by David McAfee
The smell worsened with every step. The potties were a faded green, sort of like the turf. A few tilted at strange angles, but most were straight and side by side. Flies swarmed above like a cloud. Derek looped around to the back, to where he hoped to find his privacy.
“Pee yew,” he said, grabbing his nose. The smell was worse back there, the air stagnant and rancid. He tried breathing through his mouth, but that didn’t help. He felt the foulness on his tongue.
Still, he had his mission. What secret agent would let a bad smell defeat him? As he walked behind the port-o-potties, he tried to remember if James Bond ever dealt with something like that.
He didn’t get far before he saw the first body, that of an elderly woman. She lay flat on her stomach, her eyes open, her mouth hanging ajar. Her false teeth had come loose and lay crooked on her tongue. Flies swarmed around her like an insect halo. Derek crossed his arms and took a step back. The lady wasn’t the first body he’d seen. Over the months, as people got angrier and skinnier, they’d become a common sight.
“There’s nothing to eat,” his mom had told him when he’d pointed and asked why one sickly looking man had stopped moving, and didn’t move even when the men in yellow uniforms came to carry him away. “Nothing left, not even to share.”
He’d always seen them afar, and always with people around, covering them with blankets or keeping others away. But there was no one here, so he openly stared. A worm crawled around in his gut, a creeping feeling of unease. The lady’s hair was white and muddied. Her fingers were curled, as if she’d died clawing for her life. Her dress had flowers on it.
Derek touched the package in his waistband. The way it crackled he thought it plastic, but it was also soft. He wondered what secret message or gift hid wrapped within. Glancing around, he knew he was alone. The nearest people were up in the rows of bleachers behind the endzone. A few were watching him, but they were far enough away, so he squatted down, putting his back to the dead lady. Something about her made him uneasy.
Just as he was about to pull up his shirt, a hand touched him. He screamed, certain the lady had woken, her curled fingers clutching his bony shoulder as her drooling mouth opened wider, determined to suck out the life that was not rightfully hers. But instead it was a policeman, tired and unshaven.
“Move, kid,” he said. His voice brooked no argument. His hand was on his nightstick, and that scared Derek even worse than his voice. He got up and ran, not caring where he was going. His heart thumped in his chest, but a glance back showed the officer was not following, so he slowed. Already he felt lightheaded and out of breath. His stomach grumbled angrily.
His run took him to the tunnels leading to the locker rooms. He’d tried to explore them several times, but too many doors were locked. He had, however, managed to snag a football from a cart, but two older boys had stolen that from him a week later. Men and women sat along the sides of the walls in their respective lines. Some held towels or changes of clothes while others waited empty-handed, their clothes faded and dirty. Derek felt their dead eyes watching him, as if just waiting for him to try to cut in line.
“Back there,” one man said, his face covered with a scraggly beard.
“Not showering,” Derek said, running back toward the field, then cutting to the right to walk along the wall before the bleachers.
Getting an idea, he found the steps up and then began the climb. He took them one at a time, counting for a little while until he got past thirty. Twin girls ran down the steps, jostling him into a sleeping mom with a very quiet baby in her arms.
“Watch it,” the woman said as she stirred and glared. Feeling her hating eyes burning his back, Derek hurried upward. His optimism faded with his energy as he neared the top. He’d hoped to find a corner somewhere, but there were people even there. They slept in the seats, some even stretched out along the aisles atop blankets. He passed a bucket buzzing with flies. Inside reeked. They were using it as a potty, Derek realized. Evidently they were too weak to keep climbing up and down the stairs.
Derek walked along the top, his arms crossed over his chest. His stomach hurt, and had since about halfway through his climb. The people he passed gave him curious glances, those who bothered to look at all.
“Are you lost?” one lady asked. She wore a dark suit and a silver necklace.
Derek shook his head.
“My mom’s down there,” he said, pointing to the field.
“Ah,” the lady said, laying her head back down against the chair. Her smile was a soft comfort. “Good. That’s good.”
Further along the top he found a large section added atop the stadium. It had once been private, but its windows were smashed. Inside was a broken mess. Derek poked his head in but quickly hurried away. Big men were in there amid the wreckage, and they had a woman with them. She was crying, but not very loud.
Feeling dejected, Derek started back down the steps. His skin itched from where the package pressed against it, slick with sweat.
I have to find somewhere to be alone, he thought. Mommy will be upset if I don’t.
A big kid shoved him into the railing as he passed by up the stairs, but Derek bit his tongue to hold in his cry. Crying seemed to make them madder.
Somewhere secret. Somewhere alone. Where could he find a place like that? Standing at a railing running perpendicular to the stairs, he looked out across the stadium. Everywhere he saw people. They walked, they talked, they lay on beds and sat in chairs. The whole stadium felt like a swarming mass of people, and it stank of their sweat, fear, and exhaustion. Why would mom give him such an impossible task?
No, he thought, shaking his head. Super-Spies got impossible missions all the time. He wouldn’t wimp out. He wouldn’t start crying. He wouldn’t!
