A Land of Ash

REFUGEES by John Fitch V

Carly Simmons rushed from the Government Center subway station across the red bricked plaza to Boston City Hall. Her black heels clicked as she power-walked, nearly knocking over a tourist staring at a map in his hands.

“Hey, look where you’re going!” the tourist barked.

“Sorry,” Carly replied. She dug out her BlackBerry and dialed the special number. It rang twice. “Carly here. I’m a few minutes away from meeting with the mayor. What’s the status on the ash?”

Carly listened intently before she asked, “Have you seen anything on the satellite pick-up about survivors?” She listened for a few seconds, biting her lip. A pigeon crossed her path. “Alright, so they’ll be here soon. I’ll call you back after I meet with the mayor.”

She hung up and resumed her power walk.

She showed identification at the gate on the northern side of the building. The guards let her in without a second look. Carly thanked them with a smile, even though she had no time for such pleasantries.

The storm approached.

Carly found her way to the mayor’s office. She didn’t even knock. She walked right in.

The television blared reports from Washington, with a picture-in-picture showing devastation from Denver; the picture was fuzzy, most likely a web-based camera. Every eye in the room stared at the footage, not knowing someone else had joined them until Carly cleared her throat.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked after she turned.

“My name is Carly Simmons. I’m an aide to the president. I must speak with the mayor at once.”

“He’s in a meeting right now –”

“Meeting’s over,” Carly demanded. The receptionist jumped. “I’ll be directing the planning for the coming refugees.”

“That’s what they’re meeting about, though.”

“Which way?”

The receptionist pointed through the closed door.

Carly didn’t wait for an invitation. She walked past the woman and barged in.

Around a conference table, people argued. Fingers pointed every which way. Maps and blue prints littered the table, along with Styrofoam Dunkin Donuts cups and slivers of strudel.

Carly sought out the only well-known face, that of the mayor. He sat at the end of the table, amid the hubbub surrounding him. He’d clearly given up trying to control his own meeting. He rubbed his temples, as if a headache settled on the sides of his skull.

I came just in time, Carly thought. She walked to the table and slammed her briefcase on it.

Everyone jumped. The mayor groaned a tad.

“I hope I’m not disrupting something important,” Carly said. A slight grin crossed her face.

“Who the hell are you?” the mayor said.

“I’m Carly Simmons from Washington. I’m here to direct refugee movements. The rest of you can skedaddle; you’ll receive orders soon.”

The others began arguing to her – not with her, for Carly disregarded each in turn. She finally whistled, cutting off their bitching and moaning.

“This is officially a federal matter now, boys and girls. The president requests you follow my lead. Homeland Security is aware of what’s going on, and they’re monitoring the flow of traffic headed east. People are coming, a lot of people, and Boston has to be ready. They’ll need places to stay, and no, they can’t afford a hotel for the rest of their lives. Now if you’ll excuse the mayor and I, we have a lot to discuss.”

A lot of grumbling followed the department heads out the door. The last one turned and flipped her off.

Carly simply waggled her fingers up by her face as the door shut.

“Thank God you came when you did,” the mayor said. He walked to his desk, took two aspirin, and chased them with water. “Those people were going to be the death of me; or at least my mind. What’s the situation?”

“Survivors are coming in droves. Highways are clogged. Intel suggests people will try to get off the highway at the first exit that isn’t backed up for miles. That means Sturbridge, Auburn, maybe even Millbury. It’s possible to close the exits and corral as many as we can into Boston. The president is on the phone with the governor now, and he’s trying to do just that. There’s loads of open space here: City Hall Plaza, the Public Gardens, Fenway Park, the Garden. We have to set up tent cities in the open areas and cordon off areas inside the Garden. We want to avoid any Katrina-esque incidents.”

“It’ll be like 1978 all over again,” the mayor muttered, referring to the unexpected February blizzard that stranded fans inside the old Boston Garden during the Beanpot hockey tournament. “What are we going to do about food? How are we going to feed all these people?”

Carly frowned.

“The first few weeks will be a stretch. Meat will go quickly, I suspect. So will other standard essentials.”

“That usually happens here; New Englanders hit the grocery store and clean out milk and bread when the weathermen call for snow flurries.”

