Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) (2 page)

“So?”
Doc asked after a sip.

Grey
drank and then set the cup down, turning it between his palms as he stared at
it.

“We
may have a problem.”

Doc
raised an eyebrow.

Grey
searched in his shirt pocket and laid a folded lump of paper on the table.

“Look
at this. Tell me what you think,” he said.

The
older man unfolded the paper and examined it, sipping his chicory. After a
minute he leaned back, his eyes rising to the rafters overhead where smoked
meats hung like dark bats.

“I
don’t know what to think,” he said at last. “Tell me what you know.”

Grey
scratched his nose and described his meeting with the trio in the gully. Doc
listened without comment.

“When
I went through their gear I found that in a coat pocket.” He tapped the paper
with a grimy finger.

“It
doesn’t make sense,” Doc said, frowning. “They were trying to get your rifle?
But this, and what the tracker said? There has to be something a lot more
important than theft going on.”

Grey
scratched in his beard and squinted. “Well, their lead man was an idiot. I
doubt whoever he works for would be pleased.” He paused and had another sip.
“Christ, I want some real coffee,” he added, staring into his mug.

Doc
shrugged. “You can get it now and then at the Port, but it’s dear. There’s a
little trickling in from the coast, now. Ships bring it up from Mexico.”

Grey
grunted and picked up the folded paper. He read the neat printing on its back
aloud:

“Property
of United States Continental Defense Force Third Battalion (CDF-3WR). If found,
return to office of Colonel something-wich.”

“Rastowich,
I think,” Doc offered. He unfolded the paper and flipped it over to reveal a
map, creased and dirty from use. “And this, did you notice it also has a
Continental Defense label on it? Printed, not stamped like the back?”

Grey
nodded. “And some little penciled Xs where half the settlements in the valley
are. And that it shows the Metaline Falls crater.”

“So
the map was made after the Fall,” Doc said. “And it’s well-made. This was
printed on an offset press I think, and on rag stock paper.”

“Rag
stock?”

“Paper
with a lot of linen content. Like money used to be.” Doc said as he took off
his glasses, polishing them on the tail of his shirt. It was homespun, like his
trousers, and taken in trade for his services. “These three, they weren’t
soldiers?”

Grey
shook his head. “No, and not deserters, either. I think they were scouts for a
raiding party. I’d bet they killed whoever the map and that damn machinegun
belonged to; probably a scout for this CDF thing. And then they used the map to
mark out where the local settlements are.”

“What
are we going to do?” Doc asked, pushing back his chair and fetching the coffee
pot as his visitor refolded the map. He refilled the cups and sat down, staring
at Grey.

“You’re
asking me? I’m a trapper.”

“You
know the land around here for a hundred miles and you know the people. You’re
the closest thing we have to a cop,” Doc said. “So, yes, I’m asking you.”

Grey
took another sip. “I think maybe the world didn’t end quite as much as we
thought it did. Looks like some of the American government lived through it. Or
someone who thinks they’re the government. We’ve heard news on and off, so I
guess it’s not really a surprise.”

Doc
exhaled through his nose and nodded. “I’d really rather see some Canadian
troops if I have to have an army in the neighborhood.”

“I
doubt the army, whoever it belongs to, is the issue we need to worry about,”
Grey said. “These raiders are looking to work us hard. Otherwise they wouldn’t
be bothering to mark off all our little towns on that map.”

“I’d
always wondered,” Doc mused. “Without radio, you never knew if it was silent
was because everything was finished, or if you just were out of the loop.” He
paused, running a big-knuckled hand over his face. “But that’s minor, I
suppose. These other strangers come first, like you say. Stay the night, I’ll
feed you and we’ll decide what we should do in the morning. Sound good?”

Grey
nodded.

“And
there’s water in the cistern, so go get cleaned up.”

“Thanks,
Doc. I want you to keep those guns. They’re not in great shape, and there’s not
a lot of ammo for any of them, but they’ll trade good.” Doc started to say
something, but Grey cut him off as he rose. “You can owe me a couple of
outpatient visits. We’ll call it square.”

In
his dreams it’s twenty years ago. It usually is. He’s riding his bike down
Monroe Street, watching traffic and listening to his iPod. It’s summer and the
air is baked dry, rank with hot tar from the fresh asphalt and the stink of car
exhaust. He’s been to the 7-11 to get milk and a quart of ice cream and he’s in
a hurry to get home before it melts.

The
traffic and heat eases a little when he swings onto Hillcrest. Three houses up
and he veers into his own driveway, leaning the bike with the confidence of the
young so the plastic bag hanging from the handlebars whispers grittily against
the concrete as he zooms past his mother’s old Prius.

He
bangs into the house, sweaty but not breathing hard, and stops. His mother,
father and both sisters are in the living room, their eyes glued to the flat
screen that dad is so proud of. It looks like a weather report at first and he
doesn’t understand, so he pulls out his earbuds and starts to ask what’s going
on. His mother shakes her head and spares him a glance heavy with an emotion he
can’t identify. In the dream it’s easy, though. It’s terror.

Her
glance confuses him, and it’s a moment before he can focus on what the
announcer is saying. The words are broken by static and the picture flips and
fuzzes strangely. The boy is too young to remember TV before cable and
satellite; seeing CNN not working right scares him at some visceral level. A
man in a suit is reading from a paper. Behind him, figures dash around a
studio.

“...additional
impacts have been reported in the Pacific, and the President will be making a
live announcement on the hour. Again, several meteors have struck across Asia
and Eastern Europe, causing as yet unknown damage, but early reports are that
thousands are dead. Shanghai may have been the site of another impact, and all
communication from the area has ceased according to reports. Scientists around
the world have reported intense disturbances in the upper atmosphere due to
micrometeorites and world telecommunications are suffering some interference.

