Into That Darkness (23 page)

The old man frowned. 8.1, he said. I heard 8.6 earlier.

It's like a beauty pageant. Yesterday they were saying 9.0.

It all means nothing. Unless they indicate which scale they're using. He reached for his hip pocket squinting across at her and then he fumbled at his shirt flaps. You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette?

I never took it up.

Good for you. Mason? You got any cigarettes?

Mason grinned.

Now on the radio a cheerful woman was informing listeners that the water in their toilet receptacles was still safe to drink.

Didn't a tsunami strike on Tuesday? the old man said.

She shook her head. I think everyone was afraid it was going to happen. But I don't think it did.

Are you sure?

Pretty sure. It was all over the radio earlier. Why? Where did you hear of it?

The old man grimaced. The radio.

Jesus.

No one knows anything.

I guess not. I did hear the downtown core was burning.

The old man nodded. You can see it from here.

A cloud of smoke like a deep twilight was thickening out across the sky and a grey finger encircled the low sun and then the daylight fell down around them and faded out and a grey pall passed over the truck. The worn treads of the tires crunched sadly over the debris in the road.

She heard the old man sigh heavily. A yellow bruise at the corner of his mouth made his profile sullen and ugly. Mason did not lift his eyes and she glanced down at his hands knotted before him and then up and out at the streets. His knee was jumping under his interlocked fingers but his gaze seemed fixed on the dashboard as though he studied some darker gauge.

The quietness from the morning had passed and now there was something clammy and grim among them and Anna Mercia did not speak of it.

The road was narrow and they were driving now through low shuttered warehouses with ramps leading down to loading bays. She saw no people. They came to a four-way stop and the old man glowered out at the streets. Two of the streets were filled with rubble and the crushed hulks of cars blocking the way. It did not look accidental.

Well, he said. He folded his long grey arms over the steering wheel. What do you think?

She frowned. What do I think is down there? Past those cars?

He rubbed his shirt cuff over the glass. Can you see anything?

No.

It doesn't feel right.

No. Somebody's blocked off those streets. To keep traffic out, I guess?

Or direct it elsewhere.

It could just be to keep us to safer roads.

But there aren't any signs, the old man said. They'd use signs for that.

People ignore signs.

Well.

So what do you want to do?

The smoke over the city twisted ochre and brown in the daylight as if some refinery burned in the ruins. A wind was roiling out of the south scuttling papers and leaves and debris into the roads and the pillars of smoke bent sluggishly northward.

She shrugged. I guess we keep going.

The old man nodded.

The road turned sharply not fifty yards farther on and as they came around the narrow corner they rolled crunching to a stop. They'd reached some kind of barricade. A police car with its doors open blocked the way. Two men with rifles stood some yards off.

I guess we keep going? the old man muttered sarcastically. Jesus.

Turn around, she said.

They've got rifles.

Turn the truck around.

Jesus. Are you serious? He gave her a hard look.

She said nothing.

The squad car sat empty, its slow blue lights swivelling. The windows of the tall buildings around them glinted dark, inscrutable. Something was wrong. One of the men waved angrily. He was wearing white gloves.

What's he saying?

I don't see any police, she said.

The engine ticked quietly and they sat in the truck unmoving. The old man set his hands on the wheel and shifted his weight and the leather creaked under him and he regarded her in silence.

Then the men were knocking at the old man's window. Twin blurred figures dark and faceless through the dirty glass.

He rolled the window creakily down.

The men looked dirty, unshaven, as if they had not slept in days. Something in their faces frightened her. Both wore red strips of cloth tied off on their sleeves. A rifle was slung over the shoulder of the shorter man. The taller held a pistol loose at his thigh.

What's going on? the old man said. Is the road closed?

We've had some trouble with looters, the taller man said. Where are you headed to?

We're trying to find a missing girl.

Sure you are. This was the second man, the shorter one. His face was oily with sweat.

We're going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.

Why?

The shorter man opened the door roughly. Get out, he said. His eyes were dark.

