Signals

It was three months after the war began and Jason had lost his shoe. Outside the horizon was burning crimson as if the world’s blood had hemorrhaged into the air in a grand exhalation of rage and smoke. The air reeked metallic and the dull thuds like heart pulses sounded as the bombs fell beyond his sight and he knew his friends were likely dead. He had just bought those shoes. They were before the rationing began and shelves ran dry till you couldn’t find a tin of peas to save yourself. The cities now exhausted of goods and looting coursed in the streets. At least that’s what he heard. He hadn’t been to town since the shoes and now he wasn’t ever going to go again.

He didn’t even know how it all began and didn’t care to. It was safer not to know. Far from the town that burned derelict over the hills and him swaddled in the comfort of the unseen and forgotten hills nestled among the ridge of autumn trees which rose imperious on all sides.

His mamma dead now five years and her boxes and bins and clothes and wreckage stacked ceiling high and was now a maze enshrined to his intimate memory. The house rose three stories and was a reliquary of a life poorly lived in her latter days. After Pappa died was when it got worse. Ten years now this December. The grand accumulation of the false comforts – packages ordered solely for the pleasure of ordering them, opened once and left inside their boxes and abandoned on the first floor once their purpose of arriving was fulfilled. Most cannot be seen anymore, dwelling in the recessed shadows that even daylight could not penetrate and turning to shades of grey and crumpling under their own weight. The rest was the awful lot of all things that could have use or value or purpose but were long vacated of these qualities – crippled furniture that could be repaired, lamps that could be sold, clothes worn thin with age or never even worn to begin with. And on a rack of drawers upon the second floor whose contents were meticulously labeled, was a tiny container reading, “Pieces of string too short to be of any use.”

It was the left shoe he was missing so he just wore the right giving him a false limp as he trudged the house looking for the other. “It here, it gottta to be here, dang it,” he mumbled to himself till Jason finally gave up knowing it was likely swallowed up in the chaos.

He rummaged his way to the third floor past boxes and worn dolls crowding the back stairs for the other stairway was blocked altogether. Something poked him through his sock as he cursed gawddammit and then apologized to Jesus. In the corner room facing town was his Pappa’s ham radio station. He often silently mocked this erstwhile hobby but now that cell phones and internet servers ceased to function, he took it all back. It was his only way to communicate now as the world went silent and which was dependent upon things that could no longer speak.

The room was small yet evaded his mamma’s encroaching accumulations yet crowded with his father’s own. Radios, tuners and amplifiers spanning various eras were stacked three high over shelves of wood and filled an entire wall which was plastered with small cards of his numerous contacts going back fifty years – Turkey, Russia, The Congo when it was just the Congo. The social media before there was such a thing. They were yellowed and curling, some having detached from the wall to vanish inaccessible behind the desk. He couldn’t help thinking that most of these people were dead as well.

He flicked the main switch as the phalanx of radios powered on like a quickened sunrise, all incandescent and comforting with needles darting to various frequencies across the invisible spectrum of the air where signals bounce from off the atmosphere to return to the earth then reflecting up again and propagating ever outwards. And on days when the magic is right he could hear his own voice return to himself like a ghost from around the earth.

Dylan was his first radio contact and they agreed to park on this frequency despite Jason not having a license to operate. Jason hunched his shoulders over the mike and hit transmit as the light over the tuning dial turned green.

“Dylan, this is Jason. Do ya copy?” Silence. “You on frequency there, buddy?” Nothing. He repeats it again, then twice and waits. Just the hiss of static like the sound of the ocean. Then the needle jumps.

“Jason Jason, this is K1KMO Kilo-one-kilo-mike-oscar. Good to hear you’re alive there.”

“Ain’t dead yet.”

“It’s bad, my friend. Like really bad. It’s like in every city now I think."

"Ya heard from Deb or Abby?"

"No, it’s been like two days and nothing. Why can’t you just radio them yourself?”

“I ain’t know how to talk to nobody but you.”

