Hole in the Sky

by Pete Hautman

“I noticed that they had hair.”

  “That’s why I think it is not the end of the world. Or at least not of their world. The Kinka’s children are normal. And I do not think that they need to worry about the Flu.”

  “You think they’re immune?”

  I nod, but he cannot see me in the dark. “They have inherited immunity from their Kinka parents. It is their world now. The children of Survivors will inherit this world.”

  I hear Ceej breathing. Four feet of black air separates us, but I feel his heartbeat, the beating of a distant drum.

  “What about us?” he asks.

  “For us, there is another world.” My knee touches his. “Show me the sign for love,” I say.

  “It’s too dark. I can’t see you.”

  I reach out. “Show me with your hands.”

  Slowly, he takes my hands in his and closes them into fists. He crosses my wrists and presses my fists into my chest, one fist over each breast. “There.” His breath is sweet with the smell of canned peaches. I feel his arms surround me. He whispers something in my ear.

  “What’s that?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

  “Not the end,” he says again. Our lips touch.

  Granddaughter?

  Yes, Grandfather?

  You are not alone.

  I open my eyes to the gray light of early dawn. My hair is hanging across my face. I brush it aside with my left hand and see Tim, sitting in a chair, staring at me with a peculiar expression on his face. I try to sit up, but something heavy holds me down. Ceej’s arm. We are tangled together on the sofa beneath an old blanket. I nudge Ceej. He mutters something, raises his head, blinks. I squirm out from his embrace. My bare feet hit the floor. I stand, pulling the blanket with me, wrapping it around me.

  Ceej says, “Hey!” I pick up my clothing and walk into the next room and close the door.

  As I dress I can hear their low voices. I move closer to the door.

  Tim: “She has to come with us. I know she will.”

  Ceej: “What if she doesn’t want to?”

  “She has to. The Kinka are insane. They’re like animals.”

  At first I think they are talking about me, but then I hear Ceej say, “Yeah, but she’s one of them. She’s a Survivor.” I realize they are talking about the sister. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved. I tie my hair back with a leather cord, then rejoin them. Ceej is still on the sofa. He is wearing his jeans, but no shirt. Tim is chewing on a strip of jerky. They are talking intently. Neither of them look at me.

  Tim says, “They’ve got the Jeep, the Land Rover, and the bus. That’s it. All we have to do is disable the Land Rover. Pull the plug wires loose or something. Then we take off in the Jeep. There’s no way they’ll catch us, not with just that big bus.”

  “How do we get Harryette to the Jeep?”

  “I’ll go in and get her.”

  “You’ll just stroll in and ask her to come with you?”

  “Something like that.” Tim has been out all night. His eyes are bright, but bruised-looking. I sit down beside Ceej on the sofa.

  “You should rest,” I tell Tim. He ignores me.

  “Tonight, as soon as it gets dark, you pull the wires on the Land Rover, and I’ll get Harryette.”

  “How will you know where she is?” I ask.

  This time he looks at me, his face dead with fatigue. “She’s in ElTovar. I know which room.”

  “You saw her?”

  “I talked to her.”

  This takes both Ceej and me by surprise.

  Tim says, “She was standing in one of the third-story windows, looking out. I found a place where she could see me. She was surprised.”

  “What did you tell her?” Ceej asks.

  “What d’you think? I told her we were gonna get her out of there” Tim turns his head away from us and rubs his eyes.

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  Ignoring me, he says, “I watched the Kinka all night long. They spent most of the night in the lobby, sitting around the fireplace like we used to, talking. Some time around midnight they all went to different rooms and went to sleep. That’s when I’ll get her. There are lots of ways to get into the hotel. I’ll get her out of there.”

  Ceej says, “Why didn’t you just tell her to meet us at the Jeep?”

  “I have to go get her myself.”

  “Why?”

  Tim shrugs. “She told me to go away.”

  “Did you ask her about Hap and Uncle?”