A bit of a spring in his step, he hurried back down to the field, an idea forming. He was small, just a little thing compared to the others. He could hide where the adults could not, not even the big kids. As he weaved his way back to the field, he passed one of the concession stands. For awhile they had been little kitchens, and his mom had taken him there for food, but not anymore. The food was gone. The stand’s bars were lowered, its lights off. Trucks had come the first few months with bread and soup, but no longer.
When he reached the field, he started looking for the tractor. They were up in the far northeast, and he’d seen it a couple times, one day climbing up and down it until some adults had yelled at him. He didn’t think anyone would yell at him now.
He found it parked to the side of one endzone. Thrilled, Derek let out a whoop. It was big and boxy, less of a tractor and more of an oversized riding mower. Attached to the back was a stretcher, long and flat. It wasn’t very high off the ground, but it was enough. Hoping the secret package wouldn’t get damaged, he crawled underneath on his belly. He bumped his head twice along the bottom, but he his cry came out as a long hiss. He wouldn’t reveal his presence, not now. It was cramped, and he could hardly move, but there was no way anyone else would get to him there in the center.
Excitement tugging at his heart, he untucked his shirt and pulled out the package.
It was indeed wrapped in plastic, though the top was cardboard. Inside was a glob of gummy-worms, fused together from the heat. Derek’s mouth watered at the sight. He tore off the top and tossed it aside. Hungry as he was, he carefully separated each worm, tearing at the sides where they had melted together. When he put the first into his mouth and bit down, the sugar spreading across his tongue, he finally did cry.
When his crying stopped, he ate another, and another. Each bite was full of memories of his father sitting to his right in the theater as they watched a movie. He’d always gotten gummies, his father, popcorn. His stomach twisted and coiled, as if angry at the lack of substance as he wolfed down the candy. He didn’t care. Snot dripped from his nose, but he wiped his face on his shoulder. He wondered if he’d ever watch cartoons again. If he’d ever return to school and play tag with Mike and Jeffy. If he’d ever
see his daddy again.
At last he crawled out from the cart, his fists clenched tight, his face muddy and covered with bits of green turf. He worked his way back to his mom, to her little cot and his superman blankets. When he arrived, she lay very still.
“Mom,” he said, touching her shoulder. She didn’t move.
“Mom?”
Her eyes flicked open.
“Yes, babe?” she asked.
He held out his hand, two gummy-worms smooshed in his palm. Seeing this, she smiled.
“Thank you,” she said, taking them. She didn’t chew them, only slowly working them across her tongue as she sucked in the sugar and flavor. Derek joined her on the cart and moved her arm around him as they cuddled, his mom softly crying, his secret mission a wonderful success.
The One That Matters
by Robert J. Duperre
Ash covered the landscape like cold, dead snow. Small lumps scattered throughout the yard, buried in the piles of blowing dust. They might have been objects forgotten during the rush to beat the easterly wind, or perhaps the remains of the chickens the useless feed in the buckets used to nourish. A cold wind blew, revealing a blackened joint. It might have been the elbow or knee of some poor soul who’d come in search of help; help they obviously no longer needed.
Guido grunted and turned away. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. He continued around the old farmhouse, back creaking, lungs wheezing. Placing a hand on the back porch’s stoop, he rested a moment. His eyes looked skyward. Dark clouds still loomed ominous overhead. They billowed so deep and low they seemed to stretch for miles into the atmosphere. Water fell on the shield of his gas mask. He whisked the drops away with a wipe of his gloved hand, leaving trails of black soot. Another gust of wind caught him unaware, and he shivered at its biting cold.
Turning back to the task at hand, Guido circled his house until he found what he was looking for – a thick, curved metal construction that jutted from the foundation. He dipped beneath its lip, knelt in the mounds of wet, gray powder, and took a large brush from his belt. Originally used to clean the horses’ hides, it had gained a new purpose, much like everything else since the Event. He swept the bristles side to side against the grate beneath the steel casing, clearing ash from the gaps in the filter. It was tough work, and his back ached with each stroke, but Guido Malfi was nothing if not a diligent man. Before long, he’d cleared the filter as best he was able. In another three days he’d have to come out again, but that was still three days he could spend inside, warmed under the cover of many blankets. Three days that he could spend with Her.
*
Guido slid the lock through its catch after he closed the bunker’s overhead door. The sound of metal scratching against metal echoed through the small entryway, like fingernails over a chalkboard. He winced, waiting for the reverberations to cease. When they did, he moved to the second door and slid it open.
She was waiting for him. She sat on the couch, still wearing the Bratz pajamas she’d had on when she first arrived. Her brown hair was clumped and ratty, but to him, in the dim yellow light, it looked silky and beautiful. Her eyes lifted. She recoiled for a split second and then smiled. Her teeth were crooked, in bad need of braces she would never get.
He slid the gas mask from his head and took a deep breath. His lungs rattled, but that was okay. He’d lived with worse than that before.
The room was small, barely ten feet by ten, entombed by concrete walls four feet deep. This was Guido’s pride and joy – a bomb shelter he’d constructed over the last twenty years, a bomb shelter folks assured him he’d never need. He chuckled. So much for them.
