Doomsday's Child

by Pete Aldin

  The families gathered around the cooking area and ate together, still chattering good-naturedly. When Lewis stood to clear dishes, Rit and his wife Chariya pressed him back to his seat and did it themselves. Heng wandered to the side of the bridge with his raincoat on, his hood up, spat over the edge and lit up a cigarette, stealing glances to the SUV. Maybe he wondered if Elliot was taking aim at him. Elliot didn't know. But he certainly respected the suspicion. Heng called something back to the tent annex and Rit acknowledged it, picking up a bowl and an umbrella and making a beeline for Elliot's SUV.

  “Oh, fantastic. Visiting hours.”

  When Rit drew near, squinting like an idiot through the windows, Elliot called out, “Door's open!”

  Rit dropped the umbrella, opened the front passenger door and climbed in. Whatever food he was carrying smelled great and Elliot's traitorous stomach gurgled at it.

  Rit settled himself sideways, pulled the door shut behind him and offered the bowl through the gap. This time he took the bowl. A broth of thick vegetable chunks and pink meat steamed up at him, an agony of temptation.

  “There's no rice,” Rit smiled. “But Lewis says you like veggies.”

  “What's the meat?”

  “Fish. Caught it in the river here.”

  “You ate this?”

  “Sure. Very nice.”

  Elliot held the bowl back to him and angled it so the spoon swung Rit's way. “Taste it.”

  Rit started to laugh, then it caught in his throat. “You … you think we're poisoning you?! Why the bloody hell would we do that? You saved our lives today.”

  Elliot didn't move. “Humor me.”

  Rit blew out a breath, took the spoon, ate a chunk of fish and something that looked like cabbage, dropped it back in the bowl with a plop. “I better head back to the tent and get the antidote quick.” This time he didn't smile.

  “Wise ass.” Elliot spooned some broth and a little fish into his mouth. Flavors exploded. He kept the pleasure from his face and ate a little more, then put the bowl aside. “I'll finish it later.”

  Rit shifted in the seat, faced front. “See them out there? That's my family. All of them.”

  “Except Lewis.”

  “He could be.”

  “Not for long if you're staying out here in the open. This bridge is as much a trap as a base.”

  “We should come with you to this island then. We don't have any maps. We've been making it up as we went along.”

  “In that case, he'll be all yours. Just one request. Stop babying him.”

  “Babying him! You mean feeding him?”

  “I mean stopping him clearing up dishes. Letting him out of cleaning up corpses. Getting him to draw pictures with your kids and giggle like a child.”

  Rit turned back, eyes narrowing. “For your info, he's the first ray of light our kids have had since the shit went down. And you know what he was drawing just before we served dinner? He was drawing the Sydney Opera House. Two months and our girls have already forgotten what it looks like. Can you believe that? But he made it real to them, brought it back to life. He's a bloody good artist and without the freakin' internet, someone like him's important to keeping our history alive.”

  “History's for grade school and grade school belongs in civilization. This world smell like civilization to you?”

  “It doesn't smell like the end of the human race. Not if we hang on.”

  “He'll hang on fine if you stop babying him. Let him be a man.”

  “Like you?”

  “No, better than me. He's just getting a grip on it and you're undoing all that progress.”

  “What, by being kind to him? Do you know what he's been through in the past week?”

  “Pretty sure I was there. Lemme check my blog.”

  “And you've kept him safe till now which is amazing. But he tells me you've been hard on him.”

  “I've been real on him. He's thinking better, acting safer, using a firearm properly, making hard decisions. Gimme another week and he might actually start catching and cutting up his own food instead of getting a bunch of mommies doing it for him.”

  Rit held his gaze for a moment, sniffed and faced front. They were quiet a while, then Rit said, “I get you.”

  “You get me?”

  “Yeah. I get you. You play the tough guy, the angry guy. You keep everyone at a distance. You set low expectations for yourself so everyone else will too. Can't fail then, can you?”