  “Yeah.” His face seems to collapse. “She said they’re dead.” He draws a shuddering breath. “She said we’ll be dead, too, if we don’t get out of here.”

  I listen to Ceej and Tim talking, arguing, scheming. They will not leave without Harryette, this much is clear. Tim believes he can talk her into coming with us. Ceej is not so sure, but he feels they must try.

  They are planning so that they will not have to think. The news of their elders’ deaths has hit them hard, but as long as they stay focused on Harryette they won’t have time to grieve. When night comes again, they decide, they will act. Eventually, their talk grinds down. Tim hasn’t slept since the night before last, on the trail. He stretches out on the floor, head cradled in the crook of his elbow, and falls asleep. I look at Ceej. He is staring at the floor. I am feeling shy, too.

  He says, “I dreamed that we were all Kinkas.” I reach over and touch my finger to his lips. They tighten. I stand up, walk around behind him, put my hands on his shoulders and begin to massage the muscles on either side of his neck. They are like stone, hard with fear and doubt.

  “Don’t think,” I whisper. “Lie down.”

  Slowly, I knead away the tightness. My hands are made for this body. I feel his breathing grow deep and slow, and within minutes he is asleep. I continue to massage, gently, until all traces of tension are gone and his face is young again, then I lay down beside him and close my eyes.

  Granddaughter?

  Yes, Grandfather?

  You must continue jour journey.

  Not without the boy.

  Then you must bring the boy.

  The boy will not come without the sister.

  Then you must bring the sister.

  I know that.

  You must continue your journey.

  I know that.

  There is a way.

  I open my eyes and quietly sit up. Ceej and Tim are both sleeping soundly. I tiptoe out of the room and down the hall into the next office. I find what I need in one of the desk drawers—a disposable razor. Another drawer produces scissors. I wipe the dust from a mirror hanging on the wall and take a good look at myself. I am like a wild woman, my hair thick and tangled, my face hardened by months of living in Öngtupqa.

  I begin the cutting.

  MOTHER K

  THE FIRST KINKA I ENCOUNTER is a girl, no older than me, her belly full of child. She is sitting alone on the stone wall in front of Hopi House staring at nothing, or perhaps staring into her own soul. I say hello, but she does not respond.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  She smiles and places her hands on her belly, but will not meet my eyes.

  I am standing in the full light of the midday sun. I can feel the heat of it on my skull. I turn toward the hotel. Several Kinka are lounging on the porch, talking. I climb the stone steps. There are four of them, three men and one woman. All of them have paint on their skulls and faces. They stop talking as I walk past them and push through the door to the hotel lobby, feeling naked.

  Inside, a small fire is burning in a huge stone fireplace, but the lobby is empty. Dead animal heads hang from the walls. Tim saw Harryette on the third floor. I start up the stairway leading to the mezzanine. I hear the lobby door open behind me, but I do not look back. In one of the long hallways leading from the mezzanine I see a boy in his late teens. He is feeling his way along the wall, counting out loud as he reaches each doorway. Sensing me, he stops.

  “Is this the second floor?” he
asks.

  “Yes,” I tell him.

  His brow contorts. “I have not heard you before.”

  “I’m new.”

  “Are you …?” He moves closer and reaches for me, his hand high. He wants to touch my head, so I bow slightly and step into his hand. His fingers dance lightly over my scalp and he says, “Ahhh. You are Kinka.”

  “Yes.” At least I’ve fooled one of them.

  “My name is Alan,” he says.

  “I’m Isabella.”

  “I’m blind. Are you blind?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good.” He nods, a habit left over from the days when he could see.

  “I heard there was another new girl,” I say. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Her name is Harryette,” the boy says, smiling. “But she can’t talk.” His smile fades. A girl who cannot speak is of little use to a blind boy.

  “Where is she?”

  “She is with Mother K.”

  “Who is Mother K?”I ask.

  A deep voice comes from behind me.

  “I am Mother K.”

