A New Day in America

by Theo Black Gangi

  The pale man turns and wipes the grease from his fingers with the stained rag on his shoulder. His hair and cheeks are red and his white tank top is sweated through. There’s a gap in the teeth of his welcoming grin.

  “McGinnis,” he says, offering his hand. Nos takes it—workman’s hands, nails short and dirty, stout palm. Good shake.

  “Nos Greene. This is Naomi.”

  “Nos, huh? Pleased to meet you. Hungry?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “Well we don’t got no stew today, but there’s some good clean water and rice as always, and we got some beans.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Nos chats up McGinnis for a bit, telling him how things are in New York and hearing rumor of the rest of the country.

  “Haven’t moved about much at all,” McGinnis says. “Just workin’ on this here garage. I was a mechanic, so I just keep doing what I do.”

  “People come through here?”

  “Some. Mostly local.”

  “Safe enough?”

  “Not even sure what that means anymore. Minute you start thinkin’ it’s safe is when it aint.”

  “Got that right.” Nos nods and looks about the garage. He sees a first aid kit with a red cross.

  “There was a supply drop in Central Park,” Nos tells the mechanic. “Inoculations and such.”

  “Yep, there’s a set-up just like that in Lincoln Field. Got my shot months ago, been holdin’ up ever since.”

  “You heard of the Chef?” Nos asks.

  “The Chef? What, my cookin’ not good enough?”

  “It’s fine,” says Nos. “Just a man I’m looking for.”

  On the second floor there is a makeshift shower heated by a barrel fire below. McGinnis offers a shower and a night’s sleep for a few more dollars.

  Others come. A group of three pale tatted up men with thin lips and hard, stupid mouths. They talk to each other like a backward family where everyone thinks everyone else is dumber than they are. In this case, they’re all correct. They barely acknowledge Nos and Nay, and when they do, they sneer and mutter to one another. Their daddy comes—a heavyset gray man with gray skin like ash and tatted sleeves. They huddle on the opposite side of the garage as McGinnis gets back to work.

  The garage door cranks open and lets in the sunlight outlined by a tall silhouette and three dogs. The door closes and Nos sees a woman in the garage light—hood pulled over her head, mouth almost smirking. Three long leather dog leashes are wrapped around her extended wrist, and the dogs pull forward with hulking muscular shoulders and powerful jaws—well-fed, pure-bred, red-nose pit bulls. When she sits and drops the three leashes, the dogs sit as well, sturdy and alert.

  The family twitches at her entrance, like she and the dogs are a puzzle to be solved: the curious fact that she had managed to keep three one hundred pound dogs well fed while able bodied-men starved. The family’s dumb eyes rake her like a pinup.

  One of the boys offers a hello and two dogs snarl and growl where they sit.

  “Easy, Killah,” she says.

  “That’s some beasts there,” the boy says as his cheek goes red. “I advise a muzzle.”

  “I advise the same,” she replies.

  Nos stands and the three dogs turn to him. They sniff and the one dog who didn’t growl before growls now, but the other two wag their tails and open their mouths and show their teeth like a smile. The third has a different growl than the others—it’s warmer and almost a whine.

  “Strange,” says the woman.

  She eats her bowl of rice, and the four men head out and call to her and snicker. After a few minutes she removes her hood.

  Her skin is like dusk. She looks young, as though she hit twenty-two and never aged a day. She turns to Nos. Her head is held high, her chin pointing at him before it lowers and she stares, squinting to read him. A scar slices down the break of her cheek.

  “Nice coat,” she says.

  His navy trench coat is filthy. “Thanks.”

  She is smiling crooked to the other side. The smile is like a soft left jab—it is alive, and it paradoxically gives the impression she would wear it both to and in the grave.

  “I was being sarcastic,” she says.

  The tail of a tattoo creeps up her neck the way Naomi’s red rash is beginning to shape. Her breasts are strapped down though irrepressible, pulling her camo shirt away from her stomach, and in between, her heart seems to be visibly pulsing, as though hers beats closer to the surface than other people.

