A Beginning at the End Page 11

  Because he used that phrase back in quarantine, six hours after Elena died. “Where Mama?” Rob had sat alone on the cot he used to share with his wife, Sunny at his feet. At one and a half, she grasped that something was not right but lacked the context to understand the magnitude of it. She managed the plastic spoon in her hand, feeding herself applesauce made from the quarantine’s small courtyard farm. Her little question, two words in the mangled enunciation of a tiny child, froze him. What could he tell her? What would she comprehend? In the few days since the riot that put Elena in the quarantine trauma ward, he’d barely slept, barely lived, everything going on autopilot. Sunny asked again, impatience coloring her voice. “Where Mama?” She stomped over to him, tugging on his pant leg. “Where Mama?”

  “Sun...” he said. This would have to end. In quarantine, they’d spent some nights apart due to different volunteer shifts, but a day, day and a half most was the longest Sunny had gone without seeing one of her parents. As if she sensed the lack of an answer in him, her fingers pressed into his jeans, pulling the blue fabric like it would make Elena magically appear. “Mommy’s not coming home.”

  “No! Mama now! Want Mama!” Desperation had taken over the child’s face, eyes pooling with the whiplash turn of raw emotions. She tossed the plastic spoon across the prison-cell-turned-living-space, her voice ramping up in volume and intensity. His arms wrapped around his daughter, even though she punched at his thigh in frustration; he held her as if she was the last thing in the world.

  Rob blinked as the realization came to him. She was.

  His home, his old life was gone. His parents and brother, killed by MGS. Their friends, their community, scattered and ravaged. And now Elena gone too.

  Sunny was all he had left.

  His chin rested on her soft hair, eyes catching sympathetic glances from people in cells across the hall. Her voice screamed into his chest, heat radiating off her whole body. “Mama now! Where Mama?”

  Rob shushed and whispered gibberish in the form of generic words of comfort, words that ultimately meant nothing.

  Nothing except they were truly alone together. And he couldn’t lose that.

  “Sunny. Sun,” he said, trying to get the toddler’s attention. “Sun, Mommy’s not here right now. She needs you to be brave.” Maybe it was the soothing tone of voice. Maybe it was the word mommy. Maybe she’d just naturally worn out her feelings, ready to swing in another direction after burning bright. Whatever it was, Sunny seemed calmer, focused, enough so that she stepped back from Rob and looked up at her dad.

  “Mama come home?” she asked, her voice calm but direct. “Want Mama now.”

  “I know. I know, I do too. I want her back too. I can’t...” His voice cracked, raw nerves exposed to the world. No, he couldn’t, not now, not in front of Sunny. He needed a cover. “She will. You just need to be patient,” he blurted out.

  Sunny’s demeanor instantly changed, like the word flipped a switch in her rapidly developing brain. “When Mama?”

  “Not now, but someday. Someday everything will be fine.”

  Moira’s voice snapped Rob back to the present. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  That was the thing about Moira. From their first encounter to now, she looked at Rob like she could instantly read him, for better or worse. And even if it was for the worse, like this time, it still rooted in a tiny drop of reassurance, a single thread tethering to the rest of humanity.

  The only other person who could do that was Elena.

  “I get the feeling this isn’t about Miami,” Moira said, a gust of wind kicking out strands of her black hair. “Do you want to tell me?” She walked in time with him, her hands shoved in her jacket pockets.

  “I do,” Rob finally said as they waited for a crosswalk that led to the community center. “I just need to tell someone. I need to tell someone why they might take Sunny away.”

  Moira looked at him. She didn’t say anything.

  They missed the crosswalk as Rob revealed almost everything. The recent outbursts, fight at school, the Family Stability Board, social normalcy audits, getting evidence and testimonials. The ultimate truth crept up to the surface, so close to hitting daylight. But he couldn’t; not now, not to Moira or anyone else on the planet. That bit remained buried, guarded as much as his remaining photos of Elena.

  “So that’s why you’re looking at speed dating,” Moira finally said.

  “Yeah. Honestly, I don’t even know if I’m ready for it. But I have to go, just to get it on the record. I barely talk to adults outside of work, so I can’t imagine what trying to do speed dating will be like. They should offer a practice round.”

  “And that’s why you started going to this.” Moira thumbed at the entrance to the support group.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that,” she hesitated, “why we walk together?” Though nothing he’d explained about Sunny seemed to trouble her, this question obviously did. Her brow wrinkled and her eyes looked past him, mouth taking the slightest of dips—not quite to a frown, but just past neutral to show the weight of what she asked. “To get someone else to write a testimonial for you?” she finally finished, still frozen in the same pose.

  Several seconds passed before Rob responded. “No,” he said, the answer arriving in a short breath before turning her way. “Not just that. You’re someone I can talk to.” Their eyes locked into each other. “I miss having that.”

  He promised himself he’d tell her everything when this was all over.

  Someone he could talk to.

  Such a simple thought, and yet the sentiment seemed revelatory for the two of them, so much so that Moira beamed a grin that gave way to laughter and a shake of the head. Here they were, both wanting someone to talk to and suddenly they were speechless.

