Voices of the Apocalypse: The Collection

by Simone Pond

  Keyla stepped back, almost tripping on the curb. “But she’s dead.”

  “The least we can do is go git her and give her a proper burial. We can put her next to Emma, up on my old farm.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, it’s been weeks, Ransom. They probably got rid of her body by now. Those people might not even be there.”

  “We don’t know till we try. Whaddya say?”

  Ransom had already started packing up the tractor. Once his mind was made up, there was no point trying to change it.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of course you are, but that don’t mean you don’t do something.”

  “We’re not driving the tractor down, are we?” Keyla smiled.

  “Nah, I’m fixin’ to ask Mayor Parks if we can borrow his car. I’ll give him the rest of these here eggs.”

  Keyla stared off for a minute or two. The sun was setting and a crisp breeze blew through the empty streets. The dry leaves rustled along the road. She eyed Ransom up and down. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  The two walked down the street toward the old hat shop where the Mayor Parks and his wife lived. Ransom gave the Mayor a brief account of what had happened and held out what was left of the eggs. Mayor Parks handed over his keys without any hesitation.

  “There’s not much gas, but I trust you’ll figure out something.” He shook Ransom’s hand. “You’re a good man.”

  “Just tryin’ to do the right thing,” he said, humbly.

  “That’s what makes you a good man. It’s not about our past sins; it’s what we learn from them.”

  They got into the large Buick and Keyla buckled up, looking tiny in the passenger seat. Ransom didn’t bother with his buckle. It took a few tries before the engine turned. There was a quarter tank left, which wouldn’t be enough to get them to East Canton.

  Ransom drove down Erie Street toward Mason’s Auto Shop. He pulled up to the vacant garage.

  “Mason always keeps some extra gas lying around. He’s must be gone now. Don’t think he’d mind if we helped ourselves.”

  Once they were fueled up to three-quarters tank, they got on the 77 South toward Canton. Keyla took a nap along the way, while Ransom thought about the last time he’d driven down that highway. He was a little rusty at the wheel, and after a big swerve, Keyla woke up.

  “You sure you know how to drive?” she teased.

  “It’s been a while. Now, do you remember where that house was?”

  “It was on 24th Street Southeast. I’ll never forget it. It’s off of Wayne-something. Waynesburg Drive, maybe. Once we get close enough, I can figure it out. You’ll need to take exit 43 South.”

  He nodded. “Good memory.”

  “It’s kind of hard to forget when you’re walking on it for a while.” Keyla smiled, pointing to the upcoming exit. “You need to get off there.”

  When they got close enough to 24th Street, Keyla crouched low in the passenger seat, tears rolling down her cheeks. Ransom parked a few houses away, hidden in the shadows of the trees. Good thing the street lamps were off.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “It’s that little red house. The one with the van in the driveway,” Keyla whispered.

  “You wait right here.”

  “You’re just going to walk up to the door?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have a weapon or anything?”

  The sixty-three year old raised his eyebrows and held up his fists.

  “Good luck,” she said, shaking her head.

  He got out of the car and walked toward the house, feeling another bout of that burning rage. Someone was definitely going to pay for what they did to those innocent girls. When he was about a few houses away, he waited by the trees, sizing up the place. A couple of folks came out of the house and got into the van. They peeled out of the driveway and bolted down the street. Ransom looked back to make sure Keyla was okay. Her puffy hair ducked down just before the van zipped by.

  Ransom marched up to the door and didn’t bother knocking; he just barreled through it, almost taking it off the hinges. He stormed through the filthy living room and kitchen area, opening doors to see if anyone was still there. Someone had to answer for this crime. But the place was empty. He noticed a baseball bat next to the couch and picked it up for his journey to the basement. One step at a time, he descended the wooden steps into the dark hole.

  “Hello?” he called down.

  He thought he heard something skitter about.

  “I’m here to help,” he said. “I came with Keyla.”

  “Keyla?” the voice cried out from below.

  Ransom jumped down the last few stairs and ran to the corner where a young black girl, who looked a lot like Keyla, was chained to a pipe. She had on a long stained T-shirt and nothing else.

