A Land of Ash

SECRET MISSION by David Dalglish

“Okay, now open your eyes,” Derek’s mom said as she finished tucking the package into the waistband of his jeans and hiding it with his shirt.

Derek did. His mom sat on a small cot, her tangled hair hanging before her face, like dark seaweed. Her brown eyes were still beautiful, but Derek always thought his mom was beautiful. Her told her so whenever he got that uneasy feeling that something was wrong, or his mom’s smile was too slow in appearing at his antics.

“Don’t look,” his mom said when he reached for the bottom of his shirt. “This is a secret mission, Derek. You can’t let anyone see what is inside the package. You understand?”

“Like the Super-Kid Spies,” he said, and her smile made him feel so much better.

“Just like them,” she said. “Now find somewhere quiet. Somewhere hidden. Once you’re alone, take out the package.”

“What do I do with it?”

His mom lay down on the cot, her hands her only pillow.

“You’ll know,” she said. “Now go. Hurry.”

Feeling the importance of the mission swelling his head, he stood tall and looked about the stadium. They slept on the five of the five-yard-line (for how old you are, his mom had said as they spread out her cot). None of the green or painted lines were visible now, not with the thousands of people crammed into them, smothering the turf with pillows, blankets, cots, and bodies. Lots of bodies, everywhere bodies. He smelled them, saw them. Obstacles to his mission.

Knowing the field would be hopeless, he started winding his way toward the opposite end. Lined up like cheerleaders in the endzone were rows of port-o-potties. Derek had to watch his step, though. There was no order to the cots, no reason to the arrangements of the sleeping. He tiptoed past a mother holding two crying babies, both thin as paper dolls. He stepped over a boy a little older than him, careful not to wake him. The older children had grown steadily meaner as the months wore on. None ever wanted to play. All they grumbled about was food.

The noise lessened as he neared the potties, but it never stopped. Even at night the stadium bore a hum, like the sound of a big power generator running on human coughs, screams, tears, and whispers. But other than the people lined up to use the potties, no one slept in front of them, not that he could see. Feeling the package crinkling against his skin, he skipped about the line, careful to show that he wasn’t actually needing to go so no one yelled at him.

The smell worsened with every step. The potties were a faded green, sort of like the turf. A few tilted at strange angles, but most were straight and side by side. Flies swarmed above like a cloud. Derek looped around to the back, to where he hoped to find his privacy.

“Pee yew,” he said, grabbing his nose. The smell was worse back there, the air stagnant and rancid. He tried breathing through his mouth, but that didn’t help. He felt the foulness on his tongue.

Still, he had his mission. What secret agent would let a bad smell defeat him? As he walked behind the port-o-potties, he tried to remember if James Bond ever dealt with something like that.

He didn’t get far before he saw the first body, that of an elderly woman. She lay flat on her stomach, her eyes open, her mouth hanging ajar. Her false teeth had come loose and lay crooked on her tongue. Flies swarmed around her like an insect halo. Derek crossed his arms and took a step back. The lady wasn’t the first body he’d seen. Over the months, as people got angrier and skinnier, they’d become a common sight.

“There’s nothing to eat,” his mom had told him when he’d pointed and asked why one sickly looking man had stopped moving, and didn’t move even when the men in yellow uniforms came to carry him away. “Nothing left, not even to share.”

He’d always seen them afar, and always with people around, covering them with blankets or keeping others away. But there was no one here, so he openly stared. A worm crawled around in his gut, a creeping feeling of unease. The lady’s hair was white and muddied. Her fingers were curled, as if she’d died clawing for her life. Her dress had flowers on it.

Derek touched the package in his waistband. The way it crackled he thought it plastic, but it was also soft. He wondered what secret message or gift hid wrapped within. Glancing around, he knew he was alone. The nearest people were up in the rows of bleachers behind the endzone. A few were watching him, but they were far enough away, so he squatted down, putting his back to the dead lady. Something about her made him uneasy.

Just as he was about to pull up his shirt, a hand touched him. He screamed, certain the lady had woken, her curled fingers clutching his bony shoulder as her drooling mouth opened wider, determined to suck out the life that was not rightfully hers. But instead it was a policeman, tired and unshaven.

“Move, kid,” he said. His voice brooked no argument. His hand was on his nightstick, and that scared Derek even worse than his voice. He got up and ran, not caring where he was going. His heart thumped in his chest, but a glance back showed the officer was not following, so he slowed. Already he felt lightheaded and out of breath. His stomach grumbled angrily.

His run took him to the tunnels leading to the locker rooms. He’d tried to explore them several times, but too many doors were locked. He had, however, managed to snag a football from a cart, but two older boys had stolen that from him a week later. Men and women sat along the sides of the walls in their respective lines. Some held towels or changes of clothes while others waited empty-handed, their clothes faded and dirty. Derek felt their dead eyes watching him, as if just waiting for him to try to cut in line.

