Maybe we were meant to be together. Maybe Diane and James were meant to die. Maybe that was necessary to bring Alicia and me together to ensure our survival.

Standing in the apartment, moonlight filling the room from the open window, I embrace Alicia and tell her I love her. She responds in kind, like I knew she would. I take one final look at her, and take a mental snapshot of the Alicia who is unaware of the evil I have done.

Then I tell her everything.

I tell her because I love her. I tell her because I respect her. I tell her because I hope she'll forgive me.

When I'm done, the look on her face surprises me. She looks at me not with anger, but with sorrow. She looks at me as if I told her I'd killed myself, and maybe that's what I just did. The man she'd fallen in love with was a lie. She starts crying, and before long is sobbing heavily.

I didn't expect the screaming.

"I'm sorry," I say.

She begins pounding on my chest with her fists, hitting me repeatedly, but it's all I can say: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I weather the storm; it's what I deserve. Before long her anger fades and she collapses. I embrace her and we cry together for a while.

All we have to lean on is each other. Neither of us can get through this alone Neither of us can get through this alone.

She has forgiven me, I think, as we lie together in the darkness. I'm all she has. She can't stay mad at me forever. The fact that I told her has to count for something, doesn't it? She has to know this is something I regret, that it will haunt me for as long as I live.

I think it will be a long time before things will be back to normal between us. But we'll get there and when we do our bond will be that much stronger now that there are no secrets between us.

We're going to have to make the best of this world around us if we're going to survive. Everything is going to be okay. That's what I think as I drift off to sleep, Alicia sobbing in my arms.

The sun of a new morning shines through the open window, waking me. The bedding beside me is colder than it should be. I reach for Alicia but she's not there. My eyes open, I look around.

Gone.

She's gone. And she's taken all our food, all our supplies, and all of our weapons.

Whether she's meant to or not, she has killed me.

I won't last more than five days alone.

Truth be told-without her, I don't want to.

Danger Word By Steven Barnes & Tananarive Due

Steven Barnes and Tananarive Due are frequent collaborators; in fiction, they've produced film scripts, this story, and three Tennyson Hardwick detective novels, the latest of which isFrom Cape Town with Love (written with actor Blair Underwood).In life, they're married. (written with actor Blair Underwood).In life, they're married.

Barnes is the bestselling author of many novels, such as Lion's Blood Lion's Blood, Zulu Heart Zulu Heart, Great Sky Woman Great Sky Woman, and Shadow Valley Shadow Valley. He's also worked on television shows such as The Twilight The Twilight Zone Zone, The Outer Limits The Outer Limits, Andromeda Andromeda, and Stargate Stargate. Due is a two-time finalist for the Bram Stoker Award, and her novels include the My Soul to Keep series, The Between The Between, The Good House The Good House, and Joplin's Ghost Joplin's Ghost.

Barnes's short work has appeared in a.n.a.log a.n.a.log and and Asimov's Science Fiction Asimov's Science Fiction, while Due's has been published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Dark Delicacies II Dark Delicacies II, and Voices from the Other Side Voices from the Other Side. Stories by both have been included in the anthologies Dark Dreams Dark Dreams (where this story first appeared), (where this story first appeared), Dark Matter Dark Matter, and Mojo: Conjure Stories Mojo: Conjure Stories.

It's a universal human urge to leave the world a better place than you found it, and to pa.s.s on to your children a world where they can have a happier, more prosperous life than you had. This has mostly been the case throughout human history, as ever-expanding infrastructure and knowledge have generally made life more secure and comfortable generation after generation, through innovations such as fertilizers, vaccines, antibiotics, indoor plumbing, and electronics. But now adults are facing the despairing sense that today's youth will experience significantly more hardship than the previous generation, as today's young people confront a world of economic ruin and environmental catastrophe that they had no hand in creating.

Recent works have grappled with this generational guilt in different ways. One of the best-known examples is Cormac McCarthy's novel The Road The Road, a post-apocalyptic story in which a father attempts to guide his young son through a devastated landscape, all the while knowing that their situation is hopeless. The notion of enduring anything to protect your children is a primal one, and one of the worst things that most people can imagine is being helpless to aid their children. Our next story deals with this theme in a powerful way.

