Monument 14

by Emmy Laybourne

  “If all the cars in town look like that,” Alex said to me, “we’re going to be walking home.”

  I thought about walking home right then. I could have just waited until Mrs. Wooly left and then went home. But she’d told us to stay and I followed directions, and also, Astrid Heyman was at the Greenway, not at our dull, cookie-cutter house on Wagon Trail Lane.

  The names of the streets in our development were all like that. Wagon Gap Trail, Coyote Valley Court, Blizzard Valley Lane …

  I have to say that never once did I walk down our street and mistake it for a country lane cutting through some frontier prairie. Who, exactly, did the developers think they were fooling?

  I could hear distant sirens. There were some pillars of smoke rising up in other places. A column of smoke was still rising from our burnt-out bus so I had a pretty good idea what the others were from.

  I remember thinking that our town had really taken a beating. I wondered if we’d get some National Crisis assistance. We’d seen images of the San Diegans receiving boxes of clothes and toys and food after the earthquake in ’21. Maybe now that would be us and our town would be besieged by the media.

  Mrs. Wooly was taking nothing more than a pack of cheap cigarettes and a pair of knee-high rain boots.

  Brayden stepped forward.

  “Mrs. Wooly, my dad works at NORAD. If you can get a message to him, I’m sure he can send a van or something to get us.”

  I was probably the only one who rolled my eyes. Probably.

  “That’s good thinking, Brayden,” Mrs. Wooly said in her gravelly voice. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  She looked us over.

  “Now, you kids listen to Jake. He’s in charge. Astrid’s gonna make you all a nice pizza lunch.”

  She stepped through the door frame and out into the parking lot. She took a few steps forward, then turned to her right, looking at something on the ground we could not see. She seemed to recoil, gagging a bit.

  Then she turned and said, with force, “Now go on inside. Go on! Don’t come out here. It’s not safe. Get inside. Go. Go have lunch.”

  She shooed us back in with her hands.

  Mrs. Wooly had such authority, we all did what she said.

  But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jake step out to see what it was that she’d seen.

  “You too, Simonsen,” Mrs. Wooly said. “This ain’t a peep show. Get back in there.”

  Jake walked toward us, scratching his head. He looked sort of pale.

  “What?” Brayden asked. “What’s out there?”

  “There’s some bodies out there. Looks like a couple of Greenway employees,” Jake told us quietly. “I don’t know why they went out there in the hailstorm, but they sure are dead now. They’re all mashed up. Bones sticking out all over the place. I’ve never seen anything like it. Except maybe for that mess back on the bus.”

  He took a deep breath and shivered.

  “Tell you one thing,” Jake said, looking at me and Brayden. “We’re staying inside till she comes back.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  METAL GATE

  “Who likes pizza?” Astrid yelled.

  The little kids answered with a chorus of emphatic me’s, their arms shooting up like it was a hand-raising competition.

  “Pizza party! Pizza party!” they chanted.

  Their excitement was catchy and Astrid looked beautiful talking to them, hearing about their favorite kinds of pizza, with the wind picking up the tendrils of her hair and bringing a flush to her cheeks.

  Listen, the tragedy of the day and the destruction of our town wasn’t lost on me—and I was worried about my parents and my friends and how the hail might have affected them—but I will admit that I savored being near Astrid.

  My mom believed that you make your own luck. Over the stove she had hung these old, maroon-painted letters that spell out MANIFEST. The idea was if you thought and dreamed about the way you wanted your life to be—if you just envisioned it long enough—it would come into being.

  But as hard as I had manifested Astrid Heyman with her hand in mine, her blue eyes gazing into mine, her lips whispering something wild and funny and outrageous in my ear, she had remained totally unaware of my existence. Truly, to even dream of dreaming about Astrid, for a guy like me, in my relatively low position on the social ladder of Lewis Palmer High, was idiotic. And with her a senior and me a junior? Forget it.

