The Summer the World Ended (37 page)

There had been one other, but he was stupid.

Apathy and hope went after each other like a pair of angry tomcats. Her stomach growled. She pulled her pants up and trudged to the storeroom to snag a granola bar. Somehow, the Beretta had become a subconscious accessory that followed her everywhere. It seemed so unreal to think that she’d ever been terrified of a handgun. She stopped at the mini-sink and stuffed the gun in the waistband of the fatigues.

When I put these on, Dad was still alive.

Riley doled out a portion of coffee in the French press and put only enough water in the electric kettle for one mug. Beretta in hand, she peeled the blanket away from the cot and curled up on the radio chair with it. The same faint hiss came out of the headphones.

“Good signal, but no one transmitting,” her father had said. As long as she heard the hiss, everything was working.

“Attention survivors,” she droned. “This is Riley. I’m in a safe place near Las Cerezas, New Mexico. If anyone’s still alive, please reply.”

The burbling of water got her moving a short while later. With a warm mug of black coffee cradled to her chest, she huddled on the chair with her feet tucked under her, listening to the emptiness of white noise. As her father had done, she squeezed the button every fifteen minutes and recited her lines.

When the clock read 13:18, she gave up on repeating some variation of an ‘I’m a little girl alone and defenseless, come attack me’ spiel and cracked open an MRE.
Dad would want me to eat.

She sucked down a glass of water, and sipped a second. After cleaning out the food packets, she wedged them all into the outer casing and put that in the garbage bag. Pacing. Back and forth, arm swinging around with the gun in her hand. Her mind raced for anything to do. She picked up
The Cardinal of the Kremlin
and resumed her place, but forgot what had been going on altogether and gave up after six pages. She didn’t care enough to start from the beginning again. Another glass of water. More pacing.

Riley orbited the bunker countless times. Eventually, she flopped on the folding chair and draped herself over the flimsy table. The somewhat-padded vinyl surface had absorbed a lot of gun oil and cleaner. Scattered parts and tools gathered in piles where they’d been pushed out of the way of meals. Daydreams of Mom’s funeral played through her head, and at some point, the body in the casket became Dad. She daydreamed about having the Beretta with her that day, and shooting the old man for being so mean. In the world humanity had rebirthed, a person could avenge an insult like that with a gun and no one would care.

Her arm stretched out over the top, and she plucked a brush out of the cluster. It resembled a toothbrush, but its olive drab plastic and black bristles said it had been made for weapons detail, not the inside of anyone’s mouth.

Her mind presented her with reasons Dad was late: got lost because he hid the bunker too well, fell in a ravine and had a broken leg, bandits got him, walked through a rad zone and melted, giant scorpions ate him.

Jesus, Riley, you’re getting silly.

She froze, staring at the brush for a few seconds before clawing at the heap of tools. Rods that Dad screwed together to clean the barrel of the AR15 jangled to the middle of the table. Riley grabbed two of them, hands shaking, and screwed them together forming a longer strut. A few patches of duct tape pinned another single section crossways. After squeezing it in place, she taped the toothbrush to the impromptu crucifix as a stand-in Jesus.

“I know Mom didn’t believe in you…” She set it on the table, staring at it. “I’m not sure I do, but I’ll try anything to get Dad back.”

Silence.

“Please?”

Twenty minutes later―and no Dad magically appearing―she slipped off the chair, sinking to her knees and sobbing. She sprawled on the floor, not motivated enough to move. At least an hour went by as she kept asking no one in particular why Mom had to die, why Dad had to go away (probably die), and what the world did to deserve burning. The Beretta, heavy against her belly, offered a way out. She looked down at it and frowned, casting a sidelong, guilty glance at the toothbrush crucifix.

“I’m being ridiculous.” She got up and walked to the radio chair, nylon ties thwapping at her feet. “Dad would want me to keep trying to live.”

She set the Beretta on the table and rubbed where it had dug into her skin, curled up, and put on the headset. One hour blurred to the next as she droned at the mic over and over. Her eyelids got heavy and she snuggled to the side and let them close. When she looked up, the clock read 20:04.

“Dad’s not coming back.” She hugged her knees to her chest. “Why did he have to be stupid?”
It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have bitched at him for being stuck down here.
If I didn’t break the alarm, we’d be together.

