Sector 9-11

The first time the planes flew overhead we thought they were coming to help us. It wasn’t until the acid was released, and the screams ensued that we realized what was truly happening.

It was a cleansing.

Bodies lay strewn on the streets. Those still strong enough rifled through them looking for their loved ones. Others simply moaned in terror at the sight. Dad told me to stay inside with the doors locked as he went in and out of the apartment. Down into the streets he searched for supplies, food, and any other necessities that we would need to survive the incoming days and months. It was dangerous, but we needed food and we needed it fast. I’m sure during one of those excursions he must have come into contact with someone who passed the virus onto him. A part of me still holds guilt over not noticing quicker, not noticing until it was too late. I still shudder at the thought. I should have kept him home. It’s funny to say, but who cares about food, water? Perhaps we could have spent our last days together, but, as I’ve realized in my many hours here alone, you can’t change the past and you can’t predict the future. If there’s one thing these wicked and strange events have taught me is that all you can do is live in awe of each day. Each one is a gift.

While Dad was away one afternoon Jack’s first call came in. My vision had yet to deteriorate and seeing his face after surviving so much over the last weeks was like taking a breath of fresh air. It had been two since the last wave of planes had passed over us. The wifi was spotty as the power to the city wavered in and out. With each passing day hope for salvation became slim, and then slimmer. Most calls I attempted to make had either been unavailable or failed to make connection. It left me to assume that everyone I knew or loved was most likely dead if not soon to be. Jack and his family had been evacuated more than two months prior from their hometown, and I hadn’t heard of anything that would confirm that they had made it safely. The television broadcasted permanent reruns of the news prior to the planes descending in to destroy us all. To destroy all those too unlucky in life to afford escape into a safety haven. All access to whatever occurred outside of us was limited if not completely unavailable.

“Hello? Jack, can you hear me?” The connection crackled, and buzzed. His face froze and twitched through the window, enough so that I could see he was speaking, sharing information with me, but not enough for me to understand what he hoped to tell me. “I don’t know what you’re saying… Jack?”

“Cl-Clem. Clem, can you hear me?” His voice finally broke through the static. I almost could cry at the sound.

“I can hear you. I see you! Where are you?”

“Clem,” he breathed. “Wow. I’m so glad to see your face. It’s been crazy. We just received our home plot yesterday. We’re settling in. I’m so sorry it took this long to call you.”

“Took so long? I’m surprised I’m able to speak with you at all.” I was surprised. I had begun to lose hope that he was alive or that we would ever be able to speak again. Seeing him here through my computer was almost as joyful as I imagine I would feel seeing him in the flesh again.

“I know, I know. Things are different here, Clem. It’s not like real life. There are rules and curfews. I feel like I don’t even know where I am.” His breath is heavy as if he can’t catch it. He sounds exasperated. The transition I’m sure is taking a toll on him, but I’m so curious on what it’s like in one of the safety sectors that I can’t even be concerned about his well being in that moment. He’s safe, and thus that means healthy. Whatever I imagined he worried about paled in comparison to my own concerns of Dad ever returning, and having enough food to last indefinitely within the confines of our current condition.

“I bet it’s different. How is it? How is your family?” I throw out in attempt to connect to his circumstances. I mostly feel upset that I’m not there, perhaps jealous, of how easily his family, and the people he shares life with were able to escape.

His family is safe and whole while mine disintegrated right before my eyes. Mom had passed at the beginning. She was one of the first, but most definitely not the last, that contracted the virus and reacted poorly. I had to watch as the life faded out of her. It worked quickly, but it was almost as if we moved in slow motion during those days. Her skin went pale as the blood seeped out of her face. She held my hand close to her chest before she took her last breath. I remember reaching out to draw my finger against her cheek where the skin had reduced to a fine papery feel. It was her open eyes, blank and empty, staring into me that left the biggest impact. I gently closed them with my palm, but it was almost as if I could still see the green of her irises burning through. Mommy, I love you. I attempted to stifle the bit of anger I felt towards Jack’s life, almost completely in tact while mine continued to crumble into nothingness.

“We’re doing okay. Yeah, it’s an adjustment for sure. It’s pretty grimy here. I wish we could be more comfortable, but it’s all at the sake of survival right? No complaints here.” I felt a small tingle of irritation spark at his dissatisfaction of his current living environment.

