Phytosphere

by Scott Mackay

  “She’s getting bad, Neil.”

  She told him about the prescriptions she had taken from the nursing home, and that they weren’t Hanna’s regular prescriptions, and of how Hanna was buzzed most of the time and wheezing constantly.

  “You remember Greg Bard?” asked Neil. “He was a friend of Ian Hamilton’s. I think you met him at Melissa’s christening.”

  “The Air Force colonel?”

  “Right. He’s getting things arranged for Marblehill.”

  “So there’s going to be other families?”

  “No. Just the airmen and us. Greg’s a helluva guy. I’ll make sure he knows about Hanna. What’s she taking?”

  Glenda gave him Hanna’s prescriptions—her puffers and pills and so forth—and as he took the information down, she felt suddenly safe in a way she never did with Gerry. She could sense Neil’s masterliness, and the overall command of his personality. Neil was going to pull it out of the fire for her.

  Neil was the alpha male, the king of the tribe, whereas Gerry had always been the quieter one.

  “I’m going to have to drive manually,” she said.

  “That might pose a problem,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re getting reports of widespread erosion. No plants holding things down. Greg says a lot of landslides everywhere, especially up in those mountains, and no road crews are going out for repairs.

  So you may have to feel your way along. Some roads are bound to be impassable.”

  “But one charge should do, right? It’s not more than four hundred miles. And my car’s got an upper limit of four hundred and fifty per charge.”

  “It depends on how far out of your way you have to go. Do you have a map? Like an old paper map?

  Or do you keep everything stored online? Because the satellite feeds can’t provide maps to your car anymore.”

  “Gerry’s got some old maps downstairs.”

  “He’s still collecting maps?”

  “Mainly old ocean maps. But I think he has some of the area.”

  “Take them, just in case. You might end up on back roads.”

  She had her kids pack in a hurry because she was afraid Buzz might return at any minute.

  She tried to fone Gerry because she wanted to tell him where they were going, not Coral Gables but Marblehill, but she couldn’t get through.

  “I don’t get it. I got through just a while ago. Now there’s nothing. And the sky’s still open.”

  “Mom,” said Hanna, “things are breaking down everywhere. The shroud might be open, but do you think the people who run AT&T Interlunar are actually going to their jobs anymore? They’re just trying to stay alive, like we are. This is the new Stone Age.”

  “Hey, it’s the new Dark Age,” said Jake, and laughed at his own joke.

  She thought she might leave a note for Gerry, telling him where they were going, just in case he came back, and just in case their fones stopped working for good, but realized that if she left a note it might be a signpost to Buzz and he would follow them.

  She and Hanna had a big fight about it.

  “Mom, we have to leave a note.”

  “We can’t leave a note.”

  “But if we don’t leave a note, how’s Dad going to know where we are? He thinks we’re heading to Coral Gables.”

  “If we leave a note, Buzz will see it, and he’ll come looking for us. He’s been down to Marblehill before.

  He knows how to get there.”

  “Jake,” said Hanna, “you should have shot him while you had the chance.”

  “You try shooting someone,” said Jake morosely. “It’s not as easy as it looks. It takes a lot of guts.”

  “Guts that you don’t have.”

  “Mom, will you tell her to fuck off.”

  “Jake, do we have to use that kind of language?” asked Glenda.

  Hanna frowned. “Shut up, Jake. Mom and I are having a serious discussion.”

  “We’re not leaving a note, Hanna.”

  “Then how’s he going to find us?”

  “He’ll figure it out. He’s a pretty smart guy.”

  “You don’t even want him to find us,” said Hanna. “You’re thinking this is your chance to finally get rid of him.”

  Glenda’s anger flared and, in her worn-out state, she felt tears threatening. “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “It’s not true. We may have had some pretty rough fights—”

  “You know what will happen to Dad if he can’t find us? He’ll die. He won’t know where we are, he’ll think we’re dead, and he’ll die of a broken heart.”

