The day after: An apocalyptic morning

by Jessy Cruise

  "I know the feeling," he said. "Believe me, I do. And you can talk to me anytime you want to."

  "Thanks. I'll be taking you up on that. Count on it."

  Skip was somewhat disappointed in the number of people that signed up for his permanent guard force. Though he had not expected the numbers to be overwhelming by any means, he had expected that maybe ten or fifteen people would realize that security detail was a vital job. Not so. Of the nearly one hundred and fifty people in town that were old enough to sign up he got a grand total of six volunteers of which Christine and Jack were two of them. Though he and Christine were still not speaking to each other or sleeping together because of the Missy incident, Christine was not a vindictive person. Her name had topped the list followed by her brother's. Of the other four volunteers, personal interviews had shown Skip that two of them were women who thought that signing up for his detail would help win his favor. When told that it would not, one of them promptly withdrew her offer and the other had given him a look that seemed to say: we'll just see about that.

  On the plus side of the equation, two of the volunteers - one a man, one a woman - genuinely did seem to realize the importance of the position and, at least in the interviews, seemed to have signed up in that spirit.

  The male was Mick Engle, a thirty-three year old that had been one of the teachers at the town's small elementary school - a colleague of Janet. Though he had no military experience of any kind, he did hold a master's degree in history and did seem to realize just what kind of atrocities the human race was capable of when pushed to the edge as it had been. "I think the formation of a protective force - an army if you will - is vital to the continuation of this society here," he told Skip. "It shames me greatly that no one seems to be taking the very real threat of invasion seriously. I don't know a lot about how to protect us from it, but I'm willing and even anxious to learn."

  "Good enough for me," Skip had said upon hearing this. He held out his hand for a shake. "Welcome to the Garden Hill security force. Training will start tomorrow morning."

  The female was Paula Westover who, at thirty years old, was the third oldest woman in town. Skip, who was suspicious of the motivations of every female that crossed his path, spent a good deal of time interviewing her. She had been a town woman before the comet and she was attractive in a plain-Jane sort of way, but at the same time she was not quite cut from the same mold as the other Garden Hill women. In the first place it had been she, and not her husband, who had been the primary breadwinner for the family prior to the comet. She had been a free-lance writer whose talents had been much sought after by various women's magazines. A regular contributor of articles to Cosmopolitan, Redbook, and Vogue, she had pulled in more than eighty thousand dollars the previous year by telling the nation's women how best to please their man in the bedroom and how to get the most out of their cosmetic and fashion dollars. Her husband, who she had genuinely loved and who she genuinely missed, had been a cameraman for a Sacramento news station who had happened to be on assignment in Modesto at the time of the impact. "It is just incredible to me," she had told him, almost angrily, "how locked up in the gossip and relationship war everyone in town is. Three days after the comet I was still grieving for Stan, still crying myself to sleep over everything that was gone, even debating suicide because I didn't think I could go on. And the rest of the town, what were they doing? They were fighting each other over who was going to pair up with whom, who is officially attached to someone and who is trying to move in. It's obscene. It's absolutely obscene."

  "So why do you wish to be a part of the guard force?" he asked her.

  "Because I've decided to live," she said Micker-of-factly. "I want to see the sun again, I want to be one of the people whose grandchildren rebuild everything that's been smashed. I know that the only way that is going to happen is if people make the effort to keep us alive. I'm scared to death of guns and I don't know the first thing about guarding a town but I want to learn. Most of these women here are the types that expect things to just be taken care of for them. They want to just live in their houses and do what everyone else is doing and be important without having to work for it. That's why you're having so much trouble with them now. They need someone to tell them how to live and how to act and what to wear. They were the women I wrote those stupid articles for. But I am not one of them. I'm a fighter, Mr. Adams, willing to claw my way upward to achieve a goal. That's how I went from editing term papers at Sac State to being able to name my own price for an article in a magazine. I proved myself. I'm willing to prove myself now and help defend this town so the rest of these idiots can go on pretending like they're in high society."

  "I see," Skip said, impressed with her statement. "There is one other thing that I think I should add. Forgive me if it portrays me as somewhat arrogant."

  "Of course," she said, her eyes telling him that she already knew what he was going to say.

  "You must realize that joining my detail will not assist in any endeavor you might have towards acquiring me as a male companion. That is not why I'm asking for volunteers."

  She laughed, her intelligent eyes amused. "That is rather arrogant," she told him. "But it is understandable considering the current socio-sexual climate. I understand, Mr. Adams and you can rest assured that I have no interest in you in that way. Stan was the only man for me. He was my soulmate and I will grieve for him for the rest of my life. As for sexual outlets, well, I've written more than one article on how a woman can take care of that Micker for herself and believe me, I have a lot of those research devices still in my house and I know how to use them."

  Skip was not the easiest person in the world to make blush, but this declaration by Paula was more than enough. "I see," he said slowly, extending his hand. "In that case... uh... welcome to the detail. Training starts tomorrow after breakfast."

  "See you then," Paula told him with a smile.

