Cuento de Mi Id

“After the Apocalypse”

(Obviously this is one of the most dated stories I have ever written and there is one image towards the end that makes no sense whatsoever. I do not remember how much of this story might have been based on a dream and how much of it was based on things I witnessed when I was visiting Michigan back in 1987. I will admit that I wrote the first draft while Reagan was still in office and I will also admit that the story was obviously meant to have a sequel. However, I have yet to write it. Maybe someday I will.)

Route 75 from Midland to Detroit is almost a straight shot once you get off Highway 10. There being no exits or detour signs to look out for, this route is perhaps the closest thing to a straight road in this twisty, curvy country. You enter Route 75 just north of Saginaw and you can take it all the way into downtown Detroit if you wish. But you best not.

The whole thing started on one of those bright summer days we’re not supposed to have up here in Michigan. The four of us -- Paul, Lee, Billy and myself -- had risen before dawn that morning in order to pack and we were already suppressing yawns by the time we finally got on the road.

Billy, the driver, had an in with the local camp commander who agreed to let us go down to Detroit on a “fact-finding mission” provided we return before dark. As it was summer and the trip normally took about four hours in either direction, we saw no problems.

Nevertheless, the guard at the city gate could not resist the opportunity to reinforce this point.

“Please get back here before sundown,” he said, stroking his gun with a smile. “We don’t want to have to come looking for you.”

The trip went okay until we hit Flint, the last major city on the route before Detroit. The authorities there insisted on taking the car in for inspection and since we were dependent upon them for approval of our travel permits, we really could not put up much of a fuss. Billy said that because of his National Guard background, the inspection was little more than a formality that would take at most an half-hour; he recommended that we all grab a delayed breakfast while we were waiting. I was not so confident -- I had seen troops being driven up and down Route 75 all my life and yet I was still not used to seeing them carry out civilian activities. However, I was content to trust Billy’s judgment.

That, of course, was a mistake.

The authorities shunted us over to the corner of a large reception area designed primarily for refugees awaiting the latest bus consignment. It seemed terribly gauche to put four of us rich kids there with a crowd of people who may never again see their homes or families, but Billy just shrugged when I mentioned this and muttered something about the infallibility of authority.

Paul smiled. Of the four of us, he had brought the smallest meal, a legacy from his anorexic days which had taken place at a time when self-starvation was still an abnormality and not yet a way of life. He ended up sharing part of his meal -- rather involuntarily, I noticed -- with a couple of refugees who had drifted up to our table. One of them was a young black man who kept inquiring about relatives in Saginaw. The other was a white girl interested in our chances of reaching Detroit. She said she had a sister in Taylor from whom she had not heard since the war began and there were rumors that the way to the city had been blocked.

A radio was blaring somewhere during all this and no one seemed to mind that it was on an all-oldies station. That was all that was left nowadays -- even the Top 40 stations had turned oldie due to lack of new material -- yet it seemed funny to be sitting there, listening to Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” just months after we had proved that this country could take the worst the Russians could dish out and still survive. However, when I pointed this out, one of the refugees just muttered something about it’s not being over till it’s over, which sounded suspiciously like a song quote.

It was at this time that an acne-scarred lieutenant came up to our table and asked Billy to come with him. There was no problem, he said. Just a little confusion concerning our travel permits.

Billy just smiled his old boyish smile and stood up. “This place,” he said. “They can’t do a thing without me.”

The lieutenant escorted him off to the main building and the three of us sat there waiting for his return. A WAC came by and asked us if we wanted a little something extra to go with our meal but we just shook our heads. There was no sense in becoming obliged to people when it was unnecessary and besides, it seemed vaguely obscene to offer aid to strangers who obviously needed no aid when so many around us looked as if they had not had a full meal for weeks.

It’s the old banking theory in action, I thought. Look as if you do not really need money and you are sure to get a loan; look as if you do not really need a date and your social life will be nonstop. The same principle apparently applied to emergency aid.

What a pity.

I pictured myself as one of those poor souls queued up for the next bus consignment and then I shuddered. At least we still had our own vehicle. It was not much, but it did permit us independence of travel and that was fast becoming a luxury in the post-war United States.

Another WAC came by our table.

“Staying with us long?” she asked.

“Only ‘til our permits come through,” we answered.

“Oh, you’re thinking of traveling?” she asked. “In what direction?”

“South! Towards Detroit.”

“Oh.” Something in her face died.

“Very well,” she said and then she left, leaving a trio of puzzled stares behind her. At least we were not being solicited to register as citizens, I thought.

I was wrong.

A couple of hours later, Billy finally made it back to our table, grinning and unaccompanied. “They’re rerouting all southbound traffic through Ann Arbor,” he said. “However, they did offer to let us register as citizens if we wish.”

“Billy,” I said. “That’s not our intention. I thought we were going to Detroit.”

“In time. In time. They’re still checking out the car for radiation damage. They should be through in an half-hour.”

“You said that two hours ago.”

“Well, this time they sounded sincere,” he said.

I frowned. There was something just a little too glib about Billy’s expression -- as if there was something he was not telling us. Paul felt it, too. I could tell by the way his shoulders were hunched.

“Very well,” I said, deciding to give Billy the benefit of a doubt. “We’ll wait.”

They came for Lee after lunch.