  “Hanna, listen to what I’m telling you. If we leave a note for Dad, Buzz will break in, see it, and come after us. I killed his brother. He’s not going to forget that. It’s not like I keyed his car, or egged his house, or butted in front of him at the bank. I killed his brother. I dropped Maynard in cold blood right in front of him. So I’m asking you, please. Don’t leave a note. And don’t try and sneak a note while we’re getting ready. Just let me keep trying your father on the fone.”

  “That fone’s a hunk of junk,” said Jake. “You should have rented a better one.”

  “With whose money, Jake?”

  “I’m leaving a note,” said Hanna.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “We could leave a note with a clue in it,” suggested Jake. “Something only Dad would understand. We wouldn’t have to spell out that we were going to Marblehill.”

  “And what if he doesn’t get the clue?” said Hanna. “You’re such an idiot sometimes, Jake.”

  “Come on,” said Glenda. “We’re all tired. And we’re frazzled. Let’s just get to Marblehill. Don’t you want to go there and see your cousins? Didn’t you have fun there last summer and the summer before?

  And Uncle Neil is bound to have a fone, and a much better one than this. So let’s just forget about the note. Let’s pack, get in the car, and go to the nursing home so we can recharge. Before Buzz comes back.”

  She watched her daughter every step of the way. Hanna sullenly disassembled her clarinet—doctor-recommended for her asthma—in the light of one of the flashlights and put it into its case. She then packed some makeup, and a bag full of clothes, commenting on how Melissa and Ashley were going to make fun of her cheap, bargain-brand clothes, and finally finished by taking five puffs of her inhaler.

  “Honey, don’t overdo that stuff.”

  “Mom, fuck off.”

  Glenda didn’t punish Hanna for saying this. She just went through the motions, and started packing.

  Hanna broke down and cried, even though she was zoned out on her bronchodilator. She came into her mother’s arms, and told her she was sorry for saying fuck off. But that didn’t stop Glenda from checking Hanna’s room one last time for a note, and checking it thoroughly.

  She at last got into the car with her kids, like they were going on a summer vacation, and as she headed out on the road, she looked up at the sky. And saw that the Moon had finally disappeared behind the western edge of the shroud’s toxic wound. She felt lonely then. She didn’t know if she was ever going to see Old Hill again. She didn’t know if she was going to see North Carolina.

  But most of all, she didn’t know if she was going to see Gerry again.

  PART FOUR

  24

  Glenda saw the blaze a mile down the road, and knew that Cedarvale Nursing Home was burning.

  The flames raged among the tall, dead trees, and they were thick and orange and capped with plumes of dark smoke. She was afraid the road to the underground garage might be blocked, that a recharge would be impossible, and that their plans for driving to Marblehill would come to nothing. But as she got closer she saw that only the Mercer and Dawes wings were on fire, and that the Hutchley wing, where the administrative offices, Palliative Care Department, and underground parking lot were, had yet to be touched.

  She slowed the car
as she came to the front gate. The smell of smoke scraped the inside of her nostrils.

  She saw a boy of ten or eleven run out from behind the security kiosk, his face smeared with dirt, his clothes caked with filth, so skinny and underfed that Glenda wondered how he had the strength to run.

  But run he did, along the front of the Hutchley wing and the Dawes wing, finally disappearing around the hulk of the burning Mercer wing.

  Glenda glanced at Hanna, who sat in the front seat beside her, then over her shoulder at Jake, who was in the back with the handgun held loosely on his knee. “Stay alert.”

  “I know that guy,” said Jake as he peered after the boy. “He goes to Talbot Public.”

  Not trusting her own eyes because she was forty now, she asked Jake, “Did he have a gun?”

  “He had something in his belt,” said Jake. “I couldn’t see what it was. It looked like a stick.”

  “But you’re sure it wasn’t a gun.”

  “It looked like a stick.”

  She nodded. “We go in, we go out.”

