After the meteor shower ended, the sky glowed with a strange light that was strong enough to cast shadows.
“Do you see that aurora?” Zhen asked in the silence. “It’s charged particles from the nuclear blast reacting with the Earth’s magnetic field. The comet would have impacted Earth by now. It’s been deflected.”
The aurora looked like an alien sunset on another planet—or a sunrise.
“This is not the end,” Zhen said to Ned, with a lump in her throat. “This is our second chance.”
She shot her fists up high. Afterward, she said she could feel all the people of the Effort and all the remaining survivors under the same glowing sky lifting their squeezed fists and screaming, the many becoming one victorious.
* * *
THE GLOW HAD faded into familiar stars by the time they set off with as many of the Brazil nuts as they could carry. Without pain from starvation, without the fear of death and ultimate destruction, they could ignore difficult questions for the time being and just enjoy life itself. They joked and smiled. Zhen told the group stories about the Effort and the spacecraft they all built together. When Ned pulled back a curtain of flowering vine, hundreds of small butterflies scattered into the air. Zhen gasped and clapped in delight. Dewei also found a colony of flared, golden mushrooms growing on a decomposed log.
“Gustavo! Food! Food!”
The young man could now pronounce their names and string several English words together. Dewei pointed to the mushroom colony, eager to please their leader, but Wanato shook his head. Ned asked if the mushrooms were poisonous. Wanato shrugged and said he only knew that the Grandfather People didn’t eat them.
“For hunter-gatherers, your Grandfather People were pretty spoiled,” Ned grumbled.
Wanato shrugged again and smiled. His ancestors could afford to be picky when they knew how to make bows and poison-tipped arrows, how to grow cassava in bad soil, and how to scrape off the poisonous peel of the root and soak it to make caxiri beer, flat bread, porridge…there were so many things the Grandfather People knew.
By the middle of the dry day, they hadn’t passed any streams and their canteens were empty. With one misery abated, they felt another creep in, trading hunger for thirst. Wanato knew they had to reach water soon as they descended a slow incline.
“Will you take off that ridiculous Mets hat?” Ned snapped at Zhen.
They all had racking headaches from dehydration. Zhen stopped to cock her head and think, then said simply, “No.”
But she didn’t budge. They all stopped moving.
“Now what?” Zhen finally asked Wanato. “What will happen to the three of us? Do we stay with you and your people until it is safe to leave the forest and return?”
Wanato nodded, but he was doubtful. He didn’t know if the world would ever be safe for Zhen again; it had never been safe for Wayãpi to begin with.
According to the Grandfather People, they were forever fleeing. To escape epidemics, mass slaughter, slavers, and missionaries, Wayãpi migrated north along great rivers and split off like its headwaters. Some families, like the one headed by Wanato’s father’s father’s father, followed the Jari River’s tributaries deep into forests that became the Brazilian state of Amapá. Other Wayãpi continued north as far as the Oyapock River on the border of what became French Guiana. Most of these Other Wayãpi settled where the Camopi River joined the larger current, but there were also rumors of other tribes, secret tribes that hid themselves away from danger.
As Wanato continued south with Ned, Zhen, and Dewei following in his well-placed footsteps, he began to worry. Would the Other Wayãpi of French Guiana remember him? Would they accept the three foreigners in his care, or would they resort to violence? Wanato wouldn’t blame the villagers for defending themselves against a perceived threat. Contact with foreign invaders usually ended in death and loss—but not always.
Wanato’s great-grandmothers were young girls when a scientific expedition reached their village. Those were days before contact with gold prospectors and the government. The event was a landmark because it was guided by a curiosity that kept greed and massacre at bay. The foreigners didn’t spread disease and stole nothing from the village. Instead, the strange men—exhausted and probably ill with malaria—presented colorful glass beads with tired smiles. In return, the Wayãpi gave two headdresses with bright macaw and toucan feathers and several arrows. The bond they made that day was brief but unbroken.
