Emergency Box
Morning mist has condensed on the emergency box, and now it drips down onto Lydia’s lap. She picks at the faded orange sticker that says EMERGENCY KIT. Her fingernails flake away the edges of chipped tan paint on dull gray metal. She’s unsure how many hours it’s been, but it’s long enough that hazy moonlight has given way to gray, frigid dawn. The jacket she grabbed after the lights went out has revealed itself to be her father’s, and its sleeves are a hand too long for her arms. It still smells like him.
All that’s left of home is the box, the jacket, and the settled scree that slid down the mountain’s face last night. All that’s left of Lydia is numb, tired, or cold. A little fir sapling juts out at an angle right where the entrance to home should be, and its hairy roots are half exposed. She sits on a large rock, staring up a slope of debris that fades into mist. Her face feels dusty along the dry salty tracks down her face.
“Do you need help?”
Lydia starts and looks around, turning to the voice. The stranger stands in a heavy gray poncho, holding the reins of a horse with bulging saddlebags. Lydia hesitates, then asks, “Who are you?”
“Pia. And you’re… Lily?”
“Lydia.”
The stranger – Pia – squints at a small, leather-bound book with creased corners. She scribbles something with a nub of yellow pencil. “Sorry, my notebook’s stained.”
Pia shifts her weight on beaten boots. “I used to stop by and trade with your mum and dad sometimes. Thought I’d check in after the shockwave.”
“What happened? Why…?”
“Probably a dud somebody buried a long time ago. Something gets in the casing, causes a short if the thing still has power… boom. I think it was in Mapleton this time. I haven’t made it that far south yet, so I’m not sure, but the shockwave caused damage all up and down the valley.”
Pia steps forward and drops into a squat in front of Lydia. She pulls back her hood and blinks slowly. Her poncho’s waxed canvas surface is covered in dewdrops that shake off as she moves, and her damp white hair cuts a sharp silhouette. “Do you have any other family nearby? Maybe up the valley, or across the sludge? The weather’s going to get worse. Can I help you get somewhere? ”
Lydia shakes her head and her own dewdrops scatter. “I don’t know anyone.”
Pia stays in her crouch and tucks the little notebook somewhere under her poncho. She clasps her hands together. “Have you said goodbye?”
#
It takes a few hours, but Pia returns on foot leading her horse by the reins. She’s rigged up a chunk of broken concrete on a skid of corrugated metal, all dragging behind the horse. It makes a hideous sound as it drags across the wet rocks leading up to Lydia’s landslide. The mist turns to drizzle as Lydia helps Pia pull the slab from the skid and set it under the fir tree. Lydia finds a sharp stone and begins scratching the names of her mum, her dad, and her little brother into the concrete. Pia steps forward and scratches the date, then stands by her horse for a while as Lydia sits and stares at the slab slowly turning dark and wet.
Seeing the date scratched into the slab makes something turn and twist in Lydia’s belly, and she hears herself making sounds from deep in her throat. Her chest is tight and she finds herself kneeling on wet stones that dig into her skin through the fabric of her clothes. She punches the slab and immediately regrets it, sucking on her bruised knuckles. Pia puts a heavy hand on her shoulder and stands silently by. Lydia doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually Pia squeezes her shoulder gently.
“It’ll get a little easier once we start moving,” Pia says.
Pia helps Lydia onto the horse, hands Lydia the emergency box, then lifts herself into the saddle. To Lydia it feels magic the way the old woman can direct the mount with a tiny flick of the reins or tap of a boot heel. They ride in silence, and Pia cautiously guides them over dark, muddy ground. Bright new ferns in electric green dot the landscape between broken monuments of stained concrete and carbonized husks that used to be trees.
“Why are you helping me?”
Pia’s hooded head turns to listen as Lydia asks. After a moment she turns her attention back to the trail and says, “You needed help.”
They ride for a few more hours and wind their way south through the forest of dead trees, finally coming to a partially standing ruin of broken concrete. There isn’t much of an overhang, but the single standing corner is enough to break most of the breeze and drizzle rolling across the valley floor. Pia pulls away a rust-streaked slab and reveals a cache of old military rations hidden in the rubble. She holds up a crumpled cardboard box and a wrinkled plastic pouch. The faded label on the box is in French, and the label in English on plastic proclaims Menu 10: Chili and Macaroni. Pia holds them out, offering Lydia the options.
Lydia takes the French box. It’s heavier than she was expecting, and the yellowed tape holding it closed tears in her hand.
“Good choice,” Pia says with a smile. "The chili and macaroni is terrible."
Pia starts a fire using Lydia’s ration box as kindling and they settle in to eat. Lydia uses the emergency box as a table and Pia stirs her chili and macaroni in a dented metal bowl.
