I have no words for the wonder of this.
I’m taking the plugs from Alma’s ears when she says, “Aw, Keno, your hands are shaking. You don’t need to be nervous. It’s fun, like meeting your baby for the first time.”
And this is supposed to make me less nervous?
“Cool,” I say, but my hands keep trembling as I stretch the ear thingie.
“Take deep breaths,” Alma says. “I’ll do them with you. It’s like practice for the birthing.”
“Oh, practice,” I barely say. Looking into Alma’s eyes and breathing deep with her—this is helping.
“Ready?” Alma asks.
I stick the plugs into my ears while Alma’s giggling, which is super-loud. “Shh,” I say with a little smile.
Now tears are streaming down my face, because I do hear it.
“It sounds watery, like ‘ga-blum, ga-blum, ga-blum.’”
Alma starts talking. I have to release one of my ears from this device to understand her.
“That’s because the baby’s in water—or not water, you know, amniotic fluid.”
One of my ears is still listening to this heartbeat. “I don’t know enough about this. I’ve got to read all your books.”
“Don’t worry, baby. You’ll learn what you need to know from me and your mom. You have your work cut out for you, keeping us fed and protected.”
“I do, but I want to help you, too.”
“You will. I’m not worried.” Alma doesn’t seem worried at all. She has faith. I want so bad to have faith in life, like she does.
“Okay, teach me, please.” I listen to the baby’s heart a while longer, sniffing back tears, until the intensity and beauty overwhelm me. I have to take out the ear plugs. “Amazing. You and the baby are amazing.”
Alma leans over and pets my face. “So are you. The Amazing Keno, my man.”
“Ha!” I’m not amazing at all, but I’m totally amazed.
Alma blows out the candle, and we snuggle together under the covers with our clothes on. We don’t make love. We don’t need to. We’re about to burst with baby love.
But as I’m falling asleep and coming down from my baby high, I’m suddenly swamped with the daunting responsibility of this new life we’ve made. Fear surges inside me like I’ve never felt before. Not fear for myself, but for Alma and our child.
PART III
CHAPTER 33
I wake up before dawn, glued to Alma, bonded to her body and soul. But it’s this bond that makes it clear I have to tear myself away. If I’m really a man now, I have to do what needs to be done.
While everyone’s still asleep in the house, I go to the garage and fill my rucksack with binoculars, a knife, ammo clips, bottles of water, and leftover biscuits. I load a rifle, and I stash it all behind a tool chest in the garage. I’m not telling Alma what I’m planning until the last minute. I don’t want her talking me out of it.
Outside, I chop firewood like a piston in an engine, piling up enough wood to last a week. At breakfast, I ask Alma if we could please have dinner early today. She looks a little puzzled but says, “Sure. Why not?”
I tote our water rations from the cistern to the house, I take a wagon to the pond for more water, and I retrieve our monthly share of pinto beans and lentils from Silas’s garage. I have a talk with Mom about the food stock, and she rushes off to negotiate with others to save what’s left of the flour and cooking oil for pregnant women, nursing mothers, and kids. We’ll all be short on veggies until we grow some more.
Then I gather a crew to pick corn so we can make cornmeal and corn flour to sustain us while we wait on the quinoa. By afternoon, I’m running from garden to garden to check the crops and the crews. I help a while in each garden that needs it with hoeing, staking, picking, planting. I bring cabbage, carrots, and yellow squash home to Alma—even snag a few new tomatoes.
“Salad!” Alma says, and I make the salad for her in my own messy way.
We have our early dinner, and I try to sound encouraging about the crops. I help Milo get going washing dishes. The others are talking in the living room.
“Listen, Milo, if anything ever happens to me, you’re gonna take care of Alma, right? You won’t give her trouble? You’ll just help her all you can?”
Milo narrows his eyes at me. “Sure, I will. Why are you—?”
“Just promise me, okay?”
He gulps. “I promise.” I hug him, and he frowns at me as I walk away.
“Alma, Milo’s got the kitchen. Let’s go to bed.”
“But it’s not dark yet.”
I snuggle into her neck, murmuring, “It doesn’t have to be dark to go to bed, does it?”
“Ooh,” she purrs. “Let’s go.”
Pink and yellow light from the sunset shines through the windows on Alma, giving her skin a golden glow, making her black hair sparkle. She looks like a goddess—a pregnant goddess who loves me. My heart glows, pounds, races at the sight of her. I slowly unwrap her from inside her clothes, happy with every piece of skin I uncover, as though it’s new and I’ve never seen its full beauty before.
She lays me on my back and peels off my clothes. She puts my hand inside her. “Feel me tingling in there?” she whispers. “I’m tingling for you.” I watch her black-brown eyes grow bigger and brighter the more I stroke her inside.
Oh, God! We tangle ourselves into each other, making love so sweet, so intense, I didn’t know it was possible. I swear, we’re one glowing organism, like we’re surrounded in a white halo of light and no one else exists except Alma and me.
We linger latched together, catching our breaths.
“Keno, that was beautiful,” she says, and I tense up.
“You’re beautiful.” I cup her face in my hands. “I have to do something you’re not gonna like.”
