Mornings used to be a rise, not a fall. The sun would dance up the sky. The song of stars would slowly disappear with the darkness. Awakening all around, from the breezy trees to the rolling cars. Out the window, kids rushing with their backpacks to bus stops and into minivans, dogs barking at the activity, the whole community alive. Up out of bed. Coming to consciousness after either an unworried or even restless sleep. Even on the wrong side, the sun was always up, and so was I.
A cough wakes me this morning. No dancing, no trees, no cars, no children, no dogs. No light. It’s an older man’s cough, weary yet explosive. He can’t control it; I can see him across the concrete bunker sitting up in his cot. His head remains still but with every cough his body shakes. I can almost see his lungs through his scrawny chest. I watch as his grey hands shakily cover his mouth. His face doesn’t have the expression one usually does when shocked with such barking. His posture is perfect, his eyes relaxed, and his neck stiff.
“Are you okay Joe?” A woman is approaching him with concern. I wonder how his coughing surprises her. Every morning begins now with coughs. They get louder and louder, the sound of his lungs falling from force. He’s choking in here. Thankfully I can’t feel the air I breathe anymore.
She’s patting his back as she sits beside him. He’s just as calm as he was before. Maybe she thinks she’s being courteous, caring about him. I prefer to leave the guy be. Only lord knows how he’s managed to make it here.
“A safe haven,” the young cadet had whispered to the boy beside him. Explosions and bullets flying and these kids were dreaming of some place to run to. At the time I thought nothing of it, where even was safety at a time like this? Blood stained your clothes if disease didn’t. We were the poor bastards who got suckered into the army at just the wrong time, in just the wrong place. The world was fucking ending. There was no time to think about the future with guns pointed at you and shit crashing down on you. Yet, this blond bugger managed to dream of an alternative.
“It’s not far from here, forty miles North, the other side of the border.” The cadet’s friend seemed intrigued, his eyes widening with hope. Maybe he could survive after all, maybe he could find love before his death after all, and maybe his mom could come too. Naive kid.
“I heard there’s an underground shelter, with food and everything. Anyone who can find it gets in. We could go. We could make it. We didn’t sign up for all this shit.”
Sirens drowned the cadet out and a grenade separated us, and some other kid’s limbs.
Maybe the blond kid had a point. Who were we saving? People were still dying in the streets as soldiers were exploding. I could be one of the dying; I just had a gun and a brain. But how long would that last me? Didn’t good little Sam just blow up beside me? He was a smart guy, with a gun.
What makes me more likely to survive this bullshit? Maybe a destination would. Forty miles North.
Everyone is up now. If it wasn’t the coughing, it was the tortuous dripping sound I could only ignore for so long. One pipe, keeping our sorry lot alive, with one annoying drop a minute. Sometimes there’d be two, that gets exciting. Fuck that pipe.
A moan, a yawn, a sneeze. Everyone was awake all right, not up though. No one ever got up that fast. What was the hurry? Stuck in here for weeks now, maybe it’s been a month already. Time doesn’t move slowly, it doesn’t move at all. No one was getting out anytime soon.
Some of them scribble on bits of paper, or even the wall. One girl draws all over the concrete bricks heading her cot every night. Sometimes I wake up and look forward to what she’d illustrated the night before. She’s been running out of space though. I look for a while, playing a game: where’s the new drawing? I recognize the portrait of an unknown woman, her mouth open screaming, and her eyes filled with words. I brush a lion’s mane with my eyes and smell the flowers that blossom across the wall. I guess this is close enough, to the sun dancing up the sky. Sometimes.
“Morning,” the first word that tells everybody, it’s time to endure another day. It varies, who says it first. This time, I said it. I had found the new image; it was a tiny sun, peeking behind fat clouds. Morning.
The old man slowly gets off his bed with the help of the woman, who I remember is called something like Sally or Sarah. She has a smile on her face; she probably enjoys being stronger than this frail geezer. The artistic girl rubs her eyes and forces a yawn, rolling off her cot. In a few minutes most are standing, waiting. I’m always waiting.
The other man about my age stumbles to the toilet that is barely concealed by a concrete brick about three feet tall. He manages a piss while the other woman, Viola I’ll never forget, a redheaded gal, turns on the faucet, filling the teakettle. The cold bothers some more than others. That damn dripping is what gets to me. Fucking pipe.
A flush and a whistle later, all but the artistic girl are sitting in a circle, sipping lukewarm tea. Some small talk, “How’d you sleep?” “Is your foot better?” “I had that nightmare again.” Usual talk. I can’t ignore the dripping. Every moment hangs as the tear clings to the pipe, fighting gravity. When it falls, there’s a sense of relief. But only briefly, until the silence returns, and the weight of another drop fights against the ground.
