Marco Etheridge
The Gulf Between
I see him lurching down the empty pavement, swinging his dead leg like a broke wind-up toy. It’s dark, what with only the glow of the city to see by, but I see him just the same. Better believe I do.
Ain’t no juice out here in the buffer zone, no spark beyond the ring fence. No electricity, no water, no nothing. And no people neither, ‘cepting that gimpy bastard and me. We count as two when you count together, but he think he’s alone. He ain’t alone. I’m here, too.
Those rich fucks in the city might not think so, but I count as people. Don’t matter maybe I look a lot different than them. A couple days in the buffer, they’d start looking pretty strange themselves. Hell, they wouldn’t last two nights out here. So, it don’t matter what I look like. If we counting heads, gotta count me too.
The gimpy bastard likes to think he’s the only one. He don’t see me, don’t know nothing ‘bout me, not even my name. But he knows I exist. How else is he gonna explain the goods he finds? Maybe he thinks I’m some kinda old-time god, leaving him manna from heaven.
Levi Einzel, that’s the gimp’s name. Strange name for a strange man. Levi ain’t too smart, neither. For one thing, he yells at the drones. That ain’t cagey. Can’t believe he ain’t been shot dead. Them drone jockeys shot the dogs, shot every single mutt in the buffer zone. To them drone pilots, a man in the buffer ain’t no better than a dog.
Levi’s good for a laugh, though. Look at him staggering around in the dark, jerking like a drunk tangled in a rope. He’s helpless as a baby most the time. Good thing I like him much as I do. When I don’t like somebody, things can go bad for them.
Truth is, I don’t miss people. Never had much use for most of them. These days, you want to be around other folks, better head for the gates of the shiny city. Thing is, if you ain’t the right somebody, the guards at the checkpoint gonna run you off right quick. Gonna run you off at gunpoint. They might use you for target practice, ‘cause not many fools just saunter up to the gates, not these days. No sense trying that route, not unless you rich and squeaky clean.
Thinking back, I can’t rightly tell you whether the city got too shiny or the blue-tarp camps got too grubby. Probably both. It don’t matter now. The rich city folks had all the money, all the gadgets, and all the best weapons. Still do.
What with all them homeless folks and poor folks trashing up the parks and whatnot, the city wasn’t so shiny anymore. That’s when the rich folk got scared. There were too many trashy people, too many blue tarps.
Once fear got to gnawing on them rich bastards, things changed quick. There were some cagey operators working behind the scenes, the kind of folks who know how to feed a fire. They got the flames of fear stoked up real good by the time they was done. That’s when poor folk got herded into the camps, ‘cept the rich folks didn’t use that word. The official title was Safe Settlements, but nobody in the camps call them that.
Whatever name you use, the camps got filled up with workers, homeless folks, and poor folks. The city put all the riff-raff out of sight and caged them there. Then the ring fence got built, topped off with razor wire. The buffer zone became a no-man’s land betwixt the city and the camps. Step into the buffer and the drones will catch you.
Quick as the roundup happened, it didn’t go down without blood being spilled. Some poor folks fought back, waving their guns and shouting ‘bout their rights. They had sand, I’ll give them that. But sand and rifles stood zero chance against drones and missiles. Them folks were dead before they knew what hit ‘em.
Same story all over the country. The rich ones rounded up folks they called parasites, killed whoever fought back and corralled the rest in camps. If resettled folk toed the line, they got enough food to stay alive, a roof over their heads, and cheap gadgets for entertainment.
That’s how it is now, almost a year gone by. Working folk are stuck in camps on the far side of the buffer zone. Only pretty people get to live in the shiny city. People in the camps do the work. They get bused into the city to clean, cook, empty the trash. Then it’s back to the camp. What goes on out in the hinterland, out beyond the camps, I can’t say. I ain’t been that far.
I spent a bit of time in the camps after the roundups. Didn’t care for it much. The bosses expect a body to be hard-working and willing. Or pretty. They got special jobs for the pretty workers.
I ain’t hard-working, ain’t willing, and I’m damn sure not pretty. Even my Mama never called me pretty, and that was before I got messed up. For them camp bosses, I was a square peg, wouldn’t fit in none of their round holes.
