Tourists of the Apocalypse (17 page)

“Hey, what did you trade your smokes for?” she pokes me with a finger breaking my train of thought.

“Dessert,” I reveal, pulling the chocolate doughnuts from under my hoodie at the end of the bed.

Her eyes light up and she snatches them out of my hand. She peels open the end and tosses one in her mouth immediately. A moan and then the smile of a stuffed mouth stare back at me.

“I’ll take that as you approving of the trade balance.”

“Actually,” she mumbles through chipmunk cheeks. “A whole pack of cigarettes for these was a bit much. In a few days you could have traded the smokes for anything.”

“I did get him to throw in breakfast,” I point out, pulling the powdered doughnuts from under the hoodie. “It was a two for one deal.”

“Ah, I see,” she mumbles, finally swallowing her first doughnut. “In that case, I approve.”

Thunder cracks deeply, drawing us both back to reality. Hard rain suddenly pounds on the walkway outside sending tiny drops splashing into the room. It’s Florida and when it rains, it pours. Slipping off the bed, I walk over to the door and start to close it. Across the street a woman in a pencil skirt and a cropped jacket holds a pair of high heels and argues with a scruffy looking man. There is a bon fire under a line of tree’s and she is trying to stay out of the rain, but he keeps pushing her out of his dry spot and frowning at her.
She must have walked in off the highway.

I try to imagine her circumstance. A business woman is driving alone when her car stops. She waits a day, but when no one comes to help she walks ten miles to town. There’s little water and even less food available. Worst of all, any money she has on her person is nearly worthless. Upon arrival she’s just one of numerous homeless newcomers.
So what happens to her?

I close the door to a crack and watch. After more debate the woman lets the man put his arm around her. This request granted he moves her in out of the rain with the rest of the rabble. I fear the trade balance has just been revealed to me and my stomach rolls. I close the door and flip the deadbolt.
Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.

The wind hits the glass sliding doors with such force they rattle. The sky is grey, making it feel like dusk rather than the mid-morning. The coffee shop wasn’t open this morning, but we can’t be sure if it’s the weather or that they ran out of things to sell. The street out front is empty leaving only bent over palm trees and blowing litter visible.
I wonder where the stranded people went.
Last night there were two dozen people under the trees across the street. Over the past few days I have seen as many as a dozen refugees sleeping on the beach in the morning when I get up, but today it’s a ghost town. Izzy worries that people will have broken into random cars to get out of the weather, but neither of us want to venture out to check ours.

We agree there had been something on the news about a tropical storm heading for the Florida Key’s a week ago, but can’t say for sure. This is clearly more than just a thunderstorm. Our plan to leave that evening looks unlikely. She is sure that we won’t be able to safely navigate a highway littered with abandoned vehicles at night in the pouring rain. There is also the issue of standing water. If we had to drive on the shoulder or median we might get stuck. A heated debate rages on until mid-day, when the subject of lunch overwhelms the idea of being stranded.

Having shared the doughnuts at day break, we are left with little to eat. When the topic arises she looks amused.
Why is she so content looking?

“Are you sure you were in the Army?”

“Yes, why?” I answer defensively.

“Two backpacks sitting in your motel room and you never thought to look inside?”

“Well they’re yours?” I argue.

“Rubbish.”

“So what’s in the second one,” I demand, having seen some of the contents of the first.

“You tell me.”

Annoyed, but now curious, I lug the second over to the bed. I unzip the top, releasing an avalanche of Slim Jims. Izzy grins, but I just shake my head at her.
She let me go on thinking we had nothing
. Reaching in past the horde of beef jerky I come back with a half dozen boxes of crackers. There are Ritz and Cheese-it and some sort of chicken brisket crackers I have never seen before. The bottom half of the backpack is all water bottles, which is why it was so heavy. One side pocket contains handfuls of random power bars, while another reveals wet wipes. These are the kind you would use on a baby. One pack is lemon, while the second is a more standard scentless sort. Lastly is something called
Boogey Wipes
, which feature a baby blowing his nose on the top.

“T-Buck have all this stashed in the car?” I ask, pushing the pile over and sitting down.

