The City Where We Once Lived Read online

  Also by Eric Barnes:

  Shimmer

  Something Pretty, Something Beautiful

  Copyright © 2018 by Eric Barnes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017962838

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover photo: iStockphoto

  ISBN: 978-1-62872-883-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62872-884-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Nora

  Table of contents

  PROLOGUE

  Part I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  PART II

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  PART III

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Sometimes, at night, I would light houses on fire. But no one particularly cared. I could sit on a porch across the street from the flames, watching the fire spread from the first floor to the second, and still no one would come. It was many years since there’d been police or fire trucks or ambulances, and I picked houses far away from the few neighbors that remained.

  I guess this was so I could be alone.

  • • •

  There’s a point in the fire when the heat and light seem to peak. Even across the street, my hands and face feel like they might burn, and I need to squint my eyes, wet now, heat pushing against them.

  But still I watch, till the fire grows larger than the house itself, the house just a shadow, a memory of walls and windows and a roof, all now overtaken by the rolling, rising flames.

  And then I walk home.

  • • •

  There are no people here, not one other person in this twenty-story building. The power works on most floors and the water runs, but the people here, they mostly choose to live in the houses, not the big buildings. Maybe they don’t like the idea of living close to someone else. The chance they might run into someone in the silence of a dimly lit hallway. The chance a stranger, a neighbor, might be standing there on the other side of a door.

  But the people here don’t live apart because of fear. There is no violence here anymore, no danger or crime.

  It’s more that people want to be alone. It’s more that there’s so little to say. It’s more that people are so tired.

  I’m so tired. It makes me think everyone else is too.

  And maybe other people don’t like being so high up in the air. My room in this hotel is at the corner of the twentieth floor and in the daytime, to the south and east, I can see the gray, still buildings and empty streets of this one-time downtown. This building is the tallest, but there are other buildings too, eight square blocks of low, stone buildings and tall, steel skyscrapers.

  The graffiti is faded to gray and white.

  To the west there are the factories, brown now, rusted, a massive and disconnected collection of low, long buildings whose hard, straight rooflines bow sickly in places, the rigid sightlines destroyed, the weight of rain from many years bending the structures, sinking them inward.

  There’s a big iron wheel I can see. There’s a gear three stories high. Water towers. Power lines stretching from building to rail yard to warehouse and loading dock.

  I have binoculars I found in the hotel’s office and now use them to stare out at the remnants of the city. Abandoned excavators in the industrial zone. Trucks parked at the rear of office buildings, their tires now flat, the windows rolled down.

  I can see some buildings’ windows have been broken, can see doors that have been boarded up, other doors that have been left wide open.

  I see people some days, half a mile away, in the neighborhoods beyond downtown, a few men and women walking amid the many houses that stand there still.

  When it rains hard, the clouds are so low that I can see nothing from these windows.

  When the fog comes, covering the streets and the bases of the buildings around me, it seems that I am suspended alone here in the sky.

  • • •

  It’s been years now that I’ve lived here. I sleep mostly on the couch, a few hours a night, then again in the late afternoon. It’s hard for me to stay asleep for very long.

  The paint peels in wide swaths from the plaster walls and from the ornate moldings around the mantel and door frames. I light fires in the fireplace for heat. It’s a very old hotel and this room is in a suite. The outlets on some walls work, so I’ve set up floor lamps in the three rooms of this place. A living room where I sleep. A bedroom where I keep my clothes. A bathroom and small kitchenette.

  There are rugs I’ve found to cover the wooden floors. Fine rugs, probably, like the fine sofa and table and chair. Yet everything is colorless. In part because it’s all so worn. In part because the walls are so pale. In part because these are the items I wanted to drag in here from other rooms.

  Pale items, without color or distinction.

  Most days I leave the windows open, even when it is very cold. Tall windows that open from the top and bottom, they reach all the way to the high ceiling, the wind blowing heavily, swirling from room to room, and I would rather dress warm than feel the air in this place go still.

  Everything here is already so still. I find myself making reasons to create motion and noise. And, even then, for hours and hours at a time, this room will be entirely silent.

  There are weeks I don’t talk. When finally I do, I don’t recognize the sound.

  • • •

  Something in the ground is killing us. No one knows this for sure. But it’s what people think. There are no mice or rats or roaches here. No cats or dogs. No animals other than the few thousand people spread across many miles.

