Afterland Page 7

“Mila, don’t be rude.”

  “I don’t mind! We do a lot of school outreach, so believe me, I’ve heard it all. The shortage of satellite technicians, because most of them were men and they died, means we have to do manual monitoring of crops, irrigation, flight paths, water management, flooding, storms—all the vital information for farming and transport and civilization in general.”

  “And you get cool jackets.”

  “We do! Angel made them for us. She’s another commune person.”

  “Do we have to stay at the commune?”

  “If you’d rather, there’s a choice of Freevilles…”

  “What’s a Freeville?” Miles says.

  “You know, Hotel Californias? What do you call them where you come from?”

  “I’m really not sure…” Mom starts, trying to cover.

  “You must know—R&R Transitional Housing. What’s more depressing than a dead hotel chain? One that’s been turned over to Redevelopment & Reconnection. And there’s all the paperwork, again, officials trying to hook you up with missing family members, or asking future census questions about your ultimate destination, and do you have a job lined up, or would you like one?”

  “So tedious,” Mom agrees, as if they know all this stuff already.

  “I know they’re trying to reunite families, getting a handle on where people are, what’s happened to them. But some people want to slip through the cracks. There’s a lot of that happening right now.”

  “Cracks or slippery people?”

  “Both. Some people see what’s happened as a chance to reinvent themselves. That’s why I love what Kasproing is doing: taking over abandoned houses, moving people in, turning the gardens into farm allotments, creating self-sufficient social nodes. They’re tired of waiting for the machine to catch up, and the state government is clinging on to property rights like late capitalism is still in fashion.”

  “That bitch isn’t late just yet,” Mom quips, and Bhavana laughs. Miles cringes. Is she…flirting? Gross. A million times gross.

  “It sounds a bit like Gran’s camp,” he says, trying to steer them.

  “The one in Colorado you’re heading for? Yeah, that sounds pretty neat. Hey, maybe you can tie in with Kasproing, do a trade-exchange residency, send some of your people over, we’ll send some of ours, share the knowledge. Rebuilding society takes group effort!”

  “You’re assuming I have any useful skills,” Mom says.

  “But you can learn.”

  “Tricks in this old dog yet!”

  Definitely flirting. Urrrgh. But Vana did say there were actual dogs, as in Canis lupus familiaris, and that sounds pretty rad. Better than their imaginary camp in the mountains.

  “Hey, Vana?” he interrupts. “Can I use some of this paper?”

  “As long as it doesn’t look important.”

  “Um,” he says, looking at the pages printed with indecipherable charts and numbers.

  “Scrap is in the pile under the keyboard,” she clarifies. Along with the remains of a smushed energy bar, he discovers.

  “Mila’s a big drawer,” Mom explains, and then remembers to gloss in some cover story detail. “I wish she liked gardening too, but she’s more arty than the outdoor type. Isn’t that right, Mila?”

  “Uh-huh.” But Miles is tuning them out, sketching a pack of wolves chasing the lightning, and if there’s a face in the clouds, dark and moldy with long arms reaching for them, that’s just him exercising his demons.

  And he doesn’t have cancer. And they’re not going to get caught. Not like last time. Not like when Dad died.

  10.

  Miles: The Last Time They Drove Away From Everything

  TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO

  “We shouldn’t be leaving Dad alone.” Miles twists to look back at their street, vanishing into the dusk because the streetlights are still out and they might never ever come back on. The only clear thing is the retrieval van (“meat wagon” comes into his head) with its blue and red lights flashing, the doors open to receive, and the two bulky astronauts in their plague suits standing next to it, one of them speaking urgently into her radio.

  “He’s not alone, tiger,” Mom says. “He’s not there at all.” She’s driving with the duffel bag with their whole lives in it on her lap, as if someone might break the window to steal it from them—which sometimes happens in Johannesburg, but he’s never heard of it in California.

  “You know what I mean. His body.”

  “But we have to go,” she says. “Those women will take good care of his body for us. It’s not like we’re abandoning him.”

