The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [141]
She acts untroubled by my concerns.
Half a dozen questions pile up inside my brain.
And then she artfully changes topics. "Where's your house, Noah?"
The mayor makes a low, disapproving sound.
I point at the horizon. "You can't see it from here."
"Are you a hermit?"
I feel uncomfortable. I want to hide my life and can't. With a hint of confession, I admit, "I live there with my wife."
I expect to feel better, only I don't.
The mayor overhears. "Maybe four times a year, we see Noah."
May studies me, holding her grandmother's hand with both of hers.
This peculiar parade has reached the largest, grandest house in Salvation. It is a towering structure with its south-facing windows and the old black solar panels and five corkscrew windmills on top, four of them turning and at least one windmill demanding new bearings or fresh grease - a squeaky, irritable sound that makes me more nervous by the moment.
Yet I stay beside the girl.
To the mayor, she says, "I'm curious. We asked other people about you. Salvation, I mean. They say you're Christian and that you're prosperous."
Hearing praise, the man blushes.
I don't know what I heard in her voice. More suspicion than approval, if I was guessing.
"Our residents are all True Believers," the mayor says. As if being Christian isn't good enough. "Our parents and grandparents knew God would save us. And that's why we survived the Shakes."
I have always despised that inadequate term.
"The Shakes."
May studies the mayor and then looks at me. I'm sure she wants to ask my affiliations, and part of me wants to tell her whatever she wants to hear. But changing topics seems like the better tactic.
"Why Canada?" I press.
She doesn't answer. One hand reaches behind. A small thick notebook has worked its way out of her hip pocket, and she shoves it back in place. Two ancient pens are nestled beside the book. "We're almost there, Grandma. Do you see the front door?"
This is the slowest walk of my life.
Winston has heard my question. Pushing closer, he says, "Florida is a goddamn nightmare."
I don't want to talk to this creature.
"It's the Africans," he adds. "They're coming in boats now. By the hundreds, thousands."
His sister says his name, nothing more.
"What?" he growls.
"That's not why we left," she insists.
"It's a big reason," he says. Then he looks at me, adding, "Africa has millions of people. Their climate is getting hotter and drier. Some head toward Europe, but the Turks and Russians claimed those empty cities. New immigrants get shot, or worse. So the refugees pay diamonds and gold to ride what boats that can still cross the Acid-lantic. Hundreds of men and women and all those children jammed close, and they know nothing about America except that it used to be rich."
He has told this story many times, but it's still emotional. Working himself into a rage, he says, "We had good lives in Florida. But the freighters started dropping their cargo on the beaches. Those people expect to find houses ready to live in. They want cars and grocery stores. They've been lied to, which makes them angry. But before anybody can complain, their boat's turned around and headed back for another bunch of fools."
Hearing the shrill chatter, the mayor seems less sure about his guests. But the commitment was made. He throws a weak smile at everyone and turns the knob on his front door, leading the way into a great volume of warm air and little children. "Company," he calls out. "We've got guests."
Entering the sunny living room, May's father says, "Well, well. I sure remember this place."
Maybe it's my age, or maybe it's my present life. Whatever the reason, I'm not as angry as I would have expected. The last time I was under this roof, my neighbors were holding a meeting, and my mother was voting with the rest of the mob to shun Lola and all of her family.
"Do you remember this room, grandma?"
May is sweet, an angel effortlessly