by Max Barry
“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to sit there and wait until she gets here.”
Eliot sank into the bed. It was pointless. Every technique he knew, useless, because Harry could not be persuaded.
“What happened to her?”
“When?”
“After Broken Hill.”
He looked at the ceiling. “She disappeared. I searched for months.”
“Then?”
“Then,” said Eliot, “she came back.”
STUDY PROBES BILINGUAL PUZZLE
From: The City Examiner, Volume 144, Edition 12
. . . the electrode was applied to the brain of a French-Chinese bilingual and the patient asked to count to twenty. He began in French, but when the electrode was applied to his left inferior frontal gyrus, he involuntarily changed to Chinese. When the stimulation was removed, he reverted to French.
In another case in Dorset last year, a bilingual who suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car accident was left unable to speak English, although she remained fluent in Dutch.
The results provide further evidence that languages develop in discrete parts of the brain, explaining why bilingual speakers tend not to mix up words from different languages.
“If your brain is a computer, then bilingual speakers dual-boot,” said Dr. Simone Oakes, of Oxford University’s School of Medicine, referring to a machine with two operating systems installed. “They have multiple modes of operation, but only one can be active at a time.”
Further research is expected to probe the effects of specific languages on the brain, such as the puzzle of why particular attitudes and beliefs appear more commonly in speakers of one language than another, regardless of cultural factors.
[TWO]
She caught the train to Blacktown and wandered the streets until she found the Army Disposals store she’d read about the previous day. It was big, almost a warehouse, its aisles packed with quasi- and wannabe-military gear, camo netting hung across the ceiling. She squeezed between bikers and bushies and young men with large, clearly defined chips on large, clearly defined shoulders, occasionally picking up a bottle or knife or pack that seemed