A Better World

ONE WEEK BEFORE THANKSGIVING CHAPTER 2

Ethan Park stared.

The supermarket shelf was empty. Not thinly stocked. Not lacking variety. Empty. Cleaned out.

He closed his eyes, felt the world wobble. Long hours he was used to; the research team had been on the edge of a breakthrough for a year, and as they’d moved into proof-of-concept trials, the days had started blurring, meals eaten standing up, naps snatched in break room chairs. He’d been tired for a year.

But it wasn’t until Amy gave birth to Violet that he discovered true exhaustion. The blackness behind his closed eyes felt dangerously good, a bed on a cold night that he could just wrap himself in, drift away—

He snapped to, opened his eyes, and checked the shelf again. Still empty. The sign above the aisle read SEVEN: VITAMINS – CANNED ORGANICS – PAPER TOWELS – DIAPERS – BABY FORMULA. Paper towels there were still plenty of, but on the shelf that until today had held Enfamil and Similac and Earth’s Best, there was only dust and an abandoned shopping list.

Ethan felt oddly betrayed. When you ran out of something, you went to the grocery store. It was practically the basis for modern life. What happened when you couldn’t take that for granted?

You return to your exhausted wife and hungry baby with a dumb look on your face.

Before they’d had a child, he’d scoffed at the idea that breast-feeding was difficult. He was a geneticist. Feeding the young was what breasts were for. How hard could it be?

Pretty hard, it turned out, for dainty modern-day breasts, breasts draped in cotton and lace, breasts that never felt wind or sunlight, never chafed and roughened. After a month of agonizingly slow feedings, of being patronized by a “lactation consultant” peddling specialized pillows and homeopathic creams, of Amy’s nipples cracking and bleeding and finally growing infected, they’d called a halt. She’d tied down her breasts with an Ace bandage to stop milk production, and they’d switched to powdered formula. Their entire generation had been raised on it, and they’d done okay. Plus, it was so easy.

Easy, that was, until there was no formula on the shelf.

So. Options.

Well, at Violet’s age, bovine milk was not ideal. Casein protein micelles were too taxing for a baby’s developing kidneys. On the other hand, cow’s milk is better than no milk—

The dairy case was empty. There was a piece of paper taped to it.

WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. RECENT ATTACKS HAVE DISRUPTED SHIPPING. WE HOPE TO BE RESTOCKED SOON. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE IN THIS DIFFICULT TIME.

Ethan stared at the paper. Yesterday everything had been normal. Now there was no formula on the shelves. No milk in the fridge. What was happening here?

Baking.

He spun on his heel and jogged down the aisle, conscious of shoppers piling goods indiscriminately, clearing whole shelves into their carts, arguing and shoving. Ethan had a vision of the store an hour from now, cleared down to greeting cards and magazines and school supplies. Maybe no one had thought of . . .

Where the evaporated milk should be was just a glaring hole.

Ethan squatted down in front of it, stared at the back of the shelf, hoping a can or two had been missed. Knowing they hadn’t.

Another store.

The front of the Sav-A-Lot was jammed, the checkout lines overflowing. The checkers looked stunned. Ethan pushed his way outside.

It was mid-November, cloudy and cold. He jumped at the honk of a horn, an Audi that barely slowed. The parking lot was overflowing, a line of cars backing out to Detroit Avenue. He climbed in the truck and tuned in WCPN as he spun out of the parking place.

“—reports of massive shortages across the entire Cleveland metro area. Police are asking everyone to remain calm. We’re joined now by Dr. James Garner of the Department of Transportation and Rob Cornell of the Department of Analysis and Response. Dr. Garner, can you break this down for us?”

“I’ll try. Early this morning there was a series of devastating attacks on the shipping industry in Tulsa, Fresno, and of course Cleveland. Terrorists hijacked more than twenty trucks and murdered the drivers.”

“Not just murdered them.”

“No.” The man coughed. “The drivers were burned alive.”

