Emmy Laybourne - Savage Drift

I push open the door at the end of the hall, leading to the stairs—unlocked during the day.

Stepping in, I hear movement. Clothing rustling, breathing.

It isn’t unusual to see people making out in the shadows sometimes.

But I stop.

Looking down the stairway leading to the basement, through the slats of the stairs, I see a familiar body—a familiar sweater.

It is Mario’s sweater and it is Lori down there.

I freeze.

“Nice,” says a voice. Brett. “You’re so pretty. Don’t be scared.”

She has her hands up and he is putting them down, kissing her. Making her shut up by kissing her.

“Hey!” I say.

I am down the half a flight in a heartbeat.

“It’s okay, Josie,” Lori says. “I’m fine.”

I see tears on her cheeks. Fine?

Her shirt is messed up and her hair, too, and she is crying.

And I see Brett is not alone. ANOTHER Union “Man” is with him.

That makes me so angry I can barely breathe as VRAAAAAAAUGH my blood ramps up.

“You had your chance, Josie.” Brett says. “Lori understands a good deal when it comes her way.”

My blood is pounding in my ears and making it hard to hear. Hard to think.

“They’re going to protect us. All of us,” Lori tells me. “It’s okay.”

“IT IS NOT OKAY,” I shout.

The squat, pug-faced teenager with Brett pushes me.

“Keep it down, Rabbit,” he sneers. “This is a private party.”

God help me, I can’t stop myself.

I slam the heel of my right hand into his nose.

Blood sprays and the kid squeals.

“Jesus Christ!” Brett yells and I grab him by the hair and throw him into the cement wall.

He is down and I am kicking.

“Stop!” Lori screams. “Stop it, Josie!”

I am O. God help me. Full blown and I will kill them. Attacking a fourteen-year-old? Molesting a girl? Little Lori? I will kill them.

“STOP!” Lori slaps me.

I turn on her.

“Breathe, Josie,” she says.

She wraps her arms around me.

“Shhhhhh,” she says.

Pug Face moans.

Lori hugs me and drags me up the stairs, away from the fallen Union Men. One step at a time.

Brett curses at me.

“We’ll get you, Josie Miller,” he says. “You’re as good as dead.”

The wind had shifted and now the drift was hitting the windshield.

Astrid turned on the windshield wipers.

The black grit lay like a film on the glass, then was wiped away. Clung, was wiped, clung, was wiped.

I looked at the particles of drift that had clung to the side window. Each was tiny. Dust-speck tiny—and each a little perfect square. Much smaller than a grain of sand. Not cubic, but flat. Flat black death, particled out.

Beyond the window, we were passing through the streets of Vinita. We saw fires, people coming, screaming out of their homes.

Through the dark, sifting sandstorm people were dying and trying to save each other on every street.

“You’ve got to turn around,” Jake said. “Get back on the highway.”

Astrid pulled over abruptly, driving the car up onto the sidewalk.

“I can’t breathe,” she said, her words coming thickly through her mouthpiece. “Gonna throw up.”

Within the zipped suit, she popped out her mouthpiece.

“That’s not a good idea, Astrid!” Niko said, sharply concerned.

“I’m gonna hurl!” she wailed. She started to unzip her suit.

I leaned across, into the front seat and stopped her hand.

“Astrid!” I said. “Look at me.”

Her body and face were completely sealed within the suit.

She looked up and through the clear visors of our two suits, she locked into my eyes.

“Breathe,” I told her. “It’s okay. There’s enough air in the suit. Breathe.”

“Don’t let her take the suit off!” Jake added.

“She’s gonna be fine, Jake,” I said without breaking eye contact with her. I kept my voice steady. “Just breathe, Astrid.”

Maybe it sounds dumb, but this space, right here, this connection between us, was the foundation of our relationship. She knew that she could count on me to be there. Yeah, I had been a total nerd who had a crush on her and we were an unlikely pair. But she knew I was there for her and that meant something.

What were we saying to each other, through the plastic?

Her: I’m scared.

Me: I know.

Me: I love you.

Her: I know.

Then: And it’s going to be okay.

Astrid put her mouthpiece back in and settled back into her seat. She tried to swipe at her tears, using the gloves of the suit, but it didn’t really work.

“You’re crushing my leg, man,” Jake complained to me.

I shifted back into the backseat.

“Somebody else should drive,” Astrid said. And Niko and she climbed over each other to switch places.

We didn’t dare to open the car doors—not with the drift still peppering the car when the wind changed.

Niko got us on the highway, headed north.

When the air was clear, we felt it was safe to take off the masks.

Astrid put her head in her hands. I didn’t need to see her shoulders shaking to know she was crying.

She was sitting in front of me so I put my hand over the seat back and patted her on the shoulder.

“That was horrible,” I said.

“That poor woman,” Astrid choked out.

“They should be warning people!” Jake said, struggling to keep his voice even. “Everyone thinks they’re rumors, but the drifts are real!”

“It’s the military,” I said. “They must be keeping the story quiet. But why?”

“To keep people from panicking,” Niko said, his eyes on the road. “To keep them from evacuating.”

“Why would they do that?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know,” Niko said. “Maybe because there’s no place left to go.”

Jake and I had to do some moving around and reorganizing to get comfortable in the backseat.

“That poor woman was nutso,” Jake said. And it was true. She had loaded a totally bizarre selection of household items into her backseat.

There was:

An oscillating fan.

An industrial-size carton of Goldfish crackers, which Jake started to eat immediately.

Four giant photo albums, dated 2019–2023.

A set of jumper cables and, man, she was thinking ahead, snow chains for the tires.

A large makeup box/kit kind of thing.

A six-pack of protein shakes and a variety of snack foods.

Two unopened canisters of tennis balls.

A houseplant.

A box of dishes that had broken when she threw them in the car.

“And lookee, lookee!” Jake crowed. “Mama was planning ahead.”

He brandished a half-full bottle of scotch.

He uncorked it and took a swig.

“Jeez, Jake,” I said.

“Is that really a good idea?” Niko asked.

“We just saw Rocco Caputo die. We almost got shot and then blown up by a truck. We saw some poor crazy woman we don’t know die. We saw a man hacking her body to bits with a kitchen knife. I think getting wasted is a GREAT idea. I really do.”