The Ghosts We Hide

by Micah Thomas

  Cassie closed the door to her mother’s room. In the warm dark, she could imagine her mother was inside, down for the night, and nothing had changed. She’d died without prolonged pain. Cassie appreciated the speed in a clinical way. Before the invasion, before Henry, Cassie had worked as a hospice nurse. She knew human suffering when death was close, mingling physical pain and the agonies of anticipated passing. She’d heard from her patients; stories of their life-long regrets and loves. Had her mother ever shared those? Now that her mother wasn’t here to speak for her, phrases in Spanish came to her. Rough, without context. Nunca le di orgullo. Cassie knew she had been disappointed in her. In her failure to ever become a career woman, or even a wife to a good man or a mother to a darling child. Que falta me hace mi mama.

  Water under the proverbial bridge. Some people don’t get the closures and apologies they want. Her relationship with her mother would be another loose end. She envied Henry’s ability to detach, to be free from self-imposed expectations, to float; inconsequential dust in the wind. He’d been a drifter when they met. No connections. No roots. It hadn’t freed him from pain, but he hid it better.

  She wanted to float away from this ache in her chest. Perhaps that was why she was ready to go. Why now was the time for change, even if it was change for change’s sake.

  ***

  Cassie left in the early morning—or still the middle of the night, depending on how she sliced it. There were no goodbyes. Her mother was dead. She wondered if she was an orphan or could adults not be orphans? She could have stayed on and been an outcast in the village of her mother’s ancestors. A crazy lady living alone with maybe a cat talking to herself. No. She was a danger here. If she stayed, she’d put people at risk. Henry’s fires could be unpredictable. She felt something growing in him. The hunger to burn was getting stronger. More insistent. Turning it off was becoming difficult. She couldn’t stay.

  She’d packed the last batch of homemade tortillas her mother had made the previous day. Henry made her laugh by calling it Lembas bread. Henry was a nerd and she loved it. Cassie had water, a durable bedroll, and a confidence borne from experience that told her nothing out there in the world was as dangerous as her.

  Henry was resting somewhere in a crèche in her mind. Good, she thought. Let her have her own goodbyes. Let her have a moment. He’d never had a mother like hers. Never had a nagging yet present weekly call to discuss the health of a mother’s cats, a pestering reminder to get married, a series of eternal comparisons to the great life choices made by siblings and extended family. In the two years the three of them had shared the small house, Henry never warmed to Mom. It was funny because she was the only other person who really knew Henry was even up there, hiding behind Cassie’s eyes. She’d talk to him like he was person in the room. Not anymore, though. She was gone.

  The bike started with a loud roar, and she’s be gone soon, too. Cassie had mapped the roads, but only loosely against an old traveler’s atlas. Things could have changed, but she doubted it. They’d follow the coast up through Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi before cutting north. West Virginia would still be a long way from there. They’d need fuel and food, but Henry had become skilled at finding things hidden to the eye. Time hadn’t healed all wounds, but it had seen an expansion of Henry’s abilities. Cassie’s, too. Nothing they could use to save the world, but helpful things. Not that they had any additional understanding of how all this worked. The magic in their lives had caused so much pain, and its mysteries remained utterly unsolvable.

  Maybe the story could change. They were going to try to find answers. She had an address, a map to a bunker. A friend would be there, and she didn’t have many of those left. Two years ago, this friend wasn’t a friend at all, but one of a pair of private investigators hired to track down Henry. She’d helped them, but they didn’t find him.

  One of them, Don, had a conscience and a premonition. His conscience told him not to trust his client, that they were not worthy of his employment. His premonition informed him that something crazy was happening to the world. He was right on both accounts.

  Cassie didn’t believe Don would have all the answers. She’d met a real man behind the curtain once before who claimed to have answers, and she knew it was always a sham. Still, she couldn’t stay in Mexico any longer. The pain was too great. If there was any hope for Henry, for her own sanity, they needed more information about what happened to them. About what happened to the world. About how the experiments changed Henry into what he was. About what Black Star had done to him. Most importantly, if there was a way to reverse it. Don’s info was her best lead and she’d take it.

  Well, she thought, this is it. So long, dirt roads of Mexico. So long, beautiful cactus fields. So long, aunts and uncles and cousins I barely know. So long, quiet life. Goodbye, Mother, Mom, Mommy. I know you loved me. I hope you know I loved you, too.

  She navigated the twisty roads, keeping the bike under 20 mph. She didn’t want to wake anyone or cause a big send off. Another reason was the fact she didn’t exactly own this bike. The September wind was cool on her neck below her helmet. It was adventure. The winds of change.

  Once out of town, she opened up the throttle. The road was rough, but Cassie had a preternatural sense of avoiding the potholes and loose gravel. Her mind could wander and some autonomous part of her—a combination of Henry and their other passenger—would keep her safe. The border would be coming up in a couple hours. They’d scoped it out from the air and felt they could get through without being stopped.

  The landscape was beautiful. Henry surfaced after the first hour to chat.

  Need a break? I can drive for a while.

  No. I’m good.

  Everything looks the same as when we came in.

  Yup.

