Grants Pass (28 page)

Beth re-buttoned her shirt and left
the bathroom. She knew what she had to do.

****

She stood over his bed as he
snored. He looked so helpless and frail, lying there. Almost innocent. Though
she’d never had children, sometimes she could understand the appeal. Having
someone to love, someone to take care of.... Of course, she’d had James for
that.

Tyler was somebody’s son. His mother
and father had loved him and raised him, and had let him go, had watched as he
had flown the nest. He’d flown far — all the way across the world, where he’d
gotten in trouble and caught up in the terrible things that humanity had done
to itself. Maybe he’d deserved better. Maybe not. Who knew anymore?

But it was too late now. There was
no better to be had, and if he was going to refuse to understand that, there
was nothing she could do about it.

She raised the knife, leaning over
him to reach the far side of his neck. In book 8 of
The Caged Sword
series,
A Clutch of Posies
, Marleena finds she must murder the Lord of
Terror, using only a dull kitchen knife. In her fear and hesitation, she
botches the job at first, and he awakens and threatens her, but in a stroke of
luck, as he is leaping onto her, the knife nicks his jugular and he dies. Then
all the Sisters are freed, and the land rejoices.

Tyler’s white, exposed neck was
surprisingly tough at first, despite Beth’s knife being as sharp as it could
be. She remembered slaughtering the goats, and pushed harder. When she thought
of it as butchering meat, it came easily. She even knew to step back so as not
to get soaked with his blood.

The covers, of course — that was
another story. Tyler’s blood spurted at first, another rush with every beat of
his heart. Impossible to believe there could be so much; but the goats had been
even worse. Soon it ebbed out more slowly, flowing down his body as he
twitched, gurgled, and stilled. It spread across the white cotton coverlet,
pooling and sinking in, threading fanlike out along the folds of the fabric.
Beth watched it for a long time, unmoving, and finally turned to go.

She shut the door of the guest
bedroom behind her, turning the latch that would keep it fast. The corpse would
smell at first, but she knew that in this hot, dry climate, it would soon
desiccate, even mummify. In any event, she could put a towel under the door if
she had to. She wouldn’t need that room any time soon.

She walked down the hall to the
kitchen, washed the knife, and laid it on the counter to dry. Then, she went to
her bookshelf and pulled down the final book in her series:
Alone at Heart.

Night fell as Elizabeth Barnett sat
on the veranda with a tumbler of warm gin, the book unopened beside her, and
waited for her world to finish ending.

Biography

Shannon Page

Shannon Page was born on
Halloween night and spent her early years on a commune in northern California’s
backwoods. A childhood without television gave her a great love of books and
the worlds she found in them. She wrote her first book, an adventure story
starring her cat, at the age of seven. Sadly, that work is currently out of
print. Her stories have appeared in
Interzone
and
Black Static
and she has several forthcoming short-story publications from Morrigan Books,
Gilgamesh Press, and Three Crows Press. Shannon is a longtime practitioner of
Ashtanga yoga, has no tattoos, and lives in San Francisco with nineteen
orchids.

Afterword

About ten years ago, I went to Cyprus.
The stark beauty of the place has stayed with me ever since, along with a sense
of how incredibly isolated it would be without modern transportation and
communication. When I was sent the call for submissions for Grants Pass, I
loved the idea, and the character of Beth came to me at once.

Remembrance

James M. Sullivan

Dr. Bhanu Daswani,

I have sent along the following
transcript, which was recovered from a dig site in Oregon. Dr. Crystal
Jefferson was the archaeologist who made the discovery.

This evidence is fascinating and if
further tests prove conclusive, it could be the first personal account of the
Collapse on record. Of course, we know Kayley Allard’s fate, but this early
information is incredible.

Please send me your opinions; your
historical expertise will be invaluable with this project.

Dr. Mary Tillinghaust

****

The fresh scent of wet grass
fills the air. I feel cleansed by the recent downpour. The crispness and the
rain-speckled flora provide a sense of newness; a feeling that all is right
with the world and that what has come to pass did not. I know that there will
be many others who will record what has taken place with much more skill than
I, not to mention with more information of what actually happened and where.
Please forgive me, I’m no author, poet, or historian, but I do think what I
know should be written down.

I do not have specifics, at least
not about anything that happened outside of San Francisco. I suppose I should
start at the beginning. That is always where they say to start — though I never
figured out who ‘they’ were.

I was in San Francisco on business,
leading a training class for an in-house product database. I had been there
three days and I was already beginning to miss the greenness of Seattle, where
I had lived for the past seven years. I guess none of this matters; it is
strange how that even after the world rebooted (at least that’s how I’ve come
to think about the devastation that has happened to us), I still lapse into
thinking in terms of my old life. I’ll never train another class on how to use
computer programs. I’ll never again go to my office. I’ll never see Seattle
again, most likely, and even if I do, it will not be the Seattle I remember. I
hope that my family shares the same immunities that I seem to possess. I’m
rambling; I suppose I should get to the point.