  The trees have died and the plants have died and the grass and shrubs and flowers of thousands and thousands of front yards and small parks are all brown now, crumbling, and slowly blowing away.

  There are massive chemical and petroleum plants in the industrial zone to the west. You can’t help but think this is part of what’s driven away all life. Smokestacks and pipes raised to the sky. Beveled tanks and rusted cylinders. Storage pools now dry but coated in a substance somehow rubbery and wet and very faintly green. Substances you wouldn’t ever want to touch.

  When I walk through the industrial zone, I touch very little.

  But the water in my hotel room is like all the water here, icy and bril
liantly clear and it tastes like water from a stream, like a childhood memory of running through the woods and finding a stream you believe no one else has ever found.

  Except that now, in this place, you can’t help but think that the water tastes this way because of something that isn’t supposed to be in it.

  • • •

  I enter the house through the front door. I’ve walked a long way tonight, in the dark, and I’m not entirely sure where I am. A few miles from my building. Like always I carry a flashlight and a compass, but rarely do I use them.

  I flip light switches as I enter rooms, absently, a habit, wondering which houses and neighborhoods have power. Sometimes only parts of a house will work. The decay of this city moves room to room, wall to wall.

  Eventually, though, it does seem that everything will finally turn off.

  This house was left as it was lived in, dishes in the cabinets and magazines on the table in the living room. The doors are stiff to open, though, and there’s dust across everything, thick in the flashes of the streetlight outside. It probably smells old and dank in here, but it’s hard for me to know for sure. Everything these days smells old.

  In the stairwell I see light from upstairs, cold white light from a streetlight nearby. There are photos on the walls of the stairway. Family and children, captured once in time. I have a thought that I should straighten the photos. But, after doing this a few times, I stop touching them.

  The light above me enters through a dim window at the end of the upstairs hallway. The steps are wooden, loud under my feet, built of boards that seem to pop with every motion I make.

  There is noise here, too, getting louder as I go upstairs. Not a noise in the house, but coming from outside, from above. Like a growing wind, but heavy. Heavy as a storm.

  I turn a corner and see another stairwell, to a third floor, and the noise seems to come from there.

  On the third floor I flip a switch on the wall and it lights the room like a forgotten daybreak, sudden and painful, and I flip the switch back off, my eyes blinded, the remnants of white and yellow still painful in my eyes.

  In a minute, I can see the streetlight just outside a window, through white curtains pulled shut, and there is blue-white light as I move the fabric aside. The window is covered in some sort of filth, inside and out, an oily dust that lets light through, but blocks any distinct shapes or images.

  The noise outside is loud, growing, and now I’d like to think that it’s just a storm.

  I step on something hard and there’s a pop and there are voices. I nearly fall to the floor, ducking down, covering my head, light behind me, and it’s a moment before I realize that the voices are on a television. A talking man. A woman sitting. I stare at the images like they are foreign and unknown. But they aren’t. It’s just that I haven’t seen this in years. A news report, filled with talk of war in the desert and flooding along distant rivers and school failures in the suburbs, more images than I can process, words and colors I don’t understand. But I know I don’t need to understand. I know what they say is what they’ve always said, the news of dread and fear between bright commercial breaks, and I turn back to that window, wanting to see for sure what is making the noise, finding a wooden chair that, in a moment, I throw through the glass. Cold air blows into the room and the streetlight is brighter now, white across all I can see, and the noise outside drowns out the television, and I see now how I’ve made my way to the edge of this forgotten city, to the wall that marks its end, because I can see beyond the wall, down from the third story of this house into the massive highway, eight or ten or twelve lanes below me, filled with cars and trucks driving fast to some destination of their own and the roar of it all fills the room, one sound, wavering as it seems to peak.

  It won’t peak, though. The noise will just keep rising.

  I see the body then. Next to me. In the white light of the broken window and the blinking blue of the TV. A body on a bed, lying still, just a few inches away. Blackened and sunken into itself, draped in clothes, a woman, looking like the skeletal remains of a fire that touched nothing but her flesh.

  But there was no fire. Just time.

  You don’t see many bodies here. Most people move on before they die. This person, she may have made a choice.

  Light from outside and the glow from the TV touch all sides of my body and I hear nothing but the highway and I keep staring at that dead woman, so very close to me, and I can’t help but imagine her features.

  After a few minutes, I touch her hand.