  They conversed with telegraphed words, sent and received, within the same mind. They could know each other’s minds more intimately if they wanted, but boundaries had been built over time out of necessity.

  We could do this a lot faster, you know. Boom, boom, boom, and we could fly there in a few hours.

  No, Henry. We’re trying to be inconspicuous.

  I’m just saying.

  He was trying to be helpful. Cassie suspected he wanted to burn. To open the throttle not on the bike, but himself. He was cursed and falling in love with it. When he’d still been a man, he’d been afraid of it. Hated it. The change Cassie felt had happened when they’d merged on that hot, terrible day in Las Vegas.

  Why do you think about Vegas so much? Henry was taking a peek into her thoughts.

  Why don’t you? We were out of control. We were like a nuclear bomb. A lot of people died and we failed to make it count for anything. We ran away.

  Yeah. That’s all true. We didn’t have a choice. Henry fell quiet for the rest of the way to the border.

  In the past, there would have been a long line of cars. Vacationers returning home. There’d have been locals attending the waiting drivers offering to wash their windows or selling little bundles of handmade tortillas, tamales, trinkets, and jewelry. There’d been Policia with machine guns and militaristic uniforms. On the other side, there’d be US border agents in black, hands resting on their pistols as they glanced into cars, ever vigilant, prodding for passports—evidence that you were who you said you were.

  Now as the sun started to rise, casting orange light across the dusty town, there were no cars. No lines. No Mexican bon voyage. There was a monolith. A single section of wall reaching up to the sky and a traffic gate which Cassie could easily have driven around. She didn’t. She turned off the bike and removed her helmet.

  “Hello?” she asked towards the border window, seeing a microphone there.

  After a few moments, a response came back. “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m an American Citizen. I’m going to cross back into the country, yeah?” Cassie was telling the truth, but she was also Mexican by blood. There might be racial bias as to how to deal with her because of her black hair
, brown skin, and indigenous nose.

  “Wait. Hold on, please. I’ll be right down.”

  Henry laughed. If it’s the same kid as we saw before, I hope he got his pants cleaned.

  “We are not going to hurt him,” Cassie said.

  A white man in his 40’s exited a door at the base of the wall, shirt half untucked. The classic black uniform had been replaced with the more ‘who gives a fuck’ cargo shorts and a bowling shirt. He carried two large coffee cups with him. He smiled toward Cassie, and she smiled back.

  “Hold up a minute,” he said, catching his breath as he approached.

  “Hey, good morning,” she said.

  He set one of the cups on the disused agent window and held the other out to Cassie. “I’ve been here alone for the last week. They transferred me over here from the border in Cali.”

  Cassie nodded and took the coffee. It was black, hot, and wonderful. “Sounds pretty lonely.”

  “Oh yeah. I heard your bike and put on a pot of joe.”

  “It’s very good. Thank you.”

  “I couldn’t get the microwave to work, or I’d have burritos to go with it.”

  Cassie laughed. “That’s okay.”

  “So, you came down when the other guy was working the wall?”

  “Yeah. A young guy, right?”

  “He had some sorta nervous breakdown. Had to go home. I’ll check the log—what’s left of the mess he bothered to write down—but I figure you’re telling the truth. Not much point in lying. I have to ask though: you’re not smuggling anything, are you?”

  “No. I am not a smuggler. I was just on a little vacation. In fact, I need to get going. I’m expected back today and have a lot of riding ahead.”

  “Well, miss, if you could just sign here,” he said, holding out a placard with yellow legal paper.

  “Absolutely,” she said, and wrote down the name Laura Palmer.

  “I guess you are on your way. I guess you know this already, but be careful out there. Parts of this country have gone to shit. You being a pretty lady, I’d hate to think something bad happened to you.”

  “That’s really sweet. I’ll be careful.” She handed him back the placard and the coffee cup. As he raised the gate, she rode smoothly through the border.

  ***

  The desert flew by. Cassie had the sense she was stationary while the world spun beneath her. They camped in pull offs along the road and Cassie slept in a roll out sleeping bag. Alone, this would be insufficient, but she was not alone. Henry kept her warm and safe while she slept. Her worries of the future, mourning for her mother—all these concerns were distant. Exactly as distant as the miles they’d crossed during the first day. If only, she thought. If only there was nothing except this unending road to keep running away, I’d never have to face anything ever again. The constant motion was as important to her as any destination.

  She had a song in her head. An ear worm.

  “Life is a highway

  Something something, the night long

  If you're going my way

  Something something, the night long”

  Goddamn. She hated the song. Why now? Why now when there was no radio, mp3 player, or smart phone to queue up a cleansing alternative, or at least play the song through so she could remember what all the words were? She tried to forget it. Focus on packing up the camp site. She was successful enough. For a minute.

  “Life is a highway,” Henry began in her mind.

  “Fuuuuck.”

  “What? I love that song.” He continued to hum it, though same as she, he only knew the one line.

  Cassie loved it when Henry talked like he was still Henry. A dumbass, smartass who made her laugh.

