Ashes

By Audrey Peyton

The rain kept up. Day after day after day it kept up. I stayed in my room. Della brought in my meals. Alan finished the rototilling and went to the nursery for seeds. He came to show me what vegetbles hed chosen to plant and shook a handful of seeds on to his palm.

Look, Kit, absolutely perfect. Ill plant the leafy stuff now lettuce, spinach, cabbage, and Ill pollinate=by hand. In spring Ill plant squash, tomatoes and

I dont care what you plant! Im sick. Dont you know Im sick? You killed Mom. You took her from me. She gave meaning to my life.

Kit, I didnt kill

Now Im back to the start. The nightmares I stroked my forehead. You dont know my nightmares.

Thats because youve shut yourself up in this room. Why dont you get out there and start living? Dellas just a kid. She needs you, Kit.

What about me? Dont I need someone?

Yes, that little eleven year-old. She lost a mother. You lost a son. You could give each other so much.

My son was white.

If Mom had been black would you have cared for her?

My eyes ached with those hateful tears. They lodged there like rocks, pushing against my eyeballs, yet still refusing to fall. I tried to picture Mom with a black face. I saw her only as she haunted me, peaceful and smiling while I read that stupid Bible to her. I had loved her so much that day her color would have been negligible. But to compare her face with Dellas black one, to suggest Della could ever take my sons place Sweet Jesus, no child but my own could take Marks place.

Alans eyes turned to steel. He clenched his fist and shook the seeds in his palm, as if debating whether to fling them at me. He left the room.

I stood and watched rain pelt the patio. A monstrous idea crept into my head. It
Started to grow.
No child but my own. My own.

*********

February sixteenth. Marks birthday. The idea obsessed me completely now. I could think of nothing else. I would call him Mark. He would have my black hair, my pale skin, my dark eyes, my long body.

And I I would have my son.

Della entered with a dinner tray. I told her to send Alan in. He responded to my request almost two hours later. It was the first time Id seen him since he showed me the seeds. He said he and Della had been watching Gone with the wind. What did I want ?

I didnt hedge. I want you to get me pregnant.

What?

I need someone to love.

His mouth curled with contempt. As long as the kids white, huh? You effing snob!

Dont you use that word to me.

A cynical look darkened his eyes. The look turned to desire. He reached past me as if to switch off the lamp on the night table, but changed his mind and left it on. He slipped a hand inside my robe and cupped a breast

No foreplay! I screeched, backing away. I dont want any foreplay. Just just do it!

You bitch, he said, reaching toward me as I continued to back away. You bitch, he said again, and I knew by his trembling voice that he would stay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 26, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450014410

Audrey Peyton

Audrey Peyton has written three Harlequin romantic suspense novels, a disaster novel, and a biography of former MGM lion trainer, Floyd Humeston and his famous lion Fagan. Ms. Peyton has recently completed her next novel, Like a Diamond in the Sky. She lives in California.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

(ONCE UPON A TIME ON PLANET EARTH . . .)

KIT

I behaved so badly the day they left, refusing to wave or kiss them goodbye. Steve felt hurt because I wouldn’t join them, but I just didn’t feel like going, even though Mark had pleaded: Please, Mother, come with us. It’s New Year’s Day. Please, please.

In turn, I was upset that they wouldn’t stay home with me, explaining how I had knocked myself out with the Christmas decorations and serving the pre-cooked Christmas dinner Steve had picked up for me from the supermarket; driving to the Mountains had seemed more of a chore than a pleasure. Mark had started to cry, and I called him a baby: Eight year olds don’t cry because they don’t get to go sledding, I’d said, making him cry even more.

But, Mother, there might not be any more snow after this storm.

I don’t give a damn. I want to stay home, not go freezing to death in a piddly mountain resort! I gave Steve a withering stare. Now, if you’d prepared for Switzerland . . .

So what do you intend to do by staying home? he’d asked coldly. You’re certainly not going to watch the Rose Bowl Parade or the football game. Parades bore you and you hate football.

