After The Apocalypse Read online

  When they ask, I tell them I work at one of the local television stations -- which garners the usual “oohs” and “aahs” even after I add “in the finance department. It’s boring.” I highly doubt any of the anchors would recognize me if I ran into them in the grocery store. They also ask how old I am -- twenty-nine -- and where I live -- in an apartment complex close to the 99. That throws them a bit, which happens when I describe places by the bus route I’d take to get there. “I just haven’t needed a car in a while,” I explain. “Also, it costs way too much to rent a parking space where I live.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t drive,” Carolyn says. She’s very soft-spoken, and I think kind of shy. “Everything’s so far away in Atlanta.”

  “Where’d you used to live?” I ask.

  “I’m from Chicago.” She sips her hot tea. “My ex-husband moved us here for his job, and ten years after I still can’t believe how far I have to drive for everything, and how long it takes.”

  I shrug. “I don’t notice it anymore. I went to college here.”

  “So we got here about the same time?”

  Now we’re treading a little too close to my past. I just shrug again. “I went to Tech because my mentor teaches there, and we got a tuition discount.”

  “‘Mentor’?” Janice asks. “What do you mean?”

  “Old family friend.” I change the subject quickly. “Carolyn, what do you do?”

  It turns out she’s a fourth-grade teacher, which must be nice; I know I don’t have that kind of patience. Janice grins. “A lot of her there this year, huh?”

  “Her?” I feel my brows wrinkle. “Her who?”

  “Alexandra.”

  I feel myself blush and hide behind my coffee -- just plain black with a little milk and sugar, thank you, none of that frothy whipped-creamy stuff that Janice has.

  Carolyn nods. “Ten, I think. Out of almost thirty kids, that’s crazy. And only half of them have nicknames.”

  “Why’s the name so popular?”

  Now they both stare at me, and I blush again.

  “Oh. Right.”

  Janice scoops up a bit of whipped cream with her stirrer and licks it off. “It was insane here, back when it all happened,” she says. “Where were you?”

  Clearly she’s asking me. Fortunately, I have a lie ready. “I... I didn’t really notice. My parents had died earlier that year, and I was kind of dealing with that.”

  Carolyn puts her hand over mine. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  “It’s all right.” I think about that for a moment. “Well, it’s not, but, I mean, it was eleven years ago, and there was a lot of stuff going on.”

  “Yeah.” Carolyn cups her mug in her hands. “Three years that girl was fighting to save everyone, and we only really heard about it after the final battle.” She shakes her head. “How does that sort of thing just get... ignored?”

  “It just does.” The battles Alexandra fought -- the battles I fought, when I was her, all those years ago -- almost never got covered on TV. Those rare times I pass a place where a fight happened, I can hardly believe that no one else comments.

  I’ll never forget them, though. Not a single one.

  “I wonder what happened to her,” Janice says. “She did that one big interview with CNN, and the other one a little later, and that was it. Just... gone.”

  Yeah. Just gone.

  “We have a unit on it at the school,” Carolyn adds. “She looked sad, and maybe a little scared, even though it was just her and that reporter.” Oh, and wasn’t that CNN woman a real treat when the cameras weren’t rolling. “I wonder what she was thinking.”

  It’s times like these that I have to fight the urge to answer the question with something like, “well, for starters, I had just fought the Dark King, and this was on the heels of him killing my parents only a few months before. Add to that, my powers were fading fast and I was feeling like I might just pass out from exhaustion. I mean, I just stopped a goddamn apocalypse; how do you think I felt?”

  Instead I just shrug again. “Well, she was on national television. She was probably pretty freaked out.”

  “But no one knew who she was,” Janice says. “She had that mask on all the time.”

  “I guess.” And thank you, Professor, for making sure I never went out without it. I might hate what he reminds me of, but he did do his best to make sure I got a relatively-normal life after everything happened, and I do appreciate that.

  We talk for a little while longer -- turns out neither of them are into Buffy, or any of the other shows I like, and Carolyn only reads romance novels so we can’t even discuss books -- but it’s still nice to be out. Janice offers to drive me home, but I shake my head. “It’s only a few blocks to the train station. I got it.”

