300 Miles to Galveston (4 page)

There was no reply, so they stepped through the empty front door frame. Their tennis shoes ground square bits of glass into the concrete, which echoed more loudly than they expected. Glancing around with their flashlights, they saw that half the inventory remained.

One of the advantages of modern box-shaped buildings like this was, after the power grid shut down, they were so miserably hot no one wanted to stay inside one for long. Sure, there were plenty of windows, but they didn’t slide open, so you’d have to knock out half the walls to make the place breathe. It just wasn’t worth fighting over.

The only exception were the malls, where kids sometimes fought for skateboarding rights, though as medical supplies ran out, these evolved into competitions, called “sickouts.” Whoever could do the sickest trick won the right for his crew to skate there the rest of the day, though usually they just made the other guys watch for a while, then waved them in.

“OK, Sophie, let’s get you outfitted first.”

They looked at retro-styled single speed bikes, knobby mountain bikes, and sleek racing bikes. Sophie thought the retro bikes looked cool, but Kurt knew she’d tire out without higher gears to shift into. After some thought, he guided her to a hybrid, not as thick as a mountain bike, not as spindly-looking as a racer, by Mizani. It was labeled a “sports road” bike, 14 gears, winter white.

“I like the blue one better.”

“That’s a boy’s bike.”

“How can you tell?”

“See how it’s got a straight top tube? That’s so boys can rack themselves when they slide off the seat.”

“Dad!”

“Truly, I never understood why they did them that way. Seemed cruel.”

“Why do girls bikes have the tube that, you know, bends down like that?”

Kurt puzzled over it for a moment. “I think that’s from when girls wore skirts.”

“Huh,” Sophie said.

In the end, worry over gender identity won out, and Sophie chose a silver woman’s Mizani of the same model. Kurt agreed that the metallic paint sparkled nicely in the flashlight, and complimented her choice.

For himself, Kurt chose the men’s model of the same bike, with the same wheel size. They needed to carry spare parts, and having unique bikes would be too big a hassle. He took two extra wheels, two mini bike pumps, four boxes of Slime Scabs Peel-n-Stick tire patches, two pairs of cycling shorts for each of them, two pair of sunglasses, two tool kits, water bottles with cage kits, gel fingerless gloves, saddle covers with extra gel, head and rear LED lights, bike computers, and helmets.

They walked the bikes out the front door, and were pleased.

“How much would this have cost?” Sophie asked.

“Thousand bucks. Each.”

“Coooool.”

To his surprise, the batteries still worked in their LEDs and bike computers, though they would have recharged after a couple of miles on the road anyway.

Riding home, Kurt wondered why he hadn’t done this months ago. No, years ago. Even when he’d have to spend money to do it, instead of just risk his life walking into an abandoned building. The breeze felt great, and riding a bike with his daughter was deeply joyful.

* * *

“Hey. Nice bikes.”

The voice startled Kurt, and he fumbled with the brakes, locking up the front tire and pitching his rear end forward, but not completely flipping himself over. Sophie zipped past.

Why did I stop? He thought. Stupid, stupid.

“Hey. You startled me.”

He heard and saw nothing.

“Got them down at Bike Mart. They’ve got a bunch more.”

“Yeah, I know.” The voice was coming from the ground. Kurt walked his bike a quarter turn to the left, and for a second, saw a giant black talking spider with gleaming fangs, then realized it was something almost as startling – a recumbent bike with a one-legged rider, handlebar mustache, grey on the sides.

“Dude! You scared the crap outa me.”

“Sorry. Just sayin’ high to a fellow rider.”

“I’m Kurt.”

“Bane.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, Branislov. But who the hell wants to be called that?”

“Good point.”

They talked for a bit before Kurt realized he’d seen Bane before. “Ohhh... you’re the guy who fixed Sophie’s bike. Thanks for that.”

“No worries. It felt good to be useful again.”

Kurt nodded, and they talked for a while. To Kurt’s surprise, they had a lot in common; it was just that their lives had taken them down different paths.

Then he realized Sophie hadn’t turned around. “Sorry man, I better go catch up with my kid.”

“No worries. She’s a speed demon. Catch ya ‘round.”