He’d stocked the cubby beneath the shelter with enough canned goods and water to last two years, though the girl had thrown off his initial estimations. Grabbing a flashlight, he lifted the hatch and looked inside. The gas generator that powered the lights and the air filter chugged along below the earth, its exhaust piped out to the surrounding woods. He smiled upon hearing its guttural purr. Snatching a couple cans of peaches from a shelf, he shut the hatchway and turned.
“Do you want some food, Alyssa?” he asked.
The little girl nodded.
“Yes please, Mr. Malfi,” she replied.
They sat down to eat.
*
“Tell me one of your stories,” said Alyssa. She picked up a syrupy peach with her bare hand and plunked it in her mouth.
Guido stroked his white beard. “Hm. Let’s see. I told you about the Kennedy assassination, right?”
She nodded.
“How about G.W. and his plan to dominate the world economy by crashing planes into a couple buildings?”
Again, she nodded.
“How about the moon? Have I talked about that?”
“No,” she said with a shake of the head. “Tell me that one.”
“Okay. Well, it happened a long time ago, when I was a young’n in college. We and the Ruskies were always at each other’s throats, trying to beat each other at everything, as if that would help distract us from knowing one side or the other would soon lose patience and launch the first nuke. One of the meanest competitions was this ‘race to space’ thing. Whoever landed on the moon would get some sort of bragging rights, take first place in this pissing contest we had going. So one day, we did it. We landed on the moon. The whole world stood up and cheered for us, as if we’d accomplished something. But here’s the thing, Alyssa. We never did reach the moon. It was all a ruse. You know what a film studio is?”
She listened intently as he spoke, her chin resting on her fists. She stared at him with those wide eyes of hers, and beneath his stories he felt his heart melting. This little girl was everything to him, and had been since the day she came running into his yard screaming while sirens blared in the background. The announcement had just come over the airways, and everyone was in a panic. Vandals tore through every corner of Mercy Hills, Connecticut, his hometown. The little girl had looked so scared, so on edge, as she arrived at the doorstep of his farmhouse while he was outside sealing the shelter from the rain of ash soon to come. At first, he thought to ignore her, to turn her away like he had the Letts family when they came calling. He hesitated, though, and when he looked in those large, innocent eyes, he remembered the dreams of his youth, the love of his family. The family she’d most certainly lost in the chaos of a crumbling society.
So he’d brought her in. He’d saved her, and that memory filled him with pride. Daughter, he thought. She is my daughter now. Or granddaughter, at least.
When he finished his story, he smiled. They said their goodnights, climbed into their cots on either side of the room, turned off the lights, and fell asleep.
*
A sound awoke him. It was like static, or baseball cards fastened to the spokes of a bicycle. He sat up, his tired muscles aching, and searched for the pull chord in the dark. He found it dangling above him and yanked. The overhead light clicked on. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust.
Alyssa was already awake. She sat on her cot, knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes, always wide, were even more so now. The poor girl looked petrified. The strange crackling sounded again.
“What is that?” he asked.
Alyssa pulled her knees closer and buried her head between them.
Guido swung his legs over the side of the cot. The concrete floor was cold beneath his bare feet. The thought came to mind that there might be people outside, desperate people who would do anything, kill anybody, for a chance at survival. He grabbed his baseball bat from above his reading desk and went to the reinforced door. Pressing his ear to it, he listened. There was nothing at first, and then that fizz came again. Only it wasn’t coming from beyond the door, he realized. It came from inside the shelter.
He glanced at his desk, walked to it, and sat down. Positioned on the side was his ancient radio, still plugged in. His fingers touched the volume and turned it up. At first there was nothing, and then it crackled. It sounded like static, but be
neath, he swore he could hear a voice. He twisted the tuning knob – Guido Melfi believed in the solid construction of the old, and this radio hadn’t failed him since his teen years – and slowly, the speaker on the other end broke into startling clarity.
“This is a message for all survivors,” the voice said. It was male, polite, and had a thick accent. “My name is Colonel Martin Doucette. Citizens of the United States, we have arrived. We apologize for the delay, but we’re here now, and we’re here to help. As of this moment, our ships are docked and waiting for your arrival. You will be granted amnesty in France, if you choose to exit your homelands. We will remain docked for a period of one month, and hand out supplies to those that remain behind. The list of safe ports is as follows: Boston Harbor, Groton Harbor, New York Harbor…”
Guido clicked off the radio. One hundred and twelve days of silence after the eruption, and it was the French, the goddamn French, who came to their aid. He couldn’t help but smile.
They’ve always gotten a bad rap, he thought. They may be a bit testy, but hey, they’re French, so who could blame them? Americans seemed to have forgotten that if it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t have a country to call home in the first place…
He wheeled around, snapped the radio off, and rushed to the aluminum chest that passed for a closet. Throwing it open, he tore through its contents. Clothes flew this way and that.
“What’s going on?” asked Alyssa.
He turned, smiled, and started tossing articles of clothing at her. “These won’t fit, but we’ll make them,” he said.
“We’re leaving?” Her face brightened, almost wistful. He’d never seen her like this before, and it was the most gorgeous expression he’d ever laid eyes on. It was as if the months of isolation had stripped away, revealing her as she truly was for the first time.