Earth Fire (Earthrise Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  Addy was already asleep, and Marco climbed into his bed. He lay staring up at the dark ceiling. In only three hours, he had to wake up for work. But no sleep would find him. He thought of Lailani. He wanted to hold her, to say goodbye one last time. He thought of her until dawn rose, and the train rattled, and he sat in the warehouse at his desk, a thousand desks around him. A farm animal. A chicken trapped in a cage. They all clucked around him, thousands of them, phones ringing, chirping, mooing, animals trapped in pens, slowly going mad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  "Doc, I can't sleep. I lie awake at night for hours. I'm lucky if I get two hours a night. During the days, I can barely focus, barely think." Marco sat on the exam table on the sheet of paper, feeling like a sandwich about to be wrapped. "Is there nothing you can give me?"

  He had waited for hours in the cluttered waiting room, surrounded by coughing, sneezing, moaning people, most of them with some respiratory disease brought on by New Earth's ashy atmosphere. Marco hadn't developed the famous Haven Huff yet, what they called the cough you developed here after a couple years, but his insomnia had turned his days into stretches of agony, his eyes burning, his head pounding, his muscles aching, his stomach roiling, his nights dark and eternal.

  The doctor peered at him over his half-moon glasses. He was a lanky man, white-haired, wearing a lab coat.

  "Son, are you eating? You look too thin."

  Marco nodded. "I'm eating. The problem is I'm not sleeping. I tried over-the-counter sleeping pills, but—"

  "Those don't work." The doc scribbled something unintelligible onto a piece of paper. "Here. Buy this outside. You'll sleep."

  "What—" Marco began.

  The doctor groaned. "Sorry, son, I only get two minutes per patient. Come back another day if you still have questions."

  The old man left the room.

  Marco went home, the pills rattling in his pocket. When he entered the apartment, he found the bathroom door open, Addy standing inside in front of a mirror. She wore only underwear and a tank top, and she was wrapping bandages around her knuckles. The bandages were already turning red.

  "Addy!"

  She turned toward him. She began to close the door. Marco rushed forward and stopped the door with his foot.

  "Addy, what happened this time?" he said.

  "Marco!" She glared at him, eyes bugging out. "I'm in my underwear."

  "Addy, I've seen you in your underwear a million times." Marco shoved his way into the bathroom with her. "Blood on your fists again. A new bruise on your cheek. Every week, there's some injury."

  He reached toward the bruise. She shoved his hand away. "Marco, I realize you're just worried about me, but you're being a pest, and you're not respecting my privacy."

  "I want to know what's going on!"

  "Work!" Addy said. "Work, okay? I don't work in a nice, air-conditioned office like you. I'm down there. In the tunnels. Where the creeps live." She stared at her reflection in the mirror, eyes hard. "It's another war down there. But I'm fighting it. I'm winning it."

  "This is another war for both of us," Marco said softly. "But I'm not sure either one of us is winning." He touched her arm, gentle. "I just want to know what's going on, how I can help you."

  Addy stared at him, brow furrowed. Then her hand lashed down. She reached into his coat pocket. She pulled out the rattling bottle of pills.

  "And what's this?" she said.

  "Ads—" he began.

  "Oh, you don't like me snooping? You like privacy, do you? Well too bad!" She pulled the bottle out of his reach, then read the label. Her eyes widened. "Marco! Do you know what this is?"

  "Sleeping pills," he said. "I've been having trouble sleeping."

  She barked a laugh. "Dude, I see these pills in the tunnels. The crazies take them—or should be taking them. Marco! Whatever doctor gave you these needs to be fired. These are heavy-duty antipsychotic meds. They give them to schizos, Marco. Not for fucking insomnia."

  He reached for the bottle, but she pulled it away.

  "You're not a doctor," he said.

  "Neither is whatever quack gave you these!" She opened the bottle, and before Marco could stop her, she dumped the pills into the toilet and flushed.

  "Addy!" he shouted. "Those cost money. I need those!"

  "No you don't."

  "I do—"

  "You're not listening!"

