Fallout

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

To best preserve formatting of complex poems and elements, we recommend that this book be read at a smaller font size on your device.

For Orion, Jade, Heaven, Clyde, Eli, and Kalob, always in my heart. For Jason, Cristal, and Kelly, always my children, wherever they are. For John, always my own forever love. And with sincerest love and respect for my editor, Emma Dryden, who enriches my books with her wisdom and enriches my life with her friendship.

With a special nod to Jude Mandell, whose keen insight allowed me to see the direction I needed to go with this book. Many, many thanks, Jude!

RENO GAZETTE-JOURNAL

RENO—Local author Marie Haskins’s fifteenth novel, Submission, debuted at the number one spot on the New York Times bestseller list. But this time, Haskins writes about a different kind of monster.

This is a complete departure from my previous books, Haskins said. I have finally fulfilled a very old dream and taken the plunge into horror.

It remains to be seen whether or not her fans will take the plunge with her, as the poems go beyond free verse, into the realm of formal poetry, specifically sonnets. Fortunately for Haskins, a number of words rhyme with suck.

I have long wanted to write about vampires, but chose to wait until the subject was no longer a staple of every publisher’s list, Haskins said. "My vampires are sophisticated and totally sexy, but set in a future world. Sort of like Dracula meets Star Trek."

We Hear

That life was good

before she

met

the monster,

but those page flips

went down before

our collective

cognition. Kristina

wrote

that chapter of her

history before we

were even whispers

in her womb.

The monster shaped

our

lives, without our ever

touching it. Read on

if you dare. This

memoir

isn’t pretty.

Hunter Seth Haskins

SO YOU WANT TO KNOW

All about her. Who

she

really is. (Was?) Why

she swerved off

the high road. Hard

left

to nowhere,

recklessly

indifferent to

me,

Hunter Seth Haskins,

her firstborn

son. I’ve been

choking

that down for

nineteen years.

Why did she go

on

her mindless way,

leaving me spinning

in a whirlwind of

her dust?

IF YOU DON’T KNOW

Her story, I’ll try

my best to enlighten

you, though I’m not sure

of every word of it myself.

I suppose I should know

more. I mean, it has been

recorded for eternity—

a bestselling fictionalization,

so the world wouldn’t see

precisely who we are—

my mixed-up, messed-

up family, a convoluted

collection of mostly regular

people, somehow strengthened

by indissoluble love, despite

an ever-present undercurrent

of pain. The saga started here:

FOREWORD

Kristina Georgia Snow

gave me life in her seventeenth

year. She’s my mother,

but never bothered to be

my mom. That job fell

to her mother, my grandmother,

Marie, whose unfailing love

made her Mom even before

she and Dad (Kristina’s stepfather,

Scott) adopted me. That was

really your decision, Mom claims.

You were three when you started

calling us Mama and Papa.

The other kids in your playgroup

had them. You wanted them too.

We became an official

legal family when I was four.

My memory of that day is hazy

at best, but if I reach way,

way back, I can almost see

the lady judge, perched

like an eagle, way high above

little me. I think she was

sniffling. Crying, maybe?

Her voice was gentle. I want

to thank you, Mr. and Mrs.

Haskins, for loving this child

as he deserves to be loved.

Please accept this small gift,

which represents that love.

I don’t really remember all

those words, but Mom repeats

them sometimes, usually

when she stares at the crystal

heart, catching morning sun

through the kitchen window.

That part of Kristina’s story

always makes Mom sad.

Here’s a little more of the saga.

CHAPTER ONE

It started with a court-ordered

summer visit to Kristina’s

druggie dad. Genetically,

that makes him my grandfather,

not that he takes much interest

in the role. Supposedly he stopped

by once or twice when I was still

bopping around in diapers.

Mom says he wandered in late

to my baptism, dragging

Kristina along, both of them

wearing the stench of monster

sweat. Monster, meaning crystal

meth. They’d been up all night,

catching a monstrous buzz.

It wasn’t the first time

they’d partied together. That

was in Albuquerque, where dear

old Gramps lives, and where

Kristina met the guy who popped

her just-say-no-to-drugs cherry.

Our lives were never the same

again, Mom often says. That

was the beginning of six years

of hell. I’m not sure how we all

survived it. Thank God you were

born safe and sound. . . .

All my fingers, toes, and a fully

functional brain. Yadda, yadda . . .

Well, I am glad about the brain.

Except when Mom gives me

the old, What is up with you?

