by Ling Ma
Thank you, I said to Bob, sincere in my gratitude. My eyes met his across the fire. I turned the iPhone around in my hands. There was a giant crack in the screen that hadn’t been there before. I attempted to turn it on, but no Apple logo appeared. The screen remained blank.
Consider this a gift, Bob said, watching me. Let it serve as a reminder of your former self, an artifact from long ago. I truly believe a person should be reconciled with their past before they can move forward into the future.
I think the battery might be dead. Do you think I could find a charger? I asked Bob.
It’s not supposed to work, Adam informed me. We broke it.
Bob continued smiling at me. Like I said, Candace, this is just an object. It serves as a reminder of who you used to be, but accessing all your old data is not helpful to you in moving forward. It is a symbol of how far you have come.
I looked at Janelle, who shook her head, warning me not to pursue it. Okay, great, thanks, I repeated again, to no one in particular. I slid the iPhone into my coat pocket, wanting instead to throw it into the fire—or better yet, to throw it at Bob.
Bob’s proselytizing continued, except that it was directed at the group now. His enthusiastic gusts of rhetoric swept through the campground. What exactly is the internet? he boomed, and our heads snapped back to attention. How do you make it begin again? How do you bring back something that’s in the ether?
Ashley rolled her eyes. We took long, generous pulls from our soapy, sudsy beers.
Bob tried again. How old is the internet? he bellowed.
It was invented in the 1990s, Todd offered, between bites.
No, it was commercialized in the 1990s, Evan corrected. It was invented earlier.
How do you know? Todd said.
I do something called reading.
Bob cleared his throat, and we quieted. I bring up the internet because I’d like us to think about exactly what the internet is. It’s dead, but what exactly have we lost?
In response to his own question, he set down his beer, punched up his glasses, and sermonized:
The internet is the flattening of time. It is the place where the past and the present exist on one single plane. But proportionally, because the present calcifies into the past, even now, even as we speak, perhaps it is more accurate to say that the internet almost wholly consists of the past. It is the place we go to commune with the past.
I guess that’s true, Evan agreed. All those archives of news articles.
Or like when we follow the Facebook profiles of our exes, Rachel said. We’re broken up but we never really break up. I never totally forget the past because I’m seeing it on my Facebook wall every day. You can never reinvent yourself because your social media identity is set.
Bob continued: Our eyes have become nearsighted with nostalgia, staring at our computer screen. Because being online is equivalent to living in the past. And, while we can agree that the internet has many uses, one of its significant side effects is that we all live too much in the past. But!—here, he looked around at all of us inclusively—there is a bright side. This loss of the internet presents an opportunity. We are more free to live in the present, and more free to envision our future.
I’m saying all this tonight, Bob continued, because we will arrive at the Facility very soon.
Todd instigated a slow clap, and soon most everyone was clapping. The sound filled the air, like a flock of birds scattering from a shuddering treetop.
Evan changed the subject with another question, aimed at Bob: Can you give us an ETA on the Facility? Like, how many days is it going to be?
He sighed, exasperated by our shifting conversation. Well, that all depends on the roads. If the roads are decent, I’d say—here, he squinted into the distance, apparently intuiting the future—two or three days.
That soon? Evan asked.
Not if we keep staying up this late every night, Bob said. He looked around and made an announcement. Tonight, we should go to sleep earlier so we can wake up early tomorrow. Now that we’re so close to our destination, let’s get a head start.
We all nodded in unison. Then there was a flurry of dishes being cleaned, of trash being collected, sleeping bags unfurled. In less than an hour, we had nearly all retreated back to our tents or the cars, preparing to bed down.
I also returned to my tent and changed into my plaid flannel pajamas. The only people who remained were Evan, Janelle, and Ashley, who, as usual, stayed talking around the fire.
I lay on my back, treading a thin, shallow sleep.
When I next opened my eyes, I saw shadows flickering across the nylon membrane of my tent, wavering by the fire. There was the sound of hissing, the fire being extinguished quickly with water.
Then I heard Janelle speak. Let’s go.
