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A pale morning light seeped into the Fort, a weak glow over the tops of the plywood shutters. Liz and Pat sat at the galley table, warming their hands around hot mugs of precious coffee. The aroma of the coffee, triggering memories of safe mornings long gone, hovered about the room. Liz looked at Pat over the rim of her mug. She watched him sip his coffee, his eyes closed.
“How’s that coffee?”
Pat placed his mug down on the scarred, wooden table top.
“It’s a damn fine cuppa Joe, Liz. You know, it’s funny, but I think my taste buds have been dialed up a couple of notches. Everything is more intense, good flavors, bad flavors, smells, stuff like that.”
“Hmm... that’s interesting, I’ve been noticing the same thing. You could say it’s just human nature, you know, what we can’t have tastes better. Call it the forbidden fruit effect. Except that’s not it. This coffee really does taste good, better than I can remember coffee tasting. But it’s just coffee, made exactly the way I always made it. Okay, not exactly; I didn’t use a camp stove at home.”
Pat scratched at his jaw through three days of beard.
“I was pondering that last night, up on the roof. Everything seemed incredibly vivid. The evening was, you know, a typical damp Seattle cold. But it felt like I was inside the cold, feeling it, instead of just noticing it. The cigar I was smoking was nothing special. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought back, you know, before. Yet the damn thing tasted, and smoked, like the best cigar there ever was. I think there is a really simple explanation; we aren’t taking things for granted anymore.”
Liz finished the last of her coffee, cradling the still-warm mug in her hand. She nodded her head. Pat was right, there was now damn little that could be taken for granted.
“A warm bed, with a real mattress, I will never take that for granted, never again.”
“I’m pretty sick of sleeping bags myself. With any luck, tonight you will sleep like a princess in your nice, new bed.”
“Our nice new bed. I know how much you like shopping trips, My Love. Are you sure you are up for this?”
“Liz, that is one hell of a euphemism. Risking our lives for a mattress and some bedding, and we call it a shopping trip.”
“Shopping trip has a nicer ring to it than, say, scavenging from the dead, doesn’t it? Besides, it is the perfect day for a shopping excursion. It’s Black Friday.”
“Damn, Friday after Thanksgiving, yeah, one of those days I always avoided. Oh well, I don’t think the lines will be quite as bad as I remember.”
“Yes, I’m guessing not. Besides, I need to walk off a bit of that Thanksgiving dinner.”
The confusion in Pat’s eyes pushed her over the edge. Liz burst into laughter, horrified that she was laughing, the horror of it pushing out more laughter. Through tearing eyes, she saw the same laughter pouring out of Pat. She gasped for breath, snorted, the sound wrenching out even more laughter. When the spasms subsided, finally, they sat wiping their eyes and stretching their aching sides.
“Criminy, Liz, I think I cracked a rib. I haven’t laughed like that since, well, you know.”
“There hasn’t been much to laugh about, My Love. But if we can’t laugh about Thanksgiving from a can, and Black Friday without the lines, then we might as well give up on the whole thing.”
“Hey, c’mon now, I love that canned cranberry stuff, especially the noise it makes when it finally comes out of the can.”
Liz caught the impish sparkle in his eye, held her hand up in warning.
“No, no more, stop it. Besides, we have a mission, right?”
Pat blew out a breath, the mood washing far away.
“Right, a mission; errands for the theater of the damned. I think that fancy hotel is the best option, and the closest. Two long blocks up First Avenue, then two short blocks on Republican.”
“Are you still okay with going on foot?”
“Yeah, I think your plan is best. The truck might attract too much attention, even though it would be easier. No, we go on foot, just like we planned it. The utility wagon will work fine. I’ve got some two-by-fours lashed to it for bracing. And it’s all downhill coming back.”
“Pat, do you think they will ever stop shooting each other? Today is, what, the eleventh day?”
Pat’s hand closed over her, warm, calming.