“Back there,” one man said, his face covered with a scraggly beard.

“Not showering,” Derek said, running back toward the field, then cutting to the right to walk along the wall before the bleachers.

Getting an idea, he found the steps up and then began the climb. He took them one at a time, counting for a little while until he got past thirty. Twin girls ran down the steps, jostling him into a sleeping mom with a very quiet baby in her arms.

“Watch it,” the woman said as she stirred and glared. Feeling her hating eyes burning his back, Derek hurried upward. His optimism faded with his energy as he neared the top. He’d hoped to find a corner somewhere, but there were people even there. They slept in the seats, some even stretched out along the aisles atop blankets. He passed a bucket buzzing with flies. Inside reeked. They were using it as a potty, Derek realized. Evidently they were too weak to keep climbing up and down the stairs.

Derek walked along the top, his arms crossed over his chest. His stomach hurt, and had since about halfway through his climb. The people he passed gave him curious glances, those who bothered to look at all.

“Are you lost?” one lady asked. She wore a dark suit and a silver necklace.

Derek shook his head.

“My mom’s down there,” he said, pointing to the field.

“Ah,” the lady said, laying her head back down against the chair. Her smile was a soft comfort. “Good. That’s good.”

Further along the top he found a large section added atop the stadium. It had once been private, but its windows were smashed. Inside was a broken mess. Derek poked his head in but quickly hurried away. Big men were in there amid the wreckage, and they had a woman with them. She was crying, but not very loud.

Feeling dejected, Derek started back down the steps. His skin itched from where the package pressed against it, slick with sweat.

I have to find somewhere to be alone, he thought. Mommy will be upset if I don’t.

A big kid shoved him into the railing as he passed by up the stairs, but Derek bit his tongue to hold in his cry. Crying seemed to make them madder.

Somewhere secret. Somewhere alone. Where could he find a place like that? Standing at a railing running perpendicular to the stairs, he looked out across the stadium. Everywhere he saw people. They walked, they talked, they lay on beds and sat in chairs. The whole stadium felt like a swarming mass of people, and it stank of their sweat, fear, and exhaustion. Why would mom give him such an impossible task?

No, he thought, shaking his head. Super-Spies got impossible missions all the time. He wouldn’t wimp out. He wouldn’t start crying. He wouldn’t!

A bit of a spring in his step, he hurried back down to the field, an idea forming. He was small, just a little thing compared to the others. He could hide where the adults could not, not even the big kids. As he weaved his way back to the field, he passed one of the concession stands. For awhile they had been little kitchens, and his mom had taken him there for food, but not anymore. The food was gone. The stand’s bars were lowered, its lights off. Trucks had come the first few months with bread and soup, but no longer.

When he reached the field, he started looking for the tractor. They were up in the far northeast, and he’d seen it a couple times, one day climbing up and down it until some adults had yelled at him. He didn’t think anyone would yell at him now.

He found it parked to the side of one endzone. Thrilled, Derek let out a whoop. It was big and boxy, less of a tractor and more of an oversized riding mower. Attached to the back was a stretcher, long and flat. It wasn’t very high off the ground, but it was enough. Hoping the secret package wouldn’t get damaged, he crawled underneath on his belly. He bumped his head twice along the bottom, but he his cry came out as a long hiss. He wouldn’t reveal his presence, not now. It was cramped, and he could hardly move, but there was no way anyone else would get to him there in the center.

Excitement tugging at his heart, he untucked his shirt and pulled out the package.

It was indeed wrapped in plastic, though the top was cardboard. Inside was a glob of gummy-worms, fused together from the heat. Derek’s mouth watered at the sight. He tore off the top and tossed it aside. Hungry as he was, he carefully separated each worm, tearing at the sides where they had melted together. When he put the first into his mouth and bit down, the sugar spreading across his tongue, he finally did cry.

When his crying stopped, he ate another, and another. Each bite was full of memories of his father sitting to his right in the theater as they watched a movie. He’d always gotten gummies, his father, popcorn. His stomach twisted and coiled, as if angry at the lack of substance as he wolfed down the candy. He didn’t care. Snot dripped from his nose, but he wiped his face on his shoulder. He wondered if he’d ever watch cartoons again. If he’d ever return to school and play tag with Mike and Jeffy. If he’d ever see his daddy again.

At last he crawled out from the cart, his fists clenched tight, his face muddy and covered with bits of green turf. He worked his way back to his mom, to her little cot and his superman blankets. When he arrived, she lay very still.

“Mom,” he said, touching her shoulder. She didn’t move.

“Mom?”

Her eyes flicked open.

“Yes, babe?” she asked.

He held out his hand, two gummy-worms smooshed in his palm. Seeing this, she smiled.

“Thank you,” she said, taking them. She didn’t chew them, only slowly working them across her tongue as she sucked in the sugar and flavor. Derek joined her on the cart and moved her arm around him as they cuddled, his mom softly crying, his secret mission a wonderful success.