by David Wayne
“Hi, I’m Nurse Ginny, the head bottle washer. Whadda we got?” she asked bluntly.
I gave a semi-clean version of how we gained possession of the older two girls and explained that Brenda was extended family. “We need to discuss her in private,” I said. I expected some pushback but got none.
“Come on, girls, follow me,” Ginny said pleasantly, taking their hands and leading the two girls through the crowd. “I’ll be right back, sir.”
“Take your time,” I said, scanning the room and taking in the conditions. They weren’t good. There were thousands of lost souls in the convention center. Everything from babies to old, sick adults and people in wheelchairs. The kids were grouped together by age. Cardboard signs hung on the walls, painted hastily, indicating age groups. The first sign read under 3, the next 3yr – 5yr, and then 5yr – 8yr, and so forth. At the bottom of the numbers, the red paint dripped down the cardboard in long strains—they looked like blood-filled teardrops.
Beneath the signs, ropes were tied around orange cones, forming a grid system—reminding me of an Excel spreadsheet. Each square was roughly five foot by five foot, and contained at least two children. Kids who stepped outside of these borders were quickly shooed back in by an attendant. Most of the children didn’t move at all, they simply sat cross-legged on their blankets, staring off at nothing. Kids waiting to be processed into the grid were herded together like cattle waiting to be milked.
Most disturbing were the first rows, the ones with the babies—Under 3 the sign read. This area was bordered with wooden crates, to prevent them from crawling away. Their cries and screams were deafening, loud wails hungry for food and their mother’s TLC. They were covered with dirt and filth. Vomit and spit-up stained their tops. A mixture of eye, nose, and mouth liquids ran down their teeny little baby faces. Attendants worked furiously to change diapers, moving along in assembly-line fashion. The area stank of stale urine and feces.
A few moments later, Ginny reappeared and once again tried to smile. I noticed her glance nervously at my purple band, as if to confirm her memory of just moments ago. “Okay, we’ve got a special section, for the special ones,” she said, without a hint of irony or resentment. She seemed long past those kinds of emotions.
“This is Brenda,” I said.
“Hi, Brenda, I’m Nurse Ginny. I’ll be taking care of you,” she said, reaching for the girl, who was clinging to me like glue.
I’d been carrying her for a couple hours, and her weight still didn’t register. Ginny reached for her again, but Brenda didn’t budge—she pushed harder into my chest while her skinny legs tightened around my waist. “Please don’t leave me, Max, please,” she cried.
The nurse, sensing my apprehension, spoke up. “She’ll be okay, sir. We’re busy, but we do the best we can with the resources they give us. She’ll be fine,” she said, touching the youngster, trying to nudge her forward into her arms. Brenda refused to move.
The guard piped up behind me, “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll tag her for extra care. I’ll make sure of that,” he assured me. Tag her?
“I really would appreciate that, anything you could do to help her. Can we come and visit?” I asked.
“Sure, any time,” Ginny said, looking over my shoulder, mentally moving on to the next crisis.
I walked away, having made the hardest decision of my life. But I’m Max Ryker, and that’s what I do. In this post-Event world, one had to accept that everything had changed. Personal comfort zones didn’t exist anymore, and the decision I had made was way outside of my comfort zone. I hoped it was one I wouldn’t regret.
Walking down the steps of the convention center, I saw Susan sitting on the curb, head bowed—and I realized the full gravity of my decision. It would affect us for the rest of our lives. But it had to be done.
I placed a hand on her shoulder, and she stood and faced me. Her look wasn’t angry, it was defeated. A big, fat tear rolled down her check. I stepped aside, and Brenda ran to Susan, hugging her legs.
“Meet our new daughter. She’s twelve. Her name’s Professor Brenda,” I said.
Susan looked at me in a way that no woman ever has. I struggled to define its exact meaning but couldn’t. Maybe it meant I was getting my brains screwed out later.
