by J. Q. Coyle
The rain comes just as I make it to the overpass. I scan ahead, taking a moment to catch my breath.
I move on and quickly get rain soaked. More sidewalks lined with small, ragged, dying trees, dwarfed against the huge bowl of sky, the six-lane road and football field–size parking lots. Cars are scattered like abandoned toys.
Taquerias, pharmacies, fast-food joints, gas stations with their nozzles on the ground, and an ice cream parlor, somehow sadder than all the other places with its faded sign hanging by one hinge over the dark doorway.
I run through another major intersection. Rain is streaming down my face and neck. There’s a hulking spaceship-like stadium up ahead. The Astrodome?
After another intersection, I see a hint of a skyline and come to a split in the road. The sky is almost black with rain, and the shapes of the buildings ahead seem ghostlike. I hope this is the fork in the road that Pynch meant.
Soon I’m in a neighborhood that looks expensive—or used to be. Two military trucks rumble by, and I hide behind a dead hedge.
Then I hear a voice.
I freeze.
Now two voices are talking low.
“You go around,” one says.
Then, “Get her.”
I start running, the rain needling my face.
I can hear the wet smack of footsteps behind me, my plastic sack slapping my back. I don’t look back.
I hear a grunt as someone stumbles. I could be killed here. The fear rises in me, tightens my chest.
I charge through another intersection, instinctively looking for traffic, but of course there’s none—just the black, slick street and the large buildings ahead, closer now. I swerve past a bunkerlike building on the right, and the sign by the road—MEDICAL SUITES—and crash through another hedge. Around the corner of the building, I find a spot to crouch.
I clutch the knife and wait, sending a silent thank-you to Pynch for it.
“Come on out, girl,” the man says, his voice low. “We know you’re here.” I make out bare feet, a tangle of hair, a crowbar clutched in a man’s fist.
Through the tangle of bushes, I make out another figure running toward him. “Let’s go! We can’t hold this area.”
“She’s here somewhere, I know it,” the first man says.
“We’re going,” the other man says.
The first man bangs the crowbar on a concrete pillar. “Get you later,” he says to me, and then they run off.
For the next couple of hours, I move like someone under fire. My progress is a series of dashes from point to point. I make it through another huge intersection—Greenbrier, one of the streets Pynch mentioned.
Finally I see huge white buildings surrounded by endless overgrown lawns and parking lots. I feel a wave of despair when I think of trying to find Jax in all this. And who knows if this is the hospital he chose? This is a city of hospitals. Or is he already heading back, and I’ve missed him?
I might never see him again.
I feel sick about it. I knew I had a crush on him, but this is when it hits me that it’s more than a crush. I’m crazy about him. I didn’t want to hear what happened last night and how I’m not his type. I know that’s what was coming. He doesn’t like me back. I look up at the sky and wonder how long I’ve really felt this way. From the beginning? Was that the weird charge I felt when I first saw him in the courtyard before I even really knew him? Is that kind of thing even possible?
But it doesn’t matter when it started. I know it’s the truth, and I know why I’ve denied it so long—because all I know about falling for someone is that it will screw up your life.
I tell myself to forget it, to try to unfeel how I feel. But I know that’s a waste of effort.
Hoping to find a safe spot to watch for Jax, I make my way to a parking deck and climb the spiraling entrance. The sky is clearing. Six levels up, I look out across the city—the glass towers of downtown in a wash of late-afternoon glow seem to waver in and out of view. I blink, rub my eyes, but the buildings still twist like streamers as the clouds pull apart in the shifting light.
There are movements here and there, people foraging.
A woman hurries across the street, dragging her small child by the hand.
An old man seems to look straight at me from the brush edging the parking lot below and then slips out of sight.
A scream that could’ve come from a cat rises, and then nothing. The quiet unnerves me.
I move to the edge of the concrete barrier, trying to see.
Another movement: someone dips between the shadows of two buildings, running fast and soundlessly—hunched over, carrying something?
He’s heading away from me, and when he turns, I see his canvas backpack, the gloss of his dark hair.
Jax.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I GRAB my bag and, holding the knife, I plunge back down the spiral staircase, terrified Jax might get away before I can catch sight of him again.
I force myself to do a quick sweep of the open ground between me and the buildings, then sprint across, straight toward the darkened passageway I saw him heading for. I make it into the shadows.
I don’t see him.
He’s gone.
I wonder if it’s worth the risk to call out for him. I open my mouth, then stop hard.
Jax steps out from behind a dented metal door, a Taser aimed at my chest. It’s dark; the only light’s behind me, and so there’s a good chance he can’t see who I am.
“Drop the knife,” he says. Those bright blue eyes on me, he ticks the Taser toward the ground to indicate what he wants. His face is taut, determined. If he’s afraid, I can’t tell.
I drop the knife; it clatters on the cement, the sound startling us both. “It’s me,” I say. “Alicia.”
He takes another step closer and lowers the Taser. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on people.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I wasn’t scared,” he says, but he lets a whistle of air out through his teeth.
