The Migration
by
Kenneth James Crist
Officers
Talbot and Durkee sat on the rear fenders of their dirty police car and watched
the phenomenon, powerless to intervene and not sure they should anyway.
Their
black and white patrol unit was parked at the end of the pier, a position the
official city car had occupied for eight days. In the background, the Pacific
Ocean roiled tiredly, its dark waters stretching almost languidly to the
horizon beneath a thin cloud deck of worrisome gray.
The radio traffic that was so frantic at the start gradually
tapered off until they were hearing nothing at all now.
They had been here without relief for the entire eight days of
the phenomenon, taking turns sleeping in the car, eating hot dogs off of the
weenie wagon down at the foot of the pier. They were dirty and unshaven and
their uniforms and bodies smelled rank.
Talbot was a stocky black man who shaved his head and wore a
gold earring when off duty. Durkee was white, thin and blonde. People called
them Mutt and Jeff, Salt and Pepper, all the usual things. In seven years they
had found they were more alike than different. Surprisingly, they both hated
sports and liked muscle cars, they both were crazy about pizza and neither
could stand rap music. They were two officers who usually kept themselves and
their uniforms, even their car impeccable. The phenomenon had made that
impossible. They had been assigned here, and by God, they’d stay to see the end
of it.
They weren’t allowing themselves to think about their families
much. To think about them too much would be to begin the grieving process,
something neither of them was quite ready to do. At this point, they were still
kidding themselves that there might be a chance. Both of them had tried
repeatedly to call their homes on one of the pay phones over by the public rest
rooms. Neither of them received any answer. They could only assume that their
families were already gone. They spoke briefly about that, then left the
subject alone.
On the third day they had seen a news helicopter circling
overhead, doubtless filming the phenomenon, then, without warning, it nosed
over and flew into the water at full speed. They’d seen no other aircraft
since. Likewise, there were no boats after the second day when the coast guard
left the area.
They talked themselves out about the situation
sometime on the fourth day and now they were saying very little. After being
partnered for seven years, they didn’t need to say much anyway.
On either side of the pier, Talbot watched the river of people
passing by, continuously entering the water. Some were in bathing attire, tank
suits, bikinis and such, but most were in street clothes, from jeans and
t-shirts to three-piece suits.
Some of the people talked, especially the children, but most
were silent, intent on the task at hand. He noted with wonder that even the
smallest of the children neither cried nor screamed or wailed.
He and Durkee had watched them coming all week, in old, dilapidated
cars and sleek new Jags, pickup trucks and on motorcycles. The cars quickly
filled the parking at the beaches, then the local streets, then the freeways.
Now, they wore the look of people who had walked many miles, footsore and
weary, and somewhat bedraggled. Many showed blistered feet and carried their
shoes as they gingerly walked across the beach barefoot. All wore the same rapt
expression seen on the faces of true believers at a tent revival. Unless spoken
to directly or called to by name, they wouldn’t respond.
It was the same all up and down the California coast and at the
Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico. News reports, when they were still able
to pick them up, indicated it was happening all over the world.
At first, Talbot and Durkee had watched them swimming out into
the ocean and eventually going under, never crying out or asking for anyone’s
help, but then it became so routine as to be boring and now they didn’t bother
to look any more. It was surprising how few bodies were washing back up onto
the shores.
Just as surprising was the way the people would take any bodies
that did float in and drag them back
out to sea with them. As if their last concern in this life was to leave the
beaches clean, even of human refuse.
Talbot thought it troubling to watch humanity destroy itself,
but then he guessed he’d always felt, somewhere in the back of his mind, that
the human race would do just that.
He’d never envisioned this shit,
though.
He had always figured either disease or nuclear fire would end
it all, and he never expected to witness the end, himself. Somehow, he always
pictured that happening long after he died and was safely tucked under ground.
Now, he snapped out of the hazy thoughts that had occupied his
mind for the last two days. Something was different. They were starting to thin
out, he realized. For the first time since it started, there were fewer people
in sight. For eight days the beaches and adjacent properties had been filled
up, black with people, but now the
flow was starting to thin.
“Startin’ ta slow down a little.” Durkee said.
“Yeah, I see that.” Talbot replied. Out of all the things he was
gonna miss about this life, it was hard to believe that the quiet, amiable
companionship of a white man would be right at the top of the list.
In another hour, the few remaining people passing their pier
could be counted on their fingers. Even that sparse number thinned, until a
period of time passed when they saw no one at all.
Durkee finally hopped down off his fender and started taking off
his gun belt and shoes. He removed his uniform shirt and folded it, badge to
the outside, and placed it carefully on the driver’s seat. Then he stood
straight and tall, looking out to sea. Nothing marred the perfection of the
water and the sky, save a few gulls and a flight of pelicans formation-flying
just off shore.
“You goin’ now?” Talbot asked.
“Yeah, I think so. Don’t see much point in waitin’.”
“Okay. I think I’ll give it a few minutes, see if anyone else
comes along.”
Durkee turned and solemnly offered his hand. Talbot took it in
his own dry, callused paw, then, finding a handshake wasn’t going to make it,
not this time, he took Durkee in a bear-like hug and held him for a moment,
then let him go.
“It’s been good workin’ with ya, man,” he said.
“Yeah,” Durkee replied, “it’s been good.”
In his stocking feet, Durkee started to walk away, then he
turned and said, “You always hated the water, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Talbot admitted with a big, white grin, “it’s always
been my curse.”
“Well, however ya do it, don’t wait too long.”
“Okay man, I’ll be along in a little while.”
Durkee walked on down the pier to the public access steps, then
down to the sand and out to the water. Talbot didn’t watch. Couldn’t
watch, really.
After his friend was gone, Talbot carefully set his wristwatch
alarm for thirty minutes and sat back to watch for more people. During the time
that was left, he thought of all the reasons why a man shouldn’t do what he
knew he would soon do, but now that the rest of the world was gone, all the
reasons proved invalid. He regretted that he’d done some of the things he’d
done, he regretted not doing others, but now it made no difference. He was
aware that no matter when his end came, he would always feel this way.
When his watch beeped and he had seen no others, he drew his
service pistol and flipped the decocking lever, placing it carefully in his
mouth. He surprised himself with the coldness of his own feelings. There was no
hesitation and definitely no tears.
The gunshot startled the gulls along the pier into flight,
making perfect white check marks against the slate gray of the sky and sea.
"The
Migration" first appeared in Bloody
Muse E-Zine, Summer, 1999