Chapter 70
We left the convention center and, for the first time, used the full power of the purple band. In every situation, I pushed its limits. It was only ten o’clock, so we hit the VIP breakfast line. Instead of watered-down oatmeal, we had real eggs with stale bread, a chunk of cheese, and a full glass of clean water. I secured new clothes for Brenda, along with the most valued of treasures short of food and medicine, a shower. We had her boo-boos patched up at the medical tent. We accomplished this in just four hours. Some people waited in dinner lines longer than that.
We postponed deciding our future and spent the week nursing Brenda instead. The child was scared; it would take a long time for those wounds to heal, if they ever did. She’d made good progress these last days, but still awoke in the wee hours, haunted by nightmares. She was talking regularly, and her sharp intelligence was showing again. The child genius was returning to life.
I’d also come completely clean with Susan. I laid out the job offers from both Marty and Jim, including what I honestly thought of them. We rejected the central government position outright. The amenities sounded good, but I’d be running black ops for Jimmy, on the road nonstop, and doing the dirtiest of deeds. That life was as dead for me as dead can be. Past that, we couldn’t decide what to do.
It was a beautiful morning, the best yet. I awoke with a sense of knowing. It was time to make the decision. But I still had no clarity. Should we stay or should we go? After our purple breakfast, we strolled aimlessly. There was no hurry—we had nowhere to be and nothing to do when we got there. Susan broke the silence.
“It’s time, isn’t it, Max?”
“Yes,” I said, not having anything to add.
“I’m having doubts about staying here and rebuilding.”
That was a curve ball I didn’t see coming. “Why? What’s changed?”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me closer—trying to shield Brenda from the conversation. That was pointless. Whatever antenna God gave children worked like a charm for her. That kid didn’t miss anything.
“I’ve been naïve,” she said with a sigh. “I assumed Atlanta would return to normal, that the government would have some master plan that would save us all. I envisioned the electricity coming back on, running water, and food. None of that’s going to happen, is it?”
“Not any time soon, and to the extent it does, it won’t remotely resemble the past.”
She was quiet a moment. “Atlanta’s gotten worse in the short time we’ve been here. As more people pour in, the crime and violence has increased. Have you noticed the daily rations are slowly being reduced?”
“Yes, but the purple band and my position will protect us and provide other privileges,” I said reluctantly. I wasn’t sold on staying.
“There’s medicine here. Eventually there’ll be a school, and other children for Brenda to play with,” she said, thinking out loud more than talking to me. “My head says it’d be best for her if we stayed…”
“But?”
She shook her head. “My gut doesn’t seem to agree. Or something. Heck, I don’t know.”
Yeah, I knew the feeling. We walked in silence. There was nothing left to discuss. We’d exhausted the subject throughout the week. What good are words when there’s nothing left to say?
All around us lay the abandoned past—broken-down automobiles, charred black from fire. Useless electronic goods strewn about. Empty hot-dog-vendor carts turned on their sides. Colorful graffiti spattered across any surface that could possibly receive it—the artistic sayings ranged from God, Please Save Us to text so vulgar I refused to read them. I stepped over a smashed television set. The boob tube used to dominate our daily lives, and
now it lay shattered on the sidewalk, totally irrelevant. The gadgets that used to consume our every waking hour were now nothing more than junk to be stepped over in a burning street. Did they ever represent anything more?
On the flipside, yesterday’s commodities were today’s currency. No more scraping leftovers into the trash bin—people would trade their bodies for it, or knife you for a cup of water. Injured on the street? People looked the other way and walked around you.
Just three months ago, I considered four dates a long-term relationship. Now, my entire world revolved around a woman and a little girl. My past life, and all its priorities, had gone the way of the laptop—useless, meaningless, and pointless. It felt odd to think such thoughts. I was anything but introspective. But my priorities and value system had changed. Not by choice—by circumstance.
“Hey, look what I see,” Brenda yelled.
I spun around, reaching for my sidearm.
Chapter 71
My eyes followed where she was pointing while I held the .357 at my side. She was excited about a sign that read Iceland Park.
