SLUDGE: The Lemony-Fresh Apocalypse

By Bayla Dornon

“Bayla Dornon has crafted a fantastic work of high drama and full-on action adventure that will tickle anyone who enjoys a slightly tongue-in-cheek look at our current and future political state. The result has a witty undertone, which speaks volumes about human nature and our desperate need for survival, and this plays out well alongside the more serious aspects of the plot. One of the major highlights for me was the dialogue, which leaped off the pages with a fresh zeal and gave the ethos and energy of each new arrival to the ensemble cast. It felt nicely balanced between cinematic dialogue and how real people speak in these chaotic situations. Overall, I highly recommend Sludge: The Lemony-Fresh Apocalypse as a fun dystopian adventure that’s well-penned, poignant, and memorable long after you set it down.”
Reviewed by K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bayla Dornon
• Release date: Mar 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781005256159

Bayla Dornon

Bayla Dornon’s first book is “Gay Testaments, Old & New” an edited compilation of texts from both famous and obscure literature that paint a vivid and exciting portrait of men loving men.In 2020 and 2021, Dornon published the four-book RESTORATION series, the story of twenty-year old Chris Brenner, a gay man fleeing from his ultra-religious parents and their efforts to 'torture him straight' through religious conversion therapy. Escaping to the Center in San Francisco, Chris meets and befriends fellow initiates George and Mary — and falls head over heels in love with Tom Griffin, a charismatic Priest at the San Francisco Center for Restoration. The four novels follow these young adults as they struggle for independence and restoration from indoctrination and abuses of religious and patriarchal families and society.In 2022, Dornon has released the new series of “Jake Bennett Adventures”, the stories of sexy bisexual rookie LA cop Jake Bennett, trying desperately to make his way in the asphalt jungle of Los Angeles.Married to one man since late 1988, Bayla Dornon is an author, critic, playwright, former teacher, silly pagan, photographer, cat-lover and videographer. A third generation Californian, Dornon and his husband recently escaped the absurd desert of San Diego and now live happily ever after in Seattle.

Book preview

May 2, 2022, La Jolla, California.

The mammoth rogue wave rolled eastward, still a mile off the shore of La Jolla, but rapidly approaching Scripps pier.

A purloined key turned in the rusty old lock, and the metal mesh gate opened for a moment, before clanging shut behind a scruffily-bearded young man with his hair buzzed short. The former student hurried down the pier, carrying a large Erlenmeyer flask in one hand, his flip flops slapping on the weathered wooden planks.

Unconcerned with the drama unfolding below, the ever-present clouds rising from the cold, deep water of the La Jolla Canyon swept majestically inland.

The man reached the end of the pier. The sun shone down on his shabby figure as he set the flask at his feet and took his phone out of his pocket.

Hey dudes, Tommy cheerfully greeted his own phone. I’m live streaming from Scripps pier today. The man gave a jaunty wave with his other hand.

Sup? Today’s live-stream is a big shout out to you know who— the girl who stole my heart. The scruffy young man winced dramatically and bit his lip for effect. She’s a genius, and she’s hot, and I love her. But that’s not why I’m on the pier today.

The phone jostled as Tommy Tanner bent to retrieve the flask full of opaque, slightly beige-colored liquid. Then the image steadied again. Below the video, the number of people actually watching showed plainly— twenty-seven. Tommy was playing to a small but dedicated audience today.

I’m here ‘cause our planet is dying ‘cause of all the plastic and oil spills in the ocean— and it’s bullshit! And when people like Rhonda try to do something to help, they’re getting stopped by big corporations!

His tanned face twisted in a grimace as he signaled virtue. He wiggled the flask of liquid in his hand.

This revolutionary, totally rad new organism that she created is going to save the world, ranted the young man. It eats oil AND plastic, dudes! She created it; but now the University is saying that it belongs to them, ‘cause she’s just a PhD student. They’re saying it has to be patented and sold, and you know what that means, right? Exxon is going to buy it and destroy it! Well I say that’s just more bullshit.

Thomas Alva Tanner thrust the arm holding the flask straight out from his body, making sure it was plainly visible in the streaming video. Bunches of thumbs-up emojis were appearing from the audience.

We made it through COVID, and the whole shitty Republican era, and we’re not going to let the suits stop us now! We are eco-warriors! I love you, Rhonda! he shouted at the phone.

Then he tipped the mysterious, manufactured substance into the churning waters below the pier. The contents of the flask stained the water for only a moment before dispersing rapidly into the water column. Little Tommy turned the phone back toward his own face.

Rhonda Marie Schiffer: Will you marry me, babe? he wept into the camera. Please? I did it for you! For us! For the future of Earth. He turned his face dramatically away, sniveling.

After a moment of acting, he looked back into the camera with a brave smile that revealed uninspiring teeth sporting some serious plaque buildup.

I’ll tell you what she says tomorrow. Peace out, dudes.