After the lukewarm meal, Pia produces a gallon canister of water and a little metal teapot from a saddlebag. She buries the filled teapot in the fire and it begins to steam and bubble with a silly hollow sound. Lydia watches as Pia goes through a well-practiced ritual of making a small pot of very strong, very bitter coffee. Pia seems to sense Lydia’s distaste and returns to the horse. She produces a small jar full of irregular brown lumps of sugar. The saddlebags seem full of items designed to be small comforts in the wilderness.
Pia nods to the emergency box as she pours coffee into a mismatched pair of metal mugs. “Smart to grab the kit. You looked through it yet?”
Lydia stops mid-sip, smelling the sweetness under the acidic coffee. For all the hours she’d been sitting on the rock in the gray, she somehow hadn’t thought to open the latches.
“It’s good to know what you’re working with. Wanna take a look?”
Lydia chews her tongue. “Okay.”
She pops the double latches, opens the lid, and the dry rubber seal around the lid pops and cracks as it comes apart in crumbly pieces. Illuminated by firelight are stacks of paper notes wrapped in thin plastic, each covered in unique designs and scrollwork, images of unfamiliar faces, and a variety of digits and serial numbers. Pia laughs as if someone’s told a dirty joke next to an open casket.
“What?” Lydia looks up at her. “This is money, right? My parents always said to take the emergency box if anything happened.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s money.” Pia shakes her head.
#
Lydia wakes to see the fire has burned down to a dull orange. The weather has broken and the ruins cut stark black shapes against dull gray overcast. Lydia spots something out of the corner of her eye: a green shine on an intact section of the second floor of the ruin. She realizes that what she thought was another piece of rubble is actually Pia looking north with a big spotting scope. Its eyepiece casts a green shine on the wrinkles around her eyes while the rest of her fades into the dull rubble.
Lydia begins to rise and says, “What's going on?”
The dim green glow highlights a finger that rises to Pia's lips, quieting Lydia. Pia gestures to a pile of collapsed building Lydia should climb up to meet her. As Lydia approaches, Pia pulls the shoulder strap off and hands the scope to her. Pia points north to the silhouettes of two short fir trees that are barely visible on a distant hillock.
“Between the trees. Can you see it? Bear.”
Lydia looks through the scope and the world is illuminated in ghostly green. A vague black shape ambles between the trees, barely distinguishable from the bushes around it.
“It smells the fire. Knows there’s food. Now that you’re up, we should get going. Only a couple hours until dawn anyway.”
#
Pia is riding with her hood down now, and she’s humming something tuneless but cheery. The break in the weather has lasted until after dawn, and the sky turns brilliant purple, pink, orange, yellow as the sun rises over the hills to the east. Pia spurs the horse and they trot along while mist blows above. It’s cold, but the air is fresh.
A round shadow above catches Lydia’s eye. As they trot forward, a jagged line appears and rises into the haze towards the dim circle; it’s a balloon hanging in the sky with a line of triangular flags leading to some bulbous shape at ground level. Lydia can make out small messages on each of the colorful flags: Shop at Mol’s! Mail picked up and delivered! All items new or lightly used! Heavy lifting for hire!
As they approach, Lydia realizes it’s a hardsuit with massive canvas and leather bags strapped all over the outside, and towing a metal tank labeled FUEL OIL. The motor in the hull of the suit chugs and belches black exhaust that hangs in a low dissipating trail as it walks slowly west on stumpy legs. The line of flags is hooked onto the roof next to a tall radio antenna, and the entire lower half of the suit is splattered with mud from stomping along in the rain.
Pia brings the horse in close to its right side, then reaches up and pulls a bright beaded cord dangling from a metal rod that juts out from the hardsuit’s flat roof. The muffled tinkle of a bell echoes from inside the hull of the suit and the whole top-heavy arrangement stumbles to a stop, almost toppling forward before settling back on chunky mechanical heels. The robotic arms at the front of the boxy hull wave around a bit, helping maintain balance. There’s a whistle as a loudspeaker comes alive and begins spouting static, then a tinny human voice.
“Hello? Someone looking to trade?”
Pia shouts, “Mol! Open up! You’ve got a customer!”
The static from the speaker goes dead, and then with a pop and a squeal, a hatch on top pushes open and a heavyset man wearing a padded helmet pops his head and shoulders out. A huge grin of brilliant white teeth contrasts starkly with his dark skin. “Pia! It’s been too long!”
“It’s been three days, Mol.” Lydia hears a smile in the old woman’s voice.
“Like I said, too long!” He looks at Lydia. “See you picked up another stray. Nice to meet you! I’m Mol. How’d y’all meet?”