  “Good lord.” That was all he could get out.

  “Where’s my sister?”

  “She’s safe. I’m gonna git you outta this mess.”

  The handcuffs were too tight to wriggle off.

  “Please help me,” she cried.

  “Watch out, I’m gonna bust that pipe open.”

  Dayla scooted off to the side and he began swinging the bat like a madman until the pipe busted and he was able to slide off the handcuffs. He scooped Dayla into his arms and ran up the steps. Before reaching the front door, he turned around and scanned the living room. He placed Dayla next to the door and scurried back to the kitchen, looking for something flammable.

  “What are you doing?” Dayla cried out.

  “Burning this place to the ground.”

  Those evil men would probably keep going about their business, but at least it wouldn’t be there. He snatched a lighter off the counter and searched the cabinets until he found just what he needed––a stock of Jack Daniels. Grabbing a couple bottles, he ran around dousing the furniture and carpets with the stuff. Standing next to the ratty curtains, he flicked the lighter, catching the material on fire. He picked Dayla up and darted out of the house, back to the car.

  “She’s alive, Keyla! Open the back door!” he yelled, running toward the Buick.

  “She’s alive?!” Kayla’s eyes bulged. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

  Keyla opened the back door and helped Ransom get Dayla into backseat. She sat down and held her sister’s heavy head in her small lap. Ransom got behind the wheel and drove away, speeding down the dark streets. Nobody said a word until about five miles on the 77 north.

  “I thought you were dead.” Keyla sobbed, hugging her beaten down sister.

  “I thought you were dead,” Dayla whispered.

  Ransom looked at the girls in the rearview mirror. He was still shaking with rage, but seeing the relief in their faces was enough to comfort him back down. He dug into his pocket for a piece of twig to gnaw on, but he was out. Keyla’s small hand touched his shoulder and she handed him a piece of twig she must’ve picked from the bushes. He took it and smiled in the rearview mirror. Peace settled through the Buick as they cruised along the barren highway back to Willoughby. Ransom had lost a lot over the years, but finding Keyla had been the greatest gift.

  - The End -

  Fog City

  ON THAT FOGGY afternoon, I wasn’t supposed to be sitting in a dive bar with a guy from the office, not during work hours anyway. But that’s where I was on that dreary summer day––the day everything changed.

  Crow and I were playing a heated game of dominoes on one of the sticky bar tables in the back of the dank hole. Crow only went by his last name. I say the game was heated not because of the competition, but for the sexual tension that had been building between us for the last eight months. Every time I was around him, a fire ignited in my groin, and it was burning hot by the second game. The two pints of Guinness I had already guzzled down couldn’t contain the flames. How badly I wanted to kiss him––so much that concentrating on the game was nearly impossible. I’d been able to hold my own at dominoes, but that day I was a colossal
mess. He was up by at least fifty points. I kept my mouth shut and feigned coolness with regards to the “sexual tension” thing. Crow wasn’t dating material and I was up for a promotion, so I figured it’d be best to keep it professional between us. I understood hanging out in a dive bar with a fellow co-worker during work hours wasn’t very professional, but I blamed it on the pheromones.

  Our pint glasses were half empty, or full, depending on your perspective, and I debated whether or not to order another drink. I didn’t need any more booze to fuel the uncontrollable yearning, and I worried that another drink would loosen the chastity belt around my lips, spilling out my secret crush on the unavailable Crow. But I wanted to spend another few minutes silently pining over him before going back to the office up on California Street. And we had a game of dominoes to finish, of course. I decided against getting another pint to stay clearheaded. I wasn’t yet prepared to proclaim my affections to Crow, at least not in some crappy bar that smelled like stale beer. I had some principles. Plus, I wanted to wait until I was absolutely sure he wouldn’t brush me off like a lap full of crumbs. I looked at my tiles––all high numbers. I was about to throw down a double five to garner twenty-five points and redeem myself when I thought I saw someone from the office walk by.

