Photograph. October 17, 04:43 P.M. Taylor Stray:
Most of her body is in shadow, but not her face. It stands out like a spark of fire in a pitch-black cave. Her skin is on the dark side of Caucasian—vaguely Indian—but a narrow beam of sunlight makes it glow. She’s wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt; the cowl is pulled up, tented loosely over her head.
Her eyes are dark and alert. Black pearls in milk. Focused and strong, absolutely un-self-conscious. The camera is the last thing on this young woman’s mind. It’s barely present, the least important thing in the room.
Beams of sunlight stab down from the ceiling—out of frame—spotlighting dead leaves and litter on the linoleum floor. There’s a window on the left side of the room—a square of bright, hazy light, revealing no hint of shape or form on the other side. Nothing but glowing white fog.
She’s holding a backpack by its strap, extended out toward the camera.
She’s not smiling. The look on her face … it’s the same intensity that’s in her eyes, mirrored in lips, cheeks, and forehead. Reflected and amplified.
She’s focused on something else. Something beyond the camera, beyond the room.
Weasel found me at the edge of the business district.
For the last hour, the sky had been spitting intermittent drops of rain, threatening to open wide and drown me in a torrent. There was a frigid wind blowing out of the north; it carried with it a faint taste of metal. I pulled my jacket tight across my chest and continued south, hoping I’d be able to find someplace safe and dry before the rain started in earnest.
It was a three- or four-mile hike from the barricade to downtown Spokane, and my course took me through upscale neighborhoods filled with pristine white town houses, each two or three stories tall, with abbreviated yards and narrow driveways. It was quiet here. There were no barking dogs, no growling traffic, just the rustle of leaves caught in that cold, metallic wind. As I passed down the center of the street, an old black woman appeared on one of the front porches. She watched me draw near, slowly shaking her head back and forth. I offered her a wave, and in response, the old woman raised her middle finger and thrust it out at me. Then, still shaking her head, she turned and retreated back into her house.
The buildings grew taller and more densely packed the farther south I got, until, finally, I hit the Spokane River and entered downtown proper. As soon as I crossed the bridge, I dropped my duffel bag to the sidewalk and started working at the pinched muscles in my shoulder, massaging the sore flesh and working it through a slow roll. When the numb tingle finally disappeared from my arm and hand, I pulled the camera from my backpack and started taking pictures. The view wasn’t exactly exciting, but there was something here I wanted to capture. The tone. The sense of desolation. I took shots of the deserted sidewalks, uprooted street signs, a toppled trash can lying on its side in the middle of the street. Unfortunately, the disconcerting aspect of the scene was something I couldn’t capture on a memory card—the silence, the utter lack of movement.
There was nothing here. No life.
After a couple of minutes, I gave up trying to capture this absence, this
I once again started to massage my shoulder, trying to knead the tension from my muscles. It was much easier to work at this than wonder at my next step.
“Hey!”
The sudden noise jolted me out of my thoughts. It took me a moment to locate the source: a small man rolling out of the window of a nearby building. The man landed on his feet, with his hand still up on the windowsill; then he started toward me, slowly.
The approaching stranger made me feel nervous. I had a tripod strapped to the back of my bag—a collapsed aluminum frame that I could use as a weapon if pressed—but I didn’t want to go digging for it now. I didn’t want to turn my back on this man. Besides, I hadn’t come here to hurt people or make enemies.
As if reading my thoughts, the man held out his hands, showing me empty palms. He was short, about five foot two, with an old-fashioned fedora pulled low over his eyes. He was dressed for the cold—several layers of flannel shirts, flashes of white long underwear peeking out through holes in a pair of ragged jeans, and all of it dirty. It looked like he’d been living rough for quite some time now.
“I mean you no harm,” the man said, offering up a smile. He had a couple of decades on me, those years chiseled into deep trenches around his mouth and on his forehead. “Just curious, is all, you being a newcomer to our fair city.”
“Yeah?” I grunted, trying to sound calm and hard-boiled, despite my nerves. “And you’re the welcoming committee?”
“Something like that.” His smile twitched with nervous energy. “There’s no electricity, no cable, and radio reception’s for shit here … I gotta make my own entertainment!” After a moment looking me up and down, he offered me his hand. “My name’s Wendell.”
“Dean,” I said, grasping his sweaty palm.
“You a photographer?” He smiled and nodded toward my backpack. “I saw you with your camera, snapping away like crazy.”
I shrugged. “I take pictures. I’m not sure that makes me a photographer, though … just a student, really.” I gestured toward my backpack and the camera hidden inside. “For the time being, this is all just … play. An unrealized dream.”
“Fuck, man.” He laughed, shaking his head. “That’s a dangerous game to play—coming
Annoyed, I turned and grabbed my duffel bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I could feel the man—this dirty derelict—standing behind me, and I paused long enough to mutter, “Yeah, well, my father always said I didn’t have a lick of sense.” Then I started walking away.
“Jesus
“Just tell me where I’m going,” I said.
“Sure, man. Welcome wagon and all of that shit. It’d be my pleasure.” He once again pointed to that creepy theatrical smile. There were way too many teeth there. It made him look positively demented.
As we started south on Monroe, Wendell pointed to our left. There was a thin sliver of green visible between the buildings. “Riverfront Park,” he said. “It’s not that big—just a little slip of green—but it’s nice. A nice place to watch the river. There was some type of famous carousel there once, before the evacuation. When the word came down, though, they just packed up all the wooden animals and left.” An odd look passed across his face. “There are other animals there now, in the park. Not-so-friendly animals.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Wendell shrugged. “Wild dogs, probably. I’ve heard people say wolves and bears.” After a moment of silence, he added in a lower voice, “And some talk about other things, too … animals you won’t find in any zoo.”
I studied him for a moment, trying to read the blank look on his face, trying to figure out what
