Dead Lucky

Dead Lucky 3

As she stands there and shakes her head at me, I try very hard to think of a way to convince her, but I can't, so I decide to take her out on the balcony and show her. I warn her to be quiet, tell her that our lives depend on it. Then I lead her out of the bedroom, walking backwards because the hallway is too narrow for us to walk side by side. Mary bumps into the hall table, knocking over a porcelain vase that was valuable just a few days ago. The noise startles her when it hits the floor and shatters. I kick the pieces aside so she won't step on them because her feet are bare.

I remind her to be quiet before I slide the door open and lead her carefully out onto the balcony. Day or night, the sound of traffic has always been a constant for us, but the muffled, indistinct cries of injured and dying people are the background noise in this perverse, new version of the city.

I feel Mary's body twitch when an injured man cries out for help. She pleads with me. "Do something, Andy.

It's spooky the way the car people seem to respond to her. They come out of the building across the street, their laughter jarring my nerves as they search through the injured for signs of life. They beat everyone, even the ones that aren't moving and may already be dead; the sounds of bones breaking as crisp and clear as the sound of snapping twigs on a forest path. Even the muffled sound of a baseball bat connecting with flesh carries all the way up to our balcony. I take Mary back inside when she begins to sob, pulling her away from the windows so they can't see us.

Then I scurry about the apartment gathering the things I think we'll need for the trip upstate, while Mary sits on the couch without moving or talking, as though she's slipped into a coma. I pack some medicine and enough food for a couple of days in a small backpack because I'll need my hands free to help her.

My eyes still itch and I'm getting congested and a little lightheaded, so I take cold pills, double the dose, and put the rest of them in my pocket. Thinking maybe I can keep the fever and the blindness at bay by staying awake, I bring a baggie full of coffee grounds to chew on.

When I've packed everything I think we'll need, I guide Mary into the hallway without bothering to close the door because we won't be coming back. This is the only place we've ever lived, but I don't stop for a last look because Mary can't share it with me.

I thank God that we live on the sixth floor and not any higher because, with the electricity out, the elevators aren't working. At first, the light from our apartment spilling into the hallway helps me to see, but once we're in the stairwell, it's as black for me as it is for Mary, blacker than any night I can remember. She doesn't know that it's dark in the stairwell, but I don't feel right complaining to her about it. I hold the railing as I guide her down the stairs, but in the absolute blackness of the stairwell, she could just as easily be helping me, so it takes us a long time to get down the twelve flights of stairs to the lobby.

There's a young boy in the lobby, sitting by himself on the floor leaning against a wall. I guess that he's only about eight years old. He hears us and looks in our direction, but his eyes don't meet mine because he too is blind. He looks frightened but I have very little strength and compassion beyond what I'll need for Mary, and yet I can't leave him behind for the car people to find. I take Mary over to the boy. He's dirty and smells of urine because he's soiled himself. I know he hears me approaching because he tries to crawl away. When I touch his shoulder, he begins to hit me but I manage to get hold of his arms.

He sounds as small and scared as he looks, begging me not to hurt him as he tries to pull free of my grip.

When I assure him that he's safe with us he begins to cry, telling us between sobs that he's hungry, so I take off the backpack to get him something to eat. I put a piece of bread in his hands and, while he eats it, I tell him that I'm going to get our car; that we're going someplace safe and that we'll take him with us.

Then I take one of his hands and put it in my wife's hands. "This is Mary. You stay here with her and be very quiet."

I lie to them; tell them that I'll find someone who can help them when we get upstate. I may be signing our death warrant by taking the boy with us, but how can I leave him behind?

I go to the glass entryway at the front of the building to look outside. Those fiends are still out there and I try not to think about what they'll do to us if they catch us. They're looking the other way, busy with something and I don't want to think of what it might be. Our car is parked on the street between them and me. It would be an easy, short walk any other day but I'm so scared that it might as well be death's own doorway I have to walk through. My legs feel watery and weak. I'm unsure of my feet but I push the door open anyway.

I crouch low and move very carefully along behind the parked cars until I get to our car.