by Pond, Simone
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About This Story
The Canyon
Books By Simone Pond
The Canyon
A Short Story
VOICES OF THE APOCALYPSE SERIES
By Simone Pond
Copyright © 2015 Simone Pond
All rights reserved.
This short story was inspired by the New Agenda book series, which currently includes The City Center, The New Agenda and The Mainframe, and The Torrent is coming soon. There are ten stories in the Voices of the Apocalypse Series. For more information, visit: simonepond.com.
The Canyon
I STARE AT my daughter and try to keep from counting her worry lines. Only fifteen years old, yet her eyes are weary and worn. My dear Lillian. She’s seen things, way too many things for someone her age. How am I supposed to tell her that everything’s going to be okay when it’s so far from it? Nothing is okay––not if we stay here in Los Angeles. We need to get out of here before the final phases of the Repatterning wipe us off the map. I’ve already lost a son to the war that doesn’t exist and had to bury my youngest daughter and husband in the backyard. There’s not much more to lose, except my dear Lillian. We’re all that remains of our family and friends. I must be strong. We will not become victims of this hellish genocide.
Lillian sleeps curled next to me in the queen-sized bed I used to share with my husband before the vaccine took him out. Her little ragamuffin of a dog, Rags, nestles against her belly to keep her warm. We haven’t had electricity for months, and the early spring weather has been brisk. Sleeping next to each other has helped. What’s worse is our food supply is dwindling. We continue to scavenge nearby houses in our Santa Monica neighborhood, but most places have been cleaned out. The grocery stores and convenience stores were ransacked a few months earlier when people got scared enough to leave town. They grabbed whatever they could and took off. I don’t know where they were going; most cities are in the same horrific shape. At this point, no place is safe––except maybe the woods. The Repatterning has done an astounding job of destroying the better part of civilization. We didn’t leave before things got worse, because like everyone else, we thought the changes were for the greater good. The majority of people who stayed in Los Angeles, hoping the bad times would pass, have since died from the vaccination. Lillian and I weren’t around the day the “health officials” showed up at our house; we were busy riffling through our neighbor’s pantry. My husband and youngest daughter weren’t so lucky, though. They got needled. Then they died.
“Mom,” Lillian whispers.
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Aren’t you going to sleep?”
“I will. I’m just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Go back to sleep, Lil. We need our rest.” I fake a yawn and adjust my pillow, hoping she’ll close her eyes so I can concentrate.
“But that’s all we do is rest.”
“Shh, go back to sleep.”
I stroke her brown hair, the thinning strands twining around my fingers. She looks malnourished and sickly. I feel like an awful mother for letting my daughter get so rail thin. There’s still life left in her, but we can’t go on like this much longer. Obviously, if I don’t do something soon, I’ll be putting another child in the ground. I can’t let the elites win. They’ve been feeding us bull about the Repatterning for too long. My son, Robert, warned us, but that didn’t help. He was dragged away by the Planners, under their Executive Order of Conscription. Now they’re talking about relocating the few remaining survivors to those Emergency Crisis Camps, which are really death camps. The whole thing has been an enormous crock of shit. I can’t go back and fix anything, but I can plow ahead and find a way to save us.
###
In the morning, I’m weak from lack of sleep. I stayed up most of the night reviewing the list of survival items my husband had put together before he died. Scribbled at the bottom of the list is a contact name: Joe Darkly. Though I don’t recognize the name, I trust my husband knew what he was doing. Before he got sick from the vaccine, he had been gathering intel and making contacts in the underground. We were waiting for the right time to leave, but we waited too long. That decision proved to be a mistake, one I won’t make again.
I caress my daughter’s pale cheek. Rags is up and licking my hand, excited to start a new day. Good thing Lillian had the intuition to bring along her best friend that day we were scavenging, otherwise the health officials would’ve taken away Rags. Lillian has grown incredibly close to the dog.
Time to get up. I wrap a robe around my shoulders, picking up Rags so she can sneak outside and do her business in the backyard. Every morning she does an inspection sniff by the mounds, where my husband and daughter rest in peace. Sometimes when the afternoon sun comes into the yard, she’ll lie between them with her nose to the ground.
“You’re up early.” Lillian’s voice startles me.
“We have a lot to do in the next couple days. I looked over your father’s list, and we need to start gathering supplies and gas.”
“So, we’re really leaving?”
“Yeah, it’s time.”
“Where are we going?” She gets out of bed and pulls a blanket around her to stay warm.
“Temescal Canyon.”
“The canyon, huh?”
“Yeah. There are others gathering in the woods. People like us who refuse to go to the camps, or work on that monstrosity of a city center.”
“Rags is coming, right?”
“Of course. You know I’ll do everything in my power to keep the three of us alive. But we have a lot to do. So get dressed and let’s start packing what we can.”
