by Libba Bray
She’s not in English on Friday.
Michael’s not there either. But Amanda is, and she smiles at me. A warm, genuine smile.
When I hand in my story, Mrs. Hendricks seems impressed. “Looks like you were quite inspired,” she says.
“I was inspired,” I say. “By Steam Girl.”
Mrs. Hendricks looks confused; of course she won’t know about Steam Girl. “I mean—the new girl. Wears a flying helmet and goggles?”
“Oh!” she says, surprised. “You mean Shanaia Swift? I didn’t know you were friends.”
“Um—kind of,” I say. “She’s a little weird, but the thing is she tells the most amazing stories—all about this really smart inventor called Steam Girl, who travels the universe in an airship, having adventures with her father and....” I realise I’m blushing and stop talking.
Mrs. Hendricks frowns, flicking through my story. “I had no idea,” she says. “She’s always so quiet in class. And she hasn’t handed in a single piece of work. Listen, Redmond, if you talk to her over the weekend, could you ask her to come see me first thing on Monday? I’d really like to give her a chance to hand something in for this assignment, even if it’s late. Sounds like it would be worth the wait....”
“I will,” I say.
At lunchtime I go to the incinerator, just in case.
After five minutes, I’m getting ready to go when Michael Carmichael appears.
“Where is she?” he says.
“Who?” I say.
“Your freakish girlfriend,” he says. “Obviously.”
I pick up my bag and try to walk to the safety of the library. But Michael puts a hand on my chest to stop me.
“I want you to give her a message,” he says. “From me to her.”
“Let me go,” I say, as clearly as I can. My voice is shaking.
“Tell her this is from me,” he says, his hand still on my shirt. “For yesterday.”
And then he hits me in the face.
I stay on my hands and knees till he’s gone, watching blood drip from my face onto the dusty asphalt. Then I sit on the ground by the concrete wall with a wad of tissues pressed against the cut in my mouth. I can feel it swelling up. I should go to the nurse and get some ice. But I don’t.
When the bell rings, I get up and head for class. The bleeding has stopped, but my whole face is throbbing with pain. As I enter the Science Block, someone steps out of the shadows and grabs my arm.
It’s her. Shanaia. “I’ve got something to show you,” she says, guiding me out into the thin sunlight. She seems nervous, distracted. “I finished it. It’s ready.”
“Why weren’t you in English?” I say. My voice is muffled. It hurts to talk. “Mrs. Hendricks wants to see you...”
“Never mind that,” she says, reaching for her bag. “I brought the—”
And then she sees my face and stops. “Oh!” she says. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?” I’m annoyed all of a sudden. I don’t want to be, but I am. “It’s a message for you. From Michael Carmichael. For yesterday.”
She lifts a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry...”
“That’s OK,” I say, sounding more sarcastic than I mean to. “Everyone thinks you’re my girlfriend anyway. It’s not the first time I’ve been pushed around because I hang out with you.”
She takes a step back, both hands held up as if I might hit her. Her neck is turning red, but this time it doesn’t make me feel good.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I just...”
But she’s already gone, half walking, half running across the asphalt, and I’m too tired and sore to go after her. Maybe I don’t want to. I don’t know what I want anymore. I just stand there, heavy and alone, until the next bell tells me I’m late for class. My head hurts. I take a deep breath and go back to school.
The world feels cheap this afternoon. The sky is pale and empty; colors are faded. Everything’s dirty and ugly and falling apart. I sit in Science class with my head on my desk. The teacher is talking about vacuums, which pretty much sums up how I feel. After a while I close my eyes and let my mind drift. I imagine I’m lying on a warm sand dune, beside a girl. Stroking her soft white neck.
Not her, this time. Just a girl. An imaginary girl.
By home time, I’m sleepy and numb. I head for the main gate, staring at the ground in front of my feet. But there’s something going on—a crowd in the way. Then I hear her voice and I start pushing my way to the front so I can see.
