“Yeah, wasn’t that weird how they’re named after animals, Latin names, old school?” Luna’s tiny figure slipped from view.
Beckett yelled, “Aargh!” And unleashed a barrage of furious punches on the back of Janson’s seat.
“Stanford you better...” Janson unlatched his belt and lunged at Beckett, grabbing his arms, pinning them to his body, twisting around his neck— “You going to cool it? You going to calm down?”
Beckett wanted free, but Janson’s forearm was pressed into his throat. He tried to get away, but he couldn’t breathe or think or even—
“You going to keep struggling?” A needle jabbed into Beckett’s bicep, then Janson released his chokehold with a shove.
Beckett collapsed over his knees, hands to his head, no no no no no.
The helicopter rode east leaving Luna far, far behind.
Part II
The Ship
Chapter 25
Beckett woke with a start. He was on a cot. In a white-painted cinderblock room. A window. A door. It was hot with just a bit of a breeze. He jumped out of bed to look out when the door opened behind him.
“Stanford, you’re awake.”
Beckett didn’t recognize the man. He wore a lab coat—a doctor?
“Good, we need the room. I’m sending you to speak with Dr. Thomas.” The man turned abruptly and walked out the door.
Beckett ran his hands over his head and glanced around the room. His possessions were piled on the chair in the corner. He picked the bundle up as the man returned, said, “Now,” and left again.
Beckett followed him to the hall.
A woman with a tight helmet of red hair, also wearing a lab coat, stood waiting, a clipboard pressed to her front in folded arms.
Beckett stood awkwardly holding the bundle—a comic book, a quilt, a pair of shoes.
The woman held him in a stern gaze.
Beckett figured he just had to get through this. Figure out what to do next. What was Anna doing? Where was she going?
The woman asked, “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
Beckett gulped. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”
She stared at him longer.
He added, “I’m not even sure where here is.”
“You’re back at base, but because you were belligerent on a helicopter ride, yesterday, you’ve been ordered under watch until we decide what to do with you. The captain called you combative and obstinate and wanted you arrested.”
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him for so long that Beckett wondered if he had missed a question. He couldn’t think of what to say, but, “Oh, yeah.”
Was everything Anna told him a lie? From the moment he met her until she paddled away?
An image slammed into his mind—Anna, paddling away. “I love you Beckett,” and paddling. Away. He clenched his eyes tight.
The woman sighed. She tapped her clipboard. Then checked her watch. “I’ve already spent too much time dealing with your case. You seem fine. Your battalion is at the front, filling sandbags. Next shuttle leaves in...” She checked her watch again. “Three hours, your things are at the front desk.”
“Wait—” Beckett’s sluggish brain had believed this conversation would last longer, but this was it, over, and he hadn’t said anything of importance. “I was under the impression I would be able to pick where I would be stationed. I was going to ask to be transferred.”
“I’ve recommended against your arrest and a court-marshal, Stanford, I think you should quit while you’re ahead.”
“I wanted to go to the settlements—”
She squinted her eyes. “Why on earth? You’re young, strong, we need you on the front lines. We’re entering storm season.” She flipped pages on her clipboard. “In the past you’ve been a volunteer, I’m sure you understand the gravity of...”
Beckett clenched his eyes, that image of Anna, I love you, Beckett, What had she meant? Where was she going?
When he opened his eyes, the woman still watched him, eyes squinted. She sighed again.
She scanned a page. “It says here you have an uncle who passed away while you were on the Outpost—”
“Uncle Johnny?”
“You hadn’t heard? Oh well—my deepest condolences. I’ll give you a five day leave to return to your hometown, of...” Her finger trailed down a form, “Charlesville. Rest, get your mind straight, then meet your battalion in Jameston on the twenty-third.”
“Oh, okay, poor Uncle Johnny. Okay, the twenty—um.”
“Pull it together, Stanford, you have five days, the twenty-third, but you need to be ready to work. Sandbags won’t fill themselves.” She scribbled on a card and shoved it toward him.
“Yes, of course.” What had Anna meant? He shoved the card into his pocket.
The woman looked at him for a second and turned down the hall.
________________________________________
Beckett’s trunk was in the storage locker where he had left it almost five months ago. It contained a backpack. He shoved his great-great-great-great-grandmother’s quilt in the bottom and filled the rest with clothes, tees and fatigues, the Calvin and Hobbes book, and his boots.
It was hot, not enough breeze coming in at the windows, and he guessed the AC wasn’t working. Or maybe the power was being sanctioned. It was all kind of the same thing. He dressed in his sandals, dark green shorts with cargo pockets, and a light green t-shirt. He put his wallet in his back pocket and happily turned his cycle key over in his fingers. It would be good to ride it again.
Stepping out of the front door of the base’s hospital meant every sense was accosted. Heat was stifling. People were crowded around the front steps. He pushed through to the immense parking lot. It took a while to find his cycle amid the hundreds of tarp-covered cycles, lined up in rows with more crammed in between.
He pulled the tarp off and lovingly ran his finger down the curve of the gas tank. He would need to go to the bank, then gas, and then...