“But this isn’t just snow flurries, Mayor D’Angelo. This is a storm of not only people, but ash and rock that will change the fate of this country.” Carly paused, as if choked up. She took a deep breath. “As I was saying, the first few weeks will be a stretch, but as soon as we get a full count of how many people survived, we can re-route government-supplied food to the areas that need it most.”

“You’re talking about a completely new census. That could take months, Miss Simmons. These people will starve within six weeks.”

“We’re hoping it won’t take that long, which means we’ll need to recruit people to handle the proper counts. That must be done immediately. We can’t let anyone settle in. Those counts are imperative. And until we can figure out which areas need the most food, it’s going to be strictly on a rationing system. Grocery stores are going to be shut down for the time being; hopefully not more than a day or two.”

“That’s not going to work. We’ll have riots on your hands if you close the grocery stores. Bostonians are going to go nuts when they find out.”

“They’ll behave. We won’t give them a choice. The government is taking a firm grasp; we’re not going to let this disaster get out of hand. We’ve learned from prior mistakes, and we’ll make sure it’s peaceable. The president has ordered all divisions of the military on stand-by; the governors will probably follow the directives of the president and ready their respective National Guard units.”

D’Angelo sighed.

“Where else did the president send people like you to?”

“Every major city on the eastern seaboard will have a federal liaison.”

“They obviously have reservations about what’s going to happen.”

Carly nodded.

“Mister Mayor, I’m going to be frank with you. We are just as scared about what’s going to happen as everyone else. This ash cloud has already killed millions of people, and it’s going to kill more. Every farm in the bible belt is gone. Our ecosystem is in ruins. Food is going to be hard to come by; hell, even a packet of Skittles and a cup of coffee will soon be considered a luxury. We’re going to have riots over this, that I know, and the president knows that, too. Martial law will rather quickly become the norm on the east coast; what remains of Congress won’t like it, especially the Republicans, but he’s having his people draft a bill to vacate elections for the time being. We have to calm the people and tell them they won’t starve, but –” Carly paused, biting her tongue.

“But what?”

“We’re hoping that some people do starve, and that the ash cloud buries more cars on the eastbound highways. That way, there will be more food for everyone else.”

D’Angelo’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing, as if trying to find words.

“That’s despicable,” he sputtered at last.

“It is, but it could be the only way we’ll control the food distribution. We were lucky to get government-issued cheese and meat out of Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle before the ash cloud fully covered the west coast; those ships are taking a very long way to get around the globe. It may be two or three weeks before they get here, if they get here at all. Who knows what will actually be edible by the time they arrive. We can’t trust they’ll have safe passage through the Indian Ocean. One of the ships that left Los Angeles may stop in Miami, if the captain chooses to take the Panama Canal. After that…” She let the thought hang perilously in the air.

“Has the president reached out to other countries for aid? What can England or our allies do to help us?”

Carly shrugged.

“I’m not sure, sir. To be honest, it doesn’t look good. Our experts think that the rest of the world will hurt by this, too, just not as bad. The world’s in for a state of nuclear winter. We haven’t released that information to the public yet.”

The mayor began pacing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the headache moved to the center of his face.

Carly saw the world on his shoulders, weighing the man down.

“So we have to prevent anarchy from taking a hold of the people, and hope some people starve to death for everything to be all right. That’s not exactly how I envisioned this,” D’Angelo said.

“I don’t think it’s actually what anyone had in mind, but we have to hope for the best.”

D’Angelo sighed again.

“Alright, Miss Simmons. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty.”

“Rationing? Are you kidding me? I have a family of six to feed!”

Then you should have closed your legs at some point, you dumb bitch, Carly thought with a smile. She stood at the head of a long line of Bostonians in City Hall Plaza, who came out to complain – loudly – about the refugees looking to make the great northeastern city their home.

“Ma’am, we feel this is the best way to handle the crisis we’re under. The government is taking control of the situation, and we expect to feed everyone.”

“The government is taking control?!” one man protesting, his accent thick and heavy. “They took over our health care, and now they’re going to tell us when and how much to eat? Are they going to tell us when we can take a piss, too?”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Carly retorted. The crowd quieted, as if stunned by such a response from a well-dressed public official.

