by Platt, Sean
“Yeah.”
Remy stared hard at the kid — some understanding having percolated that Wade either didn’t get or was too cool to acknowledge. He was dressed in jeans and an unzipped black hoodie over a plain blue T-shirt, but somehow the look seemed to be meant as understatedly stylish. Like he was trying to prove that he wasn’t actually a slacker, but found the wardrobe attractive.
Wade didn’t so much as look at Remy. Finally, he turned his head from Meyer’s group — still just feet from the closet in question — and said, “What?”
“Goddammit, Wade. He was going into the … you know.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“So why didn’t you wait until he’d opened it?”
Now Wade turned to face his accuser. “I was taking a shit. I came out, they were here staring at me. Then I was like, ‘No, please, continue,’ but for some reason they didn’t want to.”
“Goddammit, Wade.”
“I didn’t know they were here! Where the fuck were you, huh? Maybe Garth can come in with his hearing aid and tell me why he didn’t know they were in here either. With that fucking TV so loud, it’s like you want motherfuckers to sneak in.”
“Dammit, Wade.”
Wade turned the gun on Remy. He held it high, his arm cocked, the barrel inches from the other man’s head. “You know, I don’t have to be here. And you don’t have to be, either.” He nudged Remy’s forehead with the muzzle.
Remy sighed, ignoring the gun. Wade must do this kind of thing all the time. He turned to Meyer, who felt like an intruder caught midprowl. He and the boys were standing with their arms at their sides, but to Meyer it felt like he’d been stalking across a dark room when the lights popped on, feet wide, arms out, eyes flicking back and forth and unsure where to move next.
“You. You’re Meyer Dempsey.”
Meyer said nothing.
Remy nodded, apparently taking his silence as a yes. He indicated the closet with a toss of his chin. “Open it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Meyer.
Without hesitating, Wade strode forward, his pleasant, boyish expression becoming one of pure id. He struck Meyer hard with the gun’s side. Meyer blinked the sudden pain away, then opened his eyes to find the weapon’s barrel pointed between his eyes.
“He said open it.”
“It’s open.” Meyer looked at the ajar closet door.
Wade hit him again. Trevor made a small, inarticulate noise of fear.
“The hidey hole, asswipe. That panel in the back you were working on when I came out.”
The simple sentence sent a chill up Meyer’s spine. This was a game of seconds. If they’d entered the closet ten seconds later, they would have had the door to the spiral staircase open before Wade had come up behind them, and the intruders would have had what they wanted. But if they’d entered it thirty or sixty seconds earlier, Meyer would have what he wanted: in and out, armed and armored. It wouldn’t matter if Wade was in the bathroom. The flush would have heralded his death cry. The Uzi could have cut him in half through the door’s fine oak.
“I can’t. It’s locked.”
“Unlock it.”
“I can’t. It’s on a time delay. For exactly situations like this.” Meyer lied smoothly, without hesitation or hitch. He didn’t know what a time delay would mean or why anyone would possibly want one on a place they might need to enter in a hurry. But he did know that in at least some small way, Wade believed him.
He made to hit Meyer again, but Remy grabbed his arm. Wade looked for a moment like he might leap on the other man, but then his vitriol dripped to a simmer.
“That’s enough, Wade.”
He yanked his arm away, hard, then went about adjusting his hoodie with angry little movements.
“Open it,” said the older man.
“I can’t. I’m telling you the truth.”
“He’s lying. He’s just fucking with us. Maybe I should just put him out of his misery.” The gun rose.
“Hey … ” said Remy.
“Or maybe I should put this one out of his misery,” said Wade, sounding inspired. The gun lowered until it was pointing at Trevor. Meyer wanted to grab the man’s gun arm, but the weapon was too far away to grab with any advantage, and Remy wore a gun, too.
Meyer stepped between Wade and Trevor, moving his hands behind him.
