The Best Dark Rain: A Post-Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love

by Marco Etheridge

  Things were going to be different now. A modified section of the steel shelving stood next to the shower stall. A metal storage box was mounted to the upper section of the rack, high enough that Pat could walk under it. Underneath the metal box was a propane weed burner. C’mon, Boyo, you can make this work. Just a few more plumbing connections, and then we can test it out. The theory is good, if nothing else. Water flows into the box, the weed burner heats the water in the box, then the heated water provides a lovely warm shower. Unless the weed burner sets the whole place on fire. Or the hot water scalds the bather to death. Or these jury-rigged plumbing connections fail. The sound of an opening door distracted Pat from further thoughts of possible disasters.

  Liz was walking across the courtyard. She wore a black fleece jacket zipped tight to her neck, her dark brunette hair cascading to her shoulders. And she had that walk, that tom-boy strut that captured Pat’s eye the first time he saw her. It was at a moving party for a mutual friend, Liz carrying boxes with that confident stride. Lucky he owned a truck, lucky he’d been begged to help. Lucky he met Elizabeth Walker. Six months, you’ve only known this woman six months. Yeah, and it has been the best six months of my life. Except for the bit about the world dying.

  As Liz drew closer, he could see the storm in her sea-grey eyes, the look that usually meant something difficult was about to happen. Then she was standing in front of him.

  “How goes the project, Mister Plumber?”

  “I haven’t burned the place down yet, or flooded it, so I guess so far, so good.”

  She raised a finger, pointing to his waist.

  “Aren’t you supposed to have your jeans at half-mast, you know, so I can see the crack of your ass?”

  “I think it’s a bit chilly for plumber’s butt. How’s it going in there?”

  “Fine, you know, ready to make lunch, so I laid out the can opener. Another wonderful meal of beef stew and rye-crisp.”

  “Better beef stew than Spaghetti-O’s.”

  “I’m saving the canned pasta for dinner; lucky you.”

  Pat heard the frustration in her voice, the sharp edge. He took a breath, held if for a moment, then let it go. Ready or not…

  “Okay, My love, what are you chewing on?”

  There was a guttural noise from Liz’s throat, her hands rising in front of her.

  “It’s what I’m not chewing on, Pat. I’m not chewing on green salad, or real bread, or even an ordinary banana. Is that too much to ask, a world where bananas exist?”

  “I’m sorry Liz, I know the food thing is tough.”

  “Dammit, Pat, you don’t need to be sorry. It’s not your fault, and it’s not about the stupid food. I’m just venting. To hell with the food, I can live on canned crap if I have to. What I’m struggling with is the lack of fundamental truths. I need something to be true, something that stays true, but everything is just one big lie.”

  Pat’s awareness shot to high alert.

  “Which lies are you talking about, Liz?”

  “A couple of big ones, just to start.”

  Liz held up her hands, index finger counting against the fingers of the opposite hand. In Pat’s experience, this was always a bad sign.

  “The world’s population is not going to die off in one cataclysmic event. Turns out, that’s lie number one.”

  Liz extended another finger.

  “Lie number two: human beings are basically decent and won’t really kill each other at the drop of a fucking hat. We know for sure how untrue that one is.”

  One more finger.

  “And, most importantly, dead people stay dead. That’s lie number three. And lie number three, that’s the one that I’m chewing on. I get it that the world decided to die in my lifetime. I don’t like it, but I can accept it at some level. Human beings weren’t exactly the best stewards of the planet. And I always doubted the theory about human beings and basic decency, so that one isn’t a huge leap. But dead people staying dead, that was a fundamental truth. Maybe in some blissful afterlife the dead get to be alive again, who knows: but not here, not on Earth.”

  Pat started to speak, then thought better of it. She’s not mad at you, there’s nothing you can do to help, just let her get it out. This is one of those listening times, right? Be glad that you’re not on her list of fundamental lies.

  “You’re right, Liz, that is some truly crazy shit.”