  He can feel her eyes on him, in the rearview mirror, hot between his shoulders. He doesn’t turn, leaning on his elbows watching their house, which was never really their house, fall away behind them. There’s a light on in the place across the road, a shadow behind the curtain, watching the street. One of their neighbors. Everyone’s been keeping to themselves, all busy with looking after all the people dying, but it’s reassuring to know there are other people out there.

  There are still cars on the roads, moving ones, with people—women—in them, driving around, going places. Not a lot, but some. This feels wrong to him. Like how can they carry on with their lives as if nothing has happened? How dare they?

  He feels better about the empty office blocks standing dark and vacant. He wonders what they’ll become, when this is all over. Something cool, he hopes, like skate parks or indoor paintball courses. Or they could open all the windows and doors and let nature take over. Coyote cubs nesting in the manager’s office, raccoons jumping on the roller chairs and skidding across the floor. It would be accidental the first time, but maybe they’d figure it out, have raccoon chair races.

  “What are you thinking about?” Mom asks, trying to be conciliatory.

  “Raccoons,” he says.

  “Raccoons could totally be the new dominant species. Unless you have a more likely suggestion?”

  “Yeah,” he jabs back. “Viruses.”

  “They’ve always been the dominant species. Them or bacteria. I get confused. We’ll have to look it up. When we get home.”

  But Joburg’s a long, long way away, and how can they just leave Dad behind?

  The off-ramp toward the Oakland airport loops past a field of tents as far as the eye can see, crammed up against the fence on both sides of the road under big, bright lights. Someone’s graffiti-ed the words “Airport City” in big black letters over the sign that once read “Avis Drop-Off.”

  Drawn by their headlights, a woman appears at the fence, fingers looping through the mesh, watching them.

  “Why are all these people here?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Because they’re waiting to catch a plane. To go home.”

  “And they either can’t pay for it, or there aren’t regular flights.”

  “Do we have tickets?”

  “I have a lot of cash to buy them. And medicine to trade. Don’t stress, tiger. I’m going to get us through this.” But she speeds up, to get them past the rental car yards and the tent shanties, and the women keeping their weird zombie vigil at the fences.

  The drop-off zone is cluttered with cars parked all over the place, some of them with their doors left open. There are big billboards, mounted at regular intervals beside the directional signage and the airline information boards, that read:

  Donating your vehicle?

  Leave the keys in the ignition, We’ll get it to someone who needs it.

  —A California Mobile Citizens Initiative.

  “Rude,” Mom says. “Sure, donate your car, but don’t dump it in the middle of the damn road.” She makes a point of parallel parking out of the way and then, he’s not making this up, writes a note and leaves it on the dash: “Have fun, drive safe, watch out, brakes are a little sharp!”

  He doesn’t want to go home. All his friends are almost certainly dead. Not the girls, obviously, although who knows? His best friends, Noah and Sif
iso and Isfahan and Henry and Gabriel and all the other boys in his class. Grandpa Frank is dead. Mom didn’t even get to say goodbye to Grandpa, except over Skype, because they were stuck here, and Grandpa Frank was back in his house in Clarens by the river. His art teacher Mr. Matthews, Uncle Eric, Jay, Ayanda, the funny crossing guard at the school, his favorite cashier at Checkers, the one who looks like Dwayne The Rock Johnson. Dead-dead-dead. All dead. The Rock, too.

  He doesn’t know why he’s still alive.

  “What do you think the economic impact of all these abandoned cars is going to be?” Mom says, hefting their duffel bag, pretending not to notice that he’s walking slower, his palm pressed against his stomach.

  He groans. “No homeschooling now. Please.”

  She ignores him. “On the plus side, cars for everyone, less traffic, fewer emissions, huge impact on global warming, but a lot of four-wheeled junk clogging up public spaces. And what about the impact on jobs, or tax revenue from the auto industry? Or do you think we’ve got enough robots now to handle it?”

  “Mom. I don’t care.”

  The doors swish open and they step into the Departures hall. The shops and cafes are all locked up, although it’s those see-through shutters, so you can make out the empty shelves, or mostly empty. There are lots of magazines, but no food apart from a ripped packet of chips spraying orange triangles across the floor. A notice at the cash register with a sad-face emoji reads, “Sorry! Hand Sanitizer Sold Out!”

