The war torn hills of ea.., p.13
The War-Torn Hills of Earth | Flashback, page 13
“Like, whatever, man,” Clinton added.
I stopped and spat the rocket out. “Look. You’re the boss of this particular thing—okay? So you like to lob fireworks at your ex-girlfriend’s house; fine. I don’t ask questions. I’m just—I’m just concentrating on the job.”
I took the rockets from my back pockets and gathered everything into one hand; then scrabbled to our usual spot—a horizontal slab they called a stele (in this case dedicated to someone killed in Iraq), and began setting up. “How do you know she’s even alive?”
“I told you; I saw her at the fairgrounds, before the Guard caved. She was right there in the soup line. Didn’t see Loverboy, though—guess he must have gotten himself vanished.” He rolled onto his side in the tall grass and started planting rockets. “She’s alive, all right. Alive and home; with a trunk full of weed, I bet.”
He paused, glaring at the house. “I know that bitch.”
I finished my rows and took out my Bick; followed his gaze.
“Looks pretty quiet,” I said.
“Yeah.” He readied his lighter. “But we can fix that.”
And we started flicking; lighting up the rows with grim precision, setting off a hail of sparks and hisses, retreating into the grass as first one then another then another piffed and launched—screaming into the air; whistling toward the target, exploding like grenades on its roof and in the bushes. Turning the suburban street into a warzone.
Laughing and carrying on as the carnage unfolded and at last subsided; the smoke drifting, the embers settling. Patting ourselves on our scrawny backs for another mission accomplished; even as shots rang out and something whizzed past—a blunt thing, a humorless thing. Something which struck a granite tombstone deeper in the cemetery and punched a dollar-sized crater in it.
And then we were scrambling: crawling as fast as we could—double-timing it toward the car as still more shots rang out and echoed along the streets; as bullets pocked the mausoleum and cut the air like knives. Until we reached the Charger and leapt to our feet, throwing open the doors—even as raptors gathered and encircled the car—at which I lit a string of M-80s and threw them into the group; and the fireworks exploded like dynamite, reverberated like shotgun blasts. At which the animals scattered in perfect unison and we peeled from the lot—en route to the Nunnery, I suppose. En route to Alexa.
En route to the last shag of our lives.
“And you’re sure of it,” said Alexa, lying on her side, staring at the wall. “You’re sure it hadn’t been there before?”
I stared at the trailer’s water-damaged ceiling and the spider scurrying along one of its yellow-brown wrinkles, feeling as though I might nod off, bordering on dream. “I’m sure of it. It looked new, for one. Like it had just been painted. And it was clean.”
I rolled to face her and her dirty brown hair tickled my nose. “Like it had been wiped down; like someone had cared enough—was comfortable enough—to make an impression.” I rubbed my hand back and forth on her thigh; and she allowed it. “Like it had come from somewhere else. A different reality, a place completely outside the Flashback. A clean, well-lit place.”
She shocked me by putting her hand over mine. “A clean, well-lit place ...” She pulled the sheets up and yawed around to face me, looked me in the eyes. “Do you mind if I ask you something? Something personal?”
I shook my head, afraid that she was going to ask me what I did before—before Time got scrambled, like a sausage and egg breakfast—which wasn’t much.
“What’s your name?”
I must have blinked, remembering what she’d said about “transactional intimacy” and “professional boundaries,” and not getting too comfortable with one another. “Preston,” I said—tentatively, hesitantly, and swallowed. “Preston Stokes.”
“Preston Stokes,” she repeated, and seemed to think about it. “No—no, that’s not you. It’s too ... Preston’s a soldier’s name—or a wealthy industrialist’s. You’re more of a ...”
I raised an eyebrow, like Mr. Spock. I thought it might make her laugh.
“Lucas. I’m going to call you Lucas.” She kissed me suddenly. “And you can call me Lana; which may or may not be my real name.” She kissed me again—just a peck, but it may as well have been the world. “Lucas and Lana.”
“Lucas and Lana,” I repeated—and smiled. “There it is.”