After I got a bellyful of bosses, I slipped back into the buffer zone. Law says anyone or anything in the zone can be shot on sight, but drones don’t fly over all the time. I don’t give them no chance to see me. Them drones don’t seem to bother with the gimp. Can’t tell you why. Maybe they think Levi is their pet. Come to think of it, maybe I think the same. I guess everybody needs someone.
* * *
Levi Einzel’s left knee doesn’t work. He leans on a heavy walking stick, swings his bad leg in a sideways arc. His left foot lands with a thump and Levi hops forward onto his good foot. He’s been clomping around since midnight: swing-thump-hop, a good step, and a pause. That’s how he navigates the broken pavement.
Now the sun is rising over the city, chasing the night out of the buffer zone, pushing the darkness back over the camps and into the hinterland. Levi stares into the glare, shading his eyes with a filthy hand.
He peers between two ruined houses. Beyond them is a swath of bare earth and rubble. Before they built the ring fence, bulldozers flattened everything, every house and every tree. The bosses wanted the guards to have a clear field of fire into the buffer zone.
The ring fence throws a long shadow across the broken earth. Levi sees the spiral coil of concertina wire atop the fence, razor-sharp blades gleaming in the sunrise. The tall city rises beyond the ring fence. One long look is enough. It’s not smart to linger within sight of the fence. He turns and hobbles away.
Daylight means hunger and hunger means finding breakfast. Levi hobbles down the broken sidewalk, making his lurching way past the empty buildings. He passes yawning doorways and blank windows.
Levi has not seen another living soul in the buffer zone, not since he escaped from the camp. Yet there has to be someone. Who is leaving him the food?
He keeps his eyes open, sharp, always on the lookout. Nothing gets past him. He peers into every doorway, stares at shadows in the overgrown bushes. Six months he’s been watching without seeing so much as a glimpse of motion. The plain fact is that he’s not alone, but whoever or whatever he’s sharing the zone with is cagey as a fox.
Levi turns left at an empty intersection and limps across the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall. Signs still hang above the defunct businesses, advertising bail bonds and payday loans. There’s a bench in front of the dollar store. On the bench is a worn cardboard box.
He crutches to the bench and drops himself down. The box holds two cans of baked beans and a single serving carton of juice. He looks across the empty parking lot, but there is nothing to see. Still scanning the empty pavement, he reaches for the goods. Each precious item disappears into a satchel he wears over one shoulder.
The morning sun finds its way above the low buildings, illuminating the grass growing up through the cracks in the asphalt. Levi waits and watches.
Please, just this once, show yourself. Raise a hand, smile, throw a rock. Do something, goddamn you.
The minutes pass. Levi shakes his head, reaches for the empty box, and with his other hand digs around in his dirty jacket. He pulls out a pencil stub and writes on the worn cardboard. When he is done, he places the box back in the exact position he found it. The message he has written matches a hundred others and more: Thank You, and the date as best as he can reckon.
Levi pushes himself to his feet. It’s time to hide, to eat, to rest. He’s been walking half the night and stabs of pain are shooting up his bad leg. He plants his stick, grimacing as he pegs his way across the parking lot. Before he can make it to the street, a mechanical buzzing breaks the morning stillness. The noise grows louder, an angry cicada bearing down on him. Levi knows he is caught. As the shrill noise rises, so does his anger.
The drone is thirty feet above the ground when it banks around the corner. It spins towards Levi as if expecting to find him. Flaring to a halt, the drone hovers motionless in the air above the lame man. Its grating buzz subsides to a menacing hum.
Levi recognizes the thing from a dark crease scarring its plastic carcass. It’s the drone named Dopey, the only one he’s managed to hit with a rock. Dopey keeps coming back for more, even though it’s armed with small missiles that would obliterate Levi in an instant.
Familiar or not, Levi hates all the drones. He shakes his stick at it and curses.
“What are you waiting for, you worthless mechanical bastard? Shoot! Shoot already! Do me a fucking favor.”
The drone hovers motionless above him. Levi plants his stick on the ground, leans his weight onto it, and glares up at the intruder. Seconds tick away and the two remain frozen, earth-bound human and aerial machine.
“So, you’re not going to shoot?”
The drone swivels from side to side, still floating in the air. Once, twice, a head without a body.