  Astrid was just lit up with beauty: shining blond ringlets, June sky–blue eyes, slightly furrowed brow, always biting back a smile, champion diver on the swim team. Olympic level.

  Hell, Astrid was Olympic level in every possible way.

  And I wasn’t. I was one of those guys who had stayed short too long. Everyone else sprang up in seventh and eighth grade but I just stayed kid-size through those years—the Brayden-hair-gel years. Then, last summer, I’d grown, like, six inches or something. My mom delighted in my absurd growth spell, buying me new clothes basically every other week. My bones ached at night and my joints creaked sometimes, like a senior citizen’s.

  I’d entered the school year with some hope, actually, that now I was of average—even above-average—height, I might rejoin society at an, um, higher level. I know it’s crass to talk about popularity outright, but remember, I’d had a thing for Astrid for a long, long time. I wanted to be near her and working my way into her circle of friends seemed the only way.

  I thought my height might do the trick. Sure I was skinny as a rail, but still, my inventory of looks had improved: green eyes—good asset. Ash-colored hair—okay. Height—no longer a problem. Build—needed major improvement. Glasses—a drag, but contacts gave me chronic conjunctivitis, which looked a lot worse than glasses, and I couldn’t get Lasik until I stopped growing, so that was out for a while. Teeth and skin—fair. Clothes—sort of a wreck but getting better.

  I thought I had a chance but the sum total of our communication to date were the two words she’d said to me on the bus: Help me.

  And I hadn’t.

  * * *

  We all went back inside and Astrid got the Pizza Shack oven going and turned on the slushie maker.

  Josie was still sitting in a booth, wrapped in her space blanket. I headed toward the soda dispensers to get her a drink, but I saw that she already had two Gatorades and a water on the tabletop in front of her.

  The slushie maker was too high up for the little kids to reach, so after watching them jumping up to try to reach the handles in a cute but utterly futile way, I went over and offered to make each kid whatever kind of slushie they wanted.

  They cheered.

  They had never known you could combine the flavors, so they were impressed with the layered slushies I made for them.

  “This is the best slushie I ever had!” gushed a towheaded first grader named Max. He had a preposterous cowlick in the back of his head that made his hair stand up like a little blond fan.

  “I had a lot of slushies in my life ’cause my dad’s a long-distance trucker and he’s always takin’ me on the road,” Max continued. “I probly had slushies in every state of America. One time my dad took me out of school for a week and he almost took me into Mexico but then my mom called him and said he’d better haul me back on up to Monument before she called the cops on him!”

  I liked Max. I like a kid who holds nothing back.

  One kid was Latino. I put him at about first grade, maybe kindergarten. He was chubby and jolly looking.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  He just smiled at me. He had two big holes where his top front teeth should have been.

  “Cómo se llama? Your name?”

  He said something that sounded all the world to me like, “You listen.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “You listen,” he said, nodding.

  “Okay, I listen.”

  “No, no,” he said.

  “His name is You-list-ease,” said Max, trying to help. “He
’s in first grade with me.”

  “You-list-ease?” I repeated.

  The Mexican kid said his name again.

  And suddenly I got it. “Ulysses! His name is Ulysses!”

  The Spanish pronunciation, let me tell you, sounds a lot different than the English.

  Ulysses was now grinning like he’d won the lottery.

  “Ulysses! Ulysses!”

  A tiny, hardscrabble victory for him and me: Now I knew his name.

  Chloe was the third grader who had been whining when Mrs. Wooly said she was going for help. Chloe was chubby and tan and very energetic. I made her a blue-and-red-striped slushie, like she wanted. However, it was not good enough for her.

  “The stripes are too thick!” she complained. “I want it like a raccoon tail.”

  But it turns out it’s really hard to make a slushie with thin stripes, as I discovered after five or six tries.

  I handed Chloe my very best effort.

  “Not like a raccoon’s tail,” she remarked. She shook her head sadly, as if she were a teacher and I hopeless student.