Jesus Christ. There had been a lot of attacks in the last years. Terrorism had become a fact of life in America. They’d all almost gotten used to it. Then March 12th had happened, the explosion in the new stock exchange in Manhattan. More than 1,100 people dead, thousands more injured, and suddenly there was no ignoring the unpleasant schism developing in America. But as hideous as that attack had been, there was something worse about this, something more brutal and intimate about pulling a living soul from his truck, pouring gasoline on him, and striking a match.

“—in addition, supply depots in all three cities were bombed. Fire crews stopped the blazes in Tulsa and Fresno, but Cleveland’s depot was destroyed.”

The announcer cut in. “All credited to the abnorm group calling itself the Children of Darwin. But these are major cities, with thousands of deliveries.”

“Yes. But because of the attacks on drivers, insurance carriers had no choice but to withdraw coverage across the board. Without insurance, trucks are prohibited from even leaving the yard.”

Ethan had made two stoplights but caught the third. His fingers tapped at the wheel as he waited.

“You’re saying that after one day without deliveries, stores go empty?”

“The modern world is intricately connected. Businesses like grocery stores operate under what is known as just-in-time inventory. If you buy a can of beans, the scanner tells the computer to order more, and they arrive in the next shipment. It’s an incredibly complex arrangement of systems. The Children of Darwin seem to understand that. Their attacks target the weak points in our own systems.”

“Mr. Cornell, you’re with the Department of Analysis and Response. Isn’t preventing this sort of attack what the DAR is for?”

“First of all, thank you for having me. Second, I would like to remind everyone, including you, ma’am, to keep calm. This is a temporary problem caused by a violent but small terrorist organization—”

Ethan sped east, past a restaurant, a car lot, a high school. A new luxury market had opened near the river not long ago. It was pricey enough that people might not have thought of it. Even if you’re right, you won’t be for long, so plan your moves. First goal is baby formula, whatever vegan moonbeam variety they have. Then milk. As much meat as you can pile in the cart. Skip the perishables, go for canned and frozen vegetables—

The road to the store was jammed, cars honking and flashing, double-stacked in a single-wide lane. Forty yards ahead, he could see a mob surrounding the entrance. As he watched, a woman tried to force her cart through the crowd. Cries went up, and the ring of people tightened. A man in a business suit yanked at her shopping bags. The woman yelled, but he filled his arms and spun away, knocking the cart over in the process. Cans and bottles spilled across the pavement, and everyone dove for them. A thin guy tucked a chicken under his arm like a football and sprinted away. Two ladies with expensive hair fought over a gallon of milk.

“—again, we expect to have this problem under control soon. If everyone can just stay calm and work together, we’ll get through this.”

There was a crash, and the front window of the grocery store collapsed. The crowd surged in, yelling.

Ethan turned the car around.

When they’d moved to Cleveland, the real estate agent had assured them that Detroit Shoreway was the neighborhood they were looking for: a mile from the lakefront, two from downtown, solid schools, tree-lined streets, and a friendly community of people “like them”—basically all the advantages of the suburbs without being one. A great place to raise kids, the agent had said with a knowing look, as though visualizing sperm and egg meeting.

It had taken some getting used to. Ethan was a native New Yorker and mistrusted any place where you needed a car. Hell, a couple of years ago if anyone had suggested he’d end up in Cleveland, he’d have scoffed. But Cleveland was where Abe had set up his lab, and despite the fact that the guy was the most colossally arrogant prick Ethan had ever met, he was also a genius, and the second-place spot at the Advanced Genomics Institute was too good to pass up.

In the end, he’d been surprised. Much as he loved Manhattan, you could live in the same apartment for a decade and never meet your neighbors. It was a pleasant contrast to dwell amidst the simple Midwestern kindness, the backyard barbecues, and the I’ll-get-your-mail-you-can-borrow-my-lawnmower-we’re-all-in-this-together vibe.

Plus, he loved having a house. Not an apartment, not a condo, an actual house, with a basement and a yard. Their house, where they could turn the music up as loud as they wanted, where Violet’s midnight cries weren’t waking a downstairs neighbor. He was a reasonably handy guy, could wire a light fixture and drywall a nursery, and it had been such pleasure to make the place theirs one sweaty afternoon at a time, and then to sit on his front porch with a beer and watch the sun set through his maple trees.

