That’s how I got my name.

“Hey, Rat, don’t fall asleep and go tippin into the fire pit. We don’t want no roasted rat for dinner, now, do we.” “Hey, Rat, you should be the one dumpin the shit buckets. Sewage, that’s a rat’s job, ain’it?”

I used to say “my name’s not Rat”. I used to say that and other things, but, tell the truth, I can’t remember what things were like before Big Bill got everyone to call me Rat.

I share a tent with Molly. She doesn’t like me, but she lets me screw her when I got needs as a trade for sentry or cleaning duty. When I get on top of her, I want to kiss her lips so badly. They’re red and juicy like strawberries; but she just looks away while I fumble down there. I wish Molly didn’t call me Rat.

We’ve got upwards of twenty people in this cave, and lucky to find it and no bears in it either. Too many damn people if you ask me, seeing as there’s a few that don’t pull their weight much, like old Ms. Pulaski, who lost her dentures. Somebody has to mash up her food morning day and night. I mean, she’s ancient.

Twenty-three people and none that like me much but hell if I care. I was never popular, and it aint gonna change now. But I got my opinions, and I like to say’em out loud now and then, cause I know a thing or two about survival. Like that business of putting the kids’ tent so close to the opening of the cave so they can see the sunshine.

“It’s not right for children to live in the dark” Miss Durley says. She’s a school teacher, or was, and I reckon she’s got nice book-learning views about life, but not much sense. “They need to see the blue of the sky, and feel the warmth of sunshine on their skin.”

Yeah right. What about the stuff that rains down from the “blue sky” and eats through anything alive? Hell it even eats through plastic, and some metals too. We’ve got a couple of cars and vans parked out there, and the rubber and paint on’em’s all eaten away.

The kids are cute, I’ll give them that. A brother and sister: Wildcat and Coral, not their real names, but names they got to pick. I didn’t get to pick mine. They luuuuuv watching the sunset. What sense does that make, them sitting so close to the edge? We said “three feet back”, but who’s to say what they’re doing when no one’s watching?

Doc Andrews thinks that stuff that rains down and killed most everybody might be man-made. Or a “mutation”, or a “chemical reaction”. He’s a smart guy, and he could be our leader, except he spends a lot of time cooped up in his tent sobbing, and crying out names like Alice and Jeremy. I mean, what grown man does that?

He and I are on exploration duty today. We’ve been hearing funny noises at the back of the cave, where it’s real dark and we haven’t been yet. He thinks it’s just bats. We might find more water back there, so it’s worth a try.

***

“Turn’em on only when you need’em”, Big Bill said when he handed us the flashlights. Fat idiot. Like we’re gonna flash them under our faces and tell creepy stories all day. We were checking the lights when we heard Coral screaming murder. We ran back to the cave opening and saw the front half of the kids tent sizzling, all shredded and white like dead maggots.

Oh, there was beautiful sunlight streaming in all right, and cold air. But it didn’t keep the tent from smoking, and Coral from screaming and staring at the stump of her right hand. I thought it smelled good, like roasted meat. And for some reason the sunshine made me really sad and scared.

“We came back because we heard Coral screaming,” I answered. “What’d ya hit me for?”

“I hit you because you’re standing in the sun burning up batteries; and I’m gonna hit you again in a second if you don’t turn the damn flashlight off and get back to your job.”

“But Coral needs the doc,” I said. “Who else is gonna take care of her?”

“Not you, that’s for sure,” said Big Bill. “So get your rat ass back in the cave and find us some water like I told you before. What’s a matter, you too scared to explore on your own?”

I didn’t even bother to answer. I just turned around and headed back toward the darkness. Fact is, I’m the only one in the whole group who’s not afraid to explore alone. And that includes Big Bill. I was more than happy to go solo—that meant no one would bother me and I could do whatever the hell I wanted. And what I wanted more than anything else was to figure out how to get rid of Big Bill.

I walked back a couple hundred feet or so to the big bend. That’s as far as anybody else but me has gone yet. I could still see most of what was going on in the cave thanks to the sunlight up front, but nobody could see me back in the shadows. And I could disappear in a second around the bend if anybody headed my way. I could hear Coral still screaming bloody murder, and Big Bill bossing people around as if he knew what the hell he was talking about.

