The Two That Remained

by Mauldin, J Fitzpatrick

  Emily trampled around the filthy, bug ridden, open concept living room / dining room / kitchen, while the rice cooked and Ryan swept. He’d considered changing her into something cleaner from her closet, and then realized nothing fit that criteria. Her dresses and matching combination outfits reeked of attic and moisture and dust. His clothes were no different, other than a single Star Wars t-shirt he found which somehow still smelled like fabric softener. Until he could find a more plentiful water supply and wash clothes, they were stuck in what they were wearing. Then again, in the short term, there were far worse things than crusty undies and dirt-stained dresses. And diapers? Luck had stocked their garaged with several cases, still fresh. He only hoped she didn’t grow out of them before they were all used. Diapers are expensive.

  “One day at a time.” He took another drink of scotch.

  “One day. One day,” Emily repeated.

  He found that sweeping their hardwoods was spectacularly challenging with the mix of persistent grime that had settled into the wood over years, a dry rotted grass broom, and a bum ankle. Between the stabs of pain as he shifted his weight, he gave their situation a great deal of thought. As he circled the downstairs, he avoided looking at the faded family photos that proliferated every wall and spare section of furniture, end tables and bookshelf tops. He drank a little more, his throat on fire, his ankle tingling.

  He kept the door to the master bedroom closed. He couldn’t bear to watch Emily try on Lillian’s shoes or unload and reload her drawers. It was too much, the pain too fresh. That place was off limits, dangerously high with emotional fallout.

  Emily and he had shelter, and musty clothes that just needed washing. This was home. This was comfortable. What they needed immediately was water and food and more light. Basics. He checked the faucet in the kitchen to be sure it wouldn’t work. Nothing came out.

  “No big shock there.” He took another soothing drink.

  He peered out the windows and into their yard, front and back, and saw mostly grass, trees, budding flowers and other similarly camouflaged homes. The dogs were nowhere to be seen or heard. The breeze rustled the leaves and the birds kept up their song. The air was cool today but not cold. The sun was out in all its glory, bathing the land in light and in life. It was a beautiful day, a stark contrast from the storms of the previous evening. The kind of day you go to Gateway Park and laugh at tourist, or stroll around the zoo to breathe on monkey poop. Maybe take a day hike someplace like Dillard Mill with a backpack full of sandwiches and a box of chunky cookies.

  But the threat of wild dogs kept them trapped inside, if only in Ryan’s imagination.

  After the food was cooked they took a seat on the couch and ate. In daylight, Ryan could see just how run down their house had become, having been left alone for years, most likely. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the foreclosure they’d first set eyes upon, not by a long shot, but it looked like one of the nicer buildings from a post-nuclear war video game. The white walls were discolored. The ceiling had cracks and broken plaster dangling. Filth had collected in the nooks of the wainscot, drawing black lines that accentuated its features like a hooker’s eyeliner. The bookshelves to the left and right of the mounted flat screen were still standing, stuffed full with literary classics, science fiction paperbacks, and plenty of textbooks. He considered going to pick one up and read for a moment, but as soon as he put weight on his ankle he winced.

  This was going to be an issue.

  “Well, it’s not like she’ll let me read anyways.” He smirked at his daughter. “You love your Dada too much for all that. Huh?”

  In response, Emily handed him a filthy plastic banana. “Nannie?”

  He wiped it off on his pants as best he could and nodded. “Banana.”

  “Nannie,” she quickly corrected him, her voice filled with confidence.

  “Ba-nana.”

  She pointed to it in his hands. “Nannie. Dis nannie.”

  “No, baby, it’s a banana. I’m telling you.”

  “No. No. No. It nannie.”

  “Banana. Monkey food, banana.”

  “Nannie.”

  He touched his forehead and conceded. “Okay, it’s a nannie.”

  She inclined her head and took it from his hands. “Nannie. Dis nannie,” she said, proceeding to sort the remainder of her items from the plastic produce department. Ryan wondered if any of these were non-GMO plastic fruits. He turned over an apple: Made in China.