A click on the phone to stop the recording: then Tommy Tanner, former undergrad and nascent pre-med drop-out, expertly tagged his lady love in the video, adding several dozen hashtags, including such choice items as #FuckExxon, #NoSuits, #DesperateProposal, #BeachLove, #LaJollaLife, #UCSDSucks, #EndOfOilSpills, #PlasticWasteSolved, #EveryBreathYouTake #NeverGonnaGiveYouUp, #SunglassesAtNight, #IWantYouToWantMe, #OneWayOrAnother, #TurnAroundAndLookAtMe, and #Don’tYouWantMeBaby.

Turning back toward the gate, the frustrated Lothario in his tatty flip flops slapped back up the pier, through the gate, and up the big hill to where his car was parked on the steep twisted road with the rest of the surfers.

The sea swelled and surged back and forth as always. A plastic bag floating serenely on the ocean’s bosom drifted into the rapidly replicating bacterial cloud. The woman-made organism, based on the classic E.coli model augmented with ingenious additions using the CRISPR methods, encountered its first food source: it immediately latched onto the surface of the bag, ingesting and dissolving the flimsy sack. As the bacteria broke down the molecules of plastic, a faint hiss, subsumed in the ever-whispering surf, revealed the production of gases escaping from the feasting organism. A freshet of tiny bubbles foamed on the surface of the water, releasing a powerful lemony scent, quickly dispersed on the fresh ocean breeze.

The mammoth rogue wave completed its unscheduled journey and swept right up to Scripps Pier, lifting the disintegrating plastic Walmart bag within the water column almost five feet for a few seconds before subsiding. The rushing seawater, now filling rapidly with millions of copies of the cleverly modified bacteria, quickly began its irresistible passage southward, safe in the arms of the California current.

By the time Tommy Tanner reached his car, the fiendish, famished organism was smeared across half a mile of sea surface, feeding and reproducing on every molecule of plastic and oil it encountered.

As they polished off the nutritious plastic Walmart bag and began to starve, each of the millions of bacteria began to produce endospores— little DNA escape pods— that easily slipped free from the water’s embrace, rising on the eternal breeze toward the prestigious scientific communities clustered around La Jolla, California.

TWO

YEARS

LATER

Map of UCLA, 2024

Map of Los Angeles, 2024

Chapter 1: The Arrival of Cassandra

Thursday, May 2, 2024: Nine Days After The Full Pink Moon

Standing alone on the old overpass, Natasha gingerly brushed her calloused thumb across the keen edge of the old-fashioned straight-edge razor, one of a pair that the seven Hunters had chosen to use for this mission. She’d never used one of these things before, and she was intimidated by the long, exposed blade. But all of the easier, safer methods of shaving her head— electric clippers, electric razors, even plastic disposable razors— had all gone by the wayside, victims of the Bug in one way or another. This razor was all she had, and she was determined at all costs to shave her head, in solidarity with her stricken teacher. Natasha wanted her head to be perfectly smooth when she went to see the woman called Artemis, later this evening.

With a sigh, she raised the blade to her forehead, and carefully pulled the razor through her thick dark brown hair, shaving off strips to reveal her olive-skinned scalp beneath. It wasn’t as difficult as she’d feared it would be. This would have been much easier with a mirror, but she didn’t have one, and there was no time to go get one now. She could do it by feel. Within a few minutes of careful practice she had the knack of it.

Methodically she worked in silence, leaning with one hip against the guard rail of the deserted overpass, watching the strands of brown hair fall slowly into the drainage ditch twenty feet below. Several strands caught on the newly strung six-foot-tall chain-link perimeter fence that ran below the overpass and encircled a small area of the campus, keeping danger out.

Not a sound, not even a bird call, disturbed the afternoon silence. The sky over Los Angeles was a solid, unbroken dove-grey which seemed to swallow the few faint noises and conceal them.

A sudden damp breeze caught a clump of Natasha’s hair and wafted it south, down toward the old Intramural Field below, where newly planted crops and grazing livestock had replaced the worn and torn grass of yesteryear’s athletics. Billowing and turning, the brown hair floated at last onto the exposed surface of a streamlet of rain mixed with run-off wastewater.

The gentle rain that seemed to come every day this spring sprinkled against her black tunic, spattering onto her Bordeaux-colored hooded leather jacket where it lay draped over the guard rail beside her. The drastically altered climate of southern California had turned from endless drought to endless drizzle. Fat droplets gently dripped from the stiff pine needles and other greenery on either side of the overpass. More than half of her scalp was now reasonably smooth, and she hadn’t nicked herself once. Natasha was proud of her performance. Her teacher would be, too. And Natasha longer for her approval, even more than her own mother’s.

Looking down, the slender young woman was dismayed to notice that her black tunic was completely covered with little bits of wet hair; she should have just taken her top off before she started. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. There wasn’t another soul within a hundred yards; and anyway, almost all of the other people around were other women.

It was too late now; she would just have to spend some of her precious time cleaning her shirt when she got back to Powell Library. Natasha fervently hoped there would be enough time. She knew she was cutting it close already. But she would never, ever go upstairs like this. She had to be as presentable as possible: it would be disrespectful to let Artemis see her star pupil in such a state of grubbiness—

A scream and a splash wrenched her attention away from her task, and Natasha’s keen ears pinpointed the sound immediately. The woman froze, a slender statue, one hand raised, eyes searching. Across the old cinder track, ninety feet away, a figure desperately raced toward the overpass where Natasha stood. From ten yards behind her came a volley of snarling grunts, as several large shapes came hurtling toward the overpass. The running woman looked over her shoulder and screamed again.

