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What surprised
Beth the most was that none of the men had touched her.
She had not been raped,
and that was unexpected — something she was incredibly
grateful for — but it went beyond that. The first five days
in nearly two months that she had spent in the close company
of any living human beings had been utterly devoid of
physical contact. No handshake, no steadying grip on her
elbow as she'd gotten on and off the boat. Even the medical
woman (nurse? doctor? EMT?) who had examined her cuts and
scratches had left her to put on her own band-aids and
antibacterial ointment.
Beth's quarters were an
entire cell block in the Newport police headquarters lockup.
She'd been repeatedly assured by several different people
that she was not under arrest. That was always how they
phrased it: Not under arrest. As if the law still held
meaning for them. They tried to reassure her with other
phrases too, but "temporary quarantine" and "sick watch"
spoke of terrors that were more basic and immediate to Beth
than imprisonment.
For a little over a
month before arriving here, Beth had experienced more
freedom than she had ever known in her life. And freedom
sucked big time. Now Beth wandered the jail cells; they'd
been re-furnished with bookcases and easy-chairs. The TV
didn't get any channels, of course, but a nice library of
DVDs had been provided, and she had a freezer loaded with a
variety of dinners and a microwave.
They'd placed an antique
dressing screen and a full-length mirror around the small
sink and toilet in one of the cells, and stocked it with
buckets of travel size hygiene products that once populated
the shelves of chain drugstores. Beth kept herself cleaned
up, even trimmed the bangs of her short sandy hair. She
avoided the mirror because she still thought she was twenty
pounds overweight and in spite of her best attempts, had not
succeeded in convincing herself that such things no longer
mattered.
She tried hard to
consider herself as a captive rather than as someone who was
"not under arrest" and who was just waiting to get through
her "temporary quarantine". Occasionally, she would spend an
hour or two planning escape, but the door at the end of the
cell block was securely locked, and her visitors (with their
lists of background questions, medical questions, personal
questions), always appeared in numbers and armed.
Until the morning of the
sixth day.
"Ms. Randal? My name is
Paul Serigado, acting governor of Rhode Island. I'd like to
apologize for the inconvenience you've been through."
He was dressed in what
would have been called business casual a few months back,
when most casual business was not conducted with a gun or a
ball bat. Well groomed, too. Short, slicked-black hair and a
goatee. Not a big man, but a man at ease in his movements.
Serigado had a boyish grace to his body, and a little hint
of a smile that seemed to appreciate the irony in the plushy
jail cells.
"Inconvenience? Is that
what they're calling the end of human civilization these
days?" Beth's anger came to the surface all at once and she
knew instantly that there was nothing, absolutely nothing,
that this man could say that would stem the hostility she
was ready to unleash on him.
Serigado said nothing.
He offered her his hand. Beth stared blankly for a moment,
then reached out and met his grip with a firm handshake. An
actual human touch. He hadn't won her over, she decided, but
he'd won himself a chance.
"Your quarantine is
over. I'd like to show you around if that's all right with
you."
Beth nodded and they
walked out together.
Noontime found them
standing on the roof of the hospital, the tallest structure
in the city of Newport. There was a steel tower on top of
the hospital, a radio antenna, Paul had said. In the winter,
they used to attach strings of lights in a vague cone shape
that approximated a Christmas tree at night. Now there was a
man posted on the roof with a pair of binoculars and a
rifle, and the radio tower was a flagpole. One flag flew in
the gusty south wind: red with a single black square.
"Weather prediction is a
lost art," Serigado explained, "in 1938, a hurricane came
out of the Atlantic Ocean and hit Naragansett Bay with no
warning at all. It was real bad. People died. A lot of
people. Then we got airplanes and satellites, and there were
still some bad storms, but people almost always knew they
were coming. The uncertainties were matters of degree...How
bad? Exactly what path? Now it's like we're back to '38,
except no one even knows how to read the clouds anymore.
I've got two people scouring the library for anything on
meteorology, but the best reference book we've found so far
is an old Boy Scout Handbook. And the flag's the best
communication tool. Any changes go out over short wave too,
of course."