  “You sure?” she asks. “Looks like it might rain.”

  “It might.” I pat my bag. “Umbrella.”

  We exchange numbers. I get another cup of coffee to go, watching through the window as they get into Janice’s car and drive away.

  As I walk toward the station, thunder rumbles overhead. I tell it to shut up, because I’m actually in a good mood.

  I made some friends today. How often does that happen?

  In my world, not often enough.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TOUGH LOVE

  +++++

  It’s a good thing it was only a short walk to the train station; I hear thunder as I step off the escalator and slip my Breeze Card out of my bag. As I tap it to the icon beside the wheelchair-and-luggage-users-only gate, I hear snickering.

  Which I do my best to ignore. I mean, is it my fault that standard-width train station gates are uncomfortable for me? I can get through them if I need to, but I’m carrying a gym bag, and it’s easier just to do it this way.

  Voices follow me as I head for the southbound platform. I may not have powers, but I can still tell that there are three of them, and they’re all speaking Spanish. It’s always funny to me when people speak Spanish and assume the white girl doesn’t know what they’re saying. Especially when the things they’re saying are… uncomplimentary.

  No, that’s too nice of a way to put it. They’re calling me ‘fat girl’ and ‘ugly bitch’, among other things -- I think ‘slut’ was worked in there once or twice, and how does that even happen? I mean, I’m not dressed slutty -- I don’t think I even have any slutty clothes -- and I’m not showing off any more skin than I have to. I’m not wearing makeup, either.

  One of them -- who himself could stand to lose a few pounds -- actually has the gall to look right at me and say to his friends, “¿Cuando fue la ultima vez que alguien la cogió?1”

  I sigh. “¿Le decídanse?2”

  That stops them for a moment.

  “¿Soy fea o gorda demasiada para tener un enamorado? ¿O soy una puta que folla cualquier cosa que se mueve?3” I lean against the wall and want to fold my arms, but I know that looks bad on me these days. Back when I was Alexandra, a casual pose and folded arms was enough to make some of the weaker monsters get the hell out of the way; now, I doubt it would even faze these guys. “¿Bueno, pues, que va a ser?4”

  The chubby one steps in my direction, and despite the fact that I’m sure he wouldn’t be stupid enough to actually do anything to me, the lizard part of my brain speeds up my heart and shoots me up with enough adrenaline that my chest gets tight and my fingers and toes start to tingle. I smile at him, just a little. “¿Me vas a pedir el numero telefonico?5”

  His friends start laughing, but I can see his face flush as he lowers his eyebrows. “Puta,” he snarls. “Tonta, fea, gorda.6”

  I push off the wall and advance on him. I don’t know why I do it, but there’s no one paying attention -- the only other people in the station are studiously ignoring us, one of them going so far as to actually take a few more steps away -- and if I don’t come to my own rescue, no one will. I realize I’m taller than the guy, and soon I’m close enoug
h that, if I’m not towering over him, at least I look threatening. I mean, who likes to have an angry girl who looks like me up in their business? “Ahora estas adivinando,7” I say. “Puedes pensar lo que quiera sobre mi apariencia, pero no soy tonta.8” I smile Alexandra’s old smile. “A veces, soy una puta.9”

  He takes a step back. “Vete la a mierda.10”

  “Oye, tu empezaste conmigo. No es mi culpa que no eres bastante hombre para terminarlo.11”

  He laughs and elbows one of his friends. “Como si alguien pudiera terminar con ella pá arriba.12”

  I’ve heard that before. It’s not new. But what is new is how loud he says it -- loud enough that it actually echoes in the train station. Behind the guys, I see a hipster-looking guy blush and look away, conspicuously putting in his earbuds.

  Oh, that’s it. That’s the end of this bullshit.

  I step into the guy’s personal space and he’s too close to his friends to move back without looking like he’s running away. “Si yo pense que pudiera encontrarte la polla,” I say, my voice low and hot, “tal vez me gustaria follarte.13”

  We stare at each other for a long moment, and then he turns and walks away. His friends follow.