  He watched her eyes squeeze shut, hands clenched in front of her, heard her breath explode into the space between them. Then it passed. She raised her head, her eyes open and looking into his.

  “Sorry, Baby, I’m just trying to find some solid ground here. There’s something else, something nagging at me. That first time, when we were hauling the mattress back, did you see anything before I noticed the body was missing?”

  Pat shook his head, the memory a sour taste at the back of his throat. Not seeing everything; that could have gotten them killed. Or, worse, gotten Liz killed. How would he have lived with that? Simple answer: he wouldn’t have.

  “No, I missed it, Liz. That was a big mistake. It was a damn good thing you spoke up when you did. I turned around just in time, saw that bastard behind you. Two more steps, shit, I don’t even want to think about it.”

  Liz stood in front of him, nodding her head.

  “You saved my life, Pat O’Shea. That is one truth I am very grateful for. And I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate, but where did you learn to handle a shotgun like that?”

  The question snapped Pat back from his memories of that awful day. Be careful, Bucko.

  “Well, just because I don’t like guns now doesn’t change my past. I grew up with guns, you know? My Da and the uncles, they’d take me bird hunting. We used to go shoot pheasant outside Chicago, out on a farm in the Fox River Valley. Then there was my time in the army, of course. It was after that, after I moved to Seattle, that’s when I gave up on all of that stuff.”

  Liz’s eyes were on him, but she was smiling. Pat felt as if a cloud had passed away.

  “Then I suppose it is a very lucky thing for me that you remembered what your Da taught you.”

  Her hand reached for his, pulling him forward. Her arms circled his neck, the smell of her hair thick and warm. Then her hands were on his shoulders, bright eyes looking into his.

  “C’mon, my hard-working man, it’s time for lunch. You can play with your project after we eat.”

  Taking him by the hand, she led him across the courtyard to the interior door of the Fort. He followed her, willingly, glad for the end of the conversation.

  * * *

  The tall man walked down the wide avenue. A pale winter sun floated above a thin, cold haze. The shadow of the man went before him, weak and indistinct. As he walked, the man’s eyes moved back and forth, searching the storefronts on either side of the pavement. The coffee bars stood silent. There was no sibilant hiss from busy espresso machines, no banging of portafilters. Pizza joints, trendy bars, bakeries; they were all abandoned. After walking another silent block, the tall man saw the person he was looking for.

  A man sat slumped on a wooden bench in front of a flower shop. On either side of the bench, dead plants draped their brown, rotting leaves over the tiers of abandoned steel carts. The tall man stood in the center of the avenue, watching. The ragged figure on the bench took no notice of him.

  At least he is still alive, this sad king on his winter throne. The tall man scanned the avenue in both directions, satisfying himself that they were alone. Then he spoke.

  “Good morning, My Friend; it is good to see you.”

  The sitting figure did not move, did not acknowledge the sound of the words.

  “May I join you for a bit?”

  There was no response.

  “Well, then, I will take that as a yes.”

  He moved from the center of the pavement, walking slowly. The seated man seemed not to see him. The tall man stopped beside the bench, standing to one side.

  “It is
a long walk up the hill. I could do with a rest. I think I will sit for a while, if you don’t mind sharing your bench with me.”

  He slid the heavy sword from his shoulder, propping it against one of the steel carts. The dry leaves of dead plants brushed against his cold hand. Settling himself onto the bench, he pulled a water bottle from his jacket pocket. The two men sat in silence, one staring at the street with dead eyes, the other sipping water. A bit of sun escaped the clouds, illuminating the desiccated plants. There was a slight stir of motion at the end of the bench. He turned to the silent man.

  “Christopher, can you hear me?”

  The man moved his head, eyes blinking. Trembling hands reached up, snugging his dirty coat tighter at the throat. Then his face turned, eyes searching. The face became suddenly alert, as if seeing his new companion for the first time.

  “Oh… Hello. I didn’t expect… didn’t expect…”

  “You did not expect visitors today?”

  The man nodded his head, eyes turning back to the empty street in front of him. He spoke into the quiet air, his voice hoarse in his throat.

