Kahayatle (Apocalypsis #1)

“Be careful. That’s what the canners say to themselves every night before they go hunting.”

I sat down, totally deflated. “Thanks a lot, kill joy, for bringing me back down to our crappy reality.” I stuck my tongue out at him and gave him a raspberry.

“Well, we are going to start a new world out here, a new country or whatever, and we have to hold onto our moral fiber as best we can.”

“Okay, Father Jim.”

“Who’s Father Jim?”

“A guy at this church I went to a couple times. My dad said I should try to experience organized religion in several forms, so I could make an educated choice about whether I wanted to join a church or whatever.”

“What’d you decide?”

“I decided I didn’t like some guy with a big red nose telling me what I was supposed to be thinking and believing. Especially since right after services he went on to break all the rules he’d just laid down for everyone else. They always say not to judge in the sermons and then they go ahead and judge anyway.”

“I was never that thrilled with church either. The one my parents went to didn’t believe gays were born this way. They were big on conversions or whatever.”

“Conversions?”

“Getting gay men to go straight through therapy.”

“A-holes.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“No wonder you didn’t tell your parents.”

Peter shrugged but said nothing.

I guessed from his reaction that I probably should avoid the topic of parents being jerks. Not just now but forever. We were bound to run into other kids eventually, and we all had our baggage - things tied up in the way we had lived with our families and the things we’d seen and done since they’d died and left us here. It was safer to just talk about the future.

“So once we get to our final spot, what do you think we should do?” I asked.

“Well, get shelter for one. Food and water sources. Supplies for contingencies. You do realize we have potential hurricanes to deal with, right?”

“Yeah, don’t remind me. Hurricanes here, tornadoes in the other states, mudslides, avalanches, floods. Nowhere is safe.”

“I guess we need to take a look at our environment and design our lives around it. Then maybe we could risk finding others to join us.”

I fixed him with a stare. “You’re really set on this cuddling thing, aren’t you?”

Peter sighed at me and said, “Shut. Up.”

I smiled evilly at him. “Make me.”

Peter reached out to slap me, but I grabbed his arm and twisted it lightly.

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

He whipped his other hand out, faster this time, but I caught it anyway, twisting it up with the other one. “Buzzy buzz buzz. Try again.”

His right foot came next, which I easily blocked with a kick of my own.

“Ow. Watch it, lady. I have a delicate constitution.”

I let his hands go. “You need some training. You’re soft, slow, and obvious. That makes you easy to kill.”

“Yeah, well not everyone can be a kung-fu master like you.”

“I’m not into kung-fu. It’s call krav maga.”

“What’s that supposed to be? Something you made up?”

“No. It’s been around for a long time. The Israeli Special Forces use it and so do lots of police departments around the United States and some other countries too.”

“How’d you learn it?”

“My dad was an expert. I’ve been doing it since I was little.”

“So you have like a black belt or something?”

“No. They have a different system, at least in the dojos where I worked out. I’m an E1 level.”

“Is that the highest?”

“No way. But it’s not the lowest either.” I smiled in self-satisfaction. I’d worked hard to get where I was, even though I could have gotten further with more work.

“Do you think you could teach me?”

“Yes. I could. And I think I should. It will help you not only survive, but also it’ll improve your general fitness level, which to be honest, pretty much sucks right now.”

Peter stood up, acting all miffed. “Yeah, well, like I said. I have a delicate constitution.” He faced down the ramp, looking at nothing.

“Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you have to be all weak,” I said.

Peter whipped around to face me. “Me being gay has nothing to do with my strength, okay? I happen to be very strong, just not in the ways that you are!”

“Wow, geez, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying … you can be delicate and still know how to kick ass when need be.”

Peter shrugged, sniffing lightly. “That would be fine with me. Just so long as you don’t expect me to get all kinds of muscley. I don’t know if that would look so good on me.”

“Are you kidding? You’d look great with some definition in your arms and legs. Guys go crazy for that stuff.” I really had no idea what I was talking about, but it sounded good and he needed some inspiration to fatten up a little.

“Do you think so?”

“Sure. But don’t you know that? I mean, haven’t you ever had a … boyfriend or whatever?”

“No. Like I said. I didn’t have many friends growing up.”

“Well friends and boyfriends are different things.”

“Have you had any? Boyfriends I mean?”

“No. Not really. I’ve had guys I liked before, but none of them ever asked me out.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said annoyed. “How would I know that?”

“You could guess. Who were they?”

“You want names?”

“No, but tell me how you knew them.”

I rolled my eyes, convinced this was a fruitless exercise. “They were usually guys I was training with.”

“Well, that’s your problem,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“How so?”

