Before the evacuation, the building had housed a number of small businesses. Every door sported a different name and slogan. We passed MATTHEW FRANK DISCOUNT AUTO INSURANCE, TEMPLE SMITH OFFICE SUPPLIES, and, toward the back of the building, perhaps the sketchiest acupuncture clinic I’d ever seen, labeled simply ACUPUNCTURE. Then Mickey led us up a narrow flight of stairs, and we started back toward the front of the building. Halfway there, Mickey stopped at one of the boarded-up windows. He hit the plywood with a sharp, practiced rap, and the large sheet of wood swung aside. Outside, a five-foot plank spanned the distance to the neighboring building.
Taylor didn’t hesitate. She climbed over the sill and crossed the gap, disappearing into the building on the other side.
Mickey gestured impatiently for me to follow. It wasn’t a long way down—maybe fifteen feet—but I still took my time. I held my hands out for balance and placed my feet with care. When I reached the middle, the board suddenly started to bounce, and I looked back to see Mickey crawling out of the window behind me. The thought of that behemoth bouncing along at my heels—the thought of the wood cracking beneath all that extra weight—was enough to speed me up.
I stumbled over the windowsill on the far side, but thankfully Taylor was there to stop me from falling. Mickey jumped down a couple of seconds later.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked. “What the hell are we doing?”
“Precautions,” Taylor said. She gave me a brief, placating smile but didn’t offer any further explanation.
We were in a short hallway. There was a small bathroom to our right and an even smaller office to our left. The floor was a beautiful polished wood, and Taylor’s footsteps thumped solidly as she took over Mickey’s lead. I followed a couple of steps behind, and I could feel Mickey looming at my shoulder.
The hallway opened up onto a large, mostly empty room, and we stopped at the threshold.
It was a ballet studio.
I was surprised at our destination. I’m not sure what I was expecting—a small, smoky room, maybe, or some type of fortified bunker—but this was not even close. The room was light and airy. The far wall was nothing but glass, providing a view of Monroe Street directly outside. And the wall opposite was glass, too, panels of flawless mirror, reflecting the sun-dappled room. There was a bar bolted to the mirror, and I could imagine ballerinas stretching up and down its length, their pointed toes raised to the sky as they limbered up lithe, supple bodies.
A hint of rose lingered in the air. It was the last remnant of a fleeing ghost. A sense memory: powdered perfume over stale sweat.
“Taylor!”
There was an old, ratty sofa sitting in the corner of the room, facing out toward the massive window. Surrounded by stacks of books and a jumble of discarded clothing, it looked completely out of place on the barren expanse of hardwood floor. Like a pile of trash dropped into the middle of a perfectly manicured garden.
There was an old man struggling up from the low sofa. “Taylor!” he repeated, a wide smile on his face. “My darling girl!” The man was at least sixty-five years old. His hair was salt-and-pepper black, but his temples had faded to pure white. His wide smile was caught in a web of wrinkles, and there were thin lines radiating out from his joy-narrowed eyes.
“I saw you pass by outside,” he said, nodding toward the window. “But I thought you were going to just keep on walking. I thought you were going to give this old man a wide berth.”
Taylor shook her head. A bright smile spread across her face, and she broke into a trot, running up to the old man and sliding smoothly into his arms. I was surprised at the intimacy of the gesture.
In the hallway behind me, Mickey let out a disgusted grunt. Then he turned and left. I heard him scramble back off the windowsill and across the plank to the neighboring building.
“I see Mickey hasn’t changed,” Taylor said, backing out of the old man’s embrace. “Still pissed off … at everyone and everything.”
“Mostly at me, I think,” the man said. “I’m sure he thinks he could do a better job. Thankfully, no one in their right mind would follow where he wants to lead.”
The man noticed me standing on the far side of the room. He flashed a smile and nodded in my direction. “Why don’t you tell your friend to come over here, Taylor. This isn’t a peep show. He’s more than welcome.”
