Did he really want to obliterate this festering micro-universe? Or might it be nicer simply to join it? To stretch out under the sky until night came and all the creeping things mistook him for a second log to explore and infest. If he were to lie there, simply lie there on the wet ground until he lost consciousness, how long would it take for anyone to notice? Who would discover his absence? Who would care? If Hank or the new settlers didn’t find him in the bank building, they’d assume he had given up and run back to New York. Days would pass, maybe weeks, before someone found him. By then his corpse would have already merged, like the rotting oak, into the marshy soil.
Gingerly he let himself down beside the log. His ears were full of the sound of the creek washing against the shore just several feet away, and above him spread the sky, more vast than any he’d ever seen in New York. That was another result of the flood and its destruction: it had not only wiped clean the ground, it had also expanded the sky. It used to steal through the narrow slivers between skyscrapers, a petty thief; now it had been restored its dominion. It was radiant with its pride.
There was only one stubborn cloud, a cumulonimbus, directly overhead. It was an odd cloud: it didn’t seem to be drifting at all. It just sat, motionless, looking down at him. Mitchell lay there for what seemed like ten, even fifteen minutes, but the cloud refused to move. How was this possible? It didn’t expand or contract, just stayed fixed in the highest part of the sky. And it really was watching him, wasn’t it? Just staring at him, waiting for him to move.
“You first,” said Mitchell without sound.
“Nope,” said the cloud.
“I got nowhere to be.”
“That’s two of us.”
“Fine,” said Mitchell. “Suit yourself.”
Even as the swamp flies, or whatever they were, started flapping around his eyes, as the bark beetles scaled his bare arms and the grass scratched at his neck, he would stay there. This was his land now. If he wanted to lie on it all night long, or even for weeks, until he wasted away and his flesh sloughed free from his bones—well, if he wanted to lie there for eternity, nobody could stop him, certainly not an intangible mass of vapor in the upper atmosphere.
But then something very peculiar happened. Almost imperceptibly, the cloud, cowed by his will, began to drift away.
Flatlanders
Mitchell Zukor was missing.
The condition of the atrium was the first indication that something was wrong. The atrium was immaculate. Last month it had still resembled a forgotten storage unit, with disorderly clusters of tools, chairs, and bank-teller desks, long sacks of fertilizer and compost, and pallets from Jackpot loaded with vegetable cans and packages of instant ramen. The red travertine floor tiles had been all but obscured by dirt and plastic wrappers and what appeared to be animal droppings. Mitchell’s appearance then had alarmed her; he had not looked good. He hadn’t shaved since, well, probably not since Randall’s Island. Gone was the Mexicano; this was the Elderly Wino. She could barely recognize him. The most disturbing thing was the beard. It was full and wild, getting into the corners of his mouth, and it was coming in white. Now he really looked the part of a mad old oracle, she told them back at the office. Like Tiresias himself, frail and muttering and blind.
It was a slight exaggeration. Mitchell wasn’t frail. Far from it, in fact, he was broader in his shoulders and neck—his body, in a state of shock, frantically adding muscle to cope with the intense physical exertions it had been forced to endure for the first time in its existence. And Mitchell wasn’t blind either, except in one respect: he had no idea what he looked like, not having glimpsed a reflective surface for six months other than the rippled, silty waters of the Fresh Creek Basin. When she mentioned the whiteness of his beard, he had no idea what she was talking about, and when she clarified it for him, he just shrugged. He didn’t seem to care. His clothes were filthy too. He cleaned them every few weeks in the marsh, he reported, as if this achievement were worthy of a trophy. Gold star for marsh boy.
So in addition to the other supplies he had requested and several that he had not, she had brought him a gift: a mirror. She’d had it wrapped in brown paper, tied with a red bow. She carried it to the door, leaving the rest of the things—the floor wax, the new pack of filtration cartridges, the fresh vegetables—in the truck. He didn’t answer the intercom at the front gate, which was typical, so she punched the security code, passed through the arbor, and unbolted the front door with her key. But now, upon entering the old bank building, she was so disturbed by what she saw that she lost her grip on the mirror. She clamped down as it fell, pinning it against the side of her knee just before it hit the floor.