  “It may not be Monsanto, but these are definitely GMOs.” He took another drink and felt sleepy. He was in too much pain to feel pain and his chest was going numb.

  They had three problems.

  One, they needed staples for life and that required leaving the safety of home. There would be no bath time, no snack time, no any time if that need wasn’t met.

  Two, a roving pack of hungry dogs were looming somewhere outside the house and would very much like to make a feast of him and his daughter. Though in truth, they would probably kill each other before any of them got more than a bite.

  Three, and this was the big one, he couldn’t leave Emily here by herself. Not like he had a sitter. No matter where he ventured off to, she would have to come with. If not for the dogs he wouldn’t be concerned, it would be an adventure like when they took walks to the zoo. But now there was so much unknown. Anything could happen to her, or him out there, and the two of them would no longer be together. And what if they weren’t alone? What if there were evildoers stalking them in the streets? He could leave for a few minutes and someone could kidnap her. Do unthinkable things to her.

  That wasn’t an option.

  He considered for a moment what would happen if he left on an errand with her locked up in her room. If he were to fall somewhere, take an injury that incapacitated or killed him, it would leave Emily alone and screaming for aid, praying to the deities of Dada and Mama for hopeless rescue. She would cry rivers so deep whole cities could be swept away in their floods. And when her tears finally dried and cracked like desert mud, her stomach would go empty, and she would starve. Emily, poor little Emily, would be left alone to die, crying her tears of anguish no one would ever know to comfort, until she withered away and became like the rest of this empty place. Except, where the others had passed on for reasons only Lillian had known, Emily would suffer in terror and agony. She would perish in the infinite fires of a child’s own personal hell; a place without the only people that ever mattered.

  He took in a breath and shivered. His blood had turned to ice.

  He would never leave her side, that was a fact. They lived together, and they died together. This was how it would have to be. He had to protect his daughter. She was all he had left in the world. All that really mattered.

  As Emily played alone he stumbled to the coat closet, removing a toddler size, pink backpack covered in princess graphics. He recovered his day pack off the top shelf, painfully straining as he reached, fished inside for a short length of nylon rope, a carabiner, and knife. He went back to the couch and began cutting the straps off of his backpack, putting the remains of it on the coffee table, glancing out the window now and again, becoming short of breath. He did his best to avoid putting any weight on his ankle.

  As soon as he could stand again, they were heading out.

  Chapter 8

  Emily didn’t care for the fact that her Dada was kicked back on the couch keeping his ankle above his heart. She screamed at him for nearly an hour, pulling on his arms, trying to drag him away for fun. Fun! She wanted to go outside. She wanted to go into the master bedroom and play with Mama’s jewelry. She wanted to go back upstairs, and to see Lany, their neighbor’s dog, and have Ruth Manford, Karen’s daughter, the big girl next door she liked playing with, push her in the swing. She wanted to do anything but to be stuck in one, boring place, while her Dada told her no again and again.

  No! The worst word in the world! There was nothing she could conceive that would ever be worse than the word no!

/>   “Emme. Daddy hurt his foot. I need to rest it for now.”

  “No! Pweese, Dada. Outside. Pweese. ‘Mon. Pway.”

  “I can’t right now.” He made a funny face she didn’t like.

  None of this made sense. Not just the words, but also his logic. When he was at home and Mama was at work, Dada went outside and played with her all day. Why wasn’t he doing that now? He’d done nothing like usual. Where was the snack before mid-day eat-eat? Where was the strawberry milk? Dada wasn’t doing what he always did. Dada wasn’t right. Dada was going to go to sleep if he stayed here and she didn’t want to sleep right now. She wasn’t tired. There was too much going on to sleep. No sleep. No nap!

  She went up to the entertainment center, reached in a drawer and removed her tablet. She handed it to him and gave the order, “Bears.”

  “It won’t work, honey, there’s no power.”

  “Bears!”

  Her Dada huffed. “No power. It won’t work. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it happen, but it won’t.”