  “Beautiful,” says Nos.

  “Save it.”

  “I meant the dogs,” he says.

  She smiles, pauses, and laughs. “Got me.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Killah, Face, and Ghost.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She nods.

  “Ghostface Killah?”

  “My ex-boyfriend was a Wu-Tang fanatic.”

  “Hmm.”

  “He was an idiot.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “I meant your name.”

  “Leila. You?”

  “This is Naomi. I’m Nos,” he says.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Nos? What kind of name is that?”

  “Nostradamus,” he says, reminding him of all the times he’s fielded questions about his name in more social days.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  “Were your parents conspiracy nuts?”

  “No. My mother has a family tradition where when a baby is born, the youngest child gets to name it. My sister—she was four—saw something about Nostradamus on TV and just liked the name.”

  “Hmm. I thought nosotros. Spanish for ‘we.’”

  He looks at Nay.

  “Yeah. ‘We.’ What my wife used to say.”

  Chapter 3

  The Needle

  Nos is with Yvette when he sleeps, because in sleep he is most aware of her absence. He awakes, startled at the sound of gunfire. He opens his eyes and there isn’t a sound.

  Nos lies on a cot in the dusty garage. His feet hang off of the end onto the floor. Naomi is huddled on the cot beside him. Leila is on the other cot with the three dogs sprawled across her and each other, wherever they can fit. They seem by far the most comfortable creatures out of anyone. Yet moments before he was certain he was being shot at.

  Leila rustles and the dogs spring awake. Killah and Face sniff at Nos and he pets them and their tails wag. Ghost hovers back by Leila, glancing askew at the games. Killah and Face snarl and bite at Nos’ hands, and he pushes them here and there and kneels in a crouch and shadowboxes—short jabs, feints, fakes, body hooks. They would be vicious in a real fight. A man should be able to take out one dog, but he’s not sure he could take all three. The dogs focus on his hands like the jaws of a rival and try to catch him, until he lets them win and falls back and they climb on top. Nay giggles and scratches all the bellies she can get.

  Leila packs up and puts on her boots, and the dogs know playtime is over.

  “Heading out?” asks Nos.

  “Moving on,” she says.

  Naomi turns to Leila with a start, as though she suddenly realizes this is temporary. Nay and Leila had hardly exchanged a word, had almost regarded one another as dangerous, though not like the other dangers around. Leila smiles at Nay—a different smile than the smirk Nos already regards as a trademark of the woman—softer.

  “Where you heading?” he asks.

  “West.”

  “Hm. Us, too.”

  “How far?”

  “San Francisco, by way of Indiana. I have a brother out there. So I hope. You?”

  She shrugs. “They say San Francisco is something like a real city somehow.”

  “Believe it when I see it.”

  “Yeah. Still, worth getting out of these wastelands. You got wheels?”

  “A few, yeah.”

  Leila presses her face into her
palm, covering her mouth as if to suspend time long enough to think clearly about something. She strokes the end of her scar with the tip of her finger.

  “Say we caravan up, Nosotros?”

  Naomi brightens, though Nos can tell she’s trying to hide it. He feels wired to her little heartbeat to where he could guess its rate. The heartbeat that depends on the treatment vials in his case. The most valuable thing in the world. What if Leila is sick? Or she has a loved one with the disease? Nos is tempted by the offer, but they can’t afford mercy, or trust.

  Yvette, he thinks. He knows. Dead or not, it’s not right.

  “Thanks,” he says. “We best make our own way.”

  Leila glances above Nos’ head like she observes some visible puppet strings. She then looks at Naomi.

  “No nosotros,” she says to herself.

  It’s odd that Nay is no longer scared of dogs. They terrified her that night she was alone in the van and Pa was so sick and it was just her and the starving creatures. But she knows now that she can stand up to them and even though these three are way bigger and way scarier, they don’t frighten her one bit. She thinks about how hard times probably are for them and how they really want to play, but are always on guard instead, showing teeth and growling and staring like gargoyles.

