THE CLOUD SEEDERS

by James Zerndt

  “Don’t you fucking touch him!” I yell as loudly as I can, but my voice is trembling, closing up on me.

  It doesn’t matter. All I’m doing is adding to their pleasure. I have no choice but to sit and watch as he presses the metal into Dustin’s neck. I can see smoke curling off the prod, hear Dustin’s flesh sizzling.

  His tears fall and turn to steam.

  But not once does my little brother cry out.

  *

  I don’t know how much time passes, but at some point they cut the lights again. There’s more scuffling in the black, something being dragged, then dropping onto the couch. I want to swing at the air, but I know it’d be pointless. Chances are they have night vision or something, can see me just fine.

  When the lights come back on, Dustin is sitting on the couch, tape across his mouth. I’m not sure why they didn’t put him back in his cell, though I’m guessing guilt or sympathy wasn’t much of a factor. His neck is swollen and red. It looks like he has a gobstopper lodged in there.

  I carefully peel off the tape, ask if he’s okay.

  “Do I look okay?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not okay.”

  Shakespeare is back now, too, watching and scribbling away in his stupid notebook. And, as if the Stamping wasn’t enough, Dustin’s got a fever now, too. He spends most of the day on the couch sweating. The thirst is setting in hard now. I periodically push the button on the wall, but it’s gone dry.

  Sold out.

  I can’t remember the last time we ate.

  We’ve moved beyond mere hunger.

  I’d kill for a salal berry.

  Me and Dustin had a conversation before they abducted him, about the possibility of one of us having to eat the other. He said if I ever took one bite out of him, he’d make sure I had diarrhea the rest of my life.

  At some point I must fall asleep because I wake up to Dustin shaking me, asking what I think his face will look like when he’s older. He wants to know if the Stamp will fade like tattoos do.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “But try to think of it as a war wound. A badge of honor. Because that’s what it’ll be when this is all over.”

  “Right,” he says and tries to smirk, but it only makes him wince. “A stamp of honor.”

  He picks up Mom’s book, pulls out the yellow piece of paper I put back in earlier.

  “I threw this out for a reason,” he says. “Mom didn’t write it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s a shitty poem, that’s how I know.”

  I tell him my theory about the small i’s, how she wouldn’t suddenly start using them, especially not in a suicide note. I do not go into my other theory about suicide being a selfish act.

  The ultimate in capital I.

  “I bet these assholes staged the whole thing,” he says and crumples the paper up again. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t ever kill themselves. No matter how bad it got.”

  And just like that, Dustin figures out something I should have realized a long, long time ago.

  Still Life with Jacket

  i can smell my death

  in the morning

  when the backyard is thick

  with pines and sparrows.

  i become a child camping

  with meals-ready-to-eat,

  and my father laughing, saying,

  “Don’t tell your mother”

  when he turns the packet of mashed potatoes

  into soup.

  Or my father drunk and getting a ticket

  for not wearing a life jacket

  on his hand-made fishing boat

  and later grumbling around the campfire

  about how nobody’s allowed to be a man anymore.

  And now that grumble

  is in me,

  on mornings like these,

  when my children

  feel like jackets

  i’ll never be able to take off.

  14 Green Energy Means Moral Energy

  I’m asleep next to Dustin, our new favorite pastime, when he starts tugging at my pant leg.

  “Wake up. We’ve got mail.”

  On Dustin’s lap is an envelope, the word SHAKESPEARE written across the front.

  “Where’d it come from?”

  “Don’t know. It was here when I woke up.”

  “Well, open it.”

  “Might be a bomb or something,” Dustin says, gingerly fingering the corner of the envelope.

  “Give it here,” I say and take it from him. Inside there’s a hand-written note...