  "I needed that medicine. You don't understand—"

  "You're not crazy, Marco—"

  "Maybe I am!" His shout filled the bathroom, too loud. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Maybe I am crazy, Addy. Maybe the war made me crazy. Maybe this place made me crazy. Maybe I need to be like those people who live in the tunnels. Like those junkies who rummage through the trash outside. Maybe that's all I am now." He was shaking, weeping. "I keep seeing it, Addy."

  She was crying too. She could barely whisper. "Seeing what?"

  "The hive." He sobbed. "The hive on Corpus. The hive on Abaddon. The scum. I see them everywhere. I dream I'm still in the hive. I can barely take the subways, because I'm back there. I can barely walk between the desks at work, because I'm trapped again. I can barely listen to people talking, because I just hear the bugs. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do . . ."

  They fell to their knees in the bathroom, and Addy held him, crushing him, weeping against him.

  "I'm with you, Marco," she whispered. "I'm with you. I'm with you. I love you. Don't get lost, Marco. Don't get lost in that mine. I'm with you. Always hold my hand."

  He held her bandaged, bloody hand. "Always," he whispered.

  The trains rattled.

  The phones rang.

  His boss shouted.

  His coworkers snickered.

  He checked his Colony Love messages, and he went out again.

  Paris was a girl from the suburbs. She drove her car to his apartment. As they walked down the street, she looked around, nose wrinkled in disgust.

  "It's so ghetto here." She made a gagging noise.

  "It must be nice up in the burbs," Marco said.

  Paris stared in disgust at a homeless man. "My dad would die if he saw me here. Die! He's a manager at a big company, you know. He makes seven-and-a-half-times the average salary. Seven-and-a-half! He doesn't just drive a Chrysopoeia car either. He drives a Lexus. That's a very expensive car." She looked at the old cars driving down the street. "He would die if he saw these cars. Die!"

  Marco took her to a nearby restaurant. It served Middle Eastern food. She sniffed at the meal.

  "This isn't real meat," Paris said. "My dad only buys real meat. He goes to the store every day to bring us real meat, real vegetables, fresh from the farm. This is lab-grown shit. He would die if he ate this." She nibbled her shawarma, then laughed. "It's so ghetto."

  "Food must be real nice up in the burbs," Marco said.

  She tugged her sleeves lower for the thousandth time. "People are looking at my bracelets." She glanced around at the other diners. "Do you think many of them are thieves?"

  "Most, probably," Marco said.

  Paris cringed, pulled her ring off her finger, and hid it in her pocket. "My dad bought me this ring. He got it from Buccellati. Do you know that store? Of course you don't. They don't have it here. You need to book a visit in advance, and they close the whole store for you. My dad always says that a true lady must wear true jewels. These stones came from underground. From the ground! Not some lab. You can buy me one someday. If you can afford it." She pushed her plate away. "I'm done. You can pay for me now."

  Marco paid for her. They walked back to her car, which was parked outside his apartment. She kissed him then. A long, warm kiss.

  "You can invite me upstairs now," Paris said.

  He took her upstairs, and she looked around his apartment. Her eyes were wide.

  "Let me guess," Marco said. "Your dad would die if he saw you here."

  "Die!" Paris said. She sat down on his bed. "I'll suck your cock now if you l
ike."

  Marco closed his eyes. As they slept together, he tried to ignore the memories. To ignore those visions that always rose behind his eyelids. He focused on her warm body, and she moaned beneath him, and it was good. And for a few moments, there was no pain. For a few moments, there were no memories. For a few moments, everything was warm, beautiful, and good. And he lay beside her, holding her, and he was Marco again, and he was healed.

  She stood up and got dressed. He walked her to her car.

  "Would you like to meet again sometime?" Marco said.

  Paris laughed. She patted his cheek. "Marco, sweetie. You're far too poor."

  She drove off.

  The trains rattled.

  Phones rang.

  "Sir, might I interest you in our newest vegetable peeler? It can peel a potato in three seconds flat, yes, sir—"

  "Marco, my friend! Marco, will you hire a girl tonight? Choose one! Any one from the album!"

  He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

  The junkie rummaged through the trash.