  They were on the road again by sunrise. The glare on her helmet’s visor was blinding and Cassie relied on Henry’s preternatural foresight to assist her in steering. The strong September crosswind made her nervous, but the freedom of cruising unobstructed at 80 mph felt wonderful. The road conditions were bad at first, but they’d gotten better since she’d crossed the border and was on the other side. The bike—thank god for the bike. It had been her uncle’s baby—a Fat Bob, pre-Raid that had rarely been used since his accident. Cassie was sure he’d miss it and curse her name, but he’d probably miss the leather jacket more. The back was emblazoned with a phoenix, and Cassie enjoyed the symbolism and loved its heavy warmth. She added theft to the list of her crimes.

  This time of year, she knew temperatures would drop as they crawled further north. A minute of fifty degrees Fahrenheit on a bike felt like an hour in the freezer. As if sensing her chill, the special something inside Henry sparked to life, wrapping her in a cocoon of heat she felt from the inside, beneath her gloves, beneath her helmet. The perks of being flammable, she thought.

  She drove with relative silence inside her head. Moving was what mattered. The biggest hazard she anticipated was other people’s driving and other people’s eyes, but so far, there’d been no one. Her hands and arms were sore from holding onto the handlebars for so long and Cassie’s tendons ached from the constant vibration. On a straight stretch of road, she’d turn her head as far to the right as she could, then to the left, then up and down, stretching out the tight muscles.

  Henry, you catching all this? she thought to him, wondering what exactly he’d done this morning.

  Yeah. I can help dull some of the sensation, but the body is a body. Anyways, quarter tank before we have to tap the reserve. I’ll scope out a stop. BRB.

  It was funny to Cassie that after all this time, receiving thoughts were a mix of mental vocalizations and symbols directly into her mind. BRB. Something you’d text to someone.

  He was back in a flash, an image of cars lined up ahead on the road. She could barely see them along the horizon. Damn, Henry was better than GPS.

  Abandoned, he said. I’d say something funny about blowjobs, but I’m sorry. Siphoning gas sucks. I never managed to do it without drinking some by accident.

  They’d brought the hose for such an occasion—scavengers had to plan ahead.

  Just as Henry had shown her, the cars were stopped up ahead. No sign of the cause. In this fucked up world, it could have been anything. Cassie hoped it wasn’t because the station had run out of gas.

  Cassie pulled up to the cars, killed the engine, and took off her helmet, her black hair a messy tangle. She ran a hand through it and thought she should have cut it short. Before she’d been a nurse, she was an Army ranger. She relied on those instincts as she listened to the birdsong and quiet of the wind through the long grasses near the road. Henry was right: they were totally alone.

  The first car in the line of three was electric. Dumb. Nothing inside; cleaned out. It felt good to stretch her legs, but Cassie was worried this stop would be fruitless. The second had a big bag of snacks; jerky and chips. These she took, but the tank was dry. Did these people know each other? It was a story without a storyteller.

  Bingo. The third was a truck with a full tank. She didn’t trust good luck, but thanked whatever gods were watching out for them as she loaded the hose into the tank and sucked.

  “Yuck.” Cassie spat out a mouthful of gasoline. At least she didn’t swallow any. Ugh. She filled both the bike’s tank and the three-gallon, classic red plastic spare—the backup to her backup. She swished water in her mouth and spat three times, still burping up the taste.

  Yup. You learned from the best. You know what though, we could take this show on the road. Fire spitting lady and her ghost gentleman friend.

  “You aren’t a ghost,” Cassie said aloud.

  Could’ve fooled me, he thought and sent her an image of a classic white sheet specter.

  Henry was pretty chill, but there was a bitterness to his joke.

  Back to it, she thought.

  She’d kill for some vital statistics on the population. The country Cassie had called home was an exceptionally large ghost town. Not a little bit creepy, big creepy. Dawn of the Dead level creepy, except t
here weren’t any zombies. Not that she was sure there wasn’t zombies. As far as Cassie and Henry knew, the whole damned world outside of their Mexican village might be a nuclear holocaust.

  She should have asked the border agent more questions. Of course, that would have given her away as a liar. Still, there was the road and there’d be checkpoints, no longer seriously manned either by disuse or some other cause. This was their country. A place where they were—at least when they left—at the top of the Most Wanted list. Somehow, she thought she need to be trickier, craftier in avoiding “the man”. If things stayed as they were, Cassie would have a fine meal every night and a welcome lonesome drive.

  Helmet back in place, they got on the road and she let Henry drive both her body and the bike while she watched, a passenger behind their shared eyes.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  ***

  Cassie rode the motorcycle up the coast of Texas. Her goal was to reach West Virginia with minimal encounters with anyone. People couldn’t be trusted. She couldn’t be trusted. It had been days since Henry burned to let of steam, and Cassie could feel the pressure building as much as him. In a way, it was the closest she could relate to men saying they had blue balls: an urgent pressure demanding release.

  She had checked the map so many times, but wondered if Don would still be there. His message had come right after Vegas, but before she left for Mexico. He had prepped for something like this. For the country to go nuts. Had a place in the mountains. Should she want to know what he’d found out about his boss—the Black Star Institute—about the real story, Cassie should find him. He’d also said he didn’t believe the news, propaganda sourced by the Feds, which was good.