Speaking of Pod-Zilla, here he is, stomping into the living room.
Torturing him with triple-word scores is fun but not high on my list right now. I have something better to do. Like looking at this cul-de-sac, at the bike that’s always there, the POD that never moves or sleeps, the girl who should be in the window but isn’t. So instead of saying yes, I set down the binoculars and say, “What happens when our food runs out?”
“Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.” He sits on the floor facing me, leans back on his elbows.
“So?” I say. “What’s your plan?”
“It’s a complicated question.”
“No. Either you have a plan or you don’t. You always have a plan.”
He says, “Okay, you’re right. I have a plan. But it’s … evolving. I’d rather not talk about it now.”
“You’d rather play Scrabble?”
“Yes.”
“Than talk about our future?”
“Scrabble is more fun.”
“There you go again, Dad, avoiding the harsh realities of life.”
He smiles.
“You want to know what I think?”
“Always,” he says.
“Okay. The way I see it, there are only two choices.”
This gets the silent nod. I hate the silent nod.
I say, “One, we starve to death, or two, we get deleted.”
“Which do you pick?”
“First, a question: Does starvation hurt?”
“For a while,” he says. “But I’ve heard that once you get past the point where the organs shut down, it’s painless. Even peaceful.”
“Like drowning?”
“The romanticized version, yes.”
He transitions from sitting to lying down, head propped on his fingers, staring up at the ceiling. We have a fine collection of cobwebs up there. Now that Dad has seen them, I expect they’ll be gone by tomorrow. At this moment, when I should be contemplating the moral implication of choosing death by POD or death by starvation, I realize I don’t even know what day it is—Monday, Wednesday, Sunday? Then again, so what? Time is no longer measured in units, it’s just the indefinite space between waking and sleeping. Sooner or later that won’t matter because—
“So?” he says.
I say, “Uh, deleted. Definitely the way to go.”
“Final answer?”
It sounds like he was thinking door number two and I went for door number one. “Deleted. Final answer.”
“Why?”
“Very quick, probably painless, and maybe we’re not really killed. Maybe we’re beamed somewhere.”
“Like heaven?”
“I’m not ruling it out. But it could be another planet, or another dimension—like a flowery meadow where singing butterflies ride on the backs of unicorns.”
He says, “Maybe it’s a place where you’re forced to work in alien mines deep below the surface of some barren asteroid, digging with blistered fingers for toxic fuel. Or maybe you’re kept in feed lots, like those cows we pass on the way to Seattle.”
No one kills a buzz like Dad. “Whatever,” I say. “I go with the freaking unicorns.”
He stands up. When I say “freaking” he usually leaves the room. For him it’s the verbal equivalent of a fart. But this conversation needs closure, so I ask, “Which do you choose?”
He rubs the hair on his face and says, “I defer my vote to a later date. There may be other options.”
“Avoiding reality again?”
“It’s my prerogative as the elder statesman.”
“Well, you better hurry,” I say, picking up the binoculars and turning toward the window. “We’re running out of kidney beans.”
Later that night a howling wind comes up. This seems to happen a lot, way more than in the pre-POD world. Tonight it happens well after I’ve gone to bed, rattling the window and shaking me out of a deep, dreamless sleep. I try going back to that place, where emptiness actually feels good, but I can’t. I’m thirsty. I need a drink of water, just a sip, something to help peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Dad will never know. I slip out of bed. Dutch thumps his tail twice and goes back to sleep.
As I feel my way down the stairs, I notice a flickering light from somewhere below. Did someone forget to pinch out a candle? Fire Marshal Dad wouldn’t approve! Down a few more steps and I hear a sound. Something rhythmic and steady, mixed in with a dose of heavy breathing. Is that him?
