Part 2, Chapter 1

This is the Second part of A Pittsburgh Storm. If you're new here, you should start at Part 1, Chapter 1. This post also provides some valuable information to help the newcomer find their bearings.

The next chapter will be posted on Wednesday, May 27th. Please email me with your comments.

-------

Part Two
Mecca, Southside

1


In the middle of Pittsburgh’s Southside, these people had created a fortress. The man who yelled at us from the window comes down to lead us though the building’s inconspicuous entrance. He introduces himself, with a beaming smile, as Nicolas, a proud Honduran, and he explains how overjoyed he is to meet us. He accompanies everything he says with an elaborate hand gesture or exaggerated expression. I immediately like his animated character.

“Our community here just gets bigger and bigger,” he says, smiling. “I was one of the originals, and,” he sticks him thumb to his chest, “it was my idea to get those fireworks. You guys,” he pauses for our full attention, “this place is going to save us.”

“Save us?” Hank asks.

“Yeah, all of us! Humankind is close to being wiped out completely and forever.” Nicolas makes a gesture, with the tips of his index finger and thumb held near to each other, to mean very close. “You’ve noticed right?” and he indicates the space around us.

“Yeah. There are no women.”

“Exactly!” We follow Nicolas up the staircase, two, three floors. We’re lost, confused, in a daze. “We all noticed too. No women. Our group was five men strong before we realized. Our boy-gang felt natural enough for us not to realize for a while. One of us, Sal, said how he ‘would kill to have a woman’. Those are the words he used. And then, wow, hang on, where are the women?

“We were hiding out over in Southside works — we had a nice little apartment over there — and we headed into East Carson to do some looting. We couldn’t believe out luck, man.”

We take a right and head down a long corridor that goes through several adjoining buildings. The place is comfortable enough; clean at least. We see other men in various rooms and more lounging around down passageways. Most nod in greeting towards our bewildered faces. I can barely handle all of this new information.

“We were all going mad. Our group was tearing at the seams. Two weeks of hell, and we had this terrible realization. ‘What’s a world with no women?’ It’s a short-lived one, that’s what. There was no point anymore. We were filling our days with meaningless labor just so we could forget the futility of it all.”

“Yeah, well, we can sympathize with that,” Hank intersects.

“But then we discovered we were wrong,” Nicolas continues. “We were very, very wrong.”

The long corridor ends at a wide blue door.

“My friends and I, we were looting on East Carson, at a drug store, the five of us,” he knocks on the door, “when we found Mistress Sylvia.”

Somebody opens the door from the other side and a head appears in the gap, a young man with a balding skull.

“No weapons, man,” Nicolas says. “They’re good.” In fact, James has a handgun in his jacket, Hank has a rifle poking out the top of his bag, and I have a crowbar in my satchel.

The balding man hums and looks at us with suspicion. “OK,” he nods and opens the door to reveal a plush living room. Mismatched couches sit along all sides of the deep red walls. A genuine Warhol depicting Elvis Presley (stolen from the museum in the Northside, I presume) hangs large and proud on the wall opposite. Beneath the painting, seated in a large armchair, sits the voluptuous Mistress Sylvia.

“Gentlemen,” she says with delight and a beaming smile. My mouth is gaped open. “Please, take a seat.”

*

In due course, Sylvia invites Hank, James, and I to stay in “Mecca” for as long as we see fit. That is, provided we help with the community’s upkeep and follow Mistress Sylvia’s rules for living.

These rules are simple enough: do what Mistress Sylvia says; be polite to those around you; don’t eat all the food; respect one another’s privacy; complete the tasks assigned to you; and so on. Because Mistress Sylvia is our only hope for the continuation of mankind, so far, she is in absolute charge of absolutely everything. Thus, she is Mistress Sylvia, and that, her assistant tells us, is something we must remember.

“In Mecca, we now have thirty men. We stockpile food and water, search for other survivors, and we’re in the process of getting an electrical generator up and running. Eventually, right here, this is where civilization is going to start anew. Out the window there,” she points to the desolation, “that is the enemy. And we’re going to win.”

For days Hank, James, and I, had been slipping into a silent depression with the prospect of what could have lain ahead. Now that we have seen Mistress Sylvia, we’re ecstatic in our sense of relief and this immediate joy keeps any cynicism away. There is no thought of questioning Mistress Sylvia’s self-imposed rulership of this new society. Why would there be? After weeks of shit, this is fucking fantastic. There’s a smile about a mile wide slapped across my face.

“In the Mecca enclave, we have space to fit fifty members, at four or so per room. You have to do your part — a fair bit of labor is required — building, salvaging, and restoring. When the weather improves and we’ve grown in number, we’re going to use parkland and gardens for farming. We’re also going to establish some radio broadcasts, once the generators are online. Many of the generators we expected to find disappeared during The Fall, but we’ve acquired one so far and it’s in the process of repair. You’ll see that things are looking up!”

I soon learn that the phrase “The Fall” is a talisman to those in Mecca. “The Fall” is the enemy they are conquering and overcoming, and also their biggest fear — the fear that they could again slip from this precarious grasp on civilization. When Mistress Sylvia says the phrase, her voice deepens and her brow creases. The Fall.