“Geeze, all you got to do is turn the dial. You’ve got their frequency.”

“I ain’t like changin’ it.”

“You can just turn it back.”

“I ain’t like doin’ that!”

“I can’t figure you out. I just...never mind. Look, can you see anything there? There’s tons of smoke here.”

“I think the town went all tits up.”

“Wait, what?! The fuck didn’t you say anything? That’s where Deb and Abby are, Jason! God! What makes you think the town went...”

“I thought you c’ain’t do that?”

“Do what?”

“Cursin’ on the radio.”

“What? Who cares at this point? Everything is on fire, Jason. It's in almost every city now. Gunshots, bombs, people dying and no one knows where it's all coming from. Every news station is offline. Are you listening to me?

"Yeah, I'm listenin'."

"Just tell me what you saw.”

“Dunno, like the sky went all red like and things stank like chemicals and sumthin’ I c’aint tell. Like sumthin’ dead.”

“Good God, Jason. You gotta get the hell out of there.”

“Ain’t got nowheres to go to. They ain’t gonna find me nohows anyways. ‘Sides, I tore out the mailbox two months ago and covered the whole damn drive with brush. Ain’t no one know I even here now. ”

“Okay, Jason okay. It’s just...ah, never mind. Can you see anything now? Can you just check?”

“Yeppers, hang on.” Jason rolls back his chair and peers out the window. “Oh,” he remarks surprised.

“What is it?”

“C’ain’t see nuthin’, but there’s an owl out there.”

“An owl? Where?”

“Out in the tree. Ain’t seen one in years.”

“What’s it look like?”

“I don’t know. Like an owl. It got like this white heart face thing goin’ on and uh, like brownish orangey wings. Dunno, it’s dark. It’s got its head all tilted and shit and it’s just starin’ at me.”

“Maybe he thinks you got a mouse.”

“I ain’t got no mouse.”

“Sounds like a barn owl to me.”

“I ain’t got no barn neither.”

“Well, why don’t you take a picture?”

“I ain’t got no camera!”

“Maybe there’s one in one of your mother’s packages.”

“I don't like ya talkin' bout that. Shouldn’t-a never told ya.”

“Sorry, just...Look, I just don't think you're taking this seriously.”

“I is takin’ it serious. I ain’t got no mail in two months.”

“Fine. Fine, Jason. Do what you want. Listen, I should sign off. I gotta check on people. If I hear from Deb and Abby I’ll let you. Just...be careful.”

“I is. Gosh.”

“Okay, Kilo-one-kilo-mike-oscar clear.”

“Yeah yeah,” Jason responds into the silence and turns the equipment off.

Jason sits there awhile looking over the room. His Pappa’s hunting trophies, fishing trophies all coated in a veil of dust. He did like killing things but had a good death himself. Not like his Mamma. He peers out the window. The owl is still there. Jason gets up and goes to the window. He tilts his head just like the owl’s. “Hey, there little buddy. What you got goin’ on huh? Pappa ain’t never got you it seems.” The owl ruffles its feathers and settles yet still focuses on him. “Well, it look like we got a right starin’ contest now. Ain’t that right, buddy? Look like you gonna win this one I reckon. Well lookie, I gotta get some food in me. You can hang out all ya like. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The owl just stares and cocks its head again. "Okay, well there it is then. Ya win." Jason heads to the door and turns back one more time and the owl is gone.

Jason presses his hands against the walls as he navigates the narrow trail down the stairs but then catches his foot again on the same spot and loses his balance as his hands slip from the walls. In a avalanche of boxes and dolls Jason tumbles head first down the stairs caterwauling over his shoulder and landing hard against the floor. Packages and dolls were in a scatter about him as he angrily kicks a box away, his head hurting. He sees a touch of blood as he dabs his fingers across his scalp then grabs a doll with its mocking smile and hurtles it away as it bounces spinning off the ceiling and vanishes forever behind the mountain of cardboard and clothes.

