BearCat Press

Mystery

A Wave of Breath by Tess Collins

Excerpt:

~ San Francisco ~

There were no words for how afraid I was. I, a tiller of words, generous of heart and bold of vision, a rival columnist had once called me; authentic and sassy with a hint of evil genius, another had said. I knew words. I knew stories. I knew endings like an apocalyptic sermon. But this city now—broken, sorrowful, savage—words would not serve as I watched our Mayor and what was left of our board of supervisors burn on the steps of City Hall. No one had the patience for the words of politicians any longer. They wanted water, and they wanted it now.

“Brooklyn, we gotta get out of here.” My neighbor, Jamie Alverez, tugged my sleeve as we scooted toward the crowd’s edge. My knees threatened to buckle. The stink of burning bodies curled into my nostrils, and I gagged, stomach lurching as I stumbled backward, away from the flames that had once been people. Some turned away, others ran, hands covering their mouths. A faction angrily pounded their fists skyward, joining the call for vengeance. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We all came to talk, work things out, and get resources to those who needed them. A few months into this mess, and one group already had other plans.

At the corner of Polk and McAllister, I glanced back at the chaos. A burning man flailed in a circle. The bulk of the crowd scattered, halted mid-run to look back like me, ran again, stopped again, looked again as if they couldn’t accept what they witnessed. Was there anything they could do? What should they do? Minds unable to calculate the meaning. The crash of breaking glass. Wild whooping and hollering to burn it all down! I coughed, hand across my mouth, fighting a stomach heave from the nauseous smell of burning flesh. There was nothing I could do.

Paule Oliver’s Mid-Market Street group had started this. I watched a pack of about five hundred stream into City Hall, looking for the treasure of bottled water they were sure was hidden there. They’d argued it before it all went wrong, accusing the Mayor of hoarding for the elite. Well, there were very few wealthy people in San Francisco these days. Most’d gone weeks ago. Where, I wasn’t sure. Islands, sanctuaries, Disney World for all I knew.

A numbness spread through my limbs as I watched the tide of humanity surge through the shattered glass doors. I wondered if I’d ever written about any of them—mothers, former teachers, artists turned revolutionaries. Now, with bats in hand, they trampled over the line I thought none of us would cross. My faith in negotiation, in decency, in systems built by flawed but hopeful humans—crumbled.

Caravans of buses had come to the city a while back, giving out flyers for people to go live in Central Valley and work on the farms for a guarantee of shelter and food. Rumor was those buses left full, but I doubt that’s where the rich had gone. Jamie pulled me, and we trotted up Polk Street, sticking close to the buildings to avoid being seen. Even though all the neighborhoods had agreed on the representative’s safe passage, you could never be too sure of a lone wolf looking to rob someone on the blocks that still needed to be organized.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I rasped, as we sheltered in the side exit of the deserted strip club against its wall-size mural of whales, dolphins, sharks, and other colorful sea creatures. “Look,” I pointed. “Sweet butter for the masses.” Across the street, a make-shift altar of candles, flowers, and assorted rosaries cascaded around a chalk drawing of the Virgin Mary on the side of a building. A local news anchor, Brace Benton, had been reporting about the various apparitions around the country. A dinghy for terrified people.

“Come on,” Jamie urged. “Won’t be safe until we get behind our barricade.”

We were the Nob Hill group, about three thousand of us to start. We were now down to around three hundred scattered among five buildings on three blocks at the top of the hill. Most of us were the working middle-class. Money in the bank, but not rich. Some had moved into these apartments twenty years prior when rent was affordable. Moving away and abandoning what they had was unthinkable. Now, no one paid rent, nor was anyone calling to collect it. We kept our buildings safe, our streets blocked behind barricades of cars, furniture, and armed protectors or what passed for them. That’s what San Francisco had become in these last few weeks—a collection of tribes trying to hold on until this emergency passed. And it had to pass. We had to believe that. Yet, intermittent supplies from FEMA, no National Guard or army of any kind, Red Cross, and churches giving what they could, less and less, until we were this. But we weren’t any different than anyone else in what was left of the city.

Jamie and I crawled between abandoned trolley cars at Polk and California, stopping long enough to tell the mid-Polk coalition’s sentry what had happened.

“What’s this mean?” he asked.

“Nothing good.” I wet my lips. “Your committee ought to be back soon. I don’t think many followed Paule’s lead, but he had weapons, machetes, and baseball bats mostly.”

From there, a straight shot up the hill. The streets in between could be treacherous, but the Polk Street crew watched our backs until Caleb Yu motioned that he saw us, and we scrambled over our blockade of cars, furniture, and garbage containers to safety. Safety, I thought. A fragile word—gossamer-thin. It meant nothing in a world where neighbors could turn to wolves overnight, prayers were whispered over candles and weapons were handed out with the morning coffee. Safety had become more of a wish than a condition.
Jamie and I went down our three blocks and told our street security guards what had happened. We asked representatives from each building to meet the next morning to reassess where things stood and what we needed to do next.

Once in my apartment, I fastened all the locks and braced a piece of lumber into metal slots across the door. It was the only way I could sleep, and who knew how long that would keep me safe. Pulling a chair to the window, I let my forehead lean against the cool glass. Smoke from the Civic Center drifted northward, and I tried not to think of the vacant expression on the Mayor’s face when Paule Oliver came down on him with a baseball bat. I closed my eyes and wished for the time no one fought over water.

“Hey, baby.” Martin’s tongue brushed against mine as the rain shower streamed over us. He held me against a marble wall, his soapy hand on my breast. “Sulis,” he whispered, his pet name for me. “My beautiful girl.”

“I am not a girl,” I replied, smirking mischievously. “Let me show you why.”

“Shhh.” He leaned into me, his thighs nudging my legs apart, water gushing over us, breath in gasps and liquid heat. He kissed my neck, and my legs encircled him as he pushed inside of me.

“Yes,” I murmured, clasping his hips and riding him with the dance of the pelting shower. “Motherfuck! Stop!”

His head jerked back, confused. Then, he saw it and we both shifted out of scarlet water cascading around us like a fountain of blood.

“Red,” he said, staring beyond me, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Red Water. I, I, I have to go.”

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Holding me, he stared at me intently, lips parted, his expression crestfallen as he cupped my cheek. “Go to the store. Buy every bottle of liquid you can carry, and tell no one what you have. Lock yourself in your apartment until I come for you.”

I jerked upright. Someone yelling. Blocks away. Probably someone trying to get into a safe zone. I don’t know how secure they really were. Mostly, our safety depended on what others thought we had, not what we actually possessed. Surely Paule Oliver wouldn’t come this far up. Not yet, anyway. I was beyond thinking someone would arrest him for what he did today. There was no doubt this had changed everything. There was no longer a command structure to… to what? Lie to us? It was hard not to wonder if there had been hidden resources in city hall. My hands were trembling. I shook them out and pulled a can of water from a box marked Good For Twenty-five Years. San Francisco was earthquake country, and I was a prepared type of individual.

Sipping the tinny-tasting liquid like the finest of wines. Savoring the sensation like the satisfying intoxication of a lover’s touch. Save half for later. Keep the body hydrated. That was truth. Another truth: Martin had never come back for me.