“Mitchell?” she called out. “It’s me.”
The supplies were still there—they had barely been dented—but he had stacked them neatly in the bays along either side of the atrium, behind the U-shaped bank that in a distant age had separated the bank customers from the tellers. The floor had been mopped clean, the travertine tiles glowing dimly in the twin shafts of sunlight that passed through the two first-floor windows. Emptied of the clutter, the room somehow seemed taller, and she was astonished to see that the original lighting fixtures—twin domes hanging at the end of white stalks like the eyes of a hermit crab—had been polished to their original splendor. There were no lightbulbs in them, of course, but still the glass globes absorbed the light that bounced off the floor, projecting solar systems on the walls.
She first checked the vault—if Mitchell was inside, he might not have heard her enter. The door gave with a startled gasp, revealing its treasures: the portable generator, the canisters of gasoline, another half dozen pallets of canned vegetables, about a hundred gallons of water, and the black suitcase that she figured must by now contain nearly half a million dollars in rubber-banded stacks of hundreds. Everything seemed in order. There was no sign of a break-in. But there was also no sign of Mitchell.
On the second floor he had shelved the books she had brought him, and the couches had been arranged around the center of the room. A stack of books lay on the low coffee table in front of the couch. The thick volume resting on top was titled Textbook of Domicilic Engineering: Systems and Processes.
“Mitchell?”
Her voice came out strangled. Every time she visited she was reminded how ridiculous it was to leave him here like this, in isolation. But what else could she do? He’d refused every alternative. Even her offer of a cabin on the Maine coast, off the grid, outfitted with the latest in bioenergy technology, with a full garden already planted—even that he had refused with a scornful head shake.
“That’s not the point,” he’d said cryptically. He’d developed a disquieting habit of combing his fingers through his beard, where they inevitably found little pieces of fuzz or food that he held up to his eyes for examination before tossing aside. “I have to do it by myself, for myself.” He refused to say anything else on the subject.
On the third floor his sleeping bag was unrolled. His clothes were piled tidily on the conference table. The desk he kept by the windows was the only messy thing in the place: scattered papers, pencils, a calculator, and open books on electric engineering and building design, their pages heavily annotated. It could not look more different from his FutureWorld office. This room felt lived-in, thought-in, alive with knowledge. At FutureWorld the offices had felt choked by knowledge—choked to death.
On the tall windows he had done a near-professional job: the putty was almost invisible at the edges of the new panes, the glass unsmudged. The weather monitor sat on the sill, its silicon dish exposed to the sunlight. She walked over and looked out. Mitchell wasn’t visible in the garden below, though the large, flat leaves of the canna plants, flapping in the breeze like pterodactyl wings, obscured part of it. Nor was he in the outhouse; she could see that the door was ajar. And she doubted he was in the marsh; he never left the property by daylight, as far as she knew. In any case there wasn’t anyone now visible in the marsh, exc
ept for the Motas and their young daughter. A fat white opossum was sauntering lazily down Flatlands Avenue. She hiccuped.
“Mitchell!”
She ran down the stairs, her hiking boots thwaping on the burnished stone steps. She had bought them upon returning to Manhattan—a six-hundred-dollar pair of black Mountainsiders with injection-molded supports, antibacterial linings, open-cell foam sock liners, and thick, chunky treads. It was a silly purchase: she wore them only during visits to the Flatlands, and even then they were hardly necessary. Still, the boots had become part of the monthly ritual. Going to the wilderness? Throw the heels into a bag, slip on the hiking boots. Then call the armored limousine. That was the other indispensable part of the ritual: the armored limousine, which was really closer to a cargo truck, with its giant trunk compartment, off-road wheels, and Large Keith, the 280-pound retired defensive end who served as her driver.