I settled into a cool, dry mound of dirt and leaned back into the cold stone wall—I was more comfortable here in my thinking spot than I’d ever been at home before the death storms.

I thought of Coral’s stumpy right arm, and realized I was pretty hungry. I remember when I couldn’t even imagine eating people meat. I guess there’s a lot of stuff you can’t imagine until you’re starving. But when we hadn’t eaten anything but mud and moss for three weeks, and Mrs. Hurflesch got lit up by a lightning bolt, nobody looked at each other or even said a word; we just dug in all at once like a pack of hyenas.

Ever since then, what they call “group dynamics” changed for our little community. Your value ain’t just what you can do anymore; it also includes how many you could feed if the mood was right, and how annoying you are in balance. If you’re a fat pain in the ass, your chances of surviving a food shortage aren’t good. If you’re skinny and productive, you can rest easy.

I’m not worried about myself; I’m the best scavenger we’ve got, and just to play it safe I make it a point to stay tough and lean. Ms. Pulaski’s been mentioned for jerky a few times lately.

Big Bill, he’s been chunkin’ up plenty since he took control of the group, and I think that could help me get him spinnin’ on the spit. At any rate, I make sure he gets first dibs at any sweets I come across in my scavenging.

As far as value, Big Bill ain’t got much that I can see. His most significant contribution is not kickin’ people’s asses as often as he could. Maybe I should work on reversing that trend. It would be a tricky gambit, dangerous if people blamed me for instigating their beatings, but a few good whoopins would sure make folks hungry for revenge if you know what I mean.

The thing is an extension of something larger, something larger that’s searching for something alive to eat. I understand. Evidently “carnivore” isn’t limited to our immediate environment. And evidently the nuclear rains have mutated one of our sea creatures.

I run as fast as I can to the opening of the cave, tripping over skeletons and empty water buckets. I cross myself and hope to God the children will be spared. (Not that I’m anxious for anyone to be taken, but Miss Durley has existed for enough fulfilling years on this planet.)

Rat, what do you suppose will happen when you get to the front of the cave? Do you have it in you to do what needs to be done? How will you even know what needs to be done? Will you put on the right mask? Or will you hide and let someone else handle it?

Moving closer, I see that the thing is a giant lobster-like claw, slick and ravaged from the acid rains of the outside. Whatever’s at the other end of the claw is ready to feed, I’m guessing. The children are slumped against the wall of the cave, catatonic with fear. The thing must have smelled Coral’s charred stump. The claw snaps at its nearest potential victim, intense on clasping a living being.

It’s Molly. She can’t move either. The remains of her dress tatter in a wind—a wind the pincer is creating with the force of its snaps.

“Rat, where are you?” she’s screaming at a decibel that distorts her voice. Time has stopped, yet this all happens in just a few seconds. Molly stands and emits siren noises. It’s all she can do.

“Jeremy….” I hear Doc Andrews’ latest sobs for his dead son waft up and through the back part of the cave.

I hate to say it, but the first thing comes to mind is that Molly’s a sure thing … and I’m not willing to give that up.

The claw snaps at her head; its cilia drips with a glue-like ooze that nearly has Molly ensnared. Once it intertwines with any part of her, she’s history—dragged off to become the thing’s living lunch. I have to act.

I grab a fire torch ensconced on the cave wall. I distinctly remember seeing a can of aerosol hair spray tossed in a corner. I run to it and—I’m in luck. It’s one quarter full.

“Rat, you fucking fool,” Big Bill bellows in the background. ‘What you doing with a can of hair spray?” My rage suddenly becomes me.

I hold the torch in front of me and spray the hairspray directly through its flame, toward Big Bill, immediately lighting his mangy body hair on fire. He waves his arms wildly, and is now running around the cave in a screaming, burning mass.

The thing must smell the new, burnt flesh. Its ooze has ensnared Molly. She’s being drug out of the cave by it, as I’d predicted. I fire the hairspray through the flame again, this time at the claw.

“Rat,” Molly can only moan my name. She’s wrapped in the claw’s residue; a nightmarish cocoon.

My flame burns at the ooze that is dragging Molly. Silently, it suddenly frees her from its grip.

Do you see your chance? You can alter the course of everyone’s life.