I dig out two large suitcases and set them in the middle of the living room. We begin going through the closets and drawers, looking for items on the list: sleeping bags, durable clothes, and what little camping gear we can find. We’re missing a few things, but we’ll have to wait until it’s dark before we leave the house to pick up the rest. We’ll need more supplies, and then we’ll have to siphon gas from the abandoned cars throughout the neighborhood. We only need enough fuel to get us to the underground surplus store across town, where Joe Darkly will hopefully barter some firearms. The small revolver we had to protect our home was confiscated by the Planners in the beginning phases of the Repatterning. We should’ve listened to the warnings of our son, Robert, instead of teasing him about being a conspiracy junkie. He told us it would start with the removal of weapons, but we didn’t heed his advice and hide our gun. Who would ever suspect their government of executing a plan to kill off the population? It’s ludicrous. But it happened. Now even the government is gone––just an expendable executive arm of the untouchable higher organization behind the Repatterning.
“Mom?” Lillian’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
“What is it, honey?”
“Can I bring my Bible?” She holds up the worn leather Bible we gave her on her fifth birthday.
I force a smile. “We’ll make sure there’s room for that.”
“Are you okay? You’re acting weird. Like more than usual.”
“I’m okay. Just organizing my thoughts and preparing the next steps so I can get us out of here safely and unnoticed. We only have a few more days before they start tearing down everything.”
According to the latest reports on the underground radio station, the entire Westside will be demolished by the end of the week. We’d been using my husband’s outlawed ham radio to listen to the reports airing on the
pirated frequencies. The underground reporters had been giving out important details about the real purpose of the Repatterning. Their reports have been the only information that can pass for the truth, versus the one remaining network station that continues to stream lies and propaganda.
“Let’s eat our last two protein bars and head out for a treasure hunt.” I smile, changing the subject.
Lillian gets excited, loving the idea of breaking the law and “sticking it to the man.” She picks up Rags and dances in a circle.
“Rags should stay here,” I tell her.
“But what if we get caught? She’ll be all alone in the house. She’ll starve to death. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”
Lillian holds Rags close to her chest, tears filling her eyes. There’s no way I could separate my girl and her dog. Not when Rags has been Lillian’s greatest comfort throughout everything.
“Okay, but put her in a backpack. I don’t want her sniffing around and running off. You know the deal, if we get caught––run. You remember our meeting place, right?”
“Yeah, the Emmett’s pool. Deep end. Under the pile of branches.”
“If something happens, you run without looking back.”
“But you’ll come too, won’t you?” she asks.
“I’ll be behind you. I’m not letting these assholes win.”
Lillian’s laughter is the most joyful noise I’ve heard in a long time. We hug each other and laugh some more, with little Rags getting squished between us, licking our faces.
###
Once it’s dark, we cut through the backyard and climb the wooden fence at the end of the property, landing in our neighbor’s yard. The house is empty, like all the other houses in our Santa Monica neighborhood. We already know there’s nothing left as far as food goes, but we use their yard to cut across to an adjacent block. I’m a bit nervous entering new territory. I look back at Lillian, who gives me the thumbs up. Over her shoulder, Rags’ furry face pokes up from the backpack. The moment is so noteworthy that, out of habit, I reach for my phone to take a picture, but then I remember it’s long gone. I decide to mentally capture the moment. It’s more authentic this way. Something I’ll cherish––regardless of the dreadful circumstances––until my dying day.
We jog alongside the house and dart across the street. There’s a seafoam green Prius parked in the driveway. I’m thinking the hybrid vehicles are our best bet for finding any gas residuals. Using my camping knife, I pry open the square panel to get to the gas cap, then I hook up the siphoning pump and aim the other end of the tube into the empty can. It only takes a few pumps to get the flow going. When the first can is full, I plunk the tube into the other can and wait for it to fill up. Two full gallons of gas will be enough to get us to the surplus store and then to the Palisades for our trek into Temescal Canyon. I hide the gas cans in the bushes to pick up on our way back home. We still need to keep searching for food to get through the next 24 − 48 hours. Lillian and I sneak to the back of the house and try the door, which is unlocked. Others have already been here and I’m sure they’ve pilfered everything.
“Empty,” Lillian says, shutting the door to the pantry.
“Chances are if this one is empty, the neighboring houses will be too. I think we should climb the fence and go to the next block.”
“Agreed,” she says bravely. Bless her heart, my dear courageous girl.
At the back of the yard, there’s a stone wall that stretches out across many properties. It’s tall and will require some maneuvering. There aren’t any trees around, so we can’t toss up a rope to scale it. I look around for something we can use to hoist ourselves over. The only thing I find is a rusty bicycle.
“Are you planning on riding that over the wall?” Lillian smiles.
“We’ll use it as leverage. Gotta make do with what we have.”
“Seems kinda dangerous.”
“You go first; I’ll make sure it’s steady.”
I hold the handles still as Lillian steps onto one of the pedals and climbs up to balance her feet on the seat. She’s wobbling, but she’s able to reach the top of the wall and pull herself up. I wait until I hear her safely land on the other side. Without anyone to hold the bike, it won’t be as easy for me. I make a running leap, aiming to get at least one foot on the seat to heave myself up. It’s not a graceful attempt. My chin hits the ledge just as the bike slips out from under my feet, but I’m able to hold on and drag my body up the wall. I roll over and thump down on the other side.
