Going Gray (10 page)

“You’ll be here?” he asked. Their father had given him reason to question her—question anyone. But she understood and knelt down to talk to him face to face.

“Of course I will,” she answered him, but unlike their father, she made no promises. She wouldn’t do that. “Grown-ups just need to talk. And if I’m not right here, then I’m won’t be far. That’s what grown-ups do.”

“But… but Em, you’re not growed-up,” her brother’s voice was quiet yet sincere. Peter chuckled and ruffled Justin’s hair.

“I won’t tell if you don’t tell,” Peter said, assuring Justin of their secret. “We’ll be right here little man.” Justin loosened his grip, but then stopped. He held onto Emily’s fingers, hesitant, until she reassured him that it would be okay.

Justin let go, turning to run. “Wait,” Emily said, grabbing him, she squeezed. “Now you can go.” Justin darted off to where the other boys stood, lifting his feet in sneakers that weren’t his.

An older woman hugged her two boys, encouraging them to go to the children. One of the boys objected, wrapping tendril arms around his mother’s leg. She bent over, whispered into his ear, and gently peeled his arms from around her. The boy half-nodded, uncertain and disappointed, but then ran off with his older brother.

A balding man joined the small group too. He picked gingerly at a gauze bandage on his head. Blooms of yellow and red spots oozed through the white material. More patchy gauze covered the burns on his arms, the same red and yellow leaking through. The sight of him made her skin itch.

Cautiously appearing from behind the man, she saw a little girl peer out. Round blue eyes searched up and down, but then quickly dipped, and turned away. Emily sought out the mother, but then stopped when she saw the faded photograph clutched in the girl’s hands. Emily felt a sudden twinge. A painful reminder. She knew the look—had felt that look. The girl’s father began to search too, looking around blankly—maybe out of habit—his expression sorrowful. Time stands still when the pain is bad, and watching them search for a mother that wasn’t coming, her heart could have died a thousand times in that moment.

The little girl kicked her toe at the floor and looked awkwardly at the group of children. Fair skin, ghostly white and pale beyond words, her hair was a familiar color. But her pretty red locks were badly tangled with stringy pigtails that hung lopsided and uneven. Even her shirt was out of sorts, having been put on inside out. Twirling a curl of her own red hair, Emily decided that she’d try and help the girl if she could—maybe get her some nicer clothes and certainly brush away the tangles in her hair.

The little girl’s father knelt down and tried to straighten the girl’s shirt and then moved to the pigtails. The girl winced, shooing him away, having had enough of his help. He raised his brow, unsure of what to do. And with a sheepish grin, he gave up on the pigtails and kissed his daughter.

She tucked the photograph into her pocket, missing once, but then safely put it away before saying hello to Justin. Emily saw that her brother had been watching the father and daughter too. He glanced once to Emily and then back to the girl. Her voice sounded soft and shy, as did his. And to Emily, the sight was adorable; maybe even a little hopeful.

The children were gathering in much the same way as the adults, only they weren’t going to discuss stacking the dead like wood, or talk about explosions or a poisonous cloud. Their talks would be of fantasy and adventure and fun; at least that is what she hoped it would be.

Peter tugged on her arm, leading her toward the group. The sight at the center of the mall made her gasp. In front of her was what she could only describe as a zombie fashion show. She held in her reaction, pressing her fingers to her mouth.

Emily tugged on the new shirt that Peter picked out for her. And like her, everyone wore new clothes. A procession of the most fashionably dressed—and, by the way, recently made homeless—vagrants marched by them. Emily held back a laugh when seeing the price tags swinging from the newly pressed pleats and flashy bright colors. A few shirts even held onto the blocky plastic security tags that threatened to vomit a mess of blue dye.

But while the show looked fanciful and pretty, there was also a sense of anguish. The images were powerful and the feeling unmistakable. The survivors walked with slumped shoulders and wagging arms, surrendered to their loss. What’s more, there was little if anything said. Dull eyes and blank features, speaking only when spoken to, answering with just a faint nod, or altogether ignoring one another. Emily could feel the tragedy, see it on their faces, see it in the way they dragged the remains of their spirit.