“You and your pals shot all the dogs, you sonsabitches. Didn’t leave a one. Might as well shoot me, too. I’m not living any better than a dog.”
The drone hovers for a few seconds as if considering Levi’s accusation. Then it buzzes to life and banks off to patrol the empty streets of the buffer.
“That’s right, fly away, you coward!”
Levi drops his eyes to his walking stick, to his bum leg. He can shout himself hoarse at the stupid drones. It won’t change anything. There’s no magic in Dopey the drone, and no mercy either.
Levi shakes his head. No such thing as magic; no such thing as mercy. They killed all the dogs. The only dog left is you. There’s a human being running Dopey, someone who sits at a control panel and stares at a video feed. He works for the city, or maybe it’s a she. Whoever is behind those controls, you’re their pet, their little lap dog. The only reason Dopey doesn’t shoot you is that the someone behind that camera eye is too busy laughing. You’re the morning comedy routine.
The sun is above the city now, and the tall buildings mirror the gleaming light. Levi squints into the glare, turns away, sees his long shadow running away from him. He plants his stick and swings his bad leg forward, takes a hop towards his shadow. Swing-step and a hop, Levi makes his slow progress deep into the ruins of the buffer, out of sight of the drones.
* * *
Look at him go, hobbling off to his basement hidey-hole. He’s gonna sleep most of the day. Good for me, ‘cause it gives me time to think. I need time to myself, time when I don’t have to be watching out for that gimpy bastard.
Levi didn’t always gimp like that. Before his leg got messed up, he was one of the willing, a hard-working sucker. The bosses worked him good, too, right up ’til that load of steel pipe came loose. Them big pipes rolled right over Levi, smashed his leg to splinters. After that, bosses didn’t have much use for Levi.
Thing is, when them bosses look at a worker, they don’t see a person. They see a tool. It’s like they’re looking at a shovel. They’re happy to use a shovel as long as it works proper. If that shovel breaks, well, there’s lots of other shovels around. They got no use for a broke shovel. That’s what happened to Levi.
Ain’t much room in them camps for a gimp. You get on the buses and go to work, or you don’t eat. If you can’t work, some kind soul might feed you for a bit, but not for long. The bosses keep a tight squeeze on food and liquor.
Course, there’s always another market. Been that way ever since somebody started making up rules. Tell folks they can’t have something, or can’t do something, and someone will figure out a way to break that rule. Backdoor deals, black market, whatever you call it, that sort of trade older than the bible.
That’s where I shine. Other folks like the light, but I do my best work in the shadows. You want some liquor, and the camp rules say no? I can put it in your hand. Fences are made for slipping past, and rules for being broken. Long as the price is right.
Everybody wants something, sure as that sun coming up over there. Most folks want simple stuff, something makes them feel better, or something helps them not feel worse. Liquor, dope, that’s standard. Then there’s the goods what make people feel prettier, or better ‘bout themselves. Some folks even want the hard stuff, the gear that fetches top dollar: Books, ideas, the dangerous commodities.
People want all manner of things. What you need to understand is that the liquor, the dope, that ain’t what drives things. The engine is the want itself. No difference between fancy lingerie and tobacco. Someone wants it bad enough, they’ll pay to get it. It’s the desire what drives folks. You learn to harness that desire, no telling how far you can go.
Everybody wants something. That’s the first and last thing my Daddy taught me. Sometimes the desire is for a common thing. For example, most everybody wants to avoid looking me in the eye. Well, not the eye so much as my face. Scares the hell out of them. What’s left of my face reminds them how much bad is still possible. It ain’t good to scare off the customers. That’s why I keep to the shadows.
Now Levi, he’s a special case. Sure, he needs food and such. We all need food and water. Even I gotta eat and drink. Needs is not the same as wants. I leave grub for Levi to find. He needs grub to stay alive. I want Levi alive. Needs and wants, you see?
I hate to admit the truth of it, but I want to keep the gimp around. To say otherwise would be a damn lie. I lie at the drop of a hat, but never to myself. A body that lies to themselves is a fool. Still, the whole business with Levi puzzles me. Charity was never my strong suit.
