Морин Макхью - Wastelands - The New Apocalypse

A sound like thunder—if thunder were an army—boomed beneath Nayima’s floorboards, and her living room trembled.

Spray lashed the deck outside her glass door. Then the swell of sound retreated across drenched sand below, sucking back the roar as the tide pulled away to marshal its strength.

It was high tide, and a storm might be coming, somewhere beyond the hidden rim of the darkening Pacific she could glimpse through the sheer parted curtains. The ocean swelled beneath her faster than she’d expected, and again the floor tremored. It was like living in a cruise ship, she thought—a ship that never moved or rocked. Rooted.

This apartment was the best place Nayima had ever lived. The best place she ever would live, came the silent correction. Maybe the best place, period, now or ever, for anyone. Two years ago, this beachfront apartment might have cost a couple million dollars. She had found it empty and undisturbed, the key not so cleverly hidden beneath a flower pot beside the door at the top of the wooden beach house steps.

No bodies inside. (Hallelujah!) No rotten food anywhere—or not much, anyway. Maybe the owners had been vegan, because only rice, vegetables, and fruit had gone bad in grocery store packages in the freezer. The fridge had been empty except for a pitcher of water and a six-pack of Corona.

The owners clearly had left Malibu in an orderly fashion. The apartment’s furniture was simple and mostly disposable, any metal near the windows rusting slightly from the salt water air. It must have been a vacation rental, because she’d found a laminated sheet of instructions explaining the electrical wiring, how to work the huge television’s remote, and where to find the towels. Of course, no one in Malibu had electricity or working televisions anymore, but the towels in the linen closet were still there and smelled like that fabric softener with the smiling teddy bear. True hospitality.

The waves crashed the boulders and sea wall beneath the apartment again.

“Jesus!” Karen complained from the bedroom. “How do you sleep with that racket?”

Nayima closed her eyes. The sound of the ocean might be keeping her alive, making her relish her aliveness. “How do you stay awake?” Nayima called back.

Other people’s tastes were a burden. Nayima had invited Karen to move in only two days ago, and already it felt like a mistake. Nayima had spent weeks, sometimes months, craving conversation with another person who would not try to kill or rob her—or report her to the marshals—but after knowing Karen for less than a week, Nayima was tired of her.

Her complaints. Her pessimism.

Her in general.

Nayima asked herself if she would have tried to like Karen more if Karen were a man, or if she herself was a man, but the question felt trite. True, she’d never been in bed with a woman before Karen, but her body liked Karen’s warm skin and gentle touch just fine. Karen’s sudden kiss was the only reason she’d invited her to move in; otherwise, they might have just kept running into each other on the beach from time to time while they fished and looked for crabs.

To her shock, Karen said she’d never had the vaccine. Another NI—Naturally Immune—was something, anyway. Nayima knew she would have died ten times over by now if she hadn’t been immune to the flu, and the same was true of Karen, or probably so for many of the others still finding their way to Malibu. Still, for someone to stride up to you and ask for a kiss was bold, and Nayima had liked the kiss in every way.

Maybe it was the age difference, then. Nayima was only twenty-four, and Karen was forty-five, old enough to be her mother. Or, maybe Nayima couldn’t just snap her fingers and fall in love, no matter how few candidates were left. Was that it? She was still being picky?

One for the joke file.

Nayima brought out the notebook she’d begun carrying with her after she escaped the chaos in Bakersfield for a change of scenery. She had intended to use it as a journal, but she couldn’t make herself chronicle her story, or any stories, about the flu. Instead, she wrote down thoughts that amused her, like she used to in her theater class at Spelman, the first time a teacher had told her she was funny.

It turns out beggars CAN be choosers , Nayima wrote. She drew a circle, two eyes and a wide O: a surprised face. It made her laugh more loudly than she should have. Even the waves couldn’t smother the sound.

Karen came out of the bedroom wearing the white terry cloth robe the owners had left behind the bathroom door: Nayima’s robe. When irritation flashed, Nayima thought about Karen’s silhouette in the dusk sun when they’d finally stopped circling each other from a wary distance. The law of the beach—the only law, really—was Don’t start none, won’t be none .

Karen was Irish-from-Ireland, so her short, spiky hair was carrot orange and her face was permanently sunburned and peeling, no matter how much sunblock she used. But she was strong, and Nayima thought everywhere her strength showed was lovely: steely eyes, a strong jaw, a body of lean muscle. Karen could haul in fishing nets that were astonishingly heavy. She’d been an airline baggage handler for Delta. Before. Nayima hadn’t had time to be anything but a student.

“I wish you wouldn’t wear that,” Nayima said. “Without asking.”

Karen ignored the chide. “I heard you laugh. Were you laughing at me?”

Karen was already reading her notebook over her shoulder and Nayima had too much pride to slam it shut. That, and she wanted Karen to see her jokes. Karen usually said she didn’t see the point of jokes; nothing was funny, at least not anymore.

Karen gave a short sigh, pointing at Nayima’s last scrawl. “Me?” she said. “Beggars and choosers. I don’t get it, really. It’s a little mean, isn’t it?”

“A little.”

“But it made you laugh.”

“Obviously I need therapy,” Nayima said. Therapists would be making a killing if they weren’t already dead . She scribbled it down before she forgot.

While Nayima wrote, Karen mulled over the page as if she did not recognize the language. “May I?” she said finally—the way she should have asked about her robe. Without waiting for Nayima’s answer, she took the notebook and walked to the love seat, her robe falling open when she sat on folded legs. Nayima watched her face for signs of amusement and saw none. Karen sighed and fidgeted each time the surf roiled beneath the apartment.

“Can we go to the flat I found across the highway?” Karen said. “You can see the water, but it won’t be as loud.”

Karen’s place was practically a shed, the only one she’d found that didn’t stink.

“I already have a place I like,” Nayima said.

She had long forgotten how to compromise. She had fought hard for her pleasures and would let go of none of them. If there was a silver lining, as people used to say, she’d learned how to stand up for what she wanted.

“These houses right on the beach are the first place they’ll look, Neema.” Neema might be a nickname, or maybe Karen couldn’t remember her actual name. That was how little they knew each other.

“I thought you wanted to move because of the water.”

“I can think of a lot of reasons to move. Can’t you?”

There. Karen wasn’t trying to, but her voice had slipped into Mommy mode. Nayima grinded her teeth. “If you want to sleep somewhere else, you know where to find me, Caitlin.”

“Karen,” she said. “Not Caitlin.”

“Nayima, then. Let’s use our actual names.”

Gram hadn’t raised Nayima to envy or notice blue eyes, but damn if Karen’s gray-blue eyes weren’t the color of moonlight. Every time Nayima wanted to start a fight, she noticed another aspect of Karen she liked, and this time it was her eyes, even if it was only because they were hers. Nayima wished they were in bed instead of arguing. Her body was waking under Karen’s eyes.