  The lady is all dressed and set to leave with her dogs and she seems to hesitate and wait for Pa, but he tells her something about letting Nay sleep a little longer. Nay doesn’t understand because she isn’t tired and even if she was, she wouldn’t say anything, and even if she did Pa would keep them moving anyway. The lady says OK and drops the three leashes as though she didn’t quite mean to, and that is strange because it seems like she never does anything she doesn’t mean to. Pa takes her hand, and it’s like both their hands go soft when they touch. Like all their hardness is gone for a moment and they look at each other like they’re going to need that hardness, and it’s a problem that they’re standing there, losing it. Pa is holding her hand longer than he should. He’s holding it almost like how he touches Nay, but different, too. He never touches anyone like that.

  Still, Nay doesn’t understand why they’re saying goodbye. She’s thinking about her mom and seeing that soft touch and she envies it for a moment. Then the lady picks her up and holds her to her chest and it’s soft and full. Like Mom. The lady kisses Nay’s cheek and squeezes, and Nay finds her hands draped on the lady’s shoulders. It all fits so perfect. When she leaves it’s just her and Pa, and the room is very empty.

  Pa goes into his bag and takes out one of the needles. Nay is sick of needles, but she doesn’t say anything because of the serious way Pa gets when he sticks the needle in the clear little bottle and sucks out the fluid. He seems scared when he sticks the needle in her shoulder. Her shoulder is really starting to hurt in this numb way. He takes off her shirt and sticks the needle in. He’s gentle, but the stick is painful. Then he runs his fingers over the bumps on her back. The bumps seem to be climbing toward her neck and lower down her back. Pa sighs and smiles at her and then turns to the window.

  He stares for a minute, smiling off somewhere. Then he sees something. He sits all the way up. He moves quickly. He grabs his knife and his gun.

  “Naomi, stay here, no matter what!” Pa says, and he is out the door.

  Chapter 4

  Clans & Flocks

  Nos watches the street as Leila and the dogs walk outside to a blue Chevy pickup. When she’s gone he feels the absence of her beauty, The room throbs with its power. Damn fine woman.

  When Leila opens the car door, the three pits leap inside one by one. She shuts the passenger door and tosses her pack in the pickup. Then she stops. She holds still too long, her attention fixed off somewhere Nos can’t see, like someone’s told her not to move. A boy rushes up into view and clocks her with the butt of a rifle and she drops.

  He hears voices. Leila is surrounded. The young one is on top of her. Can’t shoot the fucker, Leila is too close. He has to get down there.

  “Naomi, stay here, no matter what!” Nos manages to say before he rushes downstairs.

  McGinnis and his kid are hiding behind cars in the garage. Nos glides to the door.

  “Leave ‘em be,” McGinnis calls.

  The pickup truck shakes with the power of the dogs against the windows. Leila is on the ground. She is surrounded by men in white sheets. Some hold torches. Some hold guns. Some have hoods covering their faces. Some have bare chests, bald heads, and swastikas tattooed on their white skin. Some of the swastikas are branded on.

  Nos grinds his teeth. The problem with the fucking apocalypse is you’re stuck with all the people who were ready for the fucking apocalypse.

  The kid opens a strip of duck tape.

  “How ‘bout we muzzle you, you sweet bitch?” he says and tapes up her mouth.

  Nos studies the area and reminds himself to keep his pulse rate down. He’ll have to kill them, he figures. Probably all of them, being practical. Nostradamus Greene was always practical when it came to killing.

  The pickup rocks with the riotous dogs. The clansmen line up as two hold her down, and the boy says something about how he spotted her first. “Dibs,” he says.

  Think, think. He draws his sidepiece. Too many to open up right here. They might just shoot her. He could slip over to the pickup and let the dogs out, but they would get shot.

  He crawls underneath the pickup on his belly, slow and unseen. The ankles of the clansmen holding Leila down are standing before him. The boy is bent on his knees, unbuckling his cowboy belt. He rips her shirt and licks along her neckline. The duct tape muffles her cries. Nos feels her tremors of helplessness.