“Yes, Elizabeth, it’s been ten nights in our little Fort. They were at it again last night, but it was a lot further off. You’d think they’d give it up; there can’t be that many more folks to shoot at. But no one is shooting at us. Our neighborhood seems to be abandoned, which is a good thing. So let’s go get our mattress and make the Fort a little cozier, right?”
A wave of dread pushed through Liz’s heart, driving away the last shreds of laughter.
She saw Pat’s eyes, sad and beautiful.
“We make the Fort cozy, and we stay here? Is that our plan?”
“I was thinking about that last night, up on the roof; the question of whether we stay or go. I think that we stay, at least for now. It’s way too dangerous out there. All these crazy bastards shooting at each other, the roads clogged with dead cars. Just getting clear of the city would be very, very hard. And where would we go if we left?”
“North, I would want to go north. My Mother, my Sister...”
Her voice trailed off, leaving a silence brooding between them. Pat started to speak, but she raised her hand.
“I know, Pat, I know you want to say something to make it better, but there is nothing to say. It’s okay, I know there is not much hope. I’m just saying that if we decide to leave here, I want to go north. I need to be sure, that’s all. There is nothing for you to fix, it’s okay.”
Pat nodded his head, holding his tongue. Liz saw the pain in his face. Dammit, I need a woman to talk to, a girlfriend to cry with. Yeah, but all your girlfriends are dead. Look at him, he’s dying to make it okay. Give the man something tangible, Liz, something he can work with.
“Pat, if we were going to leave, hypothetically, could we do it?”
She saw the look of relief pass over his face, even as he tried to hide it.
“Yes, we could leave, at least I think we could. Getting out of the city would be the worst of it. Three, maybe four days, going slow around all the dead vehicles, then we might be outside the city. We really have no idea what it’s like past that. We could scavenge fuel from the gas station on Denny, but I would have to find lots of cans to carry it in. I guess the short answer is, yes, we could do it. The longer answer is all wound up in whether or not we would survive the trip.”
“Thank you, My Love, for that and for everything else.”
Liz blew out a hard breath, pushing her empty coffee mug away.
“Stay or leave, I’m not spending another night sleeping on that cold floor. Let’s go get a mattress, then we can celebrate by breaking it in properly.”
Pat’s face broke into a wide grin.
“Right, I’m ready when you are.”
Liz rose from the table, leading the way into the small entry room, the space that Pat had taken to calling the Ready Room. Liz marveled at the changes Pat had wrought. A heavy steel bar was fitted across the front door, resting on a pair of homemade brackets. Next to the door was a weapons rack made from PVC pipe. Cabin fever, combined with Pat’s always restless hands, meant new inventions everyday.
The weapons rack held Pat’s newly-scavenged shotgun, found in the back seat of a dead car. Liz’s golf club stood next to the shotgun. The vacant slots in the rack reflected Pat’s sense of hope. Gear was stacked neatly on a long table, all the essentials for a trip outside the walls of the Fort. Two rucksacks, empty and ready, lay side-by-side.
“You have the Glock?”
“Front pocket, with two magazines.”
“Right, I need to be on the lookout for a holster for that thing, something handier. And I’ve got the shotgun, which is loaded. The wagon is ready. Okay, straight there, straight back, Bob’s your uncle.”
“Do you have the keys?”
“Yes I do, My Love. Wouldn’t that be a bitch, locking ourselves out of the Fort. I’ve gotten a whole lot better with keeping track of keys.”
Pat raised the steel bar from the brackets. Unlocking the door, he swung it half-open, peering out into the street.
“Okay, all clear, let’s hit it.”
Pat wheeled a small utility wagon through the open door, then held the door for Liz. She stood ready, the long golf club held out in her right hand. A braided lanyard looped from her wrist to the shank of the club; another of Pat’s inventions. Pat locked the door, checked it, then reached for the handle of the wagon. The short-barreled shotgun hung from a sling over his right shoulder. His voice, when he spoke, was barely a whisper.