The foreigners wished to continue down the Jari River in their canoes. Many Wayãpi archers watched them embark with their arrows notched. The foreigners waved in parting but kept their rifles in reach. No one was a fool, but neither did they want to fire the first shot and kill something that sparked wonder. They chose to watch and wait. And so, behind the fear and distrust of every new encounter with non-Wayãpi, there could also be a small hope that wonder would stay the arrows of warriors and win out.
When Wanato heard a rush of water, he jogged ahead to find a river, but it was not the Oyapock. Ned caught up to him and hollered with joy. The four of them filled their canteens and dropped in water purification tablets. Wanato left the others to rest on the bank as he scouted the area. Maybe they still had another day of hard hiking to reach the Oyapock, but maybe not? Was this the Eureupousine River? Wanato had never seen it, but he knew the river was close.
Vegetation grew thick and scratched at Wanato’s skin. He stepped into a small clearing and saw a tree with a thick thatch of woven palm leaves obscuring its branches. Wanato realized he was staring at a hunter’s hideout at the same instant a Wayãpi man leaned into view with a bow stretched taut and an arrow aimed at his heart. Wanato stopped in shock and marveled at the real Wayãpi bow and an arrow tipped with bloodred macaw feathers. The man’s loincloth was made from rough cotton twine and dyed with urucu.
The tribes that kept themselves secret, he thought. They hid deep in the forest and remembered how to carve and string a bow like the Grandfather People.
Wanato knew the warrior recognized him as both Wayãpi and an invader. The warrior would spend only a few seconds on a decision. He could release his arrow and kill the invader, defending his people and their lives in the forest. Or he could choose wonder and try to create a human bond that crossed their divide.
Wanato smiled and laughed with joy, nearly falling over backward as he reveled in the few seconds of time when both of those perfect possibilities could exist together.
THIRTY-FIVE
Dreams
The Second Dark Ages
North Cascades National Park, Washington
FOR THE THIRD time that day, Captain Weber fell and lost his sight. The Cascade Mountains went black with fuzzy, unresolved points of lights.
This is it, he thought. This is where I fall and don’t get up.
Weber was dying of starvation. The lands surrounding Tacoma’s suburbs had been stripped of all vegetation, as if consumed by plagues of locusts rather than starving humans trying to digest grass and leaves. Weber lived on rations from Healy until he escaped the city and found freshwater lakes. He had kept several lures and line from his heirloom tackle box before giving it away, and Weber was a skilled fisherman, but he hadn’t made a catch in days. He knew that many of the survivors were cannibals by necessity, but he couldn’t bring himself to cut flesh from human bodies. One could lose a sense of meaning, religion, ideology, love, and hope but still cling to a sense of self, even if it was formed on those lost things.
This is how the stranger found Weber: collapsed next to his duffel bag with a dazed expression. Delirium was common to those living and dying in what came to be known as the Second Dark Ages.
“Coast Guard, right?”
The stranger’s voice came from twenty yards away. Weber turned and readied his wasted body for a fight he would lose. The stranger held a semiautomatic rifle and wore a kind of woodland camo that wasn’t military-issued.
“My father was in the Coast Guard,” the stranger said, poi
nting at Weber’s filthy working uniform.
Lightweight binoculars hung from the man’s neck. He must have read the white stitching on Weber’s chest that spelled out “COAST GUARD” as he tracked him through the forest.
“Junior lieutenant. He was always grateful to the Coast Guard for keeping him out of Vietnam. Ah, sorry. Probably pisses you off to hear things like that. Meant no disrespect.”
Weber waited—to be shot, to be surrounded by an ambush, to have his duffel bag stolen…The stranger made several cautious steps on soft mud. He was stocky and wore a belt but didn’t need to. How could he have so much meat and fat on his bones? How?
“Par—”
Weber cleared his throat and tried to speak again. It had been weeks since he heard his own voice whisper a hymn.