  Holy shit. Did I just... win?

  I look around. No one is paying attention -- not overtly, anyway. Hipster guy and the peasant-dress-wearing girl standing beside him aren’t looking at me, and the others, behind me, I can’t see anyway.

  If I win and no one’s around to acknowledge it, is it still a victory?

  “Quizas ella tiene razon,” I hear. It’s one of the other guys. “Quizas ella necesita una polla grande como la mia para tener lo que necesita.” He turns to me and grabs his crotch. “¿Que dices, puta? ¿Quieres mi numero?14”

  “Casi necesita los tres de nosotros al mismo tiempo,” says the chubby one. “Tres con uno suena bastante bien para mi. ¿Posiblemente uno de notoros vivira para contar la historia, hasta si la elefanta aplasta dos de nosotros, ah?15”

  The adrenaline is back. I clench my teeth and start in their direction, almost stomping as I stalk them. I think they’re too freaked out by the sight of me to even try to back up. And even if they did, I’d keep on coming.

  Yes, I’m fat. Yes, it’s my fault. Yes, I could have changed my diet or exercised more or done a thousand things not to look this way. But that doesn’t give them the right to... to...

  Something snaps inside my head.

  I’m close enough now.

  And even if it’s been eleven years, I still know how to throw a punch.

  I skid to a stop in front of the handicapped stall, throw the door open, and pull it shut behind me. My heart is pounding harder than it has in a decade; my hands are shaking; my stomach wants to get rid of everything inside it.

  I turn to the toilet and barely get the seat up in time. Coffee and breakfast and whatever else, and then it’s nothing but dry heaves and sobs as I plop down on my ass and lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

  Some part of me says that fucker deserved it, deserved me punching him so hard that my knuckles are aching. The rest of me looks down at my right hand, watches as my brain tells my fingers to flex, and wonders if I’m going to have a bruise.

  And if he and his friends are going to come after me.

  I mean, how did I do that, anyway? I don’t have powers anymore -- I wish I did; I wish it every fucking day -- but I don’t. I’m just a girl. I get tired carrying groceries up to my apartment. I don’t even take the stairs at work, and the building is only two floors.

  So how the hell did I hit that guy so hard he practically bounced off the wall?

  It takes a good ten minutes for me to calm down, and another five to realize that I’m sitting on the floor of a train station bathroom. I groan and use the wall to help me get to my feet, and then flush my mess out of the toilet. I pick up my bag and hiss at the pain in my fingers...

  My fingers... my knuckles...

  I stare at my hand. It’s not more bruised than it was when I first got here.

  It’s less.

  What... the hell... is going on?

  I unlock the stall door and go to the mirror. I turn on the water and wash my hands, and then splash some of it on my face. My eyes stare balefully back at me from the other side of the mirror...

  My eyes... what’s wrong with my eyes?

  With one hand I turn off the water, and then I lean forward and open my eyes as wide as I can.

  My eyes are the wrong color.

  Or, more precisely, they’re glowing the wrong color. Where they should be the plain brown I’ve seen in the mirror for the past eleven years, now they have a faint corona of blue around them. And not the nice blue a good pair of contact lenses promises; this is a bright, frou-frou-drink-like blue.

  My reflection smiles and stands up straighter. So do I.

  “Well,” I say, my voice full of a wonder I haven’t heard in a long, long time. “Where have you been?”

  The southbound platform is a lot busier than it was when I went into the bathroom -- a couple dozen people are waiting for the next train. I run my hand over the tiles on the wall and smile.

  I did this.

  Not some faceless masked hero. Not Alexandra. Me, plain old Andrea Collins. I hit that guy so hard he bounced off the wall. I made those three morons run.

  Damn, it feels good.