  Elliot put his hand to his cheek, rasped his stubble and said, “And I get you too. You're the guy who spends his life talking crap and getting smacked in the mouth. Why don't you put Heng in charge? At least the old coot's got some balls.”

  Rit scratched hard at something on his face. “Bring the bowl back in the morning.” He got out, picked up his umbrella and stomped through puddles back to the tent.

  A little over three hours later, when Elliot's glowing wristwatch told him it was exactly 11.30, and the lights had been out in the tents long enough for everyone to be asleep, Elliot got out and went to the barricade. The rain had stopped, the clouds had parted, the moon was three-quarter full and high in the sky. He could see well enough to muscle the cement mixer out of the way. The air was heavy with deader stench and he gladly returned to the car. After backing it out of camp, he got out and replaced the barricade securely.

  He turned the car on the shoulder and headed west.

  *

  The headlights lit up debris like Mardis Gras aftermath—leaves and twigs and trash blown in from God knew where. He took it easy, although he knew the route from earlier that day. What he had in the back of the car would see him through a week without rationing. But if the hosts of undead refugees were still making their way from north to south—or worse spreading out—he was better to find somewhere to wait it out. Lie low for up to a month before finding a tourist information center or library like he'd planned.

  Jock's house would make as good a place as any in the meantime, even with that unholy shit in the cellar. The windows were barricaded. It was defensible and he could escape up into those hills if needed. Food was growing in the back yard.

  MISSING! My boy. Adam. 8 years old. If you see him, return him.

  “Wish I could, honey.”

  Please!!! All I have left. CAN'T live without him!

  “Baby, you shoulda taken better care of him. You're all he had. All he had watching his back.”

  He yawned long and loud and pushed himself back into the chair, stretching his legs. What he wouldn't give for a piping hot espresso right now. He sipped water instead, screwed the cap on one-handed.

  Would those Cambodians be good enough to watch Lewis's back? Would he be enough to watch theirs? Lewis was resourceful. He was smart and now he was emerging from his shock and from his childhood both, he was starting to put things together. He'd be okay. He was a good learner. Probably been an A-grade student.

  Like Tommy Harrison.

  Hell, his fringe looked like Tommy's and he was always swiping it aside like Tommy did instead of just getting it cut off. He even drew pictures all the time like Tommy had.

  “Man, you could draw for like Marvel or DC or somewhere.” He'd told Tommy that once. He winced now at the sound of it, like he was a fanboy or something. And my, hadn't Tommy glowed at that praise, though he'd preferred to draw animals and street scenes rather than the cooler more masculine comic book stuff. There was plenty about Tommy that made other guys suspicious and from time to time Elliot himself felt a little uncomfortable. Pinky swears especially had seemed girly to Elliot even when they were younger. But the pair shared a sense of humor, a love of Land of the Lost and Ninja Turtles well into their junior high years, and Tommy made really awesome brownies. And his Mom had made even better stir fry, the best meals of Elliot's youth.

  Elliot's home was casual violence and child labor. Tommy's home was refuge.

  He was also the only kid Elliot knew who owned a remote control plane, something Tommy wa
sn't interested in and was happy for Elliot to play with. Hell, he hadn't even cared when Elliot crashed it, though Elliot made sure he stole enough money for his friend to have it fixed. Tommy was the brother he'd never had, his mom a surrogate aunt or something, always nice, always fussing over them both.

  “Shit, Tommy,” he said in the dark, his mouth abruptly dry again. “Why'd you do it?”

  The memories were fresh as morning dew. The words were clear and accurate like a cassette had been jammed into the back of his head to punish him.

  “My Uncle John's away again, driving,” he'd told Tommy. He was lounging across his buddy's bed wadding up notepad paper and flicking it at the ceiling fan. Tommy was at his neat and compact desk, sketching and coloring. He didn't even look up at Elliot's words, so Elliot upped the ante.

  “And he left some new magazines. Wanna come over and check em out?” Wasn't often he'd invite anyone to his own home. Only when John was on a trip. He’d only ever brought a friend home once while John was there. Seven years old and forced to fight his friend while John watched and drank and laughed and berated him for losing, though the other boy was bigger.