“We need to work together,” she said. “We’ll all need to make sacrifices, regardless of what we believe in.” Sprinkles of gray began falling on the crowd. Many people cried as the ash accumulated lightly. “For all we know, we won’t get many refugees here. And besides, the east coast is a very large place; stations like this have been set up along the coast so many cities will see refugees, not just Boston.”

The crowd’s voice rose again, but Carly lifted her hands in a quest for silence.

“Folks, I know this is difficult for all of you, but please, let’s not think about ourselves. We’re going to see many tired, cold, hungry and scared people coming here. These are people who have lost their homes, relatives, friends, possessions. In short, they’ve lost everything. You folks still have homes and food in your refrigerators. These people have nothing except the clothes on their backs: We’re standing here at the possible end of the United States as we know it, and all you can bitch about is the government rationing out what little food we have? Grow the fuck up and show some consideration for your fellow man.”

One by one, the crowd silenced itself. Carly’s words pinballed inside their minds, striking a resonant chord.

Carly looked out and saw many ashamed faces staring at the ground.

She choked for a second, then recovered.

“Folks, if you have any clothes you can donate, old clothes that you don’t wear any longer, please consider dropping it off at one of our drop-off stations. These people are going to need some things to wear, and if you could help them out, the government would appreciate it.” She looked down at her clipboard. “I think that covers it.”

Carly gave no closing salutation. She turned and walked away from the podium while the murmurs of the crowd chased after her. She did not look to see if any of the people stayed; she had bigger worries to deal with at the moment.

She pulled out her BlackBerry and dialed the number again.

“What’s the situation? Where are the people coming to Boston?” She listened for a second. “The State Police set up traffic boards to direct people to Government Center, so they should be here soon. Thankfully the parking garage at Haymarket is pretty empty. It’s going to be a permanent lot now.” She looked up as the ash fell like gray snow. “If their cars can make it.”

Carly hung up and looked out toward Congress Street.

Soon there would be ash-covered cars with out of state plates lining up along the sidewalks. They’ll be wondering about their new home and where they’ll stay. With them came a million questions, and so very few answers.

God, I only hope I’m strong enough not to tell these people the truth. There is so little hope – for any of us.

A tank rolled by on Congress, the first of many as the National Guard arrived.

She hoped the situation would not get out of hand.

“This isn’t going to be like camping out, daddy,” Cassie said, her whiny 6-year-old voice coming right to the point. “When we went camping last year, the ground was soft and the air smelled nice. This,” -she waved her hand around, indicating the jagged edged bricks that encompassed their new surroundings- “isn’t so soft. And that tree smells like pee.”

Her father, Daniel, cringed.

“Sweetie, I know it’s bad, but we have to keep our spirits up.”

Cassie pouted and sat on the granite steps between City Hall and the squat federal building.

Daniel’s heart broke; he didn’t like his daughter upset.

But what can I do? he thought. We’ve been uprooted and cast from our home. It’s hard for any little girl to deal with. Hell, it’s hard for me to deal with. He clenched his eyes. Damn it, Carolyn! Why did you have to take that flight to Denver?

Daniel wanted to scream. He refused his grief, though: Daniel, now a single parent, had to be strong for his only child. The grief welled.

There were many times during their trip from Columbus to Boston that Daniel wanted to pull over and let the torrent of tears wash over and out of him. It wasn’t a smart idea to let the grief build up; his elders back home in Denver had told him that everyone needed to grieve at some point.

Just thinking about their words, now only in his memories, made him want to flee. Their bodies were no doubt under several feet of ash.

It’s not fair, Daniel thought as he sat down next to his daughter. It’s not fair that Cassie and I live while the rest of our family perishes. A solo teardrop did a long, slow march down his cheek. He wiped it away before Cassie could see it.

A tissue appeared out of thin air next to him. The sight startled him, but when his tear-filled eyes adjusted, he saw who held the tissue.

His jaw fell.

“I thought you might need this,” the woman said.

Daniel took it without a word, until his manners caught up with him.

“Thank you.”

My God, she is beautiful, he thought. She almost looks like my Carolyn.

“My name is Angela, and I’m with the city of Boston. I’m just taking a count of the refugees.”

“What do you need from us?” he asked. “It’s really just my daughter and I… now.”

He kept his tears at bay.

Angela marked her clipboard. Daniel could see a stack of papers held down upon it. He also saw no ring on her finger.

