“But bring some mayonnaise,” chipped in his buddy. “Big, big jar.”
“And beer.”
“And bring steak. We can barbecue it right here.” The cowboy stamped his boot into the fire, pushing in a chunk of unburned wood. Sparks gushed into the night sky.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Your best my ass. No food, no hive talk. You follow?”
“It’ll be a couple of hours.”
“We’ll be here.”
“You can’t go alone,” the girl told me. “By rights there should be hornets crawling all over the place.” She picked up the pump-action shotgun.
“I’ll be just fine,” I told her. “Just lend me a gun.”
The cowboy laughed. “Lend my ass.”
The girl shook her head. “If you knew how many of us we lost getting hold of these babies you’d realize why we don’t go handing them out to strangers.” She nodded at a break in the fence. “Come on, make it quick. We’re hungry.”
We walked through the downtown area of Lewis, heading to where I’d moored the boat at the ferry terminal. The first rays of the rising sun cast a blood-red light on rusted cars and scattered masonry.
After ten minutes of walking in silence she suddenly said, “You hate our guts, don’t you?”
“Hardly. I don’t even know you people.”
“We must look like a rough bunch. But we didn’t start out that way. Tony comes from a family of well-todo tennis pros on Long Island, while Zak-he was the guy in the black Stetson-was studying at a Hebrew school in Manhattan when the world rolled over and died. Originally he was from Vancouver in Canada. He had those curly black side locks, you know?” She made a twirling motion with her fingers just below her ears. “But he lost all his hair in a fire when we camped in a kindergarten-some idiot kicked over a stove in his sleep. His hair never grew back. Not even his eyebrows or on his arms. He wasn’t badly burned, but I figure it must be the shock… wait.” She stopped, then looked up at me. “We’ve done this all wrong, haven’t we?”
“Done what all wrong?”
“We’re becoming so brutalized we’re even forgetting the social basics.” She held out her hand. “How do you do? I’m Michaela Ford.”
I shook her hand. “I’m Greg Valdiva.”
“Pleased to meet you, Greg.”
“Likewise, Michaela.”
That was rich. Standing there in a burned-out city full of skulls, shaking hands like we were meeting for the first time at a dinner party.
She continued walking. Now she looked a little more relaxed.
“So where do you come from, Michaela?” I asked.
“Me? New York. My mother was in magazine publishing. We’d just moved into an apartment in Greenwich Village. I loved it there, especially the street markets on Sundays. I even wound up helping out on a stall there that sold African jewelry.”
“Sounds swanky.”
“Swanky?” She smiled. “What kind of old-time colloquial is that?”
“It was a word my mother used. Swanky clothes, swanky cars, swanky houses.”
“She’s dead?”
“She’s dead.” I nodded.
“Mine, too. I was staying with my father up at his place in the Catskills when the hornets went on the rampage. Like everyone else we thought it would be short-lived, but it just went on and on. They torched schools, houses, then whole towns and cities. My mother and father had been separated more than five years, but he was still anxious about her being in New York, especially after we heard that all those people had been killed in the streets on the first day.”
As we walked along the street, where naked skulls seemed to grow out of the dirt like weird white mush- rooms, she talked. It seemed as if she and her father had dove into the car, then simply blazed south toward New York. Already the countryside had gone to shit. Bread bandits, or hornets, as she called them, had trashed everything. They drove past houses and churches in flames. She couldn’t believe her eyes the first time she started seeing corpses lying in the road. She even told her father she was hallucinating when she saw a dozen men hanging by their necks from a bridge running over the road. Then he’d had to drive the car under the hanging bodies. The feet of the dead men had scraped along the car roof. It’s still a sound she had nightmares about. Of course, the closer to New York they got the worse the roads became. Soon they were clogged with refugees flooding from the city. And every hour or so the bread bandits would attack like packs of marauding wolves. There was no one to protect the refugees. Hardly anyone had a gun. Michaela’s eyes went faraway as she described how maybe a hundred or so bread bandits would run along a gridlocked road tearing people out of their cars, dashing babies against the blacktop, torching vehicles, tearing eyes out with their bare hands.
Nevertheless, Michaela’s father still forced a way through the jammed highways, horn blaring, lights flashing. They were still a good twenty miles from New York when she got the call on her mobile. It came from a friend of her mother’s. She was screaming into the telephone that her mother’s apartment had been ransacked and that her mother lay in the bathtub. “They drowned her in her own bathroom, can you believe that? Can you believe they’d do such a terrible thing? Michaela, your mother helped these people. She worked in the canteens at the park. She did everything she could. Now they’ve broken in and drowned her in her own bathtub.”
There was nothing to do but turn back. Now they joined the flow of cars away from New York into the countryside. It took three hours to cover four miles. Then the driver’s door was torn open. Hands and arms burst into the car. Her father struggled with the attackers for maybe less than a minute before he’d gone. The mob carried him away, still struggling.
Michaela waited there for them to come back for her. She’d accepted they would carry her away. But no one came. The other refugees did nothing to help her. They’d seen it happen time and time before. They merely sounded their horns before inching past her. After an hour of this she knew there was nothing she could do for her father.
She slid across into the driver’s seat, started the engine, joined the exodus.
Within a week she’d joined up with a bunch of other refugees who were camping out at an abandoned farm- house. For months they’d drifted from place to place, looking for food and a place of safety. Usually the hornets found them and drove them out. Sometimes they stayed put and made a fight of it, but there were too many hornets. Some of Michaela’s group died, so they’d eventually cut and run anyway. Now all that remained was the ten-strong group that sat ’round the campfire waiting for food.
Poor bastards.
Come to think of it, I’d had it pretty easy in Sullivan. The people sucked. But I had a home and plenty of food.
We’d nearly reached the ferry terminal when she asked what had happened to me that first day of June.
“The first I knew was the smell of burning. When I woke up the houses across the street were on fire… my mother called them swanky houses… you’re right, she was envious. We lived in…” I grimaced. “Humble accommodations. Anyway, we saw that the bread bandits, or the hornets, as you call them, were lining our neighbors up in the road. And… you know, there was something in those refugees’ faces that didn’t seem human anymore. After the hornets lined up our neighbors they just walked along from man to man, woman to woman… they had hammers, and they just… well, you don’t need me to paint a picture, do you?” I shrugged. “What could we do? We locked the door and watched all that shit happening on TV, how the cities were burning, the refugees flooding the streets. We even watched CNN when the bastards broke into the studios and beat the anchorman to death live on air. By that time we knew we had to find somewhere well away from the action, so to speak. We couldn’t just sit tight in the house and hope that we’d be left alone, so we started to pack groceries into bags, because we knew food would be scarce. But as we cleared out the cup-boards a guy just walked into the kitchen. We didn’t even hear the goddam door open. He just stood there with this expression on his face. It was just so weird. Like he wasn’t looking at the surface of our faces but somewhere at the back of our skulls. My mom grabbed Chelle to pull her away from him. That’s when he at-tacked. He just flailed at her with his fists. My mom sort of