“Pardon me, sir. But do you know where I can get food? I’m too weak to walk.”
The stranger nodded, like he could see as much. A gloved hand rested on his gun.
“Where you headed?”
“To find my family,” Weber said. “They left the Seattle suburbs for the parks. I was at sea when all of this…” He was too exhausted to elaborate. “Happened.”
“Being on that ship probably saved your bacon. At least in the beginning,” the stranger said. “Few could have made it this long on their own.”
His hooded eyes squinted.
“I can see that that uniform was made for a man of your height, but if you’re coming with me, I still gotta check. Wait here.”
The stranger left Weber shivering in the mud. It was pointless for him to crawl into hiding. To find his family, Weber had to live. To live, he needed food. And if he needed food, he needed this stranger with the ample waist. A cold rain fell as he waited and prayed. He had lost track of the days, but it had to be early autumn judging from the new snowpack on the mountains.
Weber heard an engine above the patter of rain and saw a truck emerge with large off-road tires. It moved slowly up the incline, slaloming pine trees. The stranger parked and hopped out of the driver’s side. His right hand still steadied his gun, but his left held a coil of nylon rope that he threw in a sloppy underhand.
“Tie me a bowline knot.”
Weber looked to the rope and then up at the stranger.
“If that’s really your Coast Guard uniform, you’ll know how,” the man explained. “If not, then you probably stole those clothes and gear, and I’ll have to waste a bullet.”
Weber picked up the rope and tied a bowline knot with shaking hands.
“Good. And no hard feelings. Can’t have people killing and impersonating an officer. Against the rules of war, right?”
Weber tied a reef knot and then a sheepshank for good measure.
“Now you’re just showing off,” the stranger muttered. “Get in.”
Weber stood and fainted. When he regained consciousness, the stranger had him by the crook of his arm. No doubt Weber weighed less than a scarecrow.
“I gotcha,” the other man said. “Just a few more steps.”
He helped Weber into the passenger seat and went back for his duffel bag. It was much lighter than the day he disembarked Healy. All that was left was a canteen half-full of lake water, a compass, a first aid kit, a spare set of wool socks, a sparker fire starter, a rain poncho, and a knife. Weber started out with a flashlight that allowed him to travel at night and hide in daylight hours. The small device was undoubtedly a lifesaver before it ran out of batteries.
The stranger sat in the driver’s seat and leaned over with his eyes trained on Weber. His left hand squeezed into a tight fist. Weber held his breath. The other man’s nose had large pores and hairy nostrils that flared with Weber’s stench. The truck’s glove compartment popped open. When the stranger leaned back, Weber felt something land in his lap. It was a granola bar.
Weber fumbled quickly but couldn’t open the flashy foil packaging. The stranger had to snatch it out of Weber’s hands and rip into the foil with his teeth before tossing it back. Weber ate the bar in two bites, barely chewing. He licked his fingers as he shed silent tears, because of the nourishment, and because there wasn’t enough of it.
The truck’s engine revved. Its windshield wipers made slow arcs to clear the drizzle. Weber likewise swiped at his damp, bearded cheeks with the back of his hand.
“Thanks for the food. Name’s Weber,” he added, because it was all he had to offer in return.
The stranger’s hawkish eyes darted between the forest in front and the passenger to his right. They caught the silver eagles on Weber’s collar tips.
“Nobody cares about names anymore, Captain.”
He looked over at Weber’s chiseled face. Beneath the dirt and desperation, he must have seen the ghost of a dignified figure.
“My father would’ve liked you. You are what he wanted to be. Or, does that mean he would have hated you? Who knows?”
The stranger had a northern, rural accent and stressed o vowels like a Canadian. Whooo knooows.
“What I do know, Captain, is that you should’ve stayed on your ship.”
Weber’s lips moved without sound to form Healy. The name of his ship was US Coast Guard Cutter Healy. His days on polar expeditions seemed like quiet, ice-filled dreams. All days before the comet and its deflection seemed like dreams in the new reality.