Her face is red, with tears in her eyes. Michael Carmichael looks angrier than ever before. At first I think he’s wearing some kind of makeup, but then I realise he’s bleeding from his lip, and his t-shirt is torn at the neck. He steps forward and pushes her shoulder, sending her back against the circle of onlookers, who spread out like a school of fish.
“You stupid fat freak,” Michael says in a shaky voice. “Stupid fat little bitch!”
He backhands her across the face, so hard she spins around, glasses flying, ending up on one knee a few feet from me. The crowd almost moans.
Michael is still advancing on her. Without thinking, I step forward and raise my hand.
“Leave her alone,” I say. It comes out as a kind of squeak.
Next thing I know I’m on the ground and Michael’s looming over me, shouting something I can’t hear.
Behind him, I can see Shanaia pulling something out of her bag, something awkward and heavy, metallic and long. Then she stands up, pointing it straight at him, holding tightly with both hands.
It’s a gun. Covered in her usual gears and rusting dials and stuff, but still unmistakably a gun. The Reality Gun. I can’t tell if it’s a toy gun underneath or the real thing—and from the look on his face, neither can Michael. He freezes and then starts slowly backing away.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell is that?” He tries to laugh, but the sound he makes is broken and small.
No-one speaks or moves for what seems like a really long time. Then she reaches up with one hand and pulls her goggles down over her eyes. There’s shouting back near the administration block; teachers are coming.
And then she pulls the trigger. There’s a bang and a flash and smoke and sparks. No, not smoke: steam. The air is full of steam, like a thick billowing cloud of warm wet fog. Kids scream and people start running and someone knocks me flat. When I manage to get up again, the steam is slowly clearing and the crowd has scattered. Shanaia is gone. Her flying helmet and goggles lie abandoned on the ground. The Reality Gun is there, too, still steaming, broken and split. Michael stands in the centre of it all, hands at his side, mouth open, eyes wide.
“Are... are you OK?” I say, moving closer.
Michael turns and looks at me like he doesn’t know who I am.
“Shit,” he breathes out slowly, and then he shakes himself and looks down at his hands. “Shit.”
He’s fine. I grab Steam Girl’s helmet and goggles and shove them in my bag; then I run through the school gates and down the road before anyone can stop me.
I run most of the way home. When I open the door my hands are shaking so much I almost drop the keys.
Inside, it’s dark and quiet. I throw my bag into my room and hit the light switch, but nothing happens. I find Mom in the garden, reading a book.
“There’s been a power cut,” she says. “No computer or TV, I’m afraid...”
“When—I mean, how long has it been out?”
“About fifteen minutes, I guess.” She closes her book and covers a yawn. “Do you want me to get you a sandwich?”
I shake my head and run back out to the street. No lights are on anywhere. The air is eerily quiet: no cars driving past or planes flying overhead. No-one’s mowing the lawn or listening to music. Nothing. I start to run again, along the empty road, listening to the buzzing in my head.
I remember Amanda said something about Shanaia living in a trailer park. For all I know, it’s just a rumor, but it’
s all I’ve got. I think there’s something like that down by the estuary, so that’s where I go. The sign outside says, “Sunny Stream Trailer Park,” but it’s actually a wide dusty field with rows of shabby trailers and huts, rusting cars and sagging wires. At the entrance, I’m almost run over by a noisy old Ford. The driver gives me the finger as he drives away.
I walk down the central path, between trailers and caravans, all flaking paint and rusted metal. A little boy in green shorts stares at me, and an old man standing in his doorway raises his hand hello. Then, painted on the side of a faded pink trailer, I see “The Martian Rose.”
It’s tiny, not much bigger than an SUV. One wheel’s been taken off, leaving it propped up on a pile of bricks and pieces of wood. All kinds of junk lie in the dirt outside: broken appliances, bits of wrecked cars, scraps of tin, broken toys, rotting planks. A basic work bench leans against one wall, scattered with springs and broken cogs and half-assembled gadgets.