For a generation facing the prospect of bequeathing to their children a shattered world, one fear stands out even more than being helpless to protect your child: that you yourself might be the architect of your child's undoing.

When Kendrick opened his eyes, Grandpa Joe was standing over his bed, a tall dark bulk dividing the morning light. Grandpa Joe's beard covered his dark chin like a coat of snow. Mom used to say that guardian angels watched over you while you slept, and Grandpa Joe looked like he might have been guarding him all night with his shotgun. Kendrick didn't believe in guardian angels anymore, but he was glad he could believe in Grandpa Joe.

Most mornings, Kendrick opened his eyes to only strangeness: dark, heavy curtains, wooden planks for walls, a brownish-gray stuffed owl mounted near the window, with gla.s.sy black eyes that twitched as the sun set-or seemed to. A rough pine bed. And that smell smell everywhere, like the smell in Mom and Dad's closet. Cedar, Grandpa Joe told him. Grandpa Joe's big, hard hands had made the whole cabin of it, one board and beam at a time. everywhere, like the smell in Mom and Dad's closet. Cedar, Grandpa Joe told him. Grandpa Joe's big, hard hands had made the whole cabin of it, one board and beam at a time.

For the last six months, this had been his room, but it still wasn't, really. His Spider-Man bed sheets weren't here. His G.I. Joes, Tonka trucks, and Matchbox racetracks weren't here. His posters of Blade and Shaq weren't on the walls. This was his bed, but it wasn't his room.

"Up and at 'em, Little Soldier," Grandpa Joe said, using the nickname Mom had never liked. Grandpa was dressed in his hickory shirt and blue jeans, the same clothes he wore every day. He leaned on his rifle like a cane, so his left knee must be hurting him like it always did in the mornings. He'd hurt it long ago, in Vietnam.

"I'm going trading down to Mike's. You can come if you want, or I can leave you with the Dog-Girl. Up to you." Grandpa's voice was morning-rough. "Either way, it's time to get out of bed, sleepyhead."

Dog-Girl, the woman who lived in a house on a hill by herself fifteen minutes' walk west, was their closest neighbor. Once upon a time she'd had six pit bulls that paraded up and down her fence. In the last month that number had dropped to three. Grandpa Joe said meat was getting scarce. Hard to keep six dogs fed, even if you needed them. The dogs wagged their tails when Kendrick came up to the fence, because Dog-Girl had introduced him to them, but Grandpa Joe said those dogs could tear a man's arms off.

"Don't you ever stick your hand in there," Grandpa Joe always said. "Just because a dog looks friendly don't mean he is. Especially when he's hungry."

"Can I have a c.o.ke?" Kendrick said, surprised to hear his own voice again, so much smaller than Grandpa Joe's, almost a little girl's. Kendrick hadn't planned to say anything today, but he wanted the c.o.ke so bad he could almost taste the fizz; it would taste like a treat from w.i.l.l.y Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

"If Mike's got one, you'll get one. For d.a.m.n d.a.m.n sure." Grandpa Joe's grin widened until Kendrick could see the hole where his tooth used to be: his straw-hole, Grandpa Joe called it. He mussed Kendrick's hair with his big palm. "Good boy, Kendrick. You keep it up. I knew your tongue was in there somewhere. You better start using it, or you'll forget how. Hear me? You start talking again, and I'll whip you up a lumberjack breakfast, like before." sure." Grandpa Joe's grin widened until Kendrick could see the hole where his tooth used to be: his straw-hole, Grandpa Joe called it. He mussed Kendrick's hair with his big palm. "Good boy, Kendrick. You keep it up. I knew your tongue was in there somewhere. You better start using it, or you'll forget how. Hear me? You start talking again, and I'll whip you up a lumberjack breakfast, like before."

It would would be good to eat one of Grandpa Joe's famous lumberjack breakfasts again, piled nearly to the ceiling: a bowl of fluffy eggs, a stack of pancakes, a plate full of bacon and sausage, and homemade biscuits to boot. Grandpa Joe had learned to cook in the Army. be good to eat one of Grandpa Joe's famous lumberjack breakfasts again, piled nearly to the ceiling: a bowl of fluffy eggs, a stack of pancakes, a plate full of bacon and sausage, and homemade biscuits to boot. Grandpa Joe had learned to cook in the Army.