“Yeah, you see that? There’s how we get him to do it. Good. We won’t have to kill the woman. I could shoot him in the leg right now. Give him two chances to … ”
“Wade.”
“This one,” he said, using the barrel to indicate Raj, “is clearly the mailman’s kid. Or the kid of the guy at the Quickie Mart. But I shoot that motherfucker, he’ll know I mean business.”
“Wade!”
Meyer realized how hard his heart was beating. He’d blocked it out somehow, but was feeling almost lightheaded. Wade was right, and Meyer had been stupid. He’d come in with something to lose. If they shot Raj, he’d talk. If he threatened Trevor enough, he’d talk. And even if the boys somehow got away, there was still Heather to think about.
“Okay then, Remy,” said Wade, scowling. “What’s your plan — have a tea party and hope they get friendly?”
Remy looked from Wade to the open closet to Meyer and the boys hiding behind him. His tongue went to the backside of his front row of teeth — a thoughtful movement echoed in a side-to-side yawing of his jaw.
He walked forward, peeled Trevor from Meyer’s grasping arms, and shoved him toward Wade.
“Dad,” Trevor said weakly.
“We’ll take him to Garth,” Remy said. “You go first, and we’ll follow you.”
He eyed Meyer and Raj, making sure everyone understood one another. “If this one tries anything stupid,” Remy told Wade, “kill the kid.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Day Five, Evening
Axis Mundi
Heather heard the TV turn off some time later. Thank God.
She wasn’t into science fiction, but Meyer always had been. Tolerating the polarity, when they’d been married, had been murder. He was flat-out addicted to that one series, so she’d had to endure it when they’d lived together. She could probably recite the Matrix movies by heart. But for Heather, who liked romantic comedies and stupid, brainless entertainment, listening to talk of nanobots and networks and singularity was the poop icing on the shit cake she’d baked herself into.
Being held captive? Bad.
Being held and forced to listen to actors blab on and on about the future? So much worse.
She peered through the mesh at the front of her locked pantry, wanting someone to shout observant and witty insults at now that things were quieter. When she saw none of the three men, Heather turned back to the walk-in pantry itself. Why had Meyer put a pantry near the laundry room? Shouldn’t it be near where — oh, she didn’t know — near where the fucking food would be prepared? But Meyer had a reason for everything, and she’d learned to pick and choose the things she allowed him to be superior about.
Maybe it wasn’t a pantry. Maybe it was a giant linen closet. Heather was deep into contemplating the ramifications of this interesting possibility when she looked up to see the blond man — Remy — attempting to wrench the screwdriver out of the jamb.
“Oh, is that what the problem is, keeping the door closed?” Heather said. “Thank God. I’ve been puzzling it out all day.”
Remy didn’t even look at her. This was disappointing. Usually, Remy offered the best audience of the three. She’d known Garth before he’d become a big bad asshole — just a bit, but enough that he seemed embarrassed to face her. The kid, Wade, scared her. But Remy? He was out of his element. He looked like a copier salesman who’d been laid off, let his hair and beard grow out, then decided it was finally time to start living life as a sad sack of shit. In Heather’s opinion, he was doing it perfectly.
“So I guess you found me a TV? The service in this place is terri
ble.”
Remy kept wrenching at the screwdriver, too focused and sweaty to reply.
“And the bellhops are sloppy as shit.”
Remy’s eyes flicked toward Heather for a second. Then he resumed jimmying. Finally, the screwdriver broke out of the wood. His momentum, when it popped out, nearly threw him to the floor.
Heather was about to make another witty rejoinder when Remy moved to work on the second screwdriver but a voice stopped her: Wade, just out of sight.
“Kick it.”
Remy had the screwdriver in his hand, working it as he’d worked the other, stuck farther in and barely budging. His dark-blond hair swung in his face.
“Kick it. Come on, shit.”
Remy kept working.
“Jesus Christ,” said Wade, now stepping into view. Heather saw something that almost stopped her cynical heart. Trevor, with a gun to his side.
