After the End: Recent Apocalypses

by Kage Baker

  “Nice, Babe,” Nate says. He’s frowning a little.

  “Can I get cleaned up?” Franny asks.

  “The bathroom smells really bad,” Jane says. “I don’t think you want to go in there.” But she digs her other T-shirt out of her backpack and wets it and washes Franny’s face. The girl is never going to be pretty, but now that she’s not chubby, she’s got a cute thing going on. She’s got the sense to work it, or will learn it. “You’re a girl that the boys are going to look at,” Jane says to her.

  Franny smiles, delighted.

  “Don’t you think?” Jane says to Nate. “She’s got that thing, that sparkle, doesn’t she?”

  “She sure does,” Nate says.

  They nap in the grass until the sun starts to go down, and then the soldiers line everyone up and hand out MREs. Nate gets Beef Ravioli, and Jane gets Sloppy Joe. Franny gets Lemon Pepper Tuna and looks ready to cry, but Jane offers to trade with her. The meals are positive cornucopias—a side dish, a little packet of candy, peanut butter and crackers, fruit punch powder. Everybody has different things, and Jane makes everybody give everyone else a taste.

  Nate keeps looking at her oddly. “You’re in a great mood.”

  “It’s like a party,” she says.

  Jane and Franny are really pleased by the moist towelette. Franny carefully saves her plastic fork, knife, and spoon. “Was your tuna okay?” she asks. She is feeling guilty now that the food is gone.

  “It was good,” Jane says. “And all the other stuff made it really special. And I got the best dessert.”

  The night comes down. Before they got on the road, Jane didn’t know how dark night was. Without electric lights it is cripplingly dark. But the soldiers have lights.

  Jane says, “I’m going to go see if I can find out about the camp.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Nate says.

  “No,” Jane says. “They talk to a girl more than they’ll talk to a guy. You keep Franny company.”

  She scouts around the edge of the light until she sees the blond soldier. He says, “There you are!”

  “Here I am!” she says.

  They are standing around a truck where they’ll sleep this night, shooting the shit. The blond soldier boosts her into the truck, into the darkness. “So you aren’t so conspicuous,” he says, grinning.

  Two of the men standing and talking aren’t wearing uniforms. It takes her a while to figure out that they’re civilian contractors. They aren’t soldiers. They are technicians, nothing like the soldiers. They are softer, easier in their polo shirts and khaki pants. The soldiers are too sure in their uniforms, but the contractors, they’re used to getting the leftovers. They’re grateful. They have a truck of their own, a white pickup truck that travels with the convoy. They do something with satellite tracking, but Jane doesn’t really care what they do.

  It takes a lot of careful maneuvering, but one of them finally whispers to her, “We’ve got some beer in our truck.”

  The blond soldier looks hurt by her defection.

  :

  She stays out of sight in the morning, crouched among the equipment in the back of the pickup truck. The soldiers hand out MREs. Ted, one of the contractors, smuggles her one.

  She thinks of Franny. Nate will keep an eye on her. Jane was only a year older than Franny when she lit out for California the first time. For a second she pictures Franny’s face as the convoy pulls out.

  Then she doesn’t think of Franny.

  She doesn’t know where she is going. She is in motion.

  :

  Maureen F. McHugh has published four novels and two collections of short stories. She’s won a Hugo and a Tiptree award. Her most recent collection, After the Apocalypse, was named a Publishers Weekly Top Ten Best Book of 2011, was a Philip K. Dick Award finalist, a Story Prize Notable Book, and named to the io9 Best SF&F Books of 2011 list and the Tiptree Award Honor List. McHugh lives in Los Angeles, where she is attempting to sell her soul to the entertainment industry.

  :

  Before the End, Todd was a geeky uncool teenager running a lame ride at an amusement park. But he survived. And, along with others—mostly teens—he occupies the remains of a theme amusement park. Even after The End, growing up is still traumatic and there are consequences of isolation.

  WE WILL NEVER LIVE IN THE CASTLE

  Paul Tremblay

  Polar Coaster

  Mr. Matheson lives over in Heidi’s Hill, we confab every three days in the old mist tent between the World Pavilion and my Slipshod Safari Tour, but today he’s late for our date, he scurries and hurries into the tent, something’s up.

