Clouds Before Rain

by Marco Etheridge

Barry heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway behind him. He swiveled in his chair, turning away from the windows. A tall man stood in the open doorway, clad in heavy workmen’s clothing. A blue watch cap was perched atop a head of unruly grey hair. Alert, blue eyes peered out from a face lined and creased by years in the sun. The man leaned against the doorjamb, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand.

  “Good morning, Barry.”

  “Morning, Bob. I see the patrol just went out.”

  “Yeah, the boys are right on time today. Foggy out there, be good to check things out.”

  “Morning patrol is always a good idea, fog or no fog. We can’t have anyone sneaking onto the Island.”

  “Mind if I join you? We’ve got some time before breakfast.”

  “Sure, always glad for the company.”

  The older man walked across the narrow room. An empty office chair squeaked as he settled into it.

  “Any news from the world?”

  Barry rubbed a finger through a bushy eyebrow, eyes on the notebook in front of him. He blew a breath through pursed lips, reached to flip the cover open.

  “Yes, I have news from the world, and none of it good.”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t really expecting good news.”

  “Then you won’t be disappointed, Bob. It sounds like our friends in Sydney are being overrun. They had two people killed last night. I received one transmission, the gist of it being that they are going to try for a breakout; a dash out of Sydney.”

  “Jesus wept, you’d think that people would figure this out, maybe decide that killing each other is not the best plan. But no, everyone seems hellbent on finishing off the few folks who survived this damned plague. Crying fucking shame, that’s what it is.”

  “It is that. So much for any thought of the greater common good.”

  “You think those Aussies have any chance of getting out of there?”

  “Any chance? Sure, there’s always a chance. But I’d say they are fighting pretty long odds. From what Terrence has told me, Sydney is at least as bad as Seattle, probably worse. We won’t know anything for at least a week. Terrence, he seems like a good guy, you know? I damn sure hope they make it.”

  “Well, here’s to luck.”

  The man raised his coffee cup, taking a sip. When he lowered the cup, his eyes were on Barry.

  “Any other news on the airwaves?”

  “Nothing new to report. It’s a grim picture, that’s for sure. The few Ham contacts that I had, they’re blinking out like bad Christmas lights. There’s no way to know for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say that the number of survivors is shrinking by the day.”

  “So, not much different from what we’ve been thinking. It’s a hell of a thing, living through this. What did the evangelicals call it, the End Days?”

  “Yeah, something like that. But they’re all dead as well.”

  “You hear anything from the Seattle side, those VHF signals?”

  “Not much, but those folks are still over there. I assume it’s more than one person. Here’s the last thing I’ve got in the log.”

  He flipped a few pages in the notebook, then pushed it across the table.

  Bob reached inside a jacket pocket, his fingers finding a pair of reading glasses.

  “I can’t read anymore unless I have these damn things. Then I lose them. I’ve got pairs of them scattered over half the island I bet; in my boat, in the galley, hell, you name it.”

  With the glasses perched on the end of his nose, the older man peered down at the open page.

  Any vessel, any vessel, this is Marjorie C. Over.

  Marjorie C, this is Island. Over.

  Marjorie C, 68. Over.

  Roger Marjorie C, 68. Over.

  (Frequency change to 68 - Barry)

  Island, this is Marjorie C. Over.

  Read you, Marjorie C. Over.

  What is your position? Over?

  Do not care to disclose our position. Over.

  Island, best guess you are not a vessel? Over.

  Do not care to play twenty questions. Over.

  Island, no harm meant. Only trying to determine threats to ourselves. Over.

  Marjorie C, exact same here. Over.

  Island, understood. Fair warning, we will fire on approaching vessels if need be. Over.

  Marjorie C, no intent to approach you in any way. Over.

  Understood and appreciated, Island. Over.

  Marjorie C, we expect same treatment. Over.

  Island, Understood. Marjorie C. Over and Out.

  Island. Over and Out.

  The man dropped the log to the table, peering over his glasses at Barry.