It was the third of June. I was
unwinding in my hotel room after a frustratingly long day of training people
who shouldn’t be let near computers. I’d crawled into bed and clicked on the
television. I remember the comforter was splashed with bright colors vaguely
reminiscent of tropical flowers. It’s funny, the details that stick in your
mind. As I recall, I had to turn the television up to compete with the noise of
the rain. There had been off and on drizzle all day, but now it was pounding
against the thick glass of the hotel window. So much for sunny California, eh?

I returned my attention to the
broadcast with its neatly pressed and coifed news anchors who proceeded to
inform viewers about the strange and fierce strain of SVHF — Severe Viral
Hemorrhagic Fever — that was quickly becoming an epidemic in southern
California and Sydney, Australia. They cut to highlights of an interview with a
doctor who claimed to be an expert on communicable diseases. I do not recall if
he was from the Centers for Disease Control or not. His theory was that SVHF
was related to the Ebola virus. He prattled on about how the two could be
connected. Frankly, he was talking over my head. Somewhere during his
dissertation the national news interrupted the local.

There was yet another malady at
work. I could not believe what I was hearing. A Super Flu had overtaken
Washington D.C. The flu was also appearing in other cities; the capitals of all
the countries belonging to the United Nations. I was dumbfounded. Did the
conspiracy theorists have it correct? I’m certain that I would have sat there
for hours taking in the varied hypotheses of experts, ignoring the world
outside, but the world outside had other plans.

I barely registered the first roll
of the earthquake, but soon enough it was clear that it was a big one. I was
born in California and had lived there until I was twelve. I knew I had to get
out of the building. I grabbed my shoes and laptop, and dashed for the door as
a major jolt thrust me forward, stumbling. The television came crashing to the
floor, its screen exploding. Everything happened so fast. I was in the hall,
the floor pulling down and away from my feet as I ran; there was the cracking
of wood and breaking of cement. My eyes stung from plaster dust. The
conditioning of growing up in earthquake country kicked in and I quickly moved
towards a sturdy doorway; the emergency exit.

I was nearly there when a loud crack
dominated the rest of the bedlam and I was thrown to the floor as the entire
corridor heaved forward. I’ve no idea how I got up again, but I did, and now
survival instinct overrode any conditioning. I was determined to get out. I
started down the stairwell — half running, half tumbling.

I was only on the second floor, yet
it seemed like all the distance in world at that moment. What happened next is
just a blur and I can’t really tell you exactly what occurred.

I do know that I came to on my
chest. The first thing that registered was the pain. I ached. Certainly worse
than when Mikey O’Connell had beaten me up after school. It hurt more than the
only car accident I had been in. Just trying to shift my weight resulted in
spasms of agony; I was sure that I was bruised head to toe and that more than
one bone was broken. The smell of ozone and copper was stinging my nostrils,
and just beyond that was the wretched combination of fetid garbage and piss. I
choked back the bile rising in my throat.

Finally, I opened my eyes and saw only
darkness. My legs were caught under something. I could feel them, and even
wiggle my toes, but I couldn’t move them. Then I heard the sounds from outside.
It was a dreadful cacophony: people screaming for help, ambulance sirens and
wailing children; all of it a distorted echo reverberating around me.

I don’t know how long I was there in
the dark, trapped with my own thoughts of various worst case scenarios and
wondering if I had even made it out of the hotel. I remember reading a website
that had said that earthquake training — to get to a doorway — made it easier
for those who survived to find the bodies.

Would anyone find my body?

For hours I contemplated a myriad of
fates, each worse than the next. Was I going to be crushed from debris in an
aftershock? Was I going to die from blood loss? Was I going to starve to death?
You get the idea.

I eventually braved the pain and
stretched my arms to begin exploring my surroundings by touch. I discovered
there was open space above me and a metal structure to my right. I was fairly
certain I was lying on my laptop case. To my right I felt debris: brick, glass,
plaster, and an assortment of things I couldn’t identify. I brought my right
arm back and down my side to see if I could detect what had pinned my legs. This
was difficult and painful, but yielded an unexpected discovery; light. I had
shifted rubble next to me and it revealed a faint glow. I began clawing at the
small opening in earnest. Soon, I could pass my hand through the hole. I began
failing it about, doing my best to shout for help, hoping someone outside would
notice.

I found myself silently praying to a
God I had long ignored, because we had a few disagreements about what was said
in His book. Luck, or perhaps God had not been so offended by my absence, came
through for me that night. Someone noticed and people began digging me out,
which as it turns out was not a difficult task. Luck, or again God, was on my
side.

I had made it.

I’d actually gotten free of the
hotel, but had become trapped under a dumpster that had fallen sideways. It was
holding the weight of some of the collateral wreckage of the hotel, part of
which had spilled down onto my legs.

