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.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Pat’s right hand sliding up her arm, yanking the pistol from her grip, the snarling faces getting closer and closer. Pat’s left hand covering the top of the pistol, pulling back the slide. Pat’s right hand lashing down and forward, like a snake, the arm extending, seeming to lock in place. She could see saliva on the teeth of one snarling mouth, saliva glistening in the sun. Explosions, two of them, so fast they blended together, spaced only by the half-second of Pat shifting his right hand. Spittle flying from the snarling mouth, two bodies falling forward, clenching hands flailing the air only a few paces in front of her. The tinny clink of brass against pavement; a horrible, guttural moaning from the two heaps twitching on the ground. Pat stepping in front of her, right arm extended and pointing down. Her body jerked at the sharp crack of the pistol. The first body jerked as well, then lay still. Pat’s upper body half-turning, following his right hand. Another sharp crack, followed by rolling echoes.
Pat stepped backwards, right arm extended in front of him, pistol held at the ready. Without turning his head, his left arm wrapped around her waist. He walked her backwards, away from the two dead heaps before her. All the while, the pistol swept back and forth in front of him. Back and forth, back and forth.
The little wagon had rolled away, dragging its handle behind it. Ten backward paces from the dead things, he turned her body away. Liz let herself be guided, her mind still reeling. Pat walked her to the wagon, his grip firm around her. She felt him stop, holding her still. The arm released her, his hand finding her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Liz saw the hand rise to his mouth, one finger over his lips, then palm outward, his eyes locked on hers. A message she could grasp: Be quiet. Wait, wait here. So she did.
She watched him, watched his deliberate movements. He took two steps away from her, closer to the wagon. He did not stoop to grasp the handle. Pat’s right arm was extended down, the pistol held at his thigh. He turned a slow circle, his eyes up and searching.
Liz was frozen in place, tears streaming down her face. She raised a hand to her cheek, surprised at the wetness she found there. She stared through the tears, her eyes finding the dead things lying on the far side of the road. Then Pat was beside her, the wagon trailing behind him. The pistol had disappeared. His right hand closed on hers.
“C’mon Baby, let’s go back to the Fort.”
* * *
Liz cursed the cold, cursed the shadows, cursed the plywood over the windows. She pushed her feet closer to the kerosene heater. Dammit, will I ever be warm again? Maybe, but if you want to get warm, you’re going to have to survive until April. Her thumb counted the months against finger tips. Four months; that’s a long time. Blanket clutched to her throat, she pulled her counting hand back inside.
From the roof above her came a scraping sound; Pat adjusting his camp chair. How can he do it? How can he sit up there in the cold, watching the street? Watching and smoking; she could picture him. The collar of his tattered canvas jacket was flipped up, wool cap low and tight on his head. One hand holding his cigar, the other stuffed into the blanket lining of his jacket pocket. Switching hands when his knuckles started to ache. Just sitting, legs in front of him, sitting in the cold. Like an animal.
Pat had walked her back to the Fort, the empty wagon trailing behind his heels. Then they were safe, the steel door locked and barred. Taking her empty pack, he led her into the Galley. He did exactly the right things; starting the heater, boiling water for tea, getting her a blanket. Liz let him work, left the questions unasked. Pat brought her tea, sat with her. The third time he asked if she was okay, she replied by asking him if he didn’t, maybe, have something that needed doing. He was up and gone like a shot.
She heard him working in the shop, cleaning the pistol. Fine, let Pat keep the damn thing. It’s been nothing but a curse. I couldn’t even make it shoot, not when it counted. Why the hell did I take it in the first place? I should have just left it alone, left it in that schmuck’s desk drawer. The answer came on the heels of the question. You took the Glock because you needed it, because the world has gone nuts. You took it to survive. So quit blaming the damn pistol.
Liz chewed on her thoughts, chasing them around in circles. When Pat stuck his head through the door to say he was going up on the roof, she nodded and managed a weak smile. She heard him climbing the ladder in the shop, heard the access hatch open and close.
