Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalipse

Octavia E. Butler was the author of a dozen novels and several short stories — a giant of the field who died long before her time. She was the first science fiction writer to be receive the MacArthur Foundation’s prestigious “genius” grant, and also received a lifetime achievement award for her writing from the PEN American Center. In the speculative fiction field, she was also well-appreciated, having won two Hugos, two Nebulas, and a Locus Award—with her novelette “Bloodchild,” winning all three. She died in February 2006.

Butler’s work frequently explored the subject of life after apocalypse. Though none of her novel-length works would be classified primarily as post-apocalyptic, her three multi-book series—the Xenogenesis trilogy, the Patternist series, and the Parable duology—all take place in post-apocalyptic settings, making her an important author to the read in the sub-genre, even if her books are not really a part of it.

This story, which won the Hugo Award in 1984, was conceived by Butler after witnessing a bloody, senseless fight while riding the bus. In her story collection, Bloodchild and Other Stories, Butler said that witnessing the fight made her wonder “whether the human species would ever grow up enough to learn to communicate without using fists of one kind or another.” And then the first line of the story came to her.

There was trouble aboard the Washington Boulevard bus. Rye had expected trouble sooner or later in her journey. She had put off going until loneliness and hopelessness drove her out. She believed she might have one group of relatives left alive — a brother and his two children twenty miles away in Pasadena. That was a day’s journey one-way, if she were lucky. The unexpected arrival of the bus as she left her Virginia Road home had seemed to be a piece of luck — until the trouble began.

Two young men were involved in a disagreement of some kind, or, more likely, a misunderstanding. They stood in the aisle, grunting and gesturing at each other, each in his own uncertain T stance as the bus lurched over the potholes. The driver seemed to be putting some effort into keeping them off balance. Still, their gestures stopped just short of contact — mock punches, hand games of intimidation to replace lost curses.

People watched the pair, then looked at one another and made small anxious sounds. Two children whimpered.

Rye sat a few feet behind the disputants and across from the back door. She watched the two carefully, knowing the fight would begin when someone’s nerve broke or someone’s

hand slipped or someone came to the end of his limited abil­ity to communicate. These things could happen anytime.

One of them happened as the bus hit an especially large pothole and one man, tall, thin, and sneering, was thrown into his shorter opponent.

Instantly, the shorter man drove his left fist into the dis­integrating sneer. He hammered his larger opponent as though he neither had nor needed any weapon other than his left fist. He hit quickly enough, hard enough to batter his opponent down before the taller man could regain his balance or hit back even once.

People screamed or squawked in fear. Those nearby scrambled to get out of the way. Three more young men roared in excitement and gestured wildly. Then, somehow, a second dispute broke out between two of these three— probably because one inadvertently touched or hit the other.

As the second fight scattered frightened passengers, a woman shook the driver’s shoulder and grunted as she ges­tured toward the fighting.

The driver grunted back through bared teeth. Frightened, the woman drew away.