“Sadly no, I stopped at a 7-11 for gas and bought as much as I could.”

“No chocolate doughnuts?”

“Anything I bought has to be fine in a locked car,” she explains. “It’s been pretty hot out. Chocolate or cheese would have been a mess. Any sort of carbonated beverage ruined.”

“Like beer?”

To this she nods. We enjoy a lunch of Slim Jims and crackers. The chicken brisket ones are to die for and she has to take them away from me when it appears I will devour them all. I count 24 water bottles; of which we drink two with lunch
. How long does this have to last?

“How far was it from home to here? How long did it take you to get here?”

“I didn’t come straight here. I went to Tallahassee first,” she stipulates. “Had you been in Tallahassee we would be at Missy’s house by now.”

“Right,” I shrug, trying to re-think my question.

“From here I’d say thirteen hours pre
end-of-the-world
drive time.”

“Pre-end-of-the-world?”

“Yeah, a bunch of cars driving seventy or better on a clean road,” she explains. “Driving now will be an obstacle course.”

“How long then? Twice the time?”

“Driving round the clock, as we can’t stop to sleep,” she points out. “Two days, but that’s a wild guess. Could be more, a lot more.”

“We could sleep in shifts.”

“Nope,” she shakes her head adamantly. “You driving and me spotting.”

“Riding shotgun, so to speak?”

“Loaded and ready to dance.”

This idea will take some getting used to, but my train of thought was really about the water. If I randomly say we each need 3 bottles a day, which is low in this heat, then we have at most three days’ worth. The storm rages outside, leaving me thinking of how long we will be trapped here before we can leave. If it lets up by tomorrow night and we leave and drive straight through we will still be short.
Does she have a plan for this?

“This all the water we got?”

“Bottled?” she mutters, then sees where I am going. “But the tubs full. Save the bottles and we can fill them before we go. Add water to you list of valuable commodities.”

“People will wrongly assume there’s plenty,” I shrug. “So it’s cigarettes, bullets and water.”

“I’d say water, bullets, cigarettes, but I don’t smoke.”

“Right, water first.”

“The list grows,” she recites ominously, then makes a cackling witch laugh.

That afternoon, Izzy stands in front of the door and shampoos her hair in the rain. It’s a funny visual, but it’s actually pretty smart. Soapy water runs down the walkway as it pours off her. I lean out the door and notice dozens eyes on her from the direction of the coffee shop. The glass in front is full of ogling faces. Apparently someone let them in and it’s crammed with people staying dry.
Or they might have just broken in
. In either case a pretty girl in a bathing suit washing her hair in the rain is big entertainment today. The bikini is blue and white striped and a size to small. She must have bought it off someone, as I doubt it was originally hers. In either case she looks like she’s starring in a
Girls Gone Wild
video.

When she’s done she towels off while I take a turn. There is far less interest in my shower, but a few ladies peek out giving me an ego boost. After, while I am drying off, I see a woman running into the rain to gather up several buckets, then retreating to a room down the way. When she goes to return the buckets I realize it’s the woman wearing the business suit and pencil skirt from the previous night. She’s barefoot now and missing the jacket. Her white blouse is soaked, revealing a dark colored bra. When she runs a tear up one side of her skirt is visible. I watch as she replaces the buckets and runs back to the room on the end of the building. Her dark nylons are shredded at her feet and torn several other places.

When she reaches the room she catches herself on the wall outside with both hands. She shakes her head, tossing water off her like a wet cat. Her face turns in my direction, her eyes locking on me instantly. I force a smile and wave, using just my wrist, not my whole arm. It’s a conservative wave and she nods in return. A moment passes as we stare at one and other, then she mouths something. I’m trying to discern what it was, but a man I have not seen before pops out the door and barks something at her. Her head is still turned in my direction and she mouths a message at me again. Seeing this exchange, the man grabs her roughly by the hair and drags her back inside like a caveman.

“Help me,” I mutter as the words come to me. “She said help me.”

