by Sean Platt
So, Luca curled on his bed and counted backwards from 100 like he always did when he was trying to fall asleep.
Luca hit 47, then started to think about stuff that didn’t make sense. The more he tried to make the stuff make sense, the less sense it made. He was spinning around and around, the circles swirling faster in his mind, like a merry-go-round of confusion until it finally spun Luca into a clarity where everything made sense.
Luca felt himself coming to color somewhere between the black and white. When he opened his eyes, Luca saw himself standing in the middle of his bedroom, except it wasn’t his bedroom at all. This bedroom belonged to the other Luca. The one who was happy because he lived with his mommy and his daddy, and his sister, Anna. The one who never had to see the car when it burned. The one who had new pictures taken in new places with his family still alive.
Luca was sleeping in his bed on the other side of the room, the covers rising and falling along with his breath. On the other side of the door lay the faint echo of a fading memory: the sound of Luca’s father working in his office.
Luca swallowed, filled with a sudden, desperate need to see his father. He took one last look at the other Luca, then left the room and walked down the hallway to his father’s office.
Luca’s first dad was surprised to see his son open the door. “Oh my goodness, Luca,” he said, spinning his chair toward the door. “I thought you were asleep.”
Luca said, “I was.”
His dad laughed. “Okay,” he said, “so you’ve changed your pajamas.” Luca looked down at his Iron Man PJ’s, then back at his dad. His dad said, “So, why did you fire Captain America?”
Luca said, “Iron Man is better.”
His father raised his eyebrows. “Since when? I didn’t even know you had Iron Man pajamas. Your life was all about Captain America last week.” He leaned in to Luca and whispered, “You know, you really should do a better job of keeping me updated on your super hero preferences. There are always birthdays and random trips to the Galleria, and I don’t want to be caught buying a present ill-informed.”
“Okay, Dad,” Luca said, not knowing what else to say. He felt almost guilty because the joke was for a him who wasn’t really him.
Luca stared at his father, like he was the ghost that he kinda sorta was. Staring at his dad’s face was weird because Luca had forgotten exactly what his dad looked like. He had memories, lots of them, but there were little things that had faded in the past two years, like the cleft in his dad’s chin, and a small faded scar over his dad’s left eye that Luca had almost forgotten about.
“Are you okay?” his father stared back, left eyebrow raised. “Luca?”
Luca hated nothing more than crying in front of his real dad, especially now that he wasn’t even really there. His bottom lip started to quiver, but he managed to tuck it in before his dad said, “You okay?”
“I’m just feeling sad spiders.”
“Sad spiders? What are those?”
Luca felt like maybe he shouldn’t say anything. His second dad might get mad.
Luca spent a long time saying nothing, the entire time wanting to leave this world that belonged to the other Luca and return to his home on Black Island. After too long without an answer, his first dad said, “Should I be worried about anything, Luca? Anything at all?” He tugged on his right earlobe like Luca remembered he used to do. Another memory that he’d almost forgotten.
Luca looked up at his father and felt a sudden flare of jealousy toward the other Luca. The Luca who wasn’t adopted, the one who was still living with his first family.
Luca didn’t really hate anybody; he didn’t even hate Tommy Wilcox when he made Luca eat a cricket, but right then as he stood close enough to his dad to smell what he could never have again, hating him was easy. For a moment, Luca did, no different than if the small boy had been the drunk driver who murdered his parents.
Luca turned to his first dad. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m going to bed now. Will you ask me about the sad spiders in the morning?”
“What do you want me to ask?” his dad said, still puzzled.
“Just ask me about the sad spiders.”
“Okay … ”
Something about Luca was scaring something inside his first daddy. Maybe it was because Luca didn’t even know why he was telling his dad about the sad spiders. He thought maybe it might get the other Luca in trouble.
He could hear his dad wanting him to go back to his bedroom so he could finish his work. Luca felt bad for being scared, guilty for his unkind thoughts, and curious why he was suddenly trying to get the other Luca into trouble.
“Goodnight, Daddy,” Luca said, giving his father a giant hug. Luca did his best to hold in the cry he wanted to release in that long hug.
It had been so long since he’d hugged his real dad, and he didn’t want to ever forget this feeling: the warmth, the love, and . . . the safety of his old life.
Luca wanted to stay and never leave.
Never.
His father held the hug, then said, “Goodnight, Luca.”
Luca reluctantly went down the hallway, then back into the other Luca’s room, where he stared at the sleeping boy under the covers.
At first, Luca thought how easily he could hurt the other him. He was lying there, helpless. Then he realized how dumb that would be. And how mean. He hadn’t done anything, after all.
But then Luca had another idea. One that brought a thin smile to his lips.
Maybe I can bring this Luca back to Black Island and I can stay here?
Then Luca could return to this room and live the rest of his life with his mom, dad, and Anna.
As the idea took root in his mind, Luca wanted to, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
First, he wasn’t even sure if he could bring a person back with him. A person was a lot bigger than a photograph. Second, his new dad would be too mad. And his real parents would be mad if the other Luca did that to him. He would be mad, too.