  Mr. Matheson says, She took over the Polar Coaster, he says, I don’t know if Kurt just up and left or if she chased him off or killed him but he’s gone and now she’s there.

  I thought we’d never be rid of that retarded kid, he used to eat grass and then puke it all up.

  I say, Who is she, what’s she look like, does she have a crossbow?

  He says, She’s your age of course, medium-size, bigger than my goat anyway, and quiet, I didn’t get a great look at her, but I know she’s there, she wears a black cap, she just won’t talk to me.

  Why would she say anything to him, I only talk to him out of necessity, necessity is what rules my life, necessity is one of the secrets to survival, I’ll give other secrets later, maybe when we take the tour.

  Mr. Matheson and me have a nice symbiosis thing going, he gets to stay alive and enjoy a minimum base of human contact, he keeps an eye on my Slipshod Safari Tour’s rear flank, last year he saw these two bikers trying to ambush me via Ye Olde Mist Tent, Mr. Matheson gave me that goat’s call of his, he is convincing, I took care of the burly thunderdome bikers, they tried to sneak down the tracks and past the plastic giraffe, the one with a crick in its neck and the missing tail, typical stupid New Hampshire rednecks, not that there’s a New Hampshire anymore, live free or die bitches, their muscles and tattoos didn’t save them, little old me, all 132 pounds of me, me and necessity.

  Mr. Matheson is clearly disappointed she won’t talk to him, whoever she is, he’s probably taken stupid risks to his own skin, and by proxy mine, trying to get her attention, it’s so lame and predictable, because of the fleeting sight of a mysterious girl the old man would jeopardize my entire operation here, Mr. Matheson is down to his last goat, the house on Heidi’s Hill is a small one-room dollhouse with a mini-bed, mini-table, mini-chair, no future there, it’s a good place for a geezer with a white beard going yellow, straw on his face, getting ready to die, no place for a girl, she needs space, the Polar Coaster is a decent spot, back when Fairy Tale Land was up and running the Polar Coaster was one of the most popular rides, I never got to work it, they kept me over on the Whirling Whales, a toddler ride.

  At the Polar Coaster the fiberglass igloo and icebergs are holding up okay, they make good hidey holes, warmth and shelter in the winter, shade in the summer, some reliable food stores, wild blueberry bushes near the perimeter of its northern fence, birds nest in the tracks, free pickings of eggs and young, small duck pond in the middle of it all and with ample opportunity to trap smaller critters, the Polar Coaster might be the third best spot in the park behind my Slipshod Safari Tour and Cinderella’s Castle, of course, third because it’s a little too out in the open for my tastes, everyone who comes to Fairy Tale Land always goes to the Castle and then the Polar Coaster.

  I ask, Do you know her name?

  Mr. Matheson says, She won’t talk to me, remember.

  Yeah, I remember, but sometimes it’s hard when every day is the same.

  Tour: North

  I’m not using magnetic north, I know how to use it, gridlines and a map and a steady hand, I’m using the entrance as due south, so in the park’s north you’ve got the Crazy Barn, Farm Follies Show, and Turtle Twirl, no one’s lived in those areas since the big freeze last winter, too much damage from the initial lootings for there to be enough shelter, the Crazy Barn used to lift off
the ground and spin real slow, too slow, like the rotation of the world slow before that changed, before it stopped.

  There was the panic, the Crazy Barn was uprooted off the hydraulic and picked apart, lots of rides suffered similar fates even if they didn’t deserve it.

