers, a sensation he imagined only a man stuck in the ocean that suddenly sees a ship or a boat coming his way can relate to, because he had felt like salvation was imminent when those green numbers lit up on the screen.
Obviously there were no radio stations broadcasting, but somewhere out there someone had to have found a way to broadcast something. If they shared the same solitude and fear of being alone that he and Charlie did every day in this remote world, someone out there was looking to make contact with other survivors. He knew it, with every nerve in his body he could feel it.
He had not realized in his ecstasy just how difficult it would be for them to tune to the perfect signal at the perfect location to find these anonymous people, though. Every day or night since he had found the radio, when they had downtime or right before bed, he would tune it, to no avail. They had found the radio twenty days ago—or was it 21? Or 22? Did it really even matter? But he wouldn’t give up, as hopeless as it had started to seem. There would come a time when that radio would click to the right place at the right time.
There was doubt in his mind, but he tried his hardest to drown that voice as he sat in the attic of the pizza shop at a crooked desk tuning the needle centimeter by centimeter. The familiar buzz of the radio static became a part of the background noise to his ear. Farther in the background he could hear Charlie making dinner.
As usual when he worked with the radio, his mind began to race with thoughts that had nothing to do with the task at hand; the bear rummaging through the dumpster outside—which Alejandro felt in some odd way was there as a giant guard dog to protect them from Los Noches, the beans he wasn’t looking forward to, the cold shower he wanted to take more than ever, anything to keep his mind busy. It was a useful trick he had developed to endure the monotony.
The
n a voice snapped him back to the radio. At first he thought it was Charlie calling him that dinner was ready, but when he brought his focus back to the radio he found that the voice was coming from the speakers.
Faint and buried beneath the static. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but he could hear enough to know it was a human voice.
“Oh my god,” he said it out loud, although he didn’t intend to.
Charlie looked over his shoulder, but his dad’s body language suggested he didn’t want to be bothered, so he turned back to cooking.
Alejandro tried to steady himself. He took in deep breaths, and then placed his thumb back on the dial. He moved his thumb, so subtly that he wasn’t even sure if it had moved the dial because the voice didn’t go away or become clearer. He moved his thumb again, this time more jerk in the motion, and panic struck him in the heart like a wooden stake as the static won over the voice and drowned it out again.
So close. But not close enough. All the hope he had just a moment ago dried up like a sponge sitting out in the sun.
He looked over his shoulder at his son hunched over the stove cooking beans. That was their dinner again, for the seventh (or was it eighth?) week they would be eating beans out of a can. There would be no enjoyment out of this meal, just like the last, and the one before that, and before that, and so on. He knew because by the fourth straight day of eating them he was sick of them, which meant it was that much worse for Charlie.
He turned back to the radio. Coming into contact with other survivors would mean more food—different food, and also would mean that in three days they wouldn’t be out of water. He had to get into contact with them, this was their only hope.
His hands steadied, his mind cleared, and he got ready to give it another go.
He put his thumb back on the dial and moved it back toward where the signal where the voice had been picked up. The plastic dial seemed to click with the motion, something he hadn’t noticed before this second wind of hope he was drawing from.
Still nothing but static was coming out of the speakers, so he moved his thumb again. Click. This time the voice was back, tiny, mostly being drowned out by the static, but it was there. He stopped for a second and listened as hard as he could to make sure that it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him. Nope, it was there alright. It sounded like someone talking through a swarm of bees, but the voice was there.
Another move of the thumb in the same direction. Another click. The voice became clearer, the swarm of bees reduced by at least twenty percent.
His hands began to get clammy, sweat began to form at his hairline, but he ignored it.
He moved his thumb again. Click. The bees were reduced even further, down to about half. The voice was coming through the speakers more clearly; he even thought he could make out some words.
Alejandro pushed himself back in the chair to take a breather and stretch out his cramped thumb.
He rubbed his hands on the side of his pants to rid them of perspiration, then he moved the chair forward and sat upright. He placed his thumb on the dial, took in a deep breath, and as he exhaled he moved the dial.
Click.
The radio tuned in with the broadcast and the voice came through loud and clear:
“My name is Bill H. Goldenburg. I am located in the area formally known as Trexlerville, there are other survivors here with us. We have food, water, medicine, and shelter for anyone that needs it. There is a nurse in our group as well, so anyone who may need medical attention will get the best they can find under these circumstances. The coordinates of our location are…”
The voice read off some numbers and letters that later Alejandro would match up with his old map. The message repeated over in the exact same tone, which told Alejandro that it was a recording being broadcast. Just as well, it meant that a human had setup the recording to play through the signal.
Alejandro buried his face in his hands and put his forehead on the desk. No tears came out, but the sensation of wanting to cry hung in the pit of his stomach—or chest, or wherever that sensation came from—and he stayed in that position for what felt like a long time. Meanwhile the message continued to play on, and by the fourth listen he still couldn’t believe that he had actually made some form of contact.
