story of the week: "H1N1 Thousand"

"blue skull" acrylics on paper. b.g.

You couldn't see five feet in front of you, for the fog. In order to load up the helicopter, we had to lay out bright yellow tape so we'd wouldn't get lost. Lifting off, you'd swear we'd smash into the fog like it was a solid wall and crash. The pilot didn't even bother looking out the window. He just stared at his sonar, at the glowing green mass on the screen. The big, sleeping cities. Something tangible began to emerge from the darkness. Underneath us, the phantom shades of city streets and houses. Then the skyline appeared out of the smoky gray. San Francisco, asleep.

Funny to think of it now, but before the epidemic, people used to talk about "global warming." There were so many people on the Earth back then, we were causing the whole planet to become warmer and warmer. It was harder than you'll ever know, going through those flu years. Losing so much. I certainly didn't notice the winters lasting longer and longer and longer.

When we touched down on a rooftop in what had been downtown Oakland, there were people waiting there for us. We all filed out quickly, nodding vigorously at the ragged greeting party. There were seven women, dressed in robes, their faces veiled. A middle aged man stood in the center of the group, grinning at us. You couldn't be sure what sort you were going to encounter back then. There was peace in the region, as far as the government was concerned. But that didn't mean we were ever unarmed. The man stepped forward, offering us his hand.

"Not sure which of you is in charge," he barked happily, grinning. Caldwell stepped forward and gripped his hand. "Welcome to our home. We got the message you were coming, and did some prep work for you." He motioned over his shoulder, at several dozen enormous vats. "We drained all the fluids from all the vehicles in the area surrounding our home." He frowned a little. "We live up in the Oakland hills, just east of here. We have a fence up around our land. I want to assure you that there is no reason for you to cross that fence."

"That's fine," Caldwell replied. The man thanked us and directed that his people leave. Obediently, they filed out. Two of them were clearly pregnant. Like I said, there was peace in the Bay Area. Peace was the government's primary goal back then. We don't even know all that was allowed to happen, to allow that peace. A lone polygamist with a cult of wives was of no concern back then. Not when there was so much to do.

We waited a half hour before following them out, to give them a wide berth. After a long enough while, we unloaded the equipment and went down to the street. The building was rotted out. The walls were bloated with moisture, the wooden furniture swollen and stinking of mold. The lower floors were flooded and treacherous. Caldwell made a note. The building would not be reliable for future visits.

The buggy was waiting for us in the street, where it had been airlifted in a few days prior. We loaded up and started. The city streets were a mess of swamp and weeds, plant-life so big and rooted that they had taken on a regal quality. Gradually as we went along, the insects started their calls, cautiously at first and then louder and louder until the sound of them trembled in our bodies. It wasn't a human world. Not anymore. There weren't many vehicles downtown. A few abandoned cars here and there.

Engineers had designed our equipment to make fluid extraction as quick and as simple as possible. The buggy had a trailer carrying several dozen vats, each of which had four hoses. Each of the hoses had a harpoon-like spear on its end, and a hydraulic firing mechanism. You'd pry the hood off the car with your crowbar, then fire the harpoon into the engine. Press a button, and the hose would suck out all the oil. Then you'd do the radiator.

That was the way of the whole world, back then. Teams of us dropping into the cities where all the people had died or had left, draining motor oil. Dismantling the power plants and the factories. Turning everything off, pulling out.

By the end of our first day in Oakland, we had moved into the residential neighborhoods. We camped out on top of a brick building. It was cold up there, but not too wet. And we wouldn't be bothered by the dogs. Big packs of dogs roamed through the neighborhoods. Thousands of them, the descendants of house pets. And at least as many cats. Lots and lots of snakes, way more than you would have expected if you had been around before the flu. I guess those pet snakes had adapted well to the environment, because they were all over the place.

The next day we really started in on the neighborhoods. In one block, you'd regularly have 30 or so cars. You had to bust open the garages and go into the backyards. You went everywhere slowly, always with at least one partner. We found some encampments, but the inhabitants had left them. We had broadcast warnings and explanations of our arrival for days earlier. We had to shoot a few dogs. Slowly, we made our way.

It was in a garage I found it. I had to urinate, so when I finished with the car I pushed open a closet and relieved myself. Then I looked up and there, in the dim dampness was the dress. It was bright pink, a tiny little toy dress that a some little baby girl had worn once. Wrapped in plastic and preserved perfectly.

Seeing it there caused a stir in me, and I stood there for a few minutes. I put my hand against it and felt the fabric underneath. A silly little thing, flimsy and never intended to last longer than a few months of wear, but stashed away. Where was that little girl now?

It was too much to look at. And I would have left it there, a memorial, maybe. A marker. But then maybe, someday I would have a little daughter. Maybe I'd have some use for it, someday.

"magenta skull" acrylics on paper. b.g.