  Going in order walking back toward my Slipshod Safari Tour, the Whirling Whales, which I keep cleared out of any potential residents, purely an egomania kind of gesture on my part, everyone needs a hobby, the Oceans of Fun Sprayground with its submarine that was destroyed by three feuding squatters to be, then the Great Balloon Chase, which is a Ferris wheel of hot air balloons, empty now, early on there was a guy named Mr. Philips living in one of the balloons, I called him Dick behind his back, it was late spring and I don’t think he was planning on staying there because it would’ve been too cold in the winter, with the mountains shooting up directly behind the park we always remembered winter, Dick would tell me stuff about his life, not that I cared, he used to sell lawn mowers and motorcycles on the weekends and was twice divorced from the same woman, that’s all I remember, that and he had big yellow horse teeth, he didn’t breathe, he chewed on the air, I didn’t trust him one bit with how he climbed up into the highest balloons to spy on me, there was how he talked too, he always had something to say about how short and skinny and pale I was, he bragged about being a fisherman and hunter and how he used to watch those survivalist shows and he could still do one-hundred push ups easy, even if he was on the sunny side down of forty, Dick was all talk and no chalk, he didn’t know anything about his surroundings, he didn’t know magnetic north, he didn’t listen to what the park and the forest and the mountains had to say, you need to stop and listen, he was a total ass, he listened to me though, he asked how I knew about all the edible wild plants, I give him fiddleheads first, then he ate amanita phalloides, death cap mushrooms, next.

  Polar Coaster

  I belly crawl from the mist tent to what used to be the waiting area in front of the Polar Coaster, Mr. Matheson is probably taking a nap, the old fool always plans eight days in advance, not seven days, he doesn’t do anything by the old ways which I do kind of admire, Mr. Matheson leaves me his plan inside one of the Dutch Shoes, a kiddie ride just north of the Polar Coaster and its pond, the plan is usually written in crayon, he wrote his latest plan in burnt sienna.

  I don’t care if he’s taking a nap, I didn’t make any sort of pact with him that I would keep away from the new girl, even if we did, I’d break it, I just want to make contact, see what her deal is, see if she presents a danger to my Slipshod Safari Tour.

  I say, Hello? Is there anybody out there in the Polar Coaster? Or is it just some funny walking penguins?

  I should’ve probably worn my best threads for the introduction, underneath my jacket is a vest of bamboo that I clipped and ripped from The Bamboo Chute, a water flume ride that took a picture of you before you plummeted down, would never want to work that ride, the line moved too fast, but I liked that the ride exposed a truth, in those pictures where everyone was screaming at the big drop, everyone looked so happy when they were scared, the bamboo vest should stop any arrows or other projectiles that might be flung at me.

  I say, Just want to say hi, and that me and Mr. Matheson over there in the Heidi House are friendly, we’re not like those monkeys in the south of the park, by the castle, those frauds aren’t in it for the long haul, like us, they’ll all be gone in a week and then be replaced by other marauders and barbarians, a never-ending cycle, and for what? stupid Cinderella’s Castle, it’s nothing but a status symbol, no practical reason for surviving there, you’d think we’d be beyond that now, right? will people never learn!

  I stop, drop, and listen, she doesn’t say anything, yells and screams and other battle noises float up from the park’s south, it’s like a low cloud that’s drawn in, tucked away in Mr. Matheson’s crayon-blue sky.

  I cup my hands as if that ever makes them stronger, and say, We’re living fine in these parts, we help each other out up here, I say, I’ve killed three bad guys over at The Bamboo Chute with my bamboo spring traps, they shoot bamboo spears out of a panda bear’s eyes and clean through the victim’s chest, I mean, I’ve never seen it triggered live, but I’ve heard it go off, and there were these sick blood trails going away from the chute after, so cool.

  A small rectangular chunk of the igloo pops out, so does the tip of an arrow, or a spear, then her voice, the sound of it makes me want to put the old act back on, makes me remember the kid I used to be at the Whirling Whales.

  She says, What do you want?

  That’s a good question, didn’t think I’d get this far, really, or, I just haven’t admitted to myself what it is I do want.

  I say, Just want to make friends, be neighborly, borrow a cup of sugar or something every once in a while, right? I can help, give you information, a tour of the park, what to know what to avoid what to eat where to sleep, you can probably help me too, I live there, Slipshod Safari Tour, we can watch each other’s backs.

  She says, I don’t need help.

  I say, Fair enough, how about I give you the Slipshod Tour, the works, haven’t done it in a while, we can fix it up for tomorrow, still got some gasoline for the tractor, it’ll be fun, Mr. Matheson can drive us around, be our chaperone.

  I’m done talking and my hands don’t know what to do, they snap and slap into each other like triggered snares.

