by James Zerndt
“Is that why all the noise?”
She sounds a little drunk.
“Yes,” I say and put her arm around my shoulder. “That’s also why we have to leave now. You think you can help me with that?”
She gives me a droopy smile, says, “You’re cute when you’re scared.”
“I’m not--,” I start to say, but she kisses me before I can finish.
“Shush.” Jerusha looks around the room, sees Dustin standing by the door with Dumb cop. “I don’t like him.”
“It’s okay. He’s our prisoner now. He’s going to get us out of here.”
She squints, sees the gun Dustin’s got pointing into Dumb cop’s back. “Can we eat him?”
What the hell did they give her?
“Sure,” Dustin says. “We’ll shish-kebab him.”
Jerusha repeats the word, tasting each syllable on the way out of her mouth. “Shish. Kuh. Bob. Shish. Kuh. Bob.”
Whoa.
I nod to Dustin and he shoves Dumb cop into the hallway. On our way here, we didn’t see a single soul in the corridor. But now, as we make our way to the exit, to freedom, Dumb cop’s side-kick suddenly decides to show.
He’s not more than six feet away from us, pointing his gun at us, his dust mask a dark ochre.
“Put the gun down,” Dustin says from behind Dumb cop. “Or I’ll shoot your buddy here.”
Good cop pulls his mask down, lowers his gun.
Dustin is getting good at this.
“Was that stuff on the radio, true? About the President controlling the weather.”
At first I think he’s joking, that Good cop’s trying to trick us somehow, but he’d have to be the world’s best actor to pull off the look of bewilderment he’s wearing.
“It’s all true,” I tell him. “If you don’t believe us, just go have a look in the Cloud Lab. It’s all right there.”
“We thought...” he starts to say but doesn’t seem able to finish.
“You thought what? It’s okay.”
“We thought the President was using it to help. Most of us weren’t allowed in there. How could we know?” He steps closer, the gun hanging at his side, and stops a few feet from Dumb cop. “Marvin,” he says. “You knew about this?”
“Marvin,” Dustin mutters. “Ha. Figures.”
“Yeah, I knew. So what? It’s not like you didn’t have a clue. I mean, how many clouds have you ever seen around here?”
“But their parents...you said...”
“What about our parents?” I say before Dustin can. “What did they tell you?”
The two cops look at one another, and I can see something pass between them, some plea Dumb cop’s silently making. I’m about to throw them both in a cell, Stamp them someplace they’ll never forget, when Good cop starts to speak.
“They told us they were responsible for the weather. That your father got greedy. Was power hungry and was plotting against the government with your mother. Scientific treason. That’s what the President called it. Made us believe we were doing it for the good of the country. I swear I didn’t know. Marvin,” he says and stares at the floor like he can’t bear to look at him. “Tell me you didn’t know about this.”
“Hell yes, I knew about it. And I’m not sorry. Not one bit. The President knows what he’s doing. These high-minded intellectual types, these scientists and artists, all think they’re better than the rest of us. They deserve it. Hell, I’d do it again if I could.”
“Okay,” I say to Good cop. “You didn’t know. I believe you. We all do. Now just give me the gun and we’ll call it even.”
He doesn’t look at me, just holds out his hand, limply, the gun dangling there. When I snatch it from him, I hear a loud CRACK and, for a second, think maybe the gun went off accidentally.
But it wasn’t my gun.
Without looking, I know what’s happened and my heart starts to cave in on itself. I turn around to find Dumb cop lying on the ground, a black-red pool of blood seeping out around him.
Dustin’s standing there, the gun still smoking.
It all looks cartoonish somehow.
And Dustin.
He looks like he’s shrinking.
“It was an accident,” I hear Dustin mutter. “I mean, I think it was an accident. Does that make sense?”
“Oh, Dustin...,” I say. And then I can’t stop saying it. “Oh, Dustin. Oh, Dustin. Oh, Dustin.”
He just keeps standing there, looking smaller and smaller, staring at the human puddle on the floor.
That’s when we start to hear it.
The mewling.
That’s the only way I can describe it.
Dumb cop is writhing around in his own blood, holding his thigh where the bullet went in, and blubbering like a baby.
Nobody seems to know what to do.
Or nobody wants to help.
I’m not sure which.
Jerusha, of all people, is the first person to move. She bends down beside Dumb cop, gives his foot a twist until he turns on his side. We can see the wound now, a four-inch hole that I’m guessing goes all the way through his thigh.
The blood doesn’t seem to want to stop.
Jerusha, her face a total blank, walks over to Dustin and holds her hand out. “Give me the gun. And your shirt.”
Dustin does as he’s told, and, after, Jerusha kisses the top of his head. The way she does it is so soft, so strangely out of place, that it reminds me of something a mother might do after a child’s skinned a knee.
Once Jerusha finishes fashioning a makeshift tourniquet around Dumb cop’s leg, she turns to the other cop and says, “We’re not going to hurt you. I know that’s probably hard to believe right now, but we’re not.”
