GREEN TSUNAMI

by Cooney, Laura

  I went to pick him up after the tsunami ended. After things stopped rattling apart around us. I went to the school and stood there in the demolished parking lot. The cars all overgrown with slime and weird plant life. Davey’s face was in one of the windows, and I waved to him. But he was different. His features were bloated and distorted. He stared at me, but didn’t respond. That’s the last time I saw him. I saw some other kids staring out, too, but none of them had the intense glare Davey had. The others all seemed to be staring vacantly, but it was clear Davey was aware of everything. Especially me, standing there, looking at him.

  I felt so uncomfortable, I couldn’t bring myself to go inside and get him, and my foot started hurting, so I just left. But I know I have to face my responsibility to him. I have to at least go and talk to him. He is our son, after all. Our flesh and blood.

  But I’m afraid he’s become worse than ever now.

  I just keep thinking of that knife he pulled, and I wonder how safe it is to go back there, and try to talk to him. But I’ve got to get some closure.

  The school is right where it used to be. It’s changed, though. It almost looks like a living thing now, with windows that almost look like glassy eyes, and some of it has tunneled underground. I’m betting your building is similar.

  I wonder if Davey will try to kill me this time.

  Aaron

  August 6—9:15 a.m.

  Aaron,

  For some reason, I felt compelled to write to you later than usual this morning. I found myself wondering if there was a reason. If today was something special.

  It occurred to me, looking at the date on your last email: August 6th. That was the date we bombed Hiroshima. Why do I remember that date? I don’t know. Why do I say “we” dropped the A-bomb? We weren’t even alive in 1945. It’s the collective “we” of community. Somehow we are all complicit in it, as we are in the green tsunami. Don’t take this to mean I have any inside knowledge about the tsunami. I don’t. If the Balloon Heads know anything, they aren’t talking, not even telepathically.

  So why this weird guilt? I remember when I first wrote you, I said I felt like I deserved to suffer the effects of the tsunami. I think it goes beyond that. I feel like all of us deserve it. I couldn’t say that to anyone but you. Imagine if I spoke that thought out loud here? Everyone would pounce on me in hatred and condemnation.

  When you wrote that Davey had changed, I felt a gloating pleasure. You think I turned away from you and Davey because I was disgusted and scared of him? The truth is that I was afraid I was responsible for his behaving the way he did. I have thoughts about wanting to hurt people. Not physically, but with words and behavior. Sometimes I say things just for the sake of upsetting people. I think, as a baby, Davey sensed this. Cruelty bonded him to me. I saw your kindness as a weakness until I saw how unkind Davey was. Then I realized the weakness was in me, and that was what made me turn away from you.

  So, yes, I deserve every humiliation the Balloon Heads put upon me and every bit of the mindless drudgery. But drudgery’s too boring. I’d rather have more explicit punishment. So jerking off Woody didn’t upset me so much. I was thinking along the lines of, “Abuse. Now you’re talking.” Cindy mistook that for strength. She said to me, “How do you go on, Joy? Like this is one long, normal day of work?”

  I got smart and told her, “It’s the same as before except our bosses are the Balloon Heads now.”

  I suppose in a way that is true. Or maybe I’m just a twisted fuck. Just like the fruit of our loins is. I guess little Davey is what you’d call a bad apple? Yes, I know. Me and my bad jokes. I still make bad jokes even here. People like my jokes even less than they used to. I guess when you’re a slave, the first thing that goes is your sense of humor.

  KOLTTT (keep on laughing through the tears),

  Joy

  August 7—2:31 p.m.

  Joy,

  As I write this, I can hear Davey calling my name, and it is the most horrifying thing I have ever heard.

  I’m in what once was the principal’s office, I’m guessing. Although it’s a lot different now. The walls are covered in scales and seem to be breathing. But the computer works, and I’m able to write, so there’s no time like the present. Might as well tell you the whole story while it’s fresh in my mind.