Without hesitation, I got up and unzipped my tent.
They all turned to look at me, frozen, as I came out. They were fully dressed, in jeans and boots and coats.
Where are you going? I asked automatically.
Oh my god, keep your voice down, Evan said.
Janelle came over. She took me by the shoulders and said, like a mother gently shooing a child, Go back to sleep. You never saw this.
I shot her a look. Where are you guys going? I repeated, this time in a whisper.
She hesitated.
C’mon, Janelle.
We’re gonna stalk. Relax. We do this all the time. They’re not like full-fledged stalks. They’re more like baby stalks. We don’t empty anyone’s house, we just get drugs. Where do you think our weed supply comes from?
Does Bob know?
She looked at me impatiently. Do you think Bob knows?
How long have you guys been doing this? I kept asking questions, trying not to feel hurt that they’d never included me.
Maybe five times so far, she said, and as if reading my mind, she added in a whisper, I would’ve asked you, but given your condition, it’s better if you get rest. You need to be taking care of yourself.
I glanced at Evan and Ashley, yards away near the extinguished bonfire, wondering if Janelle had told them about my condition. They hung back, oblivious.
Where are you guys going tonight? I looked around. We were surrounded by trees, trees and road and darkness.
Janelle hesitated. Tonight is a little different. We’re going to find Ashley’s house.
Ashley lives here?
Close enough. If it were your house that was so close by, wouldn’t you want to go see it?
I looked at Janelle’s, Ashley’s, and Evan’s faces. Can I come?
10
Officially, the baby stalk to Ashley’s house was for getting weed. We didn’t take the car. We went on foot by the side of the road instead. It was only a mile away, Ashley said. Maybe a mile and a half. Back into Ohio. She pointed out into the darkness, gesturing. We could barely see past her wrists, her fingers disappearing as if behind heavy stage curtains. Like, if we just go about a mile, less than a mile, down the highway, then we’ll be on my street and you guys can see the house where I grew up.
The house where I grew up. I shivered. Like most of us, Ashley had understood her family to have succumbed to Shen Fever. I wasn’t sure why she would want to return. What if she saw things she didn’t want to see?
You lead the way, Evan told Ashley.
We were moving backward, reversing over the state line into Ohio again. The interstate was our lifeline. As long as we stuck to it, it would lead us to Ashley’s house, and it would lead us back.
Ashley led the way, holding the main flashlight. As we stumbled along behind, she began reminiscing. It was a small ranch house, she said, and most of the rooms were covered in wood paneling. Once, when she was a teen, she decided she couldn’t stand the fake wood anymore. Without telling anyone, one night she painted her room carnation pink, first a whitewash and then two coats of the pink. She had planned everything, everything except the fact that it was winter. And it was in the middle of the night. And
partway through, she’d had to open the windows to let all the paint fumes out. She painted in her winter coat, piling on her parents’ coats as it got colder and colder. All night she shivered and painted. But she’d finished the job.
Ashley perked up. You guys are going to see my room! It’s pretty embarrassing. Don’t judge, guys. It was my—she searched for the words—my former self.
The important question is where did you keep the weed? Evan said, half joking.
There’s like a whole ounce, in a shoe box under my bed. My parents never went into my room. It’s probably in pristine condition.
Awesome. When we get back, we’re gonna make it rain with kush!
Janelle was more skeptical. Yeah, but we need to be careful.
Bob confiscated whatever weed we found during the stalks; he didn’t want anyone driving while high, citing the high levels of THC in engineered weed. But we needed it. It helped blunt the uncertainty and stress we felt. I didn’t let myself smoke, but I wasn’t against it. Whatever I consumed was secondhand when we hotboxed the car. It helped with my nausea.
So we’ll make it rain inconspicuously with kush! Evan said, undeterred. Someone has to deal with the boredom in our group, and obviously that person isn’t Bob.
I turned to Ashley, changed the subject. What about your parents? I asked. Like, were you in touch with them when the fever hit?
Janelle answered protectively for Ashley: It’s different for every family.
Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry.