  “No, I was just… waiting, not expecting. Waiting, yes, that’s it, I was waiting.”

  “This is a very good spot for waiting. What, or whom I should say, are you waiting for?”

  The man named Christopher looked up and down the empty avenue before answering.

  “I’m waiting for them to come back. The people; I’m waiting for them.”

  The tall man nodded his head. He was smiling under his tweed cap, but his eyes were sad.

  “Yes, that would be lovely, would it not? The street is far too empty. And I do hope they come back. Tell me, have you eaten today?”

  Christopher looked startled, turning his face to peer at the man sitting next to him.

  “Eaten? What’s the point?”

  The words came then, faster, more focused.

  “Eating won’t bring the people back, will it? No, that doesn’t work, I tried that. Sleeping doesn’t work either, no, it doesn’t work. Sleeping is the worst of all. They come back, when I’m sleeping they come back, but it doesn’t bring them back. Do you understand? They come back, but it doesn’t bring them back. It’s not real. They talk to me, but I can’t reach them, then I wake up. When I wake up they are gone; they are back in the ground.”

  “Who is trying to reach you, Christopher?”

  “My… my wife, my children, they reach for me when I am sleeping. But they cannot reach all the way across, they cannot touch me, because they are in the ground. They are in the ground behind the house, by the tree. I buried them there; when all the people went away. I buried them there.”

  “I am very sorry, Christopher, very sorry indeed. That is a terrible thing you had to do.”

  Christopher turned his face to the empty street, his head swiveling back and forth, back and forth. When he spoke again, his voice was harsh.

  “You don’t have to tell, me, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I know. I know they are never coming back, not my wife, not my kids, not any of them. I know what I did, what these hands did. I saw it with my own eyes, all right? I saw it.”

  He fell back against the bench, as if the words had exhausted him. His eyes were closed, chin on his chest, hands fallen in his lap like dead things. There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There is no reason to apologize, Christopher, no reason at all.”

  Christopher raised his eyes to the street, resuming his vigil. The tall man sat quite still, watching his companion. He saw one trembling hand move, reaching blindly. He clasped the cold hand in his own, felt the grip of it, let it settle between them. The pale winter sun shown on the two of them, sitting quietly on their bench.

  Chapter 12

  Island

  The makeshift radio room glowed silver in a wash of early morning light. Wide swaths of fog hung over the shipping lanes out on Puget Sound. Far behind the fog, on the Seattle side, the sun was rising. The world took on a palette of glowing grey tones; sun behind fog, fog over silver water, the horizon disappearing between the two.

  Below the windows, a concrete breakwater curved out into Puget Sound, enclosing a small harbor. A dozen boats lay silent at their moorings, each tethered to a long concrete dock that jutted into the sheltered water. Inside the breakwater, the surface of the water was as still as a mill pond. A sixteen-foot inflatable skiff was moored at the near end of the dock, its outboard engine hoisted clear of the salt water.

  A man sat in the radio room, silent, watching the swirls of grey light, the flat water running north on the tidal shift. He sipped his coffee, happy to have it, wondering so many things. There was time to wonder; as much time as he needed. The radios gave off the barest hiss of static. It was that quiet lull on the island; the last stillness before the bustle of the day began.

  He wondered about coffee. How much coffee do fourteen adults drink in a week? And they were boat people, notorious coffee sluts, so that had to be factored in. It didn’t matter. The kitchen was huge, stocked for sixty tourists at a sitting. The pantry shelves were piled with canned goods, heavy plastic bags of coffee beans, and enough cake mixes for a small army. Then there was the salmon, an entire walk-in freezer full of salmon.

  I never thought I could get tired of salmon, but I’m sure tired of it now. When that big diesel tank runs dry, the generators are going to stop. When the generators stop, the walk-in freezer goes dead. Then the salmon feast comes to an end. How much longer? Two weeks, three at the outside; unless they could ferry diesel from the mainland.