My own wants might trouble me, but I got no trouble knowing exactly what Levi wants. Be hard not to know, since the fool talks out loud most the time. And the very thing Levi wants the most, that’s the same thing likely to get him killed. Levi wants a dog.
So why should I give him what he wants, knowing it might bring him harm? Ain’t that contrary to my own wants?
It’s like that first bible story. God tells Adam and Eve they can eat anything ‘cept this one thing. Now God knows them two. Hell, he made them. God knows exactly what’s gonna happen. I always thought that was the dirtiest trick ever.
As if the bible got any sway on what I do. I do what I want because it suits me, and because I can. Somebody else’s right or wrong don’t weigh nothing with me.
Levi’s gonna sleep a good long time. Maybe I’ll wander over to the nearest camp, see what I can find. Them drones don’t bother with the camps. Still plenty of mutts over that way.
* * *
Levi wakes to the slanting light of evening probing his eyelids. He opens his eyes and smiles at the sinking sun. The west window is tucked right up against the ceiling of the basement. It would be safer to block it up, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
He raises himself upright and swings his feet to the floor. The concrete is cool and damp against his soles. He shakes out his socks before pulling them on. He shakes each boot in as well, peers inside to be sure. Levi doesn’t notice the smell.
Pain shoots up his left leg as he leans down to lace up the boot. More pain and another day. He grunts at the stab of it but finishes tying up the lace. The pain stabs him again when he pushes himself to his feet.
Levi takes a few steps across the darkening room, then lowers himself onto an old wooden chair. At his elbow is a scarred table. He fiddles with an alcohol stove. A wooden match scratches against the rough wood. The match flares, the stove sputters to life, and Levi balances a dented kettle above the invisible flame.
He leans back in the chair, stretches out his bad leg.
“You’re about worthless, you know that? I’d move faster without you. They should have cut you right off, clear up to my nutsack, the sonsabitches. Not that those docs gave two shits about a busted-up welder.”
Levi gives up abusing his damaged limb. He can still hear that clang as the forklift goes over, the echoing boom of those steel pipes bouncing, just before they roll over his legs. Lucky both his legs weren’t crushed. Lucky he lived through it. Lucky or cursed. Depends on which way you look at it.
Waiting on the water to boil, Levi pats the maimed leg and smiles.
“Don’t mind me. It wasn’t your fault. Those assholes cared more about their precious steel than they did about patching up a broke-leg welder. Doesn’t much matter now. Done is done.”
Levi drops a soggy teabag into a stained mug. He lifts the lid of the kettle, peers in, replaces the lid.
“A few more minutes for you. And as for you, Mr. Teabag, I’d say the course of your life is run. Fifth soak or I’m a herring. Speaking of which.”
He reaches to a shelf above the table and retrieves a can of sardines. The kettle manages a few puffs of steam. Levi turns off the stove, lifts the kettle, and pours the mug full. He bobs the teabag as a matter of habit, once-twice-thrice, but doesn’t hold out much hope.
The sardines get more of his attention and offer more in return. He eats with care, savoring each morsel. When not a scrap of flesh remains, he drinks off the oil, then licks clean the side of the can.
Only when the can has nothing more to offer does Levi turn his attention to his tea. He bobs the teabag again for good measure, then lifts the mug to his lips. A grimace twists his bearded face.
“Better than piss-water, but only just. Tomorrow what say we splurge on a new teabag? Won’t that be lovely?”
Levi can’t say the word without needing to do the deed. He gets his stick in his hand and forces himself to his feet. Then it’s up the stairs and into the scruffy backyard.
The overgrown grass shines gold in the gloaming. Levi stumps over a well-worn trail to a tumbled-down fence. He pisses long and hard, gazing at the evening sky. Time to go foraging. He zips up and limps into the long shadow of the abandoned bungalow.
Food is getting scarcer, even counting what the Ghost leaves. Levi has to range further into the rough circle of the buffer zone, searching for forgotten cans of tuna or soup.
Most mornings, Levi finds something left by the person he calls the Ghost. In all of his searching, through cellars and backrooms, Levi has never caught a glimpse of the Ghost. He wishes the Ghost would show himself, at least once. Then Levi would have a face to remember.
What if the Ghost is a she? That’s too much. Levi pushes the thought away, gathers up his satchel and his stick. He can’t be dependent on anyone, not even a helpful ghost.