  It’ll be tough. Take out the two first, then do the boy quick and dirty and drag Leila under the car. Real tough. No high ground. Pure melee: badly outnumbered. Fucking impossible.

  The boy stops. Looks. A relief washes over Nos. He hears the bells chime. Steady in rhythm. The missionaries chant. The preacher calls to the clansmen.

  “Stop! In the name of the most holy Lord Jesus Christ! Stop!”

  Nos needed a miracle, and here they came, chanting in the break of pure day. The missionaries. Those self-righteous bastards.

  The Grand Master and the preacher go back and forth, each more righteous than the other, getting nowhere fast. The Grand Master says she’s a bitch and that all this damnation is her fault and everyone like her. The preacher says all deserve salvation. The boy ignores the talk. The monks make a barrier in front of the boy and Leila.

  “Please, my child, release her,” says the preacher.

  “Fuck you,” the boy spits out nasty, like rotted fruit. “I aint your child, Jesus freak.”

  The dogs pound in the car. The boy unzips Leila’s jeans.

  Time.

  Nos draws his knife and slices the Achilles of the two clansmen. Blood sprays like a busted water pipe. He points his Sig at the boy, but now Leila has him. She grabs his wrist and snaps her legs in a triangle tight around his neck and shoulder. Her thighs lock onto his neck, and her calf cranks his head. His shoulder digs into his own throat. He turns bright red. She puts both hands on the back of his head and pulls him into the choke. He taps as if she cares. The choke is tight. He wheezes and goes limp.

  She pulls the duck tape from her mouth.

  “You want me? You got me!”

  He is passed out and limp, but she squeezes tighter and he gurgles.

  “Too good a death for you,” she tells him.

  Nos climbs from under the car. The clansmen rush the monks and shove them aside. Four oafs break through and meet the cold nozzle of Nos’ Sig.

  “Get down on the fucking floor!” says Nos.

  One raises his rifle, and Nos plugs him.

  The other three stand off and spread out to surround Nos.

  “Get down on the fucking floor!” he says, thinking he should stop talking and start shooting. Be practical.

  “Drop your gun, faggot.”

  “Coward.”
<
br />   “We’ll have your fucking head.”

  “Eat your brains.”

  “And your little girl.”

  “Play football with her head.”

  “We’ll fuck her first.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course.”

  They are trying to get to him.

  It’s working.

  They think that’s a good thing.

  They’re wrong.

  “Get down on the fucking floor!” he orders, and they almost listen.

  Instead they rush him.

  He shoots the first in the head. The other two slam him against the pickup. He drops the gun. Maybe on purpose, he isn’t sure…There’s two of them. He wants to feel them break with his own hands. Not practical. But fun.

  They try to roll him on the ground. Nos pushes them back and stands up. He bounces on his toes, and they put up their hands.

  Starts with a leg kick. Last thing the skinhead expects. Shin to knee, bone on bone, but Nos can’t feel it. Hits like a Louisville slugger. The skinhead’s knee breaks. Home run. Third guy that day that won’t walk anytime soon. The other guy comes throwing haymakers. Doesn’t come close. Nos slips and punches him in the throat. He doesn’t get up.

  A wounded clansman climbs into Leila’s truck and drives off with the door open, bleeding a trail onto the dirt road.

  “Fuck!” Leila shouts.

  The dogs are out and chasing the others into the brush. A skinhead tries to hop away with a pit bull clamped on his ankle. The skinhead falls and the dog bites his throat, digs in with his teeth and violently shakes his neck. The skinhead convulses in the dirt, and the dog fixes his grip and doesn’t let go.

  Blood is everywhere. A few bodies roll on the ground. Some crawl away. Some don’t move. The kid who started this whole mess lies where Leila released him. He isn’t breathing.

  Nos follows a trail of black blood to where the preacher lies. He’s bleeding badly, with his flock kneeling and praying beside him.

  “Please, let me,” says Nos as he crouches beside the preacher.

  The preacher has both his hands on his heart. Nos covers them with his two hands the way the preacher had held his just yesterday. Blood pools under the missionary’s crusty fingernails.