“Just a slight formality,” they said. “It’s required of all female travelers.”

The fact that they apparently did not consider me female rankled a bit but I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps I would be next. An half-hour later, I was not so sure.

“What’s taking Lee so long?” I asked.

“Health inspection,” replied Billy.

“What?”

“All women have to get them. Can’t have the next generation being born with two heads.”

“You sound like a bigot.”

Billy shrugged. “Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t.”

When Lee did not show up an half-hour after that, I began to get worried.

“Perhaps you should go check on her, Billy,” I said.

“Why?” he answered.

“It’s nearly two. We need to leave soon.”

“We can’t leave. The paperwork is still being processed.”

“We have to leave,” I said. “We have to be back in Midland by sundown.”

“That’s okay. They offered us residency here.”

“Here?”

“Sure. Along with free citizenship. No registration fee required.” Billy smiled. “I persuaded them of that.”

“But what about our travel permits?” I asked.

“I told you. They’re not done yet.”

“Why not? They’ve had all morning to work on them.”

Billy gestured at the crowd around us. “Busy place.”

“Busy place...” I started to repeat sarcastically when I caught sight of Paul’s gesture. He was looking at Billy’s face and he was gesturing for me to look at it as well. When I did, I noticed for the first time that although Billy was sitting on the side of the table facing the sun, he was not blinking.

“I think Billy’s right,” Paul said. “I think Lee will be okay.”

“You really think s -- ” I started to say. Then I shifted. “Oh, yeah. Sure. She’s in good hands.”

“I told you,” said Billy. His face seemed oddly smug in the summer sunlight. It reminded me of the way my old tomcat had looked after it had caught a mouse. Or worse, the way it had looked after it had been fixed.

“Right,” I said.

The three of us sat there, waiting for about twenty minutes.

Then I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room and Paul excused himself to go to the men’s room. We met behind one of the portable buildings next to the camps’ temporary apartments.

“Paul,” I said. “I think we need to discuss Billy.”

“Not here,” he answered.

“What?”

“Not here.”

We found an unoccupied apartment. The sign on the door said it had been assigned to us.

“Kismet,” said Paul.

“What?” I asked.

“Never mind.”

As we entered the room, I turned on the radio. I turned it up just loud enough to drown out the sound of our voices to outsiders but not to ourselves.

Paul looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“What if the room’s bugged?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just talk low.”

“Okay. What’s your conclusion?”

“Something happened to Billy. He’s not the same.”

“I know that. What about Lee?”

“I don’t know. I hesitate to think about it.”

“What about our travel permits?”

“I don’t think they’re going to give them to us. They’re planning on keeping us here.”

“Any reason why?”

“To separate us from the car, maybe. I saw no one being banned from the bus consignments. However, if we take that route…”

“Right...”

“There’s no telling where we’d end up.”

“And we’d be right where they want us,” I said.

“Which is where we are now,” Paul answered.

The two of us were silent for a long while.

“Any conclusions on your end?” Paul asked.

“Just two. One: we have to make a break for it before sundown.”

“And risk becoming outlaws?”

“If we don’t make it back to Midland by sundown, we’ll lose our citizenship there.”

“We have no guarantee that things won’t worsen there the same way they did here.”

“No, we don’t,” I said. “But it’s worth a chance.”

“Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t, huh?” Paul said.

My face reddened. “Not exactly. But at least conditions are still slightly better in Midland.”

“For now,” Paul said.

“Let’s not worry about that,” I said. “What about my second conclusion? Two: Something’s happened to Lee.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure but the way Billy talked... I’m not entirely confident she’s in good health.”

“Surely they would not hurt an innocent girl?” Paul asked.

“In the position we’re in right now, they could do anything,” I answered.

“Right.”

“What about your conclusions?” I asked.

“I have only two as well, “ Paul said.

“Let’s hear them.”

“Number one: I don’t think they’re going to let us go voluntarily.”

“Why not?”

“Too much at stake keeping us here.”

“For Chrissakes, we’re not the United Nations.”

“But we are potential contributors to the local community. But that is not the worst part.”

“Which is?”

“My second conclusion,” Paul said.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said involuntarily, then silently cursed myself.

A black woman in a maid’s uniform came in. In her arms was an unconscious figure. She laid the figure on the room’s only bed. It was Lee.

“Lee,” I said after the maid had left.

“She’s unconscious,” said Paul.

“I can see that.”

I checked her pulse. It was still there. Her pupils did not seem to be dilated. They did not use drugs. So why was she unconscious?

“You shouldn’t display your nursing skills too much, Annie,” said Paul. “If they find out your true profession, we may never get out of here.”

“Shut up,” I said. “You just said we may have to break out.”

“True. If we plan to go south. The consignments will be going east, west and north.”

“I thought we already discussed that, Paul. You said yourself that we can’t trust the consignments.”

“Right,” he said. “Especially since the one for Midland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning.”

I glanced up at Paul. “You mean you checked?”

“Only in a casual way. But I have worse news than that.”

“About Billy?”

“No.” Paul turned toward the window. His voice was so low I could barely hear it over the radio.

I asked him to repeat himself. He turned.

“My second conclusion, Annie,” he said. “The reason all travelers are being kept from going south along this road. The Russians bombed Detroit.”