He seems stunned, like he wants to say something but can’t. When he starts to fumble around in his jacket for something, I raise the gun, keep it trained on him just in case.
But all he does is pull out a pair of keys and toss them to Jerusha.
“It’s parked right outside. There’s another brown-out. Nobody will even see you.”
“How many guards?”
“Just the one. For now, anyway.”
“C’mon,” Jerusha says and grabs him by the arm, marches him toward the door. “You can help your friend after you open the gate. If he’s still alive.”
Everything’s happening too fast.
I feel like we should say something, do something more for Dumb cop, Marvin, but there isn’t time. When Dustin doesn’t seem able to move, I do something I haven’t done since Mom and Dad were alive.
I take him by the hand.
He doesn’t pull away from me, just stumbles after me toward the exit, his body rag-dolling along.
“Will he live?” Dustin whispers.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Assholes like that don’t die.”
When the cop flings open the door, the corridor is flooded with dust. We can barely make out the cruiser parked only a few feet away.
Jerusha places the gun to the cop’s ear, says, “Now open it.”
He does as he’s told, punches some code into a panel by the door and few seconds later, the gate slides open. Jerusha removes the gun from the cop’s ear, says, “Sorry about that. Nothing personal.”
The cop sort of smiles at her for a response, but it’s the kind of smile people usually give the elderly.
Or the insane.
“There’s a special beam we use for dust storms,” he says. “Just hit the button next to the wipers and you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks,” Jerusha says. “And make sure you tell your friend in there to heal up quick. We wouldn’t want him to miss his trial.”
We stagger out into the dust one by one, our hands shielding our eyes and when we pile into the cruiser, Jerusha turns on some kind of fluorescent light that allows us to see through all the swarming dust.
Ten seconds later we’re making the world’s slowest getaway.
Eat the Rich: A Recipe
Preheat
the oven to 465 degrees,
the temperature at which money burns.
Next, take three SUV’s,
crack them in two
and remove the whites.
Mix in a bowl with two peels
of self-satisfied laughter
from a soccer mom
and one tablespoon
of crushed summer-home spice.
Bake for a generation.
Garnishing options:
Diced debutante
Julienned CEO
Dash of trustfunder
Ladle of landlord
Pinch of politician
16 Think Rain
It’s probably a long shot, but we decide to check if Twink is still at the camp. He’s about the only person who might be able to help us now.
Jerusha parks at the base of the hill, somewhere, we think, near where her old car should be. It’s not there, of course, but Jerusha spots some tire tracks, starts feeling around in the dirt like maybe she can tell how fresh they are.
“I’d say they left a few days ago,” she says, totally serious.
I leave it alone, not exactly in the mood to poke fun at her, or anybody else for that matter. “Maybe we should check the camp anyway. Just to make sure.”
“Of course,” she says but when we start up the trail, Dustin says he doesn’t want to go.
His voice. There’s something new in it now.
No.
There’s something missing from it.
He sounds hollow.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Don’t stray too far from the truck though.”
He shrugs this world-weary shrug, and, for once, it seems completely warranted. Jerusha and I head up the trail, and I can’t help but remember the first time we came here, how the camp looked from above, how much life and hope I thought I saw down there.
We find the tree with the X whittled into it, turn like we’re supposed to, but when we come to the clearing and look down, the tents are all gone.
Twinkstock is over.
We make our way down only to find that the camp looks like it’s been swept clean. The water brewing system has been dismantled, smuggled out. The goats, too, are long gone. Even the hot spring seems virgin somehow, like nobody’s ever been here before.
Jerusha starts scratching about in the dirt for clues again and when I ask what she thinks she’s doing, she says, “Checking for blood.”
“Who’s blood?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they slaughtered everyone.”
That’s where her mind goes now. Still, I can’t help myself and do a quick scan of the ground, check for any dark circles, but there’s nothing. When we get to the wells, we find them filled with dirt. I’m thinking what a waste all that work was, what a waste everything in my life has been really, when I notice something at my feet.
A flower.
It’s young and measly looking, its head nearly too big for its neck.
A gift from Betsy.
Like Mom though, I never bothered to learn the names.
It could be a tulip. Maybe a daffodil.
I reach down, stroke the petals, feel how soft the skin is, how both unbelievably fragile and resilient a thing it is.
And the colors. Yellow and orange.
It’s blinding.
I pat its head, leave it there bobbing amidst all the grey and nothing and promise that if this ever ends, I will take up gardening. I will become a botanist, learn the name of every flower ever discovered. In both English and Latin. I’ll cross breed them and invent my own, name them all after Jerusha.
Jerushamums.
“You miss them?” Jerusha asks, watching me.
“Flowers? Sure, why not.”
She grabs a stick, squats down by the flower. When she doesn’t say anything, I ask what I’ve been wanting to ask since we found her.
“Did he do anything to you back there? I mean, besides drug you.”
“No,” she says and draws a square, one side at a time, around the flower. “I don’t think so.”
I want to ask more questions, but know enough to leave it alone. Instead, I ask if she knows what kind of a flower it is.