  We are being watched. Please do not act like anything out of the ordinary is happening. And whatever you do, do NOT stare at me. Here’s the deal: I want to help you. I read your dossier and have come to understand that your mother was the poet Margaret Banks. Let me just say that I’m a huge fan. I’m also a bit of a closet poet myself so giving me the nickname Shakespeare was really quite apropos (and funny)!

  Sadly, there’s only so much I can do for you. All the doors here require codes. The code for the lower security areas are all the same: H20. I’ve left cell #19 slightly open so you two will be able to crawl under. I’ll claim it was a mechanical malfunction or something. The door on the other side will be open, seeing as the cell is empty. After that, you’re on your own. I can only leave the lights off for about an hour. After that they’ll get suspicious.

  Please destroy this letter as soon as you can. My life depends on it. I’m sorry about what happened to your parents. It wasn’t right. They were amazing people. And I’m not alone in thinking that. We aren’t all bad!

  Shakespeare (Elliot)

  “I bet it’s a trick,” Dustin says. “Once we leave, they’ll toss us in a pit like Mom and Dad.”

  I hesitate, then take Mom’s book from the coffee table, stuff it into my jacket.

  “Let’s go.”

  “But Thomas...”

  “D, we’re going to die in here. You want that?”

  “But what if this guy’s lying? What if this is just more bullshit?”

  “Then at least we tried. C’mon. Before I change my mind.”

  I’d be lying if I said it was easy leaving the other prisoners there. I try to tell myself they aren’t real, that they’re just emotional props set here by our captors, that maybe they’re actors used by the government to push me and Dustin over the edge.

  But I know that’s not true.

  We’re leaving them here.

  To die.

  Shakespeare, seeing me hesitate, pushes a button and bottles start dropping into their cells. As they rush to collect the water, I find myself having the ridiculous urge to wave goodbye.

  Mercifully, though, Shakespeare cuts the light and everything goes black except for Shakespeare’s box and Dustin’s old cell.

  We walk over as casually as possible, and, before we crawl under the raised glass wall, Dustin and I both give one last look at Shakespeare. Elliot. But his face is as stony and impassive as ever. I wonder what one of his poems would look like.

  Fun stuff, no doubt.

  Mom probably would have loved him.

  “Ladies first,” Dustin says.

  I’m too nervous to think of anything even remotely resembling a comeback, so I just go ahead and crawl into the cell. Dustin follows after me, his butt barely making it under before the glass slides down again.

  Maybe it was another trap.

  I crouch down by the iron door, give the handle a slow turn, and it opens just like Shakespeare said it would.

  “Wait here,” I tell Dustin. “And not a peep.”

  “This is fucked,” Dustin whispers and I’m about to tell him it’s not any more fucked than being treated like cattle when we hear voices outside. Dustin presses his ear against the door and I’m about to pull him away when the handle gives a jerk, turns halfway like somebody’s trying to open it.

  I grab Dustin’s arm, squeeze.

  We hear a soft thwump as something hits
the door and slides down on the other side. The handle then returns to its original position.

  I have to force myself to breathe.

  “We’re dead,” Dustin whispers and I’m trying to muster up something positive to say, something about guards being notorious narcoleptics, when the handle starts to turn again. I grab Dustin and we stand with our backs against the wall as the door swings open. It comes to a stop against my foot and we watch as Dumb cop drags something in, leaves it in the middle of the cell.

  He’s holding a syringe in his hand like a six shooter and there’s a crumpled, unconscious mass of woman on the ground.

  Jerusha.

  “Almost show time, honey,” Dumb cop says and starts to take off his belt.

  I’ve seen enough.

  I give the door a little shove with my foot and it swings shut. When Dumb cop whips around, Dustin says, “You want to let us go,” and takes a step toward him.

  Unbelievable.

  He’s channeling Obi-Wan.

  “You?” Dumb cop says. “But how’d you...?”

  Before he can say another word, the lights cut out.

  Shakespeare. He’s still looking out for us.

