Across from me, Cara lets out an annoyed breath through her nose. She opens her mouth to say something, but the radio crackles and finally Blanca’s voice comes through the speaker. My heart leaps and I stand, reaching over to turn up the volume.
I’m happy for the distraction, and Cara seems to welcome it, too, giving me a wan smile. But then the smile drops.
Blanca is speaking quickly, her voice fast and higher than it’s ever been. It’s not her usual, almost sensual radio DJ voice. It’spanicked—at least it sounds that way in between waves of static.
Maybe it’s excitement? For all we know she could be announcing a new guest who’s in the studio with her. I turn to Cara, who crouches near the speaker, listening intently.
“Do you know what she’s saying?”
Cara doesn’t speak Spanish, but she can understand some. A word here or there that she can pick up and piece together into some semblance of context clues that she’ll repeat to Daria. Then Daria will nod or clarify. But Daria isn’t here. She, Admiral Hickey, and Trevor are all at a Committee meeting going over the plan to head north on Sunday. To scavenge the coast and return with Henri, the woman who is the reason Andrew and I found the Key Colony in the first place.
“She’s talking too fast,” Cara says.
More static. Then Blanca comes back and yells something we can’t comprehend. In the background there’s more shouting followed by a high-pitched whistle. The static returns, cutting through her voice like waves crashing against a shoreline.
Movement from the dock catches my eye. Hickey, Daria, and Trevor are on their way back. I cup my hands to my mouth and call out to Daria.
“Something’s going on with Blanca! Quick!”
Daria, a Black woman in her late forties with her hair in locs, runs the rest of the length of the dock—Hickey and Trevor following behind her—then jumps onto the boat. I hold my hand out to help steady her and she grabs it, leaping into the cockpit. Her face clouds as she tries to listen. Hickey and Trevor come to a stop at the end of the dock, and we all listen to the static in silence.
Blanca’s voice breaks in with another shout, but the whole sentence doesn’t come through.
Daria shakes her head. Then another man speaks. He gets a few words out before the static returns.
“A hundred and ninety kilometers?” Daria says.
Cara and I share a look, trying to figure out what the 190 kilometers could mean. She seems just as puzzled as I am.
The man’s voice returns, speaking faster, sounding more desperate.
Daria gasps and covers her mouth.
“What is it?” Hickey asks behind her. Hickey is an old navy admiral from before the world ended—and one of the reasons Andrew isn’t on the boat anymore. Daria holds up her hand to quiet him. When there’s a longer stretch of static she speaks.
“The Cuban colony got hit by a storm. Hundred and ninety kilometers is the wind speed.”
Hickey does the calculations in his head. “That’s almost a hundred and twenty miles per hour.”
“Then it’s not just a storm,” Cara says. “It’s a hurricane.”
The static disappears and Blanca returns. Her voice comes through loud and clear for a few moments before static takes over again.
“The island is flooded,” Daria translates. “Pray for us, pray for yourselves.”
We listen to the static, but neither Blanca nor the other man comes back.
Andrew
LISTEN. I UNDERSTAND THAT WHEN THE WORLDends, society collapses, and we as a species want to make an attempt at civilization, round two, we’re going to need people who do the jobs that no one wants to do.
But why doIhave to be one of those people?
I know this makes me sound like a piece of shit, and I’m only saying it because I’m having a bad day—seriously, catch me on a good day and I’ll talk your ear off about how amazing work is—but being a babysitter is not exactly my postapocalyptic dream job.
It’s not that I have delusions of grandeur. I don’t want to be a doctor or a scientist or the New American president. Honestly, I’d rather be a farmer. The agricultural people in the Keys are figuring out how to get a handle on sustainability and pest control. This time last year everyone was thinking about short-term survival. Now, though, we’re feeling the full-on collapse of the bird link in the food chain. There are still birds—we all look up and point them out when we see them—but they’re like us, few and far between. Maybe a couplemillion of them, at most, across the entire globe. And that means more insects and pests to destroy crops. And more rodents that might have otherwise been hunted by birds of prey. But the Key farmers are trying their best to deal and evolve with the times. It wouldn’t hurt if I learned how to grow crops. Embraced my destiny as a Plant Gay.
I stop daydreaming to count the kids on the playground, and damn near have a heart attack. I regroup and count again. But I still come to the same number. Twelve. My lucky number thirteen no longer lucky. Which means one of the kids has gotten away from me. Again.