  “I think his name is Buck,” said Jake.

  “Buck?” said Hanna.

  “That’s what I’ve heard other kids call him.”

  Glenda eased her foot off the brake and rolled into the complex. “I don’t like this. Maybe we should come back later.”

  “Mom, let’s keep going,” said Hanna. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “Buck, or whatever his name is, maybe ran off to alert the rest of those kids I was telling you about. The ones Whit was so worried about.”

  “So let’s be fast,” said Hanna. “In and out, like you said. And Jake, for Christ’s sake, don’t be afraid to shoot someone for a change.”

  “Mom, she’s bugging me again.”

  “Hanna, please stop bugging your brother.”

  “I’m not bugging him. I’m just stating facts.”

  “Okay, I’ll shoot someone. I guarantee it. And it just might be you.”

  “Let’s calm down,” said Glenda. “We go in, we get our charge, and we leave.”

  She eased past the security kiosk, veered left around the sign that said UNDERGROUND PARKING GARAGE—STAFF AND RESIDENT PARKING ONLY, and drove down the ramp, feeling the heat of the night even though the air conditioner was on full tilt. She ventured into the underground parking lot and followed the big white arrows. The place was dark. She was worried that the charger might be off-line, even though it operated independently from the main grid, but as she got to the second level she saw that, miracle of miracles, its indicator light was still flashing green, a welcome beacon, and that she could recharge her car after all.

  “This place is spooky,” said Hanna.

  “Won’t it be nice to go for a swim in Uncle Neil’s pool?” Glenda said, trying to reassure her daughter. “I sure would like a good cooldown.”

  She pulled up to the generator.

  Jake shifted in the back. “Mom, I’m going to stand over by that pillar to cover you.”

  “Jake, never shoot that thing if Hanna or I are in your way.”

  “Mom, I’ve thought a lot about using this gun. Just trust me.”

  The three Thorndikes got out of the car.

  Jake took up his position behind the pillar.

  Hanna coughed and wheezed in the close, thick air of the underground parking lot.

  Glenda keyed in the sequence to the charging port, then went to the generator and entered her user name and password. The machine identified her, and itemized for her the output available—more than enough to fill her car. She took the generator’s male hookup and inserted it into her car’s female port, selected recharge, then hit enter. The generator hummed softly. Its computer linked up with her car’s onboard software and, glancing at the dash, she saw the little blue bar move slowly forward.

  The bar was halfway across when she heard a slow and steady whistle from behind Jake’s pillar. She looked up. She saw the flicker of firelight at the other end of the garage, and in a moment several figures emerged, all carrying homemade torches. Those kids again. It finally dawned on her why these kids had set the Mercer and Dawes wings on fire—they wanted light. They couldn’t live in the dark anymore.

  She counted five altogether. They didn’t walk. They swaggered the way kids swagger when they are acting tough. And in their toughness they neglected caution, and failed to consider that Jake might be standing behind the pillar with a gun.

  When the boys finally reached Glenda and Hanna, a tall one in a denim jacket looked at them as if he had lifted a rock and found bugs underneath. Then he turned to another boy, the one they had seen run from behind the security kiosk. “Buck, check the car.”

  Buck came forward.

  Glenda reached into the front seat and lifted her rifle. She didn’t point it at Buck. She pointed it at Denim Jacket, the leader, instead. She watched the three flanking boys lose their absurd expressions of toughness and grow suddenly concerned that the lady with the car should have such a big, mean-looking rifle.

  “Yeah? And so?” said Denim Jacket, pulling the bottom of his jacket away to reveal a pistol shoved into his pants. “Go ahead and shoot me, lady. We’ll see who’s faster.”

  She looked more closely at Denim Jacket. Was he high? In the light coming from the torches, his pupils certainly looked small, and she wondered if, before burning down the Mercer and Dawes wings, he had gotten into the dispensary.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said.

  “Buck, check the car.”