  Tommy wriggled in his chair, rummaging through a pencil box for a better color. “Not really. Not this time.”

  “Seriously good shit, man. Come on. I have money for soda too. Or beer. Like, ten sodas or two beers. We could toss a coin for which.”

  “Thanks, but I'm not really up for it.”

  “C'mon man. You have to see these magazines. Whoo, boy.”

  Something was wrong. He sensed it. It was like the moment was frozen, but it was really Tommy who'd frozen, his drawing hand halfway between the page and scratching his face with the pencil. “I think those guys at school are right,” he said so softly Elliot had to get him to repeat it so he caught it.

  “About what?”

  “About me.”

  Elliot chucked the notepad, sat up. “What're you talking about?”

  “I don't like those magazines.”

  Elliot snorted. “Sure you do.” When there was no response, he ventured, “Well. We can still do those beers … “

  “Elliot, I don't think I like girls.”

  The moment, the revelation, hung in the air like a fart on a bus. Eventually Elliot said, “Sure you do.” But his heart wasn't in it.

  Tommy half-turned on his chair and the only place Elliot had seen a face so forlorn was in his own mirror after a beating.

  “I think … I don't know, Elliot, I'm so confused.”

  “You're not queer, Tommy. You're not.”

  “I might be.”

  “You're not a fag! It's just … It's all that bullshit those idiots keep on at you with. They're messing with your head. Don't listen to 'em. Look, some guys develop their interest in women a little later than others that's all.” As if Elliot knew anything about adolescent development.

  Tommy had turned back to his art pads and his pencils, working the colors like his life depended on it. Elliot sat on the edge of his bed suspended between two realities—the long warm summer of their friendship and an approaching winter of doubt and fear. What if Tommy saw them as more than friends, or brothers. What if … ?

  Elliot left the house so fast he didn't even say good bye to Tommy's mom. And two days later, Tommy Harrison had thrown himself in front of a goods train.

  Elliot combed his fingers through his hair and squinted at the fallen tree in the headlights. He didn't remember arriving at it. He didn't remember stopping the car and shifting it into park.

  The dashboard clock said 12:17. Another eight hours or so and Lewis's new family would break camp to head for the coast. There they'd find a boat and make for the island.

  And who knew what awaited them there?

  “Ah shit,” he said.

  Throwing the shifter into reverse and backing up onto the shoulder, he turned the car around and started back. Even an asshole could have a conscience.

  V

  Barnabas Island

  17

  There was little conversation between him and the others when they started stirring in the morning. Heng had been pacing the bridge when he'd returned, watching him park the car outside the barrier. Elliot had remained out there, taking some shuteye before dawn when the cacophony of birdlife made further sleep impossible. When the others started stirring, he got up, went down to the river with a towel, upstream from the bodies. He washed armpits, neck and face, dried, put the t-shirt and hoody back on, did some pushups, squats, burpies, some stretches. A baby carriage floated by in the river like Moses down the Nile, but there was no savior inside. By the time he trudged back up and around, the adults had gathered around their burner while Kim stirred a tall pot and Lewis pointed to the map he must have taken from the car.

  They put it away when he wandered over, the men avoiding eye contact, the women smiling in their gracious way and pointing to an empty bowl. He nodded in answer of the unspoken question and peeked at the map. It had been folded so that the island and their vicinity sat dead centre.

  The term dead centre put him in mind of Jock's lame jokes and he pushed that memory away as he had done with so many others over the years. “You all heading there?”

  Heng—folded into a camp chair with his knees under his chin like a child—said, “Yes. Look like good place. Good idea.”

  Kim started ladling a thin porridge into bowls. Heng was served first, then Lewis, then Elliot. He lifted a spoonful, blew on it and ate. It was salty and nutritious and he dipped the spoon in for more.

  “I'll get the girls,” one of the ladies said but Rit waved her to a chair.

  “Let them sleep, they can eat later.”

