by Sam Clark
“You shouldn’t antagonize him so, Eddy. If he wasn’t here, you’d have to do all this number stuff yourself, and I don’t think you’ve enough fingers and toes to do it well,” Kathy said without looking up from her knitting.
Edison loosed another melodious laugh before downing the rest of his glass in a gulp. After he refilled it, he threw himself down on the tufted sofa adjacent to Kathy’s chair. A bit of liquid spilled onto his wrist, but he paid it no mind.
“I shall be returning to my holdings before too long,” Preston said. “As to when exactly, it depends. Do you still plan to challenge Thoka this year?”
“Absolutely. I will issue my challenge shortly, and we’ll fight on the anniversary of Father’s murder, like we do every year.”
Preston noticed Kathy glance up at her husband with a frown on her face. She looked like she wanted to say something, but then changed her mind and went back to her knitting. Preston was tempted to point out, yet again, that it wasn’t murder, but he dropped it. No point in battering his head against that wall again.
“I think after I win,” Edison said, “I’m going to buy a car.”
Preston was immensely thankful he didn’t have any whiskey in his mouth when his brother had stated his intention, because he would have certainly spit it all over himself.
“A car? You cannot be serious.”
“Dead serious. A king should have a car.”
“How many functioning cars do you think there are in all of the Free Counties? Two dozen?”
“Probably fewer. Your point?”
“My point is, they’re fucking expensive!”
Roger immediately began to giggle, and Kathy looked up from her knitting with mock sternness. She said, “Now, now, Uncle Preston, what kind of role model are you, using that language?”
“Yes, I’m sure he’s never heard such a word, given the fine upstanding citizens his father keeps company with.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m rich then,” Edison said, returning to the matter at hand.
You were rich, until I embezzled most of your fortune. “You’re not that rich. Just about every functioning car is owned by a merchant guild. They’d never sell. There’s too much money to be made transporting people and goods across the Counties. And as king you would have no power to compel them. Then there’s the cost of gas, which the guilds also control. And where would you even drive it?”
“It’s not about where I would drive it, it’s about the status befitting a king. Gunner has a car.”
You are a child. No, even a child has more sense than to waste that kind of money on a status symbol. You are a… a fucking infant. That is what you are. “Gunner—is that what this is about? Who cares? Gunner had a car. Had. He’s dead, remember.”
“Haven’t you heard, little brother? He’s not dead after all. He made an appearance two days ago, apparently.”
“Wait—what? You’re sure?”
“Yes, I received a pigeon this morning. He’s burnt up something awful, but he gave a wave from a balcony the other day. That old son of a bitch is tough as nails.”
It can’t be. Can it? Gamma’s man has always delivered. He had to come up with a reason to go to Maize City so he could find out what was going on. He’d also have to contact his informant in Rap City.
“I plan to stay through the challenge,” Preston said, “to lend my support. And that should give me enough time to put your household books in order and procure you a new estate manager.” One who keeps his mouth shut and does what I tell him.
“I can hardly believe we’ve been without an estate manager for almost two years. Where does the time go?” Kathy said, looking up from her knitting. “We would have been lost without you, Preston. I had a fair bit of training in household management as girl, but I couldn’t make head nor tails of Mister Johansson’s record system.” Kathy returned her attention to her knitting and said, “Such a shame, though. He was only forty-three, and to have his heart give out like that. I feel bad for his wife. A very sweet woman.”
“Yes, quite tragic,” Preston said. But not unexpected when someone puts foxglove in your tea. He hadn’t even had to pay Gamma for that one; he’d done it himself. Johansson, despite Kathy’s appraisal, had been a very capable man. Unfortunately, he had also been honest. This was not the time or place for honest men.
“She’s still devastated, don’t you know,” Kathy added somberly.
Preston felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps I can find a little extra for her stipend this month. Compared to how much I’ve already stolen, what’s a little more.