Outside, as she passed from the entryway to the front gate, something flashed in the garden behind the canna plants. Squinting, she ran to it, past the tomato trellises and some kind of purple lettuce, her boots kicking soil onto her calves. Was he playing games with her, hiding in the garden?
But no one was there. The glimmer was a shard of glass wedged into the boundary wall at shoulder height. It was attached to a cracked window frame, one of the thousands of pieces of debris that formed the wall to Mitchell’s fortress, nearly every component with rough surfaces and jagged edges. You couldn’t climb a wall like that—you couldn’t even touch it. That seemed to be the point.
Sweet jumping Jesus, get me out of here.
“Everything all right, Ms. Eppler?” said Large Keith. He was standing in the gate, his arms crossed in front of his sequoia chest, keeping an eye on the neighbors. His titanic dome gleamed in the sunlight, slippery with perspiration. “You need me to go in?”
Behind him she could see that the couple from down the block—David and his wife with the overbite, what the heck was the poor girl’s name?—were sauntering over. She stepped outside the gate.
“Andrea and I have been worried about him,” said David, waving. “He still only comes out at night. We watch him from our house. You know, just to make certain he doesn’t get into any trouble.”
“He’s fine,” she said. “Same as always.”
“Could you tell him the offer still stands?” said Andrea. “Our shack isn’t finished yet, but we’d really love to have him over sometime. I mean, once he’s ready.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“The Tildas are having a party tomorrow,” said David. “Everyone’s going to be there. We’d like very much to see him.”
She nodded. “I’ll stop by when we’re done here. I have the PV modules.” She could see the relief on their faces.
Once they’d returned to their hut and were safely out of earshot, she informed Large Keith that Mitchell was missing.
“This kind of thing?” Keith shook his head. “It’s not sustainable. No man can live like this.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Want me to unload the supplies?”
“Maybe we should wait,” she said. “I mean, maybe the best—”
They were interrupted by a skitter of falling gravel, then three loud plunks as something bounced off the top of the perimeter wall, then off the roof of the limousine, and landed in the dirt. Jane looked up. There was nothing to see except a thin plume of dust where the object had skimmed the top of the wall. They ran around to the other side of the limousine. On the ground lay a fat metal bolt.
“Mother Mary.”
“The roof,” said Large Keith. “I’m coming this time. That could’ve killed one of us.”
“Keith? Stay here.”
He gave her a long, cold, squinty stare, the kind of look he must have used to traumatize the offensive tackle at the line of scrimmage.
“Please. You know how he feels about visitors.”
She ran back through the arbor, fumbled the keys, dropped them in the dirt, picked them up, turned them in the lock. She sprinted across the atrium, through the creaking turnstile, up the stairs—thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap—to the third floor. Then—of course, why hadn’t she thought of it before?—she walked to the back of the building, where she ascended the final half flight of steep metal stairs. She pushed with all her weight on the security bar. The heavy steel door burst open, and she was in the open air. And there on the blacktop, facing her, was a filthy bearded man with curly hair that danced mazurkas off his head in every direction. He was shirtless, his chest a dull brown, his arms nicked and blemished like someone who has run through brambles. Of course he probably had run through brambles. He probably did every time he went for a night marsh soak. He was wearing only dirty green slacks and a pair of black boots. She recognized the boots, of course. They were Mountainsiders. She’d given them to him.
Every month she had scrutinized him for signs of impending madness. There were signs, starting with the beard (which looked more feral than ever, a chaotic blizzard), but until now they hadn’t added up to anything verifiable—or certifiable. Mitchell didn’t rant about pantheism or spirit liberation, he didn’t wear energy bracelets or anti-EMF diadems, and he hadn’t sworn off soap or toothpaste (though deodorant, based on anecdotal evidence, appeared to have fallen out of favor). But the jury was still deliberating. She was the jury.