It’s okay. I have a strange relationship with my parents, Ashley said carefully. I come from a, I guess, a blue-collar background. My mom was a waitress at Perkins and my dad was a truck driver. They were pretty mad that I moved to New York to study fashion. They thought I was just racking up student debt for nothing. We hadn’t kept in touch for a long time—and by the time the fever hit, I couldn’t get in touch with them.
A lot of people lose contact with their families, I offered.
Ashley kept her gaze on the road ahead. Yeah, but I should have come back earlier, she said, as if to herself. She flicked her flashlight beam across a sign in front of us. It read JORDANWOOD, OHIO. Hey guys. This is it.
The exit ramp was just to the front of us. We turned down the strip in silence. I wondered what would happen if I myself returned home, to Salt Lake, I mean. I wouldn’t know where to go. The house my parents owned had been sold and, I later heard, drastically renovated by a couple who were prominent Mormon officials. Maybe I would go to the church that my parents fastidiously attended. But I’d always disliked that place, the claustrophobic mildewed basement of Sunday school lessons. Maybe I would go to the storage facility that held the remaining family possessions. But it was just a storage unit, a cold box. If I ever found myself in the vicinity of Salt Lake one day, I would probably keep on driving. It is too depressing, too soul-crushingly sad, to reminisce. The past is a black hole, cut into the present day like a wound, and if you come too close, you can get sucked in. You have to keep moving.
How much of this had Ashley actually thought through?
At the base of the ramp, we turned left, onto a commercial street full of gas stations and fast-food chains. Jordanwood, it looked like, was basically a rest stop for truck drivers to take a leak before they continued on toward wherever they were going. I took out my key-chain flashlight and played it over the scene: McDonald’s, a Shell station, a BP station, Wendy’s, Subway, a Kum & Go, a Motel 6, and a Comfort Inn.
God, I want a burger, Evan said. Those square burgers at Wendy’s. Plus some fries, a Coke …
It’s not a big town, Ashley said. She sounded almost apologetic. It’s not even a town, it’s just technically a hamlet.
Janelle squeezed Ashley’s arm kindly. Thanks for bringing us here.
The walk to Ashley’s house was not quite as easy and streamlined as Ashley had made it out to sound. She became quieter as we advanced closer and closer. We walked down a stretch of the commercial street before turning onto another street, a residential white-collar lane that emptied out into a cul-de-sac. Our flashlights played over the overgrown lawns, the broken windows, the empty driveways.
Here it is, Ashley said.
Abruptly, we stopped and glanced up. The house was a small, boxy ranch with blue aluminum siding, stained with rust along the sides. An old station wagon sat in the gravel driveway, which was studded with weeds and dandelions.
Let’s just go in, she said, the anticipation in her voice unmistakable as she started up the driveway.
No, wait. Evan stopped her. Just wait. Let’s do this right, like the other times.
We gathered on the weedy, overgrown front lawn, riddled, I imagined, with insects. We took off our shoes. It was cold, the frozen brown grass against my clammy, sweaty soles. The edges of everything looked sharper, more brittle. We joined our sweaty hands and chanted the “New Slang”–like chant. Then, to my surprise, we bowed our heads and closed our eyes for Evan’s recitation. I didn’t expect that we would follow the prestalk protocol so closely, but I knew Evan’s recitation wouldn’t be anything like Bob’s. He wasn’t going to locate us within some triumphant trajectory of a victory narrative.
As we gather here today before these doors, Evan said, we hope that you’ll help us find a copious amount of pot so that tomorrow morning, we can make it rain with kush and quell the boredom of our road trip. May the pot we find help make things more bearable and help us figure out why the hell we’re doing all of this. He paused. What the point even is. Thank you.
We listed out our names. Our voices, hoarse from talking all night long, sounded tinny and weak, thrown to the wind.
Evan Drew Marcher.
Ashley Martin Piker.
Janelle Sasha Smith.
Candace Chen.
We put our shoes back on and approached the house slowly. The front door was locked, but it looked weak; it gave off a hollow sound when I knocked on it. The rusty knob was jiggly and weak, didn’t have much give.