Smoothly Natasha straightened and turned, snapped the razor shut with her left hand, and slid it into the left front pocket of her trousers. She wrapped her right hand around the pistol holstered under her left arm, drawing and aiming in one fluid motion. Another scream from below tore apart the gentle silence of the grassy expanse as the fleeing woman, disheveled and frantic in her movements, tripped, rose, then dropped and crawled, sobbing, up the steep muddy bank beneath the overpass.

At her heels lunged three large Pit bull dogs, hackles raised and snarling as they raced in for the kill, jaws gaping to seize flesh and bone and rip her struggling body to pieces.

Natasha’s first two shots blew apart the skulls of two of the Pits; but the third veered off with a grunting roar, thrashing quickly toward the cover of the underbrush. Before she could fire again, it was concealed within the thick brush.

Get up! Climb! Natasha yelled at the woman below the overpass. That Pit will come back any second!

The other woman stared up stupidly for an instant at the startling sight of a half-bald woman waving a gun, then nodded and struggled vainly to climb the steep-sloped side of the gulley. One of her legs was obviously injured, and she limped badly. She slipped in the mud again and fell. The brush below her quivered violently. She’d never make it.

Natasha wouldn’t have risked shooting the dog once it was near the woman, anyway. With a curse, she shoved the pistol into her shoulder holster, ran a few steps to the left along the overpass, then vaulted over the rail, dropping more than six feet straight down to land between the woman and the monstrous dog as it rumbled toward them through the bushes, about to attack.

Hurry up! Get up onto the road! Natasha yelled, and put both hands under the skinny woman’s rear to push her up the slope as fast as she could. The injured woman grabbed at the rough concrete edge of the overpass, struggling to pull herself up.

With a raging growl, the third Pit erupted from the thick brush five feet away and charged up the slope. The injured woman screamed, desperately pulling herself over the concrete wall.

Natasha whirled and set herself in battle position. As the dog lunged, she caught it neatly under the jaws with the steel toe cap of her right boot. The kick wasn’t hard enough to kill the beast, but it stunned her long enough to enable the Hunter to draw her weapon and fire one more shot neatly between the reddened, insane eyes of the howling monster.

As the injured woman above whimpered and collapsed onto the overpass, Natasha rolled the carcass over with her toe. The dead bitch’s teats were full; she was nursing a new generation of these feral horrors, probably somewhere nearby. Somewhere outside the perimeter.

I just hope your pups are too young to make it on their own, Natasha murmured bitterly at the dead dog.

Then she turned back to the bank. Above her, the woman she had rescued was leaning against the railing. Automatically Natasha noted the bloodied, torn pant leg of her faded jeans. The Hunter pulled herself quickly up the slope, vaulted over the rail, and joined the shaking newcomer.

Did she break the skin when she bit you? the Hunter demanded; many of these feral Pits had rabies.

What? No, none of them bit me; I slipped and cut my calf on a rock, answered the woman. Thank you for saving me.

Natasha just stared at her without smiling.

What’s your name? asked the panting woman.

I’m Natasha.

You don’t look Russian. The woman’s eyes flickered to the three-quarter shaved skull.

I’m not. Natasha reached her hand up to touch her nearly-smoothed scalp. What’s your name?

The injured woman looked away, her eyes shifty. Natasha stiffened.

Call me Cassandra, said the woman.

Can you walk?

Not very well. Cassandra shuddered as she stared down at the bloody Pit carcasses, lying in blood-soaked heaps below the overpass. We’re safe here, right?

No, answered the Hunter. What are your injuries?

Cassandra shrugged in exasperation and lifted her arms, then let them fall against her body. Well, I’m starving, this gash on my leg is killing me, I’m scared to death, and I pulled a muscle in my back climbing up here, said Cassandra. Otherwise, I’m doing just great. The newcomer looked around, ready to move on.

Where did you come from? Natasha made no move.

Cassandra simply shook her head, her eyes on the ground. Then she pointed westward.

There are no habitable homes west of here, declared Natasha, her voice hard. Where did you come from?

Cassandra pointed west, toward the ocean. Will Rogers Beach, jeez.

How did you get there?

By boat, of course, snapped Cassandra.

From where? demanded the Hunter.

But Cassandra had bent over, and was gingerly touching her leg through the rip in the denim. This really hurts. Can you take me to UCLA? she asked.

Natasha considered for a moment. I can. I’ll take you as far as Powell Library; but you’re going to have to come up with better answers before we get there, she cautioned. Let me have a look at your injury.

Natasha pulled her razor from her pocket, opened it, and slowly slit the threads binding the outside seam of the jeans, careful not to damage the denim, so the pantleg could be resewn later. Carefully the two women peered at Cassandra’s damaged, pale-skinned limb. The long cut was more of an abrasion, except for one gouge that had bled freely.

