After the End: Recent Apocalypses

by Kage Baker

  He kept pushing, and the front wheels of the chair tipped off the ground. She tried to balance, failed, and went over. Her head went crack on the tarmac, no matter that she tried to protect it with her hands.

  He wrenched the chair away, and flung it as hard as he could. It screeched and scraped and slid into a ditch. He was panting, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  “Do you see why? Why I have to do this? They turned me away to die. I can’t touch them. They’re too strong. But I can make them weak by destroying those they want to let in. That’s why. It’s fair, don’t you think? Fair?” He stumbled as he bent to retrieve his glove. “Back for Owen now. I’ve been long enough.”

  Diane felt she could move again after a few minutes. The blood was still oozing from the cut at the back of her head, but the sharp sting cleared her mind rather than befuddled her.

  She raised herself up on her arms. She’d been here before. She’d survived.

  Now she had to go and get Owen.

  Slowly, painfully, she began to crawl her way back down the road to the school.

  Gateshead-based Simon Morden’s writing career includes an eclectic mix of short stories, novellas, and novels that blend science fiction, fantasy, and horror, a five-year stint as an editor for the British Science Fiction Association, and as a judge for the Arthur C. Clarke Awards. The first three books of the Metrozone (Equations of Life, Theories of Flight, Degrees of Freedom) were published in 2011, and collectively won the Philip K. Dick Award. The fourth Metrozone novel, The Curve of the Earth, and Arcanum, a doorstep-sized alternate history set a millennium after the fall of Rome, will be published in 2013.

  Stupidity and immediate gratification could be a whimpering End to the world as we know it—and with the right pharmaceuticals, we might not even realize it was happening. But when the remaining technology that still works starts failing—like sewage Pump Six—at least some people will start noticing they are in, literally, deep shit.

  PUMP SIX

  Paolo Bacigalupi

  The first thing I saw Thursday morning when I walked into the kitchen was Maggie’s ass sticking up in the air. Not a bad way to wake up, really. She’s got a good figure, keeps herself in shape, so a morning eyeful of her pretty bottom pressed against a black mesh nightie is generally a positive way to start the day.

  Except that she had her head in the oven. And the whole kitchen smelled like gas. And she had a lighter with a blue flame six inches high that she was waving around inside the oven like it was a Tickle Monkey revival concert.

  “Jesus Christ, Maggie! What the hell are you doing?”

  I dove across the kitchen, grabbed a handful of nightie and yanked hard. Her head banged as she came out of the oven. Frying pans rattled on the stovetop and she dropped her lighter. It skittered across the tuffscuff, ending up in a corner. “Owwwwww!” She grabbed her head. “Oooowwww!”

  She spun around and slapped me. “What the fuck did you do that for?” She raked her nails across my cheek, then went for my eyes. I shoved her away. She slammed into the wall and spun, ready to come back again. “What’s the matter with you?” she yelled. “You pissed off you couldn’t get it up last night? Now you want to knock me around instead?” She grabbed the cast-iron skillet off the stovetop, dumping NiftyFreeze bacon all over the burners. “You want to try again, trogwad? Huh? You want to?” She waved the pan, threatening, and started for me. “Come on then!”

  I jumped back, rubbing my cheek where she’d gouged me. “You’re crazy! I keep you from getting yourself blown up and you want to beat my head in?”

  “I was making your damn breakfast!” She ran her fingers through her black tangled hair and showed me blood. “You broke my damn head!”

  “I saved your dumb ass is what I did.” I turned and started shoving the kitchen windows open, letting the gas escape. A couple of the windows were just cardboard curtains that were easy to pull free, but one of the remaining whole windows was really stuck.

  “You sonofabitch!”

  I turned just in time to dodge the skillet. I yanked it out of her hands and shoved her away, hard, then went back to opening windows. She came back, trying to get around in front of me as I pushed the windows open. Her nails were all over my face, scratching and scraping. I pushed her away again and waved the skillet when she tried to come back. “You want me to use this?”

