Primitive. Part 5

I shouldered my way past James Goodman, who was standing in the doorway to Emily's room. Lori and Tracy were on the bed, Emily positioned between them. Tracy looked stressed as she held a sobbing Emily. Lori was holding Emily's hands, talking to her in a soothing voice. I knelt down to where I'd stashed the spare magazines and shoved them in my jeans pockets. "How is she?" I asked.

"I got some Valium in her," Tracy said. Her eyes met mine again and the message was clear. We need to talk. I nodded, and then darted out of the room again. I could barely make out Heather in our room pacing around, muttering in an angry tone as I headed up the stairs. I could have sworn I heard her say "wetback motherf.u.c.ker" but I didn't have time to question her on it.

I met Martin upstairs just as he was returning from the front door. "Looks like we're clear," he said.

"You sure?"

"There's no movement in the front and no primitives anywhere within the perimeter of the house. And take a listen." He gestured toward the broken window that looked out over the backyard.

He led me past the dead primitive on my living room floor, where we paused on either side of the window. He looked at me, gesturing out over the San Gabriel valley below. "Hear that?"

My hearing was temporarily diminished from the gunfire, but I could still hear what Martin was getting at. From the city below rose a mixture of sounds from a dying civilization. Fire alarms brayed, sirens warbled, car alarms honked. All these sounds were scattered across the Los Angeles and San Gabriel valley but they created an uneasy cacophony, mixing together in a soup that spelled out the recipe for the end of civilization. Amid those sounds were others-the occasional hoot of a primitive from blocks, maybe miles away, shouts that were obviously normal humans calling out to each other or engaging in battle with primitives, occasional gunfire. I took a peek outside and saw flickers of orange in the distance. Fires.

"It's still going on," I said.

"Yeah," Martin said.

We stayed by the window for a while and I was pretty certain we were safe. I motioned toward the dead primitive. "Let's get this one out of here," I said.

I shoved my gun in the front pocket of my jeans and we approached the dead primitive. As we hunkered down over it I saw it was a Caucasian female in her twenties. At one time she'd been pretty, with short auburn hair and high cheekbones. She'd been dressed in a business suit and slacks that hung on her tattered frame. Now she was a mess. She smelled of dirt, sweat, blood and s.h.i.+t. I grabbed her arms, Martin took her legs at the ankles and we carried her out onto the back deck.

Once back inside behind locked doors I said, "We'll take care of removing the other dead ones in the morning."

"Unless we leave first thing," Martin said.

"Yeah." I sighed. Leaving the area was now forefront on my mind.

"Is your little girl okay?" Martin asked.

"I think so." I headed toward the stairs. "Be right back."

"Take your time. It's my s.h.i.+ft anyway."

I made my way downstairs. James was still standing in the hallway, looking lost and confused. I moved past him to Emily's bedroom.

Tracy was rocking Emily in her arms. Lori was sitting beside her on the bed. Both women looked up at me as I entered the room. "Everything okay?" I whispered.

"She's asleep," Tracy said, looking down at Emily. She smoothed Emily's hair back from her forehead lovingly.

"Good." I sat down on the edge of the bed. I gave them a quick update on the situation upstairs and a.s.sured them that the primitives that had been attracted to Emily's screams were now dead and the ruckus hadn't attracted others. "We're safe now."

From the master bedroom across the hall I heard Heather mutter something inaudible. Tracy's face darkened in annoyance. She laid Emily down on the bed gently and then got up and strode to the doorway. "Heather, I'd like a word with you."

"What?" Sure enough, Heather sounded like the rebellious teenager she'd probably been before the world turned to h.e.l.l.

"I understand you were probably frightened by what just happened, but I never want to hear you speak that way about my daughter again! Do you understand me?"

Curious, I glanced at Lori, who looked troubled. I looked back at the doorway to where Tracy stood waiting for a reply. "Do you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you," Heather said.

"And?"

"Fine. Whatever."

"Thank you."

Tracy came back into the room and scooted back on the bed beside Emily. "What was that all about?" I asked. We were talking in low tones.

"When you were upstairs," Tracy said, "and Lori and I were trying to get Emily calmed down, she was ranting and raving about shutting Emily up."

"I heard that," I said. "She was probably stressed out-"

"She told me to shut my half-breed mongoloid daughter up or she'd do it for me," Tracy stated. She had that angry look on her face that I knew there was no compromising with. When Tracy has that look, that tone of voice, you have pa.s.sed the point of no return with her. "We'd just gotten the Valium into her and Lori was trying to get Emily to drink it down with some water. If I hadn't been holding Emily down I would've stormed across the hall and slapped that little b.i.t.c.h myself."

