After the flashback, p.23
After the Flashback, page 23
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.
URBAN DECAY (2020)
Each of us, I think, had to understand it on our own terms, the totality of the desolation, the speed at which the old world had fallen away. Each of us, I think, had something of an epiphany looking down at it.
For me, it was seeing the helicopter’s shadow slink wraith-like over the hulk-jammed freeways and overgrown downtown intersections, realizing that shadow was the only thing—the only human thing—moving in any direction. For Sam it may have been the aircraft carrier—the USS Nimitz, Roman had said—run aground between Pike Street Market and the big Ferris wheel (and presumably straight into the State Route 99 tunnel). Leastwise that’s what she was looking at as she gasped audibly and the helicopter swung north by northeast, over what would have been Belltown, toward the Space Needle.
“You gotta see this,” said Roman, his voice sounding generic, condensed, tinny over the headsets. “Anyone here ever seen an eagle’s nest? In the wild, I mean?”
Lazaro hmphed. “I’ve scaled a 200-foot Douglas fir and touched one. Does that count?”
Nigel sneered—you could actually hear it, even from the front. “Ya, mon. But only in your dreams.”
Roman nodded at Lazaro. “Yeah? Was it big?” He sounded jocular, condescending. “How big was it, you think?”
“I don’t know. About four feet,” said Lazaro. He seemed annoyed—even hurt. “What’s it matter?”
“I was just wondering how it compared to, say, that, at five o’clock.”
We all saw it at once as the helicopter leaned and I was pressed against Sam: a nest the size of one of those above-ground pools—the kind someone like Lazaro might have had before the Flashback—built up around the Needle’s radio tower and comprised of mud and fallen timber.
“Jesus, it’s everywhere,” whispered Sam, her face and chesnut-brown hair—which smelled of honeysuckle and gunpowder—reflected in the glass. “They—they’re blue, teal. Like robins’ eggs.” She shook her head pensively, meditatively. “I wouldn’t have thought that.”
“Where’s momma bird?” said Lazaro.
“That’s a good question,” muttered Roman. He made a complete circuit of the Needle before leaving its orbit completely and heading back in the direction we’d come. “Nor are we sticking around to find out.” His voice became suddenly focused. “Okay. I’m going to fly low between the buildings—because you can bet we’re being watched. So, don’t freak out. The idea is to shield our location from prying eyes for as long as possible—or at least until the chopper’s up and everyone is clear. Got it?”
Check. Downtown Seattle was not a safe place, especially in the business district, and not just because there were pterodactyls roosting in the skyscrapers. For one, it bordered on territory controlled by the Skidders, a ruthless gang which operated out of Doc Maynard’s Public House and Underground Tour in Pioneer Square. It also shared a border with New Beijing and a group called the Gang of Four. Neither, Roman had assured us, were to be trifled with, and both were known to make frequent excursions into the no-man’s land of the business district. Throw in roving packs of velociraptors, which were also territorial, or the occasional tyrannosaurid, or even an herbivore with the Flashback in its eyes, and you had a situation which needed to be gotten into and gotten out of quickly.
And quietly.
“Just stay in range,” I said, checking the switch of my walkie-talkie, making certain it was on. “Or it’ll be a shitshow all over again.”
It was a cheap remark—no one had been closer to Chives than Roman—and one I regretted immediately. “No,” he said, and crossed himself. “It won’t. Trust me. Anything bigger than an alley cat—you’re going to know it. We’ll get you inside, I promise.”
“It’s not getting inside I’m worried about. It’s getting out with what we came for.”
He looked at me with those damned earnest eyes—something I would have preferred he didn’t do, especially while thundering between skyscrapers—and smiled. “We’ll do that, too. Now lock and load, Jamie. All of you. We’re almost there.”
“See that courtyard just east of the library? That’s our landing zone,” said Roman, slowing us to a near hover, beginning to lower altitude.
I watched as the helicopter’s shadow grew on the wild, waving grass.
“Again: when you hit dirt, I want you to go immediately to the street—5th Avenue, right there, and follow it south-west. Stay close to the buildings, they’ll give you some cover. Get ready.”
“From predators?” asked Joan, our mechanic, her voice full of doubt. It was her first time out of the compound with us.
“From people,” said Roman. “They’ve been known to snipe from the towers.” We touched down with a slight bounce—tall grass lashing at the windows. “Remember, right on Marion ... then all the way to 1st—to the Exchange Building. You can’t miss it: there’s a Starbucks across the street with a—”
Joan balked. “There must be a hundred—”
“... with a gutted triceratops in its window.” He looked at her over his shoulder, then at each of us individually. “It’s—it’s probably been picked clean by now.” He swallowed as though he’d said too much, then straightened suddenly and nodded once. “Everyone just—stay sharp, okay? Good luck.”
And then we were moving, piling out of the hatch and into the prop-wash, scrambling for the street, as the Bell 206 climbed—the sound of its rotors thundering, reverberating off the buildings, the grass dancing.
“Other side of the intersection, that condo,” I said, “let’s go.”
We double-timed across the pavement—or what was left of it—to where a concrete overhang offered some measure of cover.
“Hold up,” said Nigel. He dropped to his knees and began assembling his weapon—a commercial weed trimmer outfitted with a 10” saw blade—as Lazaro hovered above him.
“Yeah, hold up. Nigel saw some grass he wants to trim,” said Lazaro.
Nigel primed the trimmer but didn’t start it. “I didn’t hear you complain when this opened the belly of that Barney—you know the one that had you pinned? Or did you forget about that?”
“And covered me with its guts,” said Lazaro. He pumped his shotgun briskly. “You were too close. Charlene would have taken you both.”