Levi crutches his way into the gathering gloom, navigating by the glow from the city. He tries to pay attention to what he’s doing, but his mind keeps wandering off. The problem is the damn loneliness. He’d like to meet the Ghost because then there would be someone to talk to. It would be a joy to talk to another creature.
The Ghost leaves food in any of three different spots, always seeming to know where Levi is going to be next. How can the Ghost follow him, see him, and yet he never sees the Ghost? Maybe the Ghost really is a spook. That would explain it.
Levi shakes his shaggy head, forces himself to focus. He’s pushing further away from his hidden basement, stumping around the great circle of the buffer zone. Lots to watch for, maybe lots of things to find. Tea for one, or better still, a can of coffee. Maybe this will be the night he finds some tobacco, his personal holy grail.
* * *
There he goes, walking jerky as a crow. Poor old broken Levi. Can’t watch him tonight. He’ll be alright on his own. I got things to do, important things. Gonna shake the gimp’s world up, that’s what I’m gonna do.
It ain’t easy to slip into the camps, nor slip out of them neither. Not easy for normal folks, anyway. But I ain’t normal folks. Fences and guards don’t mean nothing to me. I got trading to do, deals to make.
I hope Levi finds some tucker tonight. He’s gonna need it. I’ll be leaving him something in the morning, but it ain’t something he can eat. I’m looking forward to seeing the look on his stupid face. Better believe I am. I wonder what he’s gonna do? It’s a damn fine thing to have something worth wondering ‘bout.
* * *
Dawn is breaking behind the city, the pale glow of it throwing the shiny glass towers into silhouette. Levi thumps through the retreating darkness, a smile pushing through his ragged beard.
It’s been a good night of foraging, a rare good night better than any he can remember. He is well-rested, and his satchel is lined with loot.
It hadn’t seemed that way on the walk out. Three hours plodding and searching, and nothing to show for except a burning pain in his leg and a box of stale crackers. Then he’d found the man cave.
Who knew that such places still existed, a snug room where a man might while away his hours over a sturdy workbench? Sure, there were the usual signs of hasty departure: broken tools scattered about, a chair knocked to the floor. But amidst the debris, there was a sense of what the room had meant to someone. Levi could feel it, a calm that spread through his chest.
The calmness was a treasure unto itself, but there was more. Levi found a good knife, still in its leather sheath. A pair of pliers that molded to his hand as if meant for him. An unbroken briar pipe forgotten on the workbench. Levi held it to his nose and the ghostly perfume of a thousand smokes filled his senses. Then, hovering above the workbench, he saw it.
A tobacco tin, sitting on a plank shelf. He reached for it, sure that it was empty. Then he felt the weight of the tin, shook it, heard a gentle rustle. His heart soared into his throat. The lid clanged against the wooden benchtop and the aroma of tobacco filled the small room.
Levi slept away the last hours of the night, snoring in a chair propped against the wall. He had one precious strand of tobacco tucked between his cheek and gum. If he dreamed of anything, he does not remember.
Now Levi is back on familiar streets, hobbling along as morning breaks over the buffer zone. He sees the dollar store and the empty bench in front of it. And, beneath the bench, he sees something moving.
It’s a tawny-red puppy struggling against a short rope tied to the bench. Levi freezes in his tracks. His eyes search every storefront and doorway, but there is no one to see. He abandons caution and rushes forward. Seeing him, the puppy wiggles and whimpers.
Levi sinks to the bench and the puppy scrabbles up his leg. It’s tangled in the lead rope and Levi reaches down to free the little beast.
“Easy now buddy, that’s better.”
The puppy squirms across his lap, licking his hands. Levi untangles the rope and the pup bounces upright, forepaws on Levi’s chest, muzzle snuffling into Levi’s beard. Levi lifts the puppy with both hands, trying to get a better look through a scrim of tears.
It has the muscled body of a hound, a tan nose, and a white splash on its chest. Levi guesses it to be about three months old. He turns it belly-down, sees the ridge of fur poking up along the pup’s squirming spine. He frees the pooch into his lap and feels needle-sharp teeth on his fingers.
Levi lets out a laugh as he rumples the dog’s ears. There’s a ten-pound bag of puppy chow sitting on the end of the bench. Levi laughs even louder. The Ghost is thorough if nothing else.