As Big Bill screams and flails, I know I have to make the sacrifice. Not just for my own self-preservation, but for the good of everyone in the cave. I hit him with the burning torch. In the back as hard as I can, toward the grasping claw.

He’s an easy victim, already cooked for the lobster mouth that surely awaits. Too burnt to scream, Big Bill is still alive. I can see the remains of his limbs twitch as the orange of the claw retracts from the opening of the cave, its prize in hand. The children’s shrunken forms stare after the claw, unblinking, frozen with fear. Molly is still entombed in the claw’s ooze, but she’s alive. Yet she’s free of the thing’s grip.

I know Molly and I will play Let’s Make a Deal tonight.

“Rene almost did himself in last night. He put one of those dry-cleaning bags over his head. It didn’t work. There was something wrong with the bag.” Adrian sounds distraught.

I swerve onto the shoulder of the road as Adrian says this—the white line snaking up into my vision. That’s me: Trying to talk on the phone and drive convincingly. Note to self: Not good to combine dark northern California overpass with the aforementioned.

I can’t help but detect a hint of something else in his voice. Something submerged there in his opening. I let it go. The cel charger stares up at me from my unused cigarette lighter—a cat eye in the night.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. Wow…. A hole in it?”

Then also from me: “How long did he have the bag over his head?”

“It had a hole in it, yeah. I don’t know how long he had his head in he bag.” Pause. “Then he tried to stick his head in the oven.”

“The oven.”

“Yeah, but that didn’t work either. He just got too hot. He had to pull his head out. He has an electric oven.”

“Oh.” So gentle reader, get me here: My sympathy is abundant, yes, but so is some panic. There’s also something else: I’m on the verge of letting myself be entertained by this.

“Did he know that you can only kill yourself by sticking your head in a gas oven? And I’m not sure that would even kill you, really. There’s too much outside air coming in.”

Silence.

Rene lives in Seattle, so I imagine Adrian will probably take a short flight out from SFO.

I’m still empathetic. “Adrian, I’m so sorry. Is he on antidepressants that are reacting with
something else? Like booze or amphetamines?”

“No,” Alan says. “He’s not doing anything like that. He never has.”

“Which, the booze? The coke? Or the prescribed drugs?”

‘He’s never done drugs.”

“I see.” What I picture just then are sheep lying together in slumber, 20 enmeshed in a field. The sunset casts a mist above them. Occasionally, one of the sheep peeps back at me, as I gaze, inspired.

“Adrian, if there’s anything at all I can do for you, will you call me? Call me from Seattle. Better yet, do you want to meet somewhere now?” I like to help my friends when I can.

“No, I couldn’t meet you now. I’ll call you from Seattle.”

I pass over the overpass and pull over. The road is one of those twisty, tiny roads buried deep in a Redwood forest. I put on my blinkers and say a silent prayer that nobody misses the lights. I pause a bit, seeing if Adrian had anything else to say. I want to see where this goes.

“You know what else he tried?”

“What?”

“He parked his car in the garage and turned the car on to try and choke to death on the exhaust fumes.”

“Jesus. What happened?”

“Nothing- he drives a Prius.”

“I’m sorry Adrian, I’m so sorry.”

“And the police found an empty bottle of pills and think he tried to OD on pills.”

“What? Why didn’t that work?”

“They were Flintstone chewable tablets.”

“Well, that was his favorite show…”

“And I don’t even want to get into his attempt at hanging himself.”

A vision comes to me of Rene as a Boy Scout, fumbling his way through his merit badges. Once, when the Scout Master was trying to tell everyone how to tell what poison ivy looked like, Rene picked up a bouquet of it to ask the Scout Master if he got it right. The Scout Master had to take him straight from the Boy Scout Jamboree to the hospital to keep him from swelling up. “He never was really good at tying a knot.”

Adrian is now crying on the other end of the phone. I feel sick about the whole thing, for poor Renee, for poor, doomed Adrian, and for having to bite my tongue to keep myself from laughing at some point.

Frankly? I’m jealous because I’ve never really felt anything like this for anyone.

“What?”

Back to the future: I haven’t heard a word Adrian just said. Minutes may have passed.

“I said, I used to hate those bags, but I’ve never been so happy about their crappy quality.”

“Sounds like your ropes aren’t much better.” There, that should put me back in the flow.

