by Justin Bell
He’d danced with a blonde-haired blue-eyed woman, probably a year removed from graduation, and had actually bought a round of drinks for a trio of attractive females at the end of the bar, but he did these things for the entertainment of his wingmen, not because he was truly interested. His career was ahead of him. That had to be his focus.
But then he’d bumped into Chunhua. She’d been timid right off the bat, surrounded by her more aggressive friends, an exchange student at Boston College who was about to move into her final exams. Brandon hadn’t spoken Mandarin often in recent years, but the language remained ingrained in him and just out of reflex he apologized to her in his parent’s native tongue when they collided. She blushed and responded in the same language to him, and they’d formed an immediate bond.
He was more outgoing than her, and had more ties to Boston, while she was shy and withdrawn and had been eager to return to the country that made her more comfortable. She felt more at place in China—more in tune with her people, and less intimidated by the more outward attitude in the United States. It had never even occurred to her that she would stay.
Three years later, she was his wife. She was his rock. And he’d left her stranded in Boston while he dove headfirst into a career that kept him out of home more often than in it. He knew she was unhappy, he knew she struggled to find friends, but selfishly he loved her and wanted her to be by his side when it was convenient for him.
What kind of person did that make him? Did she deserve better?
He could see her face in his mind, the crystal-clear visage of her young, oval face, her smiling mouth and dark, swept hair that bobbed just right every time she moved. Her face was in high definition, even while the backdrop blurred and swirled around her, smearing into an amorphous blob of mottled colors, twirling into a whirlwind of confused vagaries, obscure images of a life lived, or as much life lived as possible in three short years.
“Liu! You alive in there?”
He could feel his eyelids blinking hard, struggling to clear the cobwebs and to wipe away the smeared colors. He could hear the voice, faint and quiet.
“Liu, get up! We don’t have time for this!”
Crawling up from the murky refuge of his memories, Brandon Liu pried open his eyes, glancing at the dark and littered alley around him. His face, head, and ribs burned with a dull, persistent ache, almost his entire body in various states of muscular pain.
“Where am I?” he asked, his mind able to conjure up a perfect recollection of his wife, but the events of the last few hours remained foreign to him.
“North of Texas City, man. Looks like someone beat the spit out of you,” said Ricky Orosco. He was bent low over Liu’s fallen body, his hand wrapped around the man’s shoulder.
“You should see the other guys,” Liu replied.
“I think I did,” Orosco said. “Unfortunately so did a lot of his friends. This place is a powder keg, man. I think it’s about to go off.”
In the distance Liu could hear some muffled shouts followed by a series of echoing bangs, like trash cans getting smashed against something. He heard glass shattering, a triumphant yell, then what sounded like a handful of fireworks…or were they gunshots?
“What is going on?” Liu asked, crawling to his feet, using the brick wall for support.
“They hit your head hard, eh? You don’t remember the nuclear detonations? Texas City engulfed in flames. Galveston Island ceases to exist. I think people are understandably freaking out a little bit. Best we’re not around when they turn their attention towards law enforcement.”
Liu nodded, wincing from the pain that both hurt and helped to clear out the last of the cobwebs. “Right.”
“Car’s this way,” Orosco said, guiding Liu out of the alley and left. “Hold up!” he shouted, moving towards him and pushing them both into the shadows behind a broken chain link fence. A crowd of people emerged from an alley ahead, shouting, and one of them cocked back and threw a glass bottle, sending it shattering against a far wall further down the street.
“Okay, come on,” Orosco said and they moved away from the shadows, around the fence and left into the street. Other people were milling about, but they didn’t look as angry as the first crowd. “Down this road and to the right!”
Smashing glass rebounded off the wall to their left and a cascading carpet of fire rolled down the wall and over the ground.
“Look out!” Liu shouted, pushing Orosco away from the Molotov cocktail.
“This is not good!”
“Keep moving, let’s keep moving,” Liu’s voice was slurred and muffled by swollen lips, but Orosco understood him well enough to keep moving forward. Footsteps thumping along the pavement sent them scrambling for the shadows again as a thick, angry crowd charged by, yelling and thrusting their fists and various makeshift weapons in the air. Another short group of shots went off a little too close for comfort. Continuing forward, Liu looked to the right and saw the fire. Tall buildings were blanketed by a roiling orange glow and belches of thick, dark smoke, and flames rose above the structures. As he watched, a gust of wind propelled the fire and it broke away from the main line and spattered against a nearby building, holding to its roof. It started to spread. Liu glanced left and right, then turned back towards Orosco.
“Where’s the fire department? HazMat? Anyone?”
The FBI agent shook his head. “They’ve written it off,” he whispered. “Fire’s too big, chemicals are too potent, too many other lives to try to save. Far as the feds are concerned, everything southeast of Houston is a lost cause. Violence is starting to erupt in Houston itself and they’re being pulled back to try to contain things there. Higher population’s gotta take precedence.”
“What? How can you be so sure?”
“Got the word from the field office. Told me I’m to vacate immediately, and you’re coming with me.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Right? First time I’ve ever heard of such a thing.”
