Dead Time

by D. L. Orton

  Despite our mediocre pace, we’ve made good progress, blowing past the halfway mark the day before yesterday.

  Last night, I was thinking I’d get to the mountain with a week to spare.

  Unfortunately, things didn’t go as well today.

  A few days ago, when we passed through St. Louis and Kansas City—places where people have been living in biodomes for the past twenty years—the area for miles around the freeway was picked clean.

  No food, no gas, no nothing.

  We saw piles of trash and old campfires everywhere, but Bella said scavengers sent out from the biodomes made them. I had no reason to doubt her.

  Until we got to Topeka.

  We planned to stop there for food and gas, but we kept coming across graffiti drawn on the freeway walls—skeletons and mass graves and bodies being dragged down to hell. Some of the drawings had warnings about “jujment day” and the “end of the wurld.” We tried to toss it off as twenty-year-old Black Death Art, but we both knew it was more recent than that. To be honest, it spooked us. We felt like people were watching us, people who didn’t need biosuits or rebreather masks or vaccine shots.

  We didn’t even slow down.

  Two days of hard traveling later, we’re in the middle of what Thomas Jefferson called the Great American Desert: miles and miles of rolling hills covered in cactus and tumbleweeds with nary a stream, pond, or puddle in sight. We had to use our fuel reserves to get this far, and we have less than a gallon of drinking water left. The last four hundred miles have been through arid terrain with small towns scattered few and far between. We ended up spending more time searching for supplies than driving.

  As we bump down the rutty main street of an old cattle town—not a car or truck in sight—I keep my fingers crossed that we’ll find both food and gas—and that the river south of here is still running. It looks like there was a fire here recently, and most of the buildings on the east side of the street are black skeletons.

  Bearhart barks from the trailer, and I stop in front of the burned-out library and let him do his business.

  “Who do you think started the fire?” Bella asks, sounding worried.

  “Lightning,” I say, pretty sure I’m right. “With all the wood construction and desert climate, this place is a tinderbox.”

  I let Bearhart stretch his legs for a bit, and he trots along next to us as we look for a place to settle for the night.

  We manage to find a brick building surrounded by trees and a park. The sign out front says it’s Eisenhower’s Presidential Library, Museum & Boyhood Home, and it reminds me of Shannon and her comment about dead white guys. I give the bronze statue a salute before driving up the handicap ramp and parking the scooter and trailer behind massive stone pillars.

  The double entrance doors are locked, but the ax makes short work of that problem.

  While Bearhart chases birds out front, I unload the trailer, and Bella sets up camp inside the lobby. She’s been keeping an inventory of our supplies, and when I finish unloading, I ask her how the food situation looks.

  She hands me a sheet of paper and goes back to setting up our beds.

  “Could be better,” I say, “but it still beats your Soylent Green.”

  She doesn’t reply.

  I tuck the paper back in her pack. “Hey?”

  She’s been keeping to herself all day, and I can tell that the journey is wearing on her. She never complains, but I know it’s been years since she hefted a backpack or carried heavy jugs of water or walked for miles in search of food. Even if she were twenty years younger, this would be a challenge for her, and I make a mental note to let her sleep in tomorrow morning.

  “Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

  “Yep,” she says.

  Despite her response, I know Isabel well enough to be worried by the look in her eyes.

  And things are going to get worse before they get better.

  I glance at her handwritten numbers.

  After tonight, we’ll be down to instant mashed potatoes, mushroom flavored ramen noodles, and twenty-year-old Cheez Whiz—which is Bearhart’s favorite but not so much ours.

  Once we finish setting up camp, Bella says she’s going to rest for a bit.

  “Will you be okay for an hour?” I ask. “I want to check out the river water, take a peek into a few houses, and look for cars that might still have gas in them.”

  She nods, looking exhausted, and then lies down on her sleeping bag.

  “Want me to leave Bearhart with you?” I ask, wondering if I should give the gun to her too.

  She shakes her head. “I’m just going to sleep, and I’m sure he’d rather go exploring with you.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back in an hour or less. If something happens and you need me, set off a flare.”

  She rolls away from me and waves her hand. “Be careful.”

  “Always am.” I load up the empty jugs, wait for Bearhart to jump on the trailer, and head south.

  I stop and search three different houses, but I can’t find any canned goods. One of the houses has a pantry full of pickle and jam jars, but I don’t want to take a chance on botulism. You can’t see it or taste it, and even boiling the food won’t kill it.

  Better safe than sorry.

  I do nab a plastic-wrapped box of black tea, thirty feet of nylon rope, and a huge bag of Purina Pig Chow—which Bearhart assures me is tail-wagging good. The third house has a pickup parked in the garage, and it’s full of gas.

  “Yes!”

  Bearhart nearly bowls me over in his attempt to see what’s so exciting.

  I fill up the scooter and top off our reserves while he goes back to sniffing around for food. As I’m screwing on the gas can lid, he barks.

  It turns out to be a family-size box of Twinkies—all of which are desiccated and covered in dark green mold.

  “So much for the old adage that those things have a twenty-year shelf life,” I say and rub his ears. “But good work finding them, buddy!”