Stand back, Evan said. He reversed a few paces, ready to charge toward the door.
Actually, Evan, I have a key, Ashley said, reaching into her jeans pocket.
The door opened to a hideous smell. I brought my collar to my nose. The air was stale cigarettes and mildew, fecund rot, and the industrial odor of too much air-conditioning. There was the sound of scuttling, like rodents or mice.
Once, in sixth-grade history, we watched a documentary on King Tut. When the archaeologists first opened his tomb, they heard a loud tearing sound, like a knife gashing through cloth. It was the sound of all the textiles inside the tomb, the imperial fabrics, ripping at the sudden exposure to fresh air.
We switched on our mini flashlights and played their beams over the wood-paneled walls. It was not a palatial tomb. The small living room was furnished with a cushy chenille sofa, a coffee table, an old boxy television, and a La-Z-Boy recliner. Above the sofa hung a pair of grimacing stag heads. On the carpeted floor, disarray: dinner plates and saucers filled with gnawed chicken bones, cigarette butts and ashes, assorted liquids. Fried-chicken buckets, pizza delivery boxes. And bottles, bottles and bottles of vodkas and tequilas, glinting in the flashlight. Shattered glass crunched underfoot. The smell of alcohol.
Sorry, Ashley said, embarrassed.
Yikes, Janelle said. She grabbed my arm, gestured to the La-Z-Boy chair. We observed the silhouetted figure slumped inside it. It was motionless. It neither took in air nor breathed it back out. We didn’t need to aim our flashlights to know that this was going to be a dead stalk.
It’s probably my dad, Ashley said, her voice flat and unemotional. She aimed her flashlight beam in his direction but I grabbed her arm. As if expecting someone to stop her anyway, she lowered it easily.
C’mon, I’ll escort you to your room, Evan said, gently. Let’s get the weed and get out of here. Lead the way.
Ashley didn’t protest.
Janelle and I were left by ourselves with the father. On a norm
al dead stalk, Todd or Adam or someone would have already removed the bodies before the women swept the house for supplies. I tried not to look even as I looked. It was unmistakably a person, saggy and deflated, as if someone had let out all its air. Something glowed in its hand, resting down on the armchair. It was a remote control with glow-in-the-dark buttons. Then a flicker of movement.
I hit it with my beam: an insect crawling on the volume buttons. It took me a second to figure out, as I spotted another one and another, that these were maggots. I followed the trail of maggots with my flashlight, first up the man’s arm to his shoulders, and then to his maggoted face, all of his features obscured by a bustling hive of maggots. They dripped from his chin down to his threadbare T-shirt, onto his belly. Flying maggots, larvae maggots, maggoty maggots, maggoted maggots, dancing their maggot mating dance all over his maggoted face.
I staggered back, dropping the flashlight.
Janelle grabbed my arm and dragged me into the kitchenette at the far end of the living room. It was hard to take deep breaths in the foul air, so I just stood, choking, over the counter, not wanting to touch anything, wanting to only keep my hands to myself, from now on and forever. Even Janelle, when she tried to help, yelling instructions to breathe, all I could think about was how disgusting she was, not her but her embodiment, her physicality; her breath, hysterically teeming with bacteria, spewing micromaggots toward me, the grit under her nails, the sweat that glistened on her arms and collarbone, that clung to her hair, ready to drip down all over me. I turned away, fighting nausea. There was not one clean thing, not one clean place. If there were no cells dying and procreating all over the place, in this room, in other rooms. If there were just not cells at all. If I could just find one clean thing here, one thing to please just anchor me. A cold, crisp, starched hospital sheet. A piece of ice lodged in my throat.
Candace? Janelle was shaking me. Her breath was in my face, a hot subway grate of soured condensed milk. Are you okay?
She rustled around in the cupboards for a glass. When she turned on the faucet, it rumbled like the sink was going to explode. The entire house groaned in solidarity. She drew me a glass, not listening to my pleas as the stream of rusty water cleared.
