by David Arnold
“More people,” said Lakie. “Bigger target for Flies.”
“Maybe,” said Loretta. “Maybe not. Unless you guys know more about how they operate?”
Kit was reminded of a moment around a different table, in a different town, in what now seemed a different life. It’s not a vote, his Dakota had said, and her words had hung in the air like a question mark, each of them wondering . . .
“What if we took a vote?” he asked now.
Everyone looked at him.
“A vote,” said Loretta.
Monty nodded. “Like people did in the days before DOS. I like it.”
“DOS?” asked Lennon.
“The Downfall of Society.” Lakie rolled her eyes.
Monty cleared his throat. “In the spirit of human perseverance, I vote we travel together while we can.” He raised his hand in the air. “All in favor?”
“Fuck it.” Pringles raised his hand. “Why not?”
Kit stared at the freeze-dried ice cream pouch, and suddenly felt cheated by it. He’d stayed in Town because that was where his Dakota had wanted them. But now she was gone, and he was in the Final Frontier with new kids and new ideas and no one to explain the mysteries of things like mediocre freeze-dried treats.
He put his hand in the air, not knowing if he really meant it, but 100 percent sure he was tired of just going along with things. “Yes,” he said. “I vote yes, we join groups. I think that’s best.”
Monty looked at him as if waiting to see if he was finished. “Okay, that’s three.”
“I vote no,” said Lakie. Then, to Loretta: “No offense.”
“Lake,” said Monty. “Come on. Solidarity.”
“It’s a vote, Monty. The expression of individual opinion.”
“Can I put my hand down now?” asked Kit.
“Yes, Kit. Okay, so that’s three votes yes, one vote no.”
It was down to Lennon and Loretta. Both seemed to be considering when Lennon said, “Somewhere, long ago, someone invented a machine to freeze things and then remove the ice.” He held up his half-eaten pouch. “Only now it’s not ice or cream. It’s just a shadow.” Dropping the pouch on the table, he said, “I vote no.”
The table turned to Loretta as Kit considered the system: if she voted yes, the two groups would combine; if she voted no, it would be a tie, meaning they’d essentially done a dressed-up version of nothing.
If Kit remembered correctly, this was the system America had once used to choose its leaders.
What a wacky bunch.
“In the spirit of human perseverance . . .” Loretta raised her hand. “May our numbers rise.”
Given the current look of elation on Monty’s face, Kit had his answer: ten minutes was plenty of time to fall in love.
we’ve been here before
“Kit.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask you something?”
After dinner, the group had dispersed to various rooms throughout the house. Even though Kit found this nursery to be creepy as all get-out—a dusty crib in one corner, unread board books everywhere, a sad painted circus on the wall—he’d followed Lakie here because she took sleep seriously. She even had a special sleeping bag called Big Alma, which she’d found during a scavenge, and which, according to her, could withstand the most ferocious of wild animals.
Kit wasn’t sure about that. But he hadn’t been sleeping well and was hoping an overnight in a room with someone who did might help.
“Earlier today,” Lakie said. “Before the swarm came. We were in the street and you said, ‘I’ve been here before.’ You didn’t mean déjà vu, did you?”
“No.”
“You meant literally. You’d literally been on that road before.”
Since leaving Town, Kit had taken to sleeping in the knit cap. It was his most luxurious item. His brain’s second skin. Now, pulling it all the way down over his eyes, he could almost see the outline of his Dakota’s face in the darkness.
“Why did you guys leave the commune?” he asked.
“What?”
“When you and Monty were little. When my Dakota was pregnant with me. Why did you leave the commune?”
It was quiet for so long, Kit was starting to wonder if Lakie had fallen asleep when she said, “You wanna hear a story?”
“Okay.”
“Once upon a time, there were three little kids. A brother and a sister and a third kid, a boy who lived nearby. They hung out every day, played games in the summer, built snowmen in the winter, did all their chores together. Thick as thieves, these three. They lived in a camp that had strict rules. Where you could go and when. How late you could stay out, that sort of thing. One of the off-limits places was a nearby water tower. Must have been over a hundred feet tall, this tower, with a ladder that went all the way to the top. Since it was off-limits, of course, those three kids snuck off to it all the time. They’d stand at the foot of the ladder, shield their eyes from the sun, and wonder what the world looked like from way up there. Occasionally one of them would climb a rung or two, they would giggle nervously, and then go running back to camp. One day, the third kid climbed a couple rungs, only instead of hopping off, he kept going. ‘You’ll get in trouble,’ the other two said, but he just kept giggling and climbing, giggling and climbing. Just when the brother and sister decided to run back and get someone—the boy slipped and fell. They’d never heard a sound like that. The way his body hit the ground.”
“Did the boy die?” asked Kit.