  Out across the water, a commotion caught his eye. Speaking of salmon, he thought. A crowd of gulls swirled, a pulsing ball of white in the grey glow. Below them, the flat water was dappled with silver splashes. Gulls rose and fell above the splashing, diving and rising, diving again. If we were out fishing, that would be our spot right there. Salmon hunting in the water below, driving the ball of bait fish to the surface; gulls falling out of the sky, picking the herring off from above. Bad morning to be a herring. The gulls moved into a bank of fog, following the silver splashes. Their white shapes turned dark; darting silhouettes against the grey. Then the fog closed over them and they disappeared altogether.

  What will happen to the salmon, now that the humans are gone? The man pondered the fish cycles, the yearly pulse of salmon in and out of Puget Sound. No more hatchery fish, that’s for sure. What about the dams? There’s no engineers left to regulate the flow. How long before the spring runoff overtops the dams on the Colombia River? Will the rivers go back to being wild, breaking down the man-made obstacles? All that work, the busy building of the Corps of Engineers, does it all just wash away? How long? One hundred years? Two hundred? Maybe there will be huge runs of salmon again, like there were before that first boatload of whites landed at Alki. Yes, sure, there will be more salmon. And more salmon means more Orcas, more whales, more seals. Every other species benefits now that the age of the humans has come to an end.

  Thoughts of the future vanished as the Ham radio squelched into life. His hand shot to a knob on an illuminated panel, turning up the volume. A disembodied voice filled the quiet room. The man reached for his QSO Log, sliding the notebook in front of him and opening the cover.

  CQ CQ CQ, this is Sierra Oscar Three Sierra standing by.

  CQ CQ CQ, this is Sierra Oscar…

  A buzz of static cut off the signal. The man reached for the radio, adjusting the settings. He leaned forward over the table, left hand hovering over the mic key.

  CQ CQ CQ, this is Sierra Oscar Three Sierra standing by.

  The man keyed the mic, a mechanical pencil hovering over a fresh page in the notebook. As he began to speak, he made notes of the time and the call sign.

  Sierra Oscar Three Sierra, this is India Lima One Delta, this is India Lima One Delta, this is India Lima One Delta. Over.

  India Lima One Delta from Sierra Oscar Three Sierra, thanks for your ca
ll. Barry, is that you, Mate? Over.

  Sierra Oscar Three Sierra from India Lima One Delta. Yes, this is Barry. Terrence, is that you? What is the news from Sydney? Over.

  Not bloody good, Mate; we lost two more people last night. The marauders are running amok. It’s no damn good here, Barry. That’s why I’m trying to reach you. We are pulling out. Sydney is dead, nothing left but the marauder bands. Over.

  Sorry to hear, Terrence, and sorry about your people. That is a damn shame. Where are you going to go? Over.

  North Barry, we are heading north. The group decided to try for the Gold Coast, somewhere between here and Brisbane. Over.

  When will you make a break for it? Is it possible to get out? Over.

  It is possible, yes, but dangerous for sure. We have enough vehicles, enough fuel to make it, maybe enough ammunition. But the marauders have more of everything. The bastards are watching the roads. Odds are we will have to fight our way out, at least until we are clear of Sydney. We have to go now, today. Nineteen hours difference between Sydney and your island. It’s tomorrow here, four-thirty AM. We plan to try for a breakout at sunrise. This will be my last transmission for a few days. Over.

  Very sorry to hear that, Terrence. I am wishing you all luck. Over.

  Thanks, Mate, we are going to need it. Over.

  Do you have any idea what the conditions are further north? Over.

  No, we have no information. But it cannot possibly be worse than Sydney. Australia is dead, Barry, it’s gone. Very few survivors to begin with; then people went mad, killing each other over a jerry can of water. Same story up the Pacific side. I had Ham contacts in Indonesia, Singapore, on up into Thailand. They are all gone. Over.

  Yes, it’s the same story here. My QSO Log gets shorter and shorter every day. I have lost all my European contacts. There are a few blips out of Russia, a few isolated contacts in Canada, and you. That’s all. Over.