  He went out again.

  He met Brook in her apartment, only half an hour away by subway. She was a bubbly woman, pretty and gloriously overweight, easily twice Marco's size, all laughter and squeals and pats on his arm. Her apartment was a single room, cluttered with her abstract artwork on the walls, her couch serving as her bed, and she baked him cookies and cupcakes and chattered on and on as he ate.

  "See that one?" She pointed at one painting. "I've named him Andre. That's the ghost I saw last year. Oh, and that one?" She pointed at another painting. "Henry. An old ghost who lives in the laundry room."

  "You see ghosts?" he said.

  "All the time! They live all over Haven, you know."

  "They look like blobs," Marco said, looking at the artwork.

  She laughed and playfully slapped him. "They're alien ghosts, silly! They don't look like humans. I know a whole bunch of them." She frowned, and a touch of anger filled her eyes. "You don't believe me." Her voice rose louder. "You think I'm some kind of crazy person?"

  "No, no," Marco said, suddenly worried she'd burst into tears or explode with fury.

  She scrutinized him, then laughed. She pointed at another drawing. "And that one is Bella. She was my friend for years."

  Marco hesitated. "Have you ever . . . seen a ghost with a kabuki mask?"

  She raised her eyebrow, then poked his chest. "You're crazy, Marco." She leaned against him and slung a leg across his lap. "I like you."

  He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home. He didn't know if this girl was crazy, if she was mocking him, if she had truly seen ghosts. He didn't know what to believe anymore in this cosmos with shadowy girls in masks, with aliens that haunted your dreams, with storms along the highways, with empty nights.

  "Sleep over," Brook whispered, and she lowered the couch into a bed, and she kissed him deeply, hungrily, and she took off his clothes, and they made love, and it was good. And for a few moments, there were no nightmares. And for a few moments, there was no pain. For a few moments, he was happy.

  In the morning, Brook made him pancakes, and when he didn't eat enough she yelled. She sobbed. She dropped the plate and shattered it. She talked about her ghosts, and they always ate her food, and Marco could never see them now. He left.

  The train rattled.

  "Yes, ma'am, it will peel that potato in three seconds!"

  He reread David Copperfield on his tablet. Another sleepless night.

  "Any girl you want, Marco!" The brute with the photo album held it out. "Choose one."

  He shook his head.

  He went out again.

  Terri took him dancing. Marco had never gone dancing before. The club lights spun around him. The beat sounded like the guns. He began to shake. The shadows and faces whirled around him, and he thought he heard them screaming.

  "Loosen up!" Terri laughed. "Have a drink!"

  He drank a beer.

  He drank another one.

  He drank a shot of vodka.

  He drank eight more.

  He fucked Terri in the bathroom.

  He threw up into the toilet.

  He stumbled home.

  He lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling.

  He went out again.

  She was a sweet girl. He didn't know her name. They sat in the restaurant, and he ordered a drink. Another drink. After the fourth drink, he began to talk. He told her about the mines of Corpus, and how the scum had experimented on humans, sewing them to alien flesh. And he told her about the ball of skin with his face. And he drank again. The sweet girl with no name said a friend called her, that she had to go. Marco remained at the table, and he ordered another drink, and he threw up in the alleyway.

  He took a girl home. He knew her name. He drank and he fucked her in the living room, even with Addy at home, hiding behind her door. And after she left, he slept on the living room floor, the empty bottle beside him. He called the girl the next day, but he could not remember her name, and she did not answer.

  He met a girl in her car. On his walk over, he had emptied a bottle of whiskey. She wrinkled her nose at his smell, but she slept with him in her apartment full of cats, and he forgot to use a condom, but she didn't care, and he promised to call her again. But he lost her number.

  He went out again.

  Another girl laughed.

  Another bottle of booze rolled away.

  He had sex with Ria in his bed. Then with Liz the next day. Then with Ria the day after that, and he couldn't find his condom, and he didn't care, and he held her all night, and he felt safe.

  He went out to the club. Alone. The beat sounded like gunfire. The dancers were aliens. He bought a bottle of whiskey and drank the whole thing, and two girls helped him stumble home, leaving him outside his building.