Kurt found himself thinking of things on the way home. How much stuff could Bane carry on that recumbent bike? Could he pull a small trailer? Could he keep pace, with only one leg? He wanted to save him, too, for some reason, and he admitted to himself, he wanted the adult company. He loved Sophie, and talked to her about almost everything, but there were some things you just wouldn’t get until you’d been through them.

When he got to Stonebrook, he saw Sophie heading back towards him, saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” and realized that, crude as it was, there was something else he liked about Bane. As an older, one-legged guy, he seemed even less of a threat to his daughter. He decided to sleep on it. Maybe he would talk to Bane again in the morning.

Chapter 3: 4-6-6-3-2-9-3

When Kurt woke, he knew he’d have to lie. That realization was backed up by the shortwave, when he and Sophie checked it:

“This is the USS
Fort Worth
at Coast Guard Station Galveston. We have room for 39 survivors. We will update the count as we accept new passengers. Message repeats.”

He couldn’t risk taking a dozen folks, being slowed down, and maybe the ship being out of room by the time they got there. This was about survival, not friendship.

Still, if felt wrong to just leave the ‘hood without saying goodbye. They had lived there since the divorce, when Kristine and Sophie were 9 and 6. Travis had been a particularly good friend. He needed to say goodbye, without being completely truthful, and without opening it up to a dozen questions.

Going to see his brother in Hillsboro? Wait, Travis knew he hated his brother. He’d been a sponge before society collapsed; God only knew what kind of piece of crap he’d turned into now.

Going to see Sophie’s aunt in Corsicana? Maybe. They hadn’t spoken since the divorce, but that didn’t seem too far-fetched. Her husband was a retired cop, and they had a little farm. Might be a good place to stop for food.

OK. Keep it simple. Aunt in Corsicana.

Corsicana was a town of 20,000 people 60 miles south of Dallas. Unlike the former small towns north of Dallas, it never got absorbed into the expanding suburbia, so it had kept a steady population since the 1950s. It was famous as the home of the Collin Street Bakery, where everyone in Texas ordered their Christmas fruitcakes.

Kurt finished packing, and left Sophie to play with the dog, and hopefully wear her out.

He was greeted with “good morning!” from the half-dozen old people chatting and drinking coffee in the fellowship hall, and replied in kind. They scored two pallets of Folger’s freeze dried coffee six months ago from an abandoned semi, and it had been a great excuse to socialize every morning.

Crap,
Kurt thought.
Coffee. I hadn’t thought about that.
He didn’t want to be going into caffeine withdrawal on a 300 mile bike trip. He took his mug off the rack and filled it.

Travis saw that something was on his mind, and joined him at the long table.

“Sophie and I are going to head down to Corsicana to check on her aunt. I’d appreciate it if y’all could check in on the dog. She’s tiny, doesn’t need much food. We usually just give her our scraps, and it’s enough.”

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” an old lady asked.

“Don’t know, to be honest. Not sure what state she’s in.” That’s how local folks politely dodged the living-or-dead issue. “If everything’s OK, I figure maybe two weeks.”

Everyone nodded.

Travis caught his gaze returning to the red plastic Folger’s canister as they talked about bikes and weather and what they’d heard about the route in the last couple of years, and packed him a Ziploc freezer bag with enough coffee for a month, a disposable plastic scoop, and a perforated rag to use as a filter.

“You’ve got one of those cowboy coffee pitchers, right?”

Kurt nodded and thanked him.

They gathered in a circle, held hands, and Travis lead a prayer for a safe journey and a safe return.

Kurt left the church feeling like a complete ass.

* * *

As they were about to head out of the driveway, Kurt noticed that Sophie’s backpack had a weird bulge in it.

“We can’t take the dog, sweetie. This isn’t that kind of trip.”

“I know. It’s not that.”

“What is it?”

She looked down. “It’s personal, OK?”

“OK.” He didn’t bring it up again.

They didn’t speak for the first mile. Then, Sophie cussed. “I want to say goodbye to Kristine.”

They slowed to a stop. He was going to say that’s a mile in the other direction, but that would be planner-dad, not dad-dad, talking. This was a dad-dad thing.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. We should have done that first. I’m sorry I forgot. You must think I’m a jerk.”

