Three A.M.

by Steven John

  “What’s wrong?” I asked quietly.

  “Nothing.” She took a step toward me. “I could hear you shouting in the kitchen.”

  “Sorry,” I said, taking the glass of water from her. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Want something to eat?”

  “I still need to unhook the gas line and get the tank secured. What time is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Ten, maybe.” She looked away, out across the field.

  I finished the water and closed my eyes, stretching my neck from one side to the other. “Sure.” I picked up my T-shirt and pulled it on. “Let’s eat.” She gave me a small smile and turned to walk inside. I followed her, glancing back at the truck and the cylinder.

  Inside, we sat at the kitchen table and she brought me more water and got her own sandwich. It was made from the loaf’s end pieces. She kept one hand resting in front of the sandwich as if she thought I wouldn’t notice them. I wiped the sweat off my lips with a napkin and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Then I grabbed the bread from the top of my sandwich and hers and switched them. She flushed red but grinned.

  “What are we having?”

  “Um … a whatever-shit-Becca-could-find club, I guess. Some cheese, a bit of onion and lettuce. Probably better not to ask—it’s the last in the house. Fresh tomatoes, anyway.”

  I laughed a bit and took a big bite to reassure her. It was okay. Calories, at least. We ate in silence. Whenever Rebecca’s eyes were down, mine were on her. Within the hour, I’d be gone. She would be here. I still didn’t have the heart to tell her. It was safer not to, I rationalized. If she didn’t know when I was leaving, she couldn’t try to fight it. She would not be anywhere near that dam when I set to work. I had to lie to protect her. I knew she would forgive me someday, no matter what happened. I had told myself that over and over again as I drove the sledgehammer into cement. She’ll be fine. Over and over with each swing. She’ll be fine.

  I finished eating and rose to wash my hands. As I stood at the sink, she came up behind me and slid her hands around my stomach.

  “Do you want to go upstairs?” she whispered. I did. Desperately. I wanted nothing more, really. But wants and needs have a way of getting mixed up, and I needed to get on with things. I still couldn’t believe no one had come for us yet. Every second counted.

  “More than you could fathom,” I answered, sighing. I lay my hands over hers and she rested her head against my shoulder. “But just let me finish up outside. Just a few minutes. Then I’m all yours.”

  She let go of me and I wheeled to face her, afraid I had hurt her feelings. But there was understanding in her eyes. She told me it was all right and began to clear the table.

  “I’ll be right in. I’m sorry.… I just … I have to know I’m ready—that we’re ready.”

  I walked back outside and around to the pickup. The few random straps and lengths of rope I’d found in the truck bed were all I had to secure the massive cylinder. I set about lashing them together and to the truck and tossing the makeshift cords over the tank. I secured it as best I could, which was not well. A serious bump, and I would be fucked.

  I climbed into the cab and reached for the ignition, intending to test the vehicle’s capabilities under the load. My fingers lingered over the keys for a moment, and then I shook my head and got back out. I couldn’t stand the thought of her heart skipping a beat, again wondering if I was leaving her behind. I returned to the back porch and looked through the kitchen windows for her. She was out of sight. I let myself in quietly.

  * * *

  “Have a toast?” I whispered from the doorway. Rebecca was lying on her bed, wearing only a bathrobe. She looked up in surprise from a book she was reading. I was leaning against the doorframe, holding two highball glasses of whiskey, water, and juice: the only palatable concoction I had been able to make.

  “We haven’t shared a drink in a while,” I went on, “and I figured this was probably as good a time as any.”

  “Probably better,” she answered with a fleeting smile. I went to her and sat down on the bedside, handing her one of the glasses. She sat up, drawing her legs in beneath her, and took it from me. We tapped them together and each took a sip.

  “What are you reading?”

  “It’s stupid,” she said, sliding the book away from me.

  “No, what is it?”

  Reluctantly, she handed me the book. It was a worn copy of The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. The cover was blue with a drawing of a small blond boy and an airplane flying toward him in the background. Large, cartoonish stars filled the sky. “My dad used to read it to me. To us.”