“Broke his back and his legs. Camp doctor said he’d never walk again. After that, the little boy stayed in his own family’s tent. Days went by. Devastated for their friend, the brother and sister decided to make him something. Giraffes were his favorite. They found a good, sturdy stick. Their dad whittled the long neck and legs. They spent days decorating it, painting it just the right colors, and when it was ready, they brought it to their friend’s tent. The boy’s father came outside. He was this big, hairy white guy, the kind of eyes that always look hungry. The little girl was scared but tried to tell herself that the man was probably just sad for his son. Trembling, the brother and sister held out the giraffe.
“‘We made this for him,’ they said.
“The boy’s father spat in their faces and called them a name they’d never heard before. ‘Should have known better,’ said the man, ‘than to let my son play with—’”
Lakie suddenly fell silent.
Kit slid his knit cap off his eyes, turned, and looked at her. “What was your friend’s name?”
“Shawn.”
“Shawn’s dad sounds like a real a-s-s-wipe.”
A small smile disappeared as quickly as it came. “Mom used to say, so long as there are people on Earth, there will be willful ignorance and hatred. She said we should stand up for ourselves, protect ourselves, without letting that hatred define us. I was only five, but that business with Shawn’s dad—that was when I started to get it.”
“Did he hurt you guys?” asked Kit.
“There were threats. I think he would have.” Lakie kept her eyes on the ceiling. “It’s like Loretta said about leaving Pin Oak. There was no future for us there.”
When it came to futures, Kit had always thought of his as something fragile. Like a sick bird. Or a pouch of freeze-dried ice cream. Just a shadow, really.
“Earlier,” he said. “In the road. What I meant was, all of us have.”
“‘All of us have’ what?”
“Lake.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve done all of this before. We’ve been here before.”
THE DELIVERER
I stand at the top of the ladder, chiseling, chiseling. The rock wall is hard, the work slow going, but I am resilient. My circle is a little smaller, rougher, a little less alive than the original, but the heart
of the thing is intact. Eighteen years and nine rotations later, I am now entering the homestretch.
As for why I’ve spent years chiseling a massive circle into the rock wall of the basement—I am not sure. Maybe because it feels like an artifact to unearth, embedded in rock for untold years, just waiting for someone to come along and let it breathe.
The circle is more archaeology than art.
I spend thirty minutes a night on it.
I used to chisel for hours. But in the book of the body, age is setting, always happening, always growing. And my back isn’t what it used to be.
Though even if I was the picture of perfect health, another truth hovers in deeper places I visit only in dreams: that with each passing year, as the circle looks more like the original, I am uncomfortable in its presence, as if I might get sucked into its infinite center. Or, worse: that the circle is nothing more than a self-portrait.
Thirty minutes over, I climb down the ladder, step back, and admire my progress. The bottom of the circle touches the floor; the top ends where the high ceiling begins.
Not bad. For a replica.
I grab my clipboard, my glass of red wine (one glass to make it last), and sip as I take inventory. My basement, the deep yawn of the mountain: cavernous, unfinished, well suited to its purposes. Aisles upon aisles of shelves snake from one wall to the other, buckets of freeze-dried foods, lighters and butane torches and candles, medical supplies, five-pound tubs of cinnamon, a dusty armory, all of it a testament to the ambition of the Architect. Not to mention the forethought it must have taken to design such a place.
It really is something.
Pace each aisle, sipping wine, checking items as I go. There was a time when this process took two or three hours a week, when the clipboard had dozens of spreadsheets. There are only four pages now and, according to my watch, the process has taken all of eight minutes.
While the circle in the rock wall is not art, inventory—making things last—is nothing if not an art form. In its medium, I am a master.
There is more than enough to finish this cycle of deliveries, plus three years’ worth of rations for a single person.
He’ll need to be smart about it. Spread it out over time.
When he arrives, I will show him how to make things last.
Nighttime routine complete, I carry the clipboard and empty wineglass up the spiral staircase, each step an echoing clank. At the top of the stairs, before closing the door, I look down on my cellar, mostly empty now.
“We’ve been here before . . .” The words reverberate off the rock walls; I savor them, allow a moment to soak them in, knowing this daily ritual is the closest I will get to actual conversation.
When the echo of my voice ends, I switch off the lights and close the door as I leave.
KIT
so your body is changing: NOW WHAT?
The medium-size rock was no second-story window, but it would do. Kit sat on top of it, observing the group: Loretta carried her rifle like she knew what she was doing; Lennon’s navigational prowess outstripped Monty’s by a good bit; Pringles had no prowess, no weaponry to speak of, but when Loretta had returned with two large rabbits for lunch, he’d had a crackling fire going pronto.
Maybe most telling was what had happened during lunch. They’d heard a swarm in the distance, and while he and Monty and Lakie hit the ground, Lennon and Loretta and Pringles had all sprinted in opposite directions. After the swarm had passed, when they’d returned to the campsite, Loretta noticed their questioning looks. “They may get one of us,” she’d said, calmly going back to her rabbit. “But they won’t get us all.”
Verdict: the faction from Pin Oak was not messing around.
“Hey.” Lakie sat down next to him on the rock.