  She backed off, eyes on the pan. She circled. “That’s all you got to say to me? ‘I saved your dumb ass’?” Her face was red with anger. “How about ‘Thanks for trying to fix the stove, Maggie,’ or ‘Thanks for giving a damn about whether I get a decent breakfast before work, Maggie.’ ” She hawked snot and spat, missing me and hitting the wall, then gave me the finger. “Make your own damn breakfast. See if I try to help you again.”

  I stared at her. “You’re dumber than a sack of trogs, you know that?” I waved the skillet toward the stove. “Checking a gas leak with a lighter? Do you even have a brain in there? Hello? Hello?”

  “Don’t talk to me like that! You’re the trogwad—” She choked off mid sentence and sat, suddenly, like she’d been hit in the head with a chunk of concrete rain. Just plopped on the yellow tuffscuff. Completely stunned.

  “Oh.” She looked up at me, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, Trav. I didn’t even think of that.” She stared at her lighter where it lay in the corner. “Oh, shit. Wow.” She put her head in her hands. “Oh . . .Wow.”

  She started to hiccup, then to cry. When she looked up at me again, her big brown eyes were full of tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m really really sorry.” The tears started rolling, pouring off her cheeks. “I had no idea. I just didn’t think. I . . . ”

  I was still ready to fight, but seeing her sitting on the floor, all forlorn and lost and apologetic took it out of me.

  “Forget it.” I dropped the pan on the stove and went back to jamming open the windows. A breeze started moving through, and the gas stink faded. When we had some decent air circulation, I pulled the stove out from the wall. Bacon was scattered all over the burners, limp and thawed now that it was out of its NiftyFreeze cellophane, strips of pork lying everywhere, marbled and glistening with fat. Maggie’s idea of a homemade breakfast. My granddad would have loved her. He was a big believer in breakfasts. Except for the NiftyFreeze. He hated those wrappers.

  Maggie saw me staring at the bacon. “Can you fix the stove?”

  “Not right now. I’ve got to get to work.”

  She wiped her eyes with the palm of her hand. “Waste of bacon,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “No big deal.”

  “I had to go to six different stores to find it. That was the last package, and they didn’t know when they were going to get more.”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that. I found the gas shutoff and closed it. Sniffed. Then sniffed all around the stove and the rest of kitchen.

  The gas smell was almost gone.

  For the first time, I noticed my hands were shaking. I tried to get a coffee packet out of the cabinet and dropped it. It hit the counter with a water balloon plop. I set my twitching hands flat on the counter and leaned on them, hard, trying to make them go still. My elbows started shaking instead. It’s not every morning you almost get yourself blown up.

  It was kind of funny, though, when I thought about it. Half the time, the gas didn’t even work. And on the one day it did, Maggie decided to play repairman. I had to suppress a giggle.

  Maggie was still in the middle of the floor, snuffling. “I’m really sorry,” she said again.

  “It’s okay. Forget it.” I took my hands off the counter. They weren’t flapping around anymore. That was something. I ripped open the coffee packet and chugged its liquid cold. After the rest of the morning, the caffeine was calming.

  “No, I’m really sorry. I could have got us both killed.”

  I wanted to say something nasty but there wasn’t any point. It just would have been cruel. “Well, you didn’t. So it’s okay.” I pu
lled out a chair and sat down and looked out the open windows. The city’s sky was turning from yellow dawn smog to a gray-blue morning smog. Down below, people were just starting their day. Their noises filtered up: Kids shouting on their way to school. Hand carts clattering on their way to deliveries. The grind of some truck’s engine, clanking and squealing and sending up black clouds of exhaust that wafted in through the window along with summer heat. I fumbled for my inhaler and took a hit, then made myself smile at Maggie. “It’s like that time you tried to clean the electric outlet with a fork. You just got to remember not to look for gas leaks with a fire. It’s not a good idea.”

  Wrong thing to say, I guess. Or wrong tone of voice.