The smile drops from Pia’s voice. “Sensitive topic, Mol. Got any supplies might help her make her way?”
Mol sizes up Lydia and the emergency box and chews his lip. “Well, you don’t got a pack or nothin’. Let’s set you up!”
Mol dips back into the hatch and the hardsuit’s engine sputters off, bringing the constant stream of black exhaust to a halt. A moment later, he pops out and starts climbing down the side of the suit using canvas bags and the arms up front as handholds. He walks around the tractor-sized suit and picks, pulls, and unsnaps various knots, clips, hooks, and anchors, and the bags of cargo flop to the ground. He sighs as one of the bags makes a muffled shattering sound when it drops.
“Guess that had the good china in it.” He makes a silly face at Lydia and gives an exaggerated shrug. She can’t help but smile.
Over the next hour or so, Pia and Mol pick through the dozen or so bags that had been attached to Mol’s hardsuit. Lydia stands holding the horse’s reins, listening to the murmur of their conversation and the clicking of the suit’s engine as it slowly cools. She eventually sits down on the emergency box, using it as a makeshift seat. The two old folks place various pieces of equipment next to a worn backpack that sits in the shadow of the hardsuit.
A first aid kit, then another when Pia pops open the scratched red plastic box and announces it’s missing everything but the gauze. Binoculars with a cracked lens. Some greasy leather gloves. Two pairs of boots – We can stuff these if they’re too big for you. A tarp. A tent. A folding shovel. Two tinderboxes. A hunting knife. A sweater with enough holes that it looks like someone used it for target practice. Two gas masks of different makes – We can get you new filters, don’t worry. A rainbow of socks. Two ponchos. Two aluminum plates. A stack of menstrual pads – If you don’t need ‘em right now, they make great bandages. A dented teapot. Two metal mugs, one bare metal and one covered in chipped white ceramic. A spool of rope. A compass – Sorry, I think the needle’s bent. A pair of dark goggles with a cracked lens to match the binoculars. A fuzzy hat. It all lies in an ever-growing pile next to the backpack.
Mol looks up suddenly and exclaims, “Oh!”
He waddles around the other side of the hardsuit, then returns a moment later with a brown cloth bundle under his arm. “Picked these up a few weeks ago in Ogden.”
Mol unrolls the bundle on the ground in front of Lydia as she sits on the box. “Take your pick, young lady!”
The roll is lined with balding green velvet and it contains three rows of neatly packed cutlery. Knives, forks, spoons, all in tarnished silver. At one end are tiny forks with three prongs barely large enough to spear a pea, and at the other are hefty spoons and ladles with ornate handles. Lydia gingerly picks out a fork that feels dainty in her hand. It’s tarnished black in the fine floral crevices around the handle.
Mol chuckles.
Pia pipes up, “You’ll want something to eat with, not a toy. It’s okay to pick out what you like.”
Lydia hesitates, then picks out a fork, a spoon, and a knife. Each is etched with curls and flowers. They feel good in her hand, well balanced and pretty.
"Good, but you should always have another set ready," Mol says. "Never know when you're entertaining guests."
He plucks out another knife, fork, and spoon, and places them in Lydia's hands.
"These are so fancy." Lydia holds them a moment, then rises, runs over and opens the emergency box, and pulls out a stack of bills marked TWENTY DOLLARS. She begins tearing the thin plastic to expose the notes. “How much do I have to pay for them?”
Mol stares at the stack of cash for a moment. He turns to Pia and she shrugs, palms up, chuckling. She grins as she says, “How much for the fine silverware?”
Mol shakes his head, then turns back to Lydia. “Kiddo, I haven’t used money for anything in twenty years.”
"I thought I was supposed to pay for things."
Mol laughs. “You’re taking care of my friend,” he says, gesturing to Pia, “So that’s good enough for me. I’d probably just use the stuff as kindling.”
#
They ride for a few more hours and the new backpack starts to dig into Lydia’s shoulders. The extra weight pulls her back in her seat, and she has to hold tightly around Pia’s waist as the horse walks up a low hill and the emergency box shifts position. From up here they can see just over the tops of the fir trees that cover the valley floor, and the huge lake of dark sludge is visible in the distance. It looks like a streak of brown grease on a paper map.
Pia hops down and begins setting up another campfire in a ring of stones already set up around cold ash. She must use this place often. “Time for lunch,” she says.
As they set up, Pia lets the horse roam around and nibble at bright green shoots of grass. Lydia once again uses the emergency box as a seat, stabs at some chewy beef (Menu 7: Brisket Entree), and tries to formulate a question. Pia notices and keeps chewing, head down. After a few moments failing to come up with words, Lydia remains silent.
