THE CLOUD SEEDERS

by James Zerndt

  Maybe they all know the food is poison.

  But nobody is motioning for me to stop. It almost seems like they’re excited, like they’ll be sitting down to dinner right along with us.

  That’s what I tell myself anyway.

  I pour a glass of orange juice first, figuring that either everything is poisoned or nothing is. Dustin, who’s now pretending to read Mom’s book, looks over at me as I hold the glass up.

  “I don’t know about this, Thomas.”

  “I don’t either. But if we’re going to die, we might as well have full bellies.”

  “Wait,” he says and walks over, pours himself a glass. “We’ll do it together. It’s only fair.”

  “But then we could both die.”

  “Yeah, I know. Stupid, huh,” he says and raises his glass to mine.

  “To Mom and Dad,” I say.

  “To Jerusha.”

  That gets me. Just the thought of Jerusha hurts.

  And Dustin refusing to toast to Mom and Dad.

  How long will it be before he forgives them?

  We clink glasses and drink.

  The orange juice is cold and tastes like life. That’s the best I can describe it. Like someone took what it is to be alive and squeezed it out into these glasses and that’s what we’re drinking. I can feel it coursing through my veins, like my blood has turned orange.

  We down our glasses at the same time and wait.

  “How do you feel?” I ask.

  “Thirsty. Is that normal?”

  “Yeah, I think so. That it?”

  “And good. I feel good.”

  “Yeah, me too. Let’s have another.”

  I scan the room, can almost hear the salivating tongues. Teeth is nearest us, and, when I look at her, she starts pointing at the button on the wall again.

  No dice.

  I pour me and Dustin two more glasses. And then a third. Each one is better than the last. All the while we keep an eye on each other, watching for signs of poisoning.

  But nobody’s tongue falls out.

  Not yet anyway.

  The timer on the oven dings.

  I can already smell the pepperoni, the sausage.

  The glorious grease.

  I dish up a pizza for each of us and we head to the couch. Before we dig in, I hold a steaming slice up next to Shakespeare’s glass. “You sure you don’t want some?” I say. “Okay, suit yourself.”

  I shove half a slice into my mouth and Dustin does the same. The way he’s holding it, his hand on the crust so that the entire thing droops is exactly how he used to eat pizza.

  Like riding a bike.

  “What do you think?”

  Dustin doesn’t answer. He’s too busy chewing. When he does speak, it’s with a belch so loud it echoes across the room.

  “That good?”

  “Better.”

  Me and Dustin spend the next hour gorging and exploring. I make us each a grilled cheese sandwich with ham. Dustin used to love them. Next I broil up a steak. They even have A-1 sauce in the fridge. I slather the stuff on, watch as Dustin goes to town on it. We finish off the rest of the orange juice. Then we start in on the milk.

  We don’t talk.

  And we don’t look at the glass cages.

  We chew.

  We swallow.

  We drink.

  We grin like fucking madmen.

  Madmen with milk moustaches.

  *

  I don’t know how long we’re out for, our bellies confused by the recent windfall, but I wake up to find Shakespeare gone. The notebook is there, closed, resting on his stool.

  Pee break maybe.

  Which reminds me. Neither Dustin or I have used the old-fashioned toilet yet.

  There’s even toilet paper.

  I get up quietly so as not to wake Dustin and do a quick headcount. It looks like there are only three awake right now. Two we haven’t named yet and Teeth. It’s almost like they’re all on the same schedule.

  I start out with something simple.

  Peeing.

  I stare at the floor, listen to the falling rain which, for once, is good for something. When I finish, I give a sheepish look around the room, notice Teeth watching me, and for about the hundredth time, I get the vague, creepy feeling I know her from somewhere.

  I stare at the floor some more, then drop my pants and sit down.

  Talk about stage fright. My forehead is sweating.

  After what feels like two eternities, I manage to go.

  I’m certain I’ve woken up the entire Panopticon, but when I look up nobody is paying me any attention.

  I wipe as discreetly as possible, the toilet paper so soft it almost tickles. I can’t believe we used to live this way. Then, as if the whole experience wasn’t degrading enough, Shakespeare reappears through a door in the floor of his glass box just as I’m finishing up.

  When I flush, the sound is louder than I remember it being. Or maybe it’s just the acoustics of this hell they’ve put us in. Whatever it is, it wakes Dustin up.

  “Whoa,” he says, fanning his hand in front of his face. “Somebody light a match.”

  Not so much as a grin from Shakespeare.

  “Your turn,” I say. “It’s kind of liberating.”

  “No thank you.”

  He curls back up on the couch, sneers at Shakespeare before burying his head in the cushions again. I don’t blame him. If Dustin hadn’t been sleeping, there’s no way I would have been able to go.

  *

  I’m about to take another nap when the TV comes snapping to life, a grainy picture filling the screen. The rain, I notice, has suddenly vanished and Shakespeare’s got his pen poised, his notebook at the ready.