He looked up when he felt his son’s hand clasp his shoulder.
“Pa, the beans are ready.” Charlie said. Something was different, but he couldn’t tell if it was a bad or good different. “Are you okay, Pa?”
Alejandro nodded, and then managed to choke out the words. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Charlie looked at the radio, as if he just realized there was sound other than static coming through it. “Hey, you found someone?”
Alejandro smiled, a big smile, the biggest one Charlie had seen come out of his face in years. “Yes, Charlie! Si, mijo! Escucha, mijo!”
They listened to the message together, and when it was over Charlie threw his arms around his dad. “We’re going to find those people?”
“Yep. First thing tomorrow morning when we wake up.”
“And we’ll be okay after that, right? No more hiding in the nights?”
Alejandro squeezed him tighter. “Yes, mijo, we’ll be okay when we find these nice people.”
Charlie stepped back. “I hope they’re real nice. They have to be right? They’re trying to help people like us.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they’re nice.” Alejandro said, looking towards the wall behind the desk, but actually focused on the image of these survivors his mind’s eye was conjuring.
Charlie nodded, pleased. “I think these beans are the best ones I’ve made yet.”
“Oh yeah? How so? Did you add a secret ingredient?”
“Yeah, more toot to the fruit that makes you toot.” He giggled.
Alejandro put his hand on top of Charlie’s head and messed his hair up. “Chistoso! Come on, let’s go eat.”
He got out of the chair and they walked to where Charlie had setup the bowls of beans with their arms around each other. The message kept playing behind them on the radio, and it lifted their spirits just a notch.
The beans wouldn’t be so bad tonight. In fact, Alejandro thought, they might even enjoy them.
3
Charlie was lying on his sleeping bag, watching the shadow his father cast on the ceiling. The only source of light near him was his lantern between the two beds. He heard his dad coming and sat up.
Alejandro’s shirt was off and he could see his skin stretched over his ribs and collar bone. It threw him off for a second, because it was like looking at a skeleton in comparison to when his dad had carried around a few extra pounds from the chicken tortas he used to have for lunch every day.
His hair was long, down to his shoulders, a length he didn’t even think his dad’s hair could grow. He also sported a beard, like the one Jesus had in the picture of the locket his mom used to carry. He giggled at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” Alejandro said, lying down in his own sleeping bag. They had no pillows, so he was rolling up his jacket (the one that helped him survive through winter) to tuck underneath his head.
“You look like someone famous.” Charlie said.
Alejandro wrinkled his eyebrows. The thought of whether anyone could be famous anymore popped up into his mind. “Oh yeah, who’s that?”
“The beard makes you look like Jesus,” Charlie said, pronouncing Jesus, Heh-seus. He reached out and grabbed Alejandro’s beard.
“Do you think it needs to go?” Alejandro had been thinking about using his knife to cut it, but there really wasn’t much time to sit down and make fashion changes.
Charlie shook his head. “Nah, I like it.”
“Maybe if we find other people they’ll think I’m the real Jesus and give us lots of food and a soft bed.”
They both laughed at this and then Charlie’s eyes closed. Alejandro lay there in the silence, wondering how likely the possibility that other survivors would believe he wa
s Jesus. That he had returned to earth in the end of days to save those worthy.
Isn’t that what it said would happen in the Bible? He couldn’t remember, he had never read the book or been the religious type. In fact, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure why he had crossed himself earlier today when he saw the dead body. He hadn’t crossed himself since his brother’s wedding eight years ago and he only did that because it was mandatory unless you wanted to look like an ass to the rest of the church floor.
If he could become religious, even subconsciously, under these circumstances, then how many others could as well? Surely he wasn’t a unique case. And what about the people who were religious before this all happened? The kind that were like his wife, who carried a locket with a portrait of Jesus, prayed every night, had rosaries hanging from their cars, and all that, what about them? They would surely believe it if he told them he was Jesus. Even if they didn’t believe it, they would want to believe it.
Before his thoughts could get more erratic, Alejandro fell asleep.
*
A roar coming from outside the pizza shop woke both of them up. Alejandro put his hand over Charlie’s mouth to stifle his scream.
“Shhh, shhh, voy a ver que es.” He said. “Calladito.”
Charlie nodded.
Alejandro took his hand off his mouth and got up. Charlie grabbed the flap of his sleeping bag and pulled it up into his mouth. It tasted like dirt, but it was keeping him from screaming.
Alejandro grabbed his gun from underneath his jacket and flipped the safety off, then went over to the attic window.
It was dark out and the window was caked with at least an inch of dust, so Alejandro wiped it clean with his forearm.
Underneath the pale lighting of the street lamp was the bear from earlier in the day. Its back was pressed against a corner, not a physical corner so much as a mental corner as it didn’t want to stray out of the light. Gathered outside of the pool of light was a group of Noches, they sat huddled together like troops, their red eyes glowing in the darkness of the alleyway.