  The train arrives, brakes squealing as it stops, and I follow the other passengers to the door. Normally I’d grab a seat and try to make myself as small as possible -- no one likes to sit next to fat people, and no one will ever admit it -- but today... today I feel like standing. I step into the little alcove area where people heading to the airport put their luggage and wrap my hand around one of the poles. The bells ring, the train jolts, and soon I’m gently swaying as we ride southbound. I’m not sure why Carolyn and Janice dragged me all the way up to 14th Street for coffee, but it gives me plenty of time to enjoy the ride -- and the power I’m feeling -- before I have to wait for a bus that’ll probably be late.

  To pass the time on the train, I pull out my phone and check my e-mail. Nothing good in there. I do have a text, though, and I touch that icon. It’s just Jake -- “hope you’re out doing something fun” -- and I smile. Maybe it wasn’t fun at the time, but it feels pretty fun right now, standing here, feeling powerful again.

  I missed this.

  However, right under Jake’s text is yesterday’s message from the Professor, and that turns the smile into what must be a very dour expression. I’m supposed to tell him immediately if any of my powers start coming back. Apparently it could upset the balance or some stupid thing.

  What about my balance? I haven’t been balanced since I won the final battle and lost my powers. Oh, it was okay at first; I thought I could get along. But I’d been so used to everything being so... so easy.

  I see myself reflected in the window of the train car as we pass through the tunnels. I weighed 135 pounds in high school. By the time I finished college, I’d gained another hundred on top of that. It’s taken literally seven years to get down to 225. My own damn fault, too; I could’ve taken better care of myself. But who for? Why bother? I saved the fucking world.

  Yeah. That stopped being an excuse after the five-year anniversary.

  So why the hell have I been moping around so long? Why haven’t I tried to make friends? To change my life? To do something... anything... other than continue on the same path?

  Professor Wedlund once told me, “if you’re going through hell, keep going.” I think he was referring to how I should escape from Hell -- the place -- if I got dragged there somehow. But maybe I took it to heart a little too closely.

  I’m not in hell right now. In fact, I specifically fought the Dark King himself to stop the world from becoming anything like that place.

  So why do I put myself through it every day?

  The train stops. I get off. I go up the stairs and head for the bus stop.

  I’m getting o
ut of hell. I’m going back into the sun.

  It starts now.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE HARSH LIGHT OF DAY

  +++++

  So. Time to figure out what powers I have now, exactly.

  First things first: strength. Well, I had enough of it to knock that asshole into the wall, but that’s not what I’d call a concrete test. If I was still at the gym, I could use one of the machines...

  The gym.

  My complex has a gym. Or, more precisely, it has a workout room. When I moved in three years ago I planned to use it every day after work, but that didn’t happen. I got the gym membership specifically to motivate myself to get out of the apartment, and I barely even go. But I know where the workout room is, and I throw on a fresh t-shirt and more yoga pants and head down there. It’s lunchtime, and thankfully the place is deserted.

  Strength testing. Should be easy. I read the instructions on the bench press, part of the one-machine-covers-every-muscle-group thing that looks like some sort of medieval torture device, and then step into it and set the weight at fifty pounds. That sounds like a good number.

  I put my hands on the bar, do that finger thing I’ve seen people at the gym do, and push.

  And push.

  And push some more.

  Unfortunately, after the first press, that’s it. I’m not strong enough to do a second one. I move the pin from fifty to forty and I’m able to do a few more, but it still hurts. A lot.

  Damn.

  I get up and walk around the machine a bit, looking for something else. Maybe leg presses? But the instructions make it look like I’m going to the GYN, not the gym, and I have no desire for anyone to walk in on me in that position.

  Fine. Maybe it just happens when I hit something.

  There’s a heavy bag in one corner; I still remember how to work out with one of those, just like I still remember how to punch. I square up against the bag, visualize a point at the center of it, and lash out.

  “Ow! Damn it!” I don’t remember the bag hurting me that badly when I used to beat on it in training sessions. I used to tape up my hands first, but one punch? I mean, my hand isn’t even a little achy after punching that guy, but hitting the bag hurts? And the bag itself is undamaged -- there’s barely even a dent where I hit it. Out of frustration, I try a knee strike, but lose my balance and stumble against the mirrored wall.