It was the dead of winter when Weber’s ship anchored. The crewmembers and scientists all banded together in small groups that headed for Joint Base Lewis-McChord while Weber struck out on his own. He couldn’t see far in such thick fog, but he heard a woman screaming in the distance. Instead of running toward her, he ran in the opposite direction. In a time of war, Weber wouldn’t think to abandon his own crew. But this wasn’t war. This was survival in the face of an apocalypse, a face that wasn’t human.
The truck descended slowly by zigzagging around trees and crushing saplings under its monster tires. Lake Chelan came into view through the treetops, pearlescent with morning fog. Growing up, Weber used to camp in the valley and swim in the lake. In good weather, its surface was a clear reflection of the sky. “God’s Country” is what his father called the North Cascades National Park—but it wasn’t now.
Weber spoke up when they reached the smooth road running parallel to Lake Chelan’s southwestern shore. Roads meant people, and people meant danger. He had tripped over too many bodies hidden under the snow. Weber figured there had to be a reason this well-fed man ventured out into danger alone. Even armed to the teeth, he was taking grave risk.
“Where were you headed?” Weber asked.
“Such a nice day, I was on the winery tour.”
Weber hiccupped a small laugh, surprising them both. The stranger returned a sideways grin. They passed an abandoned Buick along the side of the road with its gas cap left open.
“Are you looking for loved ones?” Weber pressed. “Like I am?”
The other man didn’t answer right away. His mouth twitched as he started and abruptly stopped after two words. Maybe he was trying to think up another joke, or a lie.
“I was looking for a woman,” he finally admitted, with a shrug. “Until I saw your uniform in the trees and got curious. Survivors come to the lake when they run out of water. I got plenty of supplies so…figured I’d have more luck in the love department than I have in the past. I’m the new Brad Pitt, don’t yah know.”
Weber couldn’t help thinking of his wife, Karen. She was in her late forties, but still attractive. At summer picnics, she turned the heads of much younger men with her long, tanned legs. He tried to empty those thoughts from his mind.
“May I try the radio,” Weber asked, changing the subject.
“You won’t get a signal. Hasn’t been jack shit in nearly a year. No radio, no TV, no internet. All dark.”
“But that’s how it could happen, right? How survivors, the decent ones, could communicate and find one another?”
“I dunno. You tell me.”
“Okay, then, I’m telling you. Radio waves co
uld be the way.”
That had been Weber’s hope since he saw the dazzling meteor shower in the summer sky—fiery streaks of ice, dust, and rock blown from the body of a giant comet—which meant that there could be hope for all of God’s creatures once more. Weber asked if the man believed that things could still go back to the way they were before UD3 had come and gone. The stranger shrugged.
“I’m not sure things are much different. We’ve stopped pretending to be civilized, that’s all. We’ve lost our polite manners and our electronic gadgets and showed the animals we always were under it all. We were still competing with one another to survive—just with a more complex and subtle set of rules. I mean, I didn’t kill anyone before UD3, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”
Weber said nothing. He wondered if things shouldn’t go back to the way they were after all. Perhaps things should be altogether different? Better? Or wiser, at least? He stared at the road ahead and saw what looked like an eviscerated human torso, a rib cage and trailing spinal column. It still saddened Weber that none of the victims would receive a proper burial.
“We’re going south,” Weber said. “But I was headed to North Cascades.”
“You were headed nowhere fast, is more like it. I’m bringing you back home with me. You could use a hot meal. And a good wash. You reek.”
His face went suddenly serious.
“Buckle your seat belt,” he ordered.
A group of haggard men was walking beside the road. They carried heavy plastic bottles of water that they dropped in surprise. One stepped to the middle of the road and waved his hands above his head. His shouts, the red fabric of his down jacket, his frantic movements all said Stop! But the truck leapt forward, accelerating above ninety miles per hour. The stranger’s jaw was set, his mind made up.
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