He strapped the pack to the back of the seat, threw a leg over and sat down, turned the key and felt the machine hum to life. Sitting on the hum, he hit the throttle a few times, revving it, leaned on his arms, enjoying the power. Not much in the past five months had seemed familiar, or comfortable, or even logical, but this...was good. He tore out of the parking lot, his back wheel kicking up a giant cloud of dust.
Chapter 26
Beckett stood on a sidewalk and ate a slice of Pepe’s Pizza, a super greasy favorite in these parts. You could go in and sit down and have a beer if you wanted if the line wasn’t too long, or you could order at the window and stand on the sidewalk and watch what seemed like every person in the town walk by. That’s what Beckett chose, because he needed the distraction of things happening to keep his mind from replaying that one track: Anna, standing above him peeling her yoga pants down. Or the other one: Anna with strawberry juice running down her chin. He needed a giant slice of pepperoni, folded up the middle. He ate it in four big bites and ordered another.
He wiped his fingers on a napkin and fished his phone from his pocket and called his aunt to check in.
“Hi Chickadee. It’s me.”
Chickadee appeared on the screen, in all her double-chinned, pastel-dyed, mohawked glory. “Beckie!”
She yelled off screen, “Dillybear, it’s Beckie! On the phone!”
She turned her attention back to the screen, her chins still waggling. “Beckie, how are you, are you still on the Outpost, of course not, you’re back, we weren’t expecting you until...”
Beckett laughed, “Chickadee if you’ll let me tell you I—”
“Of course, of course, Dilly tells me I go on and on and I pretend not to understand what she’s talking about but...well, don’t tell her I told you that I know.” Beckett’s Aunt Chickadee giggled merrily.
“How’s the house, the um...”
“You heard about Uncle Johnny?”
“Just now.”
“As you
will attest he was a particularly obnoxious, mean, curmudgeonly old coot, and we are fucking grateful every day that he is gone. That being said, your Aunt Dilly and I miss him greatly.”
Beckett laughed. “You miss him, really?”
“Well, he was the only one that could get this dog to mind, so now this damn dog needs to go. That’s right, Horace, I’m talking to you, you’re fourteen and mean as a whip, time to call it a day. So how come you’re back from the Outpost early?”
Beckett recovered from laughing. “The water was rising and...”
“Aw Beckie, I’m sorry, I know what you were doing was important to you. It was important to us too, we were and are so proud of you, Dilly and I. Did you save the Waterfolk?”
“Waterfolk?” Beckett ran a hand over his head.
“Dilly and I watched that documentary, what was it called—Dilly! What was that documentary called? Oh she can’t hear me, she’s out cleaning the garden, we’re having one of our biweekly poetry slams tonight, it is such a life they lead, did you meet many?”
“I did, they were not exactly what I thought they would be...except—I met someone, she was...”
“On the Outpost?”
“Yes, a Nomad, she was—I don’t know.”
“You can’t describe it, or you don’t know, there’s a big difference there.”
“True, and it’s that I don’t know. I thought I knew everything I needed, but I wanted to know more, and she was beautiful and courageous and funny and...then she was gone and I don’t think I can find her. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Beckie, I’m going to ask you something, this is a question that you have to think about and wonder about and decide about on your own. Okay?”
“Okay, Chickadee, that’s why I called, because I wanted you to tell me what to do.”
“Well, this question isn’t like that, it’s not bossy, that’s not really my style, that was more Uncle Johnny’s style and he was a total ass. Here’s the question: Your life is a thirty minute romantic sitcom, it has a story arc, a beginning a middle and an end, your thirty minute sitcom has one big punchline. The punchline gets the whole audience laughing.”
“Not a laugh-track?”
“Beckie, you are not a laugh-track, you are live audience all the way. But you have one punchline, what is that punchline going to be?”
Beckett stood staring down at a gum-covered sidewalk. “That’s it? The big question? The one that will tell me what to do?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, you’re the writer, how about you tell me what my punchline will be.”
“We all have to write our own, but I’ll tell you what, sometimes when I’m stuck on a scene I find that casting helps.”
“Casting?”
“Sure, cast your life, Beckie, pick a location, choose your cast, the rest will come. Dilly is here she wants to speak to you.” The phone wiggled and jiggled and aimed at the sky. Had Anna meant it when she said I love you? Then why did she head north instead of east?
Dilly was short, dark haired, slim. “Hi Beckett, we are so glad to have your feet returned soundly to Terra firma.”
“Me too.”
“You heard about that devil-man meeting his maker?”
“I did. My condolences to you.”
“Ha ha, you always did make me laugh. We’ll have a proper celebrating party when you get back. I overheard what Chickie was telling you, you fell in love?”
“I did, but she’s gone. I want to go find her, but I don’t know how.”
“You have to start looking Beckett, this life is so short, and happiness, that’s worth looking for.”
“Yes, I knew it, but I needed you to say it, thank you.”
“Find her. Call us if we can help.”
“I will.”