I didn't know how to react or what to say. At the time I thought the blow-up had been the result of the harrowing situation we'd just experienced. As human beings we tend to behave in a less than exemplary fas.h.i.+on when our backs are against the wall during extreme situations. Surely Heather's behavior was in reaction to what had happened. Emily was hysterical and making noise that was drawing attention to us, that would put us in danger. The primitives were trying to get in the house. Heather telling us to shut Emily up, calling her a derogatory name in doing so, was done out of stress, not malice. It was akin to telling us to "shut that brat up" or "shut that little s.h.i.+t up", only with more colorful language.

"I know what you're thinking and you're wrong," Lori said. There was something in Lori's face that told me Heather had pa.s.sed the point of no return with her, too. "That girl meant what she said."

"Okay," I said. I took a deep breath. Lori and Tracy were sisters united in a cause now. It was them against Heather. The nurturers against the rebellious punk who disdained all traditional feminine roles. I hoped Heather hadn't meant anything she'd said, that calling my daughter a half-breed mongoloid wasn't intended, that it was uttered in a state of fear and extreme stress, but I wasn't going to voice that now. The last thing I needed at that moment was another fight. "Let's deal with it tomorrow, okay?"

That seemed to be the end of the subject, at least for that evening. As Tracy settled back on the bed, she asked me, "How are you doing?"

"Okay," I said. "And not in the least bit tired."

"Would you mind staying down here," she asked. "Maybe park yourself in the hallway at the staircase or in my office?"

"Sure." I wondered if she and Lori were worried that Heather might strike back at them out of some sort of revenge and quickly dismissed the thought. I scooted over to Emily and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I'm going upstairs to check on Martin and then I'll be either out in the hall or the office."

"Okay."

Lori settled down on the other side of the bed and I exited the room and headed upstairs.

Five.

Martin was sitting on the sofa, the rifle cradled in his hands. "Everything okay?"

I quickly checked the back deck and the shattered window. The sounds of the city drifted inside, along with the smell of smoke from the fires that were now burning in the city. We'd definitely have to leave as soon as possible, especially if the fires made their way north into the hills where we lived. The dry brush of the San Gabriel Mountains was ripe fuel for a ma.s.sive fire.

Once I was satisfied the house was secure, I sat down on the other side of the sofa and told Martin what had happened downstairs while we'd been upstairs battling the primitives. Martin listened quietly, his pensive features turning into a frown of concern. For a moment after I was finished he said nothing. He appeared to be thinking about what I'd just said. Finally he said, "Heather's been the only one who's been hard for me to get a read on."

"What do you mean?" I asked. We were speaking in low tones and I deliberately kept my voice down to as low a whisper as possible to avoid our voices drifting downstairs.

"What do you think of Heather?" Martin asked.

I shrugged. "I think she's a typical teenager who's adjusting very badly to what's happening."

"I thought that about her too when we originally ran into her," Martin said. He leaned forward. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "When we came upon her she seemed...hostile...as if she regretted seeing Lori and me."

"What do you mean?"

Martin paused. "Are you Hispanic? Or Native American?"

Good guess. He obviously noted the high cheekbones, the color of my skin, combined with my straight black hair, which I wore at waist-length and was currently tied back in a ponytail. "I'm a rarity in the world of Native Americans. Full-blooded Apache."

"Then you've obviously experienced what I can only describe as 'the look'?"

I picked up on what he was saying immediately. I wasn't raised on a reservation by any means, but my parents had relatives who still lived on one, in Arizona. And aside from a brief flirtation with engaging in tribal rituals and ceremonies and dress as a teenager, my physical features were the only thing that told people I was Injun. Some of my more traditional family members referred to me by that derogatory term for selling out to the white man's world. I never sold out. I was proud of my heritage. But I had to live in modern society and pay my bills, just like everybody else. "You think Heather's...racist?"

Martin didn't answer me right away. He looked troubled as I thought back to what he meant. Growing up in a predominately white, suburban neighborhood, I'd had my share of run-ins with ignorant Caucasian punks. I was called a hippie, a redskin, a wetback, you name it. Most adults were no better. Ironically, I've never been discriminated against by publishers or film producers and production companies in the nearly twenty years I've been a professional writer, although I experienced some of it while working so-called "normal jobs." I did not get that vibe from Heather, and I wonder if Martin was just super sensitive to the issue of race.

"I don't know," he finally said. "I realize we've all been under a lot of stress today, that because of the horrors we've all been witness to, we've reacted to them in ways we might normally not." He looked at me. "Still, I know what I felt. When you're Hispanic and gay, you become especially sensitive to the vibes people throw out when they first come across you. I definitely felt it with Heather. It was really strong when we first came across her and it's subsided substantially since then, so I can't tell if what I'm feeling is just my over-reacting to her clothing or appearance. I've never had a run-in with what we call racist skinheads, or Aryan Nations or whatever they call themselves, but I've seen enough about them on doc.u.mentaries to know they're still racists. And I realize that it isn't fair to judge her by her clothing or the way she wears her hair, but her appearance, combined with her body language...that feeling...that vibe I got...that's the first thing I thought of."