But whenever Kendrick thought about talking, his stomach filled up like a balloon and he thought he would puke. Some things couldn't be said out loud, and some things shouldn't. shouldn't. There was more to talking than most people thought. A whole lot more. There was more to talking than most people thought. A whole lot more.

Kendrick's eye went to the bandage on Grandpa Joe's left arm, just below his elbow, where the tip peeked out at the edge of his shirtsleeve. Grandpa Joe had said he'd hurt himself chopping wood yesterday, and Kendrick's skin had hardened when he'd seen a spot of blood on the bandage. He hadn't seen blood in a long time. He couldn't see any blood now, but Kendrick still felt worried. Mom said Grandpa Joe didn't heal as fast as other people, because of his diabetes. What if something happened to him? He was old. Something could.

"That six-point we brought down will bring a good haul at Mike's. We'll trade jerky for gas. Don't like to be low on gas," Grandpa said. His foot slid a little on the braided rug as he turned to leave the room, and Kendrick thought he heard him hiss with pain under his breath. "And we'll get that c.o.ke for you. Whaddya say, Little Soldier?"

Kendrick couldn't make any words come out of this mouth this time, but at least he was smiling, and smiling felt good. They had something to smile about, for once.

Three days ago a buck had come to drink from the creek.

Through the kitchen window, Kendrick had seen something move-antlers, it turned out-and Grandpa Joe grabbed his rifle when Kendrick motioned. Before the shot exploded, Kendrick had seen the buck look up, and Kendrick thought, It knows. It knows. The buck's black eyes reminded him of Dad's eyes when he had listened to the news on the radio in the bas.e.m.e.nt, hunched over his desk with a headset. Kendrick had guessed it was bad news from the trapped look in his father's eyes. The buck's black eyes reminded him of Dad's eyes when he had listened to the news on the radio in the bas.e.m.e.nt, hunched over his desk with a headset. Kendrick had guessed it was bad news from the trapped look in his father's eyes.

Dad would be surprised at how good Kendrick was with a rifle now. He could blow away an empty Chef Boyardee ravioli can from twenty yards. He'd learned how to aim on Max Payne Max Payne and and Medal of Honor, Medal of Honor, but Grandpa Joe had taught him how to shoot for real, a little every day. Grandpa Joe had a roomful of guns and ammunition-the back shed, which he kept locked-so they never ran low on bullets. but Grandpa Joe had taught him how to shoot for real, a little every day. Grandpa Joe had a roomful of guns and ammunition-the back shed, which he kept locked-so they never ran low on bullets.

Kendrick supposed he would have to shoot a deer one day soon. Or an elk. Or something else. The time would come, Grandpa Joe said, when he would have to make a kill whether he wanted to or not. "You may have to kill to survive, Kendrick," he said. "I know you're only nine, but you need to be sure you can do it."

Before everything changed, Grandpa Joe used to ask Mom and Dad if he could teach Kendrick how to hunt during summer vacation, and they'd said no. Dad didn't like Grandpa much, maybe because Grandpa Joe always said what he thought, and he was Mom's father, not Dad's. And Mom didn't go much easier on him, always telling Grandpa Joe no, no matter what he asked. No, No, you can't keep him longer than a couple weeks in the summer. you can't keep him longer than a couple weeks in the summer. No, No, you can't teach him shooting. you can't teach him shooting. No, No, you can't take him hunting. you can't take him hunting.

Now there was no one to say no. no. No one except Grandpa Joe, unless Mom and Dad came back. Grandpa Joe had said they might, and they knew where to find him. They might. No one except Grandpa Joe, unless Mom and Dad came back. Grandpa Joe had said they might, and they knew where to find him. They might.

Kendrick put on the red down jacket he'd been wearing the day Grandpa Joe found him. He'd sat in this for never-ending hours in the safe room at home, the storage s.p.a.ce under the stairs with a reinforced door, a chemical toilet, and enough food and water for a month. Mom had sobbed, "Bolt the door tight. Stay here, Kendrick, and don't open the door until you hear Grandpa's danger word-NO MATTER WHAT."

