When the rains may come (Science Fiction)

2. Meet the Harrises

But they weren't the rescue operatives.

Cathy saw a tall, lanky man through the peephole. He was shouldering a hefty duffel bag and there was a woman with him and a boy stood next to the woman.

None of them were wearing the government issue hazmat suits with standard issue pistols on their hips and the government insignia on their arms. These were normal people. "Where are you folks coming from?" Cathy called out.

"From the west," the man answered. "Sector 21."

"And why are you here?"

"My wife's hurt," the man said. "We've run out of bandages and we gotta change those. Also I believe it's gonna rain. Would you please let us in? Only for a few hours."

Cathy stood frowning by the door, chewing on her lower lip.

"Please don't be worried about the wound," the woman said from outside, "my husband has dressed it well and I've kept it covered the whole time. It's not infected. I promise you it's not."

Cathy was still frowning, she touched the pistol that was tucked behind her back. The cold carbon-fiber was reassuring. She could handle them if they tried anything funny with her. With that final assessment, she said, "Okay, but come in from the garage. I don't have a decontamination unit on this door."

The hydraulics raised the garage door open. Motion sensors beeped and nozzles hissed before a sharp jet of disinfectant gas was fired down at the family. Decontamination complete.

The family took off their gas masks. The man introduced himself as Clint Harris. He held out his hand at Cathy.

"I'm Cathy," she said, without shaking his hand. "Let's keep some distance for now."

Clint shrugged, pulling back his hand. He was tall and slender and maybe in his early thirties. He had a big nose and he wore glasses that were equally big and his cheeks were fuzzy with a stubble. But the facial hair didn't seem to help with the boyishness of his face. Clint didn't look like a man--he looked like an overgrown version of a kid who got picked on in eighth grade gym class.

His wife, on the other hand, had striking blue eyes, short jet black hair and a heart shaped face--maybe in her late twenties, maybe younger or at least that's how she looked. She said her name was Marie. And then ruffling her son's identical black hair, she said, "This is Zack."

Zack just nodded in greeting and kept his gaze fixed on the floor. A shy kid.

Cathy led the family into the living room. The three of them settled on the couch by the window. She asked to see Marie's wound.

The woman rolled up the right sleeve of her shirt, revealing a forearm wrapped in a bandage. The wound was dressed well yet the bleeding had probably begun again. The gauze and cotton was damp and red with fresh blood. Cathy nodded and brought them the first aid kit. "You need any help to patch it up or you can do it yourself?"

"Don't worry; I'll take care of it," Clint said, taking the first aid box from Cathy. "I've done this many times."

"Well, that wound does look pretty well wrapped," Cathy said. Clint nodded with a smile and started working with the bandage. She shifted a few steps further from the three, her hand going back near her concealed gun, just in case. "So what are you guys doing down here in Sector 22?"

"Finding a place to live," Clint answered, shrugging as he unwrapped the old bandage from his wife's arm. "Our home was destroyed in the riots four months ago. And not much of Sector 21 remains as we speak."

"So you are moving into 22 now?"

"We are still unsure," Marie said. "Because it seems, not much is left here either. And I don't think it is any different down in 23."