“Is for horses.”
The woods seemed thicker here, every inch of landscape covered in a light snow or brush. It reminded Kit of his earliest paintings, when he’d felt the need to pack as much punch as possible into every corner of the page. This was before he learned the value of letting the painting breathe, of the ways doing less over here added more over there, et cetera and so forth.
Good grief, he missed painting. And his Dakota.
Also, warmth. He missed being warm.
“What do you think he’s doing?” asked Lakie.
At the base of a nearby tree, Monty and Loretta, who’d been having their own whispered conversation, suddenly burst into giggles.
“I don’t know,” said Kit. “But it’s gross.”
She followed his eyes. “No, not them. I mean Lennon.”
The reason they were sitting here in the middle of the woods—their third time today—was because Lennon had suddenly thrown a hand up, and then made them all wait so he could run ahead to check on something.
“I don’t know,” said Kit. “Tracker stuff?”
“What does his birthmark remind me of?”
“It’s shaped like Alaska.”
“Wow. That’s it exactly.”
“There was a myth in the olden days that birthmarks were a sign of how someone had lived or died in a past life.”
“You think Lennon’s past life lived in Alaska?”
“Or else Alaska murdered him.”
“Hey.” Lakie turned his chin toward her, looked him in the eyes like she was reading his secret thoughts. “You look exhausted.”
Kit returned the look with what he hoped was an equal intensity. “I’ve had the same dream every night since we left Town.”
“What’s the dream?”
“I’m in a room, sitting at a table. Blinding brightness in every direction. No walls or ceilings or floors. Across the table is a woman. We talk with our thoughts. I don’t know what about, I never can remember. And that’s it.”
“That’s . . . rather chilling.”
“Tell me about it.”
Over by the tree, Monty said something that lit up Loretta’s face. Kit had never seen anything like it. But it reminded him of something.
“I read this book once,” said Kit. “In the Taft library. So Your Body Is Changing: NOW WHAT? by Emil Johansson, MD.”
“Okay.”
“It was about puberty and how kids start seeing other kids differently.”
“Why would you read that?”
Kit shrugged. “It was there?”
“Okay.”
“You and Monty are seventeen. You guys went through puberty like forever ago.”
“Kit—”
“I’m saying—”
“Please don’t.”
Kit waited a second, and then: “It’s all very healthy and normal, according to Emil Johansson, MD, only you guys didn’t have anyone around to . . . you know. Be healthy with.”
Currently, Loretta was laughing at something Monty had said, only she laughed so hard, it had turned to coughing.
“They have, sort of . . . gotten lost in each other,” said Lakie.
“It’s like they forgot how to use their eyeballs. But I guess they like looking at each other.”
“I mean—I like looking at her too. You don’t see me ogling.”
Just once, Kit wished he had a healthy balance of feelings and words. Instead he usually felt things he couldn’t articulate or else said something he wasn’t sure he felt. “Remember last Christmas, when my Dakota wrote you a play? The Life and Times of—”
“Stephanie Silver. The girl who traveled the globe—”
“Looking for the perfect slice of pizza.”
“Of course I remember. I also remember it was pretty terrible.”
“She worked on that story every night for six months,” said Kit.
“Really?”
“Started it that summer. Barely finished by Christmas. I remember, early on, I told her it was good enough. But you know what she said?”
“What.”
“‘It’s for Lakie. It needs to be perfect.’”
Kit turned his eyes from the spectacle of Monty and Loretta to face this girl who was not his sister, but as good as. And whether it was the woods, or the addition of new people, he felt a little clingy in a way he didn’t entirely understand. As if all the comfort in the world had been transferred to whatever three-foot radius of ground Lakie happened to occupy at that moment.
“I read this terrible book once, where one character said to another, ‘Try to be the best you you can be.’ That’s what you do, Lakie. You inspire people to be their best. Of course you don’t ogle Loretta. Ogling inspires no one.”
Later, after Lennon had returned and they’d gone back to walking, Lakie put one arm around his shoulders. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you’re the most perceptive twelve-year-old in the world.”
“Just wait until I hit puberty.”
She laughed, and Kit was glad he hadn’t responded with his first thought: Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only twelve-year-old in the world.
nothing is ever only one thing
Dead towns galore.
Kit was amazed at just how many, small and tucked away.
These days, he felt more breeze than human, floating in and through all these little towns, on the lookout for dreamers, Knowers of Things in open windows, observing their little worlds, wondering What (if anything) Lay Beyond.
Some towns were synthetic, like the old cardboard model town.
Others were more like Town: stone and brick, gardens and parks, ancient souls with fancy shoes and stories to tell. One town even had a road that was a bridge! Not half road, half bridge, but fully both.
As a distraction from the cold, Kit made a mental list of other things that were actually two things, not 50 percent one and 50 percent another, but 100 percent both:
Beautiful humans were disgusting. (Secretion was a word he knew.)
Refreshing breezes were sad.
Full bellies were uncomfortable.
