Under a Broken Sun (15 page)

The door creaked because it couldn't have been opened in years.  Inside was a child’s room, laid out like a model room from the 1950’s.  A twin bed, a bookshelf with some dusty books on it, a fifty’s baseball glove with a ball in it.  It was surreal, like a dusty, worn out painting. 

A folded piece of paper lay on the bed, yellow and warped as the years of sunlight hit it from the window next to the bed.

I went in, followed by the others.  We could all barely fit in the room.  Louie picked up a picture frame on the book shelf.  “This kid looks my age,” he said. 

“Which is how old exactly?” Tommy asked.

“Fourteen.  I’m fourteen.”

I looked at Ashley with a wry smile.  “You sure?”

She looked at me and then away, not returning the smile.  “What happened to him?” she asked. 

“Died, obviously.  Isn’t that why parents keep a room in pristine condition like this?” Tommy replied.

“I wouldn’t call this ‘pristine’.  Hasn’t been entered in years,” I said.  I blew dust off the shelves and looked at the books – Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies, and a book called On the Road.  Classics that kids in school hated reading.  But in this room, in this time, they fit right in.  Probably were tops on this kid’s list.  I pulled the last one out – by Jack Kerouac.  I had heard my dad mention him, but never really knew much about him.  I flipped it open to a random page and read this:

"I was standing on the hot road underneath an arc-lamp with the summer moths smashing into it when I heard the sound of footsteps from the darkness beyond, and lo, a tall old man with flowing white hair came clomping by with a pack on his back, and when he saw me as he passed, he said, "Go moan for man," and clomped on back to his dark. Did this mean that I should at last go on my pilgrimage on foot on the dark roads around America?"

A pilgrimage.  Is that what this was?  Wasn’t that what whacked out religious folks went on to some holy land?  Was that where we were going?  It made sense to me.  We were trying to be saved. 

I kept the book.

“This is creeping me out,” Louie said. 

I picked up the note on the bed.  “What’s it say,” Ashley asked. 

I read it out loud.  “December 27, 1959.  Dear Mom and Dad, hope you’re happy now.  David.”

I put it down, covering the dust-free spot where it had sat all for all those years.  “Jesus, this kid killed himself,” I whispered.

“Oh my God,” Ashley said, raising her hand to her mouth.

We stood in silence, staring at the room through different eyes.  Did it seem too perfect?  Was everything in too neat an order?  What did this kid go through?

I felt Ashley’s hand on mine, but before she could get too comfortable I left the room.

Louie went downstairs.  Tommy stood behind me.  “Let’s get supplies,” I told him.  “You said there were other things in the master bedroom?  More guns?”

Tommy just nodded.  He looked back at the room, watched Ashley sit down on the bed and bury her face in her hands, crying.  I wanted to think it was because of me, but I’d find out later it wasn’t.  Not even close.

Tommy and I entered the master bedroom and I winced at the smell and the site.  The woman was in bed, hands folded, like she might as well have been in a coffin.  She looked peaceful enough, but her face was sunken, almost falling in.  She wore what I would guess was her Sunday Best summer dress, her gray hair splayed out behind her head, and a slight smile on her lips.  I'd never seen a dead person before this shit all went down, and now I’ve lost count.  My dad never even took me to an open casket funeral.  He thought it was pointless.  He had my mom cremated - the last image I have of her is her hair flying behind her as she took a nose dive.   Memories of my last nightmare of her came rushing back.  I couldn’t help but think that any moment now this old lady was gonna spring to life, baring her teeth and reaching for me. 

I looked at the mess named Eugene Forrester on the other side of the queen size bed.  He had pointed the gun at his face while lying down, so everything exploded behind him through the bed, which was good, it saved us the brainy mess on the wall shit.  But it didn’t leave him with much of a face.  With any face, really. 

The gun lay across his head, his arms splayed out like they just fell to his side.  A dark spot grew from his crotch, his body having gone into full release mode after he died.  It didn’t help the smell.  I had to do something.

I went into the bathroom and came out with a towel.  Unfolding it, I draped it across the guy’s head.  I couldn’t help but notice the flecks of white bone, the darkness of the blood, the exposed muscle.  I dropped the towel as quickly as I could, covering all that mess up.