Her face contorted in preparation for soul-wracking sobs, but she froze with only two tears racing each other down her cheeks. “What if he’s hurt and can’t get back?”

She flew out of the chair and stomped over to the bed, pulling on socks from her ‘go bag’ followed by the combat boots. They were stiff, but he guessed the size well enough. Her heart pounded in her head as she laced them tight. She had to go out there. Dad was counting on her, just like the game.
He went alone, that’s what went wrong.
In the gun cabinet, she found two extra magazines for the Beretta, and loaded them before stashing both in her left thigh pocket.

Two circuits around the room failed to give her any more ideas about what to bring. As soon as she put her hands on the wheel to open the big door, the word ‘light’ echoed in her brain. Once she had a flashlight clipped to the lip of her left hip pocket, she grasped the wheel and pulled with all her strength.

It creaked.
Dad made this look so easy.
Grunting and panting helped, and eventually she twisted it enough to retract the bars. Riley flung all her weight against it, boots sliding on the floor as she heaved. Inch by inch, it moved forward without a sound. Seeing the outer room brought back the fear of radiation, and he had the Geiger… but it’s not as if more bombs dropped.

It was clean when he left. Radiation doesn’t just pop up out of nowhere, right?

Cautious steps brought her halfway to the ladder before she whirled around to push the door closed. She did not close it all the way, nor did she turn the wheel.

I might need to get inside fast.

At the base of the ladder, she pulled the waistband of her pants away from her belly and nestled the Beretta in to free her hands for the climb. The thirty some odd feet of ladder felt like miles as she hauled herself up one rung at a time. Huddled at the top, she listened to silence. No light leaked in through the burlap-covered hatch. Dad had closed it on his way out, presumably so the disguised opening would protect her from marauders and looters.

I’m coming, Dad. Don’t be dead.

A tentative hand pushed against the raw wood and the pallet lifted, allowing a cool desert breeze in. The air smelled crisp and fresh, making the bunker feel stagnant already. She peered over the rim of the shaft at a dark blue sky, luminous with the last moments of twilight.

It shouldn’t be dark at twenty ‘o clock. Holy crap, the Earth is like off its axis or something.

She swallowed her fear and pushed, finding it a little tricky to climb out while supporting the hatch. Riley slithered through the space, belly crawling out into the desert sand. When the pallet clattered to the ground behind her, it looked like an innocuous lump of dirt. Two flat-topped boulders, about as big as large dogs, flanked it at ten paces to either side.

That’s how you marked it, Dad.

Without daylight, she couldn’t see the house. The night of the nuclear strike had been a blur. For all she knew, they had run for hours… but it had likely been much less. Two slow spins gave her a rough idea of which way east was, and she remembered Dad going straight out the patio door. The back of the house faced north, so that meant she had to go south to get to the house.

Fearful of attracting unwanted attention, Riley didn’t bother pulling out the flashlight to look for tracks. If Dad went anywhere, he’d probably have gone to the house. Maybe she’d gotten herself too wound up over it and he’d found the house habitable and simply fallen asleep in his own bed.

No. He wouldn’t have forgotten me. Something bad happened.

Determined, she marched on.

A few minutes of walking led her to the edge of a ravine deeper than she remembered seeing before.
No, this isn’t the way.
She backed up and followed the edge for a little while until deciding she was getting herself even more lost.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
She trotted in a direct line away from the ravine, one hand on the gun, the other on the flashlight. A steady breeze from her left side felt good enough to get her to stop and enjoy fresh air. When she took a deep breath, the scent of cooking meat filled her nostrils. She caught herself drooling before her brain ascribed meaning to the smell: beef.

Flickering yellow-orange light caught her eye. A fire. She slowed to a silent creep, and moved in that direction. The wavering glow cast long shadows from the far side of a hulking vehicle similar to a stranded RV or a trailer. In the dark, she could make out only the overall shape, but not the color or condition of the walls and windows.

Maybe Dad fell and hurt his leg? Is that his campfire?