“What are you talking about?” – a sobbing yell. I’m hearing some other sound in the background, like something frying with an occasional pop.  

“Adrian, are you cooking?”

“Cooking? Of course I’m not cooking. It’s 3 PM. You know I don’t snack.”

“What’s that hissing noise then?”

“Hissing noise? That’s rain.”

Goddamn cell phone reception. I just can’t seem to focus on what to say.

“So, do you think it’s a plea for attention? Is he feeling isolated  or … neglected?”

Slight pause on the other end.

“I’d be open to that, but considering he just tried to kill himself in six different ways…”

This isn’t going well. “Yeah, I see your point. Where is he now?”

“Seattle General. I’m going back there in twenty minutes.”

“Are they evaluating him?”

“Uh yeah, but mostly … I don’t understand, have you been listening?”

“You’ve been cutting out…”

“I told you his last attempt almost worked out. If it hadn’t been for the building’s incredibly sturdy and apparently flexible awning … God I wonder what kind of fiber that fabric is made of … Anyway, it was only a three-story fall, so he bounced right off instead of ripping through. He landed on poor Mrs. Raymond.  Good thing she’s fat… She’s in the hospital too, with a few broken ribs.”

 “And Rene?”

“A few scratches and a twisted ankle. I met the counselor, this woman Sarah… I don’t get it…” More sobs. “Why would he do this? We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re a great couple. We’re happy right now. I thought … I thought I knew him.”

“I know, I know. I wish I could be there to give you a hug. Imagine I’m giving you a hug right now… There. Can you feel it.”

Short, sniffling chuckle. “Yeah… Thanks. I’m so glad I have you to talk to. I don’t know what I’d do…”

“Don’t worry about it. What does Sarah say?”

“Well, there’s the obvious stuff. She wants to see if there’s any underlying condition. Manic depression, bipolar, all that.”

“What about Adrian?”

“He won’t talk to me. I think he’s ashamed.”

Honestly, I’d be too, if I had botched six suicide attempts in the same day.   

He had known himself to be a liar and a sinner; he ate too much, was envious of his more successful co-workers, and worst of all, went all too often to filthy web sites and did things to himself that would be held against him in the final tally.

It was hard to believe the Devil put so much effort into him, but He did. As a result, he didn’t trust himself, but there were people you could always trust: the President; the Church elders; the principled principal of Dingby Baptist High School where his two kids went. And first and foremost, your wife, because she held it all together and she was truer
than true.

Then there had been the Dixie Chicks, his wife’s favorite band; it was clearly music for women, but one night after he had tucked Tyler and Shayna in, he had listened to “Godspeed”: “Sweet dreams, little man, Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels’ wings, Godspeed.” To his complete astonishment, he had found tears rolling down his cheeks, and at first had felt betrayed by his emotions—but the love for his children that had swelled in his chest, that massive surge of joy and gratitude tinged with inexplicable sadness, that could not be the Deceiver’s work.

He had felt open after that, and … and dare he say it, saintly. He had been willing to actually listen and relate to Jane’s complaints about the household that night. He had felt less envious at work the next day. And so the Dixie Chicks had joined the very small Pantheon of artists you could trust your heart with.

Then there was that day of Revelation in May of 2003, a spring day so warm that Sheila Stiles had worn summer clothes, and the torture of not allowing his eyes to linger on her cleavage had begun earlier than usual.

They had all been sitting in the break room, all seven of them in the Logistics and Supply Chain team, even that smarmy Dick Weinthrop who took any opportunity to have lunch with the General Manager; they had been eating fast food, vaguely watching TV, and talking about the drought of Biblical proportions Texas would face if the early heat wave went on like that when Sheila had shushed them all.

“Did you hear that?” she had said, her bosom aquiver.

Everyone had lifted their head from their Styrofoam lunch boxes and muttered “what,” “what’s going on,” “what’s the deal,” and, he now remembered, it had sounded like cows mooing in unison.

“That’s Natalie Maines” Sheila had croaked. “She said she’s ashamed that the president is from the same state as her.”

Of course, that was Texas. That was their home state Maines had talked about.

There had been a long silence.

“The gall!” Sheila had said. “Look at that Jezabel” she’d added, her breasts seemingly ready to burst out of her blouse from the outrage. “I’m never buying a Dixie Chicks album again.”