  He barks again.

  There’s an unopened jar of honey on the top shelf of the pantry. Honey is one of the few things that lasts pretty much forever. I pull it down, grab a couple of coffee mugs from a rack in the kitchen, and take the stuff back to the scooter.

  We get back on and drive over to what the sign says is the Ute Hill River. Where I come from, it would barely qualify as a drip from a leaky pipe.

  There’s enough water to fill the jugs, but not much hope for any fish bigger than guppies.

  Thirty minutes after leaving Eisenhower’s hangout, I come back with a full tank of gas, four gallons of fresh water, tea, honey, and a wet mutt.

  I’m thinking that tomorrow I’ll let Bella rest for the day while I scavenge for food.

  When I suggest that to her, she doesn’t protest—which surprises me. Up until today, she’s been pressing me to keep moving, insisting that we get up early and ride until sundown.

  Now I’m wondering if I should have listened to my own instincts and taken things a bit slower.

  I sit down next to her, resting my hand on her shoulder. “Is everything okay, Isabella?”

  She looks over at me, her eyes hiding something, and I resist the urge to put my arms around her.

  “I’m fine,” she says, and looks away. “Thanks for getting the water. If you get a fire started, I’ll put together something to eat.”

  I nod and get up, letting it go.

  Maybe she is just tired. Hell, I’m pretty damn tired myself.

  Out in the park, I collect wood and start a fire next to Eisenhower’s statue. There’s a stone bench facing the monument, and I figure it’s as good a place as any to sit and eat.

  Bearhart manages to catch a bird and make a huge mess of it while I’m heating up dinner.

  By the time he’s down to something edible, he’s got feathers all over himself—including a few stuck on his nose and eyelashes—and I have to laugh.

  But as the light fades and the snow clouds sett
le in, silence descends, and a morbid melancholy falls over me.

  It feels as though Isabella and I are the last woman and man alive.

  How the hell did it come to this? How did the human race fuck up this bad?

  Only an hour ago, things seemed almost normal. There were birds in the trees and a dog running around on the lawn. It was like we weren’t barreling headlong toward the end of mankind.

  If you run out on these people before they find the vaccine, where does that leave them?

  Dead.

  Mierda.

  Bella brings me a sweater, and we sit down in front of the fire to enjoy our last cans of chicken, applesauce, and baked beans—Bearhart with his paws around a big bowl of Pig Chow.

  We eat in silence, wintery darkness descending around us, safe—for now—inside the warm circle of firelight.

  Precisely at seven, I give Bella her evening shot of biotechs. Her thigh is covered in red welts from the previous shots, and I try to be as gentle as I can—but I can still see her grimace with pain when the needle breaks her skin. I give her a minute to make sure she’s okay, and then she helps me give a shot to Bearhart. He doesn’t like being held still, but he doesn’t seem to mind them as much as she does.

  At least I don’t have to worry about them dying from Doomsday. Even if we continue traveling at the paltry rate we managed today, there’s plenty of vaccine to last until we reach the Magic Kingdom.

  As long as nothing goes wrong.

  “More tea?” I ask.

  “Please.”

  I get up, put more wood on the fire, and set water to boil.

  “Tell me about her,” Bella says as we watch Bearhart lick our dishes. “My parallel in your world.”

  It’s still above freezing but getting cold now that the sun’s down. “Okay,” I say and grab a blanket from inside, sit back down next to her, and wrap it around both of us.

  She snuggles against me, her face reflecting the firelight.

  “What would you like to know?” I ask.

  “Why you’re here with me—instead of there with her?” She turns to me, her eyes taking in my face and hair and chest. It’s a very intimate look, and it makes my heart beat a little faster.

  “It’s complicated,” I say and kick an ember back into the fire.

  “I have all night.”

  I smile, not looking at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a proposition, Dr. Sanborn.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  She’s an older, more fragile version of Isabel, and in that moment, I realize that I love her too. Not in a rip your clothes off sort of way, but something much deeper and enduring. I want her to be happy. I want her to find James and believe that everything is going to turn out fine.

  “He’s just like you,” she says. “James. I know that sounds cliché, but it’s true.”

  I stare into her eyes for a moment. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  She lifts my palm, stroking the back of my hand with her fingertips. “It was easier to be around you back when I was still angry at you—although to be honest, that was no picnic either.”

  “Love is telling someone to go to hell...” I say, wondering if she’s struggling with her emotions as much as I am, “and worrying if they’ll get there safely.”

  She laughs for the first time in days.

  “Let me get the tea,” I say and pull my hand gently out of hers.

  “Why don’t you like to talk about her?” she asks, watching me work. “Or does that only happen when you’re around me?”

  I use a potholder to pull the boiling water off the fire and then pour it into our cups. Bearhart, who’s been chewing on a stick, gets up and lies down by Bella’s feet, bringing nature’s chew toy with him. I put the old teabags back into the mugs and offer one to her.

  “Thank you,” she says and reaches down to pet Bearhart. “You don’t have to answer that.” She shrugs, still stroking the dog. “I don’t doubt that both you and James did everything in your power to stay with… us. I guess it’s hard to let go of the possibilities, all the what-ifs that spring up when things don’t turn out the way you had hoped.”

