Clouds Before Rain

by Marco Etheridge

  The weapons rack held Pat’s newly-scavenged shotgun, found in the back seat of a dead car. Liz’s golf club stood next to the shotgun. The vacant slots in the rack reflected Pat’s sense of hope. Gear was stacked neatly on a long table, all the essentials for a trip outside the walls of the Fort. Two rucksacks, empty and ready, lay side-by-side.

  “You have the Glock?”

  “Front pocket, with two magazines.”

  “Right, I need to be on the lookout for a holster for that thing, something handier. And I’ve got the shotgun, which is loaded. The wagon is ready. Okay, straight there, straight back, Bob’s your uncle.”

  “Do you have the keys?”

  “Yes I do, My Love. Wouldn’t that be a bitch, locking ourselves out of the Fort. I’ve gotten a whole lot better with keeping track of keys.”

  Pat raised the steel bar from the brackets. Unlocking the door, he swung it half-open, peering out into the street.

  “Okay, all clear, let’s hit it.”

  Pat wheeled a small utility wagon through the open door, then held the door for Liz. She stood ready, the long golf club held out in her right hand. A braided lanyard looped from her wrist to the shank of the club; another of Pat’s inventions. Pat locked the door, checked it, then reached for the handle of the wagon. The short-barreled shotgun hung from a sling over his right shoulder. His voice, when he spoke, was barely a whisper.

  “Once around the perimeter, okay?”

  Liz nodded.

  They completed a silent loop around the building; south on First, cutting through the parking lot on the south side, then north up the alley. There was nothing to see, no sign of anything amiss.

  A weak sun glowed through rents in the November clouds. Liz and Pat walked side-by-side up the center of First Avenue. The branches of bare trees cast fingers of shadow across the pavement. Ahead of them, the street was darkened by the monolithic shadow of the Key Arena.

  Near the Fort, the path was more open. Pat had done his best to roll the dead cars to the side of the broad avenue, enduring sights and smells that Liz did not want to imagine. It was all part of his plan for having a clear perimeter around the Fort. As they passed under the shadow of the Key Arena, they were forced to weave around abandoned vehicles, giving each one a wide berth.

  They emerged from the chill shadow, turning left onto Republican. The morning sun threw their wavering shadows ahead of them. Walking the ends of two short city blocks, they came to a burger joint. Pat stopped, pointing towards the sidewalk in front of the place. A corpse lay on its side, the remains of what looked like a youngish man. Liz stepped up beside Pat, speaking in a whisper.

  “That one looks like it survived awhile after the die-off.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. He looks a lot fresher. Maybe he overdosed on french fries.”

  “Damn, what I wouldn’t give for one of those greasy burgers.”

  “Do you want to check it out?”

  “No, let’s stick to the plan. Mattress first, then back to the Fort.”

  “Okay, I’m right behind you.”

  Pat scanned the wide stretch of Queen Anne Avenue before hurrying across. Liz followed, swiveling her head to check behind them. Luck seemed to be with them. There was not a vehicle or person in sight.

  Scavenging the mattress was a lot easier than Liz thought it would be. Pat propped open the double glass doors of the fancy inn, wheeled in the wagon, and turned it to face the doors. The lobby was empty, not one corpse in sight. The first room they checked yielded what they wanted. In a matter of minutes they were loading a beautiful mattress on the wagon. Pat folded the thing lengthwise, strapping it to the wagon with some kind of ratcheting straps. Liz pushed or pulled as he directed her, marveling at the way his mind solved problems.

  “You are one handy man, Pat O’Shea.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Walker. I think we have everything we came for. Mattress, sheets, two pillows, and even a fancy wool topper. I suggest we get our loot back to the Fort.”

  The sun shown onto their faces as they made their way back across Queen Anne. Passing the burger joint, Liz looked to the left, her eyes traveling over the shadowed sidewalk. Something wasn’t right. Of course, where was the body?

  “Pat, that body, it’s gone.”

  She saw Pat turning, his eyes locking on something, wagon handle falling from his hand. Then the shotgun spinning on its sling, spinning to his shoulder, pointing at her, the end of the barrel huge and black.

  “Liz, down! Now!”