Though the idea made him happy for a moment, it was wrong no matter how he looked at it.
Luca shook his head. These were wrong thoughts, and Luca only wanted to do what he knew was right. So, he went home, sad, waking back up to his lonely world.
A world without his family.
A world without his real dad’s hugs.
Nineteen
Charlie Wilkens
Charlie lay on his mattress, blinking in his cell, draped in the same darkness he had been in most hours since he arrived. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. It felt like at least a day, and the lights had only come on once since Callie arrived.
The lights went on as a man in a yellow hazmat suit came down the row and slipped a small, black tray of food and two water bottles through a slot in the bottom of each occupied cell’s door. Charlie was starving, and scarfed down his peanut butter sandwich and bag of pretzels in seconds. Callie looked just as dead as when they’d left her on the mattress. He watched her cell as he ate, staring and praying she was only sedated, rather than dead.
Charlie was curled up with his pillow, staring at Callie’s cell even though he saw nothing through the darkness. He wondered if she was infected, too. Maybe all the people on the block were infected. If so, why were they being held in cells?
Are they keeping us quarantined? Or something worse?
A few hours later, the lights went bright again. Callie was standing at her window, naked, screaming, though Charlie couldn’t hear her anguished cries from his cell.
He ran to the glass wall and put his hands across the cold surface, sobbing with relief. She’s alive! Charlie had considered covering his body, but it felt somewhat wrong to do with her standing there so raw and vulnerable. She wasn’t just naked, she was scratched and bruised, with her hair in a storm. Dark circles ringed beneath her hollow, red eyes. She looked as if she’d been through hell since he’d seen her, and Charlie felt sick to his stomach that he could do nothing to help. Sick to his s
tomach that these fuckers had kept her naked in a cage like an animal.
Charlie vowed to kill every fucker responsible.
Callie put her hands on her glass wall and wept, her red eyes meeting Charlie’s.
“I’m going to get us out,” he mouthed slowly, hoping she could read his lips.
She mouthed something back, but Charlie couldn’t make out the words. He shook his head and shrugged, then mouthed the word, “What?”
She said something again, but to his frustration, he still couldn’t make it out. Then she stopped talking, her attention turned down the hall, where two men in yellow hazmat suits stepped onto the cell block. A Guardsman in black gear, wearing a black mask and respirator and carrying an assault rifle, followed as the pair of men headed toward them.
Callie covered her breasts and crotch, and Charlie covered his flaccid penis. The men stopped in front of a cell, two down from Callie’s, where a heavyset, nude, redheaded woman stood shaking her head.
The man in black pressed the code on her door, then stepped back and raised the gun as the men in yellow entered.
The woman screamed, her mouth visibly repeating, “No!” as she backed her body against the wall. The men in yellow grabbed her arms and thrust her through the door before marching her down the hallway. She fell to the floor then held her hands together, as if praying.
Or maybe she was begging the men not to take her.
The redhead melted into a puddle, crying and screaming.
The man in black lifted his gun and held it to the top of her skull, promising what would come if she didn’t obey them.
The woman kept shaking her head, violently back and forth, faster and faster.
Where are they trying to take her?
She must have good reason to fear them. Maybe she’s been taken before. Or maybe she’s seen others taken who haven’t returned.
What the fuck are these people doing?
The man in black thrust the gun at the redhead again as the men in yellow waved their hands, instructing her to get up and walk. The woman refused, her head down and shaking as her long, tangled hair waved back and forth in a violent swirl.
The man in black thrust his gun at the redhead again, but she was no longer looking at him. He fired his rifle. Charlie flinched and closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was on the ground, face first in a spreading pool of blood.
Charlie backed away from the glass, screaming.
One of the men in yellow looked down at his clipboard, flipped to the following page, then looked up and down the long rows of cells. He pointed at another cell on Charlie’s row and ordered an old, naked black man to be pulled from the cell. The man didn’t resist — as if anyone would after seeing the woman shot dead — walking with his shoulders slumped through the door with the three Guardsmen.
They left the redhead on the ground, probably as a warning.
Charlie looked up at Callie, who was staring at the dead woman and crying. The lights dimmed to black again, returning their world to darkness.
I will kill them all.
When the lights came back on, two men in yellow hazmat suits were dragging the dead woman from the block, then down the hallway to a door at the end. Then a third man in yellow came in to mop up the mess.
Charlie took advantage of the light, and turned his eyes to Callie.
She came to the glass, still not hiding her body. Nor did Charlie as he splayed his fingers on the window. For a long while, they simply stared at one another as Charlie felt a confused current of mixed emotions.
He thought he’d never see her again. Though Callie had rejected him before, and though they might never see freedom again, Charlie wanted to tell her that he loved her. He didn’t need her to reciprocate. He just needed her to know because who knew how fleeting life was for them?
Maybe it wasn’t love.
Maybe in the real world, they would have never met, and maybe they would both die here in the unfortunate hell where they finally found themselves together again. But as Charlie met her eyes and found nothing inside but sorrow and fear, he felt compelled to conquer the one fear that would make him ready for death.