  It’s heavy and dry.

  This is my apocalypse. My end that won’t ever finish. The purgatory of a godless man, alone now, living here, in a city that’s been abandoned.

  It must be another twenty minutes before I manage to leave the room.

  But it does not take long for the house to burn.

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  Years ago, I would walk into a house that I once owned, back on the south side of the highway. It was the house where we lived when the first of the children was born. The new owners hadn’t changed the locks, even many years later, so my old key still worked. But someone finally found me, sitting in the kitchen. I didn’t hear the man coming down the stairs. He recognized me. After a moment, he said I could stay for another minute, but then I would have to go.

  But I couldn’t stay. I told him I was sorry. I told him I would never come back. And I never have.

  The worst part is waking up. I’ll remember everything I had. Through most of the day, I am able to forget. But in the moments after I wake up, I will always have a second where I find myself remembering. Their faces and their movements, the smell of them before they went to bed. The sounds of their voices every time they would come home.

  I came here to the abandoned North End less than a year after they died, returning to this place where I grew up. Where I was born forty-five years ago.

  Five miles by ten miles, the North End of this city has nearly completely died. It started decades ago. The closing of dirty, aged factories. The migration from downtown to the suburbs. The rise of crime and the spread of homeless camps in vacant buildings and emptied warehouses. The failure of schools, police, the very streets we drove along. People kept moving away. The cycle, of abandonment and disrepair, it was the only thing growing stronger.

  There were once more than a million people here.

  Now, even the homeless have moved away.

  For a time, there was an effort to tear down whole blocks of houses. The last-ditch effort of a city government that has since evaporated. The power and water and gas were shut off to some blocks. Bulldozers cleared the land. The remnants of the homes were hauled away to somewhere else in the North End. Left behind were the dying grass and a few dead trees, and the flat, concrete outline of a neighborhood.

  Otherwise, nothing changed.

  Most neighborhoods were left standing, though, even as they too were emptying of people. No buyers of the homes, the residents shut their doors and moved. Some houses still have their porch lights on. Years now they’ve been untouched.

  • • •

  There are many things here that you don’t need to buy. There are abandoned stores that still have clothing and blankets and towels. There are matches and light bulbs and batteries in most any home or building. There is more here than those of us who are left could ever possibly use.

  We get food from a small corner store a half mile from my hotel. It was probably once a liquor store. You enter through the front door and immediately there’s a protected room, thick glass and heavy bars and a shallow slot through which you pass your money. The other side of the glass is piled very high with boxes. I can’t make out the person on the other side. He or she is a shadow, a muffled voice. Taped to the window is a handwritten list of what’s available for the week. Cans of food most of the time. Bread some weeks, just two or three slices in a small plastic bag. No fresh vegetables or fruit. No drinks. No milk or cheese. You say w
hat you want and the person tells you what it costs and after you’ve slid your money through the slot, the person slides back the food you ordered.

  Most days, they can’t make exact change.

  I don’t really eat much. So none of this is a problem.

  Outside the store, only the right side of the building is lit, the other side lost in darkness.

  There is one last overpass crossing the wide, deep highway. It is the only way to get from here to the South End, where a million people now live. The other overpasses were closed, one by one, over time. Unsafe and crumbling, they are barricaded with concrete blocks and barbed wire on top of fences and signs that point anyone to turn away from here.

  It’s not clear what will happen if the last overpass is deemed unstable too.

  The highway intersects with two other highways, which together mark three of the four borders of this large area known as the North End. The highways were built in straight, deep trenches, cutting through neighborhoods fifty years later, tall concrete walls added as sound barriers in the twenty years after that.

  From my hotel room, I can see a few sections of the walls. But I can’t see the vehicles down on the roadway.

  The fourth border of the North End is the bay, far to the north, many miles away. I haven’t been there since I was a child. There were parks there then and boats to rent, but over the years that area was given over to a port. Grain elevators and loading piers and massive fueling centers for the ships and barges that eventually stopped coming as this city died.

  The water reaches into the city, though. Via a series of canals stretching down from the bay. Some canals are narrow as backstreets, others are wide, grand avenues of water, with ornate, block-long bridges crossing over them. Other canals run close to the houses, houses that have small docks leading from their back doors to the water. Still other canals are lined by old, wooden houseboats, ten and twenty stationary floating homes, many now slowly sinking into the cold water beneath them.

  • • •