  “Come on,” Rob finally said. “We have a few minutes before the meeting. I’ve got an idea.”

  “What?” she asked, following him across the street, eyes tracing over to the lingering people outside of the building.

  “Let’s speed date. Right here. I need to practice this.” He hesitated, as if the request surprised himself. “Say something so I don’t feel stupid.”

  “Spontaneous. I like it,” she said, nodding to a bus stop bench. They sat below a pre-apocalypse faded sign, its big out-of-order red-painted X looming over them. “Hi, I’m Moira Gorman.” She stuck out her right hand.

  “Rob Donelly.” He took her hand in return with a solid grip.

  “So, Rob. Tell me about yourself. Don’t be shy.”

  “Well, I have a daughter. Sunny. And I work at PodStar doing network stuff for the Metro,” he said, eyes tracking skyward. “I’m a baseball nut. I can’t wait for it to restart. I, um, do day trips for hiking and camping. We’re waiting for the state to finish restoring access to Yosemite.”

  “Oh, really? So you like outdoors stuff? Do you run?”

  “Yeah. It’s been a while, but yeah, I do. Did. Cross-country in high school.”

  “I love running. It’s so freeing.” She grinned, then looked away. Something about it looked different from the way she usually smiled. “I’ll go for a run just to relax. Running. And singing. Real singing. Old tunes from the forties. Billie Holiday–type stuff.”

  “Oh, really? Maybe you could sing a tune.” They locked eyes again, this time with Rob in full-on smirk mode. “Don’t be shy. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Singing.” Her mouth twisted, front teeth biting down on her lip. She glanced all around, then pointed to the small alley next to the community center. “All right. But away from anyone. Stage fright.”

  “It’s okay. I was just playing along.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. Staying in character, right?” They walked over until the shadows of adjacent buildings made the space dimmer, sunlight drawing a clear barrier between the alley and the sidewalk. Moira stood
against the light, her back to the public and facing him. “Living for you,” she sang, her voice low but the tone steady, “is easy living; it’s easy to live when you’re in love, and I’m so in love.”

  The final note hovered before fading away, and staccato claps rang through from Rob. Moira glanced back over her shoulder several times, then seemed to relax when passersby seemed more interested in adjusting their silicone masks than her brief performance.

  “Support group speed dating,” she said with a laugh. “We should sell this concept. Make a fortune.”

  “Split the profits. Hey, time out,” Rob said, forming a T with his hands. “Do you really do all that, or are you just pretending? Running and singing and stuff.”

  “I’m pretending—I’m in character,” she said, her fingers making air quotes for “character.”

  “I’m much more boring. Now—” she pointed his way “—not that bad, right? You’ve got this whole speed dating thing down.”

  Rob motioned back to the front entrance of the building, the regular attendees shuffling in. “It’s nice,” he finally said. “Who knew adults didn’t just discuss PASD or the End of the World? We should have recorded that for the audit. You make it easy. Can’t you just be my date at this thing?” His head shook while he laughed, the sheer ridiculousness of what they’d done, why they’d done it, how trivial it seemed against the idea of gaming a social normalcy audit, all of it causing the most unexpected laughter.

  For a split second, Moira’s demeanor changed, though it might have been the burst of cold wind suddenly blasting both of them. It kicked up the back of her head, blowing her hair forward and into her eyes; a flush came to her olive-toned cheeks and her posture became a rigid line, though maybe it was a cold shiver.

  It disappeared, and as she brushed the hair back out of her face, she flashed a polite smile, holding up her left hand, and waved her ring finger, diamonds sparkling in sunlight. “Sorry. Already taken.”

  Before Rob could respond, his phone buzzed. He pulled up a text, apparently sent en masse to parents of students.

  We regret to inform you that for the foreseeable future, school days will end at noon. The recent news has affected many of us, and we have recently lost several staff departing to Reclaimed Territory. In the meantime, if you are interested in a teacher or administrative position, please contact the San Francisco Metro’s education department.

  Excerpt from Before the Fourth Path: Kay Greenwood and Unlucky Faith, New World Magazine:

  Kay Greenwood always wanted the American Dream. Before quarantine, she worked tirelessly to support her husband Thomas’s music shop while raising young Freda. When they emerged from quarantine intact—mother, father, and daughter—friends say she became obsessed with another type of American Dream. “She talked a lot about ‘their miracle,’” said Kim Dando, Kay’s cousin. “Her old drive for traditional ideals, that belief changed into the idea that a nuclear family was the goal.” Despite modern society’s apathy to organized religion, Kay found solace in the fledgling church community. “Family wasn’t just family, it now had a purpose, I think that’s what drove her to the church.” Thomas dismissed post-apocalyptic religion, instead considering Reclaimed beliefs, and that drove a wedge into the family dynamics.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Moira

  “I’d like forms to get married in a civil ceremony,” Moira said. The woman at the county clerk desk nodded without a word, and simply stood up and walked to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Before the End of the World, this task probably would have been a few taps on a computer keyboard followed by the hum of a printer. But now, they’d reverted to something a little more old-fashioned, the hinges and drawers of the file cabinet squeaking as it opened and shut as the afternoon sun filtered into the small office.