“I do hope you’ll decide to stay; we need all the help we can get. As a gesture of our hospitality, you can all relax for this afternoon. We’ll arrange a room for you and you’re welcome to join the rest us for dinner in the recreation room. As well as you three, we gained a further four members this morning, all counted, and this makes today our most successful day so far. Tell me, was it the fireworks?”

“Yeah,” Hank blurts out on our uncomfortable, confused, and delighted behalf, “Yeah, it was the fireworks. We were holed up in Lawrenceville.”

“Really?” Mistress Sylvia is genuinely interested. “What condition is that neighborhood in? We’ve been focusing on Southside, dipping into Oakland and Downtown a little—” I give myself a mental kick — if I’d stayed in Oakland only a short while longer, I may have found these people days ago and saved myself so much difficulty. “Of course all three areas are trashed, but at least there’s a lot to pick from the wreckage.” She looks to Hank, waiting for his response.

“Well, only the central part is significantly damaged. Liberty is totally ruined,” he says. “We were staying at a place that belonged to James’ family,” James shuffles when Hank gestures towards him, “and out in the residential parts, things are untouched. That is, I mean, relatively untouched, at least.”

“That’s very good news. Any indication that The Fall left something intact is good news.” She pauses and smiles. Behind us, the balding doorkeeper is crossing the room. “Now, gentlemen, if you don’t object, I must return to things.” I hadn’t noticed that she’d been doing anything before we walked in. “Nicolas will show you around Mecca and then to your rooms. Am I correct, Nicolas?” He nods. “I’m sure we’ll be able to catch up later.” And on that note, Mistress Sylvia smiles and turns to the balding man who has reopened the door for our exit.

As we leave, the balding man picks up a clipboard and goes to sit on the couch closest to the matriarch.

Nicolas ushers us out of Mistress Sylvia’s office. The woman, brushing us off with such promptness, has left us stunned, but we are soon led up yet another flight of stairs, at the base of which Nicolas pauses to point along a corridor. “Down there you’ll find a kitchen and a common room which doubles as a dining room — the Mistress calls it both a recreation room and a mess hall. Up here is your room.” At the summit of the stairwell, he takes us to another corridor. “The three of you will be sharing,” he says with no room for dispute.

Ahead of us, there’s an old man checking the wiring on some ceiling lights, no doubt for when somebody else has repaired the generator. In the meantime, the corridor is dark, even during the day. A small window facing into an alleyway provides the only illumination. Of course the building is freezing. I can see my own breath. We pass three doors and Nicolas stops to open one, pointing inside.

“There are bed sheets ready for you but that’s about it. I’m sorry about that but we’re still not fully settled.” He smiles at us again, genuinely pained, but still cheerful through it all. “Now, there’s no running water here so when you go to the bathroom drop the bucket of rainwater down afterwards. Then refill the bucket from the tank in the courtyard and put it back. Is that cool, guys?” He looks at me and his smile falters. Presumably, I have the face of a man who would leave a big stinking shit to fester in the toilet bowl.

“Yeah, sure,” I say in my defense.

Nicolas leaves Hank, James, and I in the bedroom and informs us that he will see us later. Three beds are crowded in the small space, with two of them arranged as a bunk bed. There are indeed bed sheets, as Nicolas promised, but little else. We sit on the beds and look at each other, Hank up on the top bunk, James beneath him, and myself opposite. After a few moments alone, after the rush of new things, our initial excitement at the discovery of a woman is replaced with anxiety. We have few of our belongings with us, so we feel vulnerable. We’re excited to be here, now there’s hope, but we know we’d be more comfortable in out own little fortress on the other side of the river.

Back when we thought there were no women left, at least we were reassured that our demise would be simple, if nothing else. Now we have to battle for survival. And that’s a daunting task.

I show an awkward smile to Hank, then James, and they reciprocate.

“So there’s hope,” James says.

“Yeah, it’s a relief to have something,” Hank replies.

“You’re anxious about her?”

“I’m anxious about a lot of things.”

Now that we’ve joined a large group of strangers, we feel more alone than ever. It’s like the paradox of being alone in a city of millions. Of standing on the subway and looking at the floor or in a newspaper, because you’re so alone when there are so many people in your space. You may remain ignorant to how alone you are in your head, until you’re so utterly surrounded by unfamiliar faces.

The sound of hammering elsewhere in the building breaks the silence.

“Guys,” Hank ushers James and I towards him. I’m surprised to see his brow sweating. “Let’s not tell these people about the snowmobile, huh? At least for now. Let’s not put all of our eggs in one basket.”

James and I nod with him. He’s right, I guess, and as the oldest of our trio, we respect his opinion.

“Well, I’m going to try to get some sleep,” Hank says. He rolls onto his belly, fully clothed, and pulls the blanket over his head.

James and I look to each other and James shrugs, smiling. Instead of his usual worried, nervous smiles, this time he has a genuine humor.

I haven’t seen a smile like that from him in days.