You’ll be alright, Natasha pronounced as she stood up. I have to finish.

Yeah, I was wondering: why are you shaving your head? Cassandra asked.

Natasha completely ignored the question, turning away with the razor raised to her head again.

Keep watch, Natasha ordered as she resumed shaving her shoulder-length dark-brown hair off.

Are we on the UCLA campus? asked Cassandra after a minute.

The shaking woman stared at the crops below the overpass, puzzled by this evidence of advanced agriculture on a university campus.

Don’t talk to me, just keep watch, growled the leather-clad woman.

The injured woman turned away in a huff. The gentle rain fell, forming a misty net on Cassandra’s fine, light-brown hair, sparkling her flushed face with a sprinkling of dew. The woman, clad only in a thin T-shirt, jeans, and wearing canvas tennis shoes, hugged her arms around her chilled body. Now that the adrenaline of the chase was wearing off, she felt very cold and weak. She’d already hiked seven miles through West Los Angeles, and entered what she hoped was UCLA by a gate in the fence, when those wild dogs showed up out of nowhere and attacked her.

Finally, Natasha snapped the razor shut and pocketed it, then brushed the wet hairs off her tunic as best she could before putting on her leather jacket. Ignoring Cassandra, she put her fingers to her lips and whistled. A whinny came from a clump of trees, and a big bay gelding, saddled and bridled, trotted toward them. Cassandra shrank back, but Natasha clicked her tongue, grabbed the pommel and leaped into the saddle, gesturing for Cassandra to follow. Cassandra hesitated.

Up! Put your left foot in the stirrup!

The Hunter reached down and pulled Cassandra onto the horse by her shaking hand. The injured woman awkwardly settled herself behind Natasha, touching her as little as possible. Checking the reins to the right, Natasha clicked her tongue again and the big horse moved off the overpass at a rapid walk. They proceeded down a circular ramp, and at the bottom Natasha hopped off and opened an unlocked gate in the chain-link perimeter fence, closing it again after they went through. She remounted.

How much further do we have to go? whined Cassandra.

Half a mile. Now shut up, and watch for Pits.

Natasha raised the leather hood from the back of her jacket and settled it over her bald scalp. They trotted across several athletic fields, making their way south and east. Burned and wrecked autos littered the sides of the streets, which had decomposed to gravel. All of the campus buildings they passed were dark, cold and empty. Ahead lay a long grassy courtyard, bisected by a path made of cement squares bordered with pale red brick.

As they rode east, the women passed several buildings bearing the marks of fire and other damage, then came to a long stair of shallow stone steps. Natasha directed the horse onto a faint path to right of the steps, through the high grass. The trees they passed were untrimmed and wild looking. The burned-out automobiles that had lined the streets before had given way here to the occasional rusted remains of scavenged bicycles. The maze of buildings on either side continued, all forlorn, ruined, abandoned.

Dispirited, the newcomer stared around miserably. "This is UCLA, isn’t it? Cassandra demanded anxiously. Where is everybody?"

Quiet!

They skirted a pool rank with algae and other growths; once a fountain of sparkling water had spurted fifty feet in the air from the pipe in the center.

The horse, obeying a subtle signal from his rider’s body language, slowed to a walk, then stopped. Natasha whistled, a complex little signal. The whistle was returned from a building ahead of them, though the tune was oddly different. The Hunter urged her mount to move forward.

They stopped within a wide courtyard. A paved walkway ran between two huge stone and brick buildings, towering on either side to three and four stories of intricate Romanesque Revival architecture. In many upper windows of the Library to the right small lights glowed, though none were visible on the ground floor. Natasha calmly rode her horse right up the broad steps to the small front door of the brick building on the right with the central rotunda above a peaked front. Without a word, the door opened and a tall, young, brown-skinned teen came out to meet them.

Get down, Natasha ordered Cassandra.

The young man reached his hands to help her. Michael, take Cassandra in to see Rosalind, please.

Cassandra slid gladly off the big horse and landed heavily on her feet, the injured leg buckling. Michael caught her.

Three Pits nearly took her down on the IM field, Natasha explained quickly. I’m going back now to clean up the carcasses and drag them off campus.

Eww, gross, Michael commented.

What time is it? asked the Hunter.

Just five o’clock, the tall young man answered.

Shit.

Natasha gestured curtly in farewell, turned, and spurred her big mount back the same way they had come. The hoofbeats of the big bay gelding slowly faded into the west.

Is she coming back? Cassandra muttered.

Michael took Cassandra’s arm and helped her to the Library door. The ornate entry opened before them.

No, but I’ll take care of you. Please follow me, offered the handsome young man, giving the newcomer a big warm smile. Where do you come from, Cassandra? he asked conversationally as they walked.

Cassandra fell into step beside Michael, still gawking at the grand old building with its beautiful, intricate stonework and tile patterns.

Arizona. I’ve been… out west for a while, she said vaguely. You?

Native of LA, laughed the young man.

They passed a large, ornate clock in the entrance, a massive work of art from the nineteenth century that ticked once every second.