Maybe I don’t like driving for hours on end to go watch Mark careening down a stupid hill! I said angrily. Besides, I’ll have Rusty for company.

A dog, instead of your husband and son. Come on, Kit, Mark will be going back to school soon. Let’s take him somewhere fun for New Year’s Day.

They’d ended up going by themselves, and I had begrudgingly watched them drive away without so much as a kiss or a wave goodbye, and I felt thoroughly justified.

How was I to know I would never see them again?

*     *     *

The guilt tore me to pieces after the last voice died on the transmitter and I faced a hundred days of solitude. How did I manage to hang on? Was it the songs I composed in my head? The tricks I taught Rusty? The notes I kept? Perhaps it was the monopoly games I played when I changed chairs to make moves for Steve and Mark. Or the pool tournaments, with me slipping behind the bar to fix drinks for our friends; sipping them, too, impersonating their voices as I raised each glass.

Perhaps it was the conversations I held with myself in the mirror, or those I had with the rocking chair, pretending Mother sat there. Maybe it was the paper airplanes I flew, or—before realizing I was consuming too much air—the crazy jazz dancing, the wild ballet leaps to the music on the cassette—the anything—anything—to hang on to my mind.

Seeing myself now in the mirror, I think perhaps I am a bit mad. There’s a frenzy in my eyes that wasn’t there before that horrifying New Year’s Day. My lips are cracked and bleeding from ripping the skin with my teeth. My hair hangs dull and stringy on my shoulders; a few strands of grey stand out against the black. I’ve aged. I look older than my thirty-nine years and I don’t care—I, who gloried in my image. Does that add up to insanity? What the hell? I’m alive. That is what I cling to.

Everything clings to life, as the voices did on the transmitter, each one dying off all over the world. I hear those voices still. I will always hear them: American, British, Australian, Oriental, Russian, French, German.

Then there were the languages I couldn’t identify. They used their own words when they knew it was really happening. I could tell that by the hysteria in their voices. The English-speaking voices were also hard to understand at the end. It’s their last edited broadcast I’ll never forget:

"A deadly combination of gas and germs has been released on our planet. Those at work, on the street, or in their cars, are urged to return to their loved ones. The end—and this is inevitable; already we are drawing these pernicious toxins into our lungs—will come from this moment on to approximately one week. Those few who, at the time of the disaster, happened to be in shelters of the type that seals out poisonous gas, or those submerged in submarines equipped with supplies for extended survival, are advised to confine themselves for one hundred days. The few sources we’ve been able to gather say all deadly traces should have by then evaporated. Do not—we repeat—do not permit outsiders to enter your shelter or the contamination will reach you, too.

World authorities say that though this maniacal act has obviously been well planned, it seems to have no political purpose; Arab countries and the free world have been affected equally. This is global genocide. Comments by famed evangelist Destrier are unavailable. His Holiness the Pope has but this to say: ‘May God have mercy on our souls.’

God. There was no God.

As for Destrier, I hoped he was dead already.

One couple and their three children came to my shelter door. They said they were neighbors from across the street. I didn’t know them; I had never mixed with my neighbors. They must have broken into the house. They spoke to me from the intercom. I told them to go away. Those were my only words: Go away.

The woman pleaded. The children cried. The man said this was Southern California; there was a whole ocean to go before the gases reached us. He obviously hadn’t listened to the announcements properly; apparently there wasn’t a spot on earth that hadn’t been contaminated at the same point in time.

One of the children—by his voice, he could have been my own son’s age—sobbed that he didn’t want to die. Rusty barked and pawed the door. Recalling the announcer’s warning to keep our shelter doors closed, I pulled him away, feeling the life in his body, the vitality in his glossy red coat. He would be my only link with life for the next hundred days, a living thing with a heart and a brain and warm, warm blood. Later, I would find he also had a voice. The pleadings turned to screams. The man shouted obscenities, son-of-a-bitching me till he was hoarse. He said he and his family would go home to die, and they would die without shame. As for me, I was inhuman. I would be punished. I would go to hell.

