Cold Call

And then one day, the phone rings.

It's so harsh, so loud, that for a moment Malorie falls into a panic, thinking it must be something crashing in upstairs, or the war call of one of the creatures, or some new, terrifying thing, when she finally sees the light blinking on the phone in the corner and remembers what it is, to hear a phone ring. Someone is calling them.

She dives for the phone, and grabs it off the rest—for a moment she almost hangs it up out of sheer terror, but then old, half-forgotten habit takes over, and she lifts it to her ear. Tom comes rushing in as she hears the first words.

"This is the Bridges relief delivery service. If you are a survivor in need of relief, press 1. Para Espanol, oprima numero dos. Para frances, presione tres. This is the Bridges relief delivery…"

Cheryl, Felix, and Don have come in now, also. They're staring at her and the phone. She stands in shock, unsure how to respond, until Tom gestures frantically, and she realizes they can't hear the voice. Searching on the phone, she finds the speaker button and presses it, so that the voice resounds through the living room. All of them listen as the voice repeats once again. Then again. Jules comes in as they all listen to it again a third time.

"It's a trick," Don says. "Right?"

"For what?" Tom answers. "What'd be the point?"

"Looters, maybe," says Don, but his voice is uncertain. Of the dangers they're facing, looters are one they haven't even considered. The road outside is probably more dangerous to the looters than anything they have in here.

"Who cares what the trick is, we can't risk it," Cheryl says. She moves toward the phone.

"There's one month of food left downstairs," Jules says. It freezes Cheryl in her tracks. "And we're still not sure about the well. We're going to have to take a risk somewhere."

"…survivor in need of relief, press 1..."

"We've been calling random numbers," Felix says, slowly. "Maybe this is someone else, doing the same thing."

"Maybe because they need food." Don says. There's a touch of anger in his voice.

Tom steps forward, and presses the button on the phone.

There's a moment of silence, and for a moment Malorie wonders if Tom hung up. But then suddenly a new, vaguely Spanish voice rings out.

"Oh my word, someone answered this one. Hello? Hello, yes, this is the Bridges Relief Delivery Service! Do you, um… oh, where is the script… Ah, yes! Who am I speaking with?"

No one speaks at first. Olympia comes in, and looks questioningly at the others. The voice takes on a more questioning tone. "Hello? You pressed one, yes? Who is there?"

"I'm… Tom," says Tom. "Who is this? How did you know to call this number?"

"Oh, I didn't make the call, sir, it's an automated dialing system," the voice answers cheerily. "It's just working its way through all the numbers, and when someone picks up and presses one, then it notifies me. My name's Deadman. Haha, it's an odd name, I know. Well. How can I help you, Tom?"

"That… depends." Tom says. He glances around uncertainly at the others. "What do you want?"

"Oh, no charge, no charge, we're a relief agency!" the voice answers. "Or, well, that's not quite true. We're more of a relief organization. Anyway, there's no charge for our initial relief package. If you want to be added to our regular delivery service, then we would probably talk about what resources you can spare and what we need. But if you need help, right now, then we can get something out to you in about…" There's a rustling of paper. "Oh, I think in three… maybe four days? We have a distribution center not too far from you. Anyway, there'd be no obligation."

"Yeah, right," Don mutters.

Apparently the phone is sensitive enough for Deadman to hear him. "Are there others with you, Tom? We'd need an accurate count for the relief package, otherwise it probably won't last for very long." The voice alters a little, seeming to break from its script. "Listen, I know it's hard to believe, but we wouldn't have enough manpower to force you to do anything you didn't want to do. And if we did…" There's a bit of hesitation, "…well, I don't like bringing this up, but we know where you are already, now that you've answered the phone."

Don curses. Felix and Cheryl exchange glances. Tom's expression doesn't change.

"…anyway, the worst that can happen, once you take the relief package, is that we don't send any new packages," Deadman's voice says. "You can always make that decision later."

Hesitation. Tom looks around the room. Don is shaking his head. Felix and Cheryl seem unsure. Finally, Felix raises his hand.

Olympia raises her hand too. She took a risk in coming here, Malorie remembers. Then Jules. Cheryl bites her lip, looking down. Don is still shaking his head. Tom looks at her.

Malorie isn't sure, either. It seems too good to be true—that there must be some catch somewhere. They can't just rely on the kindness of strangers. But isn't that why she came here in the first place? If humanity bands together…

The baby inside her kicks. She takes that as a sign. She raises her hand.

Tom looks around the room one last time and nods. "All right. There's seven of us here…"

It takes only two days for the knock to come at the door. "Bridges delivery service," says a gruff voice. "Got a relief package here for a... Tom."

There's a minor confusion in the home. Everyone's running around, grabbing broomsticks. Tom's struggling into his makeshift armor. "You weren't supposed to be here for another day," Don shouts through the door.

"I made good time." The voice sounds almost bored. "Do you want the package or don't you? I've got other packages to deliver."

"Hold on!" Don says. He looks around, still shaking his head at the others.

"The man on the phone said you'd have a password," Tom calls back.

"Right, right. 'Cupid.' Happy?"

"Blindfolds on, everyone." Tom jams the helmet over his eyes. "Ready with the broomsticks? Okay, Malorie, you get the door. You out there, keep your eyes closed!"

"If you think it'll help." The voice sounds amused.

Malorie slides to the door and places her hand on the wood before she slips her blindfold over her eyes. With her hands, she seeks out the latch, then the chain, then she finds the door handle itself. With a deep breath, she turns the handle. She hears the others fumbling, patting someone all over. She tries to close the door immediately but there's something in the way. She panics and pushes harder.

"Hang on, I've got a wagon with me, let me just pull it through," says the voice. There's a pull, and then the door slides shut. She fumbles for the latch and clicks it shut, then the chain.