  Skip and Paul had to fight and argue with Jessica and Dale over each aspect of the training program that Skip wanted his new guards to go through. They did not want to release the volunteers from the other duties that they had been assigned to, they did not want to have Paul assign other people to guard detail during the training time, they did not want to allow the release of four hundred rounds of ammunition for firearms training.

  "They're security guards!" Jessica had yelled, quite exasperated. "What kind of training do night watchmen need?"

  Fortunately the issue was not one that required a vote by the committee since the establishment and training of the guard force had already been voted in. Their arguments were more for form's sake than anything else. The personnel roster was adjusted, the ammunition was released from the supply room and the training went forth as planned.

  Skip led his troops just outside of the subdivision wall on the north side, within easy view of the guard post there. He then ran them through a complete course of firearms training that included all of the various types of weapons in the Garden Hill inventory. They qualified on the pistols, the shotguns, the hunting rifles, both scoped and un-scoped, and the assault weapons, both the semi-automatics like the AK-47s and the AR-15s as well as the fully automatic M-16s. Skip had them learn the assembly, cleaning, and relative advantages and disadvantages of each type of weapon. He then had them shoot at fixed targets like cans and human shaped silhouettes he had constructed from black paper scavenged from the elementary school.

  Everyone did well except for Georgia Miles, the slinky former housewife who had joined with the hope of gaining Skip's favor. She had jumped in feigned fear each time a cartridge was exploded from her weapon, giving a girlish squeal and constantly trying to get Skip to give her more personal instruction. Twice he had to bat the barrel of her loaded weapon downward as she turned to talk to someone and unconsciously trained the weapon towards them, her finger on the trigger. After the second of these incidents he pulled her weapon from her hand and told her to go back to town.

  "What do you mean?" sh
e asked.

  "I mean I need people a little more dedicated than you are. You're dismissed from guard detail."

  "Dismissed?" she nearly screamed. "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means you're washed out," he said. "You can leave now."

  "You can't fire me from this shitty detail!" she yelled, standing before him with her hands on her hips.

  "On the contrary," he said calmly, "I not only have the ability to do so, but the obligation. Your services are no longer needed here."

  She had of course gone immediately to Jessica and Dale to complain but her complaints fell upon deaf ears. While the popping of weapons continued from just outside the wall, Georgia went back to the wood-gathering detail she had been on before.

  In addition to firearms training Skip taught them the basics of movement and squad procedures, going into more detail than he had been able to with Jack and Christine on their march to town and also having them practice the techniques as well. His four-person squad was forced to crawl on their bellies in the mud, to practice flanking the grocery store and breaching it under simulated fire. He taught them the various communications signals, both hand and verbal, and went over the importance of keeping in close contact with one's teammates. During the second day of training Paul even participated by giving a two-hour lecture on basic first aid as it applied to the types of injuries they were likely to encounter in battle. His lecture was followed by a practical lab session in which the firefighter made them dress and triage simulated injuries.

  "Well," Skip told Paul after the course was completed, "they're not exactly Navy SEALs or anything, but they're a damn sight better than they were before. Even Christine and Jack, who were pretty tip-top before the class, have shown significant improvement."

  "So you think we're a little more secure?" Paul asked.

  "A little," he agreed. "But not much. Until I get more people to sign up and take the training seriously we're still fighting an uphill battle if we're attacked. But at least I have four people who can take charge of some of the others if the shit hits the fan."

  "You do what you can in this world," Paul said, clapping him on the back. "Come on, let's go get ourselves a little drink from the supply room. I think we deserve it."

  Once the permanent guard volunteers were trained, Skip tried to keep two of them on duty at all times. He did not order them to work double shifts at their posts but they all did this anyway, Christine and Paula usually working the day shifts while Mick and Jack worked the night shifts. The trained guards were never posted together in these early days, although that was eventually what Skip wanted to do. Instead, they were augmented with the conscripts assigned by Paul each night. Skip's orders were of course that the trained guard was in charge of the post but he knew that it didn't always work out that way, particularly when Jack and Christine were involved. Nobody was willing to take orders from them.

  In all it was an imperfect, very flawed system that still utilized sub-standard positions and was staffed, for the most part, with people who did not wish to be there. The fornication on duty, though slowed by the same-sex rule and driven deeper into the shadows, persisted none-the-less, particularly at the posts where one of Skip's people was not part of the team. Skip was rendered pretty much powerless to prevent this from occurring since Jessica was only interested in finding out who it had been so she could try to push the issue of banishment for fornication. She didn't care that it was on guard duty, just that it had occurred at all.

  "I don't give a rat's ass what they do when they're not on duty," Skip had pleaded with her on one occasion after he had caught two of his female guards having sex with a male visitor. "They can stick live gerbils up each others asses if that floats their boat as long as they do it off shift."

  "I cannot differentiate between on guard duty and off guard duty," was her answer to this argument. "They are either punished for every fornication episode - and the only appropriate response is exile - or we don't punish them at all. Now I know Dale feels the same way as I do about this problem."

  "Of course," he said. "We can't have people fornicating. It's wrong."