“And what are your names, and where are you from?”

“I’m Daniel Drake, and this is my daughter, Cassie. We’re from Columbus.”

“O-H.”

“I-O,” Daniel replied instinctively with a smile. Cassie leaned on his side. He wrapped his daughter up in a small blanket. A man in fatigues with a semi-automatic rifle walked by, looking around at everyone. Daniel eyed him warily.

“What’s going on? Why is G.I. Joe acting like he’s looking for Destro?”

Angela shrugged.

“I don’t really know, sir. I haven’t been told much, but –”

A scream tore the air near the pavilion stage. Feet pounded the bricks in a rush, refugees swarming volunteers.

“It’s food!” someone yelled.

“Hey, let’s keep order here!” the military man said, pushing his way through the crowd. Someone grabbed the gun and downed him, issuing the butt of the rifle into the man’s gut. More people surged forward. Other men with rifles tried to fight their way through the horde, but it was useless.

Daniel and Angela watched from the top level. They sat there horror stricken, as if the people below had lost their minds.

Daniel looked to the crowd, then down to Cassie, who had fallen asleep despite the tumult. He looked back to the mob below, which now saw more military men trying to control them.

It wasn’t working, Daniel could see. Loaves of bread took off like planes departing Logan, coming down as if clueless pilots were at the controls. Rounded cheese flew up and landed without bouncing.

Then the gunshots cracked. Screams blistered the air, caroming off the concrete and bricks. Cassie woke from the noise, afraid. Daniel picked her up, the blanket clinging to her. He moved toward Congress Street. Angela, however, stayed rooted to the spot, unmoving, watching the chaos unfold like a terrible dream.

Daniel ran for the stairway near the federal building. Several others ran alongside. He made the quick dash carrying his sweet burden as fast as he could. He hurried north along Congress Street and looked for his car.

He found his car covered in a light coating of ash. He wiped the handle and opened the door.

“Get in the back seat, sweetie,” he said.

“Daddy, where are we going? Another car ride? I thought we were staying here.”

“I know honey, but just do as I ask, okay?”

Cassie didn’t put up another argument. She got in and buckled her seat belt by herself before Daniel hurried around the front to his seat.

A mob spilled out of City Hall Plaza. Several carried bricks, as if they ripped them out of the ground. They walked north.

Daniel tried the ignition. The engine groaned, but it wouldn’t start.

“Come on, turn over you stupid, fucking –”

“Language, daddy!”

“Sorry, sweetie. Sometimes I need to –”

Glass shattered around them. Cassie screamed as the brick zipped through the windshield. Daniel gasped. The car began rocking as the throng reached them. More glass shattered, this time on other cars.

“Shit!” Daniel tried the engine again, and finally it sang a revving chorus. Daniel laughed.

“Gun it, daddy! I’m scared!”

Daniel didn’t care there were people surrounding his car, or that there was a large hole in the middle of his windshield. He put the car in drive and drove his right foot onto the accelerator, turning the wheel left. He didn’t hit the brake.

Several of the rioters fell to the ground, grasping their broken legs and hips. Some landed on the hood of Daniel’s Mazda, but couldn’t hang on for long as he sped away from the scene. They cracked their heads on the pavement. Most got out of the way. Some weren’t so lucky.

Daniel made a U-turn when he got to Faneuil Hall, heading north on Congress. He thanked God for the steel fencing on the traffic island. He sped away toward the North End, his dented Mazda keeping to the road. Ash slid off the car like snow on the highway in winter.

A tank cut him off as he meandered closer to the submerged Central Artery. Daniel swerved and nearly hit the stationary military men, all of whom lifted their weapons after the fact.

Cassie just cried.

Bullets tinkled against the chassis. None hit the tires.

Sweat slicked Daniel’s forehead as he drove away, beads sliding down his bloodless face.

“We need to find a safe place, sweetie.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just drive and hope we don’t find any road closures.”

They didn’t find any as they drove north out of Boston; but they didn’t stop anywhere in Massachusetts. They looked northward to less populated areas – places where they would be the only refugees, places where they could grieve privately.

Daniel also wanted to change their names. For what he just did on the streets of Boston, he didn’t want to be found by anyone.

Not even by Angela.