"That she's a racist skinhead?

He nodded.

"I just had the impression she's a typical teen. She was home when everything started going down and yesterday was a school day. She was probably ditching school."

"She had easy access to firearms in her house," Martin added.

"Yeah." For some reason that was troubling.

"She sure has a knack for hotwiring cars, too," Martin said.

We regarded each other in the dark living room. I could tell Martin wanted to be wary around Heather and I was okay with that. I didn't completely trust her yet, either.

"I agree we need to get out of the city." I stood up. "Let's talk about it first thing tomorrow."

"You got it."

"I'm gonna go downstairs. I don't think I can sleep after what Tracy told me about Heather, but come check on me at five."

"I will." Martin settled back on the sofa with my rifle and I headed downstairs.

The hallway was quiet. I stood there, trying to listen for any sounds from behind the closed master bedroom door. I didn't hear anything, and wondered if Heather had finally calmed down and gone to sleep. I hoped so. I could make out vague lumps on Emily's bed and I took a peek in Tracy's office. James was lying on the sofa, his back to the doorway. I heard his breathing, slow and steady. He was fast asleep.

I found a spot on the floor near the wall, just inside the door to Tracy's office. I checked to make sure the safety was flicked on the Sig and slapped a full magazine in. I placed the handgun just inside the closet, within easy reach, and sat down with my back against the wall.

And I listened.

I could hear soft snores coming from Emily's bedroom-Tracy's and Emily's snores were easy to identify. I thought I could make out the sounds of Lori sleeping.

But from the other bedroom, where Heather was camping out, I heard nothing.

Was she even asleep in there?

That made me nervous.

I must've fallen into a deep sleep because the next thing I knew Martin was shaking me awake. "It's five o'clock," he whispered.

I got up, grabbed my Sig. I couldn't believe I'd let myself fall asleep like that. For a moment I felt a brief burst of panic. "Everything okay?"

He nodded, handed the Ruger to me. We traded places without further comment.

I sat down in the living room and listened to the dying city outside. I thought about all that was lost, our sense of civilization and order. Most of all I thought of Eric, who I'd raised since he was an infant. Tracy's words from yesterday morning came to me and even though I knew they were hastily uttered in response to her own roiling emotions over that horrible day, they still stung. You never loved Eric because of his condition. That was so untrue and I cried silently to myself, mourning the only son I'd ever had and our fractured family that was now forever scarred by his absence.

At some point I must've dozed. The next thing I was aware of was voices downstairs. I snapped awake, noting the time on the battery-operated clock-7:45. The morning was bright, albeit smoky with thick bands of black gunk from the fires that were burning. The smell of smoke was definitely stronger now. I got up and walked over to the window, stepping around the large puddle of blood on the living room carpet from the primitive Martin and I had killed. Sure enough, the entire San Gabriel Valley was enveloped in light brown smoke and I could see half a dozen darker plumes rising here and there amid flickers of flames. I could taste the smoke in the back of my throat. It was going to be unbearable by noon. Amid the still clanging sirens and fire alarms I could hear scattered shouts in the city below. It was hard to tell if they were from primitives or normal people.

Tracy, Emily, and Lori entered the living room. Emily was still wearing her nightgown from the previous evening. I hunkered down on my knees and smiled. "Hey Emily, come here." I held my arms out wide.

Emily ran to me and I swooped her up in a hug. I kissed her. "How'd you sleep, pumpkin?"

"Okay." Emily certainly looked better today. She turned to Tracy and Lori, who were standing next to me. "Lori told me a really good story!"

"Better than the ones I tell you?" I asked, mocking a sad face.

Emily giggled. "You always have the best stories, Daddy!"

I tickled her and Emily giggled some more.

Martin and James entered the room. Both of them looked refreshed.

"Anybody hungry?" Tracy asked.

"Where's Heather?" I asked.

"I think she's still asleep," Lori said.

"Let's let her sleep then."

Tracy headed to the kitchen and checked the gas on the stove. The utilities were still working. She glanced over at me. "Think it's okay to use the stove?"

"I don't see why not," Martin said.

"How about some eggs and sausage, then?"

That sounded fine with us. I put Emily down, got her some coloring books and crayons and sat her in her booster seat where she quickly began amusing herself. Lori sat with her and that freed me up to prepare a pot of coffee. Within minutes the aroma of brewing coffee, sizzling sausage, and scrambled eggs competed with the smell of the smoke that was creeping in through the shattered windows. I poured fresh orange juice for seven and soon we were at the table digging in.

"We should probably leave as soon as possible," I said. I was ravenous. I devoured that meal like I hadn't eaten in days.