After the midday lunch break (hard cheese and dry bread), Comet pauses to reorient. It’s getting more difficult as the day goes on.
“That way,” he says at last, trying to sound decisive. “I can tell.”
The rest of the posse squints where he’s pointing. “I don’t know,” says Chili John hesitantly. “It looks kinda… familiar, don’t it, boss?”
“You can’t trust your eyes out here.” snaps Comet. “It all looks alike, and that’s why you got to orient! Now let’s ride!”
With a bit of muttering, they trot out over the scrubland, keeping the sun always on their left.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
“Gum?” asks Augusta, holding out the pack.
“Sure,” he says, “thanks,” and goes back to his book. They both chew, rocking with the motion of the bus.
“That was an opening gambit,” she hints, finally.
“And this is a noncommittal response,” he says, still not looking up.
“Well, then, how about an innocuous question?”
“Fine.” He looks at her, one eyebrow climbing. “I’ll start to show interest.”
“I’ll delay,” Augusta says sweetly, “mentioning my stuffed rat collection, for the moment.”
He’s smiling; the book’s closed. “Yeah, I’d go with that. Not mentioning the rats is really your strongest possible option here.”
There’s a part of Hope that’s still here, intangibly, in the things she left behind: three yearbooks on a shelf, with the wooden duck her grandfather made. A New Teen’s Bible. A desk, a chair, a stack of video tapes, a small TV on the wardrobe. A closet that still holds the tutu she wore as a second-grader. A water bottle. A Dave poster. A bed made a bit too neatly.
The tangible part of her, of course, is at her wake. And Neil’s okay with that. It means he can sit there and touch himself as long as he wants.
“There,” breathes Marlin as they crest the rise, and Cam sees below a vast, teeming gated community. Hills shield it on every side.
“The Preserve,” Marlin grunts, unwrapping the first oilskin bundle. “All the lowest denominators, Cam–everyone we had to remove from human society. People who trust marketing campaigns absolutely, who use words like ‘carb’ and ‘CPU’ and can’t define them. People whose cell phones play ‘Für Elise’ at eighty decibels. People who’ve tried to power a surge protector by plugging it into itself.”
“And why are we here?” asks Cam.
“Overpopulation.” Marlin smiles, slotting barrel to stock. “And sport.”
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Allis bounces toward the nurses’ station where Ander’s slumped, winding down a long shift. Her face broadcasts her eagerness to spill as she leans over the counter; Ander just sighs.
“Okay, but you’re not allowed to say any names,” he says. “HIPAA.”
“He’s forty-two,” she whispers, “and she is not. She is like a factor of forty-two. One of them has a wedding ring. It’s caught on a piercing.”
“What kind of piercing, Allis?”
“VCH.”
He can’t help it–his eyes flick toward the computer screen, then back to her.
“Go ahead,” she says, grinning madly. “Google it, I dare you!”
“See, they’re super-heroes,” says Galen eagerly. “Like Justice League. But they’re also secret agents for the government, and that’s where the name comes from!”
“There’s a conceptual problem here,” Zeke says gently. “Originally, you were the bad guys.”
“No way! Kids had our trading cards, man, they loved us!”
“And there’s licensing to think of, Galen–”
“Turbo,” he insists.
“We’re part of MTV, but Turner still owns all the rights to American Gladiators. You’d have to talk to them first.”
“I tried that. They won’t listen.” Galen’s eyes are pleading. “It’d be great, man, you gotta give me a chance!”
Fujichia makes sense! As much sense as any cat or bird, and what’s more her dust will make you fly. It’s sparkly. It goes in your nose like soda pop. Her feathers are a bit on the scaly side but you all don’t mind, do you? Her face is as kind as fudgsicles.
Here comes an adventure!
Fujichia is going underwater, where it’s dark, headfirst and so far! Can Fujichia hold her breath that long? This is the way it works: she can but children have to believe she can. Do you believe in Fujichia?
Dance if you believe in Fujichia!
“I hate… I hate having to talk about this when you’re far away,” says Else.
“I know.” His voice chops a little over the cell. “I love you. -ove you.”
“I love you,” she says. “I just want to see you…”
“I love you. I gotta -ta go.”
“Yeah,” she whispers, “bye,” and the connection’s dead before she finishes the word.
“You spend a lot of time talking to him,” says Mom a moment later, cocking an eyebrow as Else climbs back up the stairs.
“Well,” says Else breezily, “he’s having girl troubles,” and she realizes it’s not even a lie.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Genevieve sees the silent light begin to flood through the windows and knows it’s come at last. The roaring in her ears follows soon after.
It’s been a slow day and there’s nobody else in Marks General & Sundry, so she doesn’t have to worry. She hobbles over to one side of the counter: there’s a rotary file there, sitting on an ancient school desk.
The light’s beginning to wash away all color as Genevieve, strength fading, topples the desk towards the blast and sits down behind it. Duck and cover, the way her students would recite together. Cover and duck.