And we chuckled—not very merrily, not for very long—until she diverted her eyes and the silence resumed.
At last, she said: “We’d never fit in, you know.” She swallowed moistly, viscously, thickly. “In their clean, well-lit place. In their chapel full of rules and edicts. Not anymore. Not since we’ve become ... who we’ve become.”
I couldn’t help but to notice that she was looking at the clock; and followed her gaze. We were over-time.
I got up and put on my trousers—peered between the curtains at Clinton, who was outside smoking a cigarette (he’d finished early and was waiting for me). “Yeah—well. I doubt it’s even legitimate. They’re probably, like, fucking cannibals—or something.” I yanked on my T-shirt. “Ain’t no one thriving in this.”
She laughed at that as I turned to go. “No, I don’t suppose.” She sat up and gave me the Look—even while letting the sheets fall. “See you next time? Lucas?”
I paused in the compartment’s doorway—remembering the pact, remembering what it was we were going to do. “If I’ve anything to trade—of course.” I looked her straight in the eye. “But then—no one’s thriving in this. Lana.”
And I left—quickly, abruptly—having said something I’d always wanted to say (even though it was a complete and total distortion). Because, in actual fact, there really was someone who was thriving—the Girl on the Dinosaur. The Girl in the Custom Saddle.
If, that is, she even existed. If I hadn’t just made her up out of whole cloth.
If I hadn’t gone stark-raving mad—like the world, like Time itself.
I gripped the door handle fiercely—I had to grip something, and it was right there—as Clinton took the curve; the Charger leaning precariously, its tires chirping and squealing—like chicks falling from the nest.
“Jesus, what is it with you?”
He just smiled, gripping the wheel, focusing straight ahead. “I’m enjoying my last few hours on this earth—that is, if you don’t mind?” He gave me a harsh look. “Maybe you should do the same—instead of looking so goddamn serious about everything.” He fished around behind his seat; but didn’t seem to have any luck. “Hello? Earth to Preston. Can you beer me?”
I fetched him a Black Label as we careened down the road—popped its cap. “Look, I’m going to say it again: Don’t you think we should at least check it out?”
Clinton laughed as we skidded through an intersection—then floored it again. “Listen: You want to live with a bunch of old ladies and spend your life raising Dutch barns—fine. It’s no skin off me. But I’m voting with my feet and checking out of this shit-show. This morning.” He swerved to avoid a cycad tree and almost lost control—but quickly recovered. “And I’m gonna do it in a blaze of glory.”
“Fine,” I said. “That’s fine.” I studied his face as he focused on the road. “So drop me off at the bridge and have at it—all right? I want to see what it’s about.”
And then we were sliding, or the ass-end of the car was, skidding to a halt at the corner of W. 7th Avenue and S. Inland Empire Way—in fucking Spokane, Washington—after the Apocalypse, after the time-storm. Then we were sitting there under the freeway overpass and staring at some art on a concrete column; the engine idling, rumbling and sputtering, the wind blowing hotly as AC/DC sang “Down Payment Blues.”
“Explain it,” said Clinton, looking as though he’d just as soon kill me as look at me. “Tell me why you’d rather live—like that, like a prisoner, like a monk, than to just dash the cup to the ground and be free. Free of all this,” He indicated the cycads and the overgrown sidewalks—the moss-covered bridge, the carcass of a small dinosaur. “Free of them.” He indicated the sky.
I looked at the art on the overpass and thought about it—at its gay, vivid colors and depiction of a flying bird, which was coming in for a landing; and at the Sunset Boulevard Bridge—which had stood since 1913 and stood still: its arches suffused with purple, for the sun was rising in the east, its streetlamps glinting gold.
“It’s just that ... maybe it doesn’t have to be this way. This—this hopeless. This primal. Maybe we can tame it again, civilize it. Maybe we can do more than just survive all this,” I looked at him across the cab. “Maybe we can thrive.”
He started to speak but paused; unsure if I was having him on or not—gauging my sincerity. “And—what? You think ...”