Beth looked over the
city. The harbor lay in ruins, with yachts aground in the
rubble of shops and restaurants three blocks inland. Things
were quieter inland and further up the bay. The streets
around the hospital and the police station were clear of
storm debris and downed trees, and people were visible here
and there working and moving about.
There was routine here,
and normality of a sort. Beth wasn't sure she was ready for
either. She certainly hadn't expected to find things like
this so soon after starting her journey. She also knew she
should be asking questions. Serigado had things organized
here. He could help her. He could set her up with the
supplies she needed, maybe even relay messages. He had
electricity. He'd mentioned short wave. But it seemed there
were things he needed to tell her and show her, and there
was something refreshing and pleasant about hearing another
voice.
He returned to his
survey of the land. "You may have been down here on vacation
sometime: Aquidneck Island. Three towns. Portsmouth is
north, Newport south, Middletown... Well, you get the
picture. We're based on high ground in downtown Newport. We
operate out of police headquarters, city hall, the hospital,
and the public library. The electricity comes from
generators, and so far we've only got reliable power in
those few central buildings, but we'll have more online in a
day or two. We raided hardware stores and those giant
home-building places all over the state. There's enough gas
to keep things running at least for a while. Then we'll find
another way.
“Citizens occupy
whatever homes they choose, but we encourage them to stay
close in case there's trouble.
“Also, there are only
two ways onto the island: Suspension bridges. The Newport
Bridge and the Mount Hope Bridge both cross the bay to the
west. There was another bridge that went north into
Tiverton, but we blew it up. We've got people watching both
remaining bridges, and we've got boats patrolling the shore
when the seas are okay. One of those groups picked you up,
right?"
Yeah, and machine-gunned
those bikers... But Beth figured that wasn't to be
mentioned, not yet at least. She just nodded and listened as
Serigado continued.
"The Naval War College
was here. Newport was a Navy town, but that was years back.
All that was left were a couple of inactive ships. But a
couple of weeks after the first plagues, there was some kind
of plan to establish martial law."
"I never heard about
that." Beth thought back on how her little town up in
Massachusetts had simply died off over the course of a
month, while news of anything grew steadily vague and
intermittent before stopping entirely.
"It never went into
effect. I don't think there were enough healthy military
personnel to go through with the plan. But at some point
they sent out shipments of small arms and ammo to bases
around the country, even to mostly inactive ones. I happened
to know about it, because I was a cop and I was healthy, and
some of the emergency dispatches were still coming into
headquarters from FEMA and the CDC."
"So you seized power by
getting control of those guns?" Beth's curiosity finally
began to take shape. She wondered how much she could get
away with asking.
Serigado motioned to the
stairs, and they headed back down.
"I seized power by good
old democracy." He chuckled, amused at himself.
He drove her north up
the main street in a pickup truck, just a few blocks,
talking all the while. He stopped the car alongside a little
square park where the main street came to an intersection.
His conversation held
Beth's attention for the whole ride, so she didn't see the
bodies until he got out and she turned to open the truck
door. She didn't scream, and immediately realized that she'd
probably scored some kind of points by not doing so. Not
that he really had any reason to be impressed. Clearing the
rotting dead out of shops and houses had become almost
routine as she'd traveled south.
This was different,
though. Five corpses were hung by chains from the branches
of a massive weeping willow that shaded a stone war
memorial. At the belt of each of the dead was a card, neatly
laser-printed and laminated, each with the same inscription:
Rapist.
"You were wondering
about how I became acting governor. We voted. I made a deal.
The men... Nobody could agree on who should lead or what we
should do. But the women...The women all wanted the same
thing. I promised to give it to them."
"Security."
"A very specific kind of
security. Not that I really had to do much. A few male
survivors got the attitude that it was back to the Stone
Age, but realistically, the rapists were dead one way or
another. A woman can pull a trigger just as well as a man,
and by the time people began to gather here everyone had a
gun. All I did was promise to support the inevitable."
"So, no trials? No
lawyers? No due process?" She knew she was testing him, but
she needed to start finding his limits.