“We should do something today.” The dark-haired artistic girl appears. Her eyes look brighter than they usually do, more green than brown maybe. Maybe she’s proud of her sun drawing. I can see a smirk in one eye, and insecurity in the other. She’s so much younger than the rest of us, I feel a little sorry for her.
“Alright Tara, like what?” Viola’s red eyebrows rose eagerly, she looked intrigued but skeptical.
“I want to learn something.”
I needed a car. I can’t get anywhere on foot when there’s officers at every corner ready to gun down refugees. The only people allowed in and out have cars. There’s none left in the city. It’s dark enough at night I could steal one. Where though? I could watch the streets for headlights; I could follow one and hijack it. I’m in uniform; they’d think it was some national security thing.
Hours later, a light in the dark appears. Only one, moving fast. The engine is loud. Oh shit, it better have gas. It’s a bike, speeding towards me. I step out, gun in my hand, just to scare, I tell myself. But it stops, a hundred feet up the road. A man jumps off, runs up to an apartment building, smashes a window and disappears. Sirens hide the sounds.
I don’t know how to hotwire a motorcycle. I keep my gun in my hand and run towards the smashed window, ducking behind exploded bricks, hiding from the scanning lights. Peering inside, it’s dark, but I can hear rustling. Doors slamming, glass breaking, items thrown and taken. Sounds I’m used to at this point, sounds of looting. But why is he looting in such a hurry, and on such a determined bike? Doesn’t matter, he’s coming back.
I back up, in front of the motorcycle, pointing my M9 at the sweaty face running towards me. Once he sees me he stops. He’s got nothing in his hands, wearing torn clothes. Skin wet and eyes wide he just stares. I don’t remember his hair, his height, or his face. Only the sweat and blood drenching his skin.
“Keys,” I demand. I don’t have time to worry about any man but myself. It’ll be light soon; the nights have been getting shorter. As he reaches into his pocket, I’m thinking about the best way out of the city. It’s been a while since I’ve been on my own, and mobile. North… This was once Broadway I’m sure of it, which means ten blocks that way--my mind drifts and my eyes forget to tell my brain that his bloody hands have pulled out a knife. My neck feels the cool blade suddenly pressing against my flesh. My fingers pull, and a shot is fired. A man is dead, and I have a bike.
“Learn,” I hear Something-like-Sally whisper to herself. Sounding out the letters with such pleasure. The thick L, the lean vowels, and the hard N, crafted by her tongue comfort her. It’s funny, how sometimes people repeat words just to stay sane. Something-like-Sally does this the most. Always muttering to herself. I thought she was crazy at first, but now I suspect she just likes words, the same way Tara likes images.
“Everybody knows something. I mean, the old man has got to know tons. If we’re gonna be stuck here, I wanna know it too.” Tara is hiding her insecurity with sass. Will she always be stuck a teenager?
“There’s nothing to know,” the old man’s usual slow and mysterious reply.
“What’s something you’ve always wanted to know, Tara?” Viola always gets deep fast. I roll my eyes and sigh loud enough to call attention to myself. Oops.
“What do you know, Tucker?” Viola is glaring at me with her bright blue eyes; she gets sassy pretty fast too.
“I don’t know.” I don’t feel like games today.
“Well that doesn’t make sense, Tucker. How could you not know what you do know?”
“You think too much Viola.” She smiles at this. Pearly whites, even weeks later, sort of remarkable.
“The Waltz.” Viola and I turn to Marcus. He rarely speaks up. Every time his voice is shockingly deep. He has that sort of preacher’s voice--commanding yet there’s something reassuring about it. It’s clear the ladies are fond of him, always fluttering their eyelashes and blushing whenever he speaks. I don’t know how he hasn’t been losing muscle like the rest of us.
“You can dance Marcus?” Tara is the first to ask. She’s less surprised and more eager. Viola’s face has turned absolutely goofy, and Something-like-Sally seems to be daydreaming. The old man stays complacent, as usual.
“I can teach us.” The bunker gets quiet. I don’t even hear the dripping. The “us” is what hangs in the cold air now. No one has used that word yet. Are we just six people stuck in a bunker while the world is ending, or some sort of group? Couldn’t that easily make us some sort of family? Marcus doesn’t notice a difference.
“We can have three pairs, it works out well.” With his commandments, entranced with his language, we assemble into the pairs he puts us and move on.