  “Not too damn friendly, or at least so I gather. Hostile would be the word I’d choose.”

  “What about us, Bob? Are we hostile?”

  Bob shook his head, staring into his cooling coffee.

  “Yes, to the outside world, what’s left of it anyway, I guess we are hostile. Anyone who tries to force their way onto our island, they are probably going to get shot. But this is a good group of folks. If we found survivors that needed shelter, reasonable people, I think we would take them in, at least on a provisional basis.”

  “There’s fourteen of us now. A dozen boats, not counting the small craft. Best case, how many people do you think this little island can support?”

  “Best case, maximum, everyone working together? I’d guess maybe fifty people, tops.”

  Barry shook his head.

  “I put it closer to forty, but it doesn’t matter. The Island is all that we have. It gives us protection, that’s the big thing. We can spot a vessel from a long ways off. The downside is that being on an island makes foraging for food and fuel tricky. Fuel, that’s the big one. We better start building a Viking boat, one with lots of oars.”

  “Yeah, that would be a hell of a sight, wouldn’t it? Back to the subject at hand, what do we know about this Marjorie C group, if it is a group?”

  “Not much, but I have a few solid guesses. First, this is a VHF contact. That means the signal is more or less line-of-sight, and not more than twenty miles away, give or take.”

  “So these folks are neighbors, in the broad sense of the word?”

  “Exactly. If I were a betting man, I’d be laying my money on Elliott Bay. Seattle is almost a straight shot across the water, but not quite. West Seattle blocks us from most of the downtown, a lot of the waterfront, and Harbor Island. These guys are using the call sign Marjorie C. That’s the name of a boat, or a ship, unless I miss my guess. The VHF signal is damn good, so I’m betting we have direct line-of-sight. That leaves us with the north end of Elliott Bay. I think if we motored over to Pier Ninety, we’d find these guys camped out on one of those big auto carriers that dock there.”

  “You’re talking about those ships that bring in the new cars from Japan and Korea, or used to anyway.”

  “The very same. If you think about it, it’s a pretty good plan. A big ship like that, once you haul up the gangways, you’ve got yourself a floating steel fortress. Generators, huge fuel supply, cooking and sleeping quarters. A group of survivors could do a lot worse.”

  “Hmm... makes sense to me. Has anyone spotted anything, any activity?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Do we have any lenses powerful enough to scope that far?”

  “Let’s find out. It’s time for breakfast. We can ask the group, see if anyone has a telescope stashed aboard their boat. Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat. Let me guess, salmon and spuds?”

  “You got it, breakfast of champions. C’mon, I’m buying.”

  Chapter 13

  Revelations

  Liz stared at the list in front of her, a mug of tea going cold at her elbow. She reread the neat, flowing script, laughing out loud. The words cascaded down the page: Canned goods, Canned Milk, Pasta, Batteries, Condoms, Pharmacy (Antibiotics!), Bandages. Still laughing to herself, she added to the list: Bullets, Lots of Bullets, Helmets, D
iamond Ring.

  The laugh died away across the galley table. Now isn’t that Freudian, those two little words just popping out like that? Give it up, Girl, you need the bullets a lot more than you want a diamond ring. Want and need, yeah, those are two very dangerous words these days. Want, that could drive a person insane. Need could easily get a person killed. We need bullets, we need to find a rifle. I want a diamond ring because... why? Because my mother wanted me to have one? Because my sister has one; had one. Liz saw her Mother’s sad face, her Sister’s smile. I miss you both, dammit; I miss you so much.

  She folded the list in half, not wanting to look at it. My mom, my sister, they’re both gone, along with the rest of the world. All of those big, white, wedding dresses; they are gone as well. You see, it’s easy to tell the difference. I need and want my Mom, my Sister. I never needed, didn’t really want the white wedding dress.

  What about Pat? Yes, there was need and want rolled together. I want Pat. He’s sweet, and thoughtful, and sexy. Sure, he’s clueless sometimes, but what guy isn’t? And I need him, even if that’s hard to admit. He’s strong, clever, and he has already saved my life more than once. She saw the image in her mind, the fast swing of the shotgun, the look on Pat’s face, hard, not afraid. The image nagged at her. Six months; how much can you really learn in just six short months?