I approached slowly, and Taylor turned her wide smile my way. “Dean, this is Terry. He started up the Homestead. He’s done a lot for me. He … well, I guess he saved my life.”
“I don’t know about that,” the old man said with a smile. It was a relaxed, weary smile. He offered me his hand, and we shook. “It’s not like I did her any favors. She’s strong. I offered her a place to stay, but she more than paid her dues.”
“Modest as ever,” Taylor said. She turned away from the two of us, then crouched down and started to shuffle through the books on the floor. “Agricultural texts? Gardening? You’re still trying to start that farm?”
“That’s the dream,” Terry said. He let the words hang in the air for a second. Then an exhausted sigh escaped his lips. He gave me a nod—an apologetic dismissal—and retreated back to the sofa. Despite his slight frame, the sofa cushions sagged under his weight. It looked like the ratty old thing had reached its last couple of springs. “It’s not going to happen. Nobody’s interested. They’d rather scavenge than farm. Or get what they want from Mama Cass.”
“What happened?” Taylor asked. There was genuine concern in her voice. She sat down on the sofa’s armrest and focused all of her attention on Terry’s exhausted face.
“Nothing. Nothing happened. I figure this is just the way it works. There’s no movement, no change in our situation. The government isn’t opposing us anymore; they aren’t making progress with the city, and they aren’t trying to kick us out. And nothing we do seems to make a difference. The buildings still fall apart. People get tired and lonely. And on occasion they disappear. It’s only natural the Homestead should fall apart. What good is an organization—what good is society—if it can’t keep entropy at bay, if it can’t protect and unite its people?” Terry shook his head. Despite his dire words, the exhausted smile remained on his lips. “There were—what?—fifty people here when you left? There can’t be more than thirty now. Mickey wants to do more to keep them. He suggested a … a recruitment drive. He wants some type of paramilitary force. He wants to raid Mama Cass’s supplies!” He let out a short laugh. “Ha, he even wants to levy taxes!”
“But … the work you do. The support you give …”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Terry replied. “I’m still here. And I’ll help anyone who wants my help. I’ll give them structure, help them get their heads on straight. It’s just … no one seems to want that anymore.”
Taylor seemed at a loss. She extended her hand, to put it on Terry’s shoulder, but the old man shook his head and pulled away. A broad smile spread across his face, and I could tell that it was a massive effort on his part, casting aside all that gloom, trying to appear jovial. “Hell, maybe it’s all a sign of my success. Under my umbrella, people get strong enough to leave. I’ll think of it like that, okay? I help them, and they get strong enough to make a go of it on their own. Hell, just look at you!” He held his hand out toward Taylor, palm up, like he was presenting a beautiful piece of art to a gallery of viewers. “You’re looking great. Are you happy?”
Taylor smiled and cast me a sly glance. There was a touch of blush in her cheeks. “Yeah, I’m doing well. But you’re the one who set me on that path.”
Terry smiled. And this smile seemed effortless.
“I guess you’re here to see Weasel?”
“What?” Confusion warped Taylor’s face, and she jolted back in surprise.
“I assumed that’s why you came. He’s been here for three days now.”
“I thought you were done with him. I thought you refused to let him back.”
Terry shrugged. “I’ve mellowed in my o
ld age, I guess. The rules just don’t seem as important …” He shook his head. “Anyway, he’s your friend, and Johnny pleaded for him.”
“Jesus Christ, Weasel,” Taylor hissed to herself. Then she turned back to Terry. “And why the fuck are you listening to Johnny?”
Terry didn’t reply.
“Fine,” Taylor said. She closed her eyes for a moment, and as I watched, the anger faded from her face; once again, there was nothing but caring, warm emotion, though perhaps not as warm as before. “No, Terry, why we’re here, what I want to know … do you have Devon spying on my house? Are you keeping tabs on me?”