  This time it didn’t come to her in a blinding flash, like it had with Fulton, that Denim Jacket was the evil one. This time she found she couldn’t pull the trigger, no matter what, because Denim Jacket was just a kid, and his parents were probably dead, and starvation was bound to kill him by Thanksgiving. She let Buck come ahead, and Buck inspected the car, then backed away and looked at Denim Jacket with wide eyes. He said, in a voice that hadn’t yet changed, “They got food.”

  Denim Jacket pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Glenda’s head. He said, with a crooked smile, “What now, lady?”

  She knew he was acting tough because he understood the new politics well, and that he couldn’t act weak, not in front of his friends, or they would tear him to pieces. She was afraid of Denim Jacket, yet felt motherly toward him as well. His brown hair was a mess, matted with the grease hair develops after it hasn’t been washed in a while. He was pale. His eyes, she saw, were blue, like the surf at Nag’s Head, and the freckles spattered across his nose were like specks of chocolate. He had a green armband that looked as if it were made of ripped surgical scrubs, and she saw that the other boys wore arm-bands as well—they were wearing colors as though they were in a gang.

  Denim Jacket looked like he was in grade nine, a year or so younger than Hanna, and he spoke with the accent of the hills. He was old North Carolina, as tough as they come, but scared… frantically scared, despite his show of callous indifference to the whole situation.

  “Where’s your mama?” asked Glenda.

  A small paroxysm of emotion quivered over his face, and she likened him to a broken pot that had been glued back together, only the glue hadn’t set yet.

  “Where’s yours?” As smart-ass remarks went, this was fairly lame, and she could see that he was having a difficult time holding it together.

  “Dead,” she said.

  “Dead how?”

  “Diabetes.”

  Denim Jacket shrugged. “Big deal.”

  “Why don’t we share some of this food with you?”

  “A guardsman killed my own ma. Happened last month.”

  And then a deafening roar exploded from behind the pillar where Jake was hiding, and Denim Jacket’s face seemed to bend toward the center, even as his lips formed a perfect O, his eyes squinted in pain, and a fine spray of red erupted from his temple. His arm went down, the gun fell from his hand, and he crumpled to the concrete floor.

  The other boys dropped their crude torches and
scattered; for a second she thought it was just boys running away from their own mischief, like they had egged a house, or let the air out of someone’s tires, or left a burning bag of dog shit on somebody’s doorstep, because they ran like all boys run, flat out, and with the pump and effort of crazed terror. Glenda thought all this in a split second but then remembered it wasn’t boys playing mischief anymore—it was another sequence, another beat, another slice of goddamned life from the end of the world. She had killed a cop, and now her son had killed a child. Kids killing kids. That’s when you knew the Apocalypse had truly arrived.

  Jake ventured from his pillar, and he looked scared and proud at the same time, and not at all like her son, but like a boy she didn’t even know. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling under his T-shirt, and he walked toward them with an odd lurch, as if the strength had disappeared from his legs.

  The torches lay scattered around Denim Jacket, casting wisps of black smoke, and Denim Jacket sprawled there, bleeding profusely from the head, the blood spreading and spreading until it finally reached the drain next to the generator and started trickling down.

  “I told you I could shoot someone,” said Jake, looking at his sister.

  Glenda could tell that Jake didn’t fully understand what he had done.

  As for Hanna, she had gone catatonic and was just standing there with her limp hair in front of her face, trying to manage her wheeze while she stared with sightless eyes at the blood trickling down the drain.

  Glenda looked at her son and saw he wanted her to say something, to give approval, but every muscle in her body was rigid, and it was like her mind was frozen.

  She heard the kids yelling to each other on the next level, some spontaneous communication, perhaps a warning, but it was too echoey down here, and she couldn’t make out the precise words.

  “Mom?” said Jake.

  She nodded, but it was a dull and distracted nod.

  “Mom, he had a gun pointed right at you.”

  “I know.”

  Jake broke down and cried.