“I’m glad you all are okay, and safe.” I try to keep the agitation out of my voice, which leaves me with nothing further to say.

“I wish you could see it, Clem! It’s shocking.” The light that I was used to in his voice returned for a moment, “There are these huge walls surrounding the entire compound. Guards are perched up on the walls either to keep those infected out or maybe to keep us healthy people in. I’m not sure.”

“That’s very interesting,” I try to wait for him to give me some sort of inkling that he’s coming soon, that he’s compiling a game plan to come and retrieve both me and my father, but he becomes so lost in his sharing that he doesn’t even mention us. My impatience bubbles over to ask, “Do you know when you’ll be able to come get us?” He scratches at his neck before letting out one of his long sighs.

“No, Clem. I don’t. I honestly have no idea when it’ll be safe to come get you let alone leave the confines of this place. It’s a mad house around here. I wish you could see.” Though he may not realize, his wishes send daggers into my chest, “It’s been crazy, just crazy. I will let you know as soon as I can though. Give me a month or two. That’s my plan.”

“A month or two… okay. I can do a month or two.” I say. I’m not sure anything can mask the disappointment in my voice.

It’s been almost two years, now…

Day 655:

I stare emptily through the brown blob of my front door. When I sit quietly I can hear the sounds of the decaying world that still exists outside my windows, but more importantly, the small, secretive movements of the rodents within the walls around me. I’m sure they’re almost as, if not more, desperate than I to forage for their own means of sustenance and survival. I try my hardest to imagine myself as one. To move like them, swiftly and stealthily, is the only way I will be able to get out of here. I have to get out of here. Sometimes, the sadness consumes me transforming any semblance of hope I possess into desolation. I feel a shift in my energy though, my will live past this current moment here alone ignites. Deep down, I know Jack loves me. I know that he is, was, whatever you want to call it, making the most of his efforts to come and get me. Something stops him, whether it truly is the danger of 9-11 or some other larger force preventing him from exiting from the borders of Triton, there is something.

I stand up abruptly as a wave of motivation begins to overcome me. I can't worry about him. I feel more inspired and hopeful for my escape from these four walls than I’ve felt since Dad first left me. The only hindrance to my excitement is the sting radiating throughout my leg as the blood redistributes itself after my long moment of sitting. Whether this Guy person comes for me or not, I need to be prepared to get out of here. After all of this I refuse to let myself die here. I hobble over to the den closet to rifle through the lingering items left over from before life, as we knew it, ended.

An old softball bat from when I played little league, my mother’s old winter coats, and miscellaneous pairs of slippers missing their match riddle the bottom. I keep searching through every object with my hands until I come across my Dad’s old utility box. I open the lid feeling through the hammer, nails, and other wrenches that I’m sure I’ll never use until I feel it brush my fingertips. The cold, smooth surface of my Dad’s old pocket pistol still gives me goose bumps when I hold it. The first time I found it I was probably about twelve. I knew digging around in Dad’s things would surely get me in trouble, so I quickly slipped it back into the box as if its cold metal could burn into my skin. Dad was out, as usual, while Mom prattled on the phone to her girlfriends. I overheard her nagging about whatever someone did to annoy her that day, so instead of stepping into her line of fire I distracted myself with my own adventures.

In those days, I played alone for the most part. I never had anyone elseand to share my childhood with, so I created my own intricate worlds to escape into. The closet stood as a portal into an alternate dimension. In the new world of my own creation I could be whoever I wanted to be. There I’d have the family I always dreamed of: an attentive, sensitive mother, an engaged and supportive father, then finally maybe a sibling or two whom I could share my most intimate joys and sorrows. In this alternate reality, I’d be whole in a way that I can’t quite imagine for myself now. Abandoned, alone, and handicapped I feel as if I should have appreciated the family I was gifted with while I had it. The imagination always creates an ideal, but what I have lost seems so much more precious now upon reflection.

I slide open the barrel feeling for the bullets loaded within. Two, four, six, seven bullets inside. Seven bullets stand between me and death out there. I slip the pistol into the waistband of my jeans to keep it safe and out of site before lowering the edge of my shirt carefully over it. I feel around for a backpack to stuff with other supplies before stepping up, and out of the closet. I almost close the door before reaching back in for the old softball bat I left leaning against the wall. It couldn’t hurt to have. I shut the closet.

It’s time to get going.