You’re a brilliant kid. Why do

you refuse to perform like one?

A C-plus in English? If you would

just apply yourself . . .

Yeah, yeah. Heard it before.

Apply myself? To what?

And what the hell for?

I KIND OF ENJOY

My underachiever status.

I’ve found the harder you

work, the more people expect

of you. I’d much rather fly

way low under the radar.

That was one of Kristina’s

biggest mistakes, I think—

insisting on being right-up-

in-your-face irresponsible.

Anyway, your first couple years

of college are supposed to be

about having fun, not about

deciding what you want to do

with the rest of your life. Plenty

of time for all that whenever.

I decided on UNR—University

of Nevada, Reno—not so much

because it was always a goal,

but because Mom and Dad

did this prepaid tuition thing,

and I never had Ivy League

ambitions or the need to venture

too far from home. School is school.

I’ll get my BA in communications,

then figure out what to do with it.

I’ve got a part-time radio gig at

the X, an allowance for incidentals,

and I live at home. What more

could a guy need? Especially

when he’s got a girl like Nikki.

PICTURE THE IDEAL GIRL

And you’ve got Nikki.

She’s sweet. Smart. Cute. Oh,

yes, and then there’s her body.

I’m not sure what perfect

measurements are, but

Nikki’s got them,

all wrapped up in skin

like wheat-colored suede.

Delicious, from lips to ankles,

and she’s mine. Mine to touch,

mine to hold. Mine to kiss

all over her flawless

deliciousness. Plus,

she’s got her own place,

a sweet little house near campus,

where I can do all that kissing—not

to mention what comes after

the kissing—in private.

I’m done with classes

for the day and on my way

to Nikki’s, with a little extra fun

tucked inside my pocket. Yeah, I

know getting high isn’t so

smart. Ask me if I care.

I AM GENETICALLY PREDISPOSED

To addiction. At least that’s what

they tell me, over and over.

The theory has been hammered

into my head since before I could

even define the word addiction.

Your grandfather is an addict and

your mother is an addict, so it’s

likely you will become an addict

too, unless you basically "just say

no." Much easier said than done,

especially when you’re predisposed

to saying, Hell, yeah! Anyway,

I’m more of a dabbler than a dedicated

fuckup. A little weed, a little coke.

Never tried meth. Don’t think I ought

to take a chance on that monster.

Catching a buzz is one thing. Yanking

the devil’s tail is just plain stupid.

NIKKI ISN’T HOME YET

I let myself in with the key

she leaves stashed under the plastic

rock by the door. Good thing

she doesn’t own much in the way

of expensive stuff, something

I’m sure the neighbors are well

aware of. This isn’t a bad street,

but it’s heavily stocked with students,

many of whom have forgotten

the Golden Rule, if they ever knew

it to begin with. Inside, the window

shades are cracked enough so light

filters through. A thin beam

splashes against the hallway mirror,

lures my attention. When I turn

to find it, the eyes reflected

in the glass are completely unique.

Piebald, Mom calls them.

Green-dappled gray. Definitely

not Kristina’s eyes. What I want

to know now, as always, is whose?

I’VE ASKED THE QUESTION BEFORE

"If Kristina is my biological

mother, who fathered me?"

Who

was her man of the month?

I’ve been told she slept

with more than a few,

but which

was

the one whose lucky

sperm connected with

the proper egg? Whose

genes sculpted the relief of

my

cheekbones, the stack

of my shoulders, the stretch

of my legs? Do the eyes staring

back at me now belong to my

father?

IN MOM’S BOOK

The story goes Kristina was

date-raped by some low-life

druggie lifeguard dealer.

When I asked if that was true,

Mom would only say that

the book is fiction, based on

fact, and that they aren’t one

hundred percent sure about

my paternity. But I think she

was trying to spare my feelings.

Who wants to believe they

were conceived of a rape, even

if the rape might have been

somehow solicited? What kind

of guy keeps going when

a girl says no way? And if a guy

like that really is my father,

could I have inherited a rape gene?

NOT THAT I’VE EVER ONCE

Insisted yes when a girl said no.

I’m not that kind of guy.

I’m smart.

(Except when loaded.

Then I can be kind of stupid.

At least till the buzz wears off.)

I’m witty.

(Except when I don’t get

enough sleep, which is often.

Then I lose my sense of humor.)

I’m compassionate.

(Except when someone

acts like a complete idiot.

Especially in my face.)

I’m understanding.

(Except when it means I can’t

have my way, so I try to avoid

people who won’t let me have it.)