“So where are we headed?”
“Outta here,” Orosco said. “Beyond that, we’ll have to figure it out. I need to try to get in touch with my contacts in the DMV see what they can tell me about the tag number.”
“I need to get back to Boston,” Liu said quietly. “If things are falling apart like this here, I’m betting we’re on the razor’s edge back home, too.”
“How can I get in touch with you?” Orosco asked.
Liu had to think about this. Cell service was all but crippled. Network access slowed to a crawl. Except…
“Hold on,” Liu said, stopping for a minute.
“Not a good idea, man.” As if in response to this, another orchestra of shattering glass echoed behind them. Liu fished out a business card and a pen and jotted some notes down on the back.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Orosco. “Department of Defense has a Task Force with its own dedicated network. This VPN information should get you a connection at least. You may have to use a landline, but I put a dial up number down there, too, just in case.”
“Dial up?”
“Existing broadband is too unstable right now. I’d suggest you only use this to send messages. Simple, short, text only. Emergency situations, you should be able to reach me through there. I can’t think of any other way.”
Orosco nodded. “Thanks, Liu.”
They continued their forward motion, veering left at a t-junction and crossing a couple of blocks. The sedan sat surprisingly unmolested ahead of them, still at the same crooked slant it was parked at when they left it before.
“There’s the car. Let’s get moving and get you headed back home.”
“What about you?” Liu asked. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
Orosco paused for a moment, his breath catching as he glanced back at the wall of fire consuming Texas City. Sparks and spats of orange flame licked up into the darkness, dancing with the stars in the night sky.
“I’ll be okay,” he said quietly, picturing t
he shattered and broken Galveston Island lurking just behind the roaring fires of Southeast Texas. He wouldn’t be okay. He would never again be okay. But he’d live. And he’d bring these scumbags to justice.
***
“Are you holding up okay?” Jerry asked Rhonda as she screwed up her face into a twisted scowl of agony. “I’m not a medic or even a corpsman, but I can make do if needed.”
Rhonda looked down at her hastily bandaged gunshot wound and tried moving her shoulder somewhat, ignoring the stabs of white hot pain. The bullet had somehow not hit the bone but had torn through the muscle fibers of her shoulder pretty effectively. Jerry had stopped the bleeding and wrapped and bandaged it. Their supply run at the school had netted them a nice amount of pain killers, but she only took two ibuprofen, wanting to make sure to be as alert and on top of things as possible.
“I’ll be all right,” she whispered. Though between her shoulder, her jaw, and her thigh, she was starting to wonder. How long would it be before she started holding everyone back? “What about you? I heard you took two to your armor plate. Doesn’t that still hurt?”
“Oh yeah,” Jerry replied. “Hurts like crazy. But I’ll be all right. No broken skin.”
“Hey, mom,” Max said, approaching from the darkness. The silver box trailer sat opened, concealed by a growth of brush about ten miles from Jerry’s trailer. They took the first opportunity they could find to stop the evacuation and get back to square one.
“How you doing, Max?” she asked. “You holding up okay? Dad told me what happened.”
Max shrugged. “I’m fine, mom. I did what I had to do.” The phrase sounded as cliché to his own ears as he was sure it sounded to hers, but it was the only response he could think of.
Rhonda scowled. The look on Max’s face was unsettling to say the least, a certain rugged hardness that no child of twelve should yet possess. Things had happened in the past twenty-four hours, even since leaving Brisbee. Things that couldn’t be undone and things that would leave scars.
“We don’t take those things lightly, Max, okay?”
“You didn’t hesitate,” Max replied, “when you had to shoot back.”
Rhonda took a breath and closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “You’re right. I didn’t hesitate. And I wouldn’t again. But I’m a grown-up, okay? I can process why this stuff happens and what we need to do to resolve it. Do you understand?”
Max gave her an uncertain look. “You’re saying that because I’m a kid I shouldn’t be allowed to save your life?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Max. You did the right thing. The only thing. Your dad and I are very proud of you and thankful that you did what you did. I just want to be sure you understand the seriousness of your actions.”
“I get it, mom,” Max replied. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, letting his fingers touch the cool metal of the revolver he kept there. It felt calming somehow. Soothing. An anchor that kept him stabilized as the rocky oceans of life threatened to push him off course.
“Okay, honey. Again, you did the right thing. You do understand that?”
Max nodded, his face turning into a hint of a smile.
“Nice shooting, kid,” Jerry said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You can have my back any day.”
“It’s a deal,” Max replied, punching Jerry lightly in the chest. “Maybe next time you won’t get shot, eh?”
Jerry chuckled, shaking his head as Max walked away. Rhonda looked at the back of his head as he left, her heart heavy and her spirit drained. Childhood innocence was tough enough to grapple onto and hold when a boy started turning his age. Any hint of it was gone now. Wiped out along with most of the West Coast. Apparently you didn’t have to be within the blast radius to have a part of you die.
“Hey, Max,” Brad said as his friend rejoined their small group. The ATVs were parked in a lazy circle as Greer held watch near the edge, looking out of the small group of withered trees. “You doing okay?”