  He threw up in the lobby. He managed to make it upstairs, and he threw up in the toilet, and all night he moaned in pain. His belly was melting. His head pounded. He struggled to the bathroom, tried to reach the toilet, threw up in the sink. He crashed down, moaning, shivering.

  He finally passed out on the living room floor, vomit trickling out of his mouth.

  For a few hours, he slept, and strange dreams filled him. He was flying in a small starship, moving beyond explored space, the stars streaming around them. Captain Ben-Ari was there, commanding the vessel, and Kemi too, and Lailani, and Addy, and they were together again like in the old days. They wore uniforms. Soldiers, back in the war. But there were different enemy ships ahead of them now, ships like claws, and inside them flew arachnid creatures, claws long, fangs wet, weaving webs.

  "Who are you?" asked the girl with the kabuki mask.

  "Who are you?" Marco said.

  She leaped toward him, and her mask split open, revealing a massive jaw. The jaw grew larger, larger, soon taking up most of her body, lined with teeth, and she was about to swallow him whole. He raised his arms, felt her breath against him. Cold. Shockingly cold. Ice. Ice washing across him, and his eyes opened, and he was on the floor. He was dripping wet.

  He blinked, shivering, and sat up. Water drenched him and ice cubes floated on the floor.

  "You fucking idiot," Addy said. She stood before him, holding an empty bucket.

  Marco rubbed his eyes. "Did you just spill ice water over me?"

  "You're too heavy to drag into the bath," she said. "And you stink. You stink of puke and booze and sex."

  He was on the living room floor. He hadn't even made it into his bedroom last night. Dawn rose outside. It was a rare day when the storms were low, and only a thin veil of ash fell outside the windows. Alpha Centauri B shone behind the haze, a yellow blob.

  "I'm late for work," he said.

  "I called in sick for you," Addy said. "You almost died last night."

  His head pounded and he rubbed his temples. "I was just a little tipsy. All right, drunk. Fine. Busted. Hardly dying, though." His head throbbed.

  She tossed her empty bucke
t on him. It hurt.

  "You had alcohol poisoning!" she said. "You were choking on your vomit in your sleep. I had to tilt your head over, and I had to reach into your mouth to pull out your tongue. It was disgusting."

  Marco had nothing to say. His cheeks burned.

  "What are you doing, Marco?" Addy whispered.

  "Trying to stop the pain," he said.

  "By developing addictions to sex and alcohol?"

  "God, Ads. I'm not addicted to anything."

  "Yes you are!" She stared down at him, hands on her hips. "You bring another girl here every other day. How many has it been now? Thirty? Forty girls you fucked in our apartment?"

  "You wanted me to sign up to that dating site!" Marco struggled to his feet.

  "So you could meet a nice girl!" Addy said. "Not . . . not these hood rats you bring home."

  He snorted. "And what are we then? We're no better than they are."

  "We're war heroes!" she said. "We fought on Abaddon! We—"

  "We are nothing now!" Marco roared, voice so loud he knew the neighbors could hear. "Nothing! You're just a security guard, and I don't even know what kind of fights you're getting into down there. And I sell fucking potato peelers for minimum wage, and I probably lost my job today when I didn't show up. We're poor. We're miserable. We're trapped here. And we can never go home, Addy. Do you hear? We can never go home! Even if I ever sold a book, even if we ever had the money, what's on Earth? They'll arrest us there for war crimes. I'm just trying to sell a novel, but nobody will buy it, and I'm just trying to meet a nice girl, but I can't, Addy, and I can't find a better job, and I can't stop drinking, and I can't stop the nightmares. All right? I can't stop the memories. Do you want to know why I have sex and drink? Because when I'm drunk, or when I'm fucking a girl, that's the only time I'm not remembering. All right? That's the only time I'm not remembering the war."

  Addy was crying. "I can't see you like this," she whispered, reaching out to touch his cheek. "I can't. This isn't you."

  "This is who I am now," Marco said. "Whoever I was on Earth—that person is dead. This is all we are now, all we'll ever be."