  She started to turn her head, heard his voice booming.

  “Drop! Now!”

  And she did. Before her hands could register the cold of the pavement, the shotgun thundered. The roar of it slammed into her ears, then a second blast, mixing with the echoes of the first. From under the sagging edge of the mattress, she saw Pat’s legs scissor past, then there was one more blast of thunder.

  Liz was blinking her eyes, head ringing, when she felt his hands under her armpits. Through eyes clouded with tears, she saw his mouth moving. She struggled to make sense of his words, but her ears would not make out the sounds. His hand went to her face, cupping the back of her neck.

  “It’s okay, it’s all over. We have to go, Liz. We have to go right now.”

  “What? What are you saying?”

  Her voice sounded thick in her own ears, as if she were underwater.

  “Liz, it’ll pass, okay? Come on, we have to go now.”

  He was pointing up the street now, the shotgun cradled under one arm.

  Liz shook her head, blinked, nodded at Pat. Okay, we have to go now. Right, we have to go. She turned to look behind her. The dead thing lay on its back, arms flung wide behind it. There were two gaping wounds in its chest. It had no face. Then Pat’s hand, pulling her away, steering her forward.

  They left the dead thing behind, left it in the middle of the street. Pat’s hand was on her shoulder, urging her forward, down the hill of First Avenue. She saw the wagon pushing against him, Pat fighting to hold back the weight. She shook her head again, took his hand from her shoulder, gave it a squeeze. Then she was behind the wagon, holding the back edge of the mattress, helping Pat.

  THE TALL MAN EXAMINED his reflection in a full-length mirror. What he saw amused him.

  All those years of studying, the many roles, trodding the boards, and the one useful thing proves to be the fencing lessons. Or so it is to be hoped. Any good Shakespearean must know his way around a sword. Pray that you have not forgotten what you learned, or this will be an idle jest indeed.

  He adjusted the fit of his tweed cap, then turned away from his reflection. The key turned in the lock, sealing his condo shut. Footfalls soft against the hallway carpeting, he moved to the fire stairs for the long descent to the street. The sound of his passage echoed in the concrete stairwell. The leather strap of a cavalry sword tugged against the tweed of his jacket. He twined a hand through the strap to still it. The sword rode heavily across his back.

  The pavement was dry, the rarity of a clear winter day in the Northwest. He stood on the corner, looking out over the quiet neighborhood. Nothing moved on the streets stretched out below him. He turned away, walking slowly up the steep hill that rose to the north. With measured steps, he climbed the steady uphill grade. It would be a long walk, and the man had no reason to hurry.

  Walking, he watched, eyes taking note of every shadow, every doorway. Avoiding the sidewalks, his feet sought the middle of the narrow roadways. The way climbed steeply and steadily, leveling only when crossing an intersecting street. Here he would pause, scanning to the front, to the sides, and behind.

  There were neighbors to the South, he knew that now. He did not know exactly where, but the knowing brought him some small comfort. When the opportunity presented itself, he would meet them. The man could afford to be patient. Time was one thing he had in abundance. More time, certainly, than that miserable, half-deranged neighbor to the North. Wandering about in despair, weaponless, th
e poor soul had refused all offers of help.

  Who could blame him for giving in to despair? The city gone dead, his loved ones dead, left alone to wander the streets. More is the pity, because he seemed a decent man. But not, I fear, long for this horrible world.

  Warm now under the heavy wool of his jacket, the man crested the top of the hill. He paused, sipping water from a small bottle. The skyline of the city stretched away to the South. Beacon Hill rose to the east of the city. To the West, the knob of Duwamish Head hovered above the shimmering waters of Elliott Bay.

  He turned away from the view, walking past posh old houses that stood along a silent, green playground. Only a short month ago, any one of these houses would have been worth a million dollars. Now they were dead and empty. The occasional winter crow marked his passing with a mournful caw.

  At the intersection of Boston Street, he turned to the East, walking up the center of the broad street. What he saw in the next block brought him up short. Tall chain-link fencing ran along the curb line in two directions, enclosing an entire block as far as he could see. Inside the fence line, he saw the houses and landscaping of a normal Queen Anne block. Why was this area fenced off? His eyes traveled the length of the street, looking for some clue. Halfway down Boston, he saw a small wooden tower rising behind the fence. Atop the tower was a platform, and on the platform sat the silhouette of a man.