She wiggled her toes, feeling the chill easing. The kerosene heater was actually doing something besides making the air smell bad. So, are you going to be mad at the pistol, or mad at yourself? You messed up, you know you did. You know better than to half-learn something. Be mad if you want, but you could have been killed. And you could have gotten Pat killed. Better to carry the driver. You know how to use a golf club, that’s for damn sure.
So learn how to use a pistol, really use it, like Pat. Yeah, and that’s the damn question, isn’t it? Where did Pat learn to use a pistol like that? What was that? What the fuck happened out there? Liz shook her head, the scene playing out in her memory. Pointing the pistol, the fear and shock when it didn’t fire, those snarling faces getting closer. Then Pat has the pistol, only it’s not Pat, it’s someone else, some crazy killing machine. Two shots and they were both down. Then he shot them both in the head. Just like that.
Liz remembered the look on his face, cold and hard. Where did that come from? Who was that? Liz felt the scared little girl in her; the need to confront, the need to ask questions. Elizabeth drew a breath in, let it out; drew in another, let it out. She felt her focus returning.
So now you know: Pat’s got a secret. He knows how to use a pistol far better than any pacifist has a right to. You know it, and now he knows that you know it. And what about you? Have you told Pat everything about your past? No, not even close. But this is different. Nothing in my past is so, so… scary. That’s what it was: fear. The realization brought her up short. Is that it? Are you afraid of Pat? She rolled it over in her mind, looking for the answer. The answer was not completely reassuring. No, I am not afraid of my Pat. But this other Pat, I’m not so sure.
She shook
her head, trying to shake away the nagging fear. C’mon Liz, you know Pat. You might not know everything about the man, but he is the same guy you were standing in the sun with not two hours ago. You know him, you know how his mind works. He’s up there on the roof, and he’s worrying about this. He’s smoking his cigar and worrying. What is she going to ask me? When is she going to ask me? How long can I make this cigar last? Sure, that’s Pat through and through; she could picture it.
That’s fine, let him stew for a while. I’m not afraid of Pat, I’m angry. It doesn’t matter whether he lied by omission or not, it’s still a lie. Let him stew about it for a while. That will teach him. He will do a fine job of torturing himself if you just let him wait and worry.
Meanwhile, ask him to teach you everything there is to know about that stupid Glock. That is important knowledge; important for staying alive. The same goes for the shotgun. You need to know it inside and out. The rest of it can wait. We’ve got nothing but time and nowhere to go. Pat will tell you all about it when the time comes. This isn’t over yet.
Finis
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The adventure of Liz and Pat continue in the exciting full-length novel:
The Best Dark Rain:
A Post Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love
Other Novels By Marco Etheridge:
Blood Rust Chains
Coming soon By Marco Etheridge:
To Break the Bundle
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Acknowledgements
No man is an island and neither is any novel. I had a great deal of help along the journey that eventually became this novel. Here are some of the folks that I need to acknowledge:
First, to my beautiful and extraordinary wife Sabine, my complete gratitude for encouraging me, prodding me, and for shining a light on the path.
Next, to my son Liam, for the great ideas, enthusiasm, and crazy stuff.
With a huge drum roll and thunderous applause, my heartfelt thanks to my Beta-Reader Dark Army! Every author should be so lucky as to have the faithful Beta-Readers that I am blessed with. With a combination of encouragement, careful correction, criticism, kicks-to-the-ass, and loyal dedication, my Beta-Readers stood with me the whole way. I can never thank them enough. Here are just a few of them:
Scott “The Bruce” Duncan, Ray & Marta Peters, Nathan & Moomi Hayes, Robert Riley, Jr., Iain Knight, Mark Hansen, Sandy Donnen, Bill Keener, Bud Cudmore, Elena Deem, Michael Prendergast, Michael & Kim Riley, Misha Williams, and many, many more. You guys Rock!!
About the Author
An ex-resident of Seattle, Marco Etheridge lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. When he isn’t creating great fiction or being a good Hausmann, he explores the world with his lovely wife. If the sun is shining too brightly, or the birds are too chipper, Marco studies German grammar to create a suitably dark mood for creativity.
Clouds Before Rain is the fourth novel by Marco Etheridge, but not the only one. Keep up with publishing news and new projects by going to:
https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com
The Best Dark Rain: A Post-Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love Page 10