  “This is as ‘raccoon tail’ as I can do,” I said.

  “All right.” She sighed. “If it’s your best work.”

  Chloe, I had already decided, was a piece of work.

  The McKinley twins were our neighbors, actually. Alex and I sometimes shoveled their driveway for their mom, who I guess was a single mother.

  She paid twenty dollars, which was okay money.

  The twins were a boy and a girl both with red hair and freckles. They had the kind of back-to-back freckles that overlap so they hardly had any other kind of skin, just a bit of white peeping through the thick be-freckling.

  At five years old, they were the youngest kids, and they were the smallest by far. Their mom was small herself, and the kids were just tiny. Perfectly formed but, like, knee high. Neither of them spoke much, but I guess Caroline talked a little more than Henry. They were just completely adorable, to use a word that is most often used by girls and maiden aunts.

  I did not really save the best for last because Batiste, the lone second grader, was a real handful. He looked vaguely Asian and had glossy black hair that was cut very close to his head, like a brush.

  For one thing, Batiste was from a very religious family, so he considered himself the authority on sinning. I had already overheard him reprimand Brayden for cursing (“Taking the Lord’s name in vain is a sin!”), tattle on Chloe for pushing Ulysses (“Shoving is a sin!”), and inform the other little kids that not saying grace before eating was a sin (“Before we eat, God wants us sinners to give thanks!”).

  He was always watching everyone, waiting for them to screw up, so he could point it out. A real charming quality, I tell you. I guess being a little self-important know-it-all was not considered a sin by his people.

  The other two kids from the grammar school bus were my brother, Alex, and Sahalia.

  Sahalia was advanced, for an eighth grader. She had a very cutting-edge idea of fashion. Even I, someone who had worn sweatsuits and only sweatsuits to school until seventh grade, can identify someone with style when I see one. On the day this all went down, she was wearing tight jeans held together up one side with safety pins and a leather vest of some kind over a tank top. She also had a leather jacket—a big one, much too big for her, lined with red-checkered material. She was three years younger but far, far cooler than me.

  Many people were cooler than me. I didn’t hold it against her.

  It looked like she’d gotten into the makeup section. I swear when we first arrived at the store, she didn’t have any on. But now her eyes were lined with black and she had on very red lip gloss.

  She was kneeling up on the booth seat next to where Brayden and Jake were eating. She was sort of watching them eat and trying to be a part of their group at the same time. It was a sort of a sideways approach to being included in a clique. You get near them, and hope they’ll invite you in.

  No such doing for Sahalia.

  Brayden looked up at her and said, “We’re trying to talk. Do you mind?”

  Sahalia slipped away and went to hang out near Astrid. She walked like she didn’t care. Like it was her plan to go to the counter all along. I had to admire her slouch.

  Niko was eating alone.

  I should have invited him to sit with Alex and me, but by the time I’d gotten the slushies made, and remade in Chloe’s case, the pizza was done. I was hungry enough to forget my manners.

  Alex and I wolfed down our first pieces of pizza. The square, heavy Pizza Shack pizza had never tasted so good. I licked the red sauce from my fingers and Alex got up to get us seconds.

  By the time he came back, though, I was watching Josie.

  She was sitting sideways in her booth, with her back to the wall. Mrs. Wooly had wiped her face and hands clean, but Josie still had dried blood on her arms and her body and the space blanket was sticking to it in places. She was still wearing her old clothes. I felt bad for her; here we were all having a nice pizza lunch, and she was clearly still back on the bus.

  I took my pizza over to her and sat opposite her in her booth.

  “Josie,” I said quietly. “I got some pizza for you. Come on, Josie. Food will make you feel better.”

  She just looked at me and shook her head. One of her giraffe hair bumps had come unrolled and the hair was sort of listing and drooping over, like a broken branch.

  “Have one bite,” I bargained. “One bite and I’ll leave you alone.”