  The frozen baggage conveyor belts are curled up on themselves like dead millipedes. What does Sifiso call them back home? Shongololos. Sifiso is from Durban, where they get so many, you have to sweep them out of the house every day, but sometimes they’re only playing dead to get you to leave them alone. Sifiso was from Durban.

  The suitcase wheels go frrrrrrrrrrrrrr over the floors, the only sound along with the squeak-squawk-squeak of their sneakers. No announcements, no muzak. It’s weird. Mom is on a mission, pushing ahead through the empty halls, and then, to his relief, he recognizes the rising low buzz of noise as voices, human voices, as they follow the signs to Terminal D.

  “Pull up your hoodie, okay?” Mom warns. “I don’t want to attract attention.”

  Unhappy campers, Miles thinks. Families nesting down among their suitcases, looking haggard and irritated and bored, backed up against the windows, or in clumps between those blind, dead conveyor belts. All female. Goes without saying, right? He pulls the hoodie down a little lower over his forehead, tucks in his chin.

  A line snakes toward a single ticket counter, almost everyone sitting, cross-legged or sprawled out, as if they’ve been waiting a while, apart from one lady in a narrow black skirt and blazer who is standing, making a big point of it, in stockinged feet, high heels tucked on top of her roller bag. Business lady means business. The counter doesn’t have anyone behind it. United. Opens 8 a.m.

  “Boy, it really is the apocalypse,” Mom says. It’s a joke. He thinks.

  A TSA agent with a bright yellow lanyard around her neck spots them looking around and walks over, tapping her flashlight against her leg. “Hi there. You all ticket holders? You should take a seat. Get comfy. Security opens up in the morning.”

  “No, we still need to buy tickets. Long haul, international.”

  “Not from here, honey, that’s SFO only. Only place they got agents to process international. Suggest you head on home, get a good night’s sleep in a warm bed, and get yourself over to the airport tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s annoying,” Mom says in the bright calm way that says she’s PO-ed as heck. “Good thing we left the keys in the car. C’mon, tiger.”

  “Are we going home now?”

  “Not back to the house. We’re going to get a jump on the queues at SFO, camp down there.”

  A woman who looks like an anime character, with her sharp face and the shock of black roots growing out under her dyed blue hair, peels off her perch on a giant silver suitcase and trots to catch them. “Hey, wait up!” She’s wearing a red Hawks sweater that’s too big for her, making her look even skinnier. “Excuse me, hey, couldn’t help overhearing.” She touches Mom’s arm, way too super-friendly. “You need to buy a ticket? I can help you buy a ticket. Where you trying to get to? I can sort you out.”

  Mom sighs. “No, it’s all right, thank you.”

  “I know you’re thinking this is some kind of scam, and I’m not saying it’s not going to cost you, but my cousin works for the airlines and—”

  “Hey! Marjorie!” the TSA security guard calls out. “What did I tell you about scalping?”

  “We’re having a conversation here!” the anime woman yells back, infuriated. “I’m giving her directions! Do you mind?”

  “You want me to call the cops?”

  “It’s not illegal! What’s illegal is you oppressing my rights and ability to do free commerce and support myself and my family!” Then she jolts, like she’s been tasered, and her face crimps in disbelief. “Oh shit, for real?”

  “How many times I got to tell you,” the TSA agent grumbles, starting toward her, but Marjorie has returned to her roost on her suitcase, like she never moved a muscle. #innocentface, Miles thinks and he knows there’s something bad coming before he even turns around to look. Tramping feet and shouting. His stomach flips.

  A squadron of cops in black riot gear with huge guns is running toward them, yelling, “Get down! Get the fuck down, now!”

  Mom grabs his hand and jerks him to one side to get out of the way. The line up to the ticket counter spasms, but holds its ranks. The lady in the business suit doesn’t even look around. A black family by the window raises their hands like they’re being pulled by strings, and he does the same, half-hearted, uncertain.