Hearing those screams was hell enough. But when the family went away, when the voices died on the transmitter, when the electricity shut off in a blink and I was left with only a fluorescent battery lamp . . . that was the real hell.

I crouched down and held Rusty close. He licked my face, and for the first time ever I didn’t react with disgust. I glanced around the shelter. Darkness. Total darkness, except for the lamp I’d left by the transmitter, beaming its light on the dead controls.

Was this my punishment for insisting that Steve buy this house? Had my disregard for his own wishes gotten me this? Was that man right? Was I inhuman?

Steve never really wanted this place; it was way too far above our means. I liked it because it stood on a quiet cul-de-sac and the empty lot next door was going for half a million.

My whole life had been trash until I married Steve.

The real estate agent apologized for the shelter when he showed us the house. He said he knew it was depressing, but we could use it for storage. Then he recovered and made his sales pitch. Hadn’t the original owner’s widow left everything as it was? Just look at those plans for survival: The sophisticated transmitter that received and broadcast worldwide, the cylinders of oxygen, all those lamps and batteries. The entire lot thrown in by the widow at no extra cost.

He didn’t have to sell me. There was a private school nearby for Mark. The neighborhood looked orderly: Spotless windows, well-tended lawns, no kids riding bikes on the sidewalks. The house itself was gorgeous. Five thousand square feet, and the master bedroom had a fireplace, so Steve and I could cuddle up romantically with a glass of wine after Mark went to bed. The spacious garden had a sparkling pool and Jacuzzi. Then there was that cul-de-sac and expensive lot next door . . . .

I clutched Steve’s arm. Let’s take it, darling.

I had to agree the shelter looked ugly. Except for the emergency supplies, the enormous room stood bare. No windows, no décor, no color. Just dull steel walls, steel ceiling, and bare overhead light. Though the door closed behind us automatically and could be reopened by an inside button, I noticed a wheel had been installed to lock and open it manually, I suppose in case the electricity failed.

It seemed amazing how much space had been devoted to food, water and air, especially air. A maze of cylinders stacked nearly to the ceiling had been arranged against an entire wall in a honeycomb with tubes connecting to each successive stack. With the air as musty as it smelled in there, it wouldn’t have hurt to use a couple of those cylinders right then.

Bottled water, canned food, medical equipment, lamps, flashlights, plus miscellaneous supplies, occupied yet another wall. The toilet stood in an alcove, half concealed by a curtain; it even had a flusher. Where the water went after traveling through that massive pipe was anyone’s guess.

All this because some kook thought the world would end. Then he’d upped and died anyway.

Yes, the shelter looked ugly. But something about it appealed to my own need for shelter, to be loved, to be held, to be secure.

Steve looked at me. He always said he had only to look and he was done for. He asked if I really wanted the house. I said yes, really. He told the agent there was no rush to sell our present house; he would call his parents in Michigan and they would send him the down payment. Then he pushed the red button on the wall beside the door and said let’s get out there.

. . . .

After we moved in, I started to see the shelter’s possibilities. With a good ventilating system, we could use it for all manner of purposes: Den, Mark’s cub scout meetings, entertaining. With the door removed and pretty paper on the walls where the steps led down to the shelter, it could be quite a showcase.

No time was lost after Steve agreed to spiff it up. I had drapes hung to hide the heavy steel and maze of cylinders, an acoustic ceiling and phone jack installed, wall-to-wall carpet laid. Steve studied up on transmitters, took a test, and obtained an operator’s license. He brought in a pool table, a TV, furniture, hired a man to build a wet bar.

I didn’t push the ventilating system because we’d already gone way over our heads. With deodorizer to take care of the musty smell, six or eight people could be comfortable down there for an evening.

It didn’t bother me to be alone in the shelter with the door closed. I liked the seclusion, just as I liked the house, the street, that we kept our distance from our neighbors. Steve would have liked to mix a little more, but I said familiarity with neighbors led to trouble; we’d stick to our own small circle of friends.