  "But," she went on, "Paul still will not vote with us to banish these people and, unlike most of our other decisions, banishment has to be unanimous!"

  "I will not vote to kick anyone out of here for sexual impropriety," Paul said before she could get started on her lecture. "But I do think that some form of punishment for those who do it on watch is appropriate. Skip has suggested three days of house arrest. What's wrong with that?"

  "What's wrong with it," Jessica said, "is that by banning fornication in one particular instance, it automatically says it's okay in other instances. I cannot be a party to that. It's either banishment for every instance or nothing."

  "I agree," Dale said, rapping his fist firmly on the table.

  And so the problem persisted, worsening even once the word of the committee's inaction spread throughout the town. Guard detail once again became a favorite assignment for the fornicators.

  "There's gonna be a reckoning in this town one of these days," Skip warned the committee during his morning briefing at one point. "And you'd better hope its not too bloody because that blood is gonna be on your hands."

  Meanwhile, at the house where Christine, Skip, and Jack all lived, tensions remained very high. Christine continued to sleep in the small twin bed that had been provided for her instead of the large bed in the master bedroom where Skip slept. She did not talk to him unless it was absolutely necessary and even then she kept her responses to as few syllables as practical. Whenever he tried to sit down and discuss the Micker with her she shunned him, not even favoring him with a response, simply leaving the room. She spent most of the time that she was not on shift either reading books from the supply in the community center or sleeping. Skip began to wonder if she was ever going to come around.

  Jack of course saw all of this occurring but kept mostly out of it, neither taking sides nor attempting to mediate the dispute in any way. He knew what the problem was of course. The story about Missy and Skip on that first night had not escaped his attention. And though he was somewhat disappointed that Skip had cheated on his sister he thought that maybe it was time for her to get over it and get on with her life. After all, Skip could have practically any woman he wanted. Christine was lucky he had only slipped once. But he kept his mouth shut and remained on friendly terms with both of them and they remained on friendly terms with him.

  Another person Jack remained on friendly terms with was Stacy Keagan of the kitchen detail. After that first morning chat she had made a ritual out of sitting with him and having her breakfast as he wolfed down his own. She always slid him a little extra something in his plate and always poured just a little more of the juice of the day for him, telling him that he deserved it for working so hard. He found her very easy to talk to despite the six year difference in their ages and he typically stayed at the table with her long after he was finished eating, until it was time for her to start working on the full breakfast service.

  As they became friendlier with each other, she began to tell him more personal things about herself.

  "I hear everyone speculating on who the father is," she told him one morning. "It's almost funny in a way. Jessica thinks it's a black baby since I'm not telling anyone. Missy thinks I'm a lesbian and that it's from artificial insemination."

  "Really?" he asked, laughing. "I haven't heard that one."

  "It goes on my list as most original," she said, laughing back. "I guess since I have a nose ring and I dye my hair black and I worked in a Starbucks that makes me a lesbian by default, doesn't it? I swear, sometimes these women here are just too much."

  "At least they don't muss up your hair when they see you," Jack said sourly.

  "You mean like this," she giggled, reaching over and grabbing a handful of his brown locks.

  "Stop it," he cried, though he made no move to enforce his words.

  "Oh, Jack," she
cooed in a falsetto voice. "You're just sooooo cute. How's that handsome man you live with doing today? You think he'd like to come over and unplug my plumbing for me?"

  This sent both of them into near hysterics, her words made all the more amusing by the fact that someone had asked Jack that very thing the previous day.

  "Oh God," Stacy said, untangling her hand. "Sometimes I crack myself up." She pushed his hair back into somewhat of the position it had been in before. "There," she said, admiring her work. "Good as new, almost anyway."

  He said nothing, simply blushed. He had really enjoyed the feel of her hand moving through his hair.

  "Do you want to know who the father is?" she asked him.

  "Uh..." he stammered. "Well..."

  "It's okay," she told him. "I never really tried to keep it a secret from anyone until they all started speculating about it. You see, while they were all thinking that its some black football player or some anonymous sperm donor, I realized that the truth would actually be somewhat disappointing for them, anticlimactic even. Far be it from me to spoil the fun they have spreading rumors around."

  "So who was it?" Jack asked.

  "He was the manager of the Starbucks I worked at down in Auburn before I transferred up here. He was a white, middle-class small business manager in a hick town. Nobody in this town even knows him. It's totally boring, isn't it?"

  "Well, uh... yeah," Jack admitted. "It is."

  She shrugged, giving him her smile. "He was married," she said. "I guess that makes it a little more interesting of a story. He told me he was going to leave his wife for me, that he loved me. The same shit that a thousand married guys have told their pieces on the side and I fell for it just like all of the other one's did. And then my birth control pills didn't work the way they were supposed to one month and I got knocked up. Funny how if you forget to take them for a week or so that kind of thing can happen. Funny how when you confront your lover with a pregnancy and try to push the issue of leaving his wife, he never does. Christ, didn't I read enough Ann Landers and Dear Abby when I was growing up? I guess I didn't."