  Maggie’s waterworks started again: not just the snuffling and the tears, but the whole bawling squalling release thing, water pouring down her face, her nose getting all runny and her saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again, like a Ya Lu aud sample, but without the subsonic thump that would have made it fun to listen to.

  I stared at the wall for a while, trying to wait it out, and thought about getting my earbug and listening to some real Ya Lu, but I didn’t want to wear out the battery because it took a while to find good ones, and anyway, it didn’t seem right to duck out while she was bawling. So I sat there while she kept crying, and then I finally sucked it up and got down on the floor next to her and held her while she wore herself out.

  Finally she stopped crying and started wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll remember.”

  She must have seen my expression because she got more insistent. “Really. I will.” She used the shoulder of her nightie on her runny nose. “I must look awful.”

  She looked puffy and red-eyed and snotty. I said, “You look fine. Great. You look great.”

  “Liar.” She smiled, then shook her head. “I didn’t mean to melt down like that. And the frying pan . . . ” She shook her head again. “I must be PMS-ing.”

  “You take a Gynoloft?”

  “I don’t want to mess with my hormones. You know, just in case . . . ” She shook her head again. “I keep thinking maybe this time, but . . . ” She shrugged. “Never mind. I’m a mess.” She leaned against me again and went quiet for a little bit. I could feel her breathing. “I just keep hoping,” she said finally.

  I stroked her hair. “If it’s meant to happen, it will. We’ve just got to stay optimistic.”

  “Sure. That’s up to God. I know that. I just keep hoping.”

  “It took Miku and Gabe three years. We’ve been trying, what, six months?”

  “A year, month after next.” She was quiet, then said, “Lizzi and Pearl only had miscarriages.”

  “We’ve got a ways to go before we start worrying about miscarriages.” I disentangled and went hunting for another coffee packet in the cabinets. This one I actually took the time to shake. It heated itself and I tore it open and sipped. Not as good as the little brewer I found for Maggie at the flea market so she could make coffee on the stove, but it was a damn sight better than being blown to bits.

  Maggie was getting herself arranged, getting up off the floor and starting to bustle around. Even all puffy faced, she still looked good in that mesh nightie: lots of skin, lots of interesting shadows.

  She caught me watching her. “What are you smiling at?”

  I shrugged. “You look nice in that nightie.”

  “I got it from that lady’s estate sale, downstairs. It’s hardly even used.”

  I leered. “I like it.”

  She laughed. “Now? You couldn’t last night or the night before, but now you want to do it?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’re going to be late as it is.” She turned and started rustling in the cabinets herself. “You want a brekkie bar? I found a whole bunch of them when I was shopping for the bacon. I guess their factory is working again.” She tossed one before I could answer. I caught it and tore off the smiling foil wrapper and read the ingredients while I ate. Fig and Nut, and then a whole bunch of nutrients like dextroforma-albuterolhyde. Not as neat as the chemicals that thaw NiftyFreeze packets, but what the hell, it’s all nutritional, right?

  Maggie turned and studied the stove where I’d marooned it. With hot morning air blowing in from the windows, the bacon was getting limper and greasier by the second. I thought about taking it downstairs and frying it on the sidewalk. If nothing else, I could feed it to the trogs. Maggie was pinching her lip. I expected her to say something about the stove or wasting bacon, but instead she said, “We’re going out for drinks with Nora tonight. She wants to go to Wicky.”

  “Pus girl?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  I jammed the rest of the brekkie bar into my mouth. “It is to me. I warned both of you. That water’s not safe for anything.”

  She made a face. “Well nothing happened to me, smarty pants. We all looked at it and it wasn’t yellow or sludgy or anything—”

  “So you jumped right in and went swimming. And now she’s got all those funny zits on her. How mysterious.” I finished the second coffee packet and tossed it and the brekkie bar wrapper down the disposal and ran some water to wash them down. In another half hour, they’d be whirling and dissolving in the belly of Pump Two. “You can’t go thinking something’s clean, just because it looks clear. You got lucky.” I wiped my hands and went over to her. I ran my fingers up her hips.