  On the TV they’re playing some sort of home video shot with a hand-held camera. It’s dark, the only light coming from a flashlight, the screen all bouncy. Me and Dustin are more amused than anything else at this point as we watch the camera walk down a flight of stairs.

  Then the camera stops, focuses in on a cardboard box.

  It’s an old Slip ‘N’ Slide.

  Whoever’s filming turns the camera around, holds up a gloved finger and wags it at the camera all tsk-tsk like.

  We used to have a Slip ‘N’ Slide.

  Mom kept it as a memento even though it was clearly an Unforgivable.

  There’s laughing in the background and the camera is set on the floor. You can hear feet scuffling about, more laughter, then the camera’s picked up again. A man is now dancing around in the dark with what looks like a piece of shag carpet.

  “Hey, that’s Tony the Tiger!” Dustin says, leaning forward now.

  I start to say something, start to tell him it can’t be, but then I recognize the unmistakable fuzzy head.

  And there’s our old washer and dryer.

  A mound of dirt beside it.

  The fuckers.

  I get up, start twisting and pushing buttons, but it won’t turn off. The camera pans in on what’s left of Mom and Dad, their clothes sunken into where their bodies used to be. I see things moving in there, maggots, squirming pieces of bone, a jaw and white teeth, mouths full of dirt.

  A smiling face fills the screen.

  Even with the grainy light, I can tell who it is.

  Dumb cop.

  I bear hug the television, yanking the chord from the wall as I pick it up.

  The laughter disappears.

  Dustin.

  He’s sitting there, his bottom lip quivering.

  I spin around, hurl the TV at Shakespeare’s glass box, but it just comes thudding harmlessly to the floor.

  Shakespeare doesn’t so much as flinch.

  This isn’t happening.

  This is not happening.

  I try to think of something to say, some words that might erase what will no doubt be burned into Dustin’s mind until he goes the same way as our parents. But all I’ve got are syllables. I swallow down, something I’m barely able to manage, and just as I’m
certain I won’t throw up every last thing in my stomach, someone pounds on the Panopticon door.

  A yellow piece of paper is slid under.

  Mom’s suicide poem.

  The fuckers.

  The unbelievable mother fucking fuckers.

  To My Boys

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  I’m sorry

  12 Vote Water

  Dustin finally uses the toilet.

  Which is great but when he flushes, the water never comes back. The faucets are bone dry now, too. And we’re running out of food. All that’s left are some sea-salt potato chips.

  Not exactly a thirst quencher.

  This morning I found Mom’s suicide poem crumpled up in the garbage. Dustin must have read it. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there’s something off about the poem. Mom never used capital I’s. She told me once that she thought capital I’s were egotistical, that they placed too much importance on the self.

  Mom was a fruit cake.

  A beautiful, beautiful fruit cake.

  *

  We’ve stopped naming the other prisoners.

  Dustin says he doesn’t feel right about it, so we just use numbers now. Truth is, I’ve sort of gotten used to them. And I think they’ve gotten used to us.

  Even Shakespeare seems bored of the situation.

  I’ve caught him daydreaming more than a few times, his eyes all moist and distant looking. He doesn’t write anything when he’s like this.

  It’s almost like he disappears.

  *

  The cages, the glass box, everything has gone black.

  “Dustin?” I whisper and feel for him next to me on the couch. “Dustin?”

  “What the...?”

  “I don’t know. They turned the rain off again, too.”

  “Maybe the power went out.”

  “Maybe.”

  There’s a noise. Like something being slid open.

  “You hear that?”

  “Uh-huh,” D says and scoots closer to me. “What if they let them out?”

  “Then you take 1 thru 9. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I can still hear the refrigerator humming away.

  So no power outage.

  My eyes are slowly adjusting, the outlines of things coming into focus, when something flutters past my head. For a second I think maybe there’s a giant bird in the room, but then I see a shadow moving in front of us.

  There’s more fluttering.

  The couch shifting just a touch.

  Like someone’s sat down.

  Or gotten up.

  “Dustin?”

  Nothing.

  “Dustin?” I say again and reach for him, but all I get is a fistful of couch. I stand up, banging my knee into the coffee table, and suddenly the lights come back on.

  Dustin’s gone.

  And we have a new nanny.

  Dumb cop has replaced Shakespeare.

  “Where is he?” I say to the glass, and, for a response, get a finger pointing across the room.

  Dustin hasn’t gone far.

  He’s number 19 now.

  “I guess I should thank you for letting him keep his clothes on.”

  Dumb cop nods, then pushes a button and the cells all go black again.

  All but Dustin’s.

  “And I guess I should thank you and your girlfriend for leading us straight to that Leftover jackpot.”

  I walk up to the glass, try to keep the shaking in my knees out of my voice. “You spiked her car, didn’t you?”

  “Not me, personally. But yes, it was spiked. We tend to take certain precautions after Citizens spit in our faces.”