“Once around the perimeter, okay?”
Liz nodded.
They completed a silent loop around the building; south on First, cutting through the parking lot on the south side, then north up the alley. There was nothing to see, no sign of anything amiss.
A weak sun glowed through rents in the November clouds. Liz and Pat walked side-by-side up the center of First Avenue. The branches of bare trees cast fingers of shadow across the pavement. Ahead of them, the street was darkened by the monolithic shadow of the Key Arena.
Near the Fort, the path was more open. Pat had done his best to roll the dead cars to the side of the broad avenue, enduring sights and smells that Liz did not want to imagine. It was all part of his plan for having a clear perimeter around the Fort. As they passed under the shadow of the Key Arena, they were forced to weave around abandoned vehicles, giving each one a wide berth.
They emerged from the chill shadow, turning left onto Republican. The morning sun threw their wavering shadows ahead of them. Walking the ends of two short city blocks, they came to a burger joint. Pat stopped, pointing towards the sidewalk in front of the place. A corpse lay on its side, the remains of what looked like a youngish man. Liz stepped up beside Pat, speaking in a whisper.
“That one looks like it survived awhile after the die-off.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. He looks a lot fresher. Maybe he overdosed on french fries.”
“Damn, what I wouldn’t give for one of those greasy burgers.”
“Do you want to check it out?”
“No, let’s stick to the plan. Mattress first, then back to the Fort.”
“Okay, I’m right behind you.”
Pat scanned the wide stretch of Queen Anne Avenue before hurrying across. Liz followed, swiveling her head to check behind them. Luck seemed to be with them. There was not a vehicle or person in sight.
Scavenging the mattress was a lot easier than Liz thought it would be. Pat propped open the double glass doors of the fancy inn, wheeled in the wagon, and turned it to face the doors. The lobby was empty, not one corpse in sight. The first room they checked yielded what they wanted. In a matter of minutes they were loading a beautiful mattress on the wagon. Pat folded the thing lengthwise, strapping it to the wagon with some kind of ratcheting straps. Liz pushed or pulled as he directed her, marveling at the way his mind solved problems.
“You are one handy man, Pat O’Shea.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Walker. I think we have everything we came for. Mattress, sheets, two pillows, and even a fancy wool topper. I suggest we get our loot back to the Fort.”
The sun shown onto their faces as they made their way back across Queen Anne. Passing the burger joint, Liz looked to the left, her eyes traveling over the shadowed sidewalk. Something wasn’t right. Of course, where was the body?
“Pat, that body, it’s gone.”
She saw Pat turning, his eyes locking on something, wagon handle falling from his hand. Then the shotgun spinning on its sling, spinning to his shoulder, pointing at her, the end of the barrel huge and black.
“Liz, down! Now!”
She started to turn her head, heard his voice booming.
“Drop! Now!”
And she did. Before her hands could register the cold of the pavement, the shotgun thundered. The roar of it slammed into her ears, then a second blast, mixing with the echoes of the first. From under the sagging edge of the mattress, she saw Pat’s legs scissor past, then there was one more blast of thunder.
Liz was blinking her eyes, head ringing, when she felt his hands under her armpits. Through eyes clouded with tears, she saw his mouth moving. She struggled to make sense of his words, but her ears would not make out the sounds. His hand went to her face, cupping the back of her neck.
“It’s okay, it’s all over. We have to go, Liz. We have to go right now.”
“What? What are you saying?”
Her voice sounded thick in her own ears, as if she were underwater.
“Liz, it’ll pass, okay? Come on, we have to go now.”
He was pointing up the street now, the shotgun cradled under one arm.
Liz shook her head, blinked, nodded at Pat. Okay, we have to go now. Right, we have to go. She turned to look behind her. The dead thing lay on its back, arms flung wide behind it. There were two gaping wounds in its chest. It had no face. Then Pat’s hand, pulling her away, steering her forward.