I’m at the bottom of the steps, staying on the carpet as I creep down the hall toward the kitchen. When I reach the corner I have a view of the patio door. I see Dad’s reflection in the dark glass. He’s in the kitchen, a burning candle on the counter beside him. There’s also a white spray bottle and what looks like a glass of water. He rubs the counter with a rag, his hand moving in slow, meticulous circles. He’s really leaning into it, concentrating, bald patch down, like there’s some stain that just won’t come out. After a few more rubs he picks up the spray bottle, squirts a few blasts at another spot, then goes back to work. Then he takes a spoon, dips it in the glass, and drizzles it over the spot. He rubs that down with a different rag. Then he picks up the spray bottle, moves slightly to the right …
I’ve seen enough. I turn around and slip back to my room.
With the door closed and absolute darkness enveloping me, I contemplate this new rip in the fabric of my life. And Dutch starts licking his balls. Perfect.
DAY 19: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
The Whispering Women
I think my eye is infected. It’s gone from sore when I touch it, to a steady throbbing pain no matter what. I feel a whopper of a headache coming on, too. I can’t do this ladder thing anymore. I need to find Cassie before it’s too late, for her and for me. There are two ways I can do that. One is to walk right in and tell Richie that I’ll give him the gun if he’ll give me Cassie. The other way is a lot harder and I start sweating just thinking about it, but if it means avoiding Richie and Mr. Hendricks, then I’m ready to try.
I fold up the ladder and lug it back to the utility room. That’s where I slept for the past two nights. It was shivering cold, but luckily whoever worked there left a sweatshirt behind, so I didn’t need to sleep in a car. I got scared on the second night because I heard noises and it was so dark, darker than the Volvo trunk even, that I broke down and used a glow stick. It died this morning, so now there’s only three left. That was stupid.
I count doors as I walk and think about the facts: There are three guards I’ve seen—Richie, Hacker, and Black Beard. They all have guns. They take turns guarding the doors, even at night when everybody is sleeping. I’m not sure what they’re guarding and why, because no one can use the outside entrance—the spaceballs make sure that doesn’t happen. The green door that leads to the parking garage is used only when someone picks up a bucket and goes out to The Sewer. The only other way in that I know about is my secret way—the utility room.
There’s a door to the stairway that goes up to the tenth floor. I can’t see it from the vent, but I hear it opening and closing all day long. I don’t think there’s a guard. But there are at least three more guards on the tenth floor. I heard Richie talk about “Jamie and Myles and that worthless Russian.” I’ve seen Hacker go up there, too. That makes six total, not including Mr. Hendricks.
I reach the seventh door on the left, push it open. The tape is still over the latch. I slip into the utility room, close the door behind me, work my way to the outside door, and open it a crack. There’s just enough light outside for me to see what I’m doing.
I take the tools I need out of the backpack and stuff them in my pockets: broken knife, pepper spray, makeup mirror, wire and tape, screwdriver, PowerBars, and the last three glow sticks. I put the baggie of weed in the top middle drawer of the desk and hide my backpack in one of the buckets. Pockets bulging, I climb the ladder to the air-conditioning vent, then use my screwdriver to twist out the screws. I pull back the vent cover. It’s a tight fit,
but without the backpack I’ll manage okay.
I crawl like a worm into the vent.
Right away all the horror movies I’ve ever seen flood into my head. I fire up a glow stick and clamp it between my teeth as I slide on my belly, elbows and arms out in front. It’s a small and dusty tunnel made of metal that echoes when I bump my head on the roof, which is every five seconds. Spiderwebs stick to my face and hair and lips, and disgusting brown things crunch under my elbows. I’m pretty sure they’re mouse turds.
But that isn’t the worst part. As I wiggle my way down this long, narrow tunnel with branches that lead to dark and scary places, I realize that there isn’t enough room to turn around. To get out I’ll have to crawl backwards, which means I can’t see where I’m going. If the glow sticks run out and I get lost, I’ll be spider food for sure. The next person to crawl through this tunnel (like that will ever happen!) would find the dried-up skeleton of a twelve-year-old girl with a plastic stick clamped between her bony teeth and a bandage over her empty right eye socket.