She made him swear to Jesus, and she'd never made him swear to Jesus before. He'd been afraid to move or breathe. He'd heard other footsteps in the house, the awful sound of crashing and breaking. A single terrible scream. It could have been his mother, or father, or neither-he just didn't know.

Followed by silence, for one hour, two, three. Then the hardest part. The worst part.

"Show me your math homework, Kendrick."

The danger word was the special word he and Grandpa Joe had picked because Grandpa Joe had insisted on it. Grandpa Joe had made a special trip in his truck to tell them something bad could happen to them, and he had a list of reasons how and why. Dad didn't like Grandpa Joe's yelling much, but he'd listened. So Kendrick and Grandpa Joe had made up a danger word n.o.body else in the world knew, not even Mom and Dad.

And he had to wait to hear the danger word, Mom said.

No matter what.

By the time Kendrick dressed, Grandpa was already outside loading the truck, a beat-up navy blue Chevy. Kendrick heard a thud as he dropped a large sack of wrapped jerky in the bed.

Grandpa Joe had taught him how to mix up the secret jerky recipe he hadn't even given Mom: soy sauce and Worcestershire sauce, fresh garlic cloves, dried pepper, onion powder. He'd made sure Kendrick was paying attention while strips of deer meat soaked in that tangy mess for two days and then spent twelve hours in the slow-cook oven. Grandpa Joe had also made him watch as he cut the deer open and its guts flopped to the ground, all gray and glistening. "Watch, boy. Don't turn away. Don't be scared to look at something for what it is."

Grandpa Joe's deer jerky was almost as good as the lumberjack breakfast, and Kendrick's mouth used to water for it. Not anymore.

His jerky loaded, Grandpa Joe leaned against the truck, lighting a brown cigarette. Kendrick thought he shouldn't be smoking.

"Ready?"

Kendrick nodded. His hands shook a little every time he got in the truck, so he hid his hands in his jacket pockets. Some wadded-up toilet paper from the safe room in Longview was still in there, a souvenir. Kendrick clung to the wad, squeezing his hand into a fist.

"We do this right, we'll be back in less than an hour," Grandpa Joe said. He spit, as if the cigarette had come apart in his mouth. "Forty-five minutes."

Forty-five minutes. That wasn't bad. Forty-five minutes, then they'd be back.

Kendrick stared at the cabin in the rearview mirror until the trees hid it from his sight.

The road was empty, as usual. Grandpa Joe's rutted dirt road spilled onto the highway after a half-mile, and they jounced past darkened, abandoned houses. Kendrick saw three stray dogs trot out of the open door of a pink two-story house on the corner. He'd never seen that door open before, and he wondered whose dogs they were. He wondered what they'd been eating.

Suddenly, Kendrick wished he'd stayed back at Dog-Girl's. She was from England and he couldn't always understand her, but he liked being behind her fence. He liked Popeye and Ranger and Lady Di, her dogs. He tried not to think about the ones that were gone now. Maybe she'd given them away.

They pa.s.sed tree farms, with all the trees growing the same size, identical, and Kendrick enjoyed watching their trunks pa.s.s in a blur. He was glad to be away from the empty houses.

"Get me a station," Grandpa Joe said.

The radio was Kendrick's job. Unlike Dad, Grandpa Joe never kept the radio a secret.

The radio hissed and squealed up and down the FM dial, so Kendrick tried AM next. Grandpa Joe's truck radio wasn't good for anything. The shortwave at the cabin was better.

A man's voice came right away, a shout so loud it was like screaming.

"...and in those days shall men seek death and shall not find it...and shall desire to die and death shall flee from them..."

"Turn that bulls.h.i.t off," Grandpa Joe snapped. Kendrick hurried to turn the k.n.o.b, and the voice was gone. "Don't you believe a word of that, you hear me? That's B-U-double-L bulls.h.i.t. bulls.h.i.t. Things are bad now, but they'll get better once we get a fix on this thing. Anything can be beat, believe you me. I ain't givin' up, and neither should you. That's givin'-up talk." Things are bad now, but they'll get better once we get a fix on this thing. Anything can be beat, believe you me. I ain't givin' up, and neither should you. That's givin'-up talk."