And what do we have here? the first man asked. A thick pale hand vanishing low into the footwell. He withdrew the old man's rifle from beneath the seat, checked the chamber expertly. You got a licence for this?

It was destroyed in the quake, the old man said.

Sure it was, the shorter man said.

Shouldn't be carrying this inside the vehicle. You know that.

Of course.

She leaned across, arms folded around her son. Who are you? she asked. Are you police?

That's right. Police.

I want to see your identification, she said.

We're not police, the first man said. He gave his companion a grim look. We got special dispensation. We're stopping all the vehicles and checking for looters.

What special dispensation? she demanded.

The second man muttered something then.

What happened to your hand? the taller man asked.

She hurt it in the quake.

Sure she did, the shorter man said.

In the quake? Or breaking into a store?

Jesus Christ, she snapped. We don't have time for this. I mean it.

But the shorter man swore then and he leaned in and hissed, Get out of the fucken truck.

Don't get out of the truck, Anna Mercia said.

The old man unbuckled his seat belt. It's alright, he said. I'll just be a minute.

Arthur, she hissed.

But he climbed out and left the door standing open and a bell in the dashboard chiming. The first man came back to the truck and withdrew the keys from the ignition and took them with him. She said nothing. She could see through the windshield where the old man was being questioned at the front fender. In the waxen daylight his skin looked plastic. His shock of white hair plastered wetly at his neck.

Mason twisted in his seat, peered back over the ribbed leather. She heard the canopy open with a clatter and then the first man called across to his companion. Got a lot of food back here, he called. All sorts of things. Flashlights. Water.

When she turned back she saw a movement across the street. A third man lurked just beyond an open window. He had a gun trained on their truck. She swallowed nervously.

They're not police, Mom, Mason whispered.

Hush, honey, she said. I know. Just stay quiet, okay?

He frowned. Arthur needs to know.

He knows, honey.

The old man came back to the cab and ducked his head in and gave her son an uneasy smile. It's okay, he said. They want us to wait in the building over there. They just need to check some things.

No, she said firmly. Absolutely not. We're not going anywhere.

His eyes were pained. Anna Mercia, he said.

I said no.

Think of Mason.

There was something in his voice. Then her door opened out and the shorter man stood there, studying her. Get out, he said flatly.

What are you going to do to us?

Get out, he said.

They got out.

The two men led them across the street towards a mound of rubble and then cut past two cars standing with their doors wide and their trunks popped and pieces of clothing strewn in the dirt. Just behind these stood a blue truck with a tarp crumpled on the ground and Anna Mercia stopped when she saw its cargo. She felt suddenly terrified.

What the hell is that? she said.

In the bed of the truck lay the sprawled corpses of a half-dozen people. Looking boneless and swollen. The old man coming up beside her swore softly and held his nose and shielded her son with his body. Some of the corpses were in a bad way, the flesh furred where it had started to come apart and laid out between the bodies were a number of mismatched human legs some still dressed in trouser leg and sock and shoe. A soft black wax of thickened blood had collected in the grooves of the floor and they could see where boots had smeared and tacked through it, where heads had dragged lolling. Anna Mercia stepped back holding her mouth. Her eyes watering.

Oh my god, she said. What are you going to do to us? She was shaking.

What is this? the old man demanded. What's going on here?

The two men grinned at each other.

Relax, said the taller. Hey, take it easy. That's on its way to Henderson Field.

The old man had pulled her son away.

Henderson Field, she said softly.

Come on, the shorter man said. It's disgusting. Let's go.

He led them into the apartment complex across the street and up a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. Unlocked a battered green door and held it wide.

She followed the old man through. It was a small apartment. In the entrance lay piles of winter coats, empty wire hangers. The kitchen was small and dishevelled, a table and chairs toppled against one wall. The windows at the back had been boarded over. Toaster and microwave on the narrow counter, cupboards at all angles and tins cluttered and dishes smashed on the floor. In the sink were stacked old breakfast plates and she saw brown dregs of coffee crusted in the bottom and it seemed none had eaten there in days.