I’m kind.

(Except for those days

when, for no apparent reason,

I hate pretty much everyone.)

I’VE GOT A LITTLE PROBLEM

And I’m not really sure

how to fix it. Not really sure

I need to. Not really sure I could.

Life is pretty good. But once

in a while, uninvited and

uninitiated, anger invades me.

It starts, a tiny gnaw

at the back of my brain. Like

a migraine, except without pain.

They say headaches

blossom, but this isn’t so

much a blooming as a bleeding.

Irritation bleeds into

rage, seethes into fury.

An ulcer, emptying hatred

inside me. And I don’t

know why. Life is pretty good.

So, what the hell?

AS I PONDER THE QUESTION

A key turns uselessly in the lock—

uselessly because I neglected

to secure the door behind me.

Nikki peeks cautiously around

it, jumps back like she’s been

bitten. Guess she didn’t expect

to find some guy standing here.

Hey, I yell, it’s only me.

Nikki slams back across

the threshold, almost knocks

me over. Hunter! You scared

the heebie-jeebies out of me!

Heebie-jeebies. She’s totally

cute. I pull her into my arms,

happy to concentrate on her slate

blue eyes, instead of the green ones

in the mirror. Sorry, I say,

meaning it. And to prove

just how much, I give her one

of my world-famous kisses.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit of

an exaggeration, but I have been

told I’m an exceptional kisser.

I give it my all, and Nikki responds.

Her kiss is like a sudden fever—

white-hot, unplanned, contagious.

Too quickly, she cools, pulls away.

Apology accepted. But no smile,

and she never doesn’t smile. I study

her face harder, find anger, concrete

in the set of her jaw, but eiderdown

sorrow in her eyes. What’s wrong?

She slumps against me, takes

refuge as her sadness flows, wet,

in steady tears. My dad walked out

on my mom. He wants a divorce.

THAT’S IT ?

I’d like to feel sorry for her, console

her, tell her it’s all a huge mistake.

But what I really want to say

is, "Big effin’ deal. Divorce?

At least they were together

while you were growing up.

At least you’ll get to see him

almost as much as you do now.

At least you know just who

in the bloody hell your father is!"

But that would take Nikki-Complete.

What I hold here is Nikki-in-Tatters.

So I take her hand, lead her

into the kitchen, sit her at the table.

"I brought a little something

that will make you feel better."

I twist one up, half expecting her

to say no. She only smokes weed

on special occasions. Apparently

this occasion qualifies, however.

She takes a big drag, fights not

to cough. Fails, and that makes

the tears fall harder. He—hack—

is such a prick. I ca-can’t—hack—

believe he could just up and leave

Mom. N-not—hack—f-f-for . . . her!

Who? None of my business,

of course. But, hey, she brought it up.

His goddamn boss! You know,

the bitch who owns the company?

She’s old. Rich, yeah, but old . . .

Her voice is tinged with hysteria.

After almost twenty-five years,

he leaves Mom for . . . for her?

Here. I pass her the J. "Take

another hit. A little one this time."

She doesn’t cough, but she does ask,

You’d never cheat on me, would you?

I BITE DOWN HARD

On the impending lie.

Fact is, I’ve already

cheated on Nikki,

though I’m not sure

why. It was an awful

mistake, and it only

happened once, post-football-game beer

binge. God, that girl—

a Vegas Rebels fan,

and so a rival meant

to be jeered at, not laid—

was a real piece of work.

Anorexic as hell, but

high-horsepower motor,

revved to the max . . .

Nikki stares at me,

waiting for an answer.

Say something quick,

idiot. I reach across

the table, take possession

of her hand, look into

the depths of her tear-

glittered eyes. "You

are my one and only."

AS THE WORDS

Slide out of my mouth,

I wish I could mean them.

She is so beautiful, just there.

A fairy seeking wings, and

when she finds them, I know

she’ll fly far, far away.

Love is like that.

Suddenly I want her more

than anything. Like some

conceit-driven Grimm

Brothers king, I need to

capture my sprite with

trembling hands. Except

I could crush her.

Wonder how many small

things of beauty—flowers,

seashells, dragonflies—

have met such a demise.

Wonder how much fragile

love has collapsed

beneath the weight of confession.

ENOUGH ALREADY

One too many lit classes,

I guess. A little too much poetry,

dredged up at all the wrong times.

Thanks so much for that, Mom.

You’ve got a poet’s soul, she told

me once. And an old soul at that.