She runs her hand up the stem, cocks her head.
“A pretty one.”
*
We find Dustin sitting on the hood of the cruiser, not looking a bit surprised that we’ve returned empty-handed.
He’s stoic.
That’s the only word for it.
Ever since he pulled that trigger.
I turn to Jerusha, ask if she can give me a minute with him. She nods, goes to wait inside the truck.
“What?” he says before I even get started.
“We need to talk about it,” I say and his whole body slumps, like I’ve poured cement over him.
“What’s there to say? I just did what you didn’t have the balls to.”
I wasn’t expecting this.
And maybe it’s because I think he’s right that it stings so much. Maybe we just tell ourselves something is the right thing to do because we’re too afraid to do the things we really want.
I don’t know.
And the fact that I don’t know anymore scares the shit out of me.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Maybe.”
“There’s no maybe. He killed Mom and Dad. For no reason. And he didn’t even fucking care. I hope he dies.”
“Dustin...”
“Look, I’m not happy about it, okay. I still don’t even know if I really meant to do it or not. But yeah, it sucks. It sucks bad and I’m probably a bad person and if I start to think about it right now, I’ll want to dice my wrists up like Mom. So,” he says, hopping down from the hood. “If it’s okay by you, I’d rather not.”
“Dustin,” I say, but he walks away, climbs back in the cruiser before I can say anything else.
*
I turn the radio on, more so I don’t have to think than anything else, and accidently get the police feed.
...Yellow. I repeat, we have a Code Yellow at Rehabilitation 14. That’s a Code Yellow, people. All units respond...
I try to remember what Code Yellow stands for, but Dustin beats me to it.
“Insurgent activity,” he says from the back seat. “I always wondered what that meant.”
*
We park the cruiser down the road from Twink’s and walk just in case they’ve got the place surrounded. We try the front door, but it’s locked.
We go around back, but that’s locked, too.
Dustin, not exactly known for his patience, does the very obvious and knocks.
Still nothing.
“Now what?” Jerusha says, scanning the lot of derelict cars. “You think they already got him? That we just didn’t see him in Rehab?”
“No,” Dustin says. “He’s here. I know he is.”
Dustin marches off through the cars.
Of course. The swimming pool.
As soon as the pool comes into view, we can see something’s different. There’s a cover over the top now.
And the ladder’s been kicked away.
We hoist it up, put it back how it used to be.
When Dustin starts to climb up, I grab him, gently pull him back down. “Sorry, buddy. But I call dibs on this one.”
“Fine,” he says. “But shouldn’t we warn him or something. What if he’s sitting in there with a shotgun?”
“Good point,” I say and we begin calling out his name, banging on the sides of the pool as I make my way up. He’d have to be unconscious not to hear. Even so, I call out his name a few more times before I pull the canvas flap back and peek my head in.
The first thing I see is Jerusha’s old beater sitting dead center below. The second thing I see is Twink. Or who I think is Twink. He’s lost some weight, looks about half the size I remember.
“You okay?” I call down, and I can see him squinting up through the darkness into the sunlight I’m letting in. “It’s me. Thomas.”
I can make
out another ladder across the way that leads down into the pool. I’m about to climb back down, see if we can’t position our ladder closer to his, when he finally responds.
“Water,” I hear him mumble. “Water...”
“I’ll be right back. Just hang in there, okay?”
“Well,” Jerusha says when I hit ground again. “How bad is he?”
“Not bad,” I lie. “But he needs water. Like now.”
Dustin, not wasting any time, starts rummaging around in the cruiser, comes up with two full bottles. We reposition the ladder, but this time I let Dustin go up first. He races off ahead and by the time Jerusha and I catch up, we find Twink kneeling in front of Dustin, hugging him so fiercely I’m afraid he’s going to snap him in two.
But it’s not Dustin who snaps.
Twink does.
It sounds like one of his Wookie impersonations.
Wookie bawling...
Twink’s eyes go from me, to Jerusha, back to Dustin, then to me again before he takes Dustin’s face into his hands.
“What did they do to you?”
“It’s okay,” Dustin says and smiles. “It just means I’m an artist now.”
Twink looks at me, obviously confused, and, in way of explanation, I say, “It’s from one of Mom’s poems.”
Twink ruffles Dustin’s hair, which, surprisingly, elicits only a minor frown from him.
Then it’s Jerusha’s turn.
He first checks both sides of her neck to see if she’s been Stamped, then squeezes her arms. “They do anything to you?”
“Nothing physical,” she lies.
“Good,” he says. “We can fix the rest.”
Once Twink manages to get a full bottle of water down and everybody gets used to the fact that everybody else is still alive, Twink asks what happened to us.
I explain about Rehab, about our parents being murdered, how we escaped and parked the cruiser down the road. I leave out the part about Dustin shooting Dumb cop though.
And the part about Jerusha.
“We’ll put the cruiser in here,” Twink says when I finish. “In fact, we better all plan on staying in here until things quiet down. My guess is it won’t be long before they start sniffing around here again.”