“Sure,” Max replied. “Why is everyone asking me that?”
“You...uhhh…you killed someone,” Brad said quietly. “That doesn’t make you feel…weird?”
Max shrugged. “I don’t know. He was going to kill my mom and dad. He made the choice, not me.”
Brad nodded. “I get it.”
Max let his fingers touch the weapon again, wrapped tight in his warm pants pocket. “You want to check it out?” he asked, starting to pull the gun from its place.
“No!” Brad shouted, taking a step away. “I mean, no. I’m good.”
“What’s the matter?” Max asked.
“I just don’t like guns,” Brad replied. “My brother. He was shot to death. After that happened, I heard enough about guns to last me a few lifetimes. I don’t like them.”
“You might have to learn to like them,” Max said. “Or at least tolerate them. We’re in a different world now.”
Brad was quiet for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fist. He remembered those long nights of trying to do homework while his mother cried in the next room. Crying long and hard about her boy, about her job, about the evils of guns and how easy it was to get them. How her first son would still be alive if some half-cocked teenagers hadn’t been able to buy their weapons on the street.
She’d become somewhat of an activist at that point, dedicating her world towards increasing gun control and weapons regulations. She’d become a social media darling, a woman lawyer fighting the war on guns from the front lines. Unafraid and unencumbered by a political agenda, just driven by pure rage at the fate of her oldest child.
Brad didn’t tell any of this to Max. He’d seen the look on Max’s face when Max first held that revolver back in the cold storage facility. He’d smelled the anger and tasted the desire to shoot to kill. It was in there somewhere. Brad suspected that it was in him, too, but as long as his parents were around, he would never show it. Could never show it. He’d spent many hours dreaming of walking those dark alleys in downtown Denver, of finding the punks that killed his brother. He’d dreamed of surprising them, stealing their weapons and killing them with them. Of standing over their dead bodies, firing bullets into their corpses, laughing as he did so. They had been vivid and intense, and when he awoke, he’d felt…happy? A strange sense of satisfaction that he had never quite been able to explain or describe. But along with that satisfaction he’d felt a prolonged and aggressive sense of shame, a deep-rooted embarrassment for what he obviously wanted to do to the men who killed his brother in stark contrast to his mother’s staunch beliefs. Beliefs that, he hated to admit, seemed to have no place in the world as it now was. What would she think of him, he wondered, if she knew what had happened in the last couple of days? Would she be angry? Or happy that he had managed to survive?
So now here he was. Here he was, knowing that desire to grab that pistol and do to others as they would have done to him was so intense, but at the same time struggling with the thought of his parents and desperate to not disappoint them or let them down. They’d put themselves in financial hardships to afford to get him to Vernon Academy and out of the perceived dangers of the path his older brother ran down, and to disappoint them now? It would be too much.
He’d heard Mrs. Fraser say it best…in times like this, the family bonds are the most important. It’s easy to think your family is such a small thing in a world with such global problems, but it’s the small things that keep us sane and family is most important of all. Right now, he needed that connection with his parents. Brad needed them to know he was okay, and he didn’t veer from the straight and narrow. He needed them to know that about him and to feel good about the choices they’d made.
“Max? Brad? You guys there?”
Brad and Max looked at each other and Max nodded, standing up, his hand touching the metal in his right pocket.
“We’re here,” he said.
Winnie emerged from the darkness and moved towards them. “We’re almost ready to go. How ar
e you both doing?”
Max looked at her sideways. Winnie almost sounded like a grown up, not like her normal whiny, device-captivated self.
“We’re fine. Are you okay, Winnie?” he asked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she replied.
“I don’t know. You’re being nice. Something must be wrong.”
“You’re funny, kid,” Winnie said, her voice picking up an edge. “Funny like a chest wound.”
“So where are we going?” Brad asked. “Still heading east?”
Winnie nodded. “Yeah. Heading back towards I-70 and following it straight through to St. Louis. We’re trying to figure out where we might stop along the way.”
“How far are we from St. Louis?” Brad asked.
“Long ways,” Winnie replied, trying to sound comforting. “Probably 700 miles, give or take? It’s going to take a while to get us there.”
Brad seemed to deflate in front of her, but he held it together. They fell in behind her as she led them back towards the group.
“It’s all right, Brad,” she whispered to the boy, “we’ll find something to do along the way. Make a game out of it or something.”
“Won’t be much time for game playing,” said Jerry as he noticed their approach. “I was just telling your mom and dad that we’re entering a dangerous stretch.”
“Dangerous?” Winnie said. “How do you mean?”
“I can only say what I’ve heard,” Jerry said, noticing as Greer, Rhonda, Phil, and Angel gravitated towards the group. “There’s a pretty roughneck motorcycle gang from these parts. Home base is Topeka, but they ride up and down Interstate 70, call themselves the Demon Dogs.”
“Nobody’s riding up and down 70 these days,” Greer replied.
“Well, supposedly, over the past two to three days, these Demon Dogs have ramped things up. Much more frequent attacks. In some cases they’ve been abducting people, in other cases just killing them and leaving them on the side of the road.”