  “I think I just saw Jenny,” I whispered to Crow, as though she could hear me through the seedy bar’s brick wall.

  “So what?” he said. “Not like she can see us in here.”

  “Probably wasn’t even her.” I drank down the last few gulps of beer and tried to downplay my obvious paranoia.

  Even if it were Jenny, she wouldn’t have wasted a second of eyesight looking into the Summer Place. It wasn’t the type of establishment you’d notice, unless you were thirsty for a cocktail at 6 a.m. The crappy bar was situated between some nondescript shops on Bush Street, near Union Square. Most San Franciscans were in too much of a hurry to notice anything, unless it sparkled. This place did not.

  “Want another?” Crow asked, lighting a cigarette.

  Besides offering privacy, the Summer Place was one of the last few bars in the city where you could smoke. That is, if you could score an actual cigarette. They were hard to come by since e-cigs had taken over the marketplace. During the early phases of the Repatterning, finding real cigarettes was costly but possible––as long as you had some serious black market connections, which I’m sure Crow had plenty of. He was that kind of guy.

  I glanced down at my tablet poking up from my bag and noticed forty-two red notifications waiting to be answered. Looking up at Crow, my heart did that flip floppy thing it does whenever our eyes met, and I started sinking into a whirlpool of lust. I grabbed the edge of the sticky table to keep myself straight.

  “I need to get back to the office. I have a bunch of messages,” I said.

  “Come on, just one more.”

  “Nah, no more for me.”

  “At least finish out the game,” he said.

  “Fine.” I smiled with hubris, placing my double five on the table to tie the game. I counted my points out loud just to rub it in.

  “Hmm.” He laughed under his breath. “Game’s not over yet.”

  He acted casual, but I sensed a touch of desperation in his voice. Almost as though he didn’t want me to leave him behind to go back to the office. I thought that was strange since he wasn’t the desperate type. I figured he was lonely for company. I don’t think it mattered who it was.

  He got up and went to the bar, carrying the empty pints. He nodded to the scraggly bartender for two more, overriding my decision. The bartender had to be at least a hundred years old. He had a permanent claw hand from pulling so many drafts over the years. It would’ve been interesting to sit at the bar and listen to stories about the good ol’ days of San Francisco, but he looked like he might have trouble remembering some of the details. A lot of years––and alcohol––had passed through his system.

  Crow set the pint down in front of me, and I watched the tan bubbles cascade down into the dark brown beer. I hadn’t eaten lunch and it was almost four o’clock. There was a good chance I’d be wasted by the time I got to the bottom of the glass.

  “Why bother going back? Place is a ghost town,” he said, looking down at the dominoes.

  He had a point. Most people had transited to working remotely during the Career Reshaping phases of the Repatterning. I chose to keep working in the office because I refused to wear one of those wrist straps. I didn’t like the idea of being monitored all day. I’d rather show up to the office and enjoy what was left of my diminishing freedom. Going into work to prove a semblance of freedom sounds ironic, I know, but it made sense at the time. In the office, every second of my day wasn’t being tracked. The Planners were determined to make the Repatterning look like an opportunity for economic growth and independence, but I had been in PR long enough to know a bag of bull. Since the initial phases of the Repatterning, the entire city had been morphing into a police state. Curfews were instated, companies closed their doors, buildings emptied out, and tourists were almost non-existent. Only big-name corporations remained––and the PR firms they had hired to make them look good.

  “Well, if you’re forcing me to stay, I’m at least checking my notifications.” I took a sip of beer.

  “It doesn’t matter if you go back. None of this shit matters.”

  “Sure it does.” I smiled proudly. Crow might’ve blurred my focus, but I still had a strong work ethic and cared about my job. I was also concerned about losing it. Like real cigarettes, work was hard to come by. Crow didn’t seem worried—part of his nothing-ruffles-me attitude.