"We do what we can. We
try to be fair. But we also believe that security comes
first. Security, then civilization. Come on. You need to see
the library next."
"You drove me here just
to show me this?"
"It was necessary."
Necessary for what? To
prove she was safe? Or to prove his power? Beth decided that
asking those questions might be a bit too much testing and
Serigado was silent as he drove back toward the downtown.
There were two enormous
maps on the wall, one of North America, and another showing
just the New England states. The maps were speckled with
pins in green, red, white, and yellow. This was also the
busiest place that Beth had seen since she'd begun her
journey. Six people worked here, shuffling through books and
papers or typing on computer terminals. One teenage girl was
speaking into a radio mic, repeating the same message over
and over, "This is Newport, Rhode Island, requesting contact
with any survivors on this frequency."
Beth crossed the floor
briskly to the maps, her attention drawn to one spot: The
white pin on toward the upper left of the North America map,
the one stuck into the dot marked Grants Pass, Oregon. She
turned to face Serigado.
"My backpack. They took
it from me when..."
"You were looking for
this?" He crossed the floor of the library circulation room
and withdrew a folded sheet of white paper from his pocket.
Beth took it with
trembling hands and unfolded it. She read the familiar words
that she'd kept with her across all the miles of dead towns
and highways:
"In a time of crisis,
having a plan can make the difference between life and
death. If an apocalypse comes and you survive, think of me,
then head to Grants Pass..."
She reached the end
before she noticed.
"This isn't my
printout," she said, her eyes meeting Serigado’s. He’d moved
close to her, and the work in the room had stopped except
for the endless drone of the skinny girl calling out to any
survivors.
Beth continued, "My
printer was out of color ink. The first time I printed it
out half of the words were faded because they were in blue,
and I had to re-set it to black and white and print it
again. I remember that drugstore up the street had the color
cartridges, and I thought that I could just go up there and
break the glass on the door and take one because they were
all dead. I was pretty sure they were all dead by then, but
I couldn't do it because it was stealing and I still cared
about that, so I just printed it out in black and white.”
She was starting to sob and she didn't want to lose control,
so she forced herself to stop talking and just started to
read the journal entry again, staring at the blue letters
shining on the page.
Serigado took a step
back and gave her a moment to compose herself.
"Just about everyone
here has read that. New arrivals show up all the time with
copies of it. From what I understand, some people found it
on the internet around the time the plagues broke out. In
the last few days before the net collapsed, a bunch of
things got circulated around: apocalyptic chain letters.
There was a story that Jesus had returned to Earth and was
walking around Mexico City curing the sick. And there was
something to do with a group of Russian doctors who were
making progress on cures for the plagues. And then there was
Kayley, and Grants Pass. It got all over the internet and TV
with experts saying people needed plans like this,
especially in those last few days. Spread like a..."
"Like a virus." Beth
finished the thought for him, not bothering to see if she'd
drawn a reaction from the rest of the people. She looked
back at the white pin on the map. "What does that mean?"
"What if I told you that
the white pin means that we've confirmed that the Grants
Pass survivors are all dead?"
She spun around to face
him again, a little bit angry, but more pleased at having
caught him.
"You'd be lying," she
said.
Serigado shrugged,
"You're right. I apologize to you once more. Never try to
lie to a schoolteacher. They always seem to know."
"There are too many
white pins in your map. There's no way you could be using it
for confirmed dead survivor groups. Even an organization as
efficient as yours couldn't have investigated that many
places."
"Flawless! You know, I
knew it would never work, but I had to try."
"Why?"
"Because we need you
here. And what you're considering — what you've been
considering — is suicide, and I can't bear the loss of you."
"You don't even know
me."
"True," Serigado was
grinning widely now. "But in a population reduced to a
ten-thousandth of what it once was, well, let's just say
that competent help has become a bit harder to find."
He became serious once
more. "Beth, I don't want you to make a hasty decision. As
you might imagine, I have obligations to attend to, and I'm
going to put you in the hands of these capable people who
run my public library, and they will see you have a place to
stay for the night or for as long as you want. I'll send
someone down here with your backpack and the rest of your
gear, although you're welcome to keep that copy of the
Grants Pass entry. Take some time to think things over. Take
all the time you need."