Whatever that means. I don’t feel

so old, for the most part. I do like

words, but this is not the time

for them, nor is it the time for

confessions. There is invitation

in Nikki’s eyes. It’s time for that.

THE WOOD

In her room is cherry—deep

reddish brown. Elegant.

The sheets on her bed are black

satin. Slick beneath desire-

dampened skin. Her hair is like

a sunburst against the onyx-

colored pillowcase. Its perfume

spices the air with ginger

and some exotic bloom.

The scent fuels my hunger

for her body. I want to own

it, merge with it, become part

of her. Hurry, she urges. But

the tease is almost the best

part of the game, so I bring her

close and closer with my hands

and mouth and finally I am inside

her. I can’t get enough, so we go

and go until the only thing left

is to finish. And still I want more.

Autumn Rose Shepherd

SOMETIMES I SEE FACES

Somehow familiar,

but I don’t know why.

I cannot label them,

no matter how intently

I try. They are nameless.

And yet not strangers.

Like Alamo ghosts, they

emerge from deep

of night, materialize

from darkness, deny

my sleep. I would call them

dreams. But that’s too easy.

I SUSPECT

One of those faces belongs

to my mother. It is young, not

much older than mine, but weary,

with cheeks like stark coastal

cliffs and hollow blue eyes, framed

with drifts of mink-colored hair.

I don’t look very much like her.

My hair curls, auburn, around

a full, heart-shaped face, and

my eyes are brown. Or, to be

more creative, burnt umber. Nothing

like hers, so maybe I’m mistaken

about her identity. Is she my mother?

Is she the one who christened me

Autumn Rose Shepherd? Pretty

name. Wish I could live up to it.

AUNT CORA INSISTS

I am pretty. But Aunt Cora

is a one-woman cheering section.

Thank goodness the grandstands

aren’t completely empty.

I’m kind of a lone wolf, except

for Cherie, and she’s what you

might call a part-time friend.

We hang out sometimes, but

only if she’s got nothing better

going on. Meaning no ballet recitals

or play rehearsals or guy-of-the-day

to distract her from those.

But Aunt Cora is always there,

someone I can count on, through

chowder or broth, as Grandfather says.

Old Texas talk for thick or thin.

GENERALLY

Things feel

about the consistency

of milky oatmeal.

With honey.

Raisins.

Nuts.

Most days,

I wake up relatively

happy. Eat breakfast.

Go to school.

Come home.

Dinner.

Homework.

Bed.

Blah, blah, blah.

But sometimes,

for no reason beyond

a loud noise or leather

cleaner smell, I am afraid.

It’s like yanking myself

from a nightmare only,

even wide awake,

I can’t unstick myself

from the fear of the dream.

I don’t want to

leave my room.

CAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT

Of people staring, I’m sure

they will. Sure they’ll know.

Sure they’ll think I’m crazy.

The only person I can talk to

is Aunt Cora. I can go to her

all freaked out. Can scream,

What’s the matter with me?

And she’ll open her arms, let me

cry and rant, and never once

has she called me crazy. One

time she said, Things happened

when you were little. Things you

don’t remember now, and don’t want

to. But they need to escape,

need to worm their way out

of that dark place in your brain

where you keep them stashed.

THAT FELT RIGHT

And now, when that

unexplained dread

boxes me in, I take

deep breaths, try to

free those bad things,

whatever they are. It

doesn’t always work.

But sometimes it does.

And always, always,

I thank Aunt Cora for

giving me some smidgen

of understanding about

who I am and what

surprises life might

have in store for me.

I swear, without her

I probably would

have jumped off

a bridge the first

time I got my period.

Yeah, we’d had the basic

You’re a Woman Now

video and discussion

in sixth grade. But

textbook "birds

and bees" cannot

even prepare you for

what that really means.

I HATE WHEN I BLEED

Can’t tell my period when to start,

how many hours to make me

miserable. Can’t tell it not to come

at all. I have zero control over

any of that, and that really,

really bothers me. See, I’ve got

a little thing called OCD.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder

is something people make fun of.

But when it’s something

you’ve got, there’s nothing

funny about it. First off,

you know you have it, know

some little piece of your brain

is totally out of whack. Nothing

you can do about that, either.

Not without therapy, and that

means telling someone you know

you’re just a tiny bit crazy.

How do you admit that without

giving up every bit of power

you have finally managed to grasp?

Some people have it worse than I do,

I guess. I mean I don’t wash my hands

seventeen times a day or count

every step I take, then take a couple

more until the exact number from

here to there is divisible by three.