Chickadee came back on the phone, “Beckie, I just wanted to say I love you and your mom and dad would have been so proud of you. We’re all rooting for you.”
“I love you too Chickadee, give Dilly a hug for me.”
“I will dear. Call us when you find her.”
“Chickadee, what if she doesn’t want to cast me in her sitcom?”
“Well, I don’t have the answer to that. It seems to me only she knows the answer.”
“And I have to find her to ask her.”
“Yes, what was the last thing she said to you?”
“She said, ‘I love you Beckett.’”
“Of course she did. And so you shouldn’t waste any more time.”
Beckett hung up the phone, wiped his fingers again and mounted his motorcycle.
Chapter 27
The drive to the coast was down a mountain on a winding, narrow road. Beckett enjoyed the vibration through his arms to his shoulders. He leaned into an S-curve, feeling powerful, in control for the first time in months. The air was warm and the breeze cooling, then, of course, brake lights ahead and traffic stretching for miles. Drivers honking and revving. He pulled to the side and put sunscreen all over his face and scalp and his tattooed arms. Then he entered the queue of vehicles heading down the mountain to the coast, opposite the long lines of vehicles heading up the mountain to the highlands. He sighed. Traffic was such a pain in the ass.
Too many people, everywhere people. He shook his head, even interminable traffic was more relaxing than living on the Outpost. This made sense. You jockeyed for a better place in line. Passed slow cars, slowed down, played a game. He was good at this and navigating it made him forget for a few minutes. Probably because he hadn’t seen the water yet. Out of sight out of mind.
Why hadn’t she ever mentioned she was separated from her family?
He thought through their conversations. She always said they were coming back that they were meeting her soon. It had all been so vague. Why hadn’t he noticed?
The traffic was the worst he had ever seen, or had he forgotten? He was at a standstill so he pulled out his phone and searched the internet for the documentary—it was called Last of the Water People.
Fuck.
Seeing the movie poster made one thing feel very, very real—Beckett had believed he understood what was going on, but what he knew was minuscule. He knew nothing. He had sat on an Outpost telling Waterfolk that his knowledge would save them, but he was simply a know-nothing, pompous ass.
Under the movie poster was a review, “I watched this documentary in my fourth grade class, it was very interesting. I don’t understand why they don’t want to come to the settlements, but I hope they will.”
Fourth graders understood more about Anna Barlow than he did.
Traffic began creeping forward and he descended bit by bit into the coastal city of Heighton Port.
Chapter 28
Coastal cities were disconcerting and this one was exceptionally so. It had been built on an incline, so the ocean was taking the city street by street. What used to be the main street, through the middle of town, was now oceanfront. Literally, water lapping on the street bringing with it chunks and debris. On the seaside the houses were at varying levels of submerged.
Street level, the bottom floor was a foot deep.
A half block deeper, that row—the water was up to the first-floor windows.
Until about six blocks out—the tops of roofs were the only part of the building above water, in rows, built into docks. Boats were anchored on the high pitch of old roofs. Top floors of taller buildings stuck up and out, here and there, like smaller versions of Beckett’s Outpost. One had a restaurant attached. Floating docks interconnected it all.
The entire thing was so odd, water up and over buildings, that even though Beckett had grown up in this world, had lived with this always, it still unsettled him. It was a disaster after all. Slow moving albeit. Commonplace, sure. Normal, but it was still an end-times scenario. And Beckett was only lucky so far.
When would his luck change?
Beckett couldn’t bear to drive straight up to the water’s edge. He turned just before the front road, into
an alley, behind buildings, around hundreds of other cycles, and parked. He sat there for a minute talking to himself. You need a boat. To get a boat you’ll have to go to the water. You’ll have to.
He swung his leg off and over and locked up his bike. Behind him were city buildings. He walked, pushing and shoving and jostling through the crowds down Pier Avenue. The street butted into the sea perpendicular to block after block of submerged, half-collapsed, falling, possibly floating buildings in disgusting water. Foamy and dark and putrid. Why did anyone still live here and look at this?
But the city was bustling. All around and behind him, people walked and talked and ate at restaurants and shopped. It was only at the waterline that one could have a tiny bit of respite from the crowds.
Shit. It was about four in the afternoon. The sun was glistening obliquely down on the whole seaport city.
Along the waterline were sandbags, the army, fellow soldiers like himself, had been here moving the levee up, up, up, as water overtook the city.
____________________
A building directly in front of Beckett said, Port Authority. That seemed a good place to start. A bell dinged as he entered, warning the Authority that someone had arrived. The lobby was crammed with about fifty people. No one at the front desk. Beckett leaned on a wall between a woman who was chewing a toothpick and sneering to herself, and a man who was wearing a sweat-stained suit.
Finally the Port Authority front desk person appeared. She had short cropped hair and an angry face, and though she seemed determined to be unhelpful, the way she flicked through papers and glared around, the air was electrified with the possibility that she might actually call someone to her desk. Everyone leaned forward, ready to lunge, but Beckett pressed past them all, “Excuse me, I need a boat.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Every body needs a boat, you still have to wait your turn.”
Leveling Page 7
