The Wine Dark Earth

by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer-3

Hold, indicates Will, with an upraised fist, and we hold: bunched together beneath the overhang of the aquarium’s entrance like children, like boys playing war, our 45s and shotguns and M14s (for Beth and me) poised; our guts (or at least mine) tied up in knots.

He waves two fingers, which means Column Formation, and we form up; Beth and I near the back, so that we can still see the sub (as well as Captain O’Neil—lending cover from the sail), followed by Petty Officer Slater, preceded by Will and Benny.

Then we wait: as rain begins to spot the pavement and the city lays dormant, comatose—choked with moss and cycads, bereft. Then we watch to see if our arrival has been in any way remarked upon—and if so, by what—as the nearby fountain splashes (silently) and I wonder how it could possibly still be working.

But there is nothing. No cudgel-wielding survivors shambling, zombie-like, toward our position, their eyes full of stark despair. No saw-boned animals—prehistoric or otherwise—stalking us, warily, across the shattered pavement. Just the necropolis; the Big Empty; the stoic, faceless towers standing sentinel for no one. Just five hungry people—all of them expendable.

Go, hurry, indicates Will, and we move out, humping (as Benny likes to put it) around busted down barriers and rubble and construction equipment (they had just finished demolishing the viaduct when the Flashback hit), clamoring toward Pike Street Hillclimb. Watching for people—for life. Watching for Murder Birds—that’s what I call them—raptors with hungry, distended stomachs and the Flashback in their eyes.

Seconds later we’re there, we’ve reached the bottom of the steps—the wide, broken, moss-covered steps—where, again, Will instructs us to hold and we hold, standing in the rain, standing in the open. Exposed—even as a pack of rangy, feral dogs begins sniffing about our trail.

Caution, he signals.

He looks at Beth and me and indicates his eyes; then the rain-dappled foliage to our left and right. Watch our flanks, he’s saying—then points to Ensign Slater, his lips moving rapidly, “And you ... watch the women.”

And then we proceed: climbing the cement steps toward the market and my uncle’s two-story warehouse (which is on Pike Street, right next to the original Starbucks). Covering the distance like soldiers; like a seasoned platoon, all the way to street level and yet another set of stairs—into the Main Arcade, where something stirs, abruptly, violently, causing fishbones and rotten produce to cascade onto the floor. Where we train our weapons on everything and nothing—because it is nothing, really. The wind, perhaps, which moves through the arcade like a shoal.

“Okay, listen up,” says Will, as I focus on his lips, one of which has a small scar, which isn’t unattractive. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to move forward in what is called the rolling-T formation; all right? By which I mean: Benny and I up front, spread apart but abreast, each covering the side opposite ourselves; Beth and Pang in the middle, ready to shoot between us, and Slater in the rear—covering everything.” He makes eye contact with virtually everyone, not just me and Beth. “Then it’s through the North Arcade and onto the target; which will be directly across the street.” He adds, softly: “And go quietly; all right? That might not have been just wind.”

I look at Beth to find her already looking at me; attentive as ever, terrified. I got it, I sign, my stomach doing loopty-loops, and try to smile. Thank you, Beth.

And then we’re moving—following Benny and Will, who cover the shops and day stalls, past Pike Place Bakery and Zabb Thai and Chicken Valley; past Catanzaro’s and Pure Food Fish Market—all the way to Swanberg’s, a gift store—where we pause, abruptly, probably because someone has heard something.

What is it? I sign, gripping the M14’s handguard (which has become slick with sweat); locking eyes with Beth.

Will thinks he heard something; something in one of the shops. Something big—heavy. He says to check our flanks.

I just stare at her, bewildered. But I don’t want to check my flank, I think. Because if I do, I might see something; something I won’t be able to unsee. Something I’ll have to react to. And I’m not ready for that.

But then, of course, I do—check my flank, that is. Then I look into the dusty, broken window of Swanberg’s and, seeing only handcrafts and crystals and strings of fine beads, begin to exhale—deeply; wondering what it was I was so afraid of (for it is only the dogs, I am certain; the stringy, pitiable creatures we saw in the street; the slim, spare scavengers whom, having now inherited the earth, have simply followed us up from the pier). Then I just stare at the crystals; the prisms—the lovely, pure, many-faceted gems—which manage to glimmer even though there is so very little light.

At which, strangely, something seems almost to blink—to shutter and reopen. At which something does blink; just as surely as I am standing there. Something blue; ovoid, which glitters like a gem. Something which is encompassed by dark, tapered brow ridges and cruelly-curved hornlets; and bright-yellow markings—like a witch-doctor or a cannibal. Something I glimpse only briefly, fleetingly, in semi-profile—before it flits back into darkness and is gone.

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