  Tour: Boulder

  There’s this one-ton sphere made of granite right outside my mist tent and the World Pavilion next door, the World Pavilion is where everyone got their overpriced burgers, fries, and sodas, there’s no food left there, the boulder sits on a thick, square base a few feet off the ground, when Fairy Tale Land was up and running the base filled with water and a kindergartner could spin the boulder with his kinder-hands in the thin layer of agua, all that weight supported by a puddle less than a quarter-inch thick, I used to visit the boulder on my breaks, nudged kids out of the way so I could put my hands on the wet rock and spin it in any direction I wanted, I’d get all wet, there was nowhere else to get that sensation, the power of moving all that impossible weight with my pencil fingers, I liked to stop that rock from turning too, pushing against all those other little hands until it was still, that was more exciting, daring, felt like I was doing something spectacularly deliciously wrong.

  Of course, that big old rock doesn’t move now, but you knew that.

  Whirling Whales

  Truth is, before everything happened, I wouldn’t have wanted to work the Polar Coaster, the gig was boring, people on and off too fast, no time to talk to anyone, not like the Whirling Whales where I took my time checking the kiddies’ seat belts, making jokes about how whales weren’t supposed to fly, no one laughed, the other joke I used all the time was something I’d say to whoever was supposed to sit in whale number nine, you see, there was no whale number nine, only eight whales, get it? when kids and parents filled the eight whales I had to shut off the waiting line with a thin white chain that only came up to a toddler’s chin or just above a parent’s kneecap, it was small but no one dared to cross.

  Whoever missed out on whale nine and had to watch the whales fly from right behind that chain I’d say to them, It’s not your lucky day, is it? I knew by looking at you, you weren’t lucky.

  It wasn’t much of a joke, I thought it was back then, funny I realize how awkward I used to be when there were all these people around but now that almost everyone’s gone I know better, okay it’s not funny, it’s odd, they all thought I was odd Todd, they were right, I was, I didn’t have much back then to hold onto so I made the Whirling Whales my domain, I was the star, I strutted around that ride when I checked the seat belts, sometimes I’d push a whale up and down pretending that I was performing some structural integrity test, I always pushed the fly button with flair, then I’d pretend to not watch the ride and chat up the parents in line, talk tough with the dads, flirt up the moms using my odd looks and leers, arching my bar
ely-there eyebrows into the craziest spots on my forehead, with the kids I tried be the cool teenager, the one they looked up to, wanted to be even if they were too young to know what cool was, but that isn’t right, they knew what cool was, just wouldn’t be able to articulate it, right? none of them ever took me seriously, and why should they have? I was a short skinny bleached white kid with curly orangey-yellow hair and probably the physically weakest and geekiest teenager in the state, I didn’t play football or go hunting or fishing, I got harassed all the time, I was the runt of the state’s litter, my Fairy Tale Land shirt never did fit right, always so baggy, made me look thinner than I was, couldn’t wear a wristwatch because it’d slide off my wrist, I wore Dickies that were too tight and too small for me because Mom wouldn’t buy me new ones, some of the older kids at the park used to ask where the flood was, they don’t ask that anymore, do they?

  I knew, even then, my act wasn’t working, but I committed to it, you have to commit, always, it’s how I survived then and how I survive now, you see, I’ve come a long way since then and really, it didn’t matter if no one bought my act back then because it only mattered that I believed in it myself.

  Slipshod Safari

  She creeps under the entrance canopy that I’ve worked hard to maintain, I had to replace some of the plastic palm leaves with fir and maple branches, the effect is almost the same, it stays dark in here.

  I say, Hi, Joyce, welcome to the Slipshod Safari Tour! go bananas on your trek through the jungles of Africa! please do not feed or pet the animals, same goes for the tour leader.

  I bow, take off my safari hat, my blond curls bounce and rebound, Slinkys on escalators, my hair isn’t all that blond anymore, more like the color of the diluted Tang Mr. Matheson is always trying to get me to drink, no thanks, she stares at my hair, my Tang, so I put my hat back on, I look ridiculous either way, but in this new world, the one that doesn’t turn or spin, what I look like is irrelevant.