“So you want PG, and you want the CAP,” Timo said.
“Yeah. The CAP is why he died,” she said absently as she sighted again with the rifle. “It’s what he wanted. And it’s what the Defending Angels need to protect. It’s what Phoenix has that Texas doesn’t. Phoenix is alive in the middle of a desert because you’ve got one of the most expensive water transport systems in the world. If Texas had a straw like the CAP running to some place like the Mississippi River, they’d still be fine.”
Timo scoffed. “That would be like a thousand miles.”
“Rivers go farther than that.” Lucy squeezed off a shot and dust puffed beside a prairie dog. The critter dove back into its hole, and Lucy passed the rifle on. “I mean, your CAP water is coming from the Rockies. You’ve got the Colorado River running all the way down from Wyoming and Colorado, through Utah, all the way across the top of Arizona, and then you and California and Las Vegas all share it out.”
“California doesn’t share shit.”
“You know what I mean. You all stick your straws in the river, you pump water to a bunch of cities that shouldn’t even exist. CAP water comes way more than a thousand miles.” She laughed and reached for her beer. “The irony is that at least Texans built where they had water. Without the CAP, you’d be just like the Texans. A bunch of sad-ass people all trying to move north.”
“Thank God we’re smarter than those assholes.”
“Well, you’ve got better bureaucrats and pork barrels, anyway.”
Timo made a face at Lucy’s dig, but didn’t bother arguing. He was still hunting through his photos for something that Lucy would approve of.
Nothing PG about dying, he thought. Nothing PG about clawing your way all the way across a thousand miles of desert just to smash up against chain link. Nothing PG about selling off your daughter so you can make a run at going North, or jumping the border into California.
He was surprised to find that he almost felt empathy for the Texan. Who knew? Maybe this guy had seen the apocalypse coming, but he’d just been too rooted in place to accept that he couldn’t ride it out. Or maybe he’d had too much faith that God would take care of him.
The rifle was making the rounds again. More sharp cracks of the little .22 caliber bullets.
Faith. Maybe Old Tex’s faith had made him blind. Made it impossible for him to see what was coming. Like a prairie dog who’d stuck his head out of his burrow, and couldn’t quite believe that God had put a bead on his furry little skull. Couldn’t see the bullet screaming in on him.
In the far distance, a flight of helicopters was moving across the burning horizon. The thud-thwap of their rotors carried easily across the hum of the city. Timo counted fifteen or twenty in the formation. Heading off to fight forest fires maybe. Or else getting shipped up to the arctic by the Feds.
Going someplace, anyway.
“Everybody’s got some place to go,” Lucy murmured, as if reading his mind.
The rifle cracked again, and a prairie dog went down. Everyone cheered. “I think that one was from Texas,” someone said.
Everyone laughed. Selena came up from below with a new tray of bottles and handed them out. Lucy was smirking to herself, looking superior.
“You got something to say?” Timo asked.
“Nothing. It’s just funny how you all treat the Texans.”
“Shit.” Timo took a slug from his beer. “They deserve it. I was down there, remember? I saw them all running around like ants after Hurricane Violet fucked them up. Saw their towns drying up. Hell, everybody who wasn’t Texas Forever saw that shit coming down. And there they all were, praying to God to save their righteous Texan asses.” He took another slug of beer. “No pity for those fools. They brought their apocalypse down on their own damn selves. And now they want to come around here and take away what we got? No way.”
“No room for charity?” Lucy prodded.
“Don’t interview me,” Timo shot back.
Lucy held up her hands in apology. “My bad.”
Timo snorted. “Hey everybody! My wet-ass friend here thinks we ought to show some charity to the Texans.”
“I’ll give ’em a bullet, free,” Brixer Gonzalez said.
“I’ll give ’em two!” Molly Abrams said. She took the rifle and shot out a distant window in the subdivision.
“And yet they keep coming,” Lucy murmured, looking thoughtful. “They just keep on coming, and you can’t stop them.”
Timo didn’t like how she mirrored his own worries.