“Maybe,” Edison said, setting down his glass, “I should send Bear to see the widow Johansson. He could cheer her up.” As if his meaning wasn’t clear enough, Edison took it a step further, forming a circle with the thumb and index finger of his right hand and then inserting his left index finger into it several times.
“Don’t be crass, Eddy. Your son is over there trying to do his math problems.”
Edison smiled brightly at his wife. Kathy returned a smile of her own. Preston could feel his rage building. It grew within him with each passing second, fueled by the spectacle of his brother and Kathy carrying on like newlyweds in front of him.
“Anyway,” Preston said, barely able to keep the anger from his voice, “you two will have some privacy for the next few days. I’m traveling to Maize City with Austin to interview candidates.”
“Wonderful!” Edison declared. “Take as long as you need. We’ll think of some way to fill the time.” He repeated the hand gesture.
“I think I shall retire for the night,” Preston said, doing his best to ignore the gesture. “I want to get an early start in the morning. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Uncle Preston,” Roger called from the desk.
“Sleep well,” Kathy said.
“Start thinking about how you’ll find the caps for my car,” Edison said, an infuriating smirk pasted on his stupid face. “There has to be some reason I let you stay here.”
Fuck you, you spoiled brat. You let me stay here? This is my fucking house, not yours. If I didn’t have use of you, I’d be overjoyed for Thoka to pop your empty skull like an overripe grape. A fucking car. How utterly ridiculous. And if that’s not enough, Gunner’s alive. As if I didn’t pay a fortune to make him dead. Well, I’ll damn sure get what I paid for.
Preston ascended the steps to his rooms, eager for the oblivion of sleep to rescue him from what had been a truly horrid evening.
NINE
Location: Underground
Date: 8-15-61
For Czarina, running was everything. It was pleasure, it was pain. It was reward, it was punishment. It helped her think, it helped her forget. In a word, running was freedom. She wasn’t sure why she loved running so much; she just always had. She relished its simplicity: right, left, repeat, ad infinitum. She marveled at its complexity, all the biological, physiological, and psychological changes running could produce, and the myriad of training books detailing them all.
She had become a runner shortly after her mother died. It wasn’t something she consciously set out to do. She didn’t say to herself “I’m going to become a runner today.” One day she’d just started to run, and she never stopped. And for her, ‘became’ was the right verb. Running wasn’t something she did, it was something she was.
Her mother used to be a runner, until one day she just stopped. Czarina had been five or so, so Isabella would have been just two. Czarina even remembered asking her mother once why she didn’t go for her runs any more, but she couldn’t remember for certain what the answer had been. Was it that she didn’t feel like it anymore? That she was injured, maybe. Or was it that she was just taking a break? Czarina just wasn’t sure.
At the time, Czarina had been glad she’d quit. It meant an extra hour to spend with her mom. However, she now knew it meant her mother had lost a part of herself. That she was no longer who she’d been before. And not long after, she was gone. N
ow Czarina had trouble remembering her at all. Worse, she wasn’t sure if the things she did remember were genuinely her own memories, or if she had created them from the stories others had told her about her mom. For instance, she thought she could remember her mother’s smile. Big and infectious. Lots of bright white teeth. But that was exactly how James described her mother’s smile. It was also exactly how he described Czarina’s smile. Isabella had no memory of their mother at all, and her only connection to her was a lie. Then again, maybe she was the lucky one. It was hard to miss what you’d never known you had.
Her mother’s love of running was the one memory about her that Czarina knew to be true. Looking back, it was easy for Czarina to see why she had started to run one day: It was a way to stay connected to her mom. She was Czarina’s running partner. She even went running at 1430 most days, just like her mother had—or at least that’s what James said.