How many people are here, at UCLA? she asked.

About a hundred seventy adults, he said, holding out his arm for her to hang onto.

Don’t tell me that includes you? demanded Cassandra.

Michael shrugged. Well, just barely; I turned eighteen last month.

How many children are here? Cassandra asked softly.

Some.

They turned right and made their way up a broad staircase, capped at the end with elaborate stone carvings of owls in flight. Michael walked slowly, Cassandra holding his arm with one hand and the banister with the other. His shoes made scuffing sounds that echoed down from the high arched ceiling.

Where is everyone? gasped the slender young woman.

Around. There aren’t that many people here, in Powell, he added. The whole campus lives in just four buildings now. This is the main building, Powell Library. Then there’s Royce Hall, across the way. And the two dorms and work areas, Kaplan and Haines, are east of here.

He waved his hand in their direction. They continued up to the second floor. Michael pointed through an arched doorway, into an elegant long room that spanned the entire front of the library.

This here used to be called the Reading Room. Now it’s where most of the manufacturers are, we call them the Makers, because they all make different things. But we’re going this way, he added.

Cassandra limped after him through a tall rotunda.

Cecil and the librarians are here; the Storytellers are across the way in Royce, up on the second and third floors; they like to see the sky. And of course they use the stage and practice rooms all the time.

Storytellers? Is that what you are? asked Cassandra, struggling to keep up.

Me? No, I’m just a Worker, Michael grinned. Most of the Workers are over in Haines and Kaplan, you know, all the riff raff.

You live in Haines?

Well, actually, I used to, but I just recently moved with some other guys into this building. One more flight, that’s all, I promise.

Again Cassandra pulled herself along with the handrails, holding on to Michael’s arm with the other hand. They slowly mounted to the third floor of the western wing, then made their way down a hall with various doors opening into rooms filled with books on shelves. Michael stopped at a big wooden door and knocked. It opened immediately, and a girl about eleven years old, with blonde hair in a short braid, peered solemnly up at them. Cassandra smiled tentatively.

Hey Missy, would you tell Rosalind I got a new patient for her? Michael smiled.

Missy nodded without cracking a smile and closed the door. There came the sound of feet as she ran from the door. Michael led Cassandra back the way they’d come, to the first door in the hall, opening onto a long narrow room with tall windows, a bed, and a chair in front of a small dresser. An unlit candle stood on the dresser beside a basin and ewer.

Just relax here. He gestured toward the wooden chair, and Cassandra sank gratefully down onto it. Rosalind will take good care of you, Cassandra. I’ll see you later, the young man said with a warm smile at the injured newcomer. Then Michael turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Cassandra waited in the perfect silence for a few minutes, then the door opened and closed behind a portly white woman of about fifty with dark hair shot with threads of silver. She was wearing a stethoscope and a white coat, and carrying a cotton exam gown and some other things. Even without them her profession would have been obvious from the way she engaged and evaluated her patient. She took a notepad and a pencil from the pocket of the coat.

Hi there. I’m Rosalind, said the physician. What’s your name?

Call me Cassandra.

Alright, Rosalind said as she wrote. Where are you from, Cassandra?

I just arrived, today, on Will Rogers Beach, explained the tired and injured woman.

Rosalind gave a tight little smile. You haven’t been living on the beach, she pointed out.

No, of course I wasn’t… I landed there. Cassandra looked around the room for inspiration, then decided on the truth. I’ve been on Catalina for a while.

I see, said Rosalind, making notes on the pad. My colleague, Bobby, was on Catalina recently. He said the people there were in desperate need of water, and without it, they’d have to abandon the island.

Cassandra looked away, silent.

I’m going to give you a physical exam, and afterwards I suspect you’d like something to eat.

Cassandra let out her breath in a whoosh as her shoulders relaxed. Oh, yes, thank you, she said. Where’s the dining room?

My niece, Missy, will bring your dinner here tonight, Rosalind said smoothly. Since you’ve come from outside of the city, we’ll need you to isolate for twenty-four hours. It’s just a precaution. Could you please change into this exam gown? Rosalind tactfully turned away and looked out the window.

Sure. No, that’s fine, a quarantine makes perfect sense, Cassandra said as she pulled her top over her head and shucked her pants and shoes. The gown was the regular type that opened in the back.

Rosalind made a quick, thorough physical examination of her new patient, running down a checklist on her pad. In addition to checking for lice, various illnesses, bruises, and signs of other problems, the physician asked polite but leading questions about Cassandra’s biography, receiving evasive or minimal answers.

Cassandra, in turn, asked several questions about what kind of people and how many were at UCLA, which Rosalind deftly dodged.

Rosalind wrote on her pad that the subject presented with no complaints or symptoms. White, female, around twenty-five, light brown hair, blue eyes, appearance consistent with life in a beach community such as Catalina, experiencing progressively worsening living conditions.

Rosalind next cleaned and bandaged the gouge on the injured leg.

Can you tell me anything about this place? Cassandra finally asked, her voice tight with a mixture of anxiety and exhaustion.