“No, it’s OK. I know it’s hard for you to see her.”

He nodded. “Maybe it’s different for a parent than a sister, you know? When I see her, it just... I don’t know. It sucks the soul outa me.”

“Yeah.”

They said nothing for a moment, blood pounding in their ears from the ride, and from the unspoken arguments that would be bad to let loose right now. Kurt turned his bike around.

“OK, let’s go say goodbye.”

It surprised him to say that. He had only meant to say OK, but something in him had worked loose, and he realized he was finally saying goodbye to a daughter who had died three years ago. He peddled slower as the tears came, squinting and brushing them past his ears.

He hadn’t cried like that in a long time. Not even when he killed her.

* * *

In the early weeks of panic, stores were emptied quickly. Basic household goods like bottled water and soap disappeared in days, and were stocked in locked garages and covered with tarps in backyards. Drugs also made a hasty exit, including every version of Tylenol, Advil, and Naproxen. Kurt’s personal stash had run out, so when Kristine got a fever and complained of headache, he went to the church, where the old timers had stocked up on aspirin. It was good for thinning the blood to prevent heart attack, and was familiar to their parents and their parents. Some of the old men would chew a tablet when they had an ache; they said it worked better that way. One old guy even claimed you could chew some willow tree bark and get the same effect.

Kurt gave Kristine the aspirin, and an hour later, when she kicked the blanket off, he noticed she had a rash on her feet.

Then she started twitching in her sleep. When she woke, she was confused, as if she couldn’t wake from a nightmare. She looked at her father with horror, saying things that made no sense, and didn’t seem to see her sister at all. Kurt went in search of a doctor or nurse, but no one knew where one lived. When he got back a couple of hours later, her eyes were yellow, and her pupils did not respond to the flashlight.

By sunrise, she was dead. It was Reye Syndrome. Kurt didn’t know why people didn’t give aspirin to kids anymore. His ex-wife had done all the pediatrician stuff. He assumed Advil and Tylenol had simply become more popular – not that kids with the flu sometimes died when they took aspirin.

He sat with her, silent. He stroked her hand, touched her hair, and stared. Ten minutes passed. She calmly sat up and opened her eyes. They were white and clear, and she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if ending one of their karate class meditations.

“Kristine?”

She looked in his direction, but not at him. He waved his hand, and she looked away, annoyed.

Sophie touched her foot, and Kristine smiled and looked right at her.

* * *

The cemetery was 15 minutes from the house by bike. Kurt looked at wild flowers as they passed, and decided to stop three times to gather some. He picked a handful of small, white oxeye daisies, then some downy paintbrush, which looked like a hot pink variety of wheat, and finally some bluebells, which should have been called purplebells. Sophie slowed and rode in circles, but didn’t stop.

As he made the turn to go north, he felt queasy. He was not good at goodbyes. They were too powerful, too blinding, and he never knew how to make them go smoothly.

Sophie had run out of patience and zipped ahead, resting her bike against the fence. About a dozen Angels in white plastic ponchos were facing different directions, as if posing for an apathetic rock band’s album cover. Sophie typed the code expertly and entered.

He watched her take the path to the right. He barely remembered where Kristine’s plot was – not that it mattered. They didn’t have to stay on their plots; that was simply how they measured how many Angles they could accommodate.

He set his bike next to Sophie’s, and realized he didn’t know the code.
Bad father.

“Hey, Sophie!” The wind was whipping the decorative trees together. There was no way she’d hear him. He tried the walkie talkie, but did not get a green circuit indicator, so hers and Kristine’s must have been off.

He slumped against the gate, holding the wildflowers, and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do here. I want to ask your forgiveness, but I don’t know how. I know living with me wasn’t easy. I didn’t like living with me sometimes either. I’m no expert at life. I’ve just lived more of it. We don’t get to rehearse. We just live, our whole life improvised in public. I did the best I could. I loved you. And I’m sorry if you didn’t know that.”

He felt familiar fingers touch his shoulder through the gate. He reached back to touch them, found they were longer than he remembered. The wind shifted, and he smelled her.