  I really hesitated coming into the building, but I convinced myself that, even if I move on without him, I had to talk to Davey face-to-face one more time. No matter what his behavior was, or what he has become, he’s still our son. And I owe him at least a good-bye.

  But things here were along the lines of what I thought they would be. Even worse.

  Whatever adults ran this place are long gone. I didn’t see any sign of teachers or administrators. But there are lots of children. So many, I was shocked to find so many had survived. Their parents are probably all dead. But they’re not even really children anymore. They’ve just become these bulbous, crab-footed things that scurry across the floor and babble nonsense to themselves. I swear, when I first saw one of them, it scared the hell out of me. They’re not quite human, and yet, looking into their scared little eyes, they’re the most human creatures you could ever see. Their hands are transformed into claws, and they can’t turn doorknobs, so it’s easy enough to trap them inside rooms by simply closing the doors. But then they begin to cry—they sound like mewling kittens—and it’s heartbreaking to hear their sounds.

  I saw Davey.

  He was in the room that at one time had to be the school gymnasium. He’s gigantic now. Like some great, glowing caterpillar who runs the length of the once-polished wood floors. It is difficult for him to move, and his arms are short and useless now, like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. His body seems to have sucked many of the other children into him. That’s the only way I can describe it. Occasionally, their faces pop up to the surface of his vast hide. But above all the mutated flesh is the oversized head of our Davey. He’s not quite a Balloon Head, as you call them, but every part of him is so overgrown that he looks an awful lot like one of those huge floats they used to have in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parades. Imagine a living, breathing float, and you’ll have an idea of what Davey has become.

  It’s so strange to see him this way, because he was always such a thin boy.

  Any questions I had about whether Davey was truly in charge of his hideous mass were put to rest when I entered the room. His eyes immediately darted toward me, and he tried to move his undulating body toward me. Unsuccessfully, I might add. He is large, but very awkward. It’s clear he has little control of his own body anymore.

  “Father!” he shouted upon seeing me. “You’ve finally come to take me home.”

  But we both knew this was some sick joke. There was no way I was taking him anywhere like he was now. And he knew that.

  “Hello, Davey,” I said. Not sure what else I was going to say to him, even as I stood before him.

  “You left me here,” he said. “I saw you outside, waiting for me, the day after it happened. You had come for me. But you refused to come inside. You ran away at the sight of me.”

  “A lot has happened,” I said to him. “Everything is different now.”

  “Even a father’s love for his child?” Davey asked. He always did know how to push my buttons. Even when I concluded long ago that I did not like this child I’d helped bring into the world, that never overshadowed the guilt I felt. The pain of not being able to love my own son, no matter how hard I tried.

  It made sense that he would absorb other children into his being. He had always been a bully, and instead of emotional intimidation, his flesh now intimidated them, devouring them whole. In some strange way, it seemed like the logical progression.

  Like I said, as he stood there, the faces of other children came forward, pressing against his flesh like glass, peering out at me. In various voices, I heard them call “Daddy?” and “Mommy?” in these sad little voices, and then retreat beneath the surface of his skin when they realized their
mistake.

  “So, what made you come back now?” Davey asked. “After all this time?”

  “I had to see you, one last time,” I said. “I had to at least try to save you. But it’s clear you don’t need saving from this place. You’re in charge here now.”

  “Am I, father?” he asked. He spoke so strangely. He was always a smart kid, despite his problems. But the way he talked was so clinical, and like a monotone. Devoid of any emotions. “My movements are limited. And I am a prisoner here. Any nourishment I get comes from the other children, and they are getting scarce. It’s true there are no predators here that can harm me. I am the summit of the food chain. But that is poor consolation indeed.”

  As I stood before him, something in his eyes told me he was resigned to his fate. He knew that he would die in this place, probably of starvation once his prey was exhausted. He did not fool himself. He knew I was not there to save him.

  “I’m sorry, Davey,” I told him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father to you. I’m sorry that I can’t help what you have become.”