Something familiar caught her attention. Nearly hidden away in the recesses of a dark corner, Emily saw Ms. Quigly standing and watching the same macabre parade.
That’s impossible!
Her heart jumped. Emily shook her head.
Ms. Quigly died on our front stoop, didn’t she?
Emily rushed ahead of Peter, eager to see her neighbor. But what would Ms. Quigly say to her… after all, they’d refused to let her into their house. Instead, they’d listened to the old woman screaming, clawing at their door, and then choking as she melted to death.

That can’t be Ms. Quigly,
Emily demanded. And as she got closer, she realized that what she saw was nothing more than a small decorative tree: a fake leafy tree used to dress up the drabber areas of the mall. The disappointment felt heavy, but there was relief too; relief from not having to face the guilt of leaving Ms. Quigly outside to die. Maybe the faces of those that had died would always be there; hidden in the shadows of her world. Emily shuddered at the thought. And then without thinking, she reached behind her to take Peter’s hand. The guilt that came with Ms. Quigly’s death shrank away—just a little—when she felt his touch.

A large man, wearing a plaid shirt—the green and black checkered fabric barely fitting around his belly—stood and looked over those that had gathered. He sized up the group, before turning to approach a bench near the front. Emily knew that this must be the Mr. Halcomb Peter had mentioned. For his age and size, the man was surprisingly nimble, leaping onto the bench in a single bound. Hanging his hands from a thick leather belt around his middle, Mr. Halcomb stood, waiting while the group settled. The mall felt warmer, muggier, and she could see beads of sweat on his forehead and a ring of grime circling the folds in his neck. In a well-rehearsed swing, Mr. Halcomb wiped the sweat before starting.

In the tight gathering, the smell of sweat was strong, and she supposed it would be something that they’d have to get used to. She figured the pharmacy shelves carrying antiperspirant would clear soon enough.
Right-Guard and Lady Speed Stick for everyone.
It was the other smells that concerned her more.

“That’s Mr. Halcomb, but he just wants us to call him Charlie,” Peter said. And as if he’d heard them, Mr. Halcomb looked to their direction and offered a warm smile.

“Did we all make it through that shake?” he asked, reaching every person at least once with a quick nod. “Hope so, and hopefully we won’t have another one of those.”

“Brought one girl in, Jin or Fen I think her name is,” Peter spoke up. “She’s bad off. Fell from the second floor, and hit her head.” Mr. Halcomb lowered his shoulders, disappointed.

“How bad?” he asked, and then searched the faces for Ms. Parks.

“What was that?” a voice interrupted from the back of the group. “Didn’t quite feel like an earthquake to me.”

“Wasn’t any earthquake,” another voice cracked. “That was an aftershock.”

“An aftershock… from what?”

“From an explosion!”

A reserved
awe
sounded from the group. Mr. Halcomb lifted his finger to say something.

“Well, what the hell around here is big enough to do that?”

Emily felt a rush of anxiety, fearful of what was coming. Nervous, a heaviness settled in her legs, planting her feet to the concrete floor.

“It was that damn machine!” Standing, a man addressed the group. A much older man, his lips shook as he spoke, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d survived at all. Tall, his skin was sallow and hung loosely from his skinny frame like sheets from a clothesline.

“Jeter, that machine is miles away,” Mr. Halcomb rebutted. Emily caught the old man’s name but didn’t recognize it.

“You don’t have to tell me that. I know it’s miles away,” Jeter snapped, his voice gravely and his tone crass. “I live near it. Monstrous big that machine—Empire State Building big. Sits on the edge of the ocean, half-in and half-out like a beached whale with nowhere to go—they say it ain’t done being built, but I know it’s running! I can hear it. And I’ve seen things, too.”

As if to emphasize this last point, another explosion rocked the mall: a deafening boom. Arms lifted, covering their ears. The sound pierced the air and expanded like thunder in a springtime storm. Emily instinctively ducked down and tried to take cover. Screams lifted from the crowd, and Mr. Halcomb fell from the bench, landing on his knees with one hand above his head. The explosive sound rolled over the mall, eventually becoming thin and distant as it traveled away. Peter reached for Emily’s arm, and she found herself huddling closer to him, leaning into him. Another rumble lasted a few seconds: smaller and more isolated than the first. And in her mind, she imagined one of the service stations being left unattended, gas spilling everywhere, and a random spark causing the underground tanks to throw-up a huge ball of fire like the kind that she’d seen on television.