  Seconds later, the cell is filled with growling and grunting and I start swinging my arms out in front of me, high, since I’m assuming Dustin’s got his knees. That is, until I hit something dumb and solid. I grab hold of what might be Dumb cop’s ears, but before I can twist them off, he trips over either Dustin or Jerusha and we all come crashing to the floor.

  Somehow I’ve managed to keep hold of his face.

  I know this because the douche-bag bites my hand.

  I let out a yelp and poke my finger into something mushy that I’m hoping is his eye. Whatever it is, it does the trick. His teeth release my hand.

  “I’ve...got...the needle,” I hear Dustin rasp out from somewhere nearby, and, before I can tell him to be careful with it, Dumb cop screams.

  It’s a girly scream.

  So much so that it makes my earlier scream sound like it came from a lumber jack.

  The lights come back on just as I’m tightening a strangle-hold around what I hope is Dumb cop’s neck. The first thing I see is the needle sticking out of his thigh, blood staining his government-issue pants.

  The second thing I see is Dustin standing beside him with a gun in his hand.

  “You can let him go now,” Dustin says calmly.

  “D,” I say as I scoot away. “Be careful with that thing.”

  Dustin doesn’t seem to hear me, just keeps staring down the barrel at Dumb cop, a creepy smile on his lips.

  I turn Jerusha over, hold her head in my lap, place my fingers on the pulsing in her neck. When I whisper her name in her ear, she moans, like she’s having a good dream and doesn’t want to be woken up.

  I do a quick visual but don’t see any bruises.

  If he did something to her, I don’t know what...

  “Stand up,” Dustin says.

  Dumb cop yanks the syringe from his leg, tosses it at Dustin’s feet. “It was empty, you idiot.”

  “Good. I guess you’ll have no trouble standing then.”

  Dumb cop smirks but does what he’s told, pushes himself up on his good leg. “Now what? You two going to kill me? Either way, I’m looking at two dead men. Sorry. Two dead boys.”

  “You’re looking at a gun,” Dustin says. “Open the door.”

  “No can do. They lock automatically. It’s sort of a prison thing.”

  I don’t like the way Dustin’s staring at him; he’s enjoying this a little too much. I need to get the gun from him. I take Jerusha’s jacket off, wad it up, place it under her head for a pillow. When I go to stand by Dustin, he steps away.

  “I’ve got this, Thomas.”

  “I know you do,” I tell him. “Just getting your back.”

  He jerks the gun toward the door, says, “Open it.”

  “What,” Dumb cop says. “You think I have a magic wand or something?”

  I actually believe Dumb cop, but Dustin takes a step forward.

  Then another.

  “I don’t care how you do it. Just open it.”

  I don’t see anything on the door that indicates it can be opened from the inside. It just doesn’t make sense. Why would they risk letting the prisoners figure something like that out? I’m about to mention this to Dustin when we hear a click and the door opens.

  Dumb cop looks just as surprised as we do. “How’d you do that?”

  “Magic wand,” Dustin says and we look out into the dark of the Panopticon.

  Shakespeare again.

  He must be able to hear us.

  “C’mon, Thomas,” Dustin says, inching toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I don’t know whether he plans on leaving Jerusha here with Dumb cop or having me carry her, but neither is a good idea. He just wants out and I can’t blame him.

  “Hold on, D. Let’s not do anything rash.”

  “I thought we were escaping. Seems like a pretty good time to be super rash.”

  I pull Dustin into the corner of the cell by Jerusha. “We are escaping,” I whisper. “But first I need to do something.”

  “No. First you need to get the fuck out of here.”

  “Just listen to me for a second. I want to look for that Cloud Lab Twink was talking about.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was Dad’s. Because maybe we can figure out what the truth is. Why it stopped raining.”

  Dustin starts chewing on his thumbnail, the gun still in his hand, butting up against his cheek. “Fine. But I keep the gun.”