Terry let out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, that’s me,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d catch on. I’ve had him stopping by once or twice a week to tell me how you’re doing. It’s all innocent, though. Nothing nefarious. I’m just trying to keep track of my favorite girl.”
“And you’re paying him for this?” Taylor asked. “You’re paying him to spy on me?”
“Not much—just some food, some pot—and if you’re worried about his character, I’m not making him report anything too personal or bad. I just want to know how you’re doing, if you’re in trouble, if you need help.” He flicked a finger in my direction. “He told me about Dean last time he was here. He said you seemed happy.”
“When?” I asked, jumping into the conversation. “When did you see him?” I was excited. This seemed like a miracle to me. Finally, here was the answer to a mystery, an explanation that actually made sense, that didn’t get lost in a jumble of magic and religion.
“A couple of days ago,” Terry said. “Just after Weasel moved in.”
“And where’d you get the radio?” I asked. “How’d you wire up the tunnels?”
Terry met these questions with a look of confusion. It seemed genuine. “Radio? Radios don’t work here. And tunnels?” Terry shook his head. “No. No, I don’t go near any tunnels.”
I looked over at Taylor, and she returned my gaze, confused. I hadn’t told her about the radio and the wires. After a moment, she offered me a halfhearted shrug. “Maybe it’s something Devon did on his own. Maybe it’s not important.”
I shook my head. No, that wasn’t it, but I didn’t bother trying to argue. Taylor hadn’t been there. She hadn’t followed the wire down into the dark; she hadn’t seen the vast network of tunnels. There was no way that that didn’t mean something. And there was no way Devon could have done it all on his own.
“Where’s Weasel?” Taylor asked Terry. “I want to see him. I want to make sure he’s okay.” She cast me a nervous glance, looking for my reaction. But I didn’t react. There was just no energy there, no anger. Not anymore. Weasel wasn’t a threat; he’d never been a threat. Taylor could like me and still want to help her friend, even if that friend had tried to fuck me over. I could see that now. I guess I was getting more secure in our relationship.
“He’s in the tower, down in the basement,” Terry said. “I don’t know if he’s there right now. Frankly, I haven’t seen him since he moved in.”
Taylor stood up and made to leave.
“Don’t be angry with me,” Terry said. “I didn’t mean anything bad. I just want to see you safe. I want to see you happy.”
Taylor nodded. “I know, Terry,” she said. “I’m happy. I’m safe. But it’s you I’m worried about.” She bent down and gave him a kiss on the forehead. And then, in a quieter voice: “But don’t spy on me. Don’t you dare! I don’t want to end up hating you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Terry said, once again flashing that exhausted smile.
Then Taylor turned and walked away.
Taylor left through the front door. I followed her to the threshold, then paused, turning to look back into the room. Taylor continued on without me.
Terry was still seated on the sofa, facing the wide window. His hand was up on his forehead in a pose of absolute fatigue. Struck by the tableau, I fished the camera out of my backpack and started taking pictures. I framed it so that the bottom part of the vertical photograph showed barren hardwood floor, struck slightly out of focus. And then, up in the top third, there was Terry, seated on that ratty old sofa, surrounded by stacks of books. He was front-lit, as sunshine broke through the clouds on the far side of the glass. His shadow—nothing but a slumped head perched atop the sofa’s elongated width—stretched back into the room, darkening the polished floor.
The Weight of the World, I thought, considering titles. No … The Weight of Civilization.
When I thought I had the shot, I holstered the camera and reslung my backpack.
“Take care of her, Dean,” Terry said, still holding that pose, head down, hand up on his forehead. He must have heard the shutter from across the room. “Don’t let anything happen.”
I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. Then I followed Taylor out the door.
We climbed stairs up to the third floor, then crossed to the next building over, once again making our way across a makeshift bridge. The buildings on this block were all close together, but still, crossing these spans, feeling the wood wobble beneath my feet, was a nerve-racking experience, and each time I found myself holding my breath and keeping my eyes fixed on the far side. Three floors up, the fall might not prove fatal, but it certainly wouldn’t be pleasant.