  I sit down next to her, our breath visible in the frosty air. She scoots closer to me, pulling the blanket back around my shoulders. “Does she know where you are?”

  I shake my head. “It’s been two years since I kissed her, held her in my arms.”

  “It’s been twenty-eight years for James and me.”

  I rub my eyes with my hand. “Not a day goes by, I don’t wonder what I could have done differently, Isabella—done better. And when I first peered into another world, it made me question if I’d ever get it right. In any universe.”

  “You mean we,” she says, placing her hand on my thigh. “Made you question if we ever get it right.”

  I pick up her hand and kiss it, taking strength from the connection between us, a connection that defies both space and time.

  “When we’re together,” I say, “there’s this feeling that things are as they should be—that the vast and indifferent universes spinning uncontrollably around us are somehow… good.”

  “Yes.”

  We sit in silence, watching the fire.

  “I want you to tell him something,” she says.

  “Tell who?” I ask, turning toward her.

  “James, of course.” She tips her head to the side, resting it on my shoulder. “In case I don’t make it.”

  “What are you talking about, Isabella? I know we had some issues today, but we should be there in a couple of days.”

  She looks up at me, her eyes glossy. “I have cancer, Diego. I’ve known about it for months, but I thought I had… more time.”

  “That can’t be!” I say, my throat tight. “That red-haired kid looked in all the timelines, and he didn’t say anything about—”

  “I’m dying,” she says like she has a headache and needs an aspirin. “A few years ago, it might have been treatable, but no one has a working linac machine anymore.” She pulls a bottle of pills out of her coat pocket. “I’ve been taking these for the pain, but soon they won’t be enough. Perhaps they aren’t already.”

  I stare at her, unable to speak.

  “I need you to tell James that I—”

  “No!” I say, anger giving me strength. “You tell him yourself, Isabella. There are medical facilities inside that mountain. The best this world has to offer. You can bet they have whatever machine you need for treatment. But if three days is too long for you to wait, then I’ll get you there tomorrow.”

  She narrows her eyes. “What are you talking about? We still have two hundred miles to go.”

  “I’ll rig up the trailer so that you and Bearhart can ride on it, and I’ll drive straight through to Warm Springs tomorrow. We have enough gas and water, and I’ll give you a spoon to use in that honey. Hell, I can eat when we get there.”

  She starts to protest, but I don’t give her a chance to get started.

  “This time, hun, I’m going to save you.”

  38

  Gator Aid

  Lani

  At first light, I crawl out of my sleeping bag, put on my shoes, and make my way out of the truck-stop convenience store. Madders is snoring in the environment tent we put up last night, and I do my best not to wake him. Between the Bub’s evacuation, the work inside the Magic Kingdom, and now the hard traveling, he’s looking a bit worse for wear—but now I’m keeping a closer watch on him.

  Despite his brush with death, he has insisted on keeping his promise to me, and I’m grateful for that.

  The day after they restored the power in the Magic Kingdom, Madders and I climbed into a jeep, drove down the mountainside, and flew off to rescue Shannon.

  Surviving Outside is tough at the best of times, let alone during winter—which is why we flew south to start. It’s our fourth day of travel, and we’re somewhere northwest of the Ozarks—about halfway to Catersville. This whole area is swampy and
crawling with alligators—which makes takeoffs and landings dicey—but so far, they seem to be afraid of the engine noise.

  Our progress has been slower than I’d hoped due to the difficulty finding fuel—and because Madders insists that we err on the side of caution. We’ve been stopping for the night while there’s still half a tank of fuel—in case we need to get out in a hurry.

  Madders says there’s an old military base in Memphis with plenty of fuel. We’re headed there next. From Memphis it should take less than an hour to fly to Catersville.

  That’s when the fun starts.

  We’ve fallen into a routine. At night, I erect the environment tent inside whatever closed-off building we can find—hopefully close to food and gas. During the day, I go in search of gasoline and whatever other supplies I can find. Then we fly until we reach half full, find a safe place to set down, and pitch camp.

  Slowly but surely we’ve been making our way toward Shannon, flying a few hundred miles a day.

  The first night, Madders insisted on going with me on the foraging trip, but with his medical concerns and advanced age, it quickly became apparent that it would be better for me to go alone. He keeps telling me he’s fine, but I see him struggling to climb over wreckage and breathing hard when we have to go up stairs. I told him he was too valuable to risk having another stroke and insisted that he stay with the plane and our gear. Now he spends his downtime charting our course, inventorying the items I bring back, and keeping the plane in top condition.

  Before I head out for the morning’s fuel run, I make some hot tea, grab a stale granola bar from a box in the back of the plane, and power up the ham radio. Madders insists that Shannon knows how to use a shortwave radio—and that she’ll figure out a way to find one and use it.

  With the sun coming up in the east, I put on the headset and start scanning the bands.

  “Shannon,” I say, “if you’re out there, this is Mom. I’m on my way to get you. Are you there, baby?”

  I wait for a few minutes and then try the hail again on a different band. After the fifth attempt, I shut off the power, finish my tea, and put everything back in the plane.