They left the dead thing behind, left it in the middle of the street. Pat’s hand was on her shoulder, urging her forward, down the hill of First Avenue. She saw the wagon pushing against him, Pat fighting to hold back the weight. She shook her head again, took his hand from her shoulder, gave it a squeeze. Then she was behind the wagon, holding the back edge of the mattress, helping Pat.
* * *
THE TALL MAN EXAMINED his reflection in a full-length mirror. What he saw amused him.
All those years of studying, the many roles, trodding the boards, and the one useful thing proves to be the fencing lessons. Or so it is to be hoped. Any good Shakespearean must know his way around a sword. Pray that you have not forgotten what you learned, or this will be an idle jest indeed.
He adjusted the fit of his tweed cap, then turned away from his reflection. The key turned in the lock, sealing his condo shut. Footfalls soft against the hallway carpeting, he moved to the fire stairs for the long descent to the street. The sound of his passage echoed in the concrete stairwell. The leather strap of a cavalry sword tugged against the tweed of his jacket. He twined a hand through the strap to still it. The sword rode heavily across his back.
The pavement was dry, the rarity of a clear winter day in the Northwest. He stood on the corner, looking out over the quiet neighborhood. Nothing moved on the streets stretched out below him. He turned away, walking slowly up the steep hill that rose to the north. With measured steps, he climbed the steady uphill grade. It would be a long walk, and the man had no reason to hurry.
Walking, he watched, eyes taking note of every shadow, every doorway. Avoiding the sidewalks, his feet sought the middle of the narrow roadways. The way climbed steeply and steadily, leveling only when crossing an intersecting street. Here he would pause, scanning to the front, to the sides, and behind.
There were neighbors to the South, he knew that now. He did not know exactly where, but the knowing brought him some small comfort. When the opportunity presented itself, he would meet them. The man could afford to be patient. Time was one thing he had in abundance. More time, certainly, than that miserable, half-deranged neighbor to the North. Wandering about in despair, weaponless, the poor soul had refused all offers of help.
Who could blame him for giving in to despair? The city gone dead, his loved ones dead, left alone to wander the streets. More is the pity, because he seemed a decent man. But not, I fear, long for this horrible world.
Warm now under the heavy wool of his jacket, the man crested the top of the hill. He paused, sipping water from a small bottle. The skyline of the city stretched away to the South. Beacon Hill rose to the east of the city. To the West, the knob of Duwamish Head hovered above the shimmering waters of Elliott Bay.
He turned away from the view, walking past posh old houses that stood along a silent, green playground. Only a short month ago, any one of these houses would have been worth a million dollars. Now they were dead and empty. The occasional winter crow marked his passing with a mournful caw.
At the intersection of Boston Street, he turned to the East, walking up the center of the broad street. What he saw in the next block brought him up short. Tall chain-link fencing ran along the curb line in two directions, enclosing an entire block as far as he could see. Inside the fence line, he saw the houses and landscaping of a normal Queen Anne block. Why was this area fenced off? His eyes traveled the length of the street, looking for some clue. Halfway down Boston, he saw a small wooden tower rising behind the fence. Atop the tower was a platform, and on the platform sat the silhouette of a man.
Resuming his slow pace, the tall man walked forward, keeping his eyes on the wooden tower. A loud voice rang out across the quiet street.
“That’s as far as you go, Mister.”
The man on the tower was standing now, a weapon raised to his shoulder.
The tall man stopped walking. He raised a hand, palm outwards.
“Hello, Neighbor.”
“Yeah, that’s funny. What the hell are you doing up here?”
“I am out for a stroll, enjoying the sun. It is a rare pleasure this time of year.”
“A stroll, huh? Well, I’ve got a bit of strong advice for you, Neighbor. You need to fuck off back to wherever you came from. If I see you again, there won’t be a second warning.”
“Ah, I see. In that case, I thank you for the conversation, and I wish you a good day.”
The tall man raised his hand in a farewell, and turned back the way he had come. He was smiling as he walked away.