  Resuming his slow pace, the tall man walked forward, keeping his eyes on the wooden tower. A loud voice rang out across the quiet street.

  “That’s as far as you go, Mister.”

  The man on the tower was standing now, a weapon raised to his shoulder.

  The tall man stopped walking. He raised a hand, palm outwards.

  “Hello, Neighbor.”

  “Yeah, that’s funny. What the hell are you doing up here?”

  “I am out for a stroll, enjoying the sun. It is a rare pleasure this time of year.”

  “A stroll, huh? Well, I’ve got a bit of strong advice for you, Neighbor. You need to fuck off back to wherever you came from. If I see you again, there won’t be a second warning.”

  “Ah, I see. In that case, I thank you for the conversation, and I wish you a good day.”

  The tall man raised his hand in a farewell, and turned back the way he had come. He was smiling as he walked away.

  Chapter 8

  Bukowski

  Bukowski blew on his hands, flexing his fingers against the damp December chill. Pulling guard duty in the cold sucked just as much as guard duty in the heat, maybe more. No, this sucks to an infinite degree more. At least in Afghanistan there was the promise of a flight back to The World, back home. Sure, the flight might be a Medivac, or worse, but at least there was the promise, weak as it was. There was no getting out of this shit; no R and R, no rotation, just an endless hell.

  He shifted in the camp chair, reaching for the rifle leaning next to it. The old bolt-action 30-06 was heavy in his hand. A black telescopic sight was mounted above the barrel. Perched on the deck of the driving range, he had a wide view along the flats of Interbay. Directly below him was the damp pavement of the empty clubhouse parking lot. Looking over the putt-putt course, he could see the greens and sand traps of the crappy par-three golf course. Empty, everything was empty. Of course it’s empty, Ed, almost everyone is dead; dead and gone. The only living souls are The Tribe, all snug and warm in the clubhouse. Besides, it’s a miserable, wet-ass day. Even those bastards from the Boat will be laying low. Nothing is going to happen out here, not today. Nothing to see but gulls and crows. Still, better to keep the old eyes open. You never know. He leaned back and resumed his vigil.

  The clubhouse had been a good choice for a hideout. A tall security fence ran along the entire west side, separating the golf course from the Burlington Northern rail yard. There was an open view to the South, all the way to the end of the course. The north end was boxed in by the soaring fences of the driving range, and the wide expanse of 15th Avenue made up the east side. All things considered, it was a pretty sweet setup for The Tribe. It was just bad luck that the Boat Boys decided to settle in on the south end of Interbay, those sons of bitches. Still, all things considered, they were making a go of it.

  Ed Bukowski checked his watch, a habit acquired during many shifts on guard duty. Two hours to go. I might as well make the most of it. He fished a cigar out of a jacket pocket, eying it ruefully. Shit, I wouldn’t give this dog-walker a second thought back in the day, but the humidor is lean. Yeah, and going to get a lot leaner as time goes on. A trip to the old cigar shop is a risky proposition. A world without cigars just don’t sound right. He slipped the cigar from its cellophane wrapper, clipped the end; let the flame of his lighter dance just shy of the tip. A cloud of smoke rose to the awning roof above his head, disappearing on the damp breeze.

  You should quit your bitching, you know that, right? Things could be a lot worse. Hell, they were a lot worse, before you found some other folks, folks that had a better notion than killing everyone they met. That was a shit show, no doubt. First the panic, then the die-off. After that, nothing but maniacs with guns, everybody shooting at everybody, willing to kill for a loaf of bread or a can of gasoline. That first meeting, trusting someone not to shoot, that was hard. But then they were three, learning to work together, finding a safe place to hole up. That was how The Tribe started; a couple of people who decided not to shoot each other. I guess that’s the minimum bid for starting a new society.