My compulsion is simply order.

Everything in its place, and spaced

exactly so—one inch, no more, no less,

between hairbrush and comb. Two

inches, no more, no less, between pairs

of shoes on my closet floor. Black socks,

upper left corner of my top right dresser

drawer; white socks in the lower right.

I doubt Grandfather has even noticed

how every can in the cupboards is

organized alphabetically, labels out,

or that cleaning supplies beneath

the sink are arranged by color.

But Aunt Cora definitely has.

SHE DOESN’T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

She thinks it’s funny, and funnier

still to mess with my mind by moving

my shoes                         farther apart

or puttingmycombinsidemybrush

or arranging a can of

yams

in front

of the

applesauce.

She says I should lighten up, quit

beating myself up mentally. I know

she only wants what’s best for me,

but sometimes she makes me mad.

If it were easy to throw

my

clothes

into

a heap

on the floor,

of course I’d rather do that than

spend hours

folding them

precisely

right. Right?

I AM IN THE DEN

Arranging Grandfather’s

eclectic collection of

paperbacks alphabetically

by author—Graham, Billy;

Grey, Zane; Grisham, John—

when the telephone rings.

I’ve got it! Grandfather

yells from the kitchen.

I peek at the caller ID.

NV St Prsn—Nevada

State Prison. The collect

calls from Trey come once

in a while. Usually, to listen

to Grandfather’s raves,

when his prison account

needs a cash recharge.

Little SOB wants me

to pay for his cigarettes

and soap? Does he think

I’m made of money?

Still, he always sends it.

Three times convicted

felon or not, Trey will

always be his son. His son.

And my convict father.

I SLIP QUIETLY

Along the linoleum. Grandfather

does not appreciate me listening in.

But for some reason, my radar

is blipping. There’s something

different about this call. Maybe

it’s the tone of Grandfather’s voice

tipping me off. It’s not exactly

hard to hear him. He’s yelling.

But despite the high volume, a tremor

makes him sound downright old.

I don’t give a damn what you want.

You are not welcome in this house.

I told you that when you went away,

and I haven’t changed my mind.

Went away, meaning he was locked up

by the State of Nevada. Again. That was

eight years ago. I remember he called to

share the news while we were planning

my ninth birthday party. I had no

idea what five to fifteen meant.

But it sure seemed to take all the fun

out of talking about balloons and cake.

Apparently it’s working out to "more

than five, less than fifteen." At least,

that’s what I’m hearing from the kitchen.

You may have paid your debt to society,

but you haven’t paid your debt to me.

Not to mention to your daughter. She

doesn’t even know who you are, and

neither do I. Car thief? Drug addict?

You just stay the hell away from here.

I don’t need that kind of worry.

This call is costing an arm and a leg.

I’m going to hang up now.

AND HE DOES

The phone slams against the table,

loud enough for me to hear it

from here. I scoot away from

the door, down the hall, just as

Grandfather exits the kitchen.

He looks at me, anger smoking,

black, in his already dark eyes.

I suppose you heard all that.

I hate talking ill about your father,

but that boy is doomed to go

straight on down to the devil

when he dies. He moves toward

me, trembling slightly. I should’a

beat that boy more. He never

did have an ounce of respect

or caring for anyone except for

himself. Not even for your mama,

I’m guessing. I told Maureen

he was gonna end up badly

if she didn’t . . . never mind.

GRANDFATHER IS STERN

To put it too mildly. I love him,

of course. How could I not

love someone who gathered me

in, offered a home and his unique

brand of love? It’s hard for him

to love, I think. He has been divorced.

Remarried. Widowed. Left to live

mostly alone until Aunt Cora

reappeared, with little toddler me

tucked haphazardly under one arm.

I do love him. But sometimes he’s harsh.

Mean might be more accurate.

He reminds me of a cop walking

the beat too long, in a bad part

of the city—creased and bitter-

eyed and too early gray. He yells.

Rants. Every once in a while,

he leaves a bruise, no apology.

For my own good, he says, So you

don’t end up like your father.

More than once I’ve heard him try to

blame Trey’s mom for her son turning

out bad. Maureen never understood

that kids need discipline, or they’ll ride

roughshod over you. A good switching

by a loving hand never hurt no one.

Quoted directly from his own father

would be my guess, and the oxymoronic

bite of the statement slipped

his notice completely, right along

with the bigger issue he insists

on ignoring: Maureen