I’m going to send a young man named Danny up to talk to you, after you’ve eaten, Rosalind announced. He’s one of our Storytellers, as they’ve chosen to call themselves. There was a note of amusement in the doctor’s voice. And I’ll see that you get some thread and a needle, to sew up those jeans.

OK, that would be great. What are the storytellers, are they actors?

Actors, comics, singers, performers, entertainers. Some of them were students, some were film makers, some were professors, before. All of them have talents that make life better in one way or another. Without them the days would be very slow and dark. Rosalind smiled encouragingly. You’ll be comfortable here, and as soon as Missy gets back with your dinner, I’ll have her fetch Danny for you.

‘Thanks… I’m sorry, I forgot your name," Cassandra said.

Rosalind. The bathroom’s there, the doctor pointed at a door in the hall just outside. There is no shower on this floor, so you’ll need to make do. Rosalind pointed at some soap, a small white towel and washcloth folded on the dresser. Cassandra peered at the basin and ewer and nodded.

Rosalind smiled and left the room.

The newcomer stood alone in the center of the room, staring through the window into the westering sunlight, weak behind the stacked rows of bright grey clouds that reached to the horizon. Fighting the urge to lie down and go to sleep, Cassandra stripped off her exam gown and washed as well as she could. Then, with nothing else to wear, she put her torn and dirty clothes back on, sat down on the cot and leaned her back against the cold stone wall. Within moments she was fast asleep.

The knock at the door awakened Cassandra, and she called out. Come in.

The same blonde girl, Missy, poked her head in and then carried a small tray in, placing it on the dresser in silence.

Thank you, Cassandra said.

Missy nodded quickly and silently left the room. The dinner consisted of a whole-wheat roll, a glass of water treated for drinking with iodine, and a small bowl of chicken and vegetable soup. Cassandra downed it slowly, savoring the flavors. Afterwards, wishing she had a toothbrush, she scrubbed at her teeth with a corner of the washcloth.

Before she had time to grow too impatient, a knock on the door announced the arrival of the promised Danny. Cassandra was surprised to see a man much younger than herself on the other side of the door when she opened it. Disgruntled, she pulled vainly at her dirty, damaged clothes, trying to make them look better.

Hi, she said, and stopped.

Danny just grinned at her embarrassment. Not what you were expecting? he guessed accurately.

No, but I’m such a mess, began the woman.

That’s all right, Danny waved the objection away. Things are not always as they seem. Since you’re in quarantine, I’ll sit out here in the hall, and you can sit on the bed, and we’ll talk. I can tell you a lot about UCLA, about Los Angeles, and about the people you’ll meet here. Go on, he urged. Sit down and relax. Would you like to start by telling me your name, and how you got here?

Sure, said Cassandra, still flustered by how young and handsome the blonde man was.

She turned and sat down on her cot, five feet from the open door. Danny had brought a wooden chair and a guitar with him; he placed the chair just outside the open doorway and sat down, the guitar on his left thigh. As he messed with the pegs, tuning, Cassandra took stock: thick, floppy, golden-brown hair dropped over deep-set blue eyes beneath perfectly straight dark blonde eyebrows. The face was long and angular, with a pronounced cleft chin and even, white teeth. The nose was also long and straight, making the entire face pointedly masculine and powerful and sexy, all at once. Cassandra suddenly realized she was staring, stopped, and looked away.

The young man finished tuning his guitar and began gently strumming, idly playing slow chords, first strumming, then picking out a series of ascending notes. Major, minor, diminished, chromatic. Danny smiled wolfishly. You were about to tell me your name, and how you came to UCLA, he reminded, his voice resonant but gentle, a lazy little drawl lurking beneath the polished surface.

Um, yeah, answered Cassandra, then cleared her throat. Well, I’m Cassandra; I landed at Will Rogers Beach this morning. And the guy who brought me said it was just a few miles to UCLA and I could get shelter and food here. She stopped.

Danny tickled the strings. More like seven or eight miles, he murmured. Why did he take you to Will Rogers?

Well, I didn’t want to go to St. Timothy’s, Cassandra started, then stopped and looked hard at the youth.

Danny watched her, his deep blue eyes glowing in the window light, strumming gently on his guitar.

He wanted to take me there, but I said no. I told him to bring me to UCLA.

I’m glad you chose us, Danny smiled, his teeth sharp and white. Who did you say brought you to the beach?

A fisherman, I think; he had a sailboat, anyway, Cassandra said. She leaned back against the wall. I thought there would be more people here. Not even two hundred?

Danny pursed his lips as he shook his golden head. How long were you on Catalina?

Forever. Cassandra closed her eyes and tried to breathe normally.

Danny shifted into a jaunty little jig. Catalina, Catalina, Niña, Pinta, and Santa Maria, he sang, his voice a light, happy tenor. He stopped and giggled, and Cassandra found herself smiling for the first time in months. He began picking a simple tune with nimble fingers, and Cassandra suddenly recognized it.

Is that Mozart? she asked.

Danny just smiled and nodded. Cassandra found herself tapping her toes on the floor. What can you tell me about UCLA? she said. How long have you been here?