As I stand there, wondering what to do, the door opens and out steps a skinny unshaven man in dirty jeans and t-shirt. He looks at me with watery eyes.
“Uh—hello,” I say.
He says nothing. His hair is long and tangled and streaked with gray. He rubs his chin with a shaky hand.
“Is—um—is your daughter here?” I ask.
He turns back to the trailer and calls out, “Shanaia!”
There’s no response, and after a moment he sits on an overturned beer crate and seems to forget I’m there. I walk up to the caravan and open the door.
Inside, it’s small and dark and smells like a garage.
“Shanaia?” I say. A thin strip of light spreads out from the open door. And there she is, sitting in the corner, hugging her knees. Her glasses are cracked and she’s taken off the leather jacket. Without the flying helmet, her hair hangs down across her shoulders. It’s the color of polished brass.
I sit next to her. “Are you OK?”
She looks away.
“It didn’t work,” she says in a tiny voice.
“You know the power’s down?” I say. “Nothing’s working, all over town. Nothing electric. Nothing modern.” Then I hesitate. “No, wait. There—there was a car coming out of the driveway. So actually, some things are working...” I trail off, suddenly unsure of myself.
She’s watching me intently.
“I—I thought maybe the Reality Gun...” I begin to feel pretty stupid.
And then she reaches over and curls her hand around mine.
“Well, it scared the hell out of Michael Carmichael,” I say. “So that’s something...”
“I didn’t mean to do that,” she says. “I just... He was...”
We sit there a while, holding hands. She leans her head on my shoulder.
“Shanaia—” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t,” she says. “I hate that name.”
“You know, you’re in pretty big trouble,” I say. “They’ll have called the police.”
She takes a slow ragged breath. “What am I going to do?”
I think for a moment and then I say: “What would Steam Girl do?”
“I’m not Steam Girl,” she says.
The air in the trailer is thick and warm. I feel light-headed, like I imagine being drunk must feel. I reach into my pocket and pull out her flying helmet and goggles.
“Yes, you are,” I say. “You’re clever and courageous and beautiful. If anyone can sort this mess out, it’s you.”
She looks at me for a long, long time. Then leans forward and kisses me, lightly, on the lips. Lifts the helmet and slowly puts it on.
There’s a moment of perfect stillness.
And then she stands up and smiles.
“Come on, then, Rocket Boy,” she says, and holds out her hand.
After the Apocalypse
Maureen McHugh
Maureen F. McHugh has lived in New York; Shijiazhuang, China; Ohio; Austin, Texas; and now lives in Los Angeles, California. She is the author of two collections, After the Apocalypse and the Story Prize finalist collection, Mothers & Other Monsters, and four novels, including Tiptree Award-winner China Mountain Zhang and New York Times editor’s choice Nekropolis. McHugh has also worked on alternate reality games for Halo 2, The Watchmen, and Nine Inch Nails, among others.
Jane puts out the sleeping bags in the backyard of the empty house by the tool shed. She has a lock and hasp and an old hand drill that they can use to lock the tool shed from the inside but it’s too hot to sleep in there and there haven’t been many people on the road. Better to sleep outside. Franny has been talking a mile a minute. Usually by the end of the day she is tired from walking—they both are—and quiet. But this afternoon she’s gotten on the subject of her friend Samantha. She musing if Samantha has left town like they did. She thought that Samantha and her family were probably still there because they had a really nice house in a low crime area and Samantha’s father had a really good job and like, when you had money like that maybe you can afford like guards or something. There house has five bedroom and the basement isn’t a basement, it’s a living room because the house is kind of on a little hill and although the front of the basement is underground, you can walk right out the back. She is talking about how you could see a horse farm behind them.
Jane puts her hand on her hips and looks down the line of back yards.
“Do you think there’s anything in there?” Franny asks, meaning the house, a 60’s suburban ranch. Franny is thirteen and empty houses frighten her. But she doesn’t like to be left alone either. What she wants is for Jane to say that they can eat one of the tuna pouches.