  “I’ve never read it.”

  She turned away, trying to mask a tear that had formed in the corner of her left eye. I slid my hand under her chin and gently turned her head back toward me, wiping the tear away with my other hand just as it began to slide down her cheek. She took in a faltering breath and then a big sip of her drink, as if to chase down the emotions that were threatening to rise.

  I drained my glass and set it down, slipping off my shoes and easing fully up onto the bed.

  “You can have mine,” she offered. “No offense. It’s fine,” she quickly continued “I just … if you want.”

  “I want you to have it. I know it’s nothing special, but I made it for you.”

  She smiled and took a few more sips, finishing the glass with a slight grimace. I took it from her and set it beside my own.

  “This is different from our first drink, huh?” she said softly.

  “Everything is different.” I lay back on the soft pillows, sliding one arm behind my head. With the other, I reached out and gently stroked her hair. “You know how they say live every day like it’s your last? I’d take this, Becca. I never need to see another city, another face … anything. Just a soft place to lie beside you.”

  She turned and lowered herself down until her head was on my chest. With one hand, I continued stroking her hair and with the other I wrapped her up in an embrace. We were silent for several minutes.

  “I’m sleepy, Tom,” she said eventually.

  “You can sleep. Just take a nap.”

  “But don’t you want to…” She trailed off.

  “Sure I do—but rest now. There’s all the time in the world.”

  “I just … I don’t feel like myself.… I can’t … I need to sleep.…”

  I eased her off me and onto her pillow and picked up The Little Prince from where it sat open facedown on the bedspread. Kissing her on the cheek, I sat up and began to read aloud to her. She sighed softly. I read for five, maybe ten minutes before her breathing was deep and steady. Then slowly, carefully, I got up off the bed and walked downstairs. Now I had none of Salk’s pills left, and I hated myself but it was the only way. I searched around for a pen and paper.

  16

  It must have been near two. The sun was past its zenith, bathing the land in a golden glow. The sky was blue, cloudless. I hurtled along the empty highway. The bright red truck and massive white gas tank would be visible for miles if anyone was looking. And they had to be looking. More than another half hour would pass before I would crest a hill and see the dam. I kept the pickup just above seventy-five—it shook when I got to eighty, and shaking was not good for the propane cylinder.

  I fought to keep my mind blank. Which worked poorly. Again and again, I pictured Rebecca waking up. Groggy at first, she would roll over and find herself alone. I imagined her checking the bathroom. Then she’d hurry downstairs, hoping to find me in the kitchen or living room. I imagined her heart rate quickening as she ran outside barefoot in her robe, slowing as she circled the house to confront the inevitable: I had left her. Abandoned her, or so it would feel.

  I lit a cigarette and cracked the window. Cold air blasted into the cab. I had come to terms with dying two nights ago in the forest. I had no fear of it and was ready to put more effort into accomplishing my goal than preserving my life. What I had given
hardly any thought to was potential success. If I could do this thing—could destroy or at least disable Kirk’s dam—what then? Was it over? Certainly not. It would be just beginning. How long would it take for the world to realize what had happened, what all these years meant?

  I didn’t want to be any part of it if I survived. I just wanted it over. I would gladly have passed the torch to anyone willing to take my place. I would have wished them well with a smile and a pat on the ass and sat back to watch with a beer or two. But there was no one else. There were two people in four hundred miles with the knowledge and wherewithal to fight back against them. One of them was drugged and sleeping so she could live on and tell her story later. The other badly needed a shave.