“I don’t know what I think,” I said, and looked at the art—at the bird coming in for a landing and the gay, vibrant colors. At the graffiti which hadn’t the power to overwhelm it. “I know that’s still here—I know that. And I know ... that there’s others out there; others who want to help. I didn’t before, but ... now I do.” I watched as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag; blew bluish-colored smoke out the window. “And ... and I guess that’s changed everything. You know I mean?”
And he just looked at me. And I looked back; hopeful, expectant.
He started tittering.
“I couldn’t get it up with Mercedes—can you believe that?” He leaned closer, snorting and puffing, snickering through his nose. “Not even when she went down. I mean, I was like, I guess I’m a shower not a grower, baby!” And he laughed.
I must have just looked at him. There beneath the overpass, near the Spokane River and the Sunset Boulevard Bridge, as the sky began to lighten and the pterodactyls began to chatter. There in our hometown—which hadn’t really changed so much (except for the cycads and the odd dinosaur).
There in the ‘Kan; the Lilac City, the Easy Valley, which hadn’t really changed at all.
“I’m sorry,” said Clinton—and seemed genuinely saddened, genuinely sympathetic. “But it’s 9 am, dude. And that’s a sight past dawn.”
I watched the skies, watched the road, waiting for the chop-chop of a helicopter, waiting for signs of a truck.
But there was nothing; not so much as a whisper, not even a flock of birds. Just the blue dome of sky and a smattering of clouds; the hot, yellow sun, a distant column of smoke. There weren’t even any insects.
“It’s not too late,” said Clinton. “And there’s plenty of rounds yet. Hell, we could even put it off until tomorrow, if you want.” He looked at the car, which gleamed in the sun. “I’m kind of liking this sunshine, if you want to know the truth.”
I shielded my eyes and scanned the horizon— shook my head. “No. No, thanks. I—I’m just going to wait here ... for a bit. You—you go on along. Really.”
“Dude—”
But I just stared at him, the wind jostling my hair.
He moved toward the car but paused, facing away. “The gas’ll all be gone soon; there won’t even be any left to siphon.” He lifted an arm as though he were going to make a point; then slowly lowered it, let it dangle. “It’ll all be degraded—completely useless.”
He swiveled around suddenly. “Do you at least want a gun?”
I shook my head.
“Yeah ... it figures.” He got in the car and shut the door. “Well—we had some fun. Guess that’s as good as it gets.”
And then the engine leapt up with a rumble and he was gone; taking it easy until he rounded the far corner, opening it up as he hit the straightaway. Vanishing from sight amongst the various structures and trees.
That’s when I heard it: the chop-chop of a helicopter—coming on fast from the eastern horizon; thundering overhead before circling once and touching down. That’s when I saw the men clamber out and rapidly approach: their faces healthy, their orange jumpsuits clean and bright—and realized, too, that they were unarmed. Unarmed and, my God, smiling.
“Is it just you? Are you the only one?” The man had a French accent but flawless enunciation. “There is no one else?”
I raised my hands as they inspected and frisked me. “No. I mean, there was, but—”
“And you’ve no weapons at all? No needles? No paraphernalia?”
“No—”
“Then let’s go. I’ll explain everything en route.” And to the others he said: “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s—” He trailed off abruptly.
“What? What is it?” I had to shout above the rotors.
“Over there—there’s—there’s someone else.” He barked at whoever it was: “Come on, lassie! There’s raptors here and about, you know!”
And then we all climbed in: first Alexa and myself, then the man with the French accent, and finally the men in the jumpsuits—and began to climb. Then we began lifting into the sky even as Alexa turned toward me and told me she’d seen Clinton; seen him drive right off of a cliff, that is.
Seen the Charger burst into a ball of flame and become a tumbling wreck that exploded over and over and seemed to have been full of fireworks. Seen it become a black and red coffin that no one could have escaped—much less survive, at least while trapped inside.
A “proverbial horror show,” is how she’d described it; at which I simply pulled her close and held her tight, looking out the window, looking for the smoke. At which I didn’t see any but at last saw something else—something beautiful, impossible. Something I showed Alexa, who gasped and said, “You see it too? You actually see it? The Girl on the Dinosaur? That girl, right there, crossing the Sunset Bridge? But I thought only—”
At which I kissed her; kissed her hard and kissed her long; kissed her like a sailor returning from war. Kissed her for the future, which I could almost taste.
IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT (2021)
It would be heedless to say that what I saw in front of me as the moths fluttered about the dock light and the moon shone blue through the trees was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen; of course it was. How else should I describe the nude, spare figure bowed dutifully in the moonlight (i.e., with her forehead touched to the wooden dock, like a monk) or the lean behemoth across the pond from her that watched the dark waters like a hawk before stabbing its snout in and coming up with a tuna—or something like it—at which the figure rose and splayed its hands even as the great beast swung its head away and was gone.
“You’re playing with fire,” I said—I guess I couldn’t help it—even as she whipped around and glared at me. “But then you already knew that, didn’t you?”
And we stared at each other: me and the nude, spare girl at the end of the dock, in the fog, in the night. There behind the Frank Lloyd Wright-styled house with its jade-green solar panels and the impossible light seeping from its windows (a house that wasn’t mine—and probably wasn’t hers). There in an overcast, wooded area of Marin County, California, near Lagunitas-Forest Knolls, after the Apocalypse. Until she stepped forward and snatched a robe from the back of a chair and shook the hair from her eyes, and snapped, “Did you get a good look?”
I guess I must have recoiled.
“No. Yes; I mean—I saw lights on and thought maybe there was help here; like, government help.” I looked back at the house and the resplendent back yard: the covered pool, the greenhouse full of plants. “A rescue station—like the kind they’d started setting up during the Flashback. But now ...” I trailed off, thinking of all the dead zones I’d visited, the haunted buildings, the empty places. “I’m just lost. Lost and hungry.”
I added: “I’m David, by the way. David Hodge Lambert.”
She cinched the robe briskly, aggressively. “David,” she repeated. “David Hodge Lambert.” She laughed without discernible humor. “So tell me, David. Do you make a habit of watching women in their most private moments—or am I the exception?”
“Look. It’s just—” I peered beyond her at the small lake, to where the gaunt creature had been standing only a moment before. “I’ve never seen such a thing, that’s all. It’s like—it’s like you were praying to it. Worshipping.”
She started walking toward me, toward the Frank Lloyd Wright-styled house. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not a wise thing, that’s for sure.” I gave her a wide birth as she passed completely by me and entered the house. “I mean, you saw its ribs. That animal is starv—”
“Allosauruses don’t swim, normally,” she called.
“Yeah? Well.” I heard something splash and refocused on the water. “I don’t normally watch women in their private moments, either. Regardless: showing yourself to it like that is—” I started to turn, “It’s like putting up a giant billboard that says ‘Free—’”
She looked at me over the pistol and arched an eyebrow.
“... buffet.” I raised my hands slowly. “Now look. I don’t want any—”
“I’ll give you food and water—enough to last several days, even a week, if you’re lucky, and then you go. Am I clear?”
I moved to speak but paused: She was too focused, too single-minded. Too hair-trigger. Saying the wrong thing simply wouldn’t do. “Sure,” I said, although only after some length—lightly, breezily, and took a step back. “That’d be great. I mean—if it wouldn’t put you out.”
She scowled and cocked the pistol. “Don’t even—”
I shook my head briskly. Not even. I’m not even.
And then she just relaxed—suddenly, inexplicably—lowering the hammer like a pro, like Marshal fucking Dillon, letting her arm drop to her side.
“You’re not exactly ‘Danger Man,’ are you?” she said.
“No, ma’am. No, I’m not.”
“More like John-Boy Walton. Or Richie Cunningham.” She soured suddenly. “What good are you, then?” She disappeared into the house. “I’ll put something together—something high in protein; that you don’t have to cook. Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.”
She added: “I’m Naomi.”
I stepped into the home but paused immediately: taken aback by all the canvases and easels—the drop cloths and oozing paints, the tables covered with palettes and sketchbooks and small wooden manikins. “You’ve been busy during the apocalypse.”