The next voices were a man and a woman who sounded so peaceful that Kendrick wondered where they were. What calm places were left? "...mobilization at the Vancouver Armory. That's from the commander of the Washington National Guard. So you see," the man said, "there are are orchestrated efforts. There orchestrated efforts. There has has been progress in the effort to reclaim Portland, and even more in points north. The Armory is secure, and running survivors to the islands twice a week. Look at Rainier. Look at Devil's Wake. As long as you stay away from the large urban centers, there are dozens of pockets where people are safe and life is going on." been progress in the effort to reclaim Portland, and even more in points north. The Armory is secure, and running survivors to the islands twice a week. Look at Rainier. Look at Devil's Wake. As long as you stay away from the large urban centers, there are dozens of pockets where people are safe and life is going on."

"Oh, yes," the woman said. "Of course there are."

"There's a learning curve. That's what people don't understand."

"Absolutely." The woman sounded absurdly cheerful.

"Everybody keeps harping on Longview..." The man said "Longview" as if it were a normal, everyday place. Kendrick's stomach tightened when he heard it. "...but that's become another encouraging story. Contrary to rumors, there is is a National Guard presence. There a National Guard presence. There are are limited food supplies. There's a gated community in the hills housing over four hundred. Remember, safety in numbers. Any man, woman, or teenager who's willing to enlist is guaranteed safe lodging. Fences are going up, roads barricaded. We're getting this under control. That's a far cry from what we were hearing even five, six weeks ago." limited food supplies. There's a gated community in the hills housing over four hundred. Remember, safety in numbers. Any man, woman, or teenager who's willing to enlist is guaranteed safe lodging. Fences are going up, roads barricaded. We're getting this under control. That's a far cry from what we were hearing even five, six weeks ago."

"Night and day," the cheerful woman said. Her voice trembled with happiness.

Grandpa Joe reached over to rub Kendrick's head. "See there?" he said.

Kendrick nodded, but he wasn't happy to imagine that a stranger might be in his bed. Maybe it was another family with a little boy. Or twins.

But probably not. Dog-Girl said the National Guard was long gone and n.o.body knew where to find them. "Bunch of useless b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.t-heads," she'd said-the first time he'd heard the little round woman cuss. Her accent made cussing sound exotic. If she was right, dogs might be roaming through his house, too, looking for something to eat.

"...There's talk that a Bay Area power plant is up again. It's still an unconfirmed rumor, and I'm not trying to wave some magic wand here, but I'm just making the point-and I've tried to make it before-that life probably felt a lot like this in Hiroshima."

"Yes," the woman said. From her voice, Hiroshima was somewhere very important.

"Call it apples and oranges, but put yourself in the place of a villager in Rwanda. Or an Auschwitz survivor. There had to be some days that felt exactly exactly the way we feel when we hear these stories from Seattle and Portland, and when we've talked to the survivors..." the way we feel when we hear these stories from Seattle and Portland, and when we've talked to the survivors..."

Just ahead, along the middle of the road, a man was walking.

Kendrick sat straight up when he saw him, balling up the tissue wad in his pocket so tightly that he felt his fingernails bite into his skin. The walking man was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a brick-red backpack. He lurched along unsteadily. From the way he bent forward, as if bracing into a gale, Kendrick guessed the backpack was heavy.

He hadn't ever seen anyone walking on this road.

"Don't you worry," Grandpa Joe said. Kendrick's neck snapped back as Grandpa Joe speeded up his truck. "We ain't stoppin'."

The man let out a mournful cry as they pa.s.sed, waving a cardboard sign. He had a long, bushy beard, and as they pa.s.sed, his eyes looked wide and wild. Kendrick craned his head to read the sign, which the man held high in the air: STILL HERE, the sign read.

"He'll be all right," Grandpa Joe said, but Kendrick didn't think so. No one was supposed to go on the roads alone, especially without a car. Maybe the man had a gun, and maybe they would need another man with a gun. Maybe the man had been trying to warn them something bad was waiting for them ahead.

But the way he walked...

"No matter what," Mom had said.

Kendrick kept watching while the man retreated behind them. He had to stop watching when he felt nausea pitch in his stomach. He'd been holding his breath without knowing it. His face was cold and sweating, both at once.