Czarina had always been certain of one other thing about her mother: She had wanted to leave the fallout shelter one day too. Her mother had been a baby when they entered the shelter. Czarina thought she could remember her mother talking to her before bed about all the things they would do once they left the shelter, how they would try strawberries together, and go looking for strange animals. However, after her conversation with James today, Czarina wasn’t so sure her mom had wanted to leave. After all, she’d always thought James wanted out, too. And truthfully, she wasn’t even one hundred percent sure her mom had talked with her about the outside world. Not anymore. Maybe it was just something she had picked up from James.
One of Czarina’s biggest fears was that one day, she would stop being a runner, like her mother had. As a result, she could be somewhat compulsive about her training; she often picked up small injuries and tried to run through them, thus turning them into more substantial injuries. However, she’d gotten better lately at not running herself into the ground. One strategy was to remind herself that her best chance at staying a runner was to keep it fun. However, this wasn’t her most successful line of reasoning. What had finally helped her was viewing rest days as workouts. This made taking time away from running—whether it was just for a day or for a longer down period between training cycles—a challenge. She never could resist a challenge.
Her running route, if you could call it that, was a fifty-meter stretch of tunnel. In and of itself, this stretch of tunnel looked remarkably like all the other tunnels that comprised the compound: gray, dimly lit, and shadowy. However, for Czarina this particular tunnel was filled with possibilities.
Not only was it where her mother had run, it was also one of the main access tunnels for the shelter compound. At one end of tunnel was a mechanical, sliding glass door leading back to the bunker. At the other end, there was another mechanical sliding door, not unlike the first. However, there were two important differences.
The first difference was above the door. The second door had a red light over it. This light was connected to a host of sensors that measured various environmental factors, the most important of which was radiation levels. When the radiation levels reached a safe level, the light would start flashing—the signal for the militia to send out an exploratory party. Then, if everything went well, they would all move to the surface. Of course, given what James had told her, she wasn’t sure if that would ever happen, regardless of what the light did.
The second thing that set this mechanical door apart was what was behind it: a ladder. A ladder to the surface, and freedom, and possibility. A ladder so close, yet so far.
Czarina had long ago realized that she automatically picked up her pace a bit when she was heading toward the exit and slowed slightly when heading back toward the shelter. Today, she wondered if her mother had done the same. Gradually, she resigned herself to the fact that she would never know. She was surprised at how much the realization stung. She’d have thought she was used to such things by now—after all, she didn’t know anything about her dad either, except that he had died about a year before her mother, after being crushed while doing routine maintenance on the freight elevator. She couldn’t even remember his face, and it never bothered her much.
While thoughts of her mother often danced around her head while she was running, today they were quickly pushed to the back of her mind. Front and center were her grandfather’s words. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how hard she ran, she couldn’t stop the conversation from replaying over and over in her mind. Am I an idealist? She wanted to say no, she wanted to reject it out of hand, but wasn’t that exactly what she would do if she were an idealist? Simply proclaim her realism and move on, rather than critically reflect on what the evidence had to say. James had certainly had plenty of convincing evidence for his case. Could she say the same?
She never heard anyone talk about leaving. Sure, the militia prepped leaving, but they were preppers and the descendants of preppers. It was what they did. There was no excitement about it, no sense of urgency, as if someday they’d really be getting ready to leave the bunker and return to the world above. While she had trouble staying awake during naturalism classes, she at least tried to pay attention, even if she wasn’t always successful. Most of the other kids, like Steve, didn’t even bother, as if they realized the information would never be of practical use.
She once again tried to push the thoughts from her head, to stay positive, to not be sucked back down into the abyss of negativity. She began swinging her arms faster, listening to the steady increase in her breath, and the rhythmic pattern of her footfalls. Yet there was none of the relaxed gracefulness she normally felt when running hard. Her fingers were clenched into fists and her shoulder blades were shrugged up high toward her ears, rather than hanging loose.
She began repeating one of her mantras in her head—Strong as an ox; fast as a fox—to try and force the run to come to her, to silence James’s voice in her head. But it was little match for all her flaws being displayed before her, as if on a platter, by the only living person she respected. IDEALIST! Strong as an ox. YOU ARE NEVER LEAVING THIS BUNKER! Fast as a fox. PUT THEIR HEAD IN THE NOOSE!