“Can we go, can we go?” she said, running toward the park without waiting for our reply. Susan looked at me.
“It’s not like we’re late for a meeting,” I said, although I would have preferred the post-breakfast sex we used to have. Pre-kid.
“I know, I miss it, too,” Susan said, reading my mind.
As we entered Iceland Park, I became aware of the small hand clutching my left paw. Entering the crowded park was making Brenda anxious—a good habit for these times. She squeezed tightly, as if to prevent our separation. I could sense her fear of abandonment. To my right, Susan held my other hand confidently, assured I was going nowhere. It was an odd feeling of opposites.
During the meeting with Jimmy, I had considered splitting. It was fleeting, but my head and heart did debate the matter. The old Ryker would have left, no questions asked. Just walked off and never looked back. But he’d died along with the old world; the Event had killed more than just people. One day, I was Ryker the lone wolf; the next I was walking in the park, holding hands with a woman and a child. Add warm water, stir, and bam-ba-lam—an instant family!
I found a big shade tree, and we sat down beneath it. Brenda grabbed a notepad and a pencil from her backpack and began to sketch. An artist, poet, and psychiatrist, all in a twelve-year-old package.
The crowded park was surprisingly soundless. It was expansive, extending farther than the eye could see. The grounds had previously been well maintained, like a luxury estate—lush green grass, trees and bushes expertly trimmed and shaped. Of course, now it was overgrown, but the years of tender care were still evident.
Every inch of shade in the park was taken. Blankets lay spread out, those with portable chairs had them unfolded, while others plopped down on the bare grass. Their faces varied greatly—whites, blacks, Mexicans, Asians. People were tall, short, heavy, and thin. There were newborn babies and grannies. In the physical realm, the crowd was as diverse as a brochure advertisement. It was their emotional state that made them look alike; it was a park full of clones. Their facial expressions and body language all matched—a mixture of sadness, shock, and fear, wrapped in a blanket of numbness.
Many were hurt or damaged in some way. Black eyes, busted lips, scratched arms and faces. Broken limbs were wrapped crudely in makeshift slings; crutches were fabricated from two-by-four boards or thick tree branches. Clothes and bandages were splotched with blood, like red-polka-dot pajamas. Cover all that with dirt, mud, and muck, and you would have an artist’s portrait of Iceland Park—on an otherwise gorgeous Georgia day. Post-Event.
People sat quietly—staring, rocking, dozing, and yawning. Some were muttering to themselves or shaking their heads in private disbelief. No one spoke or visited with one another. The nearby playground, stocked heavily with merry-go-rounds, swing sets, and slides, sat empty and unused. The sunshine was avoided; people seemed to prefer the darkness of the shade. Some were scooted back into the bushes—to hide and cloak themselves from others.
In contrast to this was Mother Nature’s take on the day. I watched trees swaying in the light breeze. I followed a bird jumping happily from limb to limb before flying off with its mate. Two squirrels play-fought by their nest, making strange barking noises. They bounced one way and then another, chasing each other playfully around the large oak. I heard pigeons cooing, talking to one another in a language only they understood. The sweet smell of thick, healthy grass, mixed with the light aroma of dirt, wafted heavily in the air. Nearby, a line of ants worked steadily, carrying food to their underground home. They seemed happy and content, working hard and being productive. Apparently, the critters forgot to notice the world had just ended. I didn’t feel inclined to tell them.
My thoughts were broken by sudden movement, caught in my peripheral vision. Reflexively, my body stiffened while my eyes darted around, scanning the surrounding area for danger. I was surprised to find my weapon drawn, as I hadn’t consciously registered doing so.