Across from the bed stood a dresser, and beside that a gun cabinet, standing as tall as me, a solid oak cabinet with a glass front.

“Shit,” Tommy said.  “It's locked.  How we gonna get it opened?”

I looked at him and unshouldered my M16.  One swing and the glass shattered.  I looked back to him.  Dumbass.

I reached inside and pulled out another shotgun, a bolt-action rifle, and two pistols – probably forty-fives, but I really didn’t know shit about guns.  Underneath the cabinet were several drawers full of ammo. 

“How we gonna carry everything?” Tommy asked. 

“With this?” came Louie’s voice behind us.  He tossed several army rucksacks and packs at us.  “This stuff is awesome!”  He smiled as he wore an old world war two helmet on his head – twice his size.

I smiled.  “Nice job Louie G.”  I tossed a backpack to him.  “Pack it up.  I’m gonna check on Ashley.”

I returned to the boy’s room.  Ashley still sat on the bed, but her crying had calmed down.  “You ok?” I asked, sitting next to her.  She put her head on my shoulder – well, the middle of my arm.  I wrapped my arm around her.

“I tried to kill myself,” she whispered.  “Right before I left.  Took some pills.  A lot of them.”

What do you say to that?  Sorry?  I couldn’t think.  “What kind?” I said finally.

“Tylenol.”

I couldn’t help it.  A snicker escaped.  Tylenol?  Are you kidding me?  I take five for a bad headache.  “How many?”

“Thirteen.”   Ok, so that was a lot.  But seriously, Tylenol?  I snickered again.  “It’s not funny,” she said, tearing up again.

“No, it’s not.  It’s just that…I dunno.  That seems kinda lame for a suicide attempt.  I think ol' Eugene over there's got ya beat."

She didn't respond, so I pressed on.  "Did you really think it’d do anything?”

“I didn’t really want it to.  I just wanted to scare my parents.”  She stood up, embarrassed and pissed.  “It was stupid.  Let’s go.”

I grabbed her hand.  “No, no, it wasn’t stupid.  Did it work?”

“Obviously not – I’m still here.”

“No, I meant did it scare your parents?”

She looked away.  Quietly:  “they never noticed.”  She went through the door and left.  I nodded to myself, looking at my cross.  I knew what that felt like.

We grabbed a ton of MRE’s, some blankets, all the water we could find, and his oxygen tank, which weighed a TON.  I had to strap it on through the backpack, which made it a little easier to carry, but not much.  By the time I had the pack on, I needed a hit. 

I looked around at the other three.  Each had a different size pack on, each pack stuffed to the max.  The sun was just setting outside, the flames of the forest fire getting nearer.  Ashley looked out the front door and saw the smoke billowing up.  “Can we outrun it?” she asked.

“If we leave now.  Not much wind.  We should be ok.”

The four of us stood in the empty living room, a scene from American history that could’ve existed in the Smithsonian.  Should’ve, probably, because none of this meant anything anymore.

Ashley touched my hand.  I let her hold it.  “Let’s go.”

As the sun set, we pushed through the door, down the steps, and across the front lawn, continuing our pilgrimage on foot on the dark roads around America.

PART II – JULY

PITTSBURGH

You stay here, I'll go look for bread.

And if I can some sugar for the kids.

Dry your eyes, I'll be all right.

I know where they've laid the mines.

16.   

It took us over a week to go a hundred miles.  Traveling by day was practically impossible, with the heat reaching one-fifteen every day.  Dry – no moisture in the air anywhere, and which, combined with the decreased oxygen, made it even harder to breathe.  At night the temperature plummeted to around thirty degrees.  Our bodies were on a climate roller-coaster, and it was starting to show: Ashley had a cold that wouldn't go away.  I waited in dread for someone to catch a fever that would lay them out.   Hoped it wouldn't be me.

