Soft Apocalypse by Will McIntosh Read Free Book Online Page A

never had to remind Ruplu it was payday. “Forty-four,” I said. He counted two hundred forty-two dollars onto the counter. It was amazing, the way the guy trusted me. It was reckless. Lots of people thought they were reckless—fast drivers, kick boxers—but trusting a stranger to tell you how many hours he’d worked, that was truly reckless, and I admired him for it.
    I namaste’d Ruplu and headed for the exit, squeezing the bills inside my pocket and fighting back tears. I tended to cry on payday. The first time Ruplu counted out those bills I blubbered like a babe. A job. My parents would’ve found a way to be proud, even if the job did involve mopping floors and stacking tins of sardines.
    I’d known I was going to miss my parents terribly when they died, but I didn’t realize how I’d miss them. When something interesting happened, one of my first thoughts used to be how I had to call my folks in Arizona and fill them in. They had been omnipresent observers to the unfolding of my life. That day three years ago, when my sister called to tell me they’d been killed in a water riot, it was as if my third eye had been shut. No one was watching over my shoulder any more.
    The street smelled damp and vaguely fecal. It had rained earlier; the people camped on the sidewalks were wet and miserable. Savannah was a magnet, pulling people to its streets clutching filthy blankets and packs filled with whatever they could carry from whichever small town they’d come. It was a relief to no longer be one of them, to be able to bathe occasionally (even if the water was cold), and to change my clothes occasionally (even if the clothes came from the Salvation Army thrift shop). It was nice to be in a place where a professional woman might want to go out with me.
    I cut through Chippewa Square—the center of the universe as far as my life was concerned—and passed through the shadow cast by General Oglethorpe’s statue. A little boy was walking along the concrete skirting at the base of the statue, kicking garbage off it in a sort of game. Kids made me nervous—I had no idea what to say to them, didn’t understand their language.
    There are twenty-four town squares in Savannah, most canopied by stands of the Live Oaks dripping Spanish moss—but Chippewa Square had always been special to me. I stopped and sat for a moment on the bench where my parents had gotten engaged thirty years ago—a ritual I’d begun the day I learned that they’d died. Only a few dappled spots of sunlight filtered through the branches of the massive live oaks that canopied the square.
    A pigeon wobbled up to me hopefully, like I might pull out a bag of breadcrumbs. When was the last time anyone had fed a pigeon? How did they still remember that we used to? After a minute it wandered away, pecking at pebbles and popsicle sticks.
    I stood, letting my fingers linger for a moment on the rough wood of the bench. Time to go home. I crossed the street, out the other side of the square, and headed down Bull Street.
    All of the houses on our block were in disrepair, but the one that housed our apartment took the cake. The celery-green plaster on number five East Jones was cracked in places, exposing the original brick beneath. Our iron railing was not as ornate as most in the neighborhood, and it was canted at an angle. A little historical plaque said the house had been built in 1850. The yellowed Neighborhood Watch sign in one of the first-floor windows—replete with silhouette of a cloaked burglar—was a nice touch.
    The screen door squealed when I opened it. Colin was in the living room. “That virus is spreading.” He motioned toward the TV.
    As if Polio-X wasn’t enough, now there was a flesh-eating virus to worry about. From the brief clips of victims on the news, it did not look pleasant, and the only way to treat it was to cut out the infected areas before it spread, which didn’t sound pleasant either.
    “If they ever catch the people who