The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [139]
That old broadcast triggered memories. Suddenly I was six again, sitting between my parents, watching the president talk. I hadn't understood most of the man's words or grasped even the easiest part of what he was saying. But mom was praying hard even when she was crying, and dad was weeping like I'd never seen before, and I sat there with my hands in my lap, staring at the birthday gifts wrapped in all that bright colored paper.
"When will this be done?" I asked impatiently. "When can I open up my presents?"
A boy's voice calls out to the visitors. Abrasive and impatient, he asks, "So where'd you people come from?"
Then Old Ferris adds, "The south, if I'm not mistaking that accent."
Grandma's eyes jump from one face to the next. People surge toward her, some running and everybody talking, and the old woman begins to panic. She gives a little gasp, spinning until she finds her granddaughter standing beside me.
"I'm here," says May.
Grandma's mouth opens, waiting for a name to be recalled.
Once again, the girl introduces herself, taking hold of a puffy hand before telling the rest of us, "Florida."
To the little ones, the word sounds made-up. Senseless.
Old Ferris nods. "Thought so."
Half-remembered maps pop into my head. On the fringe of the continent, an orange leg sticks out into the colorless ocean.
"How is our Sunshine State?" Ferris inquires.
"Wet," a new voice declares.
Gazes shift. Even May turns, as surprised as anyone to see her mountainous brother filling up the RVs door.
Something here is worth laughing about. "Florida's half-drowned," Winston warns, his round face full of delight and big teeth. "Live there, and you're lucky to be one step ahead of the ocean."
"That's not true," his father insists. "Maybe the Atlantic's a few feet deeper, but there's plenty of land left."
Kids ask about Florida, but most of their parents are younger than me and even more ignorant. Arms lift, pointing toward random spots on the southern horizon. Someone says mentions alligators - another word that means almost nothing to this gathering. Then Butcher Jack finally asks the most important question: "But now what brings you good folks all the way up here?"
"My grandmother," the girl admits, tugging on one of the big arms. "She wanted to see her old home again."
The doughy face hears those words, considers them for a moment, and gives a slight nod of agreement.
"She's from where?" Jack asks, as if he doesn't trust his ears.
"From Salvation," says May.
"And I am too," the father announces. "In fact, when I was a boy, mom and I lived right over there."
He points at the mayor's house. Some of us look, but most people can't pull their eyes off these unexpected, astonishing strangers.
Once again, I move close to May.
She smiles at me, nothing about this girl shy. "It's a cold day," she observes.
"The worst winter in forty," Jack jumps in.
I ask, "Have you ever seen frost before?"
She laughs. "Not until two weeks ago."
"When did you leave home?" I want to know.
"Last summer," her father reports.
"Florida is cooler than usual," says May. "We've got a shortwave, and sometimes we'll talk to friends. There have been some nights when the thermometer dives below sixty."
"Maybe this is a sign," says Jack, twinkling eyes full of hope. "Maybe our climate's turning cool again."
Winston lets out a loud, disagreeable laugh. "That's not it at all," he says. "A pair of volcanoes blew up last year. In Indonesia and Colombia. Right now, two mountains' worth of dust are hanging up in the stratosphere, and they'll keep chilling things down for the next year or two."
May and her father exchange quick tense looks.
"All that water," I say to May. "I've always wanted to see the ocean."
But Winston doesn't like ignorance, and he won't let anyone keep his little