I think of my father standing in the frozen backyard, telling me how he knew he’d seen the face of the woman who would break his heart in a million ways. Is that what my father has to teach me about falling in love? I feel like I’m seeing the face of someone who will only break my heart. I hope it doesn’t have to be in a million ways, and all I can think of is how badly, and in how many worlds, is this going to hurt?
He sticks the Taser in the back pocket of his jeans, shifts his backpack from one shoulder to the other. It looks heavy, landing hard against his back. “How’d you find me?”
“Pynch got me as close as he could.”
“He can be a real softy,” he says and then he looks away. “Did you talk to your father?”
“I got the trigger, mind and body.”
For a second, he’s impressed. It’s just a quick flash across his face. “Good for you.”
“So what happens to someone who can’t navigate the roots and tries to go in alone?”
“They can’t see anything. It’s only blackness, or sometimes they only see a reflection of their own fears. What are you afraid of?”
I’m afraid of my father being beaten to death in a hotel room. I’m afraid of never seeing Jax again, losing him. “Right this minute?” I say. “I’m afraid of you.”
“Me?”
“If you don’t help me, it’s over. Everything I’ve been trying to do—gone.”
“The atlas will only give your uncle more power. Is that what you want?”
“If I can get my hands on it, I might be able to strike some deals. This world isn’t going to last much longer. Perception is everything—you said that—and eventually this branch is going to die just like the side of that tree that nobody looks at, and soon there just won’t be enough of you left to keep holding it together, right? Unless I can get a vaccine, unless—”
Then we hear footsteps.
Jax lifts his hand, freezes, raising the Taser. He pulls me around a corner, a d
arkened emergency exit sign above us. But the exit is locked and we’re trapped in a small closet-size space. Pressed against each other, we don’t move.
The only light streams from the jagged hole in the door where the lock was ripped out.
I open my mouth to ask him what’s going on, and he presses a finger to my lips. A jolt of energy surges through me. I can barely breathe.
More footsteps overhead, some running and some deliberate, patrolling.
A strange hooting noise, answered by another farther off.
I can feel him breathing, the rise and fall of his ribs against mine. His mouth is beautiful, so close.
The footfalls grow louder until they’re pounding overhead and then, just as fast as they came, they’re gone.
We wait a bit longer. I’m in no rush to move. He looks at me and whispers, “The root worlds I see are strange and beautiful, and sometimes they’re dangerous.”
Does this mean he’s thinking of helping me? I’m scared to ask. “For a long time, I thought I was crazy,” I say. “Everyone let me think I was losing it so that I wouldn’t ever know the truth.”
“Are you glad you know the truth?” His blue eyes shine.
I nod. “Everything I thought I was hallucinating was real,” I whisper. “Even you.”
We could move away from each other now. The footsteps are long gone. We don’t move, and I think about what it’d be like if we were two kids at a school dance. It’s quiet. And it’s no longer like we’re pressed together but leaning against each other. Can he hear how loudly my heart is beating? Even though this is one of the most dangerous places I’ve been in my life, I feel safe.
“People here kept dying and dying, and I feel like it’s killed something in me too,” he says. “It was like finding yourself alone in a house as a little kid. You can run from room to room, calling for someone—but they’re gone, and you begin to realize that they left no note and they aren’t coming back.”
I know he’s been scarred by everything he’s been through, but just as he can’t forget all that’s been lost, I can’t forget all that is still at stake. “We can try to save the ones still here. We can at least try.”
“This world you’re looking for, it’s an offshoot of your father’s imagination. My mother told me about it. She told me where to look once we got there. She explained it all, and it’s, well, are you sure you want…?”
“I’m not sure of anything, but I’m not scared.” And it’s the truth. For some reason—maybe because I’m with him—I feel resolved.
“Okay,” he says, and he steps out of the small space and slides his backpack onto the floor. I put my plastic bag next to it.
“It’s your father’s branch, so you’ll have to be the one—”
“To piggyback you in. I know.” He steps out of the small space and leads me back the way we came, checking in all directions. It’s clear.
“There’s just one thing about that,” I confess. “I’ve never actually piggybacked another human being before.”
“What have you piggybacked?” he says, looking up at the sky, which shifts like layers of gauze, like something unraveling.
“Well, that picture I showed you.”
“What else?”
“That’s it.”
He stares at me. “Do you know what happens to someone if they get lost when someone’s trying to piggyback them into another branch?”
“No, what?”
“I’ve heard it’s just wind and darkness. You can hear voices but you can’t call back to them. You’re just gone.”
“I’ll hold on tight. I promise.” I wonder, though, if this is in my control. I hope so. “I’ll hold on with everything I’ve got.”
“Here,” Jax says, pointing to a spot against a building, out of view of the street. “You sit here. I’ll wrap my arms around you.”
My heart is a drum in my ears. I sit on his legs as he leans against the wall.
“Where’s the spot?”
I touch the skin just above the small knot of his anklebone. “Here.”
He grips his ankle and with the other arm holds me around the waist. I lock my arms around his neck. I can feel his soft breaths.
“The sun,” I say.