“Like this, idiot.” Wade kicked at the screwdriver, but it didn’t budge any more than it had for Remy. His hard eyes glanced at his companion to see if he’d have something to say about that (either “I told you so” or a chuckle would have earned him an elbow to the face, Heather surmised), but then moved closer and stomped hard on the thing. It bent with a crack.
“Okay,” said Remy, moving in to get it the rest of the way.
Wade stomped again, mashing Remy’s fingers.
“I said, I got it!” Remy shouted.
“Come on.” Wade looked over his shoulder at something Heather couldn’t see. “I don’t trust this fucker.”
The screwdriver came free, and the door sighed an inch outward, the latch seemingly jammed or shattered. Heather’s first impulse was to rush forward, bang into the door, throw it into Wade, and wrestle her son away from him. But they were already moving to open the door and shove Trevor inside — a good thing, since her move would’ve seen them both killed.
Heather wrapped her arms around Trevor. He was almost as tall as she was. How fast they grew. She was pulling his head to her chest when something came behind him. She looked up expecting to see one of the bandits, but instead saw Meyer stumbling in, along with an Indian kid she didn’t know.
“Meyer?”
His answer was perfectly Meyer Dempsey. He was bleeding from the lip, had a swollen cheek, and looked like his right eye was half-closed, the entire side of his face crimson with scratches. But he just said, “Hey, Heather.” As if they’d run into each other at Starbucks.
She wrapped her arms around him anyway, shameless and unguarded. They made a tiny huddle: mother and father and son, safe and together for at least this moment.
Hammering noises came from the doorway. They were putting the screwdrivers back, the unimaginative bastards. Only this time Remy had a bunch of fat nails in his teeth as well, each pitch black and thick as a nightcrawler. Was there no place in this house that could be locked, other than the bunker?
Four prisoners, now. Heather and Meyer and Trevor and …
“Who are you?” she asked.
Her tone must have been caustic enough to cut through the kid’s fear. The Indian put a hand on his hip and said, “Who are you?”
“Heather, this is Raj.” Meyer winced at the syllables. He looked up, watching Remy depart, then finished, “Lila’s boyfriend.”
Heather cocked her head, a rejoinder ready on her lips. You didn’t date the infamous Heather Hawthorne’s daughter without bracing for a ton of shit.
“Raj, this is Heather. Lila’s mother.”
Raj extended his hand. It looked for a moment like he actually wanted to hug her in greeting — as if she might enjoy meeting the kid who was sticking his dick in her daughter — but he shifted to an offered handshake before making an ass of himself. Heather looked at the hand, then filled it with a box of crackers.
“Have something to eat, Raj. You’re too skinny.”
Seemingly unsure of what to say, the kid complied. Heather proceeded to ignore him and turned to her boys.
“How’d you get stuck with lamb curry?” she asked, nodding toward Raj. “Is Lila safe?”
Meyer looked toward the closet door, then turned Heather around before saying, very low, “She and Piper came with the three of us, all the way from New York. But they stayed outside. They’ll be fine.”
“‘Fine,’ as in, ‘they’ll call the cops and come back to save us?’”
“I don’t think the cops are going to be very responsive right now.”
Heather sighed. She knew that, of course, but it was annoying that he was treating her remark as serious.
“Well,” Heather said, “it’s nice of you to stop by for a visit.” She held Trevor out at arm’s length, unable to repress the need to be an assessing mother even now. He seemed okay, as Lila was hopefully okay. Piper? Meh. Heather liked Piper fine, but she was also the new wife and could stay or go.
“How many of them are there?” said Meyer.
“Three. Unless the others are having a party, but are too shy to say hi.”
Trevor shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Meyer said.
“Sorry for what, Trev?”
“It’s nothing,” said Meyer.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“I told Dad there were only two guys. If I’d seen the third … ” He looked for a moment like he might start to cry. Heather wasn’t sure what bothered her more: that he felt responsible or that crying, at fifteen, would embarrass the shit out of him later. Either way, Heather pulled him back into a hug.