He pushes past the stacks of wicker baskets, carpet rolls and stuffed animals into the bathroom equally crammed with cracked bins, empty toilet paper rolls and a broken paper shredder that never worked to begin with but never thrown away because one day it might. In the mirror he could see the small gash on his head like a half moon as he washes it with a bar of shriveled pale soap and places a bad-aid over it. He’s lost more weight, he can tell. His face more drawn and his thinning hair now down to his shoulders. Beside the stained toilet, along the molding were lined used band-aids stuck there vertically over time in a history of injury going back ten years. To remove them was to remove some shadow of memory of when Mamma was still alive. And to remove them was to begin to remove all things familiar – this mass of exhaustive accumulation now a creature unto itself and now sadly comforting.

Winding down to the cellar required a flashlight for there was no clear space to place a ladder to change the bulb that burnt out two years ago. Along the far wall and the entire right side was Mamma’s pantry. The only thing of practical use left behind and by his reckoning would last over a year if he were careful. Rows upon rows of her canned vegetables stacked floor to ceiling along with tins of soups, meats and fruits sullen behind thick milky cobwebs. He grabbed a can of soup and made his way to the kitchen where he had cleared away a small patch upon the counter extending to the radius of his elbows and where he ate every meal.

Screeeeech…screeeeech…

“Da hell?” Jason blurted out startled and knocking over a box of crackers scattering them to the floor. It sounded close and like radio static or the signal you’d hear from the Emergency Broadcast System after “This is only a test.” It sounded again, piercing and insistent. Screeeeech…screeeeech…He couldn’t place its origin. He knew he had turned off the radios, but didn’t know what else could make that noise. He carefully mounted the stairs avoiding whatever stabbed him in his socked foot and peered in the radio room. Nope, everything is off. Screeeeech…screeeeech…It was close this time, almost in the room and then he looked out the window.

“Jeebus, buddy! Ya shittin’ me?” The owl stared and blinked slow, screeched again then flew to the ground and screeched again. Jason opened the window and looked down. “What ya want down there, buddy? Ya scared the shit outa me.” It called out again, fluffing its wings and tilting its head inquisitively. “What? Alright, ya want me to come down? I’ll come down. Lord almighty, thought y’all hooted.”

Jason pushed through the narrow trail to the front door partially blocked by debris. He squeezed through the door onto the front porch where even the swing was choked with clothes rotted dark by rain and encrusted with leaves and made his way to the tree when he suddenly stopped.

“Nah! Nah, that ain’t…” He stared for a breathless moment. “Ya really are shittin’ me now.” At the base of the tree was his shoe. The owl cocked its head then burst silently into the air flying low along the ground and vanished into the dark. Jason walked up and picked the shoe up. “I ain’t left it here.” Looking out and calling out into the night, “I ain’t left it here! I…” He was now trembling. In the wind was the scent of distant smoke, but not like before. It was rich and loamy like a campfire but scanning about he could see nothing. The wind was coming from the east and he hurried inside.

He had been at the radio for thirty minutes waiting for Dylan to come back but he didn’t. He kept looking out the window. He had put the shoe on. He stared at the hissing dial for a long while, then growing impatient, he hesitantly tuned the radio through the lower frequencies. Down through pops, screeches and oscillations that rose and fell in his descent. Till after minutes he heard a faint voice among the noise. The signal was still broken up with static like a message in a bottle dipping under the waves then reappearing. It was a woman and she seemed to be frantic.

“...number of beds? Mac network down. We...mass casualty...transport...Presby, do you copy?”

“Passavant, we currently...of beds. Negative on transport. Half of Oakland...fire. People dying...can’t get here. Can’t hail...hospital west. Any luck?”

“Negative. I tried just...no emergency command. No radio operators. Hal should...deployed there, but...word from...I just...we...codes orange...grey...then...there’s gunshots...I…”

The signal finally degrades like leaves blowing away in the magnetic wind. Jason tries fine tuning up and down but it’s gone. They were likely hospitals but he didn’t know where. Jason quickly tuned back to find Dylan. He was already there.