Another man pokes his head out, scowling at me. He has a grey beard and is dressed in stained jeans and a tee shirt. He flies me the bird and slams the door. Yelling can be heard even at this distance. A cold chill washes over me.
Is that what it looks like?

“You can’t save anyone,” Izzy pipes up from behind me as she wraps her arms around my mid-section. “For every desperate person you see there are thousands more. You can’t pick and choose who to help. You’re not God.”

“This coming from the gal who knew all of this was going to happen and didn’t warn anyone,” I frown, still staring at the door down the way.
Dear God, was that what it looked like?

“Right, you think we could just make a few phone calls when we arrived and sorted it all out,” she remarks in an angry tone. “Hello, excuse me, yes, I just got here from the future and as we speak China is building a massive stockpile of nukes. Yes, I’ll hold,” she smirks, pretending to wait on hold with an imaginary phone to her ear.

“China,” I mumble. “China did this?”

“Yeah, who did you think?”

“Muslim extremists,” I offer. “North Korea?”

“You might be surprised to learn that North Korea possesses almost no nuclear capability and even less in the way of rockets that fly straight. It’s all propaganda,” she reports dismissively. “Radical Muslims, give me a break. More hype. They’re good for a beheading or a mall shooting, but worldwide destruction? I don’t think so.”

If China did this, then it stands to reason they didn’t detonate any of these over their own country. Even more likely is they hardened their infrastructure to withstand it.
Does this mean China is the last superpower standing?
Maybe they can help in some way?

“So China must still have working street lights?” I suggest. “I assume they did this for a reason.”

“Their rockets aren’t any better than North Korea’s. Most of the nukes were launched from boats. They were easily disguised on container ships that could sail anywhere. There’s a random strike pattern, but it looks like China wound up hitting the blue sky over their slice of the planet as well. Not to mention at least one missile detonated on their Mongolian border.”

“They nuked themselves?”

“I know right, priceless,” she snorts, but then sees my sad face. “Cheer up; they have one of the largest populations on the planet. Given much higher rates of death in crowded areas guess where you don’t want to be?”

“Where?”

“Shanghai or Beijing,” she declares. “Over 24 million lost souls reside in each. The worst parts of the bible are playing out there right about now.”

This revelation is shocking, but what isn’t these days? During the night we hear glass breaking and fighting in the street. Izzy sleeps with the gun on the nightstand and advises me not to open the door to peek out. When squinting through the peephole proves pointless, I abandon my desire to watch the proceedings and return to bed.
It’s like a marathon of the Cops television show.
The shampoo has left Izzy smelling of flowers. I sleep surprisingly well with my arms around her.
How can I be this happy in the midst of all this pain?

The storm has lessened, but the rain still falls in sheets across the road. Izzy decided we go tonight storm or not. It’s possible all the rain will clear people off the roads, but it’s unlikely the weather extends all the way to our destination.

We receive several knocks at the door in the morning. When the knockers look benign through the peep hole, I open the door. The first two were looking for food and we assured them we don’t have any. The expression on their faces shows their distrust of our answer, but the sight of Izzy standing behind me with the gun keeps them moving. A third much older man, possibly sixty, asked if Izzy would be bathing today and if so, what time. Rather than be offended, she laughed and told him he would just have to wait and see.
Clearly she likes the attention
.

I am eager to get moving, but at the same time find it hard to go. The time spent here has been wonderful. Even with all the craziness, being with Izzy is the only thing on my mind. Going back means having to deal with Lance. She seems to think we won’t last out here, thus making the decision for us. When I ponder the possibilities, part of me is willing to risk the hazards to keep Izzy to myself. No matter what happens, if we make it back, Lance and I are going to have a serious conversation.
One that’s probably going to be at gunpoint.

At dusk, we stand in the doorway planning our egress. The rain has all but stopped and the sun is setting in a spectacular orange haze. Izzy points to the left and explains the highway entrance ramp is a mile or so in that direction. A few abandoned cars can be seen in the road, but most were pushed off to the side, before their owners realized their predicament was permanent. I suggest she let me disable the marker lights so the car is harder to see, but she is wary of my altering the car in any way. As usual, Izzy wins the dispute by disrobing.