by CK Collins
“Where’m I going, Sule?”
“Get to Daar Boulevard and 30th. Do you know how to do that?”
“Yeah. Can I have one of those waters?”
He opens a bottle and hands it to me with some kind of energy bar. I cannot handle food. I take a swig then find the ignition.
Even with the high beams it’s like we’re in a cave. The road’s littered with trees and trash cans and all kinds of crap, and stuff keeps tumbling in front of me. Onto the main street and the water gets higher, it’s almost over the wheels, slapping against the doors. Steady steady, and we plow through.
Turns out we’re not the only ones who stayed too long — another SUV shows up in my mirror. Close to the front gate, it passes me. Fine, I’d rather follow him than the other way around.
The booth’s empty, the glass all smashed. And the gate’s been knocked off its rollers. I get afraid that we can’t get out, but the guy in front finds a path. Right turn. No other way to go but down the hill.
There’s less debris now, and we get a decent pace going. It feels so good to be doing something. And I realize — it smacks me — we were gonna die back there.
Contraction. I can’t pull over, I can’t. I squeeze the wheel. It’s shallow and I breathe through it. Ephraim’s worried. “I’m good,” I tell him when it’s over.
The windshield wipers are even more useless than the headlights. We come around another bend and the car in front stops. Mudslide — all kinds of debris and a river gushing over the road — it feels like the whole hill’s gonna give way. Real slow the other guy picks his way through and I follow.
We get through. I feel nauseous. I jack up the AC and ask Ephraim to try the radio.
Static static static. Except our jazz friend, he’s still there. It’s a song I know, which makes me smile. She’s tall and tan. She’s young and lovely. She’s walking in the sun.
* * *
The 20th Street Canal has overflown its banks and blocked the entrance to Harbour Way. Sutcliffe Boulevard is blocked as well. The viyka don’t know Jaya well and are confused. They get through finally at 13th but encounter more water at Daar Boulevard.
A vehicle approaches. Possible MDF. It drives past.
The radio comes to life. They trade passwords and talk over one another in an agitated exchange of coded words.
Things are not going according to plan in Jaya tonight.
* * *
We get to 32nd Avenue, one street from the Canal Bridge, and the guy in front makes a hard stop. I’m twenty feet back. We’re driving in a river. They’re trying to turn around, but debris is wedged under the back wheels.
“What now, do you think?”
Ephraim turns around to Sule and shouts something in Masalayan. Sule shouts back.
“Sorry to interrupt, but we’re not getting to Daar Boulevard this way. I mean I guess we could go toward the stadium or———”
“Drive Callie.”
“Huh?”
It’s Sule: “Turn the car now.”
I look at him then back at the SUV. Their doors are open, and there’s three guys getting out.
Ephraim hollers at me to drive — I’ve never heard him yell. I gun it and turn us around. “Go! Go!” I slam the accelerator.
“What the hell?”
“Drive, Callie. As fast as you can, don’t stop.”
“What was that, what the hell?”
“They had guns.”
“I didn’t see any guns. Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, what is wrong with people?”
Ephraim checks behind us to see if we’re being followed. I don’t see anything in the mirror. We get to 44th and there’s water all over. “We’re not getting to Daar Boulevard — not gonna happen.”
“You’re right,” says Sule.
“We need to get away from the Harbour is what we need to do. And get to some higher ground.” Then the idea comes, and I laugh. “Alright, duh, I know what to do.”
“What?” Ephraim asks me.
“Pal, this is going to be fun.”
* * *
The driver peers down dark and flooded streets to find a way west. The gaan tells him a new direction. Accelerating. Windshield hit — spinning skidding — impact. Stunned silence that is horrendous noise. The viyka at left bleeding from his face. Crumpled bonnet and door and wind whistling through. The driver reverses and turns. They’re moving again. The viyka at right is leaned across Rika with a cloth to stanch the blood.
Radio noise and hurried action. No passwords now. Voices submerged in storm and static: Contact lost east of Canal Bridge . . . 31st Avenue . . . flooded . . . white Suburban . . . she’s driving . . . the boy, Target A . . . north.
The gaan turns and looks square at Rika. “Going north. Where?”
He knows, he can see it, he can feel it. Looking at the floor, the bloody floor, he mumbles, “I don’t know.”
* * *
Rain like a million bullets and I can’t see shit. Gorilla kick and we lift — smacked harder down — hit the rail and skid. Almost tip. Son of a bitch. Stalled out. I turn the key and it starts. “Sorry.”
“You’re doing well.”
“Yeah, right.”
I try explaining where we’re heading, but I haven’t got the energy. There’s some quick talk between him and Ephraim in Masalayan.
