I
I STILL ENJOY WALKING. I did a lot of it when I was Dead—back and forth, up and down, around in circles—and the habit stuck with me. When I was Dead, I walked just to make sure I could, to prove to myself I was still here despite all evidence to the contrary. Now I walk because it feels good. Because the scenery fills my head with daydreams. Because I can smell the dirt and the trees. Because I’m free and the world is large and it wants to be discovered.
So I’m walking from the suburbs to the city, where I’ll meet Julie when she gets off work. I hear her on my pocket radio, wrapping up her interview with the Unknown Almanac. She has a good voice for radio, low and smoky—much better than Tomsen’s mousy squeak, I’m afraid—but I can still hear a giddy tremble beneath her calm, and it makes me smile.
“Some people keep asking how we’re going to bring back civilization,” she says. “They want to know how we’ll have peace without an army, how we’ll have prosperity without an economy, who will build their cars and computers and who will mow their lawns. Well, I don’t have those answers.”
I reach the crest of the hill leading down into the city, and I pause to take a picture. I’ve been taking a lot of pictures lately. It’s an old film camera and I haven’t found the equipment to develop the roll, but I’ve heard rumors of someone running a lab in Portland. And even if I never develop them, I can see the shots in my head.
“If the question is what system will solve all our problems and still give us exactly what we had before, then I don’t know what to tell you. How do we make a better world without giving up a single piece of the old one? We don’t. We can’t. That’s a fucking stupid question.”
In the shadow of the stadium, at the bottom of a tall apartment building, steam wafts from a little shop window. I offer the woman a spoon I carved from a cedar branch and she shakes her head. I add a handful of batteries and she nods. I inhale the tangy steam while she works.
“So I guess what I’m saying is…bear with us. Work with us. These are crazy times and no one really knows what to expect, but we have a chance to build something wonderful here, and we’re going to need everyone. So…okay. That’s it from me. Thanks, Huntress. Thanks everyone. Cabernet, out.”
A trail of crushed bones leads up to the old Mercedes, squiggling drunkenly where Julie swerved to run over a few more skulls. There have been no cleanup efforts. The battle has built its own memorial, and it will remain until time sweeps it away. I take a picture of Mercey surrounded by bones—another memorial—and hop into the driver’s seat. I stuff my camera in my bag and pull out my notebook. I have scribbled a few pages when Julie climbs in next to me, slouching into the cracked leather seat with a deep sigh.
“Idiot or lunatic?” she says.
“What?”
“Which did I sound like? Please don’t say both.”
I slip the notepad into my bag, hoping she’s too flustered to notice her name on the page. “You sounded like a leader.”
“A leader!” she laughs. “I don’t even know if we’re going to have those. But thanks.” She pecks me on the cheek and tosses me the keys. “Now will you please get me out of here? I’ve done all the leading I can do for today.”
I start the car and take off like a getaway driver. The tires squeal and so does Julie. I am not the warmed-over corpse I used to be. I can breathe, run, climb, cry, and—finally—I can drive. The only signs that I was ever less than Living are the spots on my calf and shoulder, pale and faded like old, regrettable tattoos, a record of a life I’ll remember forever so that I’ll never go near it again.
I hurtle through town at unsafe speeds, taxing the limits of the old car’s engine, and I honk as we blow past our former neighbor’s new downtown apartment. B—Ben—waves to us from the front steps. It looks like he’s going for a walk.
I quit the stunt driving with a satisfied sigh as we cruise onto the freeway. I try not to notice the heavy clouds building overhead. Is the weather going to ruin my little plan? No. Post has been dry for months. I tell myself to stop worrying. Stop giving bad suggestions to the universe.
“Um, R?” Julie says when I drive past our exit. “Where are…”
“I’m taking you out.” I flash her what I hope is a charming grin. “Dinner date.”
She arches her eyebrows with an Oh really? smile and says no more.
Halfway to our destination, it happens. For the first time all autumn, rain falls on Post. The clouds burst like water balloons, dumping torrents into the convertible’s open cab. Julie stubbornly holds her smile, which becomes a parody as her hair droops over her eyes.
“Really need to fix that canopy…” I mumble.
“Yep,” Julie says, trying not to laugh.
She doesn’t ask any questions as I pull into Oran Airport. I’m sure our destination was no surprise, but I hope there are still a few details she hasn’t guessed.
I don’t go to the arrivals gate. There is nothing to see in the terminal. There are no pale crowds shuffling through its halls, waiting for some long-canceled flight. Those people have changed their itineraries and gone on to new destinations, and the airport is empty again.
I take a service road onto the airfield. The rain has turned months of dust into a slick layer of mud and I’m tempted to do some donuts as the first half of my surprise comes into view, but I don’t want to interrupt Julie’s reaction.
“The wings are on!” she says. “Are they…is it finished?”
“Almost. They’re saying one more week.”
Out on the runway, surrounded by scaffolds and tool carts, air compressors and solar panels, David Boeing is almost healed. The truck that hauled it here waits off to the side, its Axiom logo exed out with spray-paint, but the crew of technicians has gone home for the day. Julie and I have the place to ourselves.
Before I’ve quite finished parking she hops out and runs a circle around the plane, wiping rain out of her eyes so she can examine the repairs. Sheets of aluminum taken from other planes form a multi-colored patchwork on the fuselage, and the new engine doesn’t quite match the others.
“They said it’ll take some special care,” I tell Julie, “but it’ll fly. So if you want to start working on that pilot license…”
Julie grins at me through gaps in her wet hair. Then she whirls around and runs up the stairs to the entrance. Hoisting my bag over my shoulder, I follow her into the warm, dry shelter of the cabin.
I find her sitting in first class, waiting expectantly. I set my bag on a chair and begin to lay out our picnic. Two bottles of beer. Two paper takeout cartons. Two sets of chopsticks.
Julie sniffs. Her eyes widen. “Is that…?” She hops down onto the floor and rips open her carton. A little puff of steam rises from a pile of fresh pad thai. “Where?” she says, looking at me like I’ve performed a miracle.
“From a restaurant. We have restaurants now.”
She lunges forward and kisses me, not a peck this time but something deep and searching, and for a moment I think she might tear my clothes off right here and now. Then she pulls back and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says, giving me a wryly demure smile. “Shall we eat?”
The noodles are tangy and sweet. The tofu is dense and spicy. I savor the feeling of my face flushing, sweating, every cell in my body limber and alive.
We eat in silence. My record player is gone, but in lieu of music we have the cockpit radio scanning the long range bands. All static so far, but it’s a soft, pleasant static, like ocean waves.
Julie sucks down her last noodle and takes a sip of beer. “I see you taking a lot of pictures lately,” she says. “Think photography might be your job or whatever? Your ‘contribution’?”