She shoots upright and whimpers, “What?”
I sit up and stroke her arms, peering into her eyes.
“I gotta go spy on those guys with the camo and AKs. I have to know how all these guys like Ray and the guy I shot are connected, see if they’re building a militia.”
“But… that’s too dangerous.”
“After what happened to Rick, we can’t have militias anywhere near us.”
“What are you gonna do? Kill them?” I feel her blood racing fast through the quivers in her arms.
“Not by myself I’m not.”
“You’re going by yourself? You can’t!” Fat tears pop into her eyes.
“I have to. No other guy around here can move as fast as I can except Milo, and I’m not taking him.”
She wipes my hands off her arms and backs away from me.
“How can you do this after last night, after meeting our baby?”
“That’s exactly why I’m doing it—to protect the baby and to protect you. It’s my job!” I reach for her, but she bats my hands away.
I jump up and scoop dirty clothes off the floor, throwing them into the laundry basket.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t want to leave a mess for you.”
“You’re acting like you’re gonna die.”
I slump down to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m procrastinating is what I’m doing. It’s already dark. I’m waiting for you to give me your blessing.”
She sighs and drapes herself across my back, her breasts and belly pressing into me. “Please, can’t I talk you out of this?”
“I have to protect you even if you hate me for it.”
“You’re scaring me.” She pushes away.
“I’m scared to go, but I’m more scared of being attacked.”
“Don’t talk to me!” She flops down with her back to me and slaps a pillow over her head.
I shoot up from bed, throw on the darkest clothes I’ve got, and pull on a black stocking cap.
“Fine! I’ll see ya when I see ya,” I snap, and I’m out the door.
I stop in the bathroom to smear some of Tasha’s mascara on my face, raking the brush across my cheeks and spreading globs of black goo with my fingertips. In the mirror, I look like a badass. I’m pissed off and hurt, and I’m rushing with dread and adrenaline, but I have to do this. That’s all there is to it.
When I come out of the bathroom, Alma’s standing behind our bedroom door, watching me. “You better come home to me,” she says.
In two long steps, I’ve got her in my arms.
I came on this particular night because there’s no moon, but now I’m regretting that bright idea. I keep stumbling on debris as I trot down the street. But it’s worse in the roadside grass, where things are hidden that can cut you or trip you.
I stop when I reach the construction site. The scrap lumber and a lot of the wiring is gone now. I hunker in the building shell and take a slug of water, checking the rifle, chambering a round. It’s eerie and lonely as fuck out here. I don’t smell tires burning this time. Don’t know if that means a thing.
If these camo guys band together to raid neighborhoods like a barbarian horde, we haven’t got a prayer.
I slink through the trees at the rear of the building shell then lope behind fences, coming out to the cross street between the two burned houses. I watch for a while with the binoculars, then hang them across my chest and take off in a crouch, hurrying past the schoolyard, moving from one bush or tree or fence to another. Two corners down, I duck behind the bridge posts at the creek, and I use the binoculars again.
Two raggedy guys in camo with rifles braced in front of them, tromping back and forth across the next intersection. I wait and watch but don’t see anyone else. They’re too militant to be neighborhood guards, with their flak jackets, automatic rifles, and bandoliers of ammo and the stiff-legged way they march. How many houses are they guarding? Are there more guards in other places?
Staying low, I retreat one block and head to the next parallel street. I creep up until I see three more guys at another intersection. How many people live back there? Are there families and kids, or is it just men?
I sneak through front yards on residential streets, trying to skirt the guarded area from a block or two away, going in a circle to find their perimeter. So far, their area seems to be two blocks wide and three deep, with guards at every outside intersection, one with a small fire burning, but I haven’t made it to the back end yet.
Behind some of the guards, I see piles of burned tire pieces and columns of cars sitting on rims. Why did they burn tires? Such a polluting waste. Looks like they burned them all up. Why do they burn anything at their guard posts when it’s so hot? For intimidation? And who are they trying to scare—folks on the outside or inside?
Beyond the boundaries, most houses seem abandoned and looted, but I have no way to know if any of these houses are occupied. I’m quiet as a cat, flinching at every noise I make or hear. I don’t hear much: guards mumbling to each other, a possum scurrying into a storm drain.
Finally, I reach the back side, four blocks in, but I go two blocks past. The blocks inside the perimeter are short with big yards, and the streets are twisty, but there’s got to be sixty or more houses in there, though some are burned. Shit. It’s too dark to tell if they’re farming or what else they might be doing. I need a higher perch to see into the middle and into backyards.
I retreat half a block and scramble up a big live oak tree, careful not to rustle the leaves and small branches. I lie on a fat limb and look through the binoculars.
It’s a damn garbage dump in there. I smell the stench from up here. Loads of beer and liquor bottles, soda cans, piles of garbage—some in bags but most of it in a loose pile that’s full of crumpled food bags, boxes, tin cans, and rotting crud.
Then, there’s something in a big heap over on the north edge—bones. God, are they human? I refocus the binoculars and study the bones. Animal carcasses—mostly small, like squirrels and rabbits, probably some dogs, but a few that are larger—maybe goats or deer?