I’m afraid of missing the turn, but there it is. We start up the hill. It gets steep at the end, torrents of muddy water, but we get up around the final curve. The University gate is locked shut. I shift the transmission down and try shoving it open. But it’s heavy and we’ve got no traction.
“We have to get out.”
“Where, Callie?”
“Ephraim, you get to meet the Murais, lucky devil.” I turn to Sule. “My in-laws. Sort of. Whatever, let’s go.”
* * *
The gaan smacking him as wind batters the car — “Where? We can help her. Where?”
It needs to be this way.
This is the path they’ve always been on.
“Orchids Drive. Northeast. To the end. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
* * *
Door open and rain punches me in the face. Sule’s got flashlights. I swing the beam till I find a way around the gate. Headlights coming up the hill. Sule stops. I keep going with Ephraim. We squeeze around a stone wall into the Murai’s neighborhood.
The wind’s shoving me so hard I can’t get any bearings, but then I see their big ugly fence.
Their hedge is torn to hell and we need to step over branches to make it to their door. There’s a big overhang, which gives us a little shelter. I pound with both fists. There’s light inside, I can see it moving around. Ephraim’s standing behind me, staying out of the way. I ought to be cold but I’m sweating under all the other wet.
Finally there’s a flashlight bobbing toward the door, and it opens — their servant — he peers a long time before opening up.
“Hi. Remember me?” I point to my belly in case he forgot the connection. “Can we come in, please?”
He twists and says something to whoever’s behind him in the hallway. Then they switch places. It’s Rika’s mom. “Callie?”
I’m out of breath. “Sorry, there wasn’t any phone, there’s no phone anymore.”
“How have you arrived?”
Bitch, who cares, let me in. “Drove. It’s back there, the car, at the gate. We almost didn’t make it.”
She looks offended at me yelling and peers over my shoulder. “You’ve come with someone?”
“Two people. Our neighbor, it’s his car — where he went, I hope he’s okay — he’s back there, I don’t know — but this, this is Ephraim, you’ve heard about Ephraim.”
“Curfew was announced, Callie. No one is to be on the roads, by order.”
“Yeah, well, you know — can I come in please?”
There’s a bunch of people in the hall behind her now. She turns and talks to somebody, th
e Colonel I’m sure. “You may.”
“Thanks. And I am sorry I didn’t call first.” I wave for Ephraim to get his butt moving, but she holds up her hand.
“You. Not him.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got nowhere to go, so . . .”
“We’ve women and children in this house,” she tells me, impatient. “We’ve young girls in this house.”
“Where else is he supposed to go?”
She folds her arms.
“He’s, whatever, come on, he’s a Liashist and he goes to church and he’s fine.”
Ephraim says behind me, “Callie, you go.”
“No.”
“The boy knows his place.”
“The fuck he does — Ephraim get in.”
The servant puts his arms out to block me. She says I need to think of the baby. All of them back there, I know Pashi’s one of them. “Jesus, he’s got nowhere to go!”
The Colonel strides up and barks, “You stupid girl!” He jabs his finger at me — “Him out. You in.”
“Fuck you.”
I turn and the door slams. I grab Ephraim. It’s so dark and screaming at us.
“Callie where?”
“Anywhere.”
* * *
Brother Carodai has arrived, drenched straight through and bewildered by the sea of blankets and cots. Tchori steps through it all — a travesty, everyone spread hither and non with no lanes for walking.
“I should have helped you, Brother.”
“Had to stop off for a few items,” he says, limply raising a satchel.
“You’ve brought a change of clothes, I hope?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Lavatory’s that way. And we’re over by that far wall there, see?”
“Yes, I see your lad there.”
Kistulo, who wanted to watch a film — he’s brought his laptop, headphones, and School of Rock — pouts whilst Tchori arranges a spot.
When Carodai arrives, he looks nothing like himself in western slacks and pullover. Kistulo, smirking at Tchori, assists him in sitting and provides a fresh-stirred ramen cup. He’s interrupted every few minutes by former students coming to say hello.
A lad called Thomas walks over to pay respects. He volunteers that his family are bunkered in Sutcliffe Estates, and Tchori asks the tower. “Mine are in Two,” she says. “Talked to them just before the phones went. Seems it’s a good shelter.”
“Mine are in Three.”
“Earthquake standards, all of them,” Kistulo says. “Safe as anywhere in Masalay.”
“And your people?” Thomas asks.
“Parund, the big postal centre.”
“Stout building, that,” says Thomas. “Anything commissioned by Admiral Sutcliffe, exacting bastard, him.” A blush at his profanity, but Carodai nods in agreement about both the building and Sutcliffe.