“We’re going to be fine.”
“Because you’ve got Santa Muerte and a whole hell of a lot of armed lunatics on your side,” Lucy said with satisfaction. “This story is going to make us. ‘The Defending Angels of Phoenix.’ What a beautiful scoop.”
“And they’re just going to let us cover them?” Timo still couldn’t hide his skepticism.
“All anyone wants to do is tell their story, Timo. They need to know they matter.” She favored him with a side-long smile. “So when a nice journo from up north comes knocking? Some girl who’s so wet they can see it on her face? They love it. They love telling her how it is.” Lucy took a sip of her beer, seeming to remember the encounter. “If people think you’re wet enough, you wouldn’t believe what they’ll tell you. They’ve got to show how smart and wise they are, you know? All you need to do is look interested, pretend you’re wet, and people roll right over.”
Lucy kept talking, describing the world she’d uncovered, the details that had jumped out at her. How there was so much more to get. How he needed to come along and get the art.
She kept talking, but Timo couldn’t hear her words anymore because one phrase kept pinging around inside his head like a pinball.
Pretend you’re wet, and people roll right over.
* * *
“I don’t know why you’re acting like this,” Lucy said for the third time as they drove out to the see the Defending Angels.
She was driving the beast, and Timo was riding shotgun. He’d loaded his gear into her truck, determined that any further expenses from the reporting trip should be on her.
At first, he’d wanted to just cut her off and walk away from the whole thing, but he realized that was childish. If she could get the hits, then fine. He’d tag along on her score. He’d take her page views, and then he’d be done with her.
Cutting her off too soon would get him nothing. She’d just go get some other pendejo to do the art, or else she might even shoot the pictures herself and get her ass paid twice, a prospect that galled him even more than the fact that he’d been manipulated.
They wound their way into the subdivision, driving past ancient Prius sedans and electric bikes. At the end of the cul-de-sac, Lucy pulled to a halt. The place didn’t look any different from any other Phoenix suburb. Except apparently, inside all the quiet houses, a last-battle resistance was brewing.
Ahead, the chain link and barbwire of the CAP boundary came into view. Beyond, there was nothing but cactus-studded hills. Timo could just make out the Texan on the far side of the CAP fences, still dangling. It looked like the dogs were at him again, tearing at the scraps.
“Will you at least talk to me?” Lucy asked. “Tell me what I did.”
Timo shrugged. “Let’s just get your shoot done. Show me these Angels of Arizona you’re so hot for.”
“No.” Lucy shook her head. “I’m not taking you to see them until you tell me why you keep acting this way.”
Timo glared at her, then looked out the dusty front window.
“Guess we’re not going to see them then.”
With the truck turned off, it was already starting to broil inside. The kind of heat that cooked pets and babies to death in a couple hours. Timo could feel sweat starting to trickle off him, but he was damned if he was going to show that he was uncomfortable. He sat and stared at the CAP fence ahead of them. They could both sweat to death for all he cared.
Lucy was staring at him, hard. “I
f you’ve got something you want to say, you should be man enough to say it.”
Man enough? Oh, hell no.
“Okay,” Timo said. “I think you played me.”
“Played you how?”
“Seriously? You going to keep at it? I’m on to you, girl. You act all wet, and you get people to help you out. You get people to do shit they wouldn’t normally do. You act all nice, like you’re all new and like you’re just getting your feet under you, but that’s just an act.”
“So what?” Lucy said. “Why do you care if I fool some militia nutjobs?”
“I’m not talking about them! I’m talking about me! That’s how you played me! You act like you don’t know things, get me to show you around. Show you the ropes. Get you on the inside. You act all wet and sorry, and dumbass Timo steps in to help you out. And you get a nice juicy exclusive.”
“Timo … how long have we known each other?”
“I don’t know if we ever did.”
“Timo—”
“Don’t bother apologizing.” He shouldered the truck’s door open.
As he climbed out, he knew he was making a mistake. She’d pick up some other photographer. Or else she’d shoot the story herself and get paid twice for the work.