Jan Sorenson, who always finished her meals methodically, had snapped her half-full Styrofoam box shut and stared at the ensuing Kellogg’s commercial with indignation.

There had been nods, frowns, cold anger, and a generally wonderful feeling of united hatred; but not for him. Instead, there had been an icy feeling descending from his throat all the way into his stomach, like those terrifying stalactites he had seen at Carlsbad Caverns.

What exactly had Natalie Maines meant? The others had gotten it, and he still hadn’t. What was she ashamed of? President Bush’s decision to go to war in Iraq? Was that it?

He thought of the things that caused him shame: his secret admiration for Weinthrop; his lust for Sheila; his obsession with the porno sites. But war? A righteous war? How could that be shameful?

He had felt bewildered and let down, and had had trouble falling asleep. The following day he’d gone to the Food Court with Jan, who had huffed and puffed as she tried to keep up with him—as much as he slowed down she still had trouble waddling along. She had finally inserted herself into a plastic chair and picked at her Caesar’s salad, taking tiny bites. “I don’t know how you do it” she had said. “You eat so much more than I do, and you stay trim.”

She always made comments like that, and he invariably felt flattered; but that day, he couldn’t help but goggle at her. A scream had formed in his throat, a scream so powerful that it had threatened to take him over. “If you eat so little, then why are you so morbidly obese?” The thought had flooded his brain. He pushed it down frantically.

“Something wrong?” Jan had asked.

“Nothing” he had said. “I’m still upset over that Dixie Chicks thing.”

Jim kept his thoughts to himself but couldn’t stop from laughing lightly. Sometimes even laughter was a sin. Humidity was the nickname that Betsy Vidor had bestowed on Jan back in junior high. Jan sometimes still winced when she heard the word in passing.

She climbed into the truck as Jim commanded all the windows down. It would probably take the entire drive across the parking lot and around to the Home Depot side of the mall before any cold air would creep in from the vents.

The previous week, in this same lot, Jim had side swiped a parked car. He wasn’t used to the extra length that the double cabin added to his Ranger. He glanced down at the Lexus he had just hit with its passenger side mirror now dangling by the root. This shiny new car was the same color as the underside of an oak leaf. Its mirror, undoubtedly power heated, maybe even light sensitive, would cost a small fortune to replace. He kept driving. Couldn’t they keep car parts simple and modular, he wondered.

Home Depot was even more crowded than usual.

They walked across the parking lot; flashing car mirrors glinted in their eyes like fish scales. Just then, Jim had the sensation of a dark, spreading energy working its fingers over his skull, to his forehead. He knew he was one of God’s liars, and he knew what this familiar gloom made him want to do.

Jan left a trail of light sweat wherever she walked now, a Rubenesque snail leaving its obligatory stream. He turned to her and grabbed both her wet hands with his own. He thought he knew what W must feel like, about to make a speech to bitter mothers of drowned children.

They were halfway down the interior paint aisle. The sample strips of mushroom-colored bathroom enamels made chessboards in the air.

She jerked her hands away. He grasped at them again; her sweat made him slip. After a long moment, she looked him in the face.

“What?”

He mustered the lie:

“Jan I have to tell you something. I talked to my wife last night. I told her something I’ve been meaning to tell her for a very long time. I hope you can forgive me, Jan. I hope my wife can forgive me.”

He felt himself flush, and this time it was Jim who looked at the floor. He bet 10-to-1 he was doing just as good a job—if not better—than our president. He felt that familiar swell of love in his chest again—or was it pride?—just like the other night when he had looked in on his sleeping kids.

“Jan, I told her that you were the one I really wanted to be with. That you and I had something special, but we had never talked about it.” A beat of silence. “I told her that.”

Jan started to wipe the sweat from her hands onto the front of her dress. She had no idea what to say to this man, this man she had dourly wanted since the day he had nearly fallen on her desk after slipping on a wet spot in Supply Chain.

She had not been with another human being in six years. She could not let this possibiity glide past her. No. She would not. It was time for her to put it on the line. Maybe for the last time.

“Are you being serious with me?”

An Office Depot worker deftly carries a ladder down the aisle between them, then was gone.

“No.” He laughs and looks directly at her. “I’m just kidding.”