  My face itched under its week-old beard. I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror. I looked weathered. My hair seemed to have grayed more in the past few days than it had in years. The lines beside my eyes cut more deeply than before. My skin was damp and sallow. Maybe it was a touch of fear—or at least foreboding—that weighed heavily on me the closer I drew to the dam. I felt a great sorrow when I thought of her thinking of me. I wasn’t worth her tears. How long would those thoughts sting? How long before she could think back on all of this and then, moments later, wonder about tomorrow’s forecast. We’re nothing if not resilient, dead if not adaptable. By the time I got out of the mist, I barely remembered life before it. Barely cared. I guess some of it was suppression, but mostly it was acceptance. When you’re out of options, taking life as it comes is quite tolerable if far from ideal.

  At least Eddie Vessel would be happily out of work. It was time for people to make new memories. Perhaps tomorrow, the sun would rise on a day of euphoria. Certainly many would feel bitter, seething anger for the years lost to them, but those feelings would fade. It had taken me only a few days, after all, and I think my pent-up rage was a fine litmus test for other city dwellers.

  How long had the Roman Empire stood? Six, seven hundred years? And Egypt for thousands before it. And for tens of thousands of years before that, what had men done? So many billions had died and been forgotten, but they had at least lived to give us a chance, to pass on one more generation of fertility … one more round of potential. Were any of them great? If you die leaving no trace of your history other than rotting bones, can you be considered significant? To be sure, human history did not begin with the record of human history, but for all the semantic arguments in the world, it might as well have.

  Dying anonymously didn’t much bother me. Living a pointless life did. Maybe in some twisted way, I owed thanks to Watley and Kirk and even the reluctant Ayers. Had it not been for their work, I would surely have led a quiet, desperate, pointless life. Then again, at least it would have been my fault—my choices and my failures.

  The seams of the highway drummed methodically under the tires. I glanced down at the speedometer and realized I was going only sixty miles an hour. I had lost time in my reverie. I sped the truck back up to just below eighty, easing as the pile trembled. I slid Heller’s Beethoven cassette into the tape player and rolled up my window.

  The cab filled with the warm crackling promise of music to come. Then it came. I turned the volume as high as it would go and covered the last few miles of perhaps my last drive singing as loudly as I could and totally off-key but with reckless, joyful abandon. I was ready.

  * * *

  The truck and propane tank easily fit into the dam’s long, dark tunnel. I flicked on the parking lights. They cast a soft orange glow about the corridor. I drove slowly, careful to avoid pieces of fallen ceiling and letting my eyes adjust to the dim space. The door at the far end of the tunnel was closed. In daylight, the dam had loomed above the land like some medieval castle. Its massive gray walls and crenellations and the four waterfalls crashing through the concrete had unnerved me when they came into view. I had almost lost my will.

  I inched up to the heavy sliding door at the tunnel’s end and turned off the engine. The bits of broken tile and dirt crunched beneath my feet, and the dull thunder of rushing water echoed through the cavernous corridor. I slung a rifle across my shoulder for good measure and then walked to the smaller iron door. The handle turned smoothly and the door clicked open.

  I stepped into the little room. It was exactly as I had left it. The light, the book—even the crust of Verlassen’s sandwich, now rotting, sat on the little table in the corner. I grabbed Huckleberry Finn and found the book still turned to page 110. The hairs on the back of my neck went up. Something felt very wrong. There was nothing to do but press on. I scratched an itch on my cheek that seemed to travel down to one shoulder and soon was everywhere. My palms grew damp. I went over to the control panel in the far wall and turned the little key clockwise as I had watched Verlassen do, then pressed the highest of the three black buttons. The door beside me retracted upward, clicking and groaning as it rose. From beyond it came the sounds of the massive machines clanking and churning and pumping out the electricity that kept the city from waking up.

  I bent double to step under the metal door as it continued to slowly rise and straightened up on the other side. I took a few steps before glancing to one side. I stopped walking.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Hank?” Verlassen was leaning against a blue plastic drum, hands tucked into his pockets. He wore the same soiled workman’s clothing as the day before. Same rip above the right knee. Same oil stains all over his shirt. But there was something new. His head was turned slightly to the right and lowered, his chin pressed against his chest and eyes looking askance at me. I took a slow step toward him. He averted his eyes and turned his head farther away. As my eyes adjusted to the harsh fluorescent light of the room, I could see the blood in his beard.