  “Now! Bears, play bears. Pweese, Dada. Pweese. Bears.”

  He ripped the tablet from her hands and she grew excited. He’ll make it work. Dada always makes it work.

  But he didn’t. He set it behind one of the cushions and frowned. “It won’t work. It’s broken.”

  And that word shattered her glass heart as thoroughly as a hammer could crystal. Broken. No work. No bears. She responded the only way she knew how. She fell onto her knees and put her face into her palms. She sobbed, pouring her energy into a soft, continuous jerk of shoulders with plenty of high-pitched whining. This usually worked.

  Dada rubbed her back, and she wanted to calm as a result, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She had to see this through to the end. When she cried long enough, hard enough, he always caved in. And so she cried, and cried, and cried. He did nothing but rub her back and pick her up.

  “Bears,” she pleaded, her voice growing weak. “I want.”

  “No bears. It’s broke.”

  She folded into him, her dramatic actions morphing into true sadness. What world would there be without bears to watch? The tablet was broken. Broken. No bears. No bears! She couldn’t go on in a world without bears. That was what she always watched before lunch. Bears!

  Dada got up and carried her to the back door, stumbling and muttering something she sensed wasn’t nice.

  “Lany?” she asked as soon as they were outside, perking up from her place against his shoulder. “Lany!” she shouted, calling for the neighbor’s dog. “Lany! Lany!”

  Her Dada sighed and shook his head. “Misdirection. Works almost every time.”

  Emily realized something wasn’t right. In fact, nothing was right.

  She furrowed her brows at him, thinking for just a second that she might have been tricked. That was, until she saw her swing, her glorious swing, and wanted nothing more than to play with it.

  “Swing!” she shouted, and they made their way through the tall grass towards unthinkable fun.

  Chapter 9

  The swing was busted. Countless years of disuse and extreme conditions had left part of the frame sagging. The seat was touching the ground. He allowed Emily to take her own inspection before saying, “It’s broke, babe.” Matters went better that way.

  He peered over the fence, wary of the dogs. A bark echoed in the distance. His hands trembled.

  “No,” she whined, picking up the seat of the swing.

  “Yes, Emme. Let’s go back in.” There was work to be done, and they were pissing the day away.

  Ryan opened the windows, letting the moldy house air, and made a list of what they had:

  Safe food: Minimal rice. Honey. Various questionable eatable goods.

  One case of water (put a few buckets out in the back yard to collect rain. Need more).

  Diapers (enough to last a week or so).

  No meds. Ankle getting worse. Painkillers would be great. Rest would be optimal.

  There was a loud crash as Emily tore the kitchen apart, removing each and every pot and pan, testing their impact acoustics. He rolled his eyes and put on rice. He needed to get some food in her before they braved the outdoors. The dogs were still a threat, and his ankle… But they had to eat. Food was out there. But where? He needed a target not just drive.

  As he stirred boiling rice a thought occurred to him. At the end of their street had lived an old man, Mr. Jones he believed, whose porch donned a U.S. Naval flag. On occasion, Ryan swore the man had been eating MREs, or Sea Rations, from his front porch rocker. Old habits died hard. If they could get their hands on the remaining stock, that might just give them the time they needed to figure this out. Find a new source of nutrition, not just food. A monovorus diet could be just as dangerous as consuming too few calories. They needed so much more than just rice.

  Against his better judgement, he left the scattered pans on the dirty floor. There would be plenty of time to clean when they returned. The two of them ate their lunch of rice, Emily less enthused than he, spending most of her time playing over chewing.

  Priorities.

  “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.” His ankle radiated quiet agony, making it near impossible to stand, but need was driving him.

  Emily coughed, a wet sound. “Mama, gone?”

  He scooped her up in his arms and breathed deep, squeezing her tight. Even dirty, she smelled like Lillian. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “But I’m here.”

  Ryan took a Cardinals baseball bat from his bedroom, grabbed his hiking backpack from the garage, and put Emily’s pink princess pack on her. He swapped out his sneakers out for hiking boots, hoping for more ankle support.