Now he wondered if he’d been fooling himself. Manhattan might be congested and expensive, DC might be sprawling and hectic, but there was no way the markets wouldn’t have milk.

Yesterday you would have said the same about Cleveland.

He killed the engine and sat in the dark. Tomorrow he could drive out of town, hit the highway, find formula somewhere.

Yeah, but she’s hungry tonight. Man up, Daddy.

Ethan climbed out of the CRV and headed for his neighbor’s house, a solid gingerbread thing with ivy devouring the southern half. They had three boys spread out at metronomic two-year intervals, and the rough sounds of play thumped through the walls.

“Hey, buddy,” Jack Ford said when he opened the door. “What’s up?”

“Listen, I’m sorry to ask, but we’re out of formula, and the stores are cleaned out. You have any?”

“Sorry. Tommy’s been off it for like six months.”

“Right.” Sirens started, a cop or an ambulance not too far away. “How about regular milk?”

“Sure thing.” Jack paused. “You know what? I’ve got some evaporated milk in the basement. You want it?”

Ethan smiled. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“What neighbors are for, right? Come on in, have a beer.”

Jack’s house was crayon art and blaring cartoons and the smell of casserole. Ethan followed him down creaky basement steps into a half-finished space. On a carpet remainder in the corner, two recliners faced a huge tri-d screen, a new model with the enhanced projection field. The rest of the basement was given over to deep shelves packed with canned goods and cased food.

Ethan whistled. “You’ve got your own a grocery store down here.”

“Yeah, you know. Once a Boy Scout.” His neighbor bobbed his head, a not-quite embarrassed motion, then opened a mini-fridge and pulled out a couple of Buds. He dropped in a recliner, gestured to the other one. “So the supermarkets are empty?”

“The one I was just at, people started looting.”

“It’s the abnorms,” Jack said. “The situation with them is getting worse every day.”

Ethan gave a noncommittal nod. He knew a lot of brilliants; while abnorms raised the bar in every field, science and technology were where their advantages were clearest. Sure, there were days when it drove him nuts, when he knew that despite degrees from Columbia and Yale, there were people out there he would simply never be able to match. It was like playing pickup basketball with the Lakers; no matter how hot your skills were otherwise, on that court someone could always stuff the ball in your face.

Still, what were you going to do? Stop playing? No thanks.

“Every generation believes the world is going to hell, right?” Ethan sipped his beer. “The Cold War, Vietnam, nuclear proliferation, whatever. Impending doom is our natural state.”

“Yeah, but no milk in the grocery store? That’s not America.”

“It’ll be okay. Radio said the National Guard is going to start distributing food.”

“To half a million people?” Jack shook his head. “Let me ask you something. You study evolution, right?”

“Sort of. I’m an epigeneticist. I study the way the world and our DNA interact.”

“That sounds like a wild simplification,” Jack said with a smile. “But I’ll take it. What I want to know, have there been times like this? When a brand-new group just, you know, appeared?”

“Sure. Invasive species, when organisms are moved to a new ecosystem. Asian carp, zebra mussels, Dutch elm disease.”

“That’s what I thought. Those were all pretty disastrous, right? I mean, I’m not a bigot; I don’t have anything against the gifted. It’s the change that scares me. The world is so fragile. How are we supposed to live with a shift like this?”

It was a question often heard these days, bandied about at dinner parties, debated on news programs and in feedcasts. When the gifted had first been discovered, people had been more intrigued than anything else. After all, one percent of the population was a curiosity. It was only as the one percent grew to adulthood that the world had finally come to realize they represented a fundamental shift.

The problem was, from there it was a tiny step to hating them. “I hear you, man. But people aren’t carp. We gotta find a way.”

“Of course. You’re right.” Jack heaved himself out of his chair. “Anyway, I’m sure it’ll work out. Let’s see about that milk.”