Should have just kept my mouth shut.
Amparo would have told him he was both dumb and a sucker. Should have at least worked Lucy to get the story done before he left her ass. Instead he’d dumped her, and the story.
Lucy climbed out of the truck, too.
“Fine,” she said. “I won’t do it.”
“Won’t do what?”
“I won’t do the story. If you think I played you, I won’t do the story.”
“Oh come on. That’s bullshit. You know you came down here for your scoop. You ain’t giving that up.”
Lucy’s stared at him, looking pissed. “You know what your problem is?”
“Got a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re so busy doing your poor-me, I’m from Phoenix, everyone’s-out-to-get-me, we’re-getting-overrun wah-wah-wah routine that you can’t even tell when someone’s on your side!”
“That’s not—”
“You can’t even tell someone’s standing right in front of you who actually gives a shit about you!” Lucy was almost spitting she was so mad. Her face had turned red. Timo tried to interject, but she kept talking.
“I’m not some damn Texan here to take your water, and I’m not some big time journo here to steal your fucking stories! That’s not who I am! You know how many photographers I could work with? You know how many would bite on this story that I went out and got? I put my ass on the line out here! You think that was easy?”
“Lucy. Come on…”
She waved a hand of disgust at him and stalked off, heading for the end of the cul-de-sac and the CAP fence beyond.
“Go find someone else to do this story,” she called back. “Pick whoever you want. I wouldn’t touch this story with a ten-foot-pole. If that’s what you want, it’s all yours.”
“Come on, Lucy.” Timo felt like shit. He started to chase after her. “It’s not like that!”
She glanced back. “Don’t even try, Timo.”
Her expression was so scornful and disgusted that Timo faltered.
He could almost hear his sister Amparo laughing at him. You got the eye for some things, little bro, but you are blind blind blind.
She’ll cool off, he thought as he let her go.
Except maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe he’d said some things that sounded a little too true. Said what he’d really thought of Lucy the Northerner in a way that couldn’t get smoothed over. Sometimes, things just broke. One second, you thought you had a connection with a person. Next second, you saw them too clear, and you just knew you were never going to drink a beer together, ever again.
So go fix it, pendejo.
With a groan, Timo went after her again.
“Lucy!” he called. “Come on, girl. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry…”
At first, he thought she was going to ignore him, but then she turned.
Timo felt a rush of relief. She was looking at him again. She was looking right at him, like before, when they’d still been getting along. She was going to forgive him. They were going to work it out. They were friends.
But then he realized her expression was wrong. She looked dazed. Her sunburned skin had paled. And she was waving at him, waving furiously for him to join her.
Another Texan? Already?
Timo broke into a run, fumbling for his camera.
He stopped short as he made it to the fence.
“Timo?” Lucy whispered.
“I see it.”
He was already snapping pictures through the chainlink, getting the story. He had the eye, and the story was right there in front of them. The biggest luckiest break he’d ever get. Right place, right time, right team to cover the story. He was kneeling now, shooting as fast as he could, listening to the digital report of the electronic shutter, hearing money with every click.
I got it, I got it, I got it, thinking that he was saying it to himself and then realizing he was speaking out loud. “I got it,” he said. “Don’t worry, I got it!”
Lucy was turning in circles, looking dazed, staring back at the city. “We need to get ourselves assigned. We need to get supplies … We need to trace this back … We need to figure out who did it … We need to get ourselves assigned!” She yanked out her phone and started dialing madly as Timo kept snapping pictures.
Lucy’s voice was an urgent hum in the background as he changed angles and exposures.
Lucy clicked off the cell. “We’re exclusive with Xinhua!”
“Both of us?”
She held up a warning finger. “Don’t even start up on me again.”
Timo couldn’t help grinning. “Wouldn’t dream of it, partner.”
Lucy began dictating the beginnings of her story into her phone, then broke off. “They want our first update in ten minutes, you think you’re up for that?”
“In ten minutes, updates are going to be the least of our problems.”