“We
now go live to NASA Administrator Darleen Kruft for an explanation of the
severity of the situation.”

The
severity is all too obvious within a few hours, as the earth slews through a
cloud of debris that has wandered in from the deeps. Hundreds of meteorites
five to ten meters across are exploding in the stratosphere with the force of
the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Thunderous explosions shatter the sky over and
over; loud enough to set off car alarms and break windows. Grey recalls that
sound as the hallmark of disaster for the rest of his life - the warbling wail
of the cars as God drops his bombs on an unready world.

He
can’t remember what happened to the ice cream.

Satellite
feeds go down and newsmen fade away even as they speak of upper-atmosphere
disturbances, of third-wave EMP. That night, a shock throws everyone in Spokane
from their beds, screaming, and a brilliant light flares to the north -
brighter than any lightning stroke. By the next afternoon, survivors fleeing
south have brought news of a strike near the Canadian border. They say nothing
is left.

The
sky darkens with smoke and dust and clouds over the next few days, and Grey
won’t see the sun again for two years. Ash and rain fall in a muddy mix that
robs the world of color. Over the next week thunder rumbles ceaselessly as the
atmosphere fights to destroy the invaders. During that time, something happens
to almost every machine except the simplest. Transformers on every power line
die in lurid showers of sparks. Watches quit working, cars won’t start,
computers are dark, phones are silent.

That
was in August. By September the big strikes have largely stopped, but the
damage is done. With no communications things fall apart. Disease follows
disaster as it always does, and death follows behind. People try to stop the
rot, but there simply aren’t enough parts to repair the world and many that had
lain in storage are also found to be ruined. Linesmen in the early days manage
to get a few power stations running, and restring cable to hospitals, and then
another cluster of impacts in the atmosphere burns everything out. Within a few
weeks everyone understands.

Grey’s
father loads the family into the old Willy’s panel van that had been his
grandfather’s jeep. None of the other cars will start. They manage to get out
of the city and into the country, and five days later they would reach the little
cabin above Cook’s Lake. It was usually an eight hour drive, but not anymore.
They siphon gas into jerry cans. There is gas everywhere, in dead cars.

Most
of the images are sharp but fragmentary, even in his dreams. His mind doesn’t
want to see things clearly, and he’s glad of that, but there are moments like
snapshots as the old Willy’s growls its way around abandoned vehicles and
across the miles.

He
remembers watching his father standing in the highway, arguing with a man with
a bloody face. The man has a gun, and is yelling that they can’t come through
without paying his toll. The road here ducks under another, lying in a deep
concrete throat. Stalled and burnt vehicles clutter all but a narrow path. The
man wants food. Father has already explained to them all that the food they
have may not be enough. There are only a few months until the snow comes, and
they will need luck to kill enough game for the winter.

Grey
is in the back seat, and the .22 rifle is in his lap. The man can’t see it. His
father walks back, circling to the rear of the Willy’s. The food, mostly canned
goods from the larder at home, is stacked in the space behind the rear seats.

The
man circles the jeep, the gun in his hands pointed at Grey’s father, though his
eyes dart around constantly.

“You
all stay in there and nice and quiet if you don’t want your daddy killed,” the
man says as he passes. If he leaned forward he would see the rifle, but he
doesn’t. He’s made them all put their hands up on the seat back – mom’s are on
the dash – and he’s watching those.

Grey
feels dizzy and cold and his face is numb. He’s watching his father, and when
the man turns away to address the family in the jeep, Grey sees his father nod
once over his shoulder, and his lips move with exaggerated care as he says two
words.

Grey
nods.

The
man has his father pick up one of the cardboard boxes of cans – perhaps a
quarter of their food – and gestures for him to carry it to the side of the
road. His father is behind the man. Looking out the passenger window, Grey sees
the man turn to speak to his dad. His father has no expression on his face as
he bends down to set the box on the ground.

Grey’s
hands leave the seat back and lift the rifle. He’s shot lots of ground
squirrels on camping trips. He’s gone grouse hunting every year for the past
three, and he’s a good shot.

He
shoots the man in the back of the head. No one in the Willy’s makes a sound.
He’s fourteen years old.

His
father reloads the box of cans. Grey slips the rifle’s safety back on. His
father stops at his window before climbing back in the driver’s seat.

“You
did the right thing,” he says, but his eyes are haunted.

He
looks out the window, past his father. One of the man’s legs is still jiggling.
As he watches, it stops.

They
drive on.

He
remembers the town of Newport. It’s the only place they see that still has
electricity. There’s a dam above the town. Grey supposes that’s why. Later he
realizes it was just that they’d had the parts to repair the first waves of
burnouts. When he rides through, come winter, the lights will be dead.

There
are no locals on the streets, and shops are closed. They see one man in a
policeman’s uniform on a horse. He has a shotgun lying across the pommel of his
saddle and he wordlessly waves them on. Not here, his face says. Keep moving.
They do.

It’s
dark, and they’ve stopped near a Chevy pickup with the dealer’s papers still in
its window. It has rolled to a halt on the shoulder. Grey is siphoning gas into
the four jerry cans the Willy’s carries while his dad watches, cradling his
deer rifle. The gas tastes like poison but he gets it flowing after a try or
two. As the cans fill he stands and looks up into the night sky. There are no
stars, but meteorites flash and thrum above the clouds of ash and smoke,
flaring in milky streaks and blurs. A big one rolls a glowing, thundering
spotlight across the sky from east to west, passing behind the mountains. Grey
waits for the flash of its impact but it never comes.