“The sun,” he whispers.
I stare at a reflection of the sun, glinting off a puddle. Pieces of buildings and concrete fall away, the world breaking apart, and then, suddenly, brightness …
And then weight, pressing air from my chest. My muscles start to burn. I can’t breathe. My body can’t bear the pressure—from within and bearing down on me. I’m sure that I’m going to be torn to shreds. Explode … and then …
I hear a voice. Jax, his voice rough and raw and breathless, whispers, “It’s okay. I can see it. We’re almost there.…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A COLD floor, quiet and dark. I’m holding Jax. He’s holding me. We start to cough. The piggybacking took my breath. I feel weak, wrung out. “We made it!”
He hushes me.
We both get to our feet. We’re in a dimly lit hall lined with mirrors. The hall is tiled—marble, but gritty with something like sand or salt. What had I been expecting? A wild terrain, a jungle?
I shiver, rubbing my arms to warm up. “They should turn up the heat up in here,” I say.
“There is no ‘they,’” he says.
“What is this place?” My whisper echoes as if I’d shouted.
“A museum.”
We start walking down the hall. Our images double and triple, bouncing back and forth between the mirrors infinitely. The only sound is a distant rustling and ticking.
He turns down a hall with red carpeting, soaked like someone just hosed it down. I think of the cruise ship, but there are no panicked throngs of people, no one chasing us with guns.
We pass displays, not antiques, just outdated. One room is an ordinary living room, wall-to-wall carpeting, framed family photographs of people posing by old automobiles. There’s an ordinary childhood bedroom with bunk beds and an ordinary kitchen, but cupcakes have been set out on the counter as if someone were just here.
Each room is cordoned off with a red velvet rope.
Jax starts walking faster.
“What kind of museum is this?” I ask, running after him.
“A life,” he says.
“Whose life?” I ask.
“Your father’s,” he says. “But don’t look. You can’t get caught up in it all. I mean it. Keep passing them.”
I do what he says, but then I glance into a room and find people, all completely stiff, as if made of wax. They’re sitting around a dining room table, except for a little boy who’s standing on his chair holding a tiny army man with a parachute—and I remember letting go of an army action figure off of a balcony, the parachute popping open and my father catching it, below. But this parachute looks hardened. The boy is smiling, frozen. Another boy about two years older is leaning over his plate, trying to get a better view.
There’s a middle-aged mother and father. And then I recognize the father—Gemmy, just younger and trimmer. He’s carving a turkey. His wife, my grandmother, sits at the other end of the table. I recognize her from an old photograph that my mother kept. She’s smiling but looks teary-eyed. I look again at the two boys—Alex and Ellington, young, maybe eight and ten.
Jax runs back to me and slips his hand into mine. “We have to go,” he says. “You can’t let yourself get lost here.”
“This was when they were just kids, maybe even still friends.” I’m mesmerized. I can’t look away. The dining room has a large window, casting them in afternoon light. I point at my grandmother’s face. “She knows something is coming. See her expression.”
“We have to keep going,” Jax says.
I ignore him. “Are they made of wax?”
I step over the rope. I have to get a closer look.
An alarm sounds. I ignore it. There is no they, so there are no security guards.
I walk
up to Gemmy. “He’s so lifelike.”
“Don’t! We have to go!”
I touch Gemmy’s shoulder expecting the firmness of wax, but it’s warm and soft.
“I’m serious, Alicia. Come with me.”
“I can’t. I just want to be with them for just a minute.”
And then Gemmy’s eyes shift to meet mine.
I rear back. “Gemmy!” I shout. I turn to Jax. “He’s alive!”
“No,” he says. “He isn’t. Not really. This world isn’t like the world you know.”
I look around the table.
All of their eyes turn to me, but they’re frozen and quiet. There’s still the sound of rustling, like something trapped and restless.
I steady myself by gripping the table. “Can we help them?” I ask Jax. “Can we save them?”
“They can’t be saved. They exist in this form,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”
I look out their dining room window. There’s a light snowfall. So real and delicate.
What is this place?
“The atlas,” Jax says, and he pulls me out of the room, over the rope.
We both start sprinting. The strange rustling and ticking grows louder. We pass classrooms and altars. Some of the rooms have furniture covered in sheets. Some of them are just storage—boxes, old refrigerators, stacks of photo albums, old bikes and sleds.
And then the ticking noise is right there. On either side of us are rooms of bodies, wrapped in white plastic sheets, like cocoons. The plastic is just pale enough that I can see their stiff physical forms but not the details of their faces. And now I know where the noises are coming from: each time their bodies flinch and shudder, the plastic makes noise.
Are they alive? Are they being preserved? They hang in their wrapping, suspended from ceiling hooks that creak as the plastic twists ever so slightly.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
I imagine the hell of this world for my father—his life packed up and weirdly preserved. The roots—how far do they go on? I created one. What’s it like? Do I even want to know?
Jax says, “This way! We have to get there before the tide rolls in.”
“The tide?”
He throws his weight against a large door. “My mother said there’s an ocean nearby.”