  I check the hallway, make sure it’s empty, then creep out and close the door with Dustin, Jerusha, and Dumb cop still on the inside. It’s only for a few seconds, just long enough for me to punch H20 into the keypad and make sure we can get back in.

  The door opens just like Shakespeare said it would, but even so, I don’t like it. I go to Jerusha, kneel down beside her and stroke her hair, whisper that we’ll be back, not to worry, that nothing could ever stop me from being with her.

  When I stand back up, I’m waiting for Dumb cop to say something disgusting, something about having his way with Jerusha, but he’s too busy acting nonchalant about the gun Dustin’s got pointed in his back.

  The three of us move outside to find the hallway empty. The hallway seems to follow the perimeter of the Panopticon, only there are more rooms on the other side. I can see the dentist chair they had Dustin in, the iron prod they used lying harmlessly on the table.

  And there’s the same smell of incense I noticed when they brought us in. Only now I realize what it is.

  Human flesh.

  Or, rather, the cooking of it.

  Dustin stops, stares, and I have to give him a little nudge from behind to get him moving again. We come across another room full of clothing, personal items, the detritus of anonymous life.

  Nobody will ever know these people were here.

  Nobody will ever know we were here.

  “Which of these rooms is the Cloud Lab?”

  Dumb cop stops, turns. “I hate to burst your bubble boys, but this is a prison. Not a...what did you call it?”

  “A Cloud Lab,” I say. “And we know it’s here.”

  “Well, whatever the hell it is, there’s nothing like that here. Sorry to disappoint you, ladies.”

  “Watch him,” I tell Dustin and continue down the winding hallway. The walls are all plastered with posters of our beloved President, various fliers announcing Water Rallies and Water Incentive Programs.

  It Pays to Be Green!

  That’s when I see something that just about turns me inside out.

  A water cooler.

  Sitting right out in the open.

  With little paper cups and everything.

  At first I think it’s just an antique, a conversation piece, but the thing’s filled with water.

  Pure fucking evil.

  I turn b
ack, see Dustin staring at it, too, his jaw just as unhinged as mine.

  I continue down the hallway, checking the doors, but they all seem to have the same type of keypad on them. I give up, am on my way back to Dustin when I stop at the water cooler for a drink. I mean, hell, why not? I’m slamming back my third paper cup when I notice something different about the door next to the cooler. It has two keypads on it, one right above the other.

  They might as well have painted a giant cloud on it.

  I head back to Dustin and we march Dumb cop down the hallway, stop him just outside the door.

  He seems amused by this.

  Like he knows what’s on the other side and would just love for us to open it. Dustin, seeing the same thing I am, places the barrel of the gun in the small of Dumb cop’s back.

  “Kneel,” Dustin tells him.

  “Not to complain, but that needle you jabbed in my leg makes it a little--”

  Dustin kicks him in the back of his knee and his legs buckle.

  “Okay, okay. Take it easy, kid. Jesus.”

  “The code.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  Dustin raises the gun, nuzzles it against the back of his head.

  “I swear I don’t have it. It’s a security measure. In case something like this happens.”

  Dustin stabs the barrel into the back of Dumb cop’s skull making his head jerk forward. “The code.”

  “I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

  “Fine,” Dustin says and looks around the room, then grabs one of the posters from the wall. Your President is Green! Dustin tears a chunk off, wads it up, then hands it to Dumb cop.

  “If I hear one word out of you, I’ll put a hole in your face.”

  Dumb cop hesitates, then, eyeing the gun, stuffs the paper into his mouth. Within seconds, his eyes start to water.

  “Maybe we should check on Jerusha,” I say. “See if we can’t figure something else out.”

  “No,” Dustin says. “I bet it’s the same code, only twice.”

  He types in H20 on both pads.

  We both stare at the door, but nothing happens.

  “No?” Dustin says, eyeing Dumb cop. “Let’s try something else then.”

  “We don’t have time for--,” I start to say, but Dustin cuts me off.