“You’re bleeding.” Lillian points to my chin.
“I’m fine.” I wipe off the blood with the sleeve of my jacket.
We approach the gargantuan modern-style house to find the sliding glass doors locked. That’s a good sign. I consider throwing an iron patio chair into the glass, but realize it’s shatterproof.
“I’ll have to use my knife to dismantle the locks.”
It takes a good twenty minutes of cutting up my fingers before I give up.
“It’s not happening, Lillian. We’ll have to find another house.”
“What about the shed? Maybe there’s something in there we can use?”
Lillian runs toward the small building, with Rags bobbing up and down in the backpack. She pries open the door with her knife and sneaks inside. After a few minutes, she waves me over, and I step into the dark room. Lillian shines her flashlight toward an opening in the ground.
“A staircase?” I say.
“We hit the jackpot!” She heads down the steps. “Come look.”
We enter a bunker and she shines the light around the space. I’m blown away by what I’m witnessing. It seems like an illusion, or a mirage. We’re standing inside an underground living quarters that has a full kitchen, sitting area, bedroom, and bathroom. There’s enough food to last many years.
“We could stay here, couldn’t we?” Lillian asks.
“No, honey, we can’t. We already have plan.”
“But this place has everything we need. And we won’t have to go to the woods with a bunch of strangers. We’ll be safe from the demolitions.”
“It’s better if we’re with other people, sweetie. The demolitions won’t be a one-time deal. They’re going to torch every city and town until there’s nothing left. It’s going to have long-term side effects. We’ll need to be with people so we can join forces and eventually fight back. We’ll be a part of a revolution; the ones who survived the Repatterning.”
These are words I never imagined I’d be saying to my fifteen-year-old daughter. Lillian just nods and wipes a tear off her cheek. We refocus, and without any further discussion, we start gathering food.
###
Back at the house, we divide our supplies into piles. One pile is what we’ll bring with us on our journey, and the other is what we’ll use to barter for more supplies and firearms. We’ll need enough to get two guns and some ammo. I clean up my chin, and we sit down at the dining room table for our final meal in our home. Lillian uses our propane camping stove to heat up the packets of fettuccine Alfredo that we found in the bunker. That was always her favorite meal. We dip our crackers into the rich creamy sauce and eat until our stomachs are full. Lillian gives Rags a bowl of beef Stroganoff, which she laps up. I open up two packets of chocolate pudding and we sit on the deck, looking up at the stars and eating spoonfuls of velvety chocolate. Neither of us admits it, but it’s most likely our last decent meal for a while.
I stand up and stretch. “We’ll take a quick nap and head to the surplus store sometime after midnight. We’ll come back, get a little sleep, and then drive to the Palisades first thing in the morning.”
Lillian nods and we go back inside and curl up on the couch next to each other. Rags nestles in her spot against Lillian’s belly.
“Mom,” Lillian whispers, tapping my shoulder.
My watch beeps. It’s time to go. We take the suitcases out to the car, and I fill the tank with a gallon of gas. I’m saving the other one for mor
e bartering power. Gasoline is a top commodity. I follow the directions my husband had scribbled down on the back of the list, taking backstreets toward the store. We park on a side street and carry our heavy suitcases down the desolate alley. We stop a few times to rest our arms and wait for Rags to pee. She’s marking every weed coming up from the gravel. By the time we reach the surplus store, we’re drenched and exhausted. I do the secret knock and we wait. My heartbeat thumps triple time in my ears. The whole scene is surreal, but right in line with the last six months.
After a few minutes, the door opens and a large man––who I assume is Joe Darkly––invites us to enter. We struggle down a narrow stairwell, with our suitcases and the gas can bumping against the railing. At the bottom is a cellar that’s lit up by a few lanterns. Lillian’s eyes widen as she takes in the rows of firearms. Trepidation shadows over her face.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s for our protection,” I assure her.
While she studies a rack of shotguns, I start looking for something more portable. I pick up a Colt Defender, a small semi-automatic 9mm. Joe nods with approval and shows me another gun, saying it’ll be good to have two options. The second gun is a Ruger revolver, which he assures me will be a good backup. I open our suitcases and set out the items we’re willing to barter, along with the gallon of gas. Joe throws in two heavy-duty backpacks, saying the suitcases are useless. He helps us transfer over only the essential items. He sets Lillian’s Bible off to the side, but she tucks it into her coat pocket. I’m not going to argue with her about bringing her faith. Lord knows we’re going to need it out there in the wilderness.
Joe secures our backpacks and shows us how to quickly access our guns if we run into trouble. He offers me a hand-drawn map with directions to the Temescal Canyon campsite.
“Avoid Sunset and PCH. Barricades are up.” He points to the map. “Park the car at the top of this street and walk to the address. Cut through the backyard and go through the bushes. You’ll find the entrance to the woods. The campsite is located a few miles up the trail. Whistle three times when you get to the top of the slope. Someone will meet you and take you to the campsite.”