Forever, Danny repeated, a teasing smile on his face. His playing shifted into a meandering, minor tune, his fingers slow, the notes soft and glistening. The evening darkened in the long room. Cassandra waited.

Hm, let’s start with a brief history. UCLA was founded a hundred years ago as an offshoot of UC Berkeley. It grew to become one of the largest and most prestigious universities in the world. Before the Bug, there were fifty thousand men and women on campus here at UCLA, living, working, and studying.

The music changed, became darker and faster.

Then the Covid shutdown happened, and a large number of people left and never returned. After the spring semester ended in 2022, the Bug moved in and began corrupting everything made of plastic or petroleum. By the time the problem had been identified, it was too late. Computers and phones, gasoline and motor oil, toothbrushes, trash bags, chairs and polyester dresses: it all began to weaken and corrupt, leaving behind the useless Sludge, and a lemony-fresh scent that lingered after the Bug had eaten its fill.

The notes of the guitar became more urgent, quicker.

We thought we could survive, could adapt, could overcome. So many scientists and brilliant minds, all gathered together in one place: how could we lose? Even after communication was reduced to paper or telegraph, even after all the oil and petroleum had been transformed to Sludge and the freeways were silent and still, folks around here still thought we had a chance.

Danny played a series of strident chords, like gun blasts.

We thought help would come. We thought we’d overcome the Bug. The riots for firewood, food and water didn’t get going in earnest until Christmas of 2022. He paused in his story. Want to light that candle? he said gently, pointing with his chin.

Cassandra got up stiffly, found some matches in the top drawer of the dresser, and the candle glowed in the dark. She settled back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged, picking at the little cut threads protruding from the seam of her blue jeans.

By then the water system was crippled, the electrical grid was totally dysfunctional. Mold was running wild through the city. Fires raged non-stop for weeks, there was nothing we could do to put them out. When the easily available food ran out, that’s when the real fighting started.

His fingers strummed hard and fast, like the rat-tat-tat of gunfire.

Was it like that where you were, too? he asked.

Cassandra stared into the past. No. The Covid shutdown was largely ignored on the island. For us, it was the water. The wells began to dry up even before 2022, and when I got there they were running the desalination plant night and day. When the phones and TVs stopped working in September, no one had figured out that petroleum was at risk. They found out when the power plant stopped, just before October. Then the desalination plant shut down. There had been a lot of stockpiling leading up to it, but the water was mainly in plastic containers. She shuddered. That’s when the guns really came out: when the water bottles all collapsed. Only sailboats were coming into Avalon by that time, and people started talking all kinds of wild shit. The people with guns ended up with most of the potable water. That ran out just before New Year’s 2023… Her voice trailed off.

Before the Nuke Winter, Danny intoned.

Cassandra stared at her lap, where her fingers idly twisted around each other slowly. At least the rains came last year, Cassandra said. After.

Danny cleared his throat. We had a guy here from San Diego, for a while. He escaped just after it blew up. He’d been mountain biking everywhere since his car died. That day, he’d ridden all the way up the Laguna mountains beside interstate eight, east of the city. He had just gotten to the summit when it happened. He said it looked exactly like all the films: a mushroom cloud, and the earth shook. Then another, and another. He couldn’t stop himself from looking, he said. He watched all six of the nuclear explosions.

Danny played a series of jangling, discordant notes, like scary music from a movie.

He said he stood there and cried and threw up. Then he got back on his bicycle and started for LA. He played Miss Gulch’s theme, over and over. He made it in four days. If he’d been on a ten-speed with thin tires, he said, he never would have made it. But he was on an old aluminum frame mountain bike, and everything worked except the light made of plastic. We still have the bike; one of our Hunters uses it.

Hunters? asked Cassandra warily.

Our cops, the enforcers, the muscle. They chose the term Hunters. They think it sounds less military. And they’ve all chosen to go by assumed names, so that they can keep some space between their personal lives and their jobs. Actually, a lot of people here are going by assumed names, now that I think about it.

Why? Cassandra yawned, helpless to stop it.

Oh you know, it’s the American way: change your name, change your luck. In other parts of the world, you’re stuck with your name all your life. It defines who you are. But here, especially in the Wild West, it’s different. We Westerners have a long tradition of taking on a new name. Calamity Jane, Billy The Kid, Three-Finger Jack, Ye.

He played a riff from Purple Rain.

So what are these Hunters called?

Artemis is First Hunter, then Domino, Athena, Natasha, Gamora, Diana, Xena, and Carter.

Cassandra looked up as Danny played the riff from Dragnet.

Natasha? she asked.

Yeah. She’s the one who saved your ass, Michael said.

Cassandra turned and unfolded the blanket at the foot of her cot, then wrapped it around her shoulders before settling back against the wall. She did. And she seemed really put out about it, frankly. I felt like I should apologize for getting attacked by those monsters and interrupting her life. The woman shook her head.

They’re having a very rough time today, I heard, Danny said.

He played the tune from the death march slowly. Cassandra frowned.

But let’s not talk about that. You’re safe here, and that’s what’s important. You made it.

Go on, tell me more about UCLA. Please, added Cassandra. Unless you’re tired?