He didn't wait for a
reply. Beth was glad, because she wasn't sure what she would
have said to him if he hadn't turned on his heel and walked
out, leaving her with his books and his maps and his people.
The white pins were
unknowns: Enclaves of survivors that were rumored, but had
not been successfully contacted directly. Green pins were
friendly, yellow were confirmed contacts, but of undecided
disposition. Red pins were hostile. The nearest red pins
were in Providence Rhode Island and Springfield
Massachusetts.
Fred Hurst, a graying
man well into his fifties had taken over Serigado's
tour-guide duties. He was local. Most of the key positions
in Serigado's administration were held by locals or Rhode
Islanders at least.
Hurst and Serigado spoke
of "survivors" and "survivor groups," as opposed to some of
the more slangy terms used by some of the people who had
made their way up from Connecticut or New York. Anna, the
girl who was doing her shift on the radio when Beth had
arrived babbled on about "trips" or "T.I.'s" that she had
met over the short wave: Invariably young, male, handsome,
and eager to repopulate the human race. Beth quickly decided
this was more a factor of selective memory on Anna's part,
rather than any quirk of the plagues. From what Beth was
able to understand, it had all been random, with the people
carrying the miracle triple-immunity coming from every race,
age, and lifestyle. Of course, random chance left a strange
combination of survivors.
"A couple organized
crime figures run Providence. In Springfield, it's
drug-gangs. Crips and Bloods and whatever they call
themselves, finally with a reason to stop fighting each
other." Hurst was explaining the red pins (mostly nearby,
although there was apparently some kind of a watch list of
groups further afield that held to potential to turn
hostile).
"And there are the
religious cults, of course. What you've got to realize is
the groups are shaped by the personality of the leader who
brings them together. Most of the survivors in Springfield
weren't gang members before all of this any more than the
ones in Providence were wise guys. They were just regular
people who gravitated to whoever could protect them."
Made sense, Beth
thought. Explained why most of biker gang who chased her out
of Fall River couldn't ride worth shit.
She needed more
information. For all the appeal of the Rhode Island
survivors, Beth had felt a calling when she'd read the
Grants Pass message. Weary, and still near the start of her
journey, Beth clung to the hope that had set her on the road
in the first place.
"What about Serigado? He
seems to have attracted a strong following. He's not a
religious leader or anything."
"People like his ideas
because they make sense. He doesn't want to change things.
First priority here is keeping us safe and secure, but it's
all put into a context we can understand: The United States
Constitution. People want to know that things are going to
continue. Maybe not just like they were, but it will be a
continuation. Serigado isn't about some new order. He's
about restoring what we had."
"But he's running this
place in a state of martial law. Summary executions... For
God's sake, we passed some guys installing rocket launchers
in a field up by the gate to the Navy base."
"Patriot missiles.
Ratheon had a plant here on the island. It's like he'll tell
you. Security first, then civilization. You think there's
not some lunatic out there at some Air Force base who's
trying to figure out if he can get a fighter jet into the
air? Or maybe just rig up a small plane with some machine
guns or homemade bombs? Hey, the toys are all out there for
the taking."
"Still doesn't sound
much like the US Constitution I remember."
"Oh, we're under martial
law all right, but it's limited. There are plans in place
for a smooth transition back to representative democracy as
security is established."
"And what if Serigado
gets a bit too comfortable sitting on his throne as the
Warlord of Rhode Island?"
Hurst quickly glanced
back at the people in the library circulation room and
lowered his voice, "I need to get back to work."
They gave Beth a suite
in a luxury hotel. No electricity. The generators hadn't
been hooked up to the hotel yet, but most other comforts she
could have asked for were provided.
Serigado carefully
stalled her for five days, and Beth went along with it
patiently. With all the work of running his government, it
wasn't difficult for him to avoid her. Her every need was
attended to and all her requests were met... Every one
except for those that might help her if she chose to leave,
of course.