Ethan followed him through the basement. The shelves were stacked four high with cases of canned food, batteries, blankets. Jack pulled a twenty-four-pack of evaporated milk from the shelf. “Here we go.”

“A couple of cans would be fine.”

“Take it, it’s no big deal.”

“Can I at least pay you for it?”

“Don’t be silly.”

Part of him wanted to protest further, but he thought of Violet, and the empty supermarket, and he just said, “Thanks, Jack. I’ll replace it.”

“That’s fine.” His neighbor gave him a long look. “Ethan, this may sound weird, but do you have protection?”

“A pack of condoms on the nightstand.”

Jack smiled, but only out of courtesy.

Ethan said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Come here.” He walked to a metal cabinet and started fiddling with the combination lock. “Until the National Guard gets this all sorted, I’d feel better if you had one of these.”

The gun cabinet was neat, rifles and shotguns locked into stands, half a dozen pistols on pegs. Ethan said, “I’m not really a gun guy.”

Jack ignored him, took down a pistol. “This is a .38 revolver. Simplest gun in the world. All you need to do is pull the trigger.” Fluorescent lights gleamed off oily metal.

“That’s okay, man.” Ethan forced a smile, held up the milk. “Really, this is plenty.”

“Take it. Just in case. Put it on a closet shelf and forget about it.”

Ethan wanted to make a joke, but the expression on his neighbor’s face was serious. The guy’s helping you out. Don’t offend him. “Thanks.”

“Hey, like I said. What neighbors are for.”

After the last two hours, walking in the front door of his house was like stepping into a hug. Ethan snapped the lock and stepped out of his shoes. Gregor Mendel sauntered over and rubbed his head against Ethan’s ankles, purring softly. Ethan rubbed the cat’s neck, then picked up the case of milk and followed the warm light flowing down the hall, looking for his girls. He found them in the kitchen, Amy holding Violet to her chest.

“Oh thank God.” His wife’s face lit up to see him. “I was getting scared. Have you heard the news? They’re saying that people are looting stores.”

“Yeah.” He held out his arms, and Amy passed Violet to him. His daughter was awake and impossibly beautiful, neckless and pudgy with a shock of auburn hair. “I was there. Everything is cleaned out. The milk is a gift from Jack.”

“Lucky he had some.” She opened a can and poured it into a baby bottle. “You want to feed her?”

Ethan leaned back against the counter and switched his daughter to his left arm, bracing her weight on his hip. She saw the bottle and started to cry, a desperate sound like he might be teasing her. He popped the nipple in her greedy mouth. “Is this a whole can?”

“Five ounces.” She read the label. “It’s pretty caloric. We can probably water them down to stretch it longer.”

“Why? There are twenty-three more cans.”

“She eats four times a day. That’s not even a week.”

“The stores will be figured out by then.”

“Still,” she said.

He nodded. “You’re right. Good idea.”

They stood for a moment, both dead on their feet, but with a sweetness to it too. Everything had a sweetness these days, a golden glow like he was watching his own life in some sun-faded movie print. Becoming a father made everything fraught with meaning.

“Hey,” he said, “want to hear something funny?”

“Always.”

“Jack’s a survival nut. His basement is stocked like a bomb shelter. He even gave me a gun.”

“What?”

“I know.” He chuckled. “He wouldn’t let me leave without it.”

“You have it with you? Now?”

Ethan balanced Violet in one arm, pinned the bottle under his chin, and pulled the gun from his jacket pocket. “Crazy, huh?”

Amy’s eyes widened. “Why does he think we need a gun?”

“Said we should have it for protection.”

“You tell him we had condoms?”

“He didn’t seem to think that was enough.”

Amy said, “Can I see it?”

“Careful, it’s loaded.”

She weighed it gingerly on an open palm. “It’s heavier than I would’ve thought.”

“I know.” Ethan popped the baby against his shoulder and started rubbing her back. Violet promptly belched like a trucker. “You’re not freaked out about it?”

“A little.” She set it on the counter. “But it’s probably not a terrible idea. Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?”

She didn’t answer.