What are these guys? A bunch of feral animals? They’re looters and thugs. They must burn tires because it makes them seem badass. They don’t care about wasting resources or ruining the air. All the broken store windows around here—liquor and convenience stores, the Mexican market—these guys! Probably robbed gun stores, too, for their camo and AKs.
A house on their south edge has less junk around it than the others. Up on the rooftop, a Confederate flag—the freaking Stars and Bars. A bunch of racists? Shit. I zoom in on this house. Two guys go inside and come out with rifles and boxes of ammo. Within a few minutes, three more guys do the same. Soon after, a couple of guys take rifles inside and come out empty-handed. This must be their arsenal.
I wonder how much ammo and guns they have in there. Could be a little, could be tons. The house is pretty big. Damn it. How can we compete with that? There’s no reason for them to have all that firepower unless they intend to use it.
I think of militias as having a military level of organization, a command structure. They wouldn’t live in a trash heap, would they? These guys look more like rednecks or bikers. Are they gun zealots randomly looting, or do they have a grand plan to rob South Austin blind? Maybe they’re white nationalists, like those Proud Boys.
Then I see Ray, and my stomach turns. He’s standing with a group of guys to the side of the arsenal house, making gestures in the air with a pistol in his hand, like he’s having an argument. There’s a fire near him, so I can see his greasy hair. Definitely the hard-ass leader of the looters. Fucking pedo creep. I ought to shoot him right now.
I aim at him, my hands and rifle twitching. I’m gulping for breath. Think, Keno, think. Goddammit, if I shoot him, I’ll never make it out of here alive. But I want to—man, I want to. I keep him in my sights, taking dozens of breaths before I finally lower the gun. I’ll get you later, Ray.
Jesus. I’ve been up in this tree quite a while. I don’t know how long I’ve got until daylight. I climb down, thinking I’ll go the long way around looter territory and hightail it home.
From two blocks past the guarded neighborhood, I hustle, staying low, toward where I think Dittmar is, but this road curves west, coming out half a block from two guards. I step slowly backward.
“Hands up, motherfucker!”
I duck down and freeze.
“What’ve we got here?” another guy yells, and I run, darting behind cars, leaping over hedges. The rattle of military gear comes from a block behind me. Rifles cock. Fuck, they’re gonna kill me.
I vault over a cedar fence into a backyard. By the time they reach the fence top with all their gear, I’m jumping another fence, then another, tramping through an ashy fire pit, tripping on junk metal. I grab a fat piece of iron rebar and a short-handled spade.
“We’ve got a live one!” someone screams. “All hands on deck!”
I swing the rebar at a guy rushing toward me when I come through a gate. He goes down just in time for me to slam the spade into the knee of another guy. He’s screeching curses, and I keep running in a blind panic, zigzagging, looking for cover, apologizing to Alma, crying for my mom.
Sounds like a gang running behind me, but I don’t look back. I might be outrunning them.
A rifle shot zings against the pavement near my feet, and I jump sideways over a hedge as more bullets whiz past. I scrape a hunk of skin off my forearm as I hit rocks on the ground and roll across a yard. I vault another set of fences until I’m on another street. My arm’s throbbing like crazy, but I’m running for my life.
I finally reach Dittmar and plunge into a thicket of trees lush with undergrowth. I know this spot. There’s a narrow run of ra
ggedy woods along here, but I bet these guys know it better. A dog barks behind me. Fuck. They have dogs?
From the cover of the woods, they seem farther away, but their sounds are probably muffled by trees and weeds. I adjust the rifle so it’s in front of me, click off the safety, and run east through this skinny stretch of woods.
Shit, I can’t go home. They’ll follow me there. And it’s gonna be daylight any minute. I’ve got to find a place to hide and wait until nightfall to make my way home.
The guys on my tail sound like they’re in a smaller stretch of woods behind me, but it won’t take them long to get here. I see a break in the trees up ahead. Congress Avenue. I veer north where the woods get wider, reach Congress, and dart across where they shouldn’t be able to see me from Dittmar. I dive into a patch of trees behind a subdivision.
Mom’s old house is a couple of miles north of here, but just to my south is a bigger tract of woods, lots of acres with big healthy trees. Which way should I go? I can’t hear those guys, but I can’t hear anything above my loud breath. With daylight approaching, I need cover now. I launch myself toward the big woods.
I duck behind the second row of trees, shaking like a leaf, trying to breathe over the pain in my bloody arm. I turn and watch the outlet at Dittmar. No night vision with these binoculars, but faintly, I see four guys run up to Congress, huffing and puffing. I thought there were more guys than that. What happened to the rest of them?
The four guys stop. Two of them aim rifles around. The other two double over, catching their breath. They’re older and chunkier than I am, weighted down with military gear. That’s the only reason they haven’t caught me yet.
The guys bunch up at the intersection. Looks like they’re arguing. One steps out onto Congress and waves for the others to follow. They shake their heads and turn around. He throws his arms in the air, yelling at his friends, but they keep going. Finally, he follows them back down Dittmar. I watch until I can’t see them anymore, scanning and scanning for another group that could be hiding somewhere.
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