  I turn. She is tall and thin, her body covered by a long lavender robe, her arms caught in a swirl of golden rings, the black pupils of her eyes surrounded by disks of amber, slashes of orange paint zigzagging across her cheeks. Her skin is darker than mine. Her lips are full and her nose is broad. She is the most beautiful and frightening woman I have ever seen.

  Standing behind her is Ceej’s sister, Harryette.

  Mother K’s golden eyes burn into me. She says, “We do not know you, child.”

  I do not know what else to do, so I offer her my hand. “My name is Isabella.”

  She does not look at my hand.

  “Come with Mother K,” she says. She whirls and heads back toward the mezzanine. Her robe touches the floor so that her feet are not visible. She seems to glide along the carpeted hallway. Harryette falls in behind us. I want to sign to her, but I am afraid it will be seen. We go down the staircase to the lobby. Someone has added a broken wooden chair to the fire, and it is blazing. Mother K leads me to the sofa nearest the hearth. We sit down. Harryette stands behind the sofa. Several other Kinka have entered the lobby and are looking at me curiously. I can feel the heat of the fire on my right side. Mother K places her hand atop my head and fixes her amber eyes on a place somewhere inside my skull. I return her gaze, trying not to tremble as her eyes bore holes into my soul.

  “Isabella,” she says, smiling. Her teeth are large, white, and regular. “So, you have come to join us?”

  “Yes.”

  “And from where have you come, child?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mother K’s eyebrows arch in disbelief.

  “I have been traveling for a long time,” I say.

  “Alone? With nothing?”

  “I need little.”

  Harryette has moved to the end of the sofa where I can see her.

  Mother K turns to the group of Kinka standing behind us. “She comes from nowhere with nothing!”

  The Kinka laugh. Harryette’s eyes are upon me. I cup my right hand into a C, then make a J with my little finger—Ceej’s name. Harryette’s eyes widen.

  Mother K says, “And why do you wish to join us?”

  “There are stories … people talk of you … the Kinka. You are powerful.”

  “And how is that?”

  The fire is hot on my right leg, on my cheek.

  “You bring death.”

  Mother K throws her head back and laughs. “Death? You are misinformed, child.”

  “You bring the Flu.” Looking past Mother K, I see Harryette signing to me, but her hands are moving too fast, and I don’t know the signs she is using.

  “That is true,” says Mother K. She places her palms together, and I see the rest of the Kinka repeat her gesture. There are more of them now. They have been coming in by ones and twos. “The Flu is a test, a transformation, an opportunity to become more than what we were. For some it is a release from this world. Either way, we bring the future. You have seen our children?” Mother K smiles proudly.

  “Yes.”

  “The Flu is nothing to them. Not even a sneeze.”

  “But you kill. The Flu kills.”

  “Not all. It did not kill me, nor any of my people.” She gestures with her long fingers and I see that there are several dozen Kinka watching us. I see the three little boys staring at me wide eyed.

  Mother K brings her face close to mine. “What about you? You are a Survivor?” Her breath smells like flowers left too long in a vase.

  I nod, forcing myself to stare into her eyes.

  “You are a very curious Survivor,” she says. Her long hand touches my scalp, stroking. She smiles, her mouth inches from my eyes. Stroking me from my forehead to the nape of my neck. Then she reverses direction, pulling her hand over my scalp from back to front. I feel her palm dragging across invisible bristle.

  “Most of us need not shave our heads,” she says.

  I feel hands on my arms, clamping down hard. Mother K sits back and smiles. Her teeth are plentiful and large and white.

  “Let us show her the future,” she says.

  Hands lift and pull me toward the lobby door.

  Grandfather?

  I am being walked down the driveway, a Kinka on either side. I try to break free, but their hands are on me like iron manacles.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  They do not reply. I look back and see Mother K walking a few paces behind us. Harryette is beside her, gesturing urgently, but Mother K will not look at her. The rest of the Kinka are following them in a loose, chattering, excited crowd. They walk me down the short, steep hill, then around to the back of the hotel. There is a separate building there, a windowless structure tucked into the shadow of El Tovar. The door is held shut with a heavy chain secured by a carriage bolt. I realize that the chain is not to keep people out. It is to keep something in. One of the Kinka holds me while the other unscrews the bolt that holds the chain together.