  She turned her face toward the wall.

  “Well, it’s here if you want it,” I said.

  Astrid slid a large tray with some Sicilian pepperoni out of the oven. I was still somewhat hungry, so I went to the counter.

  “Like pepperoni?” she asked me.

  My heart was pounding.

  “Yeah,” I said. Suave.

  “Here you go,” she said, putting one on a paper plate.

  “Thanks,” I said. Real suave.

  Then I turned and walked away.

  And that was my second conversation with Astrid. At least this time I responded.

  I was walking back to my booth when we all heard the rumble of a machine. A heavy, rolling, clanking sound.

  “What’s that?” Max stammered.

  * * *

  Three heavy metal gates were rolling down over the gaping hole at the front of the store. One, two, three, side by side they descended. The two on the sides covered the windows. The center one was a bit bigger and covered the entire space of what had been the sliding doors.

  The gate was perforated so we could still get air and see out, but it was kind of scary.

  We were being locked in.

  The little kids lost it. “What’s happening?” “We’re trapped!” “I want to go home!” That kind of thing.

  Niko just stood, watching the gate come down.

  “We should like get something under it. To like wedge it open,” Jake shouted.

  He grabbed a shopping cart and rolled it forward, under the central gate.

  But the gate dropping just pushed the cart out of the way.

  The three gates settled with a heavy CLANK that rang with finality.

  “We’re locked in,” I said.

  “And everyone else is locked out,” Niko said quietly.

  “All right,” Jake said, clapping his hands. “Which one of you little punks is gonna teach me how to play Chutes and Ladders?”

  Alex came up beside me and tugged at my shirt.

  “Dean,” he said, “wanna go to the Media Department with me?”

  * * *

  All the bigtabs in the Media Department were dead, of course. They ran off the Network, just like our minitabs. But Alex found the one old-fashioned flat-screen TV. It was hung down low, near to the floor, off to the side.

  I’d never really understood why anyone would want to buy a plain television, when bigtabs were only just a little more expensive and you could watch TV on a bigtab a
nd use it to browse and text and Skype and ’book and game and a million other useful things. But every big store kept a couple televisions on display and now I knew why. They worked without National Connectivity. They were picking up some kind of television-only signals. And though the screen was kind of grainy and stripy at times, we watched eagerly.

  Alex turned it to CNN.

  The rest of our group filed over, drawn, I guess, by the sound of live media.

  * * *

  I expected the story of our hailstorm to be all over the news. It wasn’t.

  Our little hailstorm was nothing.

  There were two anchors working together and they explained it very calmly, but the woman was shaken. You could see she had been crying. Her eye makeup was all smeared around her eyes and I wondered why nobody fixed her makeup. It was CNN, for God’s sake.

  The man in the blue suit said he would repeat the chain of events for anyone just joining the broadcast. That was us. He said a volcano had erupted on an island called La Palma, in the Canary Islands.

  Shaky, handheld images of ash and a fiery mountain appeared on the screen behind the anchors.

  The woman with the bad makeup said that the western face of the entire island had exploded with the eruption of the volcano. Five hundred billion tons of rock and lava had avalanched into the ocean.

  They didn’t have footage of that.

  Blue Suit said the explosion had created a “megatsunami.”

  A wave a half a mile tall.

  Moving at six hundred miles per hour.

  Bad Makeup said that the megatsunami had grown wider as it approached the coast of the U.S. Then she stopped talking. Her voice caught in her throat, and Blue Suit took over.

  The megatsunami had hit the Eastern Coast of the United States at 4:43 a.m. mountain time.

  Boston, New York, Charleston, Miami.

  All had been hit.

  They couldn’t estimate the number of fatalities.

  I just sat there. I felt completely numb.

  It was the worst natural disaster in recorded history.

  The most violent volcano eruption in recorded history.

  The biggest tsunami in recorded history.

  They played some footage.