He was in the flow now, capturing the concrete canal and the dead Texan on the other side.
The dogs leaped and jumped, tearing apart the man who had come looking for water.
It was all there. The whole story, laid out.
The man.
The dogs.
The fences.
The Central Arizona Project.
A whole big canal, drained of water. Nothing but a thin crust of rapidly drying mud at its bottom.
Lucy had started dictating again. She’d turned to face the Phoenix sprawl, but Timo didn’t need to listen to her talk. He knew the story already—a whole city full of people going about their daily lives, none of them knowing that everything had changed.
Timo kept shooting.
Weather
SUSAN PALWICK
Most people think that families should stay in close touch with one another—but perhaps there should be limits even to that.
Susan Palwick is an Associate Professor of English at the University of Nevada, Reno. She has published four novels, the most recent being 2013’s Mending the Moon, and a story collection, The Fate of Mice. Her work has won the IAFA Crawford Award and the ALA Alex Award, and has been shortlisted for the World Fantasy and Mythopoeic Awards.
Kerry and Frank were taking out the recycling first thing Tuesday morning when Dan Rappaport came driving by in his pickup. He’d called them with the bad news half an hour ago, so he was the last person Frank had expected to see outside the house.
“The pass is closed,” Dan said, his breath steaming through the open cab window. Late April, and it was that cold. There’d been a hard frost overnight, even down here in Reno. The daffodils and tulips had just started to bloom, and now they were going to die. Damn freaky weather.
Up higher, it was snow: Truckee and Donner Pass were socked in. Frank could s
ee the weather even from here, even from the front yard of the tiny house he and Kerry had bought the summer she was pregnant with Alison. Their first house, and back then they’d expected to move sometime, but they never had. It was a cozy house, just right for a couple.
They’d need cozy today. Frank could see the clouds blanketing the mountains to the west, I-80 crossing the California border twelve miles away. There might be snow left in those clouds when they got down to the valley, or not. Frank hoped not. He didn’t want to have to shovel the driveway. Losing everything bright in the backyard was bad enough.
Kerry put down her side of the recycling bin, forcing Frank to put his down, too. All those empty wine bottles get heavy. “Now, Dan,” she said, as if she were scolding one of the dogs for chewing on the couch cushions. “Come on now. It’ll be open again in a few hours. It never stays closed very long.” And that was true, but it could be open and still be nasty driving, dangerous, even if you weren’t in a truck so old it should have been in a museum somewhere. Stretches of I-80 were still two lanes in either direction, twisty-turny, with winds that could blow a car off the road in a storm. Nobody tried to drive over the mountains in bad weather except the long-haul truckers with the really big rigs, and nobody with any sense wanted to jockey with them on a slick road.
Dan had never had much sense. “I don’t have a few hours,” he said. His hands were clenched on the steering wheel, and he sounded like he’d already been hitting the beer, even though Frank couldn’t smell anything: all that old anger rising up in a wave, the way booze makes it do. “Rosie could already be gone. This is it: hours, the doctors say.” He’d already said that on the phone, told them how Sandra’s sister had only called him this morning, given him hardly any notice at all.
“They know you’ll get to talk to her later,” Kerry said. “You have all the time in the world. It’s wonderful, Dan. You’re so lucky.” Kerry’s voice caught, the way it usually only did late at night when she’d been working on the wine and typing nonsense on her laptop. Time to change the subject.
“At least the ski resorts’ll be happy,” Frank said, thinking about what a dry winter it had been. Kerry gave him that look that meant, shut up, you fool, and he remembered that Dan’s ex—the latest one, number four or five—had run off with a ski instructor. That was five years ago. There should be a statute of limitations about how long you had to avoid talking about things. Frank had enough trouble keeping track of his own life, let alone everyone else’s too. Kerry was the opposite: couldn’t remember what she did last night, not when she’d been sitting up with the wine and the computer, but she never forgot anything that happened to anyone else, especially if it was tragic.
The Year's Best Science Fiction, Thirty-Second Annual Collection Page 24