Just for a laugh one giddy evening, Steve suggested we stage an emergency drill. First, he said, no smoking, and put out my cigarette, saying the air would be too precious to burn up with smoke. He poured his drink down the sink behind the bar; alcohol, he said, affected one’s heart and breathing capacity. He got a couple of fluorescent battery lamps which gave out quite a bit of light. He handed one to me, then switched off the table lamps.

I said surely the first thing we’d need in an emergency was air—I longed to learn how those things worked. He slid me a quizzical look and went to the wall of oxygen cylinders. He opened the drapes and said, go on, give us a steady stream of air. He touched two implements he called a master valve and master regulator. He explained how to use them. I followed his instructions and heard a hiss. There, I said, I wasn’t so dumb, was I?

Oh no? he said. If we rushed to the cylinders at the first alert we’d be out of air in no time. I reminded how many there were. Yes, he said, but who’s to know how long we would have to stay in the shelter? Besides, he added, we would use something else in conjunction. He reached up to a pile of bags labeled SODALIME and ripped one open. He scooped out a handful of granules and said a fresh supply would have to be maintained in those mesh-like pails to absorb the carbon monoxide. I asked how come he knew so much. He said law wasn’t the only thing he’d studied at Stanford. He turned off the valve and went to the transmitter. I followed, suddenly regretting the game. It seemed eerie down there, walking about with our lamps, everything dead quiet except our muffled footsteps on the carpet.

I didn’t want to say I felt uneasy because Steve would have said the usual thing: I hadn’t the stomach for reality. If this mimicked reality, he was right. I may have cringed at such things as financial insecurity, pain, blood, but this kind of reality, I told myself, I could never face.

Watching him fool with the transmitter, I saw there were twelve controls, but he only used about five. The different languages he tuned to were amazingly clear considering the miles we crossed.

I glanced at the black cavern behind us and suggested we quit. He said, not yet, we needed food and drink to sustain us. He took two cans of tomato soup from the well-stocked cabinet, poured water into a pitcher from a five gallon bottle then poured helpings for both of us into paper cups, slopping some on the carpet and over my feet.

He said we couldn’t warm the soup, remember, because the heat would absorb too much air. The water had to stay tepid, too, as we’d have no manpower operating the generating stations. He was fired up with his crazy charade. Living it. Loving it!

He raised his cup and said skoal. I knocked it from his hand, saying the water would be tainted. He used a four-letter word and said bottled water kept indefinitely; as long as it remained sealed, no impurities could get in.

Steve never used those words, not to me. He’d had too much to drink, that was his trouble. He reached over and switched off the table lamp and said he could think of better things to do in the dark.

. . . .

I reluctantly did a few chores after they left for the mountains which the cleaning woman hadn’t got down to because of the holidays. Then taking my cigarettes, I went down to the shelter with Rusty to read for a while and maybe watch a little TV.

Three or four hours later, the words, SPECIAL BULLETIN came on the screen. An announcer said that strange deaths were being reported by several nations. The announcer, very reserved, very hesitant, advised viewers to stay inside, shut their doors and windows, and receive all further news from their radios; television stations were closing down until additional information could be obtained. Closing down? TV stations didn’t close down just because a handful of people got—What did they get? Viral influenza? Botulism? What the hell did he say they got?

Switching on the transmitter, I tuned to a voice very different from that of the TV announcer. This one sounded bewildered, frightened. He said communications had learned that something lethal was drifting through the atmosphere. Something that had been launched in number by country or countries unknown. No explosions. No radiation. Just a smell resembling weed killer. A floating poison meant for mankind.

I lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. It was a hoax. Some sadist had—Chills ran through me as the voice reported that the situation seemed to be getting worse. All over the world people were dropping like flies. Flies were dropping, too. And animals, and birds. Just dropping. Instant death.