  “Don’t worry,” he told me. “It’s been a long time since I cared enough to resent you or my mother for your treatment of me. You were simply caretakers, bringing me into the world. But your roles are meaningless to me now. You are not a part of this new ecosystem I live in. You are not a part of my world anymore. So such things as regrets just don’t matter anymore.”

  “I wanted to say I was sorry, anyway,” I told him.

  “Apology accepted,” he said, though I could see the malice in his eyes. Despite his protest, I knew that he still had strong feelings toward me. Feelings of hatred he could not conceal.

  Part of his vast serpentine body revealed large, pit-like pores that opened and closed as he breathed. More faces pushed close to the surface to watch me, and then fell back into his body. Davey had become a truly ferocious creature indeed.

  He kept trying to move closer to me. To absorb me too, no doubt. But I stayed just far enough away.

  There was a sweet smell that filled the room. It reminded me of cherries. He probably used this scent to attract the crab-like children who remained free of him.

  “So this is the end of our relationship,” he said, and I could sense the slightest sadness in his voice. “There is nowhere for things to go from here.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I believe that’s true.”

  “Then you are of no use to me,” he said. “Please go away. I can’t stand to look at you anymore.”

  He didn’t have to tell me a second time. I left that room, trying hard not to break into a run. Of course, with this swollen foot of mine, it’s impossible to run. But I wish I could have. I dragged my bad foot all the way to the office I am in now.

  I must leave soon. The breathing walls seem to be closing in, inch by inch, and I’m afraid if I stay here, they will smother me.

  On the way out, I’ll open the doors to the rooms I trapped them in, and let the crab-like children out. They are the last remaining ones that Davey has not devoured, and I know that eventually they will go to him and accept their fate. I pity them, and yet I could not bring myself to keep Davey from getting them. Besides, what would they do in a locked room but waste away and die? Better that they could provide Davey with a bit more sustenance.

  It was my final gift to him.

  Does that sound heartless?

  I’ve got to sign off now. I’ll try to write again soon, when I am far away from this place.

  Aaron

  August 8—3:18 a.m.

  Querida Aaron,

  Me miran. Estoy aprendiendo espanol. That means: Look at me. I’m learning Spanish. Jose is trying to teach me and Cindy. I’m not very good at it, but it keeps my mind off things. A Thing. Cosa in Spanish. A monstruo. Monstruo is another word for Davey. If Davey lived here among us Mexicans.

  Forgive my facetiousness regarding our son. If I didn’t make a little joke out of it, my soul would bleed orange on the floor. That’s why I didn’t write you for two days. My insides turned orange. Don’t ask me how I know this, but I’m sure of it. That color scares me. Davey’s skin had an orange tinge. Did you ever notice? Of course, that’s nothing compared to the way you’ve described how he looks now.

  Davey is smart. Why does someone who is smart choose to be evil? I have a sick feeling in my stomach. I think the Balloon Heads know about Davey.

  You know how Bradley was always a brown-noser? Well, that hasn’t changed. He does more than we’re compelled to do for the Balloon Heads. He was the one who first recognized the Balloon Head we call Tomato (because of his plump, red face). Even in the dimness, we could make out the redness in his face. That’s how flushed he is.

  Bradley was being extremely attentive to Tomato, giving him foot massages, cutting his toenails, putting a pillow under his neck. I asked him what he was up to.

  Bradley looked at me smugly and said, “Don’t recognize him, do you, honey?”

  “Some say he’s Tomato. Others say he’s To-matto,” I said. (I have no idea how to write that phonetically, but you know the old phrase.)

  “That’s Rafe Dinkle,” Bradley told me. “VP of Marketing.”

  “I know who Rafe Dinkle is, you turd,” I said. “But last time I checked, he didn’t have hydrocephalus.”

  “And we’re not in Kansas anymore, are we? Take a look at his right hand.”