“Come on, Franny. We’re gonna run out of tuna long before we get to Canada.”
“I know,” Franny says sullenly.
“You can stay here.”
“No, I’ll go with you.”
God, sometimes Jane would do anything to get five minutes away from Franny. She loves her daughter, really, but Jesus. “Come on, then,” Jane says.
There is an old square concrete patio and a sliding glass door. The door is dirty. Jane cups her hand to shade her eyes and looks inside. It’s dark and hard to see. No power, of course. Hasn’t been power in any of the places they’ve passed through in more than two months. Air conditioning. And a bed with a mattress and box springs. What Jane wouldn’t give for air conditioning and a bed. Clean sheets.
The neighborhood seems like a good one. Unless they find a big group to camp with, Jane gets them off the freeway at the end of the day. There was fighting in the neighborhood and at the end of the street, several houses are burned out. Then there are lots of houses with windows smashed out. But the fighting petered out. Some of the houses are still lived in. This house had all its windows intact but the garage door was standing open and the garage was empty except for dead leaves. Electronic garage door. The owners pulled out and left and did bother to close the door behind them. Seemed to Jane that the overgrown backyard with its tool shed would be a good place to sleep.
Jane can see her silhouette in the dirty glass and her hair is a snarled, curly, tangled rat’s nest. She runs her fingers through it and they snag. She’ll look for a scarf or something inside. She grabs the handle and yanks up, hard, trying to get the old slider off track. It takes a couple of tries but she’s had a lot of practice in the last few months.
Inside the house is trashed. The kitchen has been turned upside-down, and silverware, utensils, drawers, broken plates, flour and stuff are everywhere. She picks her way across, a can opener skittering under her foot in a clatter.
Franny gives a little startled shriek.
“Fuck!” Jane says. “Don’t do that!” The canned food is long gone.
“I’m sorry,” Franny says. “It scared me!”
“We’re gonna starve to death if we don’t keep scavenging,” Jane says.
“I know!” Franny says.
“Do you know how fucking far it is to Canada?”
“I can’t help it if it
startled me!”
Maybe if she were a better cook she’d be able to scrape up the flour and make something but it’s all mixed in with dirt and stuff and every time she’s tried to cook something over an open fire it’s either been raw or black, or most often, both—blackened on the outside and raw on the inside.
Jane checks all the cupboards anyway. Sometimes people keep food in different places. Once they found one of those decorating icing tubes and wrote words on each other’s hands and licked them off.
Franny screams, not a startled shriek but a real scream.
Jane whirls around and there’s a guy in the family room with a tire iron.
“What are you doing here?” he yells.
Jane grabs a can opener from the floor, one of those heavy jobbers, and wings it straight at his head. He’s too slow to get out of the way and it nails him in the forehead. Jane has winged a lot of things at boyfriends over the years. It’s a skill. She throws a couple of more things from the floor, anything she kind find, while the guy is yelling “Fuck! Fuck!” And trying to ward off the barrage.
Then she and Franny are out the back door and running.
Fucking squatter! She hates squatters! If it’s the homeowner, they tend to make the place more like a fortress and you can tell not to try to go in. Squatters try to keep a low profile. Franny is in front of her, running like a rabbit, and they are out the gate and headed up the suburban street. Franny knows the drill and at the next corner she turns, but by then it’s clear that no one’s following them.
“OK,” Jane pants. “OK, stop, stop.”
Franny stops. She’s a skinny adolescent now—she used to be chubby but she’s lean and tan with all their walking. She’s wearing a pair of falling-apart pink sneakers and a tank top with oil smudges from when they had to climb over a truck tipped sideways on an overpass. She’s still flat chested. Her eyes are big in her face. Jane puts her hands on her knees and draws a shuddering breath.
“We’re OK,” she says. It is gathering dusk in this Missouri town. In awhile, streetlights will come on, unless someone has systematically shot them out. Solar power still works. “We’ll wait a bit and then go back and get our stuff when it’s dark.”