He was safe. Meyer was safe. Even Lila was safe.
Their situation could be better, but Heather had more or less resigned herself to the possibility that they’d all been killed — or at the least, waylaid and not coming. Having her ex-husband and son here, even wedged into a pantry, was strangely comforting. Apparently, misery loved company, and Heather had made a living out of being miserable. She was practiced, and almost at ease.
“What are they going to do with us, Mom?” said Trevor.
“Yeah, what have you heard?” the Indian kid added. Raj. Who was surely fucking her baby girl.
“I don’t know, kid.” She looked at Meyer, ignoring Raj. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why the hell are you here?”
“I told you we were coming here. I told you to meet us here before the … ” Meyer trailed off, apparently unwilling to add a forthcoming alien apocalypse to their current list of concerns. “I saw your car and their trucks. I wasn’t just going to run away. I screwed it up, I know. But … fucking Garth. Can you believe that asshole?”
“I mean here. In this closet.”
“Oh. Well … ”
“They threw us in here,” said Raj.
Heather stared at Raj for a long moment. Then she said, “We’re going to discuss our situation over here. Go do some math.”
“They caught us in the kitchen. We didn’t have any weapons, but I thought if we could get into the bunker, I could get some. But the bald guy was in the bathroom —” He rushed on, not looking at Trevor, who didn’t seem to have forgiven himself. “— and he stopped me before I could unlock it.”
“Darling ex-husband of mine,” said Heather, her voice saccharin. “Former love of my life.”
“Yes?”
“I hate the need to be so specific and crass.”
“When have you ever hated that?”
“But what I’m asking is, why didn’t they kill you? Or chop off your hand and use it to open the door. Or … ” She looked at Trevor, remembering the way Wade had been holding him as a bargaining chip. She didn’t want to say what she’d had in mind, but Meyer got the message just fine: … or threaten Trevor until you did what they wanted?
“I told them there was a time delay.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told Garth the door was on a timer. Like the safe in a convenience store.”
Heather looked at Raj.
“It’s a safety precaution,” Meyer went on.
“I didn’t. I wouldn’t. That would be idiotic.”
“But Garth believed it.”
Meyer nodded. “They …” He trailed off, eyeing Trevor, and Heather wondered if they’d threatened her son after all. “They kind of forced me to open it. Those two other guys. After they reported to Garth, who seems to be in charge. Which is amusing, seeing as he was barely in charge when he was just a foreman. You know — the kind of construction foreman who doesn’t kidnap you?”
“He did manage to build you an apocalypse bunker.”
“Garth thought the idea of … forcing me to open it was a grand idea.” Again he looked guiltily toward Trevor. “So I did the whole routine. Scanned my hand. But then I entered the panic code instead of the one that opens the door.”
“So it’ll call the cops after all.”
“It would if the cell networks worked. Which they don’t.”
“Oh.”
“But it lit up the right lights. They seemed convinced.”
“Are you sure they believed you?”
Meyer looked at Trevor and Raj as if to say, Well, they’re still alive.
“While I was in there pushing buttons for show, I changed the clock.”
Heather shrugged.
“It has a countdown timer.”
Heather shrugged again, this time pouring her wishes that he’d get to the fucking point into the look.
“A countdown timer,” he elaborated, “that shows when the lock can be opened.”
Heather nodded. She could picture it: a lock of the type the workmen had never seen before, installed by one of Meyer’s high-tech specialists. A ticking clock on the lock’s face, counting down to zero.
“How long until it runs out?”
Heather looked through the open mesh at the pantry’s end, through the room beyond, and at the sky outside, where the sun had finally slipped below the horizon at the end of a very long day. The last day, if projections about the alien ships hadn’t changed during her amateur incarceration, that humanity would spend alone.
“Eight hours,” Meyer answered.