Viola is stuck with me and clearly not thrilled, but she’s far too short to dance with massive Marcus. Something-like-Sally is tall enough to have that privilege, while Tara is stuck with the old man. For a senile guy he seems pretty limber, when he’s not coughing up a lung.
First, we learn about a box. It’s hard to follow. Marcus is explaining it clear enough, but my feet haven’t moved this much, nor has my mind been so focused.
The sun is coming up fast, and with light comes drones. Bombs will start to fall again soon. I’m too close to the city. This damn bike only goes so fast; the roads are shit, and the bridge was like a fucking jigsaw puzzle to cross.
The landscape once I managed to cross over isn’t as I imagined it would be. The grass and hills seem untouched; the only damage done is to infrastructure. Factories demolished, malls ripped apart. People have either fled or died, but no bodies are to be seen. There’s always that ambience though. Of fires, bombs, guns, cannons, buildings falling, the Earth shaking. Mother Nature wants us all to leave and she won’t let us forget it.
It’s strange taking Exit 191. The ramp isn’t damaged, the sign still standing. There’s some spray paint over it, but nothing that screams apocalypse.
I force the bike to crawl up the ramp and over a massive hill. At the top I decide not to turn back and look at was once the Big Apple. I do scan ahead of me what was once some quaint New Jersey suburb. I look at the map. Dumb blonde cadet slept with the paper under his pillow. Idiot.
I ride the bike through the suburb. I’m running low on gas now. There’s nothing. I see a swing set, the only structure left standing in a children’s playground, and pretty much the whole town. The seat sways back and forth, almost invitingly. It’s just that swing and me that are left here.
Marcus is humming some familiar tune, to which Viola joins. Her lips are pressed tightly and her eyes glued to the floor as I watch her eyes count 1...2...3… 1...2...3…
“Tucker!” She stops, I’ve stepped on her again. This is ridiculous. I look at Tara and the old man, she’s smiling. She’s learning. Something-like-Sally keeps counting aloud with Marcus. I try to remember the steps, the box. All I can picture is that square window I used to look out of every morning. At the sun, the trees, the cars, the children…
I have to walk. My steps are heavy and lost. My head bounces with every advance. The air is thick and the sky has turned red. I can taste the blood. My lips are chapped.
Big houses turn small, and small houses turn into shacks. I reach a forest, preserved from suburban destruction. In it a creek, with a yellow smoke kissing the surface. But I’m thirsty.
I hear a rustling, but haven’t seen an animal yet.
A very close shriek and a massive crash as a tree limb falls explain it.
Marcus does some fancy turn with Something-like-Sally, Viola looks jealous, or ambitious, I can’t tell. She straightens her posture, looks down at the ground again, and continues.
“Let him lead Viola,” Marcus so calmly suggests. She looks annoyed. I sigh. How long have we been dancing for?
Something tells me to run. It’s easy to find the fallen limb; it’s beside the crying woman. Her hair is bright against the green backdrop. Her skin is fair. Her face wet with tears and drenched with fear. I approach slowly. I haven’t seen a woman in what feels like months, and surely none has ever looked as precious as this one.
I turn my gaze onto Viola’s face. Her freckles paint her cheeks so gently. But I can’t see her sky blue eyes. I lift her chin from her chest, she suprisingly doesn’t protest. Marcus counts, “1...2...3…”
Words are hard to force out, so instead I offer a hand. She refuses. Wipes her face, and stands up.
I get my thoughts gathered. I almost forgot the goal, “We aren’t far.”
“We?” she asked, almost amusingly. But follows me nonetheless.
I don’t trod on her toes once. I’m awake. We’re dancing to Marcus’s fading hums, replacing the darkness with some light. The breezy trees are swaying me now, the rolling cars steering her in my arms. I’m not watching youth from the window; instead I can feel the giddiness with me. It’s a strange feeling, waking up.
We’ve reached a field. I can only barely see the bunker, but she speeds towards the concrete roof hidden amongst the brush. The sky has turned dark with smoke again and the air is hot. A fire must be near. I hasten. She’s at a giant metal structure, what must be some sort of door. She reaches to knock; I have the sudden urge to kill her right there.
She cracks a smile when I twirl her. The old man coughs, the water drips, I don’t hear it.
What if there isn’t enough for me? When the door opens, four others are revealed. I am let in, so is she. They’ve got the food and water. I suppose we’re all just hopeless people stuck here together.
We’re all up now. Smiling, dancing. Tara manages a laugh. The old man is throwing in some of his own moves. Viola is floating in my arms. Marcus compliments our progress. I remember--her name is Sandra, not Sally. A new day has begun. Good morning.
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