Claire Holroyde - The Effort

Weber braced his weight. He wasn’t one for moral inaction, but he had no way of knowing if the man in the red jacket meant to harm them. These were different times; many horrible actions were justified. Weber closed his eyes, but there was no sickening thud to interrupt his silent prayers. When he looked back, the man in the red jacket was tumbling down the embankment. He must have jumped to safety at the last second.

“Good that we didn’t hit him,” Weber said in a long exhale.

The stranger grunted and mentioned all the damage a deer had already done to his fender. They were silent for the rest of the trip.

THE CLOSING OF the driver’s-side door woke him. Weber bolted upright, but he was strapped in by a seat belt. It was already twilight and the drizzle had stopped. Weber watched the stranger’s shadowed figure through the windshield as he approached a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with three rows of curled razor wire that looked like widow’s lace against the sky.

A section of the fence slid back when the stranger pushed with his meaty arms and shoulders. He got back behind the wheel and eased the truck through the gate with its headlights off.

“Was this a prison?” Weber asked.

“No. It’s home. That wire is to keep people out, not in.”

Weber didn’t blame the man for turning off the truck’s engine and taking the keys with him when he stepped out to close the gate.

They drove down a long and narrow dirt road. When the underbrush cleared, Weber heard the crunch of tires on gravel. There was a building forty yards ahead, like a modern-day fortress with high concrete walls. Weber saw a large satellite dish on its roof, outlined against rose- and lavender-colored clouds. A metal garage door was the only interruption in the wall facing them.

“Here’s where I get lazy,” the stranger admitted.

He reached up and pressed something behind his rearview mirror. The garage door lifted and folded along segments as it retreated into the wall.

“How…” Weber started. “How were you so ready?”

“It’s funny,” the man said, looking more sober.

He stepped lightly on the gas.

“I was ready for every other reason under the sun. Terrorist attack, currency collapse, Ebola outbreak… but a fucking comet? I mean, ya gotta be kidding me.”

Weber nodded and gave a tired laugh. Depending on how you looked at it, UD3 was either the least funny situation in an infinite amount of other possibilities—or it was hilarious.

The truck came to a stop as the garage door extended back into place. Weber unfastened his seat belt in the absolute darkness.

“Just wait,” the stranger whispered.

Overhead lights flicked on.

“Jesus,” Weber breathed.

“No, not Jesus. More like energy from solar panels,” the man said, sounding pleased.

With the granola bar and a few hours’ sleep, Weber was able to walk without help. He shuffled along slowly after his host. The other man reached the door and flicked on a small flashlight mounted on the end of his rifle.

“I don’t use lights where there are windows,” he muttered. “It could attract them.”

He shut off the overhead lights and opened the door. Weber tried to follow the flashlight’s thin beam pointing down the gun barrel. It was a surreal view, like one of those first-person-shooter videogames he had seen in the crew lounge on his ship. The stranger crossed the first room and stood to the side of its only window. He picked up his lightweight binoculars and scanned the darkness outside. Weber stole a moment to look around. The room had no furniture but was cluttered with piles of objects: collections of electronics, clothes, and weapons. The soles of Weber’s boots skidded on grime.

The men crossed two more rooms before reaching a windowless kitchen with a wooden table and chairs. The stranger helped Weber into a chair and flicked on the overhead lights. They both blinked rapidly in the dazzling light. Electricity. How could Weber have been so ignorant to its everyday miracles?

The stranger pulled out his jingling keychain and unlocked the door to his basement larder. Gun and flashlight in hand, he disappeared down a flight of stairs. Weber looked around the kitchen. He saw a cast iron stove on legs with its thick exhaust pipe reaching to the ceiling. The walls above and below the cabinets were bare.

When the man returned, he had two cans clutched to his chest with one hand. The other held his gun with his trigger finger ready. Weber made no sudden moves. His stomach groaned like a kettledrum.

“I know,” the other man promised. “It’s coming.”

He let go of his gun and let it sway from its strap. There was a can opener lying on the kitchen counter beside an old dog collar. Weber would have used his teeth on the metal like the starving animal he was. The thought of food was almost unbearable. He needed a distraction.

“Do you have a dog?” Weber asked, making fists with trembling hands.

Soon as he asked, he wished he didn’t. People ate their pets, and they trapped and ate all the wild animals they could find.

“I had a dog. Now I don’t.”

Weber’s silence must have betrayed his thoughts.

“I didn’t eat him,” the other man snapped as he took off his gloves. “He died two years ago. He’s buried in the back. In one of his holes.”

“I’m sorry.”

The other man shook his head, like he was shaking free of the thought, and emptied baked beans into a bowl.

“Got a feeling you won’t mind it cold,” he said, carrying the bowl and a spoon to the table.

Weber took the bowl from the stranger’s hands and tipped it up to his open mouth.

“Easy,” the man said gently. “Eat slow as you can. Easy! You’re gonna—”

Choke. Weber hacked until tears ran down his reddened face. As soon as he could breathe, he spooned up the remaining beans and sauce. Metal scraped against ceramic. Weber’s host was already opening the second can. He took a seat at the table as he poured out the contents. Weber’s eyes watered again as he finished his second helping but this time because of overwhelming gratitude. How could he ever repay the man beside him? He wiped up the streaks of sauce with his finger and licked it.

“You’re the first person I’ve talked to,” the stranger admitted. “You know, after I lost contact.”

Weber cleared his throat. If talking was what this man needed, then Weber would happily sing for his supper. He asked questions and listened to answers. The other man used to be some sort of cybersecurity expert, where a constant state of paranoia might be a competitive advantage. Back on Healy , Weber and the rest of the crew used “Before the comet” to describe familiar life before that August, but this man used “Before I lost contact.” He must have been a recluse who only spoke to other humans through satellite via emails, blog posts, money transfers, and live chats.

“Didn’t you get lonely?” Weber asked.

“I connected with people all the time.”

“But never face-to-face.”

The man shrugged. “I never fit in with people. I preferred Jax.”

“Who?”

“My dog. Jax was his name.”

The corner of Weber’s lips turned up. “I thought no one cares about names anymore.”

The other man considered the words given back to him.

“Andrew,” he said, holding out his hand.

Weber’s hand was filthy, but Andrew took hold of it. He wasn’t the type who liked to be touched, so he forced his grip and held on.

“Are you a Christian, Andrew?”

He pulled away from Weber’s hand. “Nah, just doing my bit for the Coast Guard. My old man woulda wanted it that way.”

The stranger’s eyes suddenly stopped on Weber with a fixed stare.