  The woman returned, papers in hand. “Fill these out to apply for a marriage license. Then look at the appointment book,” she said, and pointed to a binder sitting on a small table across the room, “and sign up for a time.”

  “That’s it?” Moira asked.

  A simple nod was the only response from the woman before settling back into her chair. In the office—a room off the second floor in San Francisco’s City Hall—voices murmured behind her, and Moira glanced at the line behind her. Several couples stood, some in masks and others standing with faces revealed. But none of them looked happy to be there. Instead, they all carried neutral expressions and tired eyes, as if they’d almost resigned themselves to go through the process of filling out a form.

  When she became Moira Gorman, changing her identity was also a form—and a hacker friend. News had just come through that the quarantine was winding down and humanity would be released to live back in cities once the military had secured the urban centers from occupying gangs and the persistent reach of nature. The revitalized Metro sector would apparently encompass the central part of San Francisco, with the goal to eventually expand and reach the whole city. Pockets of Silicon Valley would be part of it, with the government building fences along freeway corridors as part of the new Major Highway Safety Program, as protection for commuters from any lingering looter gang activity, though most gangs had been driven out to stretches of wastelands with recent military efforts. Even parts of wine country would be involved across the Golden Gate, used for protected farming initiatives. And where Moira and her crew were, newly set up on the UC Davis campus, going east for an hour would see a smaller Sacramento Metro initiative.

  That was the grand plan mentioned by government releases. But the reality was messier, which meant that for anyone with the means and the skills, hacking a new identity became an exercise in diligence, technology, and a little good luck. Moira stood on the gravelly rooftop, the tallest building on campus at some nine stories high—not quite skyscraper material. But enough for Fred, their resident hacker, to get some hardware that tapped into high-speed networks across satellites still used for communication between state and federal governments.

  “Try moving around,” Fred said, sitting cross-legged with a laptop resting across his knees. She carried the transponder, some sort of signal booster that Fred had mined out of the engineering labs on campus, and walked around in an ever-widening circle, extension cord trailing like a tail. “Stop, stop, stop. Right there. Put it down.”

  “Here?” From that very specific spot on the rooftop, the edge of the city’s abandoned downtown was visible, along with the rows of cars their crew had moved in line to use as blockades.

  “Yeah.” He clicked away at the keyboard, the sun reflecting off the computer’s shiny chrome case. They’d salvaged an entire pallet from a wholesale warehouse some fifty miles north, carefully avoiding the military efforts to secure sealed goods—while the canned food and clothing were picked over long ago, looters didn’t seem to care for technology when no one was sure whether the entire electrical grid would return. “I think I’m in. And...yep, I’m in. So now we know the governments haven’t been working on cybersecurity during quarantine. Fill this out.” He slid a clipboard over, pen sitting atop a photocopy of handwritten form fields: birthdate, birthplace, height, weight, and other identifying information.

  “You got the copier working?”

  “Yep. Mass-produced forms are back, baby.” He pointed over at the rack of solar panels clumsily installed across the roof. “As long as those hold up, we’ll be able to make as many documents as we want. Letters to make Happy Birthday signs. Scan some of Narc’s art. No asses on the copier though. That’s gross.”

  Moira laughed, then glanced at the panels, the mere look of them making her shudder with the thought of lifting those up flights of stairs again. “You know who we should recruit from these new Metro communities? Professional movers to lift things up stairs for us,” she said, adjusting the rifle on her back.

  “I go for electrician. General contractor. Because getting shocked by those,” he said
, “was not fun. Okay, let’s birth you into this ‘post-MGS identity database’ they’re setting up. Standard asset distribution and all that stuff. You want a college degree?”

  “Sure,” Moira said when the walkie-talkie on her belt squawked with a burst of static. “What’s a catch-all degree? Like business?”

  “Business it is. Oh, hey, I’m an idiot. Forgot to add name to the form.” Fred’s voice shifted to a deep, official tone. “What is your full legal name, ma’am?”

  “Johanna Moira Hatfield,” she said, bitterness painting her crisp English diction while she rubbed her close-cropped hair, which was finally growing back in after several years of shaving it on the go. Her fingers found their way to the scar on her cheek, a short diagonal slash about an inch long. Funny how they’d made it that far, through gunfire and broken glass, twisted rebar and decaying buildings, and yet the only facial scar she bore came from falling on a beach when she was a toddler.

  Right when she said that, her walkie came to life again. “Moira! Our lookout spotted gang riders on Highway 80! They could just be passing through but we’ll need some water tower support just in case.”

  “They could just wanna buy organic produce from our farm?” Moira replied into the walkie.

  “Hopefully. Tell them we only barter for now. No cash and definitely no cards. But stand guard just in case they’re not grocery shopping.”

  The water tower. That was a good mile away. About a seven-minute sprint normally, longer with the rifle on her back. “On it,” she said, before turning to Fred. “Back in a bit. Gotta save the world.”

  “Maybe it’s just the government installing those automated gas pumps? I hear they’re putting in those to open up travel. You know, so it’s not just scary violent assholes between us and the Metros.”