Travelling from dusk to dawn, when the temperature returned to something somewhat normal, we had a tough time seeing everything in our path with just a torch.  We travelled along a stretch of I-76, the Pennsylvania turnpike, along with various groups of people from all over.  As we neared a city, the number of wandering travelers increased, and they all looked the same: huddle together, hoodies up concealing their faces, someone in the group limping, someone in the group crying.  The groups never interacted.  We had formed our own micro-countries, and wanted to keep it that way.  It’s been two weeks since the EMP hit, and it’s taken half that time for our social structure to disintegrate.

Abandoned horses gave us a break from the constant march, allowing us to ride along a straight stretch to another tunnel in relative comfort.  The horses still showed muscle and rode well, but something in their eyes told me they knew this was the end.  I wondered if they knew how valuable they had become.  So many things we took for granted, now the most precious items. 

A huge sign blared "No Hazardous Material" allowed in the tunnel as we rounded a bend.  Turn headlights on.  Remnants of things never to be seen again: headlights reflecting off of signs, the dull, hazy glow of city lights in the horizon.  The movement of cars, airplanes, helicopters.  The ever-present background noise of machinery so quiet it almost seems like a part of nature. 

All of that – gone. 

Tommy snapped me out of my thoughts.  "Hey," he said.  "Sun's coming up."

We dismounted the horses in front of the tunnel – the last one before Pittsburgh - and prepared to set up camp for the day.  Enclosed areas still provided the best shelter, even though they got stifling hot.  We had enough oxygen to last the day, despite our occasional hits becoming longer and longer, especially with Ashley already plugged up from her cold.

Tommy walked the horses down the side of the mountain a little ways to get them into shade.  He tied them to a tree and they nibbled at the drying grass hungrily.  I scanned the area looking for water for the horses, but there wasn’t anything around.  There was a river up ahead, our map told me, but that was still a few miles away. 
Tomorrow.  We'll get water tomorrow. 

Tommy had the first watch to guard the horses, and just before heading into the tunnel I saw him crouch down under a tree cradling his dad's rifle.  He hadn't had to use it much; just having it seemed to ward off any potential thieves.  But between wild dogs and desperate people, it's a wonder we've kept the horses this long.

I went into the tunnel and found a convertible for Ashley, although the top was up.  It took Louie and me everything we had to lower it manually, but once we did Ashley climbed in, curled up, and fell asleep almost immediately.

Louie and I found an SUV with two rows of back seats that we could sleep in, only a few cars ahead of Ashley.  We opened up all four doors to let in the air, but it didn’t help much.  Heat poured out of the walls like gas in a gas chamber.  Another sweaty, sleepless night (day) in the backseat of a car.

I dreamt I was on a beach, my back to a monstrous cliff.  The waves rolled in and out, and a bird circled high over head.  My dad always told me never to focus on the images of the dream – focus on the feelings they invoke.  If you train yourself, you can wake up with those feelings, and that’ll tell you a lot about what’s going on in your subconscious.

I must be feeling pretty fucked.

The morbid feeling of doom created a strong desire to go into the water, to drown myself.  To sleep forever.  I could almost feel the calm and peaceful rest.  Then, in the dream, I heard crying behind me.  A sobbing, manly and deep - the kind of crying no man ever wants to hear.  I turned, and saw a long, red car on its top, nearly buried in the sand, one wheel still spinning.  The crying came from behind the car.

I approached the front bumper, edging my way around.  The sun glinted off the chrome, making it hard to see.  I shielded my eyes, and I saw my father, one of his hands on the back of a woman’s body as she laid face first in the sand, also nearly buried.

It was my mother - but her hair was darker.  My father looked up at me, eyes red and swollen, and sneered.  “Why didn’t you save her?” he said.  Then he shouted it, “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAVE HER?”  He reached down and moving his hands underneath her body, he lifted her up. 

I didn’t want to see him turn her over.  I tried to turn away, but my neck stiffened up.

“You could’ve saved her,” he said through his tears.  I looked at the body, drawing myself closer despite the fear growing inside like the warm spread of brandy I used to steal from my dad’s liquor cabinet.  There was something familiar about the face.  It wasn’t my mom. 

It was Marilyn.

My dad brushed away the hair from her face.  He laid her down.  She was still breathing – short, raspy, barely audible, but she was alive.  My dad stood over her and suddenly had Tommy's rifle in his hand.

“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I shouted.  “She’s still alive!”