  But they’re not in the way, Miles realizes, him and Mom. The riot police are coming for them.

  “I said down! On the floor! Hands up!”

  Which is it, Miles worries, hands or floor? How can you do both at the same time? His stomach feels like it’s being squeezed in a giant fist. He remembers what his cousin Jay said when the family came to visit them in Johannesburg. They shoot black kids in America.

  “It’s okay, just do what they say. Calm. Deep breaths. It’s okay.” Mom’s hands are up for a high ten. She’s dipping her shoulder to let the duffel bag tip to the floor.

  But it’s not okay, is it? It is the exact opposite of okay, and they should have stayed at the house with Dad; they should have stayed with his body, and they should never have stayed in America even if Jay was dying, and they never should have come to this airport when they were supposed to be at San Francisco, and they don’t even have a ticket, and he’s rolling around on the floor because his stomach hurts so much, his feet pushing and flexing against the air like a cat padding, because it hurts so much, and someone is shouting, what’s wrong with him? even though his hoodie is still pulled up so you shouldn’t be able to tell he’s a he, and his mom is saying in that cool, clear, calm voice which means she’s really mad and really scared, it’s his stomach, he gets stomach cramps, it’s anxiety, he can’t hear you when he’s in pain, please don’t hurt him, and a cop has her foot on Mom’s back, pressing down, shouting what’s in the bag, and someone else is dumping out the contents, and a woman screams (not Mom), high-pitched, like a horror movie, but mostly people are paralyzed, watching, and plastic bottles of medicine are spilling onto the floor and the cop is yelling what’s this? What is this? and then Miles vomits all over the floor, watery liquid because they didn’t really eat, and Mom says, please let me help him, but it’s okay, he feels better already, and she can’t come to help him anyway because the cop still has her boot between her shoulders and her gun aimed at her head, and one of the other cops is bending down next to him, although her face is hidden behind her visor, a ninja turtle in her body armor, and handing him a wet wipe she got from somewhere (maybe she’s a mom too), helping him up, and saying it’s all right, you’re going to be all right, you’re safe now. Deep
breaths.

  And then with a terrible sound in her throat, the woman cop pulls him into an embrace.

  Across the room, Mom screams, Don’t you touch him! and the crowd that’s been watching, so still and so quiet, twitches like a seismic needle at that pronoun. Him. A rising murmur spreads across the room. Someone tugs at the cop’s arm, one of the others, scary behind her visor: C’mon, Jenna, c’mon, she says. Embarrassed. Scared, he realizes, and that scares him too. C’mon. Don’t be like this. You can’t be like this. You gonna set them off.

  She tugs until the cop releases Miles with a sob and spins away. She covers her visor with her hands, shoulders heaving, and her friend rubs her back through the Kevlar, saying those useless words, it’s okay.

  “Miles!” Mom’s voice, frantic.

  “Come on, kid, we’re moving out.” Someone is shoving him, he can’t breathe, Mom is screaming his name, but it’s hard to hear her over the other people who are surging forward. A shot cracks, loud, close. A strange chemical taste in the air. He vomits again, down the front of his hoodie. It gets messy after that. There’s a dull popcorn sound behind them. Women yelling. Mom is yelling too, about how they can’t do this, when it’s clear they’re doing it anyway, and it doesn’t matter what she thinks. A press of armored bodies is moving him forward, and they’re almost running out the building, and he’s being lifted up into the back of a truck, and Mom is there, sandwiched between another soldier and a paramedic, and she reaches for him and pulls him into her lap, like he’s five years old. I’ve got you, she says. I’ve got you.

  The paramedic is asking him questions, when did he last eat, has he had any symptoms, is he in pain, can she check his heart rate?

  “Don’t touch him!” Mom yells again.

  “Easy, we’re on your side,” the soldier says over the roaring of the engine, but he can understand how you wouldn’t want to listen to anything coming from a woman who had you on the ground with her foot in your back five minutes ago. “You really should have reported this. You should have come into one of the crisis centers. Don’t you watch the news? Men on their own are getting torn apart. You’re lucky we got to you first.”