My first turn is at a T that goes either left or right. I pick right because it feels like I’m over the hall and heading toward the door with the vent. That’s probably the best place to start. But before making the turn I get an idea. I take out the tape and mark this spot with a small V. Between these markers and my trail in the dust, I should be able find my way back to the utility room.
I make two wasted turns that end with vents overlooking dark, silent rooms. I wait and listen, but nothing seems to be going on. So I crawl backwards, find my markers, and keep moving down what I now call the LTT, which means Long Tunnel of Tortures. I come to a branch that goes left. There’s a light at the end. I bust through a wall of spiderwebs to check it out.
It’s the hotel lobby, but this time I’m at floor level and facing a wall with paintings and mirrors. The counter is to my right instead of straight across. There’s plant in front of the vent, so I can’t see a whole lot, but I see enough. It feels good to breathe air that isn’t flavored with dried mouse turds and to look out at an open space. I take a nibble from a PowerBar and settle in for a long afternoon of watching. I smile because, for right now at least, I know what it feels like to be a mouse in a wall.
People walk by, but it’s not very often and I hear only bits of the conversation as they pass. It takes forever, but I manage to learn a few things.
Two women are angry because today was supposed to be a water day, but thanks to the thief they don’t get any. “The longer this goes on, the worse it’s going to get for all of us,” the second woman says. Then the first woman says, “I stayed at this hotel before, and Mr. Hendricks was nice then. But now all this power has gone to his head—you can never tell when these ex-cop security types are going to snap. Someone better find this thief, and fast.”
A teenage girl tells her friend that the worst part of all this is she still looks fat. Her friend says, “Like, no duh, this is, like, the worst vacation ever.”
A woman with a cane tells another woman that she’s worried about her husband because there’s a flu going around. The men are dropping like flies locked up on the tenth floor like that. The other woman, who’s a lot younger, says she heard that one of the guards threw two bodies out the window last night. One of the bodies was still breathing.
All this watching on my belly gives me a headache the size of France. My eyelids are hanging like they’re weighted with lead. Thank goodness I have to pee; otherwise I’d fall asleep and probably snore like a moose. So I’m trying to figure out if I can hold it when two women actually sit on the floor next to the plant. One I’m able to see—it’s the woman with the sick baby. The baby is asleep on her lap. The other woman is blocked by the plant. All I see are her feet. But when she whispers, “Mary, you can trust me, whatever it is,” I recognize the voice right away. It’s Aunt Janet.
Mary says, “I’m the one they’re looking for.”
Aunt Janet says, “You? How?”
Mary says, “One of the guards was in the stairwell with the girl who worked at the front desk—the one with the pierced nose. I think he gives her supplies in exchange for you-know-what. Anyway, they were doing it like crazy behind the stairs. I see his pants on the floor, so I open the door, sneak in, and go through the pockets. I found a bot-tle of aspirin and two of those bottles from the minibar.”
“What was in the bottles?”
“Vodka and whiskey.”
“Which guard?”
Mary says, “The one with the knife who kept telling everyone about the kitten he keeps in a box. How he’s going to slice it up and put the chunks in our soup.”
Aunt Janet says, “Isn’t he the one who made you go to the end of the line?”
Mary nods.
“Of all the guards to mess with,” Aunt Janet says, “you had to pick him.”
Mary says, “So now I don’t know what to do.”
Aunt Janet says, “Have you told anyone else?”
Mary says, “Just you.”
Aunt Janet says, “Not even your husband?”
Mary says, “I haven’t gone up to see him because I don’t want Mr. Hendricks to take it out on him if they figure out it’s me.”
Aunt Janet says that could happen. Then she asks about the baby.
Mary says, “I think Lewis has an ear infection. I ground up a little of the aspirin and mixed it in some water. That seems to take the edge off the fever but only for a while. What he really needs are antibiotics. He almost died from an ear infection six months ago.”
Aunt Janet says, “Did you ask Mr. Hendricks for the medication?”