His eyes lift to the morning sky. It’s almost full light. The laugh freezes in his throat. Daylight and he’s out in the open with a dog.
Levi grabs the bag of dog food and stuffs it in his satchel. He unbuttons the top of his coat and scoops up the puppy.
“Hey buddy, listen, we need to go. Right now, okay? You squish in here and be quiet.”
Levi threads the squirming puppy into the cavern of his stinking jacket, then buttons him in. He wraps his right arm across his belly so the dog won’t slip out. Snatching up his staff, he tries to rise from the bench. It takes him two tries to get to his feet.
Levi lurches across the parking lot. The heavy satchel bangs against his hip and the dog is wiggling under his coat. He hunches forward, his right arm clutched tight across his gut. Sweat is running down his back. His breath is loud and harsh in his throat.
They’re only halfway home when Levi hears the shrill buzz in the sky above them. He’s caught in the open, exposed to Dopey’s camera eye. The drone banks and circles above him, spiraling down for a closer look.
Levi clutches his coat tighter and hears the puppy whimper. He screams at the drone, twisting his head up to rant at it.
“Fuck you, Dopey. Leave me alone! I’m sick, can’t you see that. You want to see me shit all over the street? Keep watching, because that’s what you’re going to see. Fuck off somewhere else, will ya?”
Ranting as loud as he can, Levi crutches for cover. With every ragged breath, he dreads the spit of a missile and the crunching explosion. He keeps up his stream of obscenities while calculating how much further they have to go.
His voice is rasping by the time the drone finally loses interest and screams away. The insect buzz fades and goes silent. The morning is quiet again, except for Levi’s gasping.
“Damn, buddy, that was a close one. You stay still. I’ll get us home.”
Levi pushes himself up, takes a deep breath, and swings his bad leg forward.
* * *
The puppy has been asleep for hours, curled up on Levi’s blanket. Levi works as the puppy sleeps. He wires crossbars to closet poles, stretches makeshift webbing, pulls lashings tight. The result is small travois, strong enough to carry what little food and water they have.
Levi is braiding a harness from an old clothesline when the puppy begins to stir. The little animal paws the blanket and looks up at Levi. The man reaches out and scoops him up. He pushes himself upright and limps to a corner of the basement.
“Here you go, buddy, right on the old newspaper. That’s your spot.”
The puppy rustles the newspaper, then piddles on it. Levi is as proud as any new papa. He lifts the pup to his chest.
“Buddy, what a smart boy! Good pup! I guess that’s your new name.”
Buddy wiggles and squirms, trying to get his nose into Levi’s beard.
“Okay, okay, here you go.”
Levi sets Buddy down in front of a bowl of kibbles. The puppy needs no encouragement. Levi sinks into his chair. While Buddy eats, Levi croons to him.
“You see this, Buddy? This thing’s called a travois. It’s like a sled. We pile our stuff on here, the food and water and tools. The harness goes over my shoulders and I pull it. You get to ride in the satchel, but we have to wait for dark. Once the sun sets, we’re heading out, just you and me.”
Levi stares out the window, his thoughts running far beyond. He sees everything left behind: the city, the drones, the loneliness, even the Ghost. Slip out of the buffer zone, past the camps, strike out for the hinterland.
Levi can’t guess what’s waiting for them, but it can’t be worse than here. Maybe there’s a spot with room for one man and his dog. Who knows?
* * *
Will you look at that? Ingrate bastard goes and leaves me alone. How do you like that shit? Levi and his mutt, dragging that sled through the dark. They making enough noise to raise the dead, which is probably what they’ll be come morning.
I’m laughing, but I’m laughing at myself, ‘cause the joke’s on me. Can’t lie to myself.
Levi ain’t the fool he looks. Sure, he may wind up bones in the hinterlands, but he got sand. Gotta give him that. Poor gimp trudging off into the dark, not getting nowhere fast. Still, he’s getting somewhere, fast or no.
And where am I going? I ain’t going nowhere. Sad thing, I’m going to miss the gimp. Gonna miss the way he cusses them drones, how he clipped one with a rock. I could try that. Bang one right in the eye. That’d make old Levi laugh out loud.