  I watch helplessly as Dustin bangs and kicks at his new glass home.

  “What do you want from us?”

  Dumb cop pushes another button and cell number 20 lights up. The rain comes on again, too. It took awhile, but they finally managed to ruin one of the most beautiful sounds there is.

  Was.

  “We just want you to see the greater good. Once that’s accomplished, we’ll let you and your little brother go. Simple as that.”

  “Simple as that. Right. If I knew what the fuck you were talking about.”

  Dumb cop stands, places his hands on the back of his chair like he’s about to give a sermon. “If you want to play games, we can play games.”

  Dustin’s cell goes black.

  “Last chance,” Dumb cop says.

  “I swear on my parent’s grave, you know, the one you dug up, that I don’t know what you want from us.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” he says and shakes his head. “Wait. Yeah, no, actually it is.”

  He pushes another button and Dustin’s cell lights up.

  Only Dustin’s not in it.

  “Time’s up, Officer. We hope you enjoy the show.”

  What have I done?

  Buddha Complex

  i am a lotus

  thumper.

  i have belly

  envy.

  i am the sound of one ego

  clapping.

  13 Reduce Your Water-Footprint, Re-use Your Fluids, Recycle Your Life

  The curtains have all been drawn.

  I know the catalog of tortures used by the Sustainability Unit. They practice everything from Water Boarding to Teething. Teething, I’m guessing, is what they used on Teeth. Still, I can’t imagine them trying any of that with Dustin.

  I bang my fists on the front door, call out Dustin’s name even though I know it won’t do any good. I even kick Shakespeare’s empty box a few times, expecting what, I don’t really know. Maybe a voice to come on over the intercom and tell me to stop, that all of this has been one big misunderstanding.

  But there’s nothing.

  I give up, flop down on the couch.

  That’s when I notice the TV.

  They’ve set up another one.

  I go to pull the plug but before I can, it turns itself on.

  There’s Dustin, strapped into something like a dentist’s chair, a metal band tightened around his head.

  Like the kind you see at electrocutions.

  Only they aren’t going to kill him.

  They’re going to Stamp him.

  Dumb Cop is holding an electric prod, turning it over and over in front of Dustin’s face, smoke from the red square billowing. When he walks behind the dentist’s chair, his footsteps fill the room.

  Surround sound.

  They’ve rigged the Panopticon like a home theatre.

  I can hear Dustin’s ragged breathing, like he’s trying his best to hold it in but just can’t. Even so, he’s completely stone faced, his eyes locked straight ahead, not a single glance at the prod.

  “Officer Thomas,” the room says. “Did you find a good seat for the show?”

  “Dustin,” I say to the TV. “You’re going to be okay. Just think of something else, okay? Think of home.”

  His face cracks a little, winces, like what I just said was more ridiculous than what they’re about to do to him.

  “Think about Mom.”

  This time he rolls his eyes.

  “Tell us where we ca
n find the rest of your father’s research and this all goes away,” Dumb cop says and dangles the prod an inch from Dustin’s neck.

  That box Twink had with the Do Not Open on the front and Dad’s initials. I’d forgotten all about it.

  Could that be what they’re after?

  “I don’t know anything about any plans,” I say and grab hold of the TV. “I’m telling you the truth.”

  A gloved hand appears in front of the screen, wags a finger from side to side.

  “Last chance...”

  “Dustin,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

  Dumb cop rubs some jelly on Dustin’s neck, turns his hand up like he’s offering me one last chance.

  “Wait!” I yell and run to the wall with the button on it. “I’ll push this thing. I swear I will.”

  Dumb cop looks off-screen, then slowly backs away from Dustin. “Wait a minute now. Let’s not do anything rash.”

  “I’ll do it,” I say, my hand hovering over the button. “You let him go. Right now. I mean it.”

  “Okay, whatever you say,” Dumb cop says and turns to somebody standing nearby. “You heard him. Let him go.”

  I watch but nobody moves.

  Dustin, too, is frozen, his eyes staring straight into the camera.

  “I’ll push it!” I say again, my voice quickly losing whatever conviction I somehow managed to fake earlier.

  Then I hear it coming from all around me.

  Laughter.

  “I’m sorry,” Dumb cop says, sniggering. “I can’t keep this up any longer. Wow, you really are fun to torture. Most of the others just cry and beg. It’s a real drag.” He clears his throat like he’s trying to regain his composure. “Go ahead and push the button, Officer Thomas. Unfortunately, it’s not going to help your brother one bit.”

  My throat feels like it has a rock in it and my hands are shaking. I push the button and there’s a banging sound inside the wall before something rolls out and hits my foot.

  It’s a bottle of water.

  A fucking vending machine.

  The other prisoners were trying to help us.

  “Just for the record,” Dumb cop says, the poker raised chest-high. “Most of the others push that button on their first day here. A little paranoid, don’t you think?”

  He turns to Dustin, smears the jelly around on his neck some more. “I’m sorry about this, little buddy.”