  I stood up, trying not to wobble. “Be back in a few.” I stepped outside to get some fresh air and sober up a bit. The combination of beer on an empty stomach and Crow’s overpowering presence had a dizzying effect. Sitting on the curb, sandwiched between two beat up sedans that looked like they’d been there since the turn of the century, I scrolled through the notifications. Most were threads related to the big launch our clandestine clients called “the game changer.” Our firm had been working on the PR for months. The kick off would be in Los Angeles that very evening, and roll out to other major metropolitan areas. We didn’t have the actual details of the event, but the PR firm was responsible for getting butts in seats.

  I opened the last notification from my company’s CEO and read it a few times to make sure I was reading it correctly. The message stated that as of five o’clock that evening, the firm would be closing its doors for good, and our services were no longer needed. I almost dropped my tablet to the cement. Closing its doors? No longer needed? The information had come out of nowhere, and her callus note about the whole thing made no sense. I thought about the years of stress and anxiety, pulling all-nighters and missing out on my personal life, including visits with the family, just to please the company. All of that meant nothing. I had been duped. My life revolved around my job, and now I was jobless. What did that say about me? The Repatterning had finally dug its claws into my personal space and I was pissed. I wanted to fight back. To do something. Anything.

  Back inside the Summer Place, I dropped into my chair. While I was outside checking my notifications, Crow had played his final tile, winning the game. I shoved the dominoes off to the side and chugged down my entire pint.

  “Got any more cigarettes?” I asked.

  He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crooked but smoke-able cigarette. I ripped off the filter and leaned across the table so he could light me up. In a fuzzy attempt to be alluring, I swept my long auburn hair over my shoulder and tilted my head, Greta Garbo style. All I needed was an evening gown and some dark red lipstick.

  “So, you were right,” I said, blowing a stream of smoke toward the dangling year-round Christmas lights.

  “About what?”

  “The firm closed its doors. Well, they will in forty minutes. None of this shit matters. Not all of our hard work. Not the fact that I sacrificed a good portion of my t
wenties for a company that doesn’t give a shit. I don’t matter. We don’t matter. None of us do.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his Guinness. Crow had been dropping hints about things getting ugly for a while. I had always laughed at him, thinking the repercussions wouldn’t affect me. I had a job at a top PR firm, for heaven’s sake! I was necessary. The Repatterning should’ve breezed right by me. It was supposed to be another fad, like fat-free cookies, gluten-free bread, and kale.

  “I didn’t wanna be right,” he said.

  I exhaled the smoke, feeling a wave of nausea churn through me. It was my first smoke in ten years. I had quit during my freshman year in college. But now the weight of losing my entire purpose in life entitled to me to a damn cigarette. A buzz trickled through me, easing my nerves. The cigarette was working and I started worrying about where I’d get the next one. What about my next meal? I looked at Crow and got serious, more serious than I had ever been in all twenty-eight years of my life.

  “Maybe we should go by the office? See if there are any provisions we can nab before the rest of the buzzards stake their claim,” I whispered.

  He leaned in and held my wrist, his fingers searing into my skin. I stopped breathing for a second. I could’ve melted right onto that disgusting table. He pulled my hand toward his mouth and took a long drag off the cigarette. I wanted to freeze frame the moment and hold it forever. The way he grinned as he blew a cloud of smoke into the dingy air, still holding my wrist.

  “Let’s go,” he said, standing up.

  We left the Summer Place for the last time.

  ###

  We reached the office just before five o’clock, and when we stepped inside, it sounded like an emergency room on a Friday night. The entire staff, including the ones who had been working from home, had shown up to pilfer whatever they could. Professionals I had been working with for the last seven years ran around like heathens, grabbing equipment and yelling at each other. Were they planning on taking 3D printers and eco-chairs to their shantytowns at Golden Gate Park? A fistfight broke out in the communal area, with a group of people gathered around, shouting and shoving each other. Crow took my hand and pulled me toward the elevator. The door slid shut, sealing the two of us together in awkward silence. We had taken that same elevator together hundreds of times, but this was different. I could smell his manly scent. I could taste the pheromones darting in the air between us. Crow pulled me close and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. I inhaled his scent and heat rippled through my body. It still wasn’t the right time to share my affections, but I figured there’d never be a right time.