“Jane?” said Mitchell.
“I was worried.”
“Why?”
He was holding a hammer. She noticed now the white PVC tubes, the power drill, the open toolbox with its contents disgorged around it like a split belly, the boxes of nails and screws—and bolts.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to improve the rain catchment system,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I was just … annoyed. I couldn’t find you.”
Mitchell put down the hammer and put his hand on her collarbone. He smelled awful. Like a wild animal.
“Jane. How many times do I have to tell you.”
“I know.”
“I’m fine.”
“Great. But you need to take a shower. I know you’re not in modern society anymore, but this is crazy hobo territory.”
“Actually that’s what I’m doing up here.” He smiled faintly, from a faraway place, and lowered his arm. “The gutters catch the rainwater, it drains through the PVC into barrels on the ground. I’ll warm the water with the solar heater. And then I can take a hot shower.”
“Well,” said Jane. “That’s neat.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I have the stuff you wanted.”
“Thanks. I’ll help Keith unload.”
“I also got you a present. You can open it after you take your first shower.”
“Hm. I think I know what it is. Hey, did Tibor and Rikki write?”
“There’s a package in the car. Also the guy from The Wall Street Journal keeps calling. Did you ever read his article?”
“I don’t read articles.”
“Well now he has a book deal. A kind of biography. It begins with his memories of you in college. The day of Seattle and all that.”
“Convenient.”
“He’s a nice guy. Smart. But he does want you to sit for an interview, or several. He says if you don’t, he’ll be forced to imagine things from your perspective so that he can put the reader inside your head.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?”
Jane shrugged. “Look, I don’t care. What should I tell him?”
“He can talk to you or my parents, or even Charnoble. But I don’t want to hear about it again.”
“I have one other message for you.”
“Who?”
She smiled uneasily.
“Did you give them the spiel? Off the grid, no interviews, no donations—”
“No.”
“What? Why not?”
“The message is from Elsa Bruner.”
“Elsa Br
uner.”
“She called Future Days.”
Mitchell recoiled. His mouth underwent a violent contortion. It was like he had seen a ghost.
“She’s alive?”
Jane told him about Elsa’s recovery, her decision to undergo open-heart surgery to implant an automatic cardiac defibrillator—a device that carried a number of risks, but seemed necessary given the alternative. There were three months of physical therapy, during which she had begun to study for the LSAT.
“Absurd. She didn’t even finish college. You’re lying. This isn’t nice.”
“But she’s been accepted. Stanford.”
The look on Mitchell’s face was a mixture of befuddlement and high skepticism. At least that’s what she guessed. The beard blocked everything. It was like the perimeter wall. It not only kept you out, it kept you from getting too close.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I don’t think she would lie about it.”
“I can’t believe she’s alive.”
“She’s going to study environmental law.”
“It doesn’t sound like the Elsa Bruner I knew.”
“She’s not the Elsa Bruner you knew.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
“You have about three months to think about it. She has a summer job downtown at some environmental law firm. Not far from Future Days, in fact.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“She’d like to visit you.”
“Enough.”
“Fine. But she wanted you to have this.” Jane pulled a crinkled envelope from her back pocket. Mitchell’s name was written on the front in Elsa’s neat, girlish script. The envelope smelled like smoke.
“The letter,” said Mitchell, and his eyes got very wide behind his whiskers.
He tore it open with such force that the envelope fell out of his hand and the breeze carried it skidding toward the edge of the roof. He stepped on the envelope finally, hard, and opened it more carefully. It contained a postcard. It was one of those cheap promotional postcards they gave away for free at restaurant cash registers. This one was from a crappy Korean dive in midtown, Chosan Galbi. Mitchell was looking at the note with disgust. He showed it to Jane. It read “By the time you get this, I’ll be a futurist.” It was in Mitchell’s handwriting, with his signature. Only Elsa had crossed out Mitchell’s name and signed her own.
Odds Against Tomorrow Page 27