  Dinkle had a scar on his right hand that looked like a half swastika. We used joke about it. “Der Fuhrer will see you now,” and like that. And that damn Tomato has the exact same scar. Remember me telling you how the Balloon Heads seemed familiar? Every damn last one of them is an executive. You believe that shit? Even when it’s the end of the fucking world, they still come out on top. Top-heavy, but top nevertheless.

  The lighting is lousy here, but I’m squinting at the Balloon Heads, noticing bulbous noses, pointed chins, caterpillar eyebrows, and other identifying features of our executive class. Is that how you were able to recognize Davey?

  After I read your email about Davey, Bradley asked me out of the blue, a few hours later, “How is your son?”

  He’s not exactly what you’d call a solicitous person. Well, not unless you’re in a position of power or can benefit him in some way. He’s never asked me about family or weekend plans or anything like that. So it seemed odd. I think the Balloon Heads put it in his mind to ask. I considered not emailing you after Bradley asked about Davey.

  These emails are dangerous. Didn’t I tell you? I’d like to write more about my situation, but I’m afraid to. I don’t know if they’d allow that?

  YOW (your orange wife),

  Joy

  August 8—8:40 p.m.

  Joy,

  Am I relieved to hear from you. After no word for two days, I was starting to worry that something bad had happened on your end. I’m glad that you’re alive.

  I know you’re concerned about the Balloon Heads listening in on our conversations over the Internet (I guess listening isn’t the right word), but I swear I’d rather hear from you and risk it than not hear from you and think we’re safe. Besides, if those things can read your mind, then nothing is safe anyway. So why not keep me abreast of the situation on your end?

  Soon after my last email, I ran out of that pulsating organism that had once been Davey’s school. It was getting hard to stay there. The cloying smells, the breathing walls. I just couldn’t stand it anymore.

  As I ran down the hallway (well, as much of a run as I can do), to the exit door, I could still hear Davey calling my name, begging me to come back. He said he wanted to talk more with me. That he wanted me to hold him like I did when he was little. But I know his true intention. He was hungry and wanted to devour me like he did the others.

  I wonder if the teachers were inside him as well, or if they got away somehow. The faces that kept surging forth from him, none of them appeared to be adults. But I can’t be certain.

  He was such a grotesque vision. I know he will continue to
haunt my dreams.

  I am never going back there. I said what I could. There’s no point in returning.

  I guess it makes sense that your Balloon Heads were once the bosses. I’m not sure why that mutation would be so selective as to infect only people in authority, but somehow it doesn’t surprise me.

  Have you had a chance to explore your surroundings at all? Or do they only keep you in that one part of the building, to provide care to those creatures and then return to your cubical? If you’re able to get away and see more of the building—how it has transformed—let me know what you find. I’m curious to hear what kinds of metamorphoses have happened on your end.

  Are you sure that nothing about you has changed. No enlarged extremities? No other abnormalities? I was so happy when you told me you had not changed. But seriously, if you’re different, no matter what the change, please do not hesitate to tell me. You know I will understand.

  I’m back in the park now. There are birds I’ve never seen before. Some kind of peacocks. Their necks trail into stinging tendrils instead of a head and beak, and their feathers are so radiant and colorful, they are mesmerizing. I saw one catch a rodent that got too close, and the tendrils wrapped around it and pulled it into a maw that suddenly opened up in its neck.

  Luckily, they seem to be scared of humans.

  The creatures on this earth now are simply amazing to behold. So much beauty and so much cruelty.

  I killed one of the birds with stones. A big rock took it off balance. A few more brought it down. I cut away the weird tendrils and sliced up its meat and cooked it over an open flame. The meat was blue! And yet it tasted so much like duck. Remember how much you used to love duck? You’d always order it when we went out to eat.

  The weather is getting warmer. I saw a few more humans today. But they kept their distance. Nobody trusts anyone else. Soon, they were gone.

  I am getting tired of being alone. If I wasn’t so sane, I might go back to Davey’s school, just to have someone to talk to.