She advanced. Hope became dread at the sound of unfamiliar voices murmuring. At least two figures moved around near the fire, on the other side of the trailer. Her mouth watered. It wasn’t Dad, but that smelled
soooo
good. She thought back to playing
The Last Outcast
and used her virtual training at stealth to stay in the shadows. Riley had a lot of practice evading ‘vision cones’ of AI-controlled baddies, and hoped it was at least somewhat close to reality as she edged up to the near side of the dead vehicle. The creak of flimsy aluminum on the roof scraped in the wind overhead, startling her to a halt. For a second, she debated if she should run away or if these people might be able to help her find Dad.

“Bored,” said a man on the other side. “Think we’ll catch anything?”

Riley froze.

“Word is they were seen ‘round here.” A few deep gulps broke the silence. “Ahhh, that’s good shit. Leas’ you got lucky findin’ that meat.”

“Indeed, Bird, indeed.”

She crouched.
Raiders or bandits… Who names their kid ‘Bird?’

“Only thing’d make this night better is some tight pussy,” said the wheezy man.

“I hear that,” said Bird. “You shouldn’t have got rid of yer last one.”

“Bah. Bitch was crazy. I had to do it.”

Her eyes widened.
Oh, shit. If they see me, I’m so raped.
Her hand slapped on the Beretta. She yanked it out of her waistband and flicked the safety off.
I gotta get out of here.
An empty aluminum can crunched under her first step back.

She tensed her legs to run, but at the sound of boots skiffing closer in the dirt, she ducked under the vehicle.

“Huh,” muttered the near man. “Who’s there?”

“Think that’s one of ‘em?” asked the other one.

I don’t wanna think about what they’d do to a young, pretty girl out here
, said Dad’s voice in her mind.

A set of blue jeans and black boots approached. “Didn’t see no lights.”

Riley crammed herself against the axle, trying to melt into the dark.

The more distant guy took a step closer. “Me neither.”

“You hear that?” asked the near voice.

Oh, no.
Trembling hands lowered the Beretta to aim at the shins three feet away from her. When Lisa hid beneath the semi trailer, Riley had been scared for her. Being in the situation for real set her heart racing, her palms sweating, and her entire body trembling. Images of dirty, hairy men coming after her with leashes, ropes, and chains flashed through her mind. No way would that happen to her.
The world’s over. This gun is the only law left.
They wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me.

“Hear what?” The more distant man stood with a grunt. Shadows moved around the fire.

“Somethin’s movin’ under the trailer.”

Just like the game. Lisa can do it. I can do it.
She moved her index finger from the side to the trigger.
It’s not a person; it’s a rapey monster… Just a silhouette, a target.
The trembling wouldn’t stop.

The figure took a knee and grunted.

Shaking hands made aiming difficult, even at such short range. She brought the Beretta up, waiting to see his eyes. Tears streaked down her face and the memory of SpaghettiOs welled up in the back of her throat.
Please go away. Please don’t make me do this.

Dense, curly beard crept into view followed by a bit of chin, then nose. He grunted, beer gut making it cumbersome for him to peer too far down.

Her finger took up the slack on the trigger, another smidge of pressure and it would go off. One human hair’s width of travel, and she’d kill a man.

“Lonnie, grab the rifle,” said the near voice. “Probably a coyote after the meat. Eesh. Whatever’tis smells funny.”

“Yah,” said the near voice.

Bang.

The crack of a gunshot rang out in the distance. Riley’s jaw hung open and her body seized. She had to look back and forth from the pistol to the man to believe the noise hadn’t come from her weapon. How her finger hadn’t clenched when she jumped… Three more shots followed. Men shouted, but they were too far away to make out words―or maybe they weren’t even men anymore.

“Zat you?” asked the near voice.

“Nawp,” said Lonnie. “Someone’ havin’ fun a bit west. I see muzzle flare.”

The man close to the trailer grunted and stood. Riley aimed down at the dirt, taking her finger off the trigger and hyperventilating.
Oh, God. Oh, God.

Safety on.

Both men jogged around the fire to the side of their camp farthest from her. There was nothing between her and a stack of already-cooked meat soaked in dark sauce. She crawled forward, all attention focused on a little folding stool with a plate on top of it. Fifteen paces past the campfire, a barrel-chested man and a skinny man attempted to look into the distance.