It was just two boys, no more than eight, walking together into the sunlight. They had left the sidelines and were heading into the heart of the park. Once they reached their chosen spot, they separated, walked ten or fifteen paces before turning around to face one another. They began tossing a blue rubber ball. They did so lethargically, as if it was work to be dreaded. Each would hold the ball a moment before reluctantly throwing it back. Neither smiled or talked. They weren’t engaged and didn’t appear to be looking directly at one another—just in the other’s general direction. Then, another kid strolled up, his shoulders slumped, feet dragging in the grass. He stood there a few seconds before the other two boys bothered to take notice. For a moment, the three simply stared in space, unsure of what to do. From my vantage point, it was awkward and unsettling. Not the kids themselves, but the underlying implication—had children forgotten how to play? Was the joy and innocence of childhood dead?
Then, as if in answer to my question, they dispersed to form a triangle. They never spoke or pointed, they just automatically parted to form a three-way shape and began tossing the ball. To my left, I saw a girl squirming in place. She looked like a kid sitting on a roof eave, wanting to jump but afraid to do so. A forward movement was quickly jerked backward. This seesaw action continued several times before she finally got up the nerve, took a deep breath, and went for it. As she approached the boys, the triangle rearranged to form a square. This time, the ball never stopped motion completely, it just slowed slightly to accommodate a new player.
I watched in amazement as the interaction slowly morphed from bored disinterest into childish fun. First, the pace picked up—which required direct eye contact between the kids. Next, the momentum of the throwing increased—from hesitant lobs to fired-off bullets. This was a good thing, right? It had to be. I didn’t have to wonder very long, because what happened next was a game changer—almost like the Event itself. It happened innocently enough, a group of kids tossing a blue ball, back and forth, faster and faster, like it was a hot potato. Finally, the inevitable happened, and one of the boys missed his catch. The ball binged off his head, bouncing high into the air. That’s when it happened. Suddenly and quickly. Out of the clear blue.
One of them laughed.
That caused another one of them to giggle and smile. Then, like a game of copycat, another kid smiled. Then another, and then another. If I didn’t know better, I would swear the entire park stopped what they were doing, which was nothing, to turn and stare at the sound that no one recognized—laughter. The crowd became confused and then curious. Heads were cocked sideways; eyebrows were raised. People stood to get a better view. If you’d just walked up, you’d think an alien spaceship must have landed in the park.
Everyone was frozen; there were no movements or sounds. It was like a movie put on pause. How much time passed while the park was in this suspended state was hard to estimate. Then suddenly, like someone hit the resume button, life
returned. Just like that.
Two kids, on opposite ends of the field, trotted over to join the ballplayers. As the new kids reached midpoint, three more stood from the shadows and hurried in the same direction. Before long, kids were scurrying from all directions. It was like watching a closed rosebud open and blossom, but in fast-forward.
This growing assemblage of kids playing spawned others to move, to get off their rumps and do something. It became a movement, a positive one that fed on itself. For every person who rose up, two more followed, and then three, and then four more.
Next to us, several young girls started jumping rope. A couple stood, held hands, and took a leisurely stroll. Two gruff old coots moved to a picnic table and unfolded a portable checkerboard. Suddenly, as if the floodgates had opened, the park became alive with people chatting—it was bursting with life.
“It almost seems like the old days, doesn’t it?” Susan said.
The suddenness of her question startled me. I had been completely engrossed, savoring the odd taste of normalcy. “I wish I had a camera and could take a picture. Who would ever have thought the simple sight of everyday activity could have such a profound effect?” I said.
“It feels like maybe everything isn’t doom and gloom,” Susan said.
Out of nowhere, Brenda popped in. “What have you guys decided?”
“About what, pumpkin?” I asked.
Brenda frowned at me, with the same I’m so disappointed in you way that Susan does. “I’m not a child. You’re being indecisive adults. You can’t decide if we should stay in Atlanta or go someplace else. You’ve been arguing about it all week. I’m not deaf, you know.”
Susan smiled. “We know dear, but it’s a hard choice and—”
“It’s only difficult because you’re trying to control life’s outcome, which is impossible. Life unfolds. That’s what Daddy says. Here,” she said, ripping a paper from her pad and handing it to Susan.