  “Yep. Lucky. Still no reaction.”

  She slapped my hands away. “What, you’re a doctor, now?”

  “Specializing in skin creams . . . ”

  “Don’t be gross. I told Nora to meet us at eight. Can we go to Wicky?”

  I shrugged. “I doubt it. It’s pretty exclusive.”

  “But Max owes you—” she broke off as she caught me leering at her again. “Oh. Right.”

  “What do you say?”

  She shook her head and grinned. “I should be glad, after the last couple nights.”

  “Exactly.” I leaned down and kissed her.

  When she finally pulled back, she looked up at me with those big brown eyes of hers and the whole bad morning just melted away. “You’re going to be late,” she said.

  But her body was up against mine, and she wasn’t slapping my hands away anymore.

  Summer in New York is one of my least favorite times. The heat sits down between the buildings, choking everything, and the air just . . . stops. You smell everything. Plastics melting into hot concrete, garbage burning, old urine that effervesces into the air when someone throws water into the gutter; just the plain smell of so many people living all packed together. Like all the skyscrapers are sweating alcoholics after a binge, standing there exhausted and oozing with the evidence of everything they’ve been up to. It drives my asthma nuts. Some days, I take three hits off the inhaler just to get to work.

  About the only good thing about summer is that it isn’t spring so at least you don’t have freeze-thaw dropping concrete rain down on your head.

  I cut across the park just to give my lungs a break from the ooze and stink, but it wasn’t much of an improvement. Even with the morning heat still building up, the trees looked dusty and tired, all their leaves drooping, and there were big brown patches on the grass where the green had just given up for the summer, like bald spots on an old dog.

  The trogs were out in force, lying in the grass, lolling around in the dust and sun, enjoying another summer day with nothing to do. The weather was bringing them out. I stopped to watch them frolicking—all hairy and horny without any concerns at all.

  A while back someone started a petition to get rid of them, or at least to get them spayed, but the mayor came out and said that they had some rights, too. After all, they were somebody’s kids, even if no one was admitting it. He even got the police to stop beating them up so much, which made the tabloids go crazy. They all said he had a trog love child hidden in Connecticut. But after a few years, people got used to having them around. And the tabloids went o
ut of business, so the mayor didn’t care what they said about his love children anymore.

  These days, the trogs are just part of the background, a whole park full of mash-faced monkey people shambling around with bright yellow eyes and big pink tongues and not nearly enough fur to survive in the wild. When winter hits, they either freeze in piles or migrate down to warmer places. But every summer there’s more of them.

  When Maggie and I first started trying to have a baby, I had a nightmare that Maggie had a trog. She was holding it and smiling, right after the delivery, all sweaty and puffy and saying, “Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it beautiful?” and then she handed the sucker to me. And the scary thing wasn’t that it was a trog; the scary thing was trying to figure out how I was going to explain to everyone at work that we were keeping it. Because I loved that little squash-faced critter. I guess that’s what being a parent is all about.

  That dream scared me limp for a month. Maggie put me on perkies because of it.

  A trog sidled up. It—or he or she, or whatever you call a hermaphrodite critter with boobs and a big sausage—made kissy faces at me. I just smiled and shook my head and decided that it was a him because of his hairy back, and because he actually had that sausage, instead of just a little pencil like some of them have. The trog took the rejection pretty well. He just smiled and shrugged. That’s one nice thing about them: they may be dumber than hamsters, but they’re pleasant-natured. Nicer than most of the people I work with, really. Way nicer than some people you meet in the subway.

  The trog wandered off, touching himself and grunting, and I kept going across the park. On the other side, I walked down a couple blocks to Freedom Street and then down the stairs into the command substation.

  Chee was waiting for me when I unlocked the gates to let myself in.

  “Alvarez! You’re late, man.”