Kistulo says, “Tchori’s brother, seems he got out of Jaya just in time.”
“Ashma’s grace.”
“I was telling Tchori,” continues Kistulo, unwinding the earbuds wrapped around his iPod, “I don’t think we’ll have it as all wretched as they’re saying. Full same though — wouldn’t want to be there when it comes on land.”
“Indeed,” says Carodai.
Thomas bows his leave. Leaning back into his pillow, Kistulo puts the earbuds in and shuts his eyes to Kanye West.
“No regard for his hearing,” Tchori says. “Any word before you’ve left, Brother?”
“None.”
“They’ve lost power hours ago. The bridges and tunnels — they’re shut off.”
“We must trust in Sule,” he says. “And Callie.”
”Right, yeah.” Antsy, irritated, she retrieves her needles and yarn.
“Miss Vidaayit, I’d not have taken you for a knitter.”
“I’m not.”
“Ah.”
“Had it for class in Sagaro. Patriarchal rubbish — cricket and football for the lads, sewing and knitting for the girls.”
“Well, I’d say you got the better of that bargain.”
“It’s good for nerves.” She lays the skein across her lap. “Nothing else to do.”
“What are you knitting, then?”
“Blanket. Doesn’t look like it now, but a blanket it shall be.”
Kistulo removes one earbud. “Did you know she knits, Brother?”
“No, but then Tchori is often surprising me.”
“Making it for a baby, but that’s all she’ll say.”
“Yellow?”
“Appeals to me.”
“Tchori thinks ‘gender-associated colours’ are anti-feminist.”
“Because they are.”
“It’s a lovely blanket. The mother will be touched.”
“Right, yeah. It’s late, Brother. You should rest.”
* * *
Ashma, we are lost and in dark.
If there is shelter to find I do not know it. The ground is all of water and tangled things and the rain is in our eyes. Callie is by another pain stopped. In the mud she kneels and I am holding her shoulders so she will not fall.
She says move but I know not where. We are toppled. I am fallen and my torch lost.
There is a new light.
It comes fast. Ashma, it is Sule.
Callie is brought to her feet. Into my hands he gives a new torch. He points the way. The storm twists me but I am kept straight by Sule.
To a building we finally come. In long minutes, Sule finds us into a cellar. It is dry and we are away from wind and Callie on me rests.
* * *
A vehicle on the side of the road. One dead viyka slumped from the door. Two more in the front, bullets to their heads.
They drive fifty metres more to the University gate. The grill of a white Suburban is pressed against the wrought iron fence. They strap ka-bars to their legs, and the gaan distributes Kalashnikov magazines. The driver opens his door and the wind is a missile hit twisting the car, tumbling the car, and all is black.
* * *
God this hurts, it hurts so much.
They’ve got me in a corner. Wrapped up in I think it’s a flag of Masalay. I don’t know if I’m cold or hot — I’m sweating — I think it’s sweat — I can’t quit shivering.
Big place, a library. We came in through a basement. Would have been good to stay there, but it’s starting to flood. Lot of windows here. But Sule is sure it’s the strongest part of the building. They’re flipping tables over, making a barricade.
What Sule’s deal is I don’t know, but he’s decisive and we need that.
I should help but the baby is tearing me apart. I’m so hot. Ephraim comes over. All bruised. “Your poor face.”
“Callie, you shake.”
“I’m worried about that eye, it might swell shut on you.” I try to move but god it hurts. He wants to do something about my clothes, which are so muddy and twisted up, but I don’t care. “Go . . . I’m fine . . .”
When he’s gone, I turn so they can’t see me. Examine by touch. All the mud, so unclean. My water’s broken for sure. Three centimeters, maybe four — should be ten from how the fuck much it hurts. I close my eyes, try to manage my breathing.
They’re bracing the walls of the barricade. Like I’m back in Suzanne Patton’s basement building a fort. No reruns of Saved By The Bell, though. And her brother, god what was his name? I bring up my knees, hug them tight. Stay, peanut, stay with me.
* * *
Rika can’t remember escaping, only waking on the abyss-black lawn. Clutching a torch, he lifts up from sucking mud. The wind is less. He directs his impotent light.
She’s near.
* * *
Sule tells me pull down more flags for Callie. She is needing to be warm and clean. More water we are needing for her.
The storm is tiring, Ashma. My ears hurt not so much and the rain is less violence. Our need is of keeping Callie comfortable and safe.
The flags I bring Sule he cuts from their pole
s. He is going to find water. The knife he leaves with me.