  I know who Pat isn’t; that’s important. He’s not an abusive asshole. He’s sweet and loyal, thoughtful; and he has never so much as raised a finger against you. Sure, I don’t know everything about him. Everybody has secrets. Like that married guy. Now there was an asshole that could keep a secret. Look on the bright side; Pat can’t possibly have a wife stashed somewhere. Everyone is dead. Which does raise the relationship stakes, that’s for sure. The dating options are pretty damn lean. Not that they were great before, at least if a girl wanted to date a decent guy. Creeps, there were lots of creeps.

  Liz realized how quiet it was. She looked through the empty galley door, listened, heard nothing. What was he up to now?

  She found him in the courtyard, standing in a pool of sunlight. His arms were stretched wide, as if he were ready to take flight. The sound of the door opening broke his reverie. He looked at her and smiled, blinking in the morning sun.

  “Hello, My Love. Look, the sun is shining.”

  The sun was indeed shining. The air was cold and crisp, a breeze playing over the open roof. The last shriveled, brown leaves rattled in the trees above the courtyard. Beyond the trees, she could see the top of the Space Needle, a white flying saucer glowing in the sky.

  “The sun may be shining, but it’s cold out here.”

  “You need to come over here in the sun. C’mon Liz, come get your dose of vitamin D. Who knows when we’ll have another sunny day.”

  Liz walked into the pool of sun, feeling the first touch of its warmth. Pat wrapped an arm over her, his hand gripping her shoulder. He turned her body to face the sun.

  “There, now we can bake in the sun, like two happy lizards.”

  Her eyes closed. The inside of her eyelids went red with the sun. Her face relaxed into a smile.

  “Mmm... you’re right, that is very nice.”

  “It’s nicer now that I’m sharing it with you.”

  She opened her eyes, turned her head to smile at him. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, sun falling full across his pale skin. A skein of freckles gave his face a boyish air. Sandy hair fell to his ears, a bit uneven at the neck. Liz needed to polish up her barbering skills.

  “Pat?”

  “Mmm...?”

  “Why do you think we made it?”

  “Made what?”

  “Don’t be a doofus, you know exactly what I mean.”

  “Are we talking about the long odds of both of us having survived?”

  “Yes, exactly, as you are quite aware. And long odds, that doesn’t come close to describing it.”

  “And you are quite aware, my beautiful Elizabeth, that this is a conversation I hate.”

  “Why? I have never gotten that.”

  Pat lowered his face from the glow of the sun. His eyes were serious, looking into hers.

  “If I think about how we both survived, I have to think about the incredible odds against it. Then I realize how truly fragile and tenuous all of this is; what a miracle we are, the two of us together. That’s about the time the fear of losing you crashes down on me. And that fear is more than I can bear.”

  Liz was aware of her heart beating in her chest.

  “Pat O’Shea, I swear, sometimes you are just the sweetest man.”

  “An easy thing to be when I’m the only man.”

  Liz rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Out of reflex, she jabbed her fist into his shoulder.

  “That was a fine job breaking the mood.”

  Pat only laughed.

  “Just for that, we get to talk about today’s errands. That will teach you.”

  “I’m all ears, My Love.”

  “Okay then. We have to hit the Mety Mart, of course. We need to stock up on more yummy canned food. But I’d also like to look for some medical supplies. Our stock of first-aid stuff is not so good.”

  “Okay, we can do that. The Mety Mart doesn’t have a pharmacy, but there is a drug store on the back side. I’m betting that the pharmacy is probably in bad shape. The dopers made a mess out of things, trying to find all of the opioids. But hey, there’s also one of those walk-in clinics in the same parking lot. That might be worth checking out.”

  “Good, because even if we don’t find any more antibiotics, we need bandages, dressings, that kind of stuff. How do you want to get there? It will be sunny on the center grounds.”