“They saw you as a training partner, another one of the guys. I’ll bet you were one of the only girls there, right?”

“Yes. Always.”

“And your dad was involved in the training?”

“Very much.”

“And if this training was all hard-core like that other martial arts stuff, that meant there was a ton of, like, discipline and stuff going on?”

“Yeeesss …”

Peter threw up his hands. “Well, there you go! Mystery solved!” He seemed very proud of himself.

“I don’t get it. How did you solve the mystery?”

“Don’t be dense. You were one of the guys. The only ones who might have been attracted to you would have been gay guys, looking for a friend.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Did any of the guys act all nice to you all the time without ever acting sexually attracted to you?”

“Yeah, there was this one … ”

“Gay. I guarantee it.”

“Holy crap. I can’t believe Bobby was gay. Actually, no, I can believe it. He was always staring at the guy I had a crush on too. At the time I thought he was just taking a lot of interest in his techniques.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah. I’ll bet he was.”

“Oh, man. That sucks. I’m like … neuter gender or something.”

Peter laughed. “You’re not neuter. You just need to hang out in environments that support women like you.”

“Women like me,” I said flatly. “That could get you on your back on the ground in less than two seconds, you know.”

“Stop flirting with me. I told you, I’m gay. No, what I mean is, you’re strong and feminine at the same time. But in the dojo or whatever it’s called, you’re just another one of the guys. But see them at a dance or a place with make-up on and a skirt, maybe … then they’ll see you in another way - not as one of the guys.”

“So that’s the key? Makeup and a skirt?”

“Well, in an over-simplified way of speaking, yes.”

I shook my head. “Guys are so stupid.”

“You won’t get any arguments from me there.”

“You’re a guy.”

“Not really. Not like you’re saying. I’m more in touch with my feminine side than the guys you’re used to.”

I nodded my head. That was for damn sure. “Well, this has all been very enlightening,” I said, yawning, “but now it’s time for us to go to sleep so we can get up at four or so and get our fifty miles in.”

“Okay. I have to go … um … do something first.”

“A doodle?”

Peter looked at me aghast. “What did you just say?”

“A doodle. You have to go do a doodle, right? Or did you mean something else? Did you mean you have to go rub one out? I hope that’s not what you meant, because seriously, I think that kind of thing can wait.”

Peter’s expression was priceless - kind of a cross between incredulity and disgust. He just shook his head, mumbling as he walked away. “As if I’m going to share my bathroom habits with her …”

Buster went to follow him, so I yelled out, “Buster, stay! Peter has to go do a doodle. No poodles allowed during doodle time.” I giggled at Peter throwing his hands up in defeat.

By the time we got to the Everglades, I was going to be an expert teaser.

I waited for Peter to be out of sight before I went and took care of my own doodle business. Togetherness was one thing - but certain stuff was better kept private, and this was one thing I knew I never needed to share. Not even with Buster.

“Buster, stay!” I commanded, pointing at the wagon.

He happily jumped in, wagging his behind like crazy.

“Watch our stuff. Bite anyone who tries to touch anything.”

I left, wondering if Buster would ever actually be any use to us as a guard dog that did anything but bark and lick people to death.

I got my answer as I was zipping up my pants. Buster began barking his fuzzy head off, and shortly thereafter, I heard the sounds of somebody yelling. It was a male voice, but too deep to be Peter’s.

I ran back to the bikes, praying I wasn’t going to have to fight off a canner. I had my gun in my hand, where it had been the entire time I’d been taking care of business. I was leaving nothing to chance, and literally refused to be caught unarmed with my pants down. All these weird expressions my dad used to use were totally taking on new meaning for me.

I arrived at the ramp in time to see a big guy holding his hands up in surrender, while a ferocious-looking Buster held him at bay a few feet away from the trailer.

“Who the hell are you?!” I yelled, striding over awkwardly on the steep slope.

“I’m just a guy!” he yelled, but he had an accent. It sounded like he said, “I’m chust a guy.”

“You’re not just a guy, you’re a thief. And a dirty cannibal too, probably!”

I had arrived at the trailer, stopping next to Buster. I bent down without taking my eyes off the guy in front of us to pet him and murmur, “Good boy, Killer, good doggy.”

“He bit my ankle. I hope he hass hiss rabiess shots.” The guy’s speech was very clipped as he pronounced every letter, just so and very precisely.

“What’s up with the accent?” I asked.

“H-what accent. I don’t have an accent.”

“Yes you do. It’s not ‘h-what’. It’s just ‘what’. And you’re putting too many esses on the ends of your words.”

“I’m Hamerican.”

I laughed. “Try again, liar.”