Will McIntosh - Soft Apocalypse

We tore through the bamboo. If it hadn’t been so serious, it would have been comical: seven of us running single-file, at times hitting bamboo so thick we had to back up like a seven-car train and seek another way through. Eventually we slowed to a brisk walk, but we kept moving, and no one talked except to suggest a route through the tangle. Joel was crying now—he was probably hungry.

An hour into our flight, long after I’d decided we were safe, we heard a shout behind us, and then an answering shout.

“Shit,” Colin said.

We ran again.

“How can they know which way we went?” Colin asked.

“They must know how to track—broken branches, footprints,” Cortez answered. That was the last of the conversation. It was grueling; my lungs ached, my legs were rubber. Joel cried in earnest in Colin’s arms, his face red with outrage at being jostled so roughly for so long.

We kept running until the light began to wane, then slowed to a walk again.

I heard sniffing behind me, turned to see that Jeannie was crying. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “We lost everything. We’re out here with nothing.”

Nobody responded. I was true, and there was no sugar-coating it, no bright side.

“What now?” I asked.

“I guess we look for shelter,” Colin said.

We were heading in the wrong direction—northwest, away from Savannah.

We walked on, everyone in a black mood, until we came upon a neighborhood choked in bamboo and overgrown with kudzu. It wasn’t so much a neighborhood as a cul-de-sac set with half a dozen duplexes. Cortez kicked down the door of one and we took shelter inside.

“I don’t think we should stay until morning,” I said. “Let’s rest an hour, then keep moving.”

Nobody argued, although nobody agreed either. There were two bedrooms; Cortez suggested the two couples take them while the rest of us rested in the little living room.

We had no bedding, but we found some clothes in the closets and used that. It was growing dark. Phoebe lay along a wall, a half-dozen feet from me, hugging a pile of t-shirts.

“I’m sorry you lost your keepsakes,” I said.

She shrugged. “You can always buy me another postcard the next time we visit a Timesaver.”

“But Sir Francis Bacon…” I meant to strike a jovial tone, but it came out flat.

Phoebe smiled grimly. “Maybe one of the people chasing us will give it to his kid.” She closed her eyes, took a big, sighing breath. There was a ragged cut on her wrist, but it wasn’t too deep. Probably just some thorns.

Exhausted as I was, I couldn’t just drop off to sleep. I felt responsible for the mess we were in. I knew how Sophia felt about what I’d done, but I needed to know if the others thought I’d acted irresponsibly, or even criminally. I got up, knocked on Colin and Jeannie’s door.

Colin had pulled off his shirt and stretched it along the windowsill. Two rows of ribs ran down his back in sharp relief. He didn’t yet look like someone rescued from a concentration camp, but he was getting close.

“Was I wrong?” I asked.

They looked at each other, deciding who was going to tackle the question.

“No,” Colin said. “It was just so…” He struggled for the right words.

“Like I murdered them? Something like that?” I suggested. “But if I’d waited long enough to be sure, I probably wouldn’t have been able to catch them by surprise, and we’d all be dead.”

“No, I agree with you—” Colin said.

If you’d have told me when I was eighteen that one day I would debate whether or not I’d murdered people or shot them in self-defense, I’d have been spectacularly surprised.

“Japer, we’re not criticizing you,” Jeannie interrupted. “You saved us, and you saved our son, and we’d do anything to protect Joel. We were just surprised that you did it. If Cortez had done it, I don’t think we would have been shocked.”

“Exactly,” Colin said.

I nodded. “Fair enough.” I turned to go.

“Jasper?” Jeannie said. I turned back. “What happened to Ange?”

I sat on the edge of the bed and told them the truth. Cortez heard me telling the story, and came in. Phoebe hovered in the doorway. Difficult as it was, when it was over I was glad it was out. Secrets eat at you; they’re nothing but lies in drag.

“Hey, Jasper,” Colin said as I stood to go. “Thank you for saving my son.”

I nodded. That was all I needed.

The door to the other bedroom was partly open; Sophia stood holding a blanket she must have found in the closet. Our eyes met for a moment before she turned away.

Until last year, I’d carried my memories of Sophia as proof that true love was possible—but for her being married, we would have been together all these years, blissfully. I think Sophia had been doing the same, and now I had shattered her illusions, leaving her with nothing but cynical Jean Paul. My illusions had already been shattered, though not by her. I was sorry to take hers away, although maybe it was for the best in the long run. In any case, I was at peace trading those bullets for her illusions.

“Oh, crap,” Cortez hissed. He was peering out an open window. Hushed voices drifted through the window; a beam of light filtered through the bamboo.

I ran to get the others. We huddled in the living room, listening as the people outside went from door to door, searching.

Cortez handed me one of the automatic weapons. I took it, but shook my head. “If we get pinned in here, they can just wait us out, call a dozen more people on their walkies.”

Cortez nodded, motioned for us to follow him to the back door. Outside we heard rustling leaves and low voices no more than two dozen feet away.

“I’m going out there. Hopefully I can surprise them. Wait for my signal, then run.” Cortez turned the knob soundlessly, pushed the door open a foot. “If you need to shoot, aim lower than you think you should, and spray.” He showed me, sweeping his weapon left to right and back, then he handed his assault rifle to Phoebe, pulled a pistol from his pocket and squeezed out the door, immediately disappearing into black leaves.

We waited, squatting by the door, barely breathing. The assault rifle was heavy. I slid my finger over the trigger to make sure I could find it if I needed to. The safety was already off. Safety was a luxury.

There was a meaty thump, a shout of alarm that quickly morphed into a gargled choke, then three gunshots.

“Now,” Cortez shouted. I ran outside, stepped aside and covered the others while they passed, then ran like hell after them, my hands splayed in front of me, the automatic rifle bouncing wildly against my hip. Shouts erupted from the other side of the house. A bamboo stalk hit me in the forehead; I raised my hands higher. The bamboo leaves blocked most of the moonlight—all I could see were gray shapes on a black background, then, from behind me, a light. This was no good, I realized—if they had light and we didn’t, they’d be able to outrun us easily.

I stopped, dropped to one knee like I’d seen Cortez do. I pointed the automatic rifle lower than I wanted to, then pulled the trigger and sprayed blindly.

It was hard to hold the rifle in position—it bucked like I’d hooked a marlin. The staccato roar was like a Harley revving an inch from my ears. I released the trigger.

“Hold it. Stay,” a man’s voice said. “It’s too dangerous.” Relieved, I turned and ran.

“We’ll get you, you fuckers,” the same voice shouted after me. “Don’t you worry, we’re coming for you.”

Someone shouted my name. I followed her voice, caught up with Phoebe, grabbed her hand. Others were just ahead; we followed, weaving, blind. We moved as fast as we could, given the darkness, and Joel. I’d never been so thirsty, and hungry, and tired.