  “There you go, sweetie.” He cinched the strap he’d made out of his old daypack across her chest, keeping the straps locked to her like a five-point harness, and affixed a nylon tether, tied in a figure eight knot, to its top loop with a carabiner clip. He knew she wouldn’t stand for being put in the stroller, and wasn’t sure if that would be a good idea anyways. If the dogs came and they had to run it would be hard to get her out in a hurry.

  Emily smiled up at him. “Go. Walk. Let’s go.” She rocked excitedly by the front door, her yellow and red floral sun dress swishing around her knees, hands holding her backpack straps like a too-young schoolgirl. Her mirrored, Minnie Mouse sunglasses flashed in the light as she waved. “’Mon. ‘Mon.”

  Ryan hoisted on his backpack, clipped the hip belt into place and led them outside. Standing there on the porch, he removed his notebook and sketched a rough drawing of their street. It was easier to recall details now that he was outside. As he made the physical notations, what he knew about his neighbors from years of living on the same street, he listened for any hint of the feral dogs.

  “Super.” He put the notebook away, thrilled he’d remembered more than he thought. “Let’s do this, Emme.”

  She nodded. “Do this.”

  They eased their way through the tall grass to the edge of the yard. Ryan held tight to Emily’s tether and hoped snakes weren’t hiding underfoot. He caught a glimpse of his neighbor’s plastic garbage cans and had an idea.

  He tiptoed onto the cracked street, caught his right foot on a small rock, took an uneven step, winced at the pain, and bent over to set right one of the empty, fifty-gallon square garbage cans. He wheeled it back to his yard, lifted it over his head, and chucked it as far as he could. It landed about ten feet from the porch. The neighborhood echoed with its booming reverberation. He went back to the street, found another, and did the same. Emily tried to imitate this action by tossing a pair of rocks. They made it no more than a couple feet.

  “Good job,” he told her, and they went on their way.

  The post-apocalyptic world hadn’t turned out to be anything Ryan expected. He was an avid fan of the gritty genre in film, books, and video games. Mad Max: Beyond the Thunderdome, was one of his all-time favorite films. He had both the book and film of I am Legend, the version with Will Smith, and
the original adaptation that featured Charlton Heston, Omega Man. He wasn’t as much a fan of zombies in the genre, since they weren’t realistic, but post-nuclear war seemed to fit with his world view. Humanity had big bombs and one day might just foolishly use all of them on themselves.

  For this reason, he’d played every version of the game Fallout, and all of its subsequent downloadable content. He’d even had an opportunity to interview, fresh out of university, for an Anti-Cheat Engineer position with Bethesda, the studio who produced the game, but had decided quickly that Maryland was not where he wanted to live. It might snow some in St. Louis, but it didn’t snow like it did in Maryland. This was reaffirmed by following his friend from university on Facebook, Randy Long, who had taken the job instead of him, each time the guy shared a photo of ten-foot snow drifts in March.

  And so, as he searched this empty place that had once been his stomping grounds, he half expected drug-crazed psychos in worn leathers and painted, spiked football helmets to appear out of nowhere, training their improvised pipe pistols at Emily and him. They’d demand Ryan’s valuables, saying they’d let them go if he complied, but instead take him to a rusty prison cell where he’d be forced to break out with only a wooden chair leg as a weapon. He’d then go to save his daughter from evil, depraved men, and murder every single one of them in kind, placing their decapitated heads on stakes outside his home to warn others he was dangerous.

  What he found, on the other hand, was nothing like that. In fact, it was nothing at all. It was death that had come long ago.

  Like on the bridge, he saw cars with skeletons inside. Others sat on the side of the road, morbidly comic in their posture. Some drivers had their hands still on steering wheels, others leaned dreamily against murky windows. One set of bones sat on a porch in a rocking chair holding a short, empty glass. He wasn’t sure how this was possible being that their muscles and ligaments had rotted away long ago, but here they were. It was as if the bones had fused where they connected to one another, like museum pieces wired into place for display.