It’s true. God, help me. It’s fucking true. We’re never leaving, and I’ll never be anything but a nuisance. It was an impossible goal. Never had a chance. If I wasn’t such a fucking idealist, I would have seen that from the start. Marisa naked? Ha! Idealist!
When I die, everybody but James and Isabella will be happy. If I’m remembered at all, it’ll be as a warning to children: Don’t be like that malcontent Czarina.
But what could she do about it? Could she change? Take a husband? Try and fit in? What would be the point, if, as she feared, James was right that they were never leaving? Why bother carrying on—to propagate the species? If they were the last ones left, it would be pointless anyway. Why carry on with such an existence if not to leave some day?
No, fuck that. She wouldn’t change. She wouldn’t conform. She wouldn’t settle. She wouldn’t carry on, either. There was no point to any of it, anyway. Her wager with herself was clear: Accomplish one of her two goals by her seventeenth birthday or end it all. She had to follow through on it. It was all she had. It was the only sliver of meaning in her otherwise pointless life.
She felt her legs becoming heavy, and it had nothing to do with the pace she’d been pushing. She felt the weight of depression begin to settle on her chest once again. She could try to fight, to work through it but, as strange as it sounded, giving in to the despair, the hopelessness, was alluring. Accepting the nihilism of her existence offered a self-indulgent high, a perverse liberation from the chains of her life. It was all too fleeting. The dark dangerous liberty always quickly gave way to a numbness that was a billion times worse than any sadness or fear could ever be. But while it lasted, her inner critic had no hold on her.
She reached the sliding door leading back to the bunker and turned, debating whether to push on or give in, her pace little more than a crawl. Then, about halfway
down the hallway, she saw it.
The light was out.
She turned quickly, and for once in her life, she sprinted toward the bunker entrance, depression and fatigue momentarily forgotten.
TEN
Location: Underground
Date: 8-15-61
Czarina didn’t slow her pace once she was back in the hallway of the bunker proper. She didn’t think about slowing down when she sent a wash basket flying from Mrs. White’s hands, nor when the old crone called her an abomination as she carried on past. And she didn’t slow down when she reached the door of the classroom where her cohort and its female counterpart held their joint afternoon instruction. She burst right in, not caring one little bit that she was sweating profusely, or that her breathing was nearly as loud as James’s snores. She didn’t even stop to take note of her surroundings before she blurted, “The light! It’s out!”
As the heads of those in the classroom snapped around to gawk at her, she realized no one in the classroom was seated. Rather, they were all kneeling at their desks. She’d interrupted the prayer that concluded the day’s studies. Seeing the faces of Steve, Jenkins, Winston, and, of course, Marisa staring at her made Czarina acutely aware of how she must look. She straightened her spine, folded her hands behind her back, and sought to regain control of her breath. She could only hope that her face had already been red when she came into the room, lest her peers detect her embarrassment.
An instant later, her vision of the room was blotted out by Fegan and his massive frame. He stood as close to her as he possibly could without actually touching her. She could feel his hot breath on her face, so strong she could almost taste the crickets he’d eaten for lunch. She did not waver.
After a tense silence, which lasted only a few heartbeats but felt like an eternity, Fegan shouted, “What is your major malfunction!” in her face. Along with the words came a stream of spittle.
Her first instinct was to deliver what she thought was an extremely clever retort, relating to the sergeant’s major malfunction: too many viewings of Full Metal Jacket. But she knew all too well that no one else was likely to find her remarks the least bit funny. Under normal circumstances, the lack of appreciation for her insights wouldn’t have stopped her. However, these were not normal circumstances. The light had gone out. Freedom and a chance at purpose were within her grasp—a second impossible goal, perhaps not so impossible after all. If that meant playing nice with Fegan, she would do it, no matter how much it hurt.