“Do you copy? Jason! Do you…”

“Yeah, I’s here. Relax would’ja. See this is why I don’t change the dial thing.”

“There’s no relaxing, man. Not anymore. Where were you?”

“I was jus’ here.”

“No, what frequency?”

“I ain’t know. Had a seven in the front.”

“Jason, you have to write this shit down. What did you hear?”

“Some hospitals talkin’ I think. Sounded bad.”

“How bad?”

“I dunno. Sumthin’ bout fire and gunshots. And codes with some colors after them. Then everything just gone dry up.”

“Listen, Jason all of Sanger is gone. Maybe even Dallas. Heard it from a guy on his way to Colorado with his family. This is everywhere now. I can hardly get a hold of anyone now.”

“You actin’ like everyone dead or gonna be.”

“Maybe they are.”

“But maybe they ain’t? Nuthin’ I can do about it nohow.”

“You can be ready to get out of there if you have to.”

“I tole ya, there ain’t no place to go.”

“You’re hiding out in a tinder box. What if they find you?”

“I ain’t know nuthin’ bout no they. I ain’t met no they.”

“Then how you going to eat?”

“I got tomaters. “

Jason could hear Dylan riling. “You’re a dumbass. I’m sorry to say it, but you are. The world’s burning up, my friend. I don’t know how it’s happening but it is and you’re there hiding behind your mother’s garbage heaps as if they’re going to keep you safe. It’s denial, man. Sheer denial because you can’t cope with reality. I never said anything before, but it’s true.”

Jason sat in silence for awhile. “That ain’t fair ya said that.”

“Look, I’m sorry but…”

“It ain’t fair ya said that.”

“Okay, I...take it back, alright? I was just…”

“You cain’t take it back. That what you said.”

“Jason…”

“You gotta say them letters now.”

“Letters?”

“The ones ya say when ya have to leave.”

“Jason, I don’t...Listen, I’m just really worried about you and…”

“Just say the letters.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. “Okay, Jason, okay. This is...This is Dylan Kilo-one-kilo-mike-oscar clearing the frequency. Jason, please just…”

The equipment powers off like a quick exhalation as all the dials fade to dark at once. Jason sat in the silence kicking his shoe against the back of the desk frowning. He wanted to cry. And he sat there for a very long time.

He knew if he looked out the window it would be there. So he didn’t look. Then he looked, but it wasn’t there. He went to the window and peered about but there was nothing to see but the jagged treeline that crossed the east line ridge like tendrils reaching for the sky, moonless and cold.

He slogged his way down past the second floor where somewhere in the night a crush of boxes had collapsed sending with it a broken fan and a pink basket filled with unopened boxes of tissue, blocking the narrow valley to the far side of the house which was now entirely unused. Downstairs he looked to the front door and turned to the cellar but stopped. He knew this would be bad. He in turn went to the kitchen and forced open the door of the bottom cabinet. Blindly he fished his arm into the dark past unseen plastic bottles and webs. It was there in the back where he left it.

The bottle of whiskey was still almost full and likely stale with age, but tonight he didn’t care. He forced the front door open and stepped out into brisk air which carried the distant stench of smoldering plastic and the dead. Looking up there must be clouds he thought for there were no stars. But then there he was. The owl perched up in the tree with something in its beak, something small and squarish. “Hey, buddy. What is that? What ya got there?” The owl circled its head around and screeched sending the little rectangle of paper fluttering through the air into the darkness. “Yikes, buddy!” Jason gave chase as it curled to the ground and began scuttling away in the wind. He tried to stamp it with his foot but it scooted up again till finally he brought his shoe down on it. It was a photo, half burnt. Jason frowned then looked up at the owl.

