The end of the world hasn’t exactly brought out humanity’s finest qualities. Raffe has seen people do the worst possible things to each other. I wish I could show him the other side – the best that we can be. But that’s just wishful thinking, isn’t it?
There are familiar faces among the volunteer fighters. Tattoo and Alpha from Alcatraz are there. Their real names are Dwaine and Randall, but I’d gotten used to thinking of them as Tattoo and Alpha, so I keep calling them that. Others are picking the names up, and if they don’t stop it soon, they’ll become their permanent nicknames.
It seems that half the group goes by nicknames. It’s as if everyone feels like they’re different people now, and so they shouldn’t have the same names as they did in the World Before.
I look up when people step aside to let a man in a suit and chauffeur’s hat walk up to me. Everyone stares at his exposed teeth and the raw meat where skin should have covered the bottom half of his face.
‘I heard your announcement,’ he says in his tortured way. ‘I’m glad you made it out of the aerie alive. I’m here to help.’
I give him a small smile. ‘Thank you. We could use your help.’
‘Yeah, as in right now,’ says Sanjay, waddling by us, trying to hold up his end of a stack of wooden planks. My ex-driver rushes over to help.
‘Thank you,’ says Sanjay with much relief.
I watch them load the planks onto a boat with easy camaraderie.
I feel like I have a lead submarine in my stomach when I think about all these people who will probably die because they believed me when I told them this was worth fighting for.
56
The sun flashes off the dark water of the bay below us. Even though it’s still afternoon, the sky has a fiery tinge with dark tendrils reaching across it. In the distance, the fire on the south end of the peninsula billows smoke into the air.
It’s not quite the reddish glow of the Pit, but it reminds me of it. Instead of being suffocatingly red, though, our burning civilization is ironically beautiful. The sky is alive and in motion with the reflected colors of the fire in hues of maroon, orange, yellow, and red. There are plumes of dark smoke shifting through the air, but instead of blotting out the colors, the sky blends and absorbs it, darkening some while contrasting with others.
Here on the concrete island that was once part of the beautiful Bay Bridge, the excitement is palpable. It throbs from every direction in the crowd – and it is a crowd now – as people mill around on the broken connection between San Francisco and the East Bay.
Everyone is helping set something up. Shirtless gang members show off their tattooed muscles as they climb to the highest points on the suspension bridge. The different gang factions race to fasten an enormous set of speakers and spotlights. The winner of the race claims some victory over the others for a prize that Dee and Dum have made worthwhile.
An impromptu stage is being built while people practice their talent show performances all around it. Crates have been stacked and are being nailed together for a fast and sloppy set of stage stairs.
Men in gray camouflage walk past me with their rifles. They wear large headphones around their necks and night vision goggles on their heads. I have headphones around my neck as well, but not the goggles. And instead of a rifle, I carry a pair of knives. There are plenty of guns, but the bullets are reserved for the experts.
A couple of them wear elaborate tentlike camouflage with bits of random stuff attached to it that makes me think of swamp monsters.
‘What are they wearing?’ I ask.
‘Ghillie suits,’ says Dee-Dum, walking by, as if that explains everything.
‘Right, of course.’ I nod as if I have a clue what that means.
I look around to see if I can be useful and find that everybody has their task and is busy doing it. Dee is handling the details of the show while Dum is organizing the audience, which is practicing the escape drill. The Colonel and the other council member who I’m starting to think of as the logistics lady weave through the throng, directing projects and keeping people on task.
Doc is handling the makeshift med station, which people avoid unless they’ve really hurt themselves. I admit, even I’m a little impressed with Doc’s dedication to people, even if I’ll always think he’s a monster for the things he did.
On the broken edge of the bridge where the rebar sticks out into the air, my sister sits with her legs dangling over the edge. Two of her scorpion-tailed pets lie curled up beside her while the third flies in loops in front of her. Maybe it’s catching fish. They are the only ones with space around them, as everybody gives them a wide berth.