When the last of the rumbles passed, Emily realized that she’d closed her eyes. The rustle of people and chairs moving filled her ears. Folks climbed back to their seats. Emily put back the space between her and Peter, but she heard him say
not yet
, and leaned closer to her. Her heart bumped, and she opened her eyes, finding his: protective and cautious. And like before, with the last explosion, another scattering of dust and debris drifted down. The crowd regrouped, and a small chatter broke out, growing into a steady mumble. Mr. Halcomb crawled up from the floor: an outstretched hand helping him find his way back to the bench. His eyes were huge, hard lines creasing his forehead as he searched up and down and all around him.

“Oh,
my
! Everyone okay?” he asked, and then brushed pieces of debris from his head. “So much for hoping that we’d felt the last of the shakes.”

“Was that the machine too?” A voice from the back asked.

“Jeter?” Mr. Halcomb asked, raising his palms to catch a piece of falling debris. “Still think it’s the machine? If so, what else might we expect?”

“Could’ve been one of the Navy boats,” a voice came from behind Jeter: scratchy and dry. A younger man stood up. With short cropped hair, he held a blue and white cap in front of him. Blocky letters spelled out NAVY above the brim. “I mean, if a boat is left unattended, who knows what will happen.”

Shoulders turned to glance at the young man. A few heads stayed; eyes fixed on him, recognizing the uniform. She’d seen the outfit before too, seeing it on other men and women visiting from a Navy shipyard near town. Emily thought it odd that he still wore his uniform. Surely he would have changed into something clean of the fog’s stench.
Maybe he already cleaned it?
Mr. Halcomb considered what the young man said.

“I’d hope that you’d know, or that maybe someone else would know,” Mr. Halcomb said. The young man shifted uncomfortably. “If that explosion was a ship, any chance we’re at risk?”

“Sorry sir?”

“I mean, ships have fuel. Some have different kinds of fuel. Any chance we’d be at risk?”

“I’ve no idea, sir,” the young man answered, his expression regretful. “But aren’t we already at risk? I mean with what is outside, I can’t imagine it getting any worse.” When the man finished, he eased himself back down to his seat.

“True… true,” Mr. Halcomb mumbled. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse.”

“Wasn’t no ship! I’m telling you. It was the machine,” Jeter raised his voice. “And it ain’t just the aftershock—that machine is causing all of this. Vomits the poison from these tall stacks right out into the open sky. Been doing it for weeks! Just need to find someone who’s been working there…”

“Okay, that’s enough Jeter… please,” Mr. Halcomb pleaded, trying to quiet the old man. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now we need to get the status of where we are.”

“I’m just saying…” Jeter’s exclaimed, his voice becoming quiet, somber. Emily’s heart thumped, and then settled when Mr. Halcomb shut the old man down.

“Ms. Emily, it is good to see you up and about,” Mr. Halcomb said, addressing her. His tone changed to one that was endearing. Emily jerked her head up, surprised by the sound of her name being called out. Long necks turned briefly, some stretching to take a look while others only lifted their chin. At once, she felt like a thousand eyes were upon her, and she tried to step back. With Peter behind her, she did the only thing that she could think to do, answer them.

“Hi, I’m Emily, and that’s—over there somewhere—that’s my baby brother, Justin.” A few heads nodded, some smiles and a
hello
or two answered back, but most turned away tiredly, showing little interest.

“Well, it is good to see you up and about… we need all the help we can get around here.” Mr. Halcomb wiped the sweat from his brow again before pulling a rolled sheet of yellow paper from behind him. “Now, let’s get a quick status of where we are with things. Communications?” All heads turned in unison. The sight reminded her of wintering blackbirds, racing against a closing sunset.
One mind
, her father told her once.
Someday, we’ll strive to be one mind too
.