In the photo were two women in their 60’s, their heads leaned together in an improvisation of laughter as their grey hair blurred together unified in the wind. “So they is dead ain’t they? That’s what this means ain’t it?” Jason sat down heavily in the dirt. He takes a deep slug of whiskey. Jason winces. “Oh gawd fuck. Really?” Jason holds the photo up sadly. “So, buddy...Their names is Deb and Abigail...Abby. They came to Pappa’s funeral. That how we met. They was friends with Pappa from way back. Radio stuff. Abby...that Abby there on the right, see?” Jason takes another long draw from the bottle screwing his eyes shut. He stares down into the bottle. “They'd been together since they was in school. Mamma never approved of ‘em much but then again Mamma ain’t never approved of nuthin’ much. Ya love who ya love, right buddy? Yeah, that right. I ain’t know how ya do yer head like that all sideways and such. It funny.”

Jason keeps sucking from the bottle then swirling the base around in the dirt. “I ain’t loved nobody myself. Not even close like. I mean ma folks course, but that ain’t the same. Not like havin’ someone. Someone there lookin’ at ya nice, sayin’ you ain’t stupid but y’know, nice things. I like nice things.”

Jason glances over the house, its paint curling off in pale trailings, the porch beams warped like rickets. “I know it ain’t look that way, but it’s jus...just hard to find now. The nice things that is.” The acrid wind picks up as the trees hiss like the sound of distant traffic, the photo fluttering between his fingers like a dry leaf. “Look like there ain’t nuthin’ nice no more nowheres. Things dyin’ like all things die ‘cept just quick like. I hope, I hope they’s went quick. Holdin’ each other like this but I ain’t think so.” He taps the bottle hard against the dirt and takes another long painful gulp. “Mamma, Mamma din’t go quick. She was jus’ there lingerin’ all that time. Din’t want to see no doctor even when the pain was gawdawful. I’d hear her moanin’ in the night. Couldn’t make ‘er go no matter what. In times before she used to go inta town pickin’ the yard sales and stuff or work the garden and gatherin’ up them St. Andrew Crosses and Groundcherries, but after Pappa she jus’ stopped and took to grievin’ amongst her mountains. Ya still listenin’ buddy? I...eh, booze gitten’ on top a me...”

The owl was shifting slowly up and down the branch, rotating its face away then gently back. Jason looked up at it, the whiskey half drunk as he starts to whimper, his chest tremoring. “I’s let ‘er die, buddy. All ‘lone. I’s passed out from the bottle that night and I’s ain’t had none since. Till now least.” He then upends the bottle nearly draining it. “Ma friend were mean ta me t’night.” Jason tried to pry himself up by the bottle but it kicked out from under him and he fell to the side. “I...I thinks I haz ta go.”

Jason tried to stand but the world was cross threaded and sideways and he stumbled over striking his ribs on the porch stairs as he could feel them pop as pain shot like lightening down his whole right side. He crawled to the door, the bottle bonking the porch in one hand as he tried to push himself up with his right. He collapsed into the door trying to find the handle and finally fell inside. In the dark he reached up to find anything to steady himself with but all objects felt soft and gave way under his clutches till his hand landed upon something metal and long, maybe a lamp. But as he righted himself, it too gave way as he crushed to the ground pulling the mountain over him and the bottle shatters under his fist. The sting of whiskey sharp in the wound and he could feel his guts tighten like a clamp. He rolled on his back to fish the shards from his hand in the chaos of his own making. Dragging himself blindly across the floor he groped for any kind of cloth and finding something soft from among the mass of abandoned clothes, yanks it free and wraps the entire mystery attire around his hand. He elbows his way agonizingly up the stairs to find his bedroom, and in the dark valley between the heaps of clothes and books haunting his bed, crumples face down till the blackout takes him.