At the same time, they
began to find tasks for her. Little things, at first. Could
she help out with plotting some locations on a map? She'd
been a social studies teacher (they'd interviewed her very
thoroughly during her quarantine), and Anna's knowledge of
geography was on the level of a typical teenager. It would
probably just take Beth a few minutes...
From there it was
searching CD-encyclopedias for resources on subsistence
farming, or helping ransack a hardware store for
water-resistant adhesives, or helping with the layout on
Serigado's revival of the Newport Daily News. He'd thought
of a lot, Beth had to admit. And he was thinking for the
long-term. Even if the remaining human population could live
for decades simply scavenging the products of the former
civilization, Serigado was actively preparing for the coming
generations when people would need to be farmers and
blacksmiths and harness-makers.
Beth found herself
wondering about Kayley's enclave on the other side of the
continent. Did they have newspapers? Electricity?
Surface-to-air missiles?
During the nights, she
voiced these doubts to herself, but the faith that had
brought her this far refused to let her settle for an easy
escape. Beth was not seeking a return to the way things
were. Somewhere across the continent, the dream that things
could be made better with a new start was calling to her.
This place was an easy, comfortable way to give up on that
dream, and Beth refused to give up.
On the fifth morning she
found herself in a lively discussion with Hurst and a couple
of other survivors about how to go about establishing a
school system. That was when she realized that she needed to
confront Serigado.
"I'm leaving. Tomorrow."
She'd found him
supervising the gathering of propane tanks from a barbeque
grill supplier.
He looked up at the
clouds for a moment before speaking. "There's another bad
storm coming in. Wait for it to clear."
"Bullshit. Tomorrow. Or
put me back in your goddamned jail cells."
She ignored his pleas to
talk it over and left him to his work.
But she couldn't really
avoid him. He knocked on her door that evening, and politely
asked if they could have that talk now, smiling as he
promised that he just wanted her to hear him out. Just for a
few minutes.
"You're chasing a dream
just as much as the girl who first posted that journal entry
is. The only difference is she was asleep when she had hers.
Oh, that and over three thousand miles of potentially
hostile territory. You're going to die somewhere out there
in whatever this world has become, probably before you get
across the Hudson River.
“And for what?
“For a girl who spread
her dream around the internet, probably to be picked up by a
bunch of other dreamers who don't have a prayer of putting
together something that resembles a functioning society.
Listen, Beth, we're not perfect here, but I've tried my best
to show you the honest truth about what we've made of
ourselves since it all came apart. I know it has a long way
to go. But we've been keeping an eye on what else is out
there, and most of it isn't gonna make it through next
winter."
It was a well-prepared
speech. Beth had prepared hers too.
"I'm sorry, Paul. I am
impressed with what you've done here. I really am. But I
decided on where I was going when I left home, and it wasn't
just to find safety or security. It wasn't to get back to
America or democracy or civilization. It wasn't about going
back at all. I have to stay true to that."
She'd expected an
argument. Instead, he conceded defeat gracefully and spoke
of her journey. He'd take her across the bay by boat just
before the sun rose. The Providence group was watching their
movements closely, and she didn’t want to fall in with them.
He had secured a mountain bike. Top of the line.
If she wanted a car, she
shouldn't have trouble obtaining one on the mainland, but he
advised her to secure the bike in the trunk and keep it with
her. It would probably be needed out west where working cars
might be fewer and farther between. He had a map with the
locations of friendly groups and he'd radio ahead for them
to look out for her. And he'd keep trying to contact Grants
Pass. If he made contact he'd let them know she was coming.
If the Grants Pass group sounded hostile or dangerous, he'd
try to get a warning to her through one of his green-pinned
groups.
He took her hand in his
before he left and held it tightly for a long few minutes
while he gave her some last advice. She thought that she
might have invited him to stay the night with her if he'd
held her hand any longer. But he let go and walked to the
door and she wished him success and prosperity.
When he was gone, she
checked the stairwells and the windows just enough to
confirm that the hotel was under careful watch from all
angles. She hadn't expected him to make any simple mistakes,
but she'd felt an obligation to try. She slept surprisingly
well, considering she thought that Paul intended to have her
killed before the next morning.