"Okay. Okay," Tom says at last. "You can open your eyes."

Malorie takes that as permission to remove her blindfold, and sees the visitor. He's a big man, in a dark blue raincoat and sunglasses. The hood is back, and she can see that he has long greasy hair bound up in a topknot. His boots are worn, but they look fairly new, and he's wearing tough blue jeans stained with fresh mud. On his back is a massive rucksack, like what you'd wear if you were camping in the Rockies. Behind him, like he said, is one of the all-terrain collapsible wagons people bring on picnics and to beaches.

It's piled high with food. Canned goods and large bottles of distilled water and several large plastic boxes she doesn't recognize. She almost cries.

"You folks need a more secure entry process," says the big man. "One of those entryways would be ideal, but even just a really big sheet over the door would help. Someone comes in and you can actually see their shape without having to look outside."

His hand goes up to his face, and he takes off his sunglasses. His eyes are pure white. He's blind, Malorie realizes.

"We can help with that."

#

The man's name is Sam. He's brought a water purifier and a small set of tools, as well as some thick sleeping masks that can double as good blindfolds. He also has a gas stove and heater, but he folds them up and puts them back in the cart once he hears they have electricity.

"No internet, right?" he says. "The North-eastern US servers have been down for months."

"Aren't they down everywhere?" Tom asks, in faint disbelief.

"Bridges is working on something," Sam answers. "They managed to get one server online, now it's just a question of wiring. There's not enough people left to need more than one, probably."

He says it so casually, like it's a matter of apples in the orchard.

"Is everyone in Bridges, ah…" Malorie hesitates.

"All the deliverymen." Sam sounds amused by her hesitation. "And the farmers. It's mandatory for anyone who needs to work aboveground."

"You have farmers?" Jules asks.

"A couple. Not as many as we'd like." Sam grimaces. "The ones on-site work in greenhouses. We've got a few others who are part of the delivery network and work out in the country. I drop by and pick up food from them. Part of their quota."

"Quota. Right." Don looks over. "So there is payment involved."

"Well, yeah." Sam gestures at his wagon. "Where do you think this came from? We keep the farmers supplied in fuel for their tractors, they give us fresh food. Our scavengers—they're blind too-siphon fuel wherever they can find it, and we give them food."

"And what would we need to pay, if we wanted more of these?" Jules asks, lifting water out of the wagon.

"That's part of what I'm here for, to appraise things," Sam answers, taking out a small pad and a stylus. He taps out something at the top, and Malorie sees that he's leaving small indents-braille. "Now I can look over the place myself, but generally people like it better when I'm limited to what they're willing to tell me. So what do you have around here that you could spare?"

He's not interested, obviously, in money or gold. He does ask if they have any specifically unusual cans or spices in the house, but nothing they say seems to interest him. The machinery and appliances in the house also seem fairly typical to him. He asks about batteries, and Felix goes looking through the kitchen to see what they managed to save.

"Your food supply is limited, so we can't use that at all," he says, tapping away. "The well that you have—now that's interesting."

"Couldn't you just dig yourselves a new one?" Don asks. There's a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"The well may be contaminated," Tom says. "We… think we heard something down in there."

"Hm. Well, that could be a problem." Sam taps the stylus against his teeth. "Digging a new one would be too complicated. It'd be a lot less risky to install piping or something on the one you have and get the water to run straight into the house for you to purify and bottle. That'd be useful."

"And what, you'd collect it?" Tom asks. "How much would you collect? That well's our only source of water."

"If we got a purifier shipped here we could use the river too." Sam is still tapping away. "That'd be more sustainable. I will say—the information that the electricity is still running in this town is pretty useful on its own. We don't have a lot of places still generating electricity. Would you all be willing to work recharging batteries for other stations?"

"Sounds like you're real eager to put us to work." Don's voice is hard.

Sam's stylus pauses. "Look," he says. "There's not a lot out there, okay?" He gestures at the wagon, already empty. "Folks had to work hard to get you this stuff that you needed. We've got people, but not nearly enough, not with the amount of food that's left. There's only so many cans left in the world. So yes, a lot of what we're interested in is manpower."

There's a little silence. Felix comes back in. "I found some batteries," he says, gesturing with a box. He glances around at the curiously-silent living room. "Do you want me to put them in the wagon, or…"

Sam sighs. "I'll put them in my sack," he says, holding out his hand. "I sense we're done here, so I'm going to go ahead and get moving."

"You can spend the night," Tom says, in an odd attempt at reconciliation.

"Thanks, but no thanks." Sam shakes his head. "There's another wagon out there for a couple in the next town. I sleep out on the road. I prefer it, honestly." As if suddenly remembering, he picks up his stylus again. "I can come back at least once more with supplies to help you secure the house better—like a tarp to cover the doorway, like I suggested, and some wide bits of paneling to cover the windows more securely—those bedsheets aren't going to be enough."

"And that'll be free?"

Sam shrugs. "You can't help us out if you all go crazy and kill each other."

There's a bit of a silence. For a moment life had seemed almost normal, and they'd forgotten about the insane world outside. Tom says, reluctantly, "there's… a hole in the cellar wall. I'd feel better if we at least had a bookcase or something to cover it up."

Sam taps it out on his little pad. "Anything else?"

Olympia speaks up. "Do you have any pills or anything for morning sickness?"

Sam's stylus stops moving. It's poised above the pad. "…Is someone here pregnant?"

Everyone exchanges glances. Malorie speaks up before anyone can perjure themselves on her account. "Olympia and I both are."

Sam doesn't say anything for a minute. "Tell you what," he says, pocketing his stylus. "Forget you told me that."