No, I’ve got plenty of juice left, laughed the young man. He played a few bars of Wrecking Ball, and Cassandra smiled again. But aren’t you about to collapse? asked Danny.

Casandra settled herself more comfortably. No, tell me more, I’ll sleep afterward. Wish I had some coffee, or a drink.

Wine’s a lot easier to come by than coffee, Danny smiled back. Anyway, the man who came from San Diego, he stayed in Royce with me when he first arrived. His name was Thomas, and he was twenty-six. He was working in a biotech company in Sorrento Valley, he said, and his girlfriend and he were planning to move in together, before the Bug. She lived in downtown San Diego, right by the blasts. That’s why he didn’t go back down the mountain. He knew everything was gone. Danny strummed.

You were a student in the dorms here before? prompted Cassandra.

Still am, technically. Theater and Film major, or I was going to be, when I declared. I moved in August 2022, just as everything started to fall apart. And my dorm was one of the first to go, from the mold.

You mentioned the mold before.

The plastic pipes all started leaking, and then the black mold spread quickly through the drywall, took over and we had to get out fast. Lots of people with allergies and asthma were very sick from mold that fall, and many died even before the riots and the Nuke Winter. It seemed like everything fell apart very quickly. The campus emergency committee moved everyone who was left into the four oldest buildings: Royce Hall, Haines, Kaplan, and of course this place, Powell Library, because they were mostly free of plastic plumbing. They scavenged beds and furniture, and tried to set up kitchens and stuff. Sanitation was really awful that first year, I’ll tell you. If only we’d had some competent carpenters and construction workers, instead of a lot of eggheads!

He played some loopy, awkward jangling notes and Cassandra giggled, a bright sweet laugh. Danny grinned at her.

They had just got things sorted out a bit when the Nuke Winter hit. We don’t think San Diego was the first, but it was one of the worst, because the Navy had all six of the nukes in the harbor right then. And later, you know, when messengers started coming from the east, we got news that it had happened in a lot of other cities, too. Basically wherever the military had a big base with nukes, they ended up blowing themselves to kingdom come. One of the tech guys thought it was because the targeting systems had all these fail safes to keep from being isolated from radio communication, and once all the wireless networks collapsed, the paranoid generals in charge would decide we were under attack and give the order to fire.

The guitar lay silent in his hands.

We’ll never know for sure. Maybe the Bug ate the guts out of the bombs and made them fire. Maybe it’s all Tommy Tanner’s fault, like the songs say.

Huh? Cassandra was startled. What are you talking about?

Boy, you HAVE been out of touch, haven’t you? Danny said, cocking a blonde eyebrow.

Cassandra just nodded, a line forming between her slim brows.

‘Tommy Tanner stole the Bug’, Danny sang as he played. ’Stole it from the lab’ratory; he took it down to the ocean, and threw it into the sea. He stole it for the love of Rhonda, the girl he longed to marry, and threw it into the deep blue sea.’ You never heard that song?

Cassandra shook her head.

Yeah, there was a video, went totally viral: the dumb-shit actually livestreamed himself pouring it into the ocean off Scripps pier— then he proposed to her! There was a rap song, too, but I can’t do rap. You must have seen the video, it was everywhere late in the summer of ‘22. Danny looked skeptically at Cassandra.

Well, you’re a lot younger than I am, Cassandra countered. What are you, like twenty?

Yeah.

I’ll be twenty-six in November, she asserted. And I never did have time for all the apps, anyway.

What did you spend all your time on, Cassandra? Danny asked casually.

Didn’t you say you were going to be an actor? Cassandra asked, looking away.

Broadway acting and singing sensation, that’s been my plan since I was four, Danny joked. Thomas, that was the guy from San Diego, he used to say I was the biggest ham he’d ever met. But to be fair, he was just a boring business major and worked in an office at a biotech company, so how many hams could he have known before me, right?

Whatever happened to Thomas?

He got the Cancer, same as all the rest of them, after the Nuke Winter. Rosalind, she’s the one who examined you today, she felt there was a direct link between the Bug and the Cancer, but of course now we’ll never know, because all the computers and the lab equipment and everything else made of plastic or using oil is Sludge.

Danny leaned the guitar against the wall and ran his hands through his thick blonde hair.

She thought the bacteria caused the Cancer? demanded Cassandra, her voice and face expressing skepticism. That can’t be right.

She figures it was a mutation, caused by the radiation from all the fallout. She had samples of the Bug here, but of course once the power grid failed and the mold took over, they had to relocate all the lab stuff they could salvage into Powell here, or into Kaplan across the way. Once refrigeration failed, the samples were gone. Now she can’t prove anything. No one can.

A lot of people had the Cancer on Catalina, too, Cassandra said. No one ever figured out what it was. It just started up one day, a year or so ago. So many men died… The Cancer, the lack of water. Nothing but fish to eat. I— her voice collapsed into a sob.

They sat quietly and Danny picked up his guitar again.

Why’d you go to Catalina in the first place? he asked.

Chords gently rippled.

My grandmother was there, Cassandra sighed. "I