What is this place? she asked.

The shorter man grunted from the doorway. Wait here, he said. We'll get you when we're ready.

Ready?

But he had already closed the door. The scrape of a key in the lock, then the heavy tread of boots on stairs.

She tried the tap. It gasped dryly but no water came. Flies dead on the sills, dust on the shelves. She went to the closet door where it stood closed and she opened it and then stood listening. She could hear the old man moving in the next room and she went out to the living room and saw her son standing in the corridor.

She was frightened.

How much trouble do you think we're in? she asked.

It's not good.

She laughed bitterly. For god's sake. Do I look shaken?

It's okay Mom.

This was stupid. Stupid.

But it's done, the old man said.

He sat in the gloom at the edge of a hardwood chair beside the television with his hands between bony thighs and his head lowered. She watched her son go to him and murmur some word and he put a tired hand on the boy's shoulder. To her eye there seemed a thing conversant and alien between them which she could not comprehend. When at last he looked at her there seemed a fierce reproach in his eyes. His lined face drained and grey, his eyes sunken with the strain.

Don't look at me like that, she said.

Like what.

Like this is my fault.

The ceiling creaked as if some footfall faltered there. The building felt huge and dark and silent.

This isn't your fault, Anna Mercia.

That's right, she said angrily, it isn't. She crossed to the front window and tried to lift the pane but it had been painted shut. Through the greasy glass she could make out three men hauling the old man's provisions from their truck. A fourth leaned into the cab, rooted under the seats.

They're taking your stuff, she said.

Yes.

Then her eye was drawn to a low doorway across the street. The shorter man with the gun was speaking to another figure and then that figure turned and peered up towards her where she stood. Even at that distance she could make out the bandaged head, the gauze over the punctured eye, the black beard. His uneasy limp as he moved to one side.

Oh my god, she whispered.

It was the barber.

What is it? the old man asked in alarm. What's going on?

But when she looked again she was not so sure. The man had turned and limped back into the building and he had seemed somehow too large, too bulky. The shorter man with the gun was crossing the street towards their building and she turned now to the battered apartment door.

We have to go, she said. We can't wait here.

The old man wrinkled his brow.

What do they want? Mason asked.

Lower your voice, son.

What do they want.

Whatever we have, I suppose.

She could see her blue hands trembling. Arthur, she said. We have to go. I mean it.

How?

She crossed back into the kitchen, began to rummage through the drawers. Help me, she muttered angrily. Then she was prying at the hammered boards over the back window with a butter knife. Goddamnit, she hissed.

The old man wrapped his big hands around a loose board, pulled, straining.

Goddamnit, she hissed again.

And then the boards were breaking off and swinging on their crooked nails and she was smashing out the broken glass with a pastry roller.

Mason, she called. Get over here. Get through here. Go on.

And then they were slipping down the metal fire escape, the rusted bolts groaning softly, their shoes clanking on the rungs. Jumping the last few feet to the sidewalk. Running.

Mason gets it from me, I'd say. He always was watchful, had such a
sense of trespass, a compass for betrayal. Not Kat. When she was little
she loved animals, cats, birds, fish, dogs in the street. She gets that from
her father. Mason would scream blue murder if a dog came near him. I
don't know how Kat got so quiet, she wasn't like that as a baby. It's hard.
They're both stubborn, they get that from me. Mason's the sensitive one.
Kat can be emotional but I think it's because she doesn't feel things as
deeply. She's the optimist. She's always been popular. It'll be hard for her
as she gets older, she's so beautiful. I think of those sullen girls who haunt
shopping malls, defiantly smoking, flashing their pierced bellies. There's
this way of undoing you that can feel almost physical, this attempt to
hollow you out. I'm not talking about sex, never mind about sex. It can
be done so delicately you don't even realize something's been taken from
you. I want to keep that away from her but I know it's not up to me.
That frightens me something awful.