  Yes, Sir, a shit show for sure, that’s what it was. I thought I’d seen it all, but I wasn’t even close. Two tours, Iran, Afghanistan, nothing compared to this shit. Even in that madness there was some sense of order, but this, that was one long nightmare and no hope of waking up. First the panic, the dying, and then the killing began. Then came that deathly quiet that settled over everything. All the normal, everyday sounds of the city, they were just gone. Goddamn it was quiet, creepy quiet. Still is, but it’s better. Inside that door, there’s people that are working together, trying to build something. Yeah, and you’re on guard duty out here, trying to keep them safe. You’d best keep your eyes open; pay attention. He kept his eyes on the open ground in front of him, scanning the ground for movement, smoking, thinking. Nothing moved.

  Relax, even the Boat Boys are laying low today. Besides, they won’t come this far north. Damn shame that things turned out the way they did, and all over it a stupid misunderstanding. One of them took a shot at us, or one of our guys at them, no one really clear on the story. A simple dispute about scavenger rights at the Whole Foods. A few misguided pot-shots over who got the next bottle of booze. The shelves would be empty soon enough anyway. Maybe there was some way to patch things up, but he doubted it. The Boat Boys were pretty quick on the trigger. It was an ugly truce, at best. So now the Tribe went north, raiding the stocks at Fisherman’s Terminal. Lots of booze stashed on those fishing boats. The Boat Boys could have Whole Paycheck, and good riddance.

  The clouds pressed down until the air seemed liquid. The top of Magnolia hill was shrouded in mist. The smoke from his cigar drifted into the damp air, disappeared. His eyes ran the length of 15th Avenue, past the scattered hulks of abandoned cars. A dead city bus angled across two of the northbound lanes, but there was no one left to care, no honking horns, nothing but the eerie silence. He was looking to the East, across the U-Haul lot, when he saw him.

  Snatching up the rifle, he laid the barrel across the railing in front of his chair. He panned the circle of the telescopic scope across the rows of rental trucks. Where are you, you bastard? I know I saw you. There, crouched down behind a box van, he saw the figure of a man. Ed Bukowski settled himself, controlling his breathing as he laid the cross-hairs across the man’s chest. His finger lay poised along the trigger guard. Magnified by the powerful scope, he had a clear view of the crouching figure. What he saw made his trigger finger relax.

  Well, will you look at this sorry sonofabitch. Hell, he ain’t worth the price of a bullet; just
a damn kid. And look at that shotgun he’s packing. That thing’s as long as he is tall. What did he find, his grandpa’s goose gun? Ain’t he a sorry sight? What the hell am I going to do with you, Boy? Ed raised his eye from the rifle scope, thinking it over.

  Well, you can shoot him, let him go, or go down and get him; your choice. He damn sure isn’t one of the Boat Boys, poor bedraggled sod. But it’s no good letting him wander around the neighborhood. He’ll just get himself into trouble, or run into the Boat Boys, or get caught and eaten by one of the stalkers. Shit, I guess I’ll have to get him. Damn that kid, interrupting my smoke. Okay, Son, you stay put until I get down there. Don’t be wasting my time.

  He rose from the camp chair, the rifle in one hand, cigar in the other. A few quick steps brought him to a door that led to the interior of the clubhouse. Four men sat around a table, a card game spread in front of them. The sound of the door opening interrupted the game.

  “Hey Ed, what’s up?”

  “I got a live one out there, over in the U-Haul lot. One of you needs to go with me.”

  “Well, hell, we’re in the middle of a game here.”

  “Yeah, and I’m in the middle of a cigar, so what? C’mon Jake, grab something and meet me out front.”

  The man named Jake dropped his cards to the table.

  “Shit, and it was my crib. Is it one of those fucking Boat Boys? We might all of us need to go.”

  “No, it’s just some scared looking kid, all on his own. I don’t know where the hell he came from, but we can’t just leave him down there. Two of us will be plenty.”

  “Alright, I’ll grab some gear. Shotgun or rifle, ya think?”

  “Make it a shotgun. I’ve got the aught-six.”

  “Okay, two minutes.”

  Ed pulled the door closed and returned to his guard station. He raised the rifle and peered into the scope. The kid was still there, pressed so tight to the box van that he was almost under the thing. Sighing, Ed lowered the rifle and hurried to a set of exterior stairs.