As the cleanup man finished mopping the last of the redhead’s blood, Charlie put his hand on his heart and mouthed the words, “I love you.”
Callie’s face crumbled, and she brought her hands to her face, crying.
He wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake in thinking that love in a place like this was pointless and that he’d only succeeded in upsetting her further.
The lights dimmed again, and the darkness returned.
Charlie went back to bed and cried into his pillow . . . until the cry turned into a scream.
Charlie didn’t remember falling asleep, but it didn’t seem long before he was waking up to bright lights burning in his cell again.
The trio of death began its descent down the hall again, two men in yellow, one holding a clipboard, with the man in black behind, rifle in hand. Charlie and Callie were in the last two cells on the block, and as the trio drew closer, the swirl in his stomach turned especially sour.
“Here they come, Charlie Brown. They’re coming to get you,” Boricio said from behind him.
This time, Boricio was wearing all black. Pants, shirt, duster, and a black derby to match. Charlie wondered why he’d imagined Boricio dressed like this, or why he was apparently unable to imagine Boricio with a firearm or three to take these fuckers out.
The trio was two cells away. The lead with the yellow clipboard looked up at Charlie. Their eyes met.
“Uh-oh,” Boricio shook his head. “This looks about as good as a Showgirls sequel.”
No one was to Charlie’s immediate left, and the trio had already passed the last of the cells except for his and Callie’s. They were coming for one of them.
Fuck.
The man in yellow looked at Charlie, down at the clipboard, then over at Callie.
Oh no.
They walked to Callie’s cell.
Please, please, turn around. Don’t open her door. Don’t open her door. Open my fucking door!
Charlie closed his eyes, not wanting to see reality as it spilled before him.
“They’re opening her door,” Boricio said.
Charlie opened his eyes.
“No!” he screamed.
The soundproof cell swallowed his screams.
Charlie pounded on the glass.
The man in black turned back toward Charlie. He could see the man’s icy eyes behind his glass mask. Then he turned from Charlie, ignoring him, as the men in yellow pulled Callie from her cell.
She screamed, trying to crawl back to her cell, her eyes wide, staring at them and then at Charlie.
Charlie pounded harder, “No! Take me! Take me, you fucking cunts!”
He couldn’t tell if they could hear what he was saying, but he was sure they heard the pounding and were choosing to ignore him.
Charlie pounded his fists harder. “No!” he screamed as each man in yellow grabbed one of Callie’s arms, shoving her forward.
She turned back, her feet kicking, as she looked back at Charlie, screaming something he couldn’t hear from her mouth or read from her lips.
He screamed, bashing the glass harder and harder, as it purpled his fists.
“Take me!”
“They can’t hear ya, Charlie Cheesedick” Boricio said, as the men pushed Callie past another cell, now halfway to the door. “I think it’s time to turn up the volume.”
“How?”
“You know,” Boricio said, even though Charlie didn’t have a clue.
“What am I supposed to do?” Charlie screamed at Boricio.
“Go get her back,” Boricio said, his eyes a set of steel marbles, settling on Charlie’s. “Go and fucking get her. Now!”
Something sparked in Charlie, and he slammed his hands against the glass again, opening his mouth and screaming an unholy wail, far from human.
Glass shattered to the righ
t of his cell door. Charlie stared in surprise, then turned to Boricio, who was pumping his fist in the air and screaming, “WOO HOO!, Chuckie CheeseDick, THAT’S what I’m talkin’ about you panty jacking motherfucker! Go get ‘em!”
Charlie stormed into the hall, naked, armed with nothing but an exploding fury.
The three Guardsmen stared at Charlie, and the damage he’d done to his cell, their eyes wide in disbelief. Callie’s eyes were wide, too, as the men in yellow tightened their grips on her arms.
The man in black raised his rifle, aiming at Charlie.
Charlie ran at him, and as the man fired, Charlie sprang forward, leaping at least 20 yards before slamming into the man in black, sending him sprawling backward into the cell behind him. His rifle fell to the ground.
Charlie looked up at the man to Callie’s left, his eyes wide behind the glass helmet. Charlie’s arm thrust out — as if driven by instinct — and his fist smashed straight through the glass, and he plunged his fingers into the man’s eyes, gouging them.
The man released Callie with a scream.
The other man let go of Callie, then dove for the rifle. She kicked it from reach as Charlie grabbed the man by his helmet, yanked it sideways, then shoved him forward and into the man in black.
Callie grabbed the gun and squeezed off a burst of shots into the men until the clip was empty and all three men were lying dead on the floor.
Charlie stared in disbelief at the carnage beneath them, then down at his arms and bloodied fists, expecting — and terrified — to see that he’d become a monster. But he looked normal, at least every part of his body he could see.
“How did you do that?” Callie asked, staring, eyes wide, and looking around, maybe trying to figure out what they should do next.
“I dunno.” Charlie shook his head, not daring tell her the truth — that he was infected with God knows what.
He stared at Callie, feeling the warmth of her body, then reached out and embraced her, crying. “I thought they were gonna kill you,” he said.
