Wrong Side of the Moon

September 8th. Gemma took her usual shortcut through the woods. Sweet pine exhales and gentle cricket song cleansed long hours soaked in engine fumes.

Six days a week, she pulled wrenches in the Shipyard, Thursday double shift. Tightening bolts. Counting washers. Welding seams. She'd never see the stars past Jupiter, but the billion dollar eyes that did would have Gemma Laramie to thank.

A shadow flashed, and something thumped onto the trail at her feet. A hawk. Stiff and motionless. Tawny wings crumpled. Gemma frowned, scalp prickling. The crickets had gone silent.

Gemma flinched as a tinny squeal shot a lightning bolt from her eardrum to the base of her spine. The ground bucked and split. Trees groaned. Gemma huddled with her hands over her head until the pewter swirls settled.

By the time she limped from the cockeyed trees behind her apartment complex, smoke spiked black pillars in the sky and ash rained feather wisps.

Above, the blank white moon blared down without a face.

***

The last interstellar ships blasted off on All Saints Day. Paid tickets only. No more lotteries.

Fires and tsunamis and spontaneous aneurysms flooded the airwaves. Looters rampaged. Hospitals overflowed. Grids failed. Broadcasts went dark one by one.

***

Tuskatoon to Burnt Orange to Weed, Gemma always found a town in need of a mechanic. The grungy, calloused folk left behind on their quaking, dusty rock were quick to offer a meal and a bed for a day's labor.

Big Huck's Roadhouse squatted on the outer rim of Douglas Pike. A leaning ramshackle slapped upside the highway, the chainsaw cutout sign out front read FOOD.

Ms. Loretta wiped flour and ash on her apron and shooed a grimy urchin from underfoot. "There's always something needs doing, and we got plenty to eat. Don't you touch that with your filthy hands, Lettie Mae! What'd you say your name was? Jenny?"

"Gemma."

"That's real pretty. Big Huck's around back, honey."

Gemma found Big Huck in coveralls and cutoff sleeves, wrestling a sooty hog.

"Mechanic, huh? Can you fix a shot generator?"

"Yes, sir. Just patched up a few for a casino back in Tuskatoon. Slot machines are singing."

Big Huck smeared his ashy brows. "Cass, show our new hire the toolshed."

Cassidy Ellis Ford tipped her a blue-eyed grin from under a frayed hunting cap. Gemma guessed she'd stick around these parts for a while.

***

Shhhhhh… SQUEEEE!!!!! Shhhhhh...

Gemma fiddled with the radio dials, screw driver clenched between her teeth.

Shhhhhh… BWOOOOP!!!!! Shhhhhh...

Gemma growled. Cass glanced up from a dogeared page. Something on seeds and soil and weather patterns that no longer followed God's plan.

"What're you trying to pick up on that thing anyway?" he asked. "You think the liners are still broadcasting? They must be pretty far out by now."

"I don't give a shit about those selfish bastards," Gemma spat around a mouthful of metal.

"My little sister's on the Plymouth," Cass murmured.

"Oh. Sorry."

"I won the lottery," he explained. "Right before the moon turned around."

"Why didn't you go?" Gemma asked.

Cass frowned at a planting chart. "She's a nurse. And I get seasick. Made more sense for her to go. So, what're you torturing that thing for?"

Gemma grinned. "That big quake yesterday knocked it off the shelf, and it started blaring Neil Young."

"It's probably just ghost signals bouncing around from an old broadcast," Cass said.

"Maybe," Gemma grunted. "Dead music is better than nothing."

A tingling cramp rolled around Gemma's lower back. She held her breath through the surge. The page crumpled and ripped under Cass’s hand. His face drained white. Fingers locked and curled. Breath pinched.

"You okay?" Gemma asked.

Cass forced a hissing exhale. The tendons in his wrist relaxed, and his fingers released.

"Fine," he winced, smile bloodless. "Just gravity, right?"

"Just gravity," Gemma echoed.

Shhhhhh…

"...with some cool, cool jazz to soothe that ashfall burn. This is Daxter Mayes broadcasting live right here on the wrong side of the moon."

***

September 8th. No mistaking the date. Lettie Mae put a big red X through each calendar day as part of her schooling.

Cass dragged Gemma out of bed before sunrise, and they headed out toward Rogue Tree Lake with poles and tackle. Not much talk today. Not out loud, at least. They rode back at noon with a full ice chest.

Big Huck poured soon-to-be-expired peanut oil into the fry kettle out back. Ms. Loretta used up the last of her cocoa powder on a red velvet cake. Round with pale icing. A faceless buttercream moon.

Trina Darrow and Ramon Ramirez rode out from Douglas Pike with a truckload of corn, potatoes, and hollering kids. The whole crew gathered around the long hardwood table in the back celebration room. As supper wound down, Trina broke out a harmonica, and Ray grabbed his banjo from the truck. Big Huck dusted off the old Yamaha tucked away under the bed. Ms. Loretta played the spoons.

Gemma's smile fell as she caught a mess of curls and flannel taking a quiet exit through the back. She followed Cass to the patio. They'd built it together over a summer of tender blisters and hammered thumbs.

Cass braced against the railing, sinews raging. Spring loaded. Ready to buckle like the fractured earth. The seism rolled through, and Cass straightened up. Eyes electric azure against mottled veins.

A ruddy trail spilled through the dust on his cheek.

***

The pines wore a powdered coat in the waning summer heat.

“Looks like Christmas!” Lettie Mae beamed.

Big Huck patted her little tangled head and stumped off to dig out red and green all-weather lights. Gemma wired them up around the patio.

"I’ll have a blue Christmas without you!" Ms. Loretta warbled from the kitchen sink. She broke off in a hollow-chested rattle.

Gemma pretended not to notice the red-flecked rags piled in the burn bin. Just like she pretended not to feel that grit-riddled itch on every inhale. The voice in her head that pierced through static denial always tuned in with Daxter Mayes' buttered baritone.

"Feel that sweet, sweet burn? Dying low and slow right here on the wrong side of the moon."

***

Their pace dragged on the steep trail along Lookout Ridge. Loose shale shifted under their boots, and the film in their lungs kicked up with the incline. Cass made a few more recovery stops than usual on their trek. Gemma passed the canteen without a word.

Twilight bled from rust to black as they reached the sturdy lookout A-frame. Cass used to take summer shifts up here watching out for wildfires. The porch steps sagged a bit, but it held up just fine otherwise.

Night settled to stillness. No ash. No quakes. Moon a crescent sliver on the lip of the sky. Gemma sat down next to Cass on the edge of the porch. Hands resting close. Gravity aching between.

"You ever wish you'd got on that ship?" Gemma asked.

Her heart tripped over its heels as Cassidy Ellis Ford bent a blue-eyed smile in her direction.

"I'll take my chances on the wrong side of the moon."