  “I, uh … He told me to stay right here,” Verlassen muttered, his voice a quiet rasp.

  “Who did?” I drew nearer to him, and he finally raised his head and looked right at me. The right side of his face was bruised and gashed. Dried blood matted the coarse white hairs of his beard and stained the side of his neck and his collar. He shifted his weight and groaned, pulling one hand from a pocket to clutch his ribs. The skin of his knuckles was flayed.

  “Who did this?” Again he lowered his eyes and let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging. With a trembling hand, Verlassen pointed past me. He suddenly flinched, and I wheeled to follow his gesture just as a torrent of pain crashed through my head. I felt the ground rushing up at me and then I was a crumpled heap on the floor. Throbbing agony and the taste of blood. I could see nothing but flashes of black and red. I heard heels click on the concrete floor and felt the strap of my rifle rub against my neck as the weapon was pulled away from me. I wrapped my arms around my head and struggled to get my knees under my body. Slowly my vision came back, but I could hardly think through the pain.

  “Take your time.” His voice was low, calm—almost friendly. Familiar. I finally managed to roll over onto my side and rise up on one elbow. A pair of polished black loafers stood inches from my nose. I slid away until I could get a clear look up. The gash on Watley’s cheek had turned a sickly crimson. That much brought me pleasure through the pain. He looked down at me with a faint smile on his lips. His eyes were hard, though. He wore a light gray, neatly pressed suit over an open white shirt. There was even a handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. He had a pistol in his left hand—likely the source of my headache.

  “So, how’s Ms. Ayers?”

  “I should … ask you the same thing.”

  “But you know the answer, and I don’t. You think I don’t recognize that truck? I’ve driven that goddamn truck before, Vale.”

  I pulled my legs under me to sit nearly upright. “Ah, fuck you, John.”

  “Aren’t you brave? Aren’t you one tough bastard?” He leaned in toward me. “The road ends here. It can be abrupt or protracted. Where is she? Still at home like she was last night? You think we weren’t watching? I know you know where she went, so we can move on from that gam
e to this one.” He pressed the barrel of the pistol against my right foot. I reflexively drew it back. His lips curled into a cold, ruthless sneer as he straightened up and aimed vaguely at my heart.

  “Don’t like that game? It’s one of my favorites.”

  “I’m more of a solitaire player myself.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know. I know you are. I know all about you, Vale. So much more, even, than you think.” He straightened up. “Since the first day you stuck your fucking nose into my business at Vessel’s warehouse, I’ve known all about you. All I wanted was just to soften a few memories, take the sting out of the past. To look forward, Tom! But you had to fuck things up. See, I know it all.”

  He looked over at the old man. “Don’t I, Hank? Don’t I know all sorts of things about him? About his mother and dead friend and all?”

  Verlassen looked away and shivered involuntarily. Watley walked over to him and stood looking down at the quavering old-timer. “You two don’t know a goddamn thing, though. Between the two of you miserable pissants, you haven’t got half a clue.”

  He turned to look at me again, shaking his head in disapproval. “What did you think, Vale? Did you really think you’d come here and put a stop to it? You think you can change any of it? You’re a pawn. He’s a pawn.” He pointed to Hank. “I’m the one playing chess, not you. We move the pieces.” Hitching up his slacks, he crouched, his face near mine. “She’s back at the house, isn’t she? I thought you’d bring her along for the ride, but I guess she’s all alone again. Probably clutching daddy’s shirt to her cheek and weeping. Is that where she is? Just tell me and save us both time, Thomas. We’re going to check there again, of course. I have men fanning out all over. The house. Your campsite. Just save me time. Save yourself pain. It’s almost over now, you see. Your little race is run. Nice try, but we win. With Sam’s truck out there, it means she’s near home or near here—doesn’t take a scientist to guess that. I figured you for the type to return to the scene of the crime, anyway.”