Mary says, “I waited in that awful line for almost a whole day. I could feel Lewis burning up in my arms and that guard wouldn’t even listen. When I did finally see Mr. Hendricks, he wouldn’t listen either. He said sick babies aren’t a priority. He told me to trade my rations with someone for the meds, then sent me out the door. Eight hours in line for thirty seconds, maybe.”
Aunt Janet says, “Mr. Hendricks took control of a dangerous situation. Securing the food needed to be done. But separating the men and women, and the way he uses that evil guard, Mr. Smith—I think he’s crossed a line and can’t come back.”
Mary says, “So what do I do?”
Two women walk by on the way to the buckets. Aunt Janet says something in a louder voice about how lousy the soup was. As soon as the women are gone, she’s back to whispering. “Do you still have the vodka?”
Mary says, “Yes.”
Aunt Janet says, “Okay. Tomorrow morning I want you to tell the big guard with the ponytail—he’s the nicest of the bunch—that you know who the thief is and you want to see Mr. Hendricks right away.”
Mary starts to argue, but Aunt Janet cuts her off.
“Tell Mr. Hendricks that you smelled alcohol on my breath and saw me sneaking some pills out of a bottle.”
Mary begins to cry. She’s trying to talk but can’t. Aunt Janet tells her to take a deep breath, she’ll be okay, she can do this. It takes a few moments, but Mary pulls herself together.
She says, “What will you do?”
Aunt Janet says, “I’ll figure something out. Who knows, maybe I’m like that cat in the box. Maybe I have nine lives, too. Now, quick, while no one’s looking—give me that bottle of vodka and a couple of aspirin.”
DAY 20: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Pray for Me
I’m in my room having a “conversation” with Dutch, asking him what I should do about Lynn, who I was going out with in the pre-POD world, and this new girl, Amanda, who lives in the apartments across the street and has blown me kisses but is playing hard to get. Dutch says, Dude, what’s your problem? I say, Should I feel guilty because Amanda is pushing Lynn out of my brain? Dutch says, It’s not like you’re marrying her or anything, it’s just a couple of harmless blow kisses. It’s all good, Dude, so go for it. I would.
It’s amazing how much Dutch sounds like Alex.
I know this is certifiably
nuts, asking a habitual ball-licker for relationship advice, but it’s no crazier than the other actor in our little drama. Now I’m noticing every little thing he does, like if there’s a piece of blue lint on the rug in the living room, two hours later it’s gone. Or the spiderwebs in the skylight, which were there one day and gone the next. I never see him doing these things, so that means he’s at it when I’m not looking or when I’m sleeping. Staying up late to scrub those counters is taking its toll. He’s lost ten pounds at least and is ragged around the eyes. If he’s shooting for a prisoner-of-war look, mission freaking accomplished.
Another thing that’s driving me crazy is how I have these habits that won’t die. Like opening the refrigerator and standing there as if a tuna salad sandwich will miraculously appear. When I walk into my room at night my hand searches for the light switch, and I still look for the clock on the microwave. But the absolute worst is my iPod—the craving to use that has got to be stronger than a cocaine habit.
This is the mental minefield I’m waltzing through when I smell it.
Smoke.
Something is definitely burning. I run down the stairs. It’s stronger down here. Where’s it coming from? Dad is looking out the living room window. His face has a strange orange glow.
He turns to me and says, “It’s bad, Josh.”
I run to the window and look across the street. A black, swirling plume is rising from the apartments. It is so thick you can hardly see the POD spinning above it. Angry orange flames shoot through windows on the second floor, and sections of the roof have that same sickening orange glow. A window smashes open on the fourth floor. The dancing woman pokes her head out in a billow of smoke and starts to scream. I pick up the binoculars, my heart pounding, and search for Amanda through the oily black. All I get is a single sheet of paper taped on the glass with these words:
pray 4 me josh. XO
I drop the binoculars. Bile rises sour in my throat. A door on the ground floor opens and two people run out. A man, then a woman carrying an infant. They’re deleted before they reach the sidewalk. The dancing woman jumps from her window and disappears before hitting the ground.
Pod Page 13