The telephone’s soft warble made me jump. I ran across the shelter and picked up the receiver, thinking it might be Steve calling to say everything was all right, that some turkey with a warped sense of humor had tried to play a New Year’s joke on listeners in the area.

Kit!

Mother!

Kit, which room are you in?

The shelter. Did you hear that crazy announce—

Thank God! Are Steve and Mark with you?

They went to Idyllwild. Have you—

"Oh, my poor girl—you’re alone!"

It’s a joke, isn’t it, mother? Why would anyone—

It’s true, Kit, believe me, it’s true.

How the hell would you know? People do all sorts of screwy things through the radio. I was screeching now, curling the cigarette around my fingers.

The news also came through on TV. They wouldn’t—

She broke off as I dragged the phone from the coffee table to the floor. I started to pace.

Kit, are you all right?

What a dumb question!

How long have you been in the shelter?

About four hours.

Don’t leave.

What do you mean, don’t leave? I can’t stay down here. I stopped pacing and squashed out my cigarette. Are you home/

I’m in the sitting room. I’ve laid towels along the door and window cracks and stuffed a rug up the chimney, just in case there’s a chance. And I know there isn’t. Mitzi’s acting strange . . . she can’t meow. Don’t leave the shelter until the poison’s gone. Promise me that. You’ll probably have to stay down there a week or two, but you’ve got enough supplies—

"A week or two!"

You’ll be okay. You like solitude. Most people—

I don’t want to live without Steve and Mark. What was I doing, buying into this? It wasn’t true; it didn’t happen.

We all want to live, Kit. You do, too. Why did Steve take off like that? He always watches the Rose Bowl Parade New Year’s Day. And then he loves the foot—

He—he wanted to take Mark to the snow. A thing colder than ice clutched my heart. A thing I didn’t want to recognize.

Don’t blaspheme, sweetheart, not at a time like this.

Quit that talk! You know none of this is true.

"Face reality, Kit, you never could do that. It’s the end of the world. The end.

We were both horribly silent. I said: I’ll come out and get you.

No, Stay where it’s safe.

Look, it’ll take me twenty—

"Kit, the poison hit the air way before anyone knew to announce it. It could have even been in the air before you went down to the shelter. But you do have a chance. So stay there. And pray to God He’ll save you from whatever it is that’s outside. And don’t open the door to anyone, not even Steve and Mark. If you open it a crack you’ll—"

"What an awful thing to say!"

I’m only being practical. You’re my daughter, I want you to live. Anyway— her voice took on an artful note—Steve’s too smart to try making it back to the house when he knows he and Mark can survive in Idyllwild.

I thought you said this was the end for everyone.

I meant for most people. But not in high altitudes where the temperature’s below freezing. There must be places the poison can’t reach. Idyllwild could be one of them.

I lit another cigarette. My hand trembled as I raised the lighter. You’re just saying that to—

It’s something for you to hang on to, Kit.

The line clicked and we lost each other. A man’s voice said: Hullo—hullo! Is this the fire department?

Another click. Kit! Don’t go away!

I’m here, Mother! Jesus, it was true.

Oh, Kit, we should have listened to Destrier. Hr warned everyone the world would end if we didn’t change our wicked ways.

Destrier’s a nut and you know it. He just preaches that gloom and doom so people will panic and send him money. He’s a con artist, a bloodsucker.

Kit, I’m scared.

Oh, Mother! I said I loved her. I apologized for my snobbishness, for the bitch I was in my teens. You’re not going to die, I added. I didn’t really believe that; the lead weight in my heart told me otherwise. My mother was dying, and that went for the rest of humanity.

She assured me I was the best child a mother ever had. A lie. But I needed to hear it. She begged me to bury her body deep in the sand on the beach, to make a cross and say a few words over her grave. Then she said to please call her Mom just once, the way I did when I was little.

We were cut off again, then the line got tangled with gibberish. It was a miracle she’d managed to get through to me in the first place. From then on I was cut off from the world, though the broadcasts were pretty constant. I heard a lot of wailing, cussing, crying, a lot of mumbled prayers. A man with