When we reached the third building, we continued to climb. The building ended up on the fourth floor. We stepped out of the stairwell onto a tar-papered roof.
“Terry likes heights,” Taylor said. There was a small tent set up on the corner of the roof. Arrayed around its entrance were several potted plants and a small charcoal grill. A thin ribbon of smoke curled up from the grill, guttering up toward the sky. “He linked up all of these buildings to give us territory, but he himself prefers to sleep out in the open.” She was smiling widely, her affection for the old man beaming through. “The first floors of these buildings are all boarded up. There are only two entrances, one on each end of the block, and Terry keeps them guarded. It’s his own medieval castle, you see. Only here, no one’s trying to storm the gates.”
The next building on this side of the block was much taller than the one we were standing on. In fact, it was the tallest building in sight, stretching at least ten stories tall, an imposing brick edifice, each side a dark red face stubbled with tiny windows. Taylor stepped to the edge of the roof and gestured up toward the building’s top floors. A lot of the windows up there had been covered over, and I could see the glint of aluminum foil in those recessed squares, glimmering like silver teeth between narrowed lips. “The tower,” she said. “I used to live up there … for a while.”
The buildings here were not quite even, and the bridge over to the tower was skewed, slanted down at a fifteen-degree angle. Thankfully, somebody had set up a handrail, though it didn’t feel much sturdier than the planks bouncing beneath my feet. Once again, I held my breath, not letting it out until Taylor grabbed my arm and helped me down on the far side.
We ended up in a stairwell. Taylor pulled a flashlight from her pocket and led the way down, casting shadows back and forth across each riser as I struggled to keep up. She didn’t pause when we reached the bottom. She shouldered her way through a heavy fire door into a cold and musty basement.
It was like stepping into a long-abandoned crypt: the penetrating cold, the touch of moisture, a slight hint of rot floating in the thick, stale air. There was a dim light at one end of the main corridor. Taylor touched my arm—a brief, tentative touch—and started toward the light.
The corridor ended in a large industrial kitchen. There were stainless steel tables running along all four walls, and a cooking station stretched down its middle, complete with stove tops and a wide ventilating hood. The floor was dark red tile, and it dipped down toward a drain in each of the room’s four corners. The smell of rot was stronger here.
The light was coming from a pantry on the far side of the room. Taylor gestured with her flashlight, then led the way over to its entrance.
There were lit candles scattered around the room and a single battery-powered lantern burned in the corner. The batteries must have been dying, as the lantern gave off only the dimmest orange glow. There was a candle and a charred spoon at the girl’s feet, and she had a pair of panty hose cinched tight around her bicep. The smell of ozone, sweat, and cooking heroin lay thick in the air.
“Shit,” Taylor muttered. “Motherfucker!” She crouched down next to the bearded man and began slapping his cheeks, first softly, then with increasing strength. After the sixth slap, the man’s head snapped up off the floor.
“Fuck, man,” he said, wearing a distant, shit-eating grin. “What the fuck …? Taylor?”
“Yeah, Johnny,” Taylor said. “You’re a motherfucking piece of work, aren’t you?”
“I try,” Johnny said, still wearing that lunatic smile. He let his head drop back down to the floor. “I’m a work of art … always in progress.”
“Just tell me where Weasel is,” Taylor said, shaking her head. “Tell me where he’s staying.”
Johnny was silent for a handful of seconds. His eyelids began to droop, and then, abruptly, they fell shut.
“Motherfucker!” Taylor growled. She clamped her hands over both of Johnny’s ears and started to shake his head back and forth. His eyes snapped open, and there was a look of fear there as he tried to get a fix on Taylor’s angry eyes. “Where’s Weasel, Johnny?” Taylor continued to growl. “Just fucking tell me!”
Bad Glass Page 21
