Lions and Tigers and Emus, Oh my
Chapter 3 – After the Apocalypse
It was a bumpy and uncomfortable ride. And the old man prattled on happily behind her like old people do. Like when your Mom or Granma keeps an entire conversation going regardless of your actual involvement in it or not.
Those interminable phone calls she used to avoid and dread. On the one hand droning on about the flotsam and jetsam of an old person’s life but surfacing from the lily pads every once in a while to ask some prying or unanswerable personal question.
He was on a long soliloquy on the impact of humanity on the natural flow of water and how that was now being reversed as rivers and streams were allowed to make up their own minds. At least her part in this was limited to an occasional exasperated sigh.
She didn’t think he was dangerous. Not directly dangerous to her anyhow. She wasn’t sure if he was crazy or not. But these days they were all shades of crazy. Their minds were making up a new playbook as they went along. A couple million years of evolutionary imprint quickly washing away the patina of civilization. She was not quite sure of her own sanity, but, like everything else had buried those concerns in the business of day-to-day survival.
…
He had rigged up this contrived cart from spare parts at the dig site. Some bicycle wheels and other bits and pieces. After he had cleaned her infected toe and treated as best he could. The verdict wasn’t clear. He didn’t know if he’d have to go in and take a more aggressive approach, but he recommended giving it a chance to avoid losing the offending digit. They’d wait and see. But she couldn’t walk now.
He wanted to keep moving. He bustled around the dig site cackling to himself after stating out loud, “Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor, not a bicycle mechanic!” whatever that meant. Eventually he rigged up this cart with it’s hard axle and extremely cramped and uncomfortable conveyance.
They kept moving. Down the gravel road following the river westward towards the gulf.
…
She could probably kill him and the dog any time she wanted to. She was strong and fast, and she knew she was. But she was tired. Tired of the struggle. What was the point?
When she was a lawyer in her power suits with her perfect family and perfect husband she owned the world. The power of her life flowed through her and pulled people into her orbit just to feel a bit of buzz from the association. People were genuinely afraid of her. Every day. That was all gone.
Her young family died in her townhouse with her in attendance. All her power could do nothing to save them. Why did it spare her? What did she do to get left behind? She was hollowed out, numb.
After that it was just a blur of bumping from one place to another as everyone and everything she ever knew dissolved into the chaos like a great sucking flood. Eventually she ended up out here, out of the city, as far as the expensive black Navigator took her before running out of gas.
Then it was survival. Survival day to day. Learning how to get enough calories. Learning how to navigate the brutality of those who were left. She took care of herself. They all underestimated her. She was no helpless kid in the wilderness. She was smart and athletic. When they took a moment look at her, really look at her, they would see the broad shoulders and the twitch of lean bicep in her long arms.
And by then it was probably too late for them.
…
Bill, the dog, was lagging behind a few meters having rolled in something dead he was currently ostracized to the back of the pack, when she saw the four large animals in the road ahead.
“What the fuck are those? Ostriches?” She said. “Hold up, for Christ sake.”
The old man stopped his pushing and pulled a pair of glasses from his vest pocket wrapped in a chamois. He peered down the road curiously for a few seconds and corrected her. “Emu. Four Emu. Ostriches are from Africa, Emus are from Australia. There are no large flightless birds in North America. There’s the Rhea in South America and of course the Terror Bird, a nasty bit of work there, but they’ve been gone for a few million years.”
She looked at him speechless. Because she wanted to say “what the fuck are you talking about you crazy bastard?” but decided not to waste her breath as it might encourage him. Ok, Emus, ostriches, fucking Big Bird – what are they doing here?”
He scratched his beard, bits of dust circling like a weird halo. “Dunno. What say we go find out?” he smiled. “Why don’t you stay here and I’ll go see?”
“That’s not going to happen.” She said as she hoisted herself upright and gingerly began moving down the road with a the help of an improvised crutch.
He shrugged and followed.
The Emu’s seemed a bit skittish and retreated as they approached. Further up the road was a iron pipe gate with a sign that read “Hailey’s Animal Park”. The words were in a circus font and bracketed by representations of emus, monkeys, lions, tigers and other animals.
The old man brightened. “If they’ve got animals then they might have antibiotics! Let’s go!”
She held back. She hadn’t survived this long rushing into things. “Wait.” She said in a tone that made people wait. “What’s the plan?”
“Plan? Well, I suppose we go in and look for an admin building with a medical cabinet.”
“What about the animals?” She asked.
“I suppose they’re mostly dead or escaped by now, right? We just take it slow and easy and if we smell trouble, we leg it.” He winced a bit, remembering her foot. “I mean there’s two of us and if we find some antibiotics we can save your foot.”
She nodded but looked pensive.
…
The old man led the way. Gingerly picking his way with as much stealth as possible down the entranceway to the main park. She followed. Some of the cages were open. Some were still closed with the bones of whatever was left confined for eternity.
They checked a few buildings. There were bones here too. And not animal bones. Most of these buildings were retail or hospitality in nature and purpose but towards the back was a barn like structure that looked like what they were looking for.
In the darkened office room with its smattering of veterinary equipage the old man was rummaging through drawers and cabinets, using a hammer to force some of them. He was squinting at pill bottles in the dim light. “Dammit!” he cursed under his breath. “Can you read these labels? Were looking for ‘cipro’ and started to spell it for her but stopped on receipt of a hellish glare.
It was then that there was a roar. It was unmistakable. Like the portent of old movies about the heart of Africa itself. And it was close.
They looked at each other with a look that exchanged a volume of critical understanding with zero words spoken. She indicated a couple of pill bottles that she stuffed quickly into a pocket on her hip and they began to move to the door, but the sound of something heavy was there, blocking the way they had come.
She motioned to the old man and jumped with her good foot up on a counter. He clumsily followed. The heavy noises were just outside the door now. She reached up and grabbed one of the open bard rafters and swung herself up just as the lion rounded the corner looking for brunch.
The lion had a million years of evolutionary imperatives as well. Hunting monkeys was one of those.
The old man couldn’t reach the rafters. She swore and reached down a long arm, grabbed him and swung him up as the beast circled and growled a few feet below. They made their way along the barn beam to an eave at the end of the building with the Lion following them below.
She pushed out an aluminum grating and managed with some effort to pull them both up onto the roof.
…
The lion sat preening itself on a dirt mound and watching them on the roof. As if to say “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Well that was something…” the old man mused.
“No shit, Einstein, what now?” she spit at the lion and leaned back to look at the hazy southern sun. Cicadas squeaked their lazy violins. Hawks rode thermals over the river looking for fish. Two lost monkeys perched on a barn roof.