  Mother K comes close to me. Her hands grasp my face firmly but gently. She plants a kiss on my forehead.

  “Do not be afraid,” she says in my ear. “Some do not die.”

  The door swings open.

  I hear coughing.

  DEAD MEN

  THE DOOR SLAMS SHUT BEHIND ME. The room reeks of rust and rot and grease and urine and sweat and worse. I stand with my back to the door, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Light seeps in through vents and cracks in the walls. I see a looming shape, a giant metal monster sprouting pipes and wires.

  A man’s voice says, “Who are you?”

  I look toward the sound and see a pile of rags on the floor against the far wall. My eyes adjust further and the pile of rags becomes a man hugging his knees to his chest. He coughs, a dry cough that starts high in his throat, then works its way down until it becomes a bubbling chortle.

  “Who are you?” I ask after his hacking subsides.

  “You don’t know?” The voice is weaker.

  “No. They just put me in here. What is this place?”

  More coughing; I can feel it echoing in my chest.

  “Boiler room. You aren’t one of ’em?”

  “No.”

  Silence. “You just natural bald?”

  “I shaved my head.”

  “You’re a girl, aren’t you?”

  I hear a moan, and see the second man lying on his back a few feet away.

  “Is he okay?” I ask.

  “No. Look, if you’re not one of ’em, you better stay away from us.”

  “You have the Flu.”

  “That’s right, kid.” He starts coughing again and tucks his face into his shoulder to muffle it. I am breathing shallowly through my nose. I move a few steps away and run into a spider web. Something scurries across my shaven head; I swat at it and feel my hand wrapped in fine, sticky webbing. I move back toward the door, hoping I have not d
isturbed a black widow.

  The man’s coughing fit passes. He clears his throat and says, “They’ll leave you in here with us till you get good and sick. That’s how they do it. They infect one at a time. They put him”—he gestured toward the unconscious man—“in with poor Sandy a week ago. Then when he got to coughing, they put me in here to keep him company.” He laughed, but not in a happy way. “Keeping the virus alive.”

  “Who’s Sandy?”

  “Girl they picked up in Page. She’s dead now. Just like he’s gonna be pretty soon. Like we’re all gonna be. This is how these crazies spread the Flu. They always keep a few sick people with ’em. You’re next in line, I guess. Sorry, kid.”

  “Are you Hap, or Uncle?”

  Several seconds of silence. “I’m Hap Gordon. He’s Chandler Kane. How do you know who we are?”

  “Ceej and Tim told me all about you.”

  “They’re …?”

  “They’re here, hiding in the Ranger Office.”

  “Those damn fool kids” he says, his voice suddenly stronger. “You tell them—aw, hell, you can’t tell them anything, can you”

  I pull on the door handle and hear the clank of the chain links tightening.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  Grandfather?

  Yes, child.

  I may never reach the Sipapuni.

  What is right is right.

  Grandfather?

  Hours pass. I sit with my back against the door, breathing tainted air. The slivers of light from the vents turn gray, then fold into blackness as night surrounds the building. Hap Gordon has slipped into a fitful sleep. I listen to his ragged, liquid breathing. The other man, Ceej’s uncle, lies still and silent. I think he must be dead. I stare into the darkness and see motes of light, millions of them, smaller than the smallest speck of dust, filling the air. They enter my body with every breath. They burrow into my lungs, tumble through my veins, tunnel deep into my muscles. They penetrate the cells of my body, stealing my life force: o replicate themselves.

  Grandfather once told me that the Flu bug was a foolish hunter. “It kills off its only prey,” he said. “In the end, there will be no one left to get sick. Then where will the Flu bug be?” We had laughed at that. Now it wasn’t so funny.