  “Yes, it will, but it’s also a longer circle. We’re going to be carrying a lot of stuff. It’s easier to manage the wagon if we stay on First. Three blocks up, straight back, then we’re done. With the wagon and the two backpacks, we should be able to cart a lot of goods. I think we can manage with just the pistol. You carry the Glock, and I pull the wagon. The shotgun is awkward as hell with the backpack.”

  “Well, then, my big sun lizard, I think we should probably get to it. What is it the movie cowboys say? We’re burning daylight, Pardner.”

  “Yeah, a classic John Wayne line.”

  Pat squinted up at the sky.

  “The sun will be on First by now. That will be nice.”

  Liz followed Pat around the perimeter of the Fort. He always went the same way, circling counter clockwise, a creature of habit. No, Pat was not so much a creature of habit as he was methodical; yes, that was it.

  The exterior of the Fort looked unchanged. The heavy plywood shutters covered the insides of the windows. From the outside, it looked like a building undergoing renovation when the plague hit. A project that would never be finished. At the south corner of the Fort, they turned into a small parking lot. A few rats scurried from under a steel dumpster, disturbed by the footsteps of the humans. These days, Liz didn’t give rats a second glance.

  Pat turned north into the alley that ran between the Fort and a concrete parking garage. Liz felt for the pistol in her vest pocket, making sure the Glock was where it should be. Only when they emerged into the relative openness of Thomas Street did she allow herself to relax. She leaned her head close to Pat’s before she spoke.

  “I don’t like that damn alley.”

  Pat nodded.

  “Yeah, it’s a bit tight in there, but we have to check it. One good thing about that damn ivy on the walls, I can see if anyone’s been trying to climb up the side of the Fort.”

  The remark brought a smile to Liz’s face. She knew that Pat hated English Ivy almost as much as he hated crows.

  Pat raised a hand toward First Avenue.

  “Are you ready to head up the hill?”

  “Yes, I am. A walk will do me good.”

  The center of First Avenue was easier walking now. Pat had continued his mission of rolling the dead cars to the far side, working his way furthe
r and further north. He had managed to clear the road way as far as Republican, providing them with a wide, unobstructed path. The west side of First was a jumble of cars and trucks rolled against the curb at odd angles. Inside many of the vehicles was a corpse; bodies that were slowly becoming piles of rag and bone.

  They walked up the center of the broad avenue. On their right was a wide, paved plaza that stretched between the street and the squat pyramid of the Key Arena. Maple trees and rhododendrons grew from enormous concrete planters. On the north side of the arena, a long wheelchair ramp and wide concrete stairs marked the entrance to a passageway. This place was one of Pat’s No-Go zones, a shadowy labyrinth between the arena and the low-slung Northwest Rooms. It had been a happy place in the old days; the old days being just a few months ago. Then, the many public rooms featured art exhibits, music venues, all of the things that made the Seattle Center a hub of activity. Now, they were a death trap, a tangle of hiding places, narrow walkways with no clear line of sight. Pat had declared the Northwest Passage strictly off-limits.

  The bulk of the Key Arena faded behind them as they walked up the centerline of the avenue. Bony fingers of bare maple trees arched above them from planter strips along the curb lines. As they reached the intersection with Republican, Pat steered a course to the right-hand side of the road, veering around an abandoned city bus. Liz was two steps behind him, walking just to the right of the little utility wagon. That’s when it happened.

  The only thing that saved them was the distance, and Pat. The attackers came charging from the right, two of them, lurching up from behind a low, concrete wall. Shrieking, they were shrieking, an inhuman sound tearing the quiet air. Without a thought, the Glock was in her right hand, her left hand coming up to steady it. Just as Pat showed her, just as she had practiced in the courtyard. Liz sighted on the chest of the first thing. As she squeezed the trigger, a thought ran through her head: Why Two? Nothing happened, there was no explosion, no kick in her hand. She squeezed the trigger again, nothing. Then there was Pat’s voice saying, “Give me the gun, Liz,” while the two shrieking things charged forward, closing the distance between them.