As things turned out, he
was going to do it himself. Beth couldn't help but admire
that.
They made whispered
small talk as Paul cut the outboard and the sails caught the
brisk winds of Naragansett Bay. Beth wasn't surprised to
find the skies clear in the pre-dawn light, and she'd
anticipated the tears from the few people — friends she'd
made during her stay — who had come to see her off. At least
some of them truly believed that the dawn would find her
trekking cross-country following her dream.
Paul worked the tiller
while Beth looked over the supplies he'd packed for her, her
gaze resting on the anchor propped up against the mast. Was
it too big an anchor for a boat this size? She'd never done
any sailing, so she was left to speculate.
She caught him watching
her from time to time. Second thoughts? Or maybe just taking
precautions... Sizing her up in case it came to a physical
struggle. It wouldn't, of course, but Paul planned for
everything. If he had a plan for dealing with an air strike
on his little colony, he was likely ready for the
possibility of a desperate, if unathletic, woman coming
after him with a knife or a boat hook.
He shoved the tiller and
turned the boat into the wind just as she emerged from
checking on the supplies in the cabin. The sail began
flapping limply and the boom jerked toward Beth. She ducked
her head for only a second, the air whooshing by. Then she
was staring into the pistol clenched in Paul's fist.
"Come back. There's work
for you. A good life. Please, I'm begging you. I've never
begged anyone before."
"You killed all of
them?" She asked. "Everyone who ever tried to leave?"
"Not many wanted to
leave. I wasn't lying to you. Security is what people want.
I've done a very good job of providing that. It was only a
few. A very few. And most of them would never have made it.
Never would have contributed."
"You don't want anyone
out there to know your capabilities."
"Not yet. Not while
we're weak. Later, yes, but it's all too fragile now. It
could all fall apart just because someone somewhere realizes
that it's gonna be us or them."
"Kayley believed that
people would come together to help each other."
Neither of them had
moved a step. The gun barrel was an inch from Beth's face,
aimed between her eyes.
"Kayley said there would
be warlords. Joked that they would probably be male. Don't
get me started on how I was appointed to this job by women.
She even admitted they were necessary."
"They might be. But she
assumed that the people who met her in Grants Pass would be
able to get along. That they'd make something of what was
left." He snorted. "Dreamers. You and Kayley both. Come back
with me, Beth. You took a chance that I wouldn't go through
with this and you lost. We both knew what was happening when
you got on the boat. I haven't had much luck lying to you
since we met."
She moved. One step to
the side. Beth tried to control herself, but she flinched
all the same. No shot. Still here. The boat's rail behind
her. Behind that, the bay.
"Beth..."
"Goodbye, Paul."
She heard the shot,
smelled it, and then the cold of the water hit. She hadn't
finished taking a breath, and the weight of her jeans was
dragging her straight down. Salt water was filling her nose
and throat. The cold clenched at her chest. She was
struggling with the button on her jeans, but her fingers
were going numb faster than she could get the button undone.
Her lungs were burning as she had to keep her head under to
work on it. When she surfaced, she looked for the boat, but
she'd lost track of it. A wave swept over her. Beth
swallowed a mouthful of seawater.
She fought for the
surface, coughing and spitting when she felt air hit her
face. Beth was completely alone in the cold. She thought she
heard a voice calling out, but it was distant, and she heard
something closer: Waves crashing on the shore. She swam for
the sound, dragging herself with weakening strokes towards
her goal. The waves carried her the last bit of distance,
depositing her on a rocky strip of beach where she lay
shivering until long past dawn.
Serigado scanned the
water, but the binoculars were proving less than helpful. He
caught a glimpse of something in the water at one point, but
he didn't bother to take a shot. He told himself he needed
to conserve ammo, and that he was a lousy shot anyway.
Nobody knew that about him. He couldn't be weak. They needed
him.
Halfway back to Newport
harbor, Paul remembered to throw the anchor into
Narragansett Bay.
END |