Pia nods, finishes Menu 11: Vegetable Crumbles with Pasta in Taco Style Sauce, and tosses the packaging in the fire. She pokes at the shriveling plastic with a stick as it emits acrid black smoke, then sits back on the small log she’s dragged over to the fire.
“It’s overwhelming, huh?” Pia gestures broadly to the fire, the emergency box, and the valley extending out before them. “Nothing works how they said it would.”
Pia picks up the stick again and it leaves a white ribbon of smoke in the air as she points down the valley. “You’re in a world your parents didn’t understand. You’ll be okay, though.”
She stands up and kicks damp dirt into the fire, killing it.
#
Riding down the trail towards the sludge, the air is already stinging Lydia’s nose and throat, and her eyes are tearing up. Pia helps Lydia put on one of the gas masks they got from Mol, then puts on her own. It’s light gray, and its round eye holes seem froglike to Lydia. They continue down the gentle slope and Lydia realizes there are figures ahead walking in the same direction. Most are laden with backpacks and smocked in dull colors.
Everyone is wearing gas masks, and many are pulling tanks of oxygen on wheels or skids and breathing from medical respirators. The air this close to the sludge makes the exposed skin on Lydia’s wrists and neck itch, and there’s a distinct yellow haze hanging at waist height that flows around people like water.
By the time they’ve reached the pier at the edge of the oily-looking lake of sludge, there are more people clustered around than Lydia has ever seen in one place. There must be at least two dozen of all shapes and sizes, some of them standing around hardsuits of various makes and models, some of them sitting on bags of their few possessions. Above the gated entrance to the pier, a sign proclaims Mosida Ferry. A couple of folks wearing heavy plastic suits in bright yellow are standing with a relaxed posture near the gate, and they chat with each other amiably.
Pia dismounts and helps Lydia down, emergency box coming down first, then Lydia with her bulky new backpack. “I’ll wait with you until the ferry comes, then I’ll continue south to find the source of the shockwave. There are good people in Mosida. You’ll find your place.”
As the ferry approaches, the crowd forms into a neat queue with the hardsuits standing in a row at the back. Each bulky suit is worn and ancient, and several are covered in hand-painted symbols and signs identifying the people who drive them and the faiths that drive the people. When it gets closer to shore, the ferry’s eight huge piston legs churn up the sludge for a few minutes while it parks at the pier. Over a loudspeaker, someone on deck begins calling instructions to the crew. The folks leaving the valley begin to file on, followed by the heavy stomp of hardsuits walking one by one up the steel ramp. The hardsuits trudge slowly and carefully up the ramp as it bows under their weight.
“When you get on board, tell the deck crew Pia sent you. They know me, and they’ll take care of you.” Pia swings herself back up on her horse in a smooth motion. “It’s all going to be okay, Lydia.”
“What should I do with this?” Lydia lifts the emergency box.
A muffled sigh comes through Pia’s gas mask. “It’s a good enough box. Sturdy. You could keep it, store important things in it.”
“What about the money?”
“Are you going to use it for anything?”
The lenses of Lydia’s gas mask are fogging up now, and the emergency box in her hands is a hazy tan blob. She looks up at Pia, but the eyes behind the round glass are shadowed. “I guess not,” Lydia says.
Putting the box on the ground between them, Lydia squats and opens the lid. The little bricks of money have fallen into a messy jumble. She pulls them out in big handfuls and places them in a pile on the bare dirt. The bottom of the emergency box is a dull metallic gray, unpainted. She closes the box and latches it, then stands back up and hefts her backpack.
The huge diesel engine powering the ferry begins to chug and roar, and the people in yellow plastic suits on the pier wave towards Pia and Lydia. One of them shouts something, but it’s drowned out by the escalating engine noise.
With a nod towards the pier, Pia says, “Go on. Time to head out.”
Lydia picks up the emergency box, then jogs down the pier. She walks up the gangway behind the last of the hardsuits, trailing behind its awkward gait. She takes a set of rusted stairs to the enclosed upper deck of the ferry, ushered along by friendly faces in protective plastic suits. The floor shudders and jerks, and the sounds of pumps and heavy machinery become nearly overwhelming.
As she pushes through the door to the enclosed deck, she can already see the people from the pier taking off gas masks and finding seats on the steel benches lining the room. Some are talking and laughing over the sounds of the engines, others are herding children or cinching bags shut. All along the left side, windows streaked with brown and yellow show an elevated view of the shore and the pier, and Lydia realizes they’ve already begun moving away. The huge piston legs of the ferry push up and down outside the windows, and the shoreline is already being obscured by patchy fog.
The silhouette of a horse and hooded figure stand by the gate to the pier. Near the horse’s hooves, the pile of money from the emergency box fades into the haze.
