Page 37 of A Better World

What people forget about those times before the Plymouth Valley disaster is that the fear was real. You could cut it with a knife. It wasn’t just the nukes—those were too freaky to fathom. I mean, somebody zonked Iran. Like, erased an entire city, made half the country radioactive. We were all just waiting for the next one. That’s some existential shit. But the everyday stuff was worse. You couldn’t count on the weather or your car or your lights. If you lived in a basement in a waterfront city, you’d damn well better have an evac plan, or your whole family could drown. You know how people are nice now? All,tra-la-la, let’s cooperate? Well, it wasn’t like that then. We were too scared to be nice. We all knew something was coming—an earth-eradicating disease, or a nuke, or just famine, you know? One day we’d go to the store and there wouldn’t be any food on the shelves. That happened. People forget, but it happened. Your money wasn’t worth anything. Your bank wasn’t a bank. Some days, no matter what you had to offer, you couldn’t get clean water or bread. You know how, if you feed rats intermittently, they go crazy, because they can’t stand not being able to predict what’s going to happen? We were like rats. It was excruciating.

—Apple Rose Rodriguez, Milwaukee resident, 109 years old

—From FIRST-PERSON NARRATIVES FROM THE EDGE OF EXTINCTION, edited by Clementine Petty, University of the Great Lakes Press, 2118.

PART IIIPassing

Something Has Happened

Through the earlyhours, the scent of burning hovered all through town, a cloudy layer of soot that floated between the mountains and blanketed the entirety of Plymouth Valley. But then the Bell Jar’s particulate meter ticked into dangerous red. The system went into high gear. With a pneumatic hum, it suctioned the black clouds down from the sky, twisting them into a hundred thousand tiny tornados, then forcing them back out again, clean.

In the morning, Linda found her car parked in the circular driveway. A note on the windshield read:Compliments of the Plymouth Valley Police Department. Hope you enjoyed your ride!

“That’s above and beyond,” she said. Her hangover wasn’t as immobilizing as she’d feared. The walk, water, and aspirin had done their work. She was ambulatory before noon. By then, she’d told Russell everything. “I think it was a success but I’m a little embarrassed. I was a real mess by the end.”

Like always, after sex, they were sitting close, feeling close. “Don’t be embarrassed. They drink a lot here. The wine’s about three times more potent than the mead at home.”

They were in the kitchen. She was trying not to be a cartoon of herself, but it was impossible not to hold her head, press down on the parts that hurt. Her temples pounded. “How do you know?”

“They drink at work. This cart comes by in the afternoon with cocktails. I suggested to Heinrich that they stop but he said it’s the culture. It keeps people happy and working.”

“Does their work suffer?” Linda asked.

He widened his eyes as if to say:How would I know? They won’t show it to me.Then he lifted his mug of black tea, toasted it against hers. She looked at her own mug, wistful. Her stomach was too sour to drink it.

Having ended the evening on a blurry note, Linda decided to check in with the members of ActHollow that afternoon. She was getting into her car when Hip followed her out and stopped her.

“Can I come?” His shirt was buttoned wrong, his hair unbrushed, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. She felt a swell of sympathy for the kid. Except for rooting for a team he’d quit in ignominy, he’d had nothing to do all weekend.

“Sure!” she said, ruffling his hair. It was an intimacy he still allowed, unlike Josie, who’d banned spontaneous hugs upon turning thirteen.

As they drove, she noticed a smoky odor along Main Street but didn’t think much about it. Back home, fires had happened plenty. Like city people accustomed to car alarms, this was so slight it barely registered.

They pulled around the storefront façades and into the lot. Unlike last night’s cheerful crowd, the dozen or so residents waiting for tables outside Sirin’s were somber. They spoke in hushed whispers or scanned their devices, their faces reflecting a purplish light. A few wore handkerchief masks.

As she and Hip headed for Lust’s Bakery, they passed two weeping women clutched in a hug.

“I can’t believe it,” the younger woman whispered.

“It’s unthinkable,” the other one said.

Linda slowed her stride, trying to listen. Sleepy and oblivious Hip charged ahead.

Lust’s was crammed with a half dozen customers. They quieted when the Farmer-Bowens entered. Hip went straight to the counter, looked at what was fresh.

One woman was still talking. She’d pushed her stroller sideways against the counter so her baby could look at the elephant ears and macaroons through the glass.

“How could shedosomething like that?” she asked the baker in neon blue Omnium slacks. Instead of answering, the man gave a side-eye in Hip’s direction.

“Oh!” the woman yelped, and suddenly, the whole store was quiet. The baby’s hand reached through the stroller’s green hood and smeared the glass.

“Is everything okay?” Linda asked when their turn arrived.

“Absolutely!” the baker said. He was middle aged, with a handlebar mustache.

“Did something happen?” Linda asked. “Was there a fire?”

“They put it out,” the baker answered, then bowed and did prayer hands. The mom with the stroller and a few others in the store bowed, too.

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