My injuries were fairly minor
considering all I had been through: a few cracked ribs, a fractured wrist
(which still stings a little when it snows), a concussion, and of course,
bruises just about everywhere. It was a miracle that my legs were fine, that I
had lived.

The next few days were hell. I found
a Red Cross shelter and ended up volunteering. At first I couldn’t do much in
my injured condition, but as I healed I was able to be of more help. After a
week, volunteering had become my life. Everything that had come before was like
a dream. I connected with two people there: Connie Van Den Poole and Miss Ruby
Divine.

Connie was a nurse, Ruby a drag
queen. They were a combination that injured people needed. Connie would tend to
aliments of the body and Ruby those of the spirit. They complimented each other
well and both kept my spirits high. When Ruby and I were alone she would share
what news she had gleaned from gossiping with those in charge.

The Super Flu that had appeared was
moving rapidly through the country, and the fatality rate was high. Way too
high. When we were alone, she would cry on my shoulder, wracking sobs that
shook her whole body. With me, she was able to let herself go, feel her grief,
her fear, her frustration. I comforted her the best way I knew, cooing and
wiping away her wet raccoon eyes. It was the least I could do for her and everyone
else she made smile. She did so much to keep everyone happy with her saucy wit,
painted face and bright red wig. I prayed that she would not get sick, or
Connie.

By the eighth day, three people had
died of SVHF. That number had more than doubled by the second week. I can’t
recall when the first flu case came in, but it was not long after that our fate
was clear to me.

I sat with Connie. The rain coming
down was cleaning away the noxious smell of the funeral pyres. We talked about
what was to come. I tried to change the subject, to make light of things,
poking fun at the medical masks we all wore now. She finally confessed that she
had a fever. There was no question in her mind that she was as good as dead.
Connie would not cry and she never did. She asked that I be there at the end. I
was and held her hand as she slipped away. That was almost the end of July. By
August, Ruby and I were the only ones left. We got drunk that night in the
darkness of a once popular watering hole.

She ranted about how help was not
coming, how the end was indeed nigh. Her voice reverberated throughout the
abandoned pub, giving it the sound of some powerful goddesses from Greek Myth;
prophesying doom and destruction. In my drunkenness, I remembered something, a
memory of my life from before. I can’t tell you why I remembered it then, but I
did. At first, it was just a wisp dancing at the edge of my recollection. As
she raged, I recalled more of the moment. A silly one to be sure, but in the
haze of my inebriation I was convinced it could offer a ray of hope. I
interrupted the drag queen to share my news.

I explained it to Ruby, as I will
explain to you. The first thing I should mention is blogs, as I imagine they
will not be part of the new world. Blogs, short for web logs, are diaries, or
logs, which are maintained on the Internet, sometimes called the World Wide
Web. The Internet was an interconnection of computers which allowed for almost
infinite data to be shared with whoever owned a computer with access to the
Internet.

Shannon is my partner, and while
many things, just happens to be a bit of an enthusiast of all things
apocalyptic, like zombie movies and nuclear winter. It’s a little quirky, but I
don’t mind. Our friend Karl also shares this odd hobby and it was really him that
set this in motion. A couple of weeks before I left for my trip, Shannon had
invited Karl over for a night of “end of the world movies” and typically, it
dissolved into a good natured debated over what locations in Seattle would be
highly defensible and well equipped should the apocalypse come. Shannon always
came back to this fancy retreat spa in the mountains we frequented, because it
has its own water source and hydroelectric capabilities. That’s when Karl
jumped in with this idea he had read about in a blog of a woman named Kayley.

 
She was
musing, rambling really. She had dreamt about a man, a friend of hers, Monte.
He represented survival to her and after speaking of what she had dreamt, they
agreed to meet in Grants Pass, Oregon, if the apocalypse ever came. Shannon had
found the idea amusing and after researching the place online, we all agreed
that should the world end, we would meet there. It was silly and not serious at
all. We laughed about it and soon it was forgotten. Who ever really thinks the
world is going to end?

Ruby laughed at me. She laughed long
and hard; so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks like black rivers. As she
collected herself, tucking her false crimson hair behind her ear, she smiled.
It was a large, full smile. That moment is forever burned into my memory.

“
My dear,
the fucking world has ended and you are still a geek. You plan to find
salvation in an online journal. Javier, you still tote that damn computer
around, as if you are ever going to be able to connect to the internet again.
It’s all gone now.” She gestured with her slight wrist, rolling it as she swept
her arm, indicating the world.

“
It is all
gone Javier.” She sashayed towards me, her black scarf trailing behind her.
“You should go, find Shannon. You deserve to be together.” She kissed me then,
gently on the mouth. It was slow and sweet. I could smell her perfume, rich and
heady. It suited her well. I asked her if she would come with me. She smiled a
slight smile, but her eyes were sad and reminded me of Connie’s eyes when she
had come clean that she has contracted the Super Flu. “That is very sweet of
you to ask. However, San Francisco is my home. I was born here. I came out
here. I was fabulous here…and Javier, I shall die here.”