It’s late afternoon, but it’s hard for Jason to tell. Haggard and sick he pushes himself up in the stinking sheets as his hand and ribs throb. To his embarrassment he had swaddled his wound with a pink cotton mu-mu making his arm look like a stem to a grotesque bloody rose. Unwrapping it, the wound is dark and ragged extending into his palm. His guts clench again as dry heaves wrack his body like some dark orgasm. This can never happen again. He takes an hour to decontaminate his being in the shower and now all he wants to do is go back to sleep. He then realizes he doesn’t know where the photo is. He desperately searches his bed, yanking the sheets from it and throwing clothes about. Downstairs the entryway is covered in blood and glass but there is nothing but the enormous disarray.

Outside the day is cast in an ocher haze of smoke, but no photo and the tree was vacant. “I’m sorry, buddy but I done fucked up.” Jason turns to go back inside and laying on the stoop was a yellow St. Andrew Cross. He feels like he wants to cry. “Aw, buddy really? How did…? They ain’t even in season.” He looks about the air. “Thank you, buddy. Mamma...Mamma would love this.”

On the second floor Jason stares down what once was a hall but now occluded with just more junk. Angrily, he overturns boxes and throws garbage bags filled with cassette tapes to the side to make a path. Just get to the door. He pushes inside as the stale air unsettles him. It’s been five years.

He stands over the mottled bed where dark stains spread out from the pillow and extending down the entire length of the bed. He sits down gently, running his fingers over the rust colored vermicular of her passing. “I know ya din’t leave pretty, Mamma. I...I weren’t yer good boy like ya says. I weren’t. But maybe I wants to be. Just you ain’t around for me to me a good boy for.” Jason lays the flower down upon the pillow still left with the impression of her head. “My buddy found this. Thought you’d...thought you’d like it. I’s sorry, Mamma.”

Jason feels like his head is choked with glass and passing out seems imminent but drags his way to the radio room. After a moment of thinking he powers the station on trying to hail Dylan a dozen times but no signal returns. “Anyhoo, I uh, I just wanted to say that you’s right. And maybe, I dunno maybe I is a’feared like ya said. But I ain’t wanna be no more. I hope, I hope yer safe. I ain’t got no letters to say bye with so I guess that it. I gotta lay down. I fucked ma head bad.”

Jason goes to shut everything down but stops and taps his fingers on the warm casing. “Yeah, be safe out there.” And shambling to his bed, collapses into deep spinning slumber.

An hour later the radio sounds. “Jason! Hey Jason! Look sorry about the other night, but I don’t have time for that. I gotta bug out. There’s shots in town now and I’m seeing fires everywhere. C’mon, Jason where are you? Okay, look I’m gonna pull whatever equipment I have and try to make it to the border tonight. Just, just keep this on. Dammit, I wish you were there. Alright, look I gotta go. Kilo-one-kilo-mike-oscar, um Dylan out.”

…

The disc of the sun hung dull behind the haze of the afternoon. The smoke gone from the months before and now it’s just the clouds of spring as the trees grew thick again with leaves. Jason swings the door open, his hair cut short and blinking into the sun. “Well, I’ll be.” In the tree now dozens of owls clung to limbs like tufted watchers rolling their heads as Jason laughs. “Yeah, boy I gotta audience now. C’ain’t tell which one you is now. Nah, I see ya there, buddy. Hey! All y’all came for the show din cha? Well, you gonna get one. Good Lord, look at y’all.”

Jason goes to the shed pulling out two beaten up jerry cans of gas. “Ain’t good for nuthin’ else no more ‘cept this.” Out a hundred yards lie the immensity of boxes, clothes, lamps, furniture, dolls and every vestige of the hoard spread out over nearly an acre. “Y’all might wanna cover them beaks of yers ‘cause this gonna stink sumthin’ fierce. I know it ain’t the most environmental thing but I ain’t think no one left to care. I think we’s it now. Maybe it be some signal to anyone left.” The owls all begin screeching in unison in wild cacophony. “Oh, and I got me some room now so I be leavin’ a couple winders open up top. Y’all feel free to hang out upstairs. Ya like that, buddy?”

The owls continue in their screeching as Jason turns to the field. “Alrighty, time to set fire to the gawddammed mountain.”