  “What time we leaving?” Elliot asked.

  Kim regarded him hard-eyed. “We'll eat. We'll wash up. We'll leave.” He gave his porridge a stir and then another. “You coming too?”

  “I'll drive ahead of you. Check the marina out before you get there.”

  “Me too,” said Heng.

  “Just me,” Elliot said.

  Heng leaned forward. “Me. Too.”

  “Okay, okay. You too. But—” He tapped a spot on the map before the road curved to what might have been an open view of the ocean. “—the rest of you drive a few hundred meters behind us and stop at this point here. If we're not back in an hour, you turn around and find somewhere else.”

  “You think it's dangerous?” Rit asked.

  “Everywhere's dangerous.”

  “Why would you do this for us?”

  He glanced at Lewis, thought about what the Druids had done to him, thought about Jock and his trophy shelf. He thought about a mother waiting for someone to bring her little Adam home, thought about a mother in the Middle-East wailing at the child in her arms and wiping at dust and blood. He thought about the ideal of leave no man behind, about Tommy Harrison. Lewis blinked back, regarding him frankly, whatever anger he'd felt now forgotten.

  “You have kids,” he told Rit. “In my book, kids come first.”

  *

  Heng said nothing for the first ten minutes though he kept turning in his seat to check on the vans following. The larger vehicles kept a respectful distance. Eventually, he settled and fingered his bloodstained cricket bat.

  “Boy not bad,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Boy not bad. Good brain. Good artist. You should let draw.”

  “Let draw? I've never stopped him.”

  “You shouldn't stop.”

  “I just said I don't. What's this—?”

  “In my country, the Khmer Rouge kill all artist. They put me in prison for ninety day when I same age Lewis. One room. The soldier in black uniform, they come and wash us with hose one time every week. I lucky. They take me out to farm, not kill me or torture. About twenty people one room. Very bad. One man, my friend, he artist. They find out, they take him away. I scare, I think they kill him, but find out later they make him draw picture of Pol Pot. Many many picture. After war, he paint pi
cture of torture, of killing, of the room we all sleep in, of the black uniform, the boy soldier, the baby killing. We have what you call—history? He make history for us. Your boy same. He can make history for us.”

  “He's not my boy. He's not a boy.”

  “You want make boy soldier. Maybe good. I don't know. Maybe bad. I see boy soldier in my country. This boy should be artist, keep his mind strong, his heart strong.”

  Elliot thought long and hard about that while the miles crept past as he travelled slow, keeping it way under the speed limit for reaction time. He didn't owe Heng an explanation. He didn't owe anyone anything. Except maybe Tommy. So finally, for Tommy's sake, he said, “He's drawing for you. He's soldiering with me. We give him choices and chances. Choices and chances. Then Lewis will be in a position to make up his own mind about who he is and what he wants to do.”

  Heng grunted, checked the map on his lap and pointed to a black-and-yellow traffic sign a few hundred feet ahead. “Around that corner there.”

  Elliot double tapped his brakes, the signal. In his mirror the two vans slowed to a stop and dwindled. He took the curve slowly, crossed the coast highway with a quick glance each way and pressed on. Gradually the world changed from a land of grass and bushland. The narrow strip of road swept in graceful curves down and around gentle slopes toward a green-grey ocean frilled with wave crests. The highway was lined with high dry grasses, wattle, malaleuca and coastal pines. A thin strip of service buildings hugged the coast near a modest marina. The island they'd targeted was visible way out like a green-brown smudge.

  Elliot started down the sloping road and pulled over into the gravel, leaned out the window with the field glasses. An asphalt parking lot with a jetty off one end of it and a boat ramp off the other. A large fishing-and-boating supplies store that had been open when the shit went down: overturned postcard racks, fishing tackle spread out through the doors, a half-dressed mannequin toppled against a window. A fast food van. Four vehicles, five if he counted the burnout car skeleton over by the pier. Trash and sand piled against the storefront. Weeds attested to the slow reclaiming of Earth by nature.