The Summer the World Ended

by Matthew S. Cox

  Hiss.

  She pulled the headset off and dropped it on the table. “This is a waste of time. I guess I’ll just stay here until there’s no food left and then hope I don’t get killed.” Sigh. “No, that’s stupid. It’s light out now. I gotta go find him.”

  Slam.

  A reverberating crack of wood echoed outside in the front chamber. Riley started to scream, but bit down on her left forearm to muffle it. All the bandits would need to hear was a terrified girl and they’d pound the door down with their… Riley shivered and grabbed the Beretta.

  She ran to the south wall, hiding behind the mini-kitchen station with the gun pointed over it at the door. Metal clanking grew louder. The sound was unmistakable―boots on a ladder. The rhythm was wrong, zombie like.

  Her thumb flicked the safety off.

  Thump.

  Something hit the door.

  Thump, thump.

  “Zombies can’t beat through a vault door,” she whispered.

  Thump, thump. The wheel rattled.

  “Go away,” she whispered.

  Silence.

  She didn’t move. When her legs started to shake, she went from squatting to kneeling, but kept aiming over the sink at the door.

  Small bits of metal jangled outside. She gasped. To her horror, the locking lever moved. She wanted to run over and grab it as it opened, but couldn’t summon the courage to abandon her cover. When the wheel rotated, she squeezed all the blood out of her fingers against the Beretta’s handle.

  The wheel stopped with a clank. Her finger tensed on the trigger.

  Bloody fingers slipped around the edge of the door. Riley raised her aim point, estimating where the head would be on an adult man.

  “Go away,” she yelled. “One more inch, and I’ll shoot.”

  “Squirrel…” wheezed a faint voice.

  Her body went limp.

  “Squirrel?” The door slid open a few inches farther.

  “Dad?” She dropped the gun in the steel sink and leapt to her feet.

  Dad staggered in, left hand pressed to his side, right groping at the air.

  “Daddy!” Riley ran to him, bawling.

  Her impact almost took him off his feet. He groaned. She held on and sobbed against his chest for several minutes.

  “Sorry. I had to lose a couple of bandits. They were looting the house.” He grunted. “Help me to the cot.”

  “Dad?” She leaned back as he staggered into the bunker.

  The front of her shirt had turned red from blood. Riley screamed. Dad shrugged off his backpack, let the AR15 clatter to the ground nearby, and fell onto the cot with an agonized grunt. She hadn’t noticed until then how pale his face looked, or how weary he seemed.

  “I thought―”

  “Not yet.” He reached up to brush her cheek with dry, scratchy fingers. “I’m not dead yet. One of the bandits winged me. Nothing serious, but it hurts like a bastard. Grab the first aid box.”

  She ran to the bookshelf, snagged a white plastic thing about the size of a lunchbox and ran back to him. Her hands shook too much to open it. Dad peeled his camo shirt off, revealing a darkened olive-drab tank top with a hole in it about halfway between armpit and hip, an inch or two in from his left side.

  “Missed the vitals,” he wheezed. “I think it went all the way through.”

  Blood welled out of the hole each time he moved. She pawed and clung, finding an exit wound on his back too. Riley made fists, took two deep breaths, and ripped open the first aid kit.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  His expression didn’t change from neutral. “That happens when a person gets shot. Help me get this shirt off.”

  She did most of the work, leaving him to sit there and make zombie noises as the fabric separated from the wound.

  He squeezed her forearm. “Tweezers. Get the fibers out of the hole.”

  Joy at having her father alive overpowered any squeamishness. One by one, she plucked threads of shirt and fatigue jacket out of the holes in front and back.

  “Wipe it down. Wash it with alcohol, then put a gauze on it with tape.”

  She tilted her head forward, eyebrows raised. “Won’t that hurt?”

  “Oh, yes. I believe it will.” He made a weak gesture at her backpack. “I got you some tampons. They’re in your pack.”

  “Dad! Now is not the―”

  “Give me one to bite on.”

  “Oh.”

  She rummaged through her ‘go bag’ until she found a pink box in one of the side zipper pouches. He’d gotten cheap ones, but who cared about that anymore. After gathering isopropyl, gauze, and two washcloths, she set about the task of cleaning him up as best she could. Dad’s fingers crushed around her shoulder when she dabbed the area with alcohol. He screamed through the cotton between his teeth. It hurt her to hurt him, but the wound had to be cleaned or he’d get something nasty and die anyway.

  “Pack some cotton into the hole. In a few hours, you’ll need to change the dressing with fresh stuff.”

  Blood swelled up and out as she pushed cotton into his back and taped a patch of gauze in place over it. He stretched out on the cot with a long, wheezing groan, and she repeated the process for the entry wound.

  “Lucky thing all they could scavenge was ball ammo. I’d be in bad shape if they had hollow points.”

  Riley knelt beside the cot, holding his right hand in both of hers. “What happened?”

  “I made my way back toward the house. Geiger was clean. Figured I’d go inside and check on stuff, but there were a couple of looters by the door. As soon as they saw me, they went for their weapons. Son of a bitch was fast. I didn’t even have a chance to get a shot off.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I didn’t want to lead them to you, so I took a long circle. Found a hiding spot and dug in.” He gazed up at the ceiling, groaning.

  Riley grimaced at the blood all over her shirt and hands. He’s lost so much blood… He’s not gonna be okay. She brushed hair off his forehead and plucked bits of scrub bush out of his beard. It would take another nuke going off―in the bunker―to get her to let go of his arm.

  “Mother flying windless.”

  “Huh?” Riley blinked.

  Dad chuckled. “Side burn. Snowy brain.”

  “Dad, what is wrong with you?” She put an arm across his chest and held on.

  He rolled his head to the side and the mirth in his face faded to a serious expression of worry. “Moon aliens walk dark.”

  “Stop it!” Riley wanted to shake him, but hesitated because of the wound. “Dad…”

  His eyes seemed to go in and out of focus. “Squirrel?”

  “Yes, I’m here. It’s Squirrel.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I’m here. I love you, Dad.”

  “Bandits, outside.” He raised his right arm, pointing up. “Danger. Acorns hiding.”

  She clutched his arm to her chest, the back of his hand against her cheek. “Dad, stop talking like that. You’re freaking me out. You’re all I’ve got left. Don’t die. You can call me Squirrel all you want if you promise to stay alive.”

  “Okay.” The glazed look in his eyes faded two seconds before he closed them. He gurgled through a few belabored breaths. “I won’t die then.”

  Dad drifted in and out of sleep over the next hour. At the sight of crust at the corners of his mouth, she got up and brought him water, feeding it to him a sip at a time. He continued muttering incomprehensible phrases. Each time he babbled, she shivered. The man on the cot seemed nothing like Dad. It felt as if someone else had jumped inside his skin. She hovered at his side, clinging to his arm.

  Two hours after Dad returned, she warmed a can of SpaghettiOs and spoon-fed him. He seemed to recognize the smell right away, and offered a grateful smile. Wow, he really does like them.

  “I’m sorry, Squirrel. I tried to protect you when I left. I never meant to hurt you.”

  She held up the spoon again. “Dad, this isn’t your f
ault. W-we’ll survive. Just like you said.”

  I’m not gonna lose him too.

  The process of giving him the entire bowl of SpaghettiOs proved a laborious task. Once he’d finished eating, she knelt on the floor, half draped on the cot. Nothing mattered but Dad. She wouldn’t make the same mistake she’d made with Mom.

  “Tell me what to do, Dad.” She clutched his limp hand to her cheek. “I’m right here.”

  A smile almost formed on his blue lips.

  ay Fourteen.

  Feeding Dad wasn’t so bad. Treating and dressing a wound was worse, but not intolerable. Repurposing a saucepan to a bedpan, and cleaning Dad up after the fact was even worse than Armageddon. Riley scrunched her face and looked away as she emptied it into the toilet and flushed. About ready to vomit, she poured some water through the ‘pot-that-shall-never-again-touch-food’ and set it on the floor.

  Her legs protested moving. Sleeping on her knees next to him had left everything sore and her neck stiff. She collected some fresh gauze and a clean washcloth.

  Blood had soaked through the bandages into the cot and left her shirt gory enough to suggest she’d taken a bullet herself. Dried crimson trails stained her bare legs all the way down to the shins. She coaxed him to roll onto his side so she could get to his back. Dad barely moaned when she plucked the cotton balls out of the bullet hole. Thick, scabrous chunks flaked away as she wrenched tweezers back and forth to dislodge a dark wad. Hours ago when she’d done that, he’d screamed.

  “Dad?”

  He moaned again.

  “Dad. Dad. Wake up.” She put a hand on his shoulder and shook.

  “Mmm. Squirrel, what time is it?”

  “Uh… Eight after eleven.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Dad!” she slapped his shoulder.

  “Ouch. Let me sleep.”

  Riley taped clean gauze over the wound on his back and eased him flat. He waved his finger about, murmuring, as she peeled away the dressing on his front and replaced it with a new one. He had about the same reaction to it as he had the other―almost none.

  “Do you want coffee?”

  Dad laughed. “Ground water brown. Glowing accountant clicking.”

  “Stop that!” Riley screamed. Her hand squished into a fist through the old bandage. “You’re seriously freaking me out.”

  His eyes fluttered closed as his arms fell limp at his sides. Subvocal muttering continued. Riley ran to the radio.

  “Hello, anyone. This is Riley. I’m in a bunker near Las Cerezas. My dad’s been shot by bandits. Is there anyone out there? We need help. Please. He… I think he’s dying.”

  Hiss.

  She waited a minute and repeated the message. When that got no reply, she darted to the bookshelf and fumbled over the titles in search of anything helpful. One first aid book had little information in the way of gunshot wounds, and seemed written by someone who had a serious fascination with CPR and frostbite. The second looked like it came from 1962.

  “Dad?”

  He didn’t move. Dread rippled through her.

  The book went flying as she leapt up and ran to him. He opened his eyes when she grabbed his wrist.

  “Hi Squirrel. Coffee ready yet?”

  She held on to his arm, kissed his knuckle, and sniffled. “I’ll make it now.”

  At the sink, she twisted the plastic tap to let water trickle into the electric kettle. She fixated on the bubbles forming around the stream. Dad’s dying. He won’t admit it. She turned off the faucet. I can’t let him die. Careful not to make a sound, she set the e-kettle down without turning it on and tiptoed over to where she’d left her pants. After slipping into the fatigues, she sat on the floor by her boots, pulled them on, and tied the laces.

  Dad muttered something about Colonel Bering.

  “He hasn’t answered,” said Riley. “Dad. I’m going to find help.”

  “Don’t go out there.” He sounded hazy and out of it, but coherent. “Danger.”

  “You’re dying. I gotta do something. If I just sit here and hide, I’m going to lose you too. You’re not gonna be okay, Dad. You’re bleeding too much.” She tucked the Beretta into her waistband. “I’m not going to lose both my parents in the same summer.”

  Dad flapped his arm in a feeble attempt to grab her.

  “Hang on, Dad. Don’t give up.”

  “No,” he wheezed. “Too dange…”

  When Riley went to turn the wheel to unbar the door, it occurred to her that neither of them had closed it when Dad returned. For hours, she’d slept with nothing between her and the wasteland but a disguised trapdoor. She didn’t have time to panic over that now, and rushed through the outer room to the ladder. Blood-caked hands made grabbing the rungs difficult, but she clambered to the top and shoved the pallet up to reveal clear, blue sky marked by three distinct cottony clouds. Warm, dry air lifted her hair off her face, clean and crisp without the taste of a confined space.

  “Wow… no red blobs in the sky. No nuclear winter.”

  That gave her hope. Somewhere, someone might be able to help Dad. He said the house was still standing. Her best chance would probably be at T or C… maybe Albuquerque. Hospitals are huge and made out of concrete. Maybe there were some people left. She’d go to the house, get the truck and go hunting doctors.

  She set the pallet down and fiddled with the burlap to make it look like dirt again. In the clear light of almost-noon, home stood out like a sore thumb to the south. It looked like he’d built his bunker about two hundred yards away… so close… how the hell did I get lost the other night?

  Boosted by worry, she trotted straight at it. A few minutes later, she rounded the corner to the front and headed for the pickup truck. A layer of dust had settled over everything. Crap. Keys. She spun on her heel to face the front door, where a small white paper fluttered in the breeze. From where she stood, she could make out a PNM logo above the word “notice.”

  What the heck is that?

  She got three steps closer before the crunch of a shoe coming around the far corner of the building her made her freeze. Her first thought was the men she’d stolen the ribs from had found her. They’d probably taken over the house. They had to be the guys who shot Dad. She swallowed hard and darted to the right at a full sprint.

  “Police, stop where you are!” shouted a man.

  P-police? Riley skidded to a halt. “What?”

  “Riley?” asked a familiar voice.

  She turned around.

  Sergeant Rodriguez, in uniform plus bulletproof vest, stood about fifteen yards away with a younger white man next to him, also in uniform. Both had their hands on their weapons. A surge of hope burst from her chest. She grinned, wide-eyed.

  “Sergeant Rodriguez!” yelled Riley, and ran toward them.

  As soon as they got a good look at her, the cops pulled their Glocks and aimed at her.

  “Gun!” shouted the younger man.

  Terror locked every muscle. Riley screamed and halted.

  “On the ground, now!” roared the white guy. “Get down.”

  She shivered, unable to move. What did I do? I’m a kid! They’re gonna shoot me. She glanced down at herself, the bloody shirt, the gun in her pants. The younger cop glared. Sergeant Rodriguez, who also had his weapon out, held up one hand at his partner. Her arms locked, refusing to obey.

  “P-please don’t kill me,” she mewled.

  Rodriguez lowered his voice to a more soothing tone. “Riley. Listen to me. Do not move.”

  “I… can’t.” After a two-second pause, she whined.

  “Kneel down and put your hands behind your head.”

  She gritted her teeth and let her legs go, falling to her knees, shaking.

  “Very slow now, lie flat on your belly.”

  Riley worked her way down. A few seconds after her cheek touched dirt, the cops crept over. Having pistols aimed at her head at such close range terrified her into uncontrollable trembles. One of them gathered her
arms behind her back while the other pulled the gun out of her pants. Handcuffs clicked around her wrists. Fingers slid up and down her body, patting and invading pockets. The young cop took the two extra magazines from her left thigh pocket.

  “Jesus, Marty, this kid was ready for war.”

  Sergeant Rodriguez grasped her by the bicep and pulled her up so she sat on the ground with one cop on either side of her. She stared at him, wanting to scream, cry, throw up, and wet herself all at once.

  “Sergeant Rodriguez! You’re alive!” Her face flooded with hope. “Please help!”

  “Yeah, kid,” said the other cop. “You surprised? Guess your old man isn’t as bad ass as you think.”

  Daddy. “Huh?”

  Sergeant Rodriguez looked over the Beretta. “It’s full. She hasn’t fired it.”

  “Or she reloaded,” muttered the other guy.

  “One in the pipe and a full mag… doubtful.” Rodriguez looked down at her. “Whose blood is that?”

  “My Dad’s. He’s been shot by bandits. You gotta help him! He’s dying.” She fidgeted at the cuffs, which seemed to grow tighter.

  “Bandits?” asked the other cop.

  She sobbed. “Bandits shot him when he went out to check for radiation. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have hit the radiation detector. It stopped glowing, so he thought it was safe.”

  “Riley,” said Sergeant Rodriguez. “Slow down, take a breath, and tell me what happened.”

  She sniffled, wiping her running nose on her knee after she couldn’t reach her hand up high enough. “Nuclear war. DC’s gone. The world’s gone.” She sniffled. “I can’t believe you’re alive. It’s so good to see you. I-I thought everyone was dead. Please, you gotta hurry, Dad’s dying!”

  The young cop whistled and twirled his finger by the side of his head.

  “Knock it off, Lawson.” Rodriguez looked back to her. “Why are you carrying a loaded gun?”

  “I don’t wanna get raped. Society’s gone. People would grab me.”

  Sergeant Rodriguez squatted and looked her in the eye. “Riley, listen to me. Nothing’s happened. The world is just fine.”

  “What?” Trembles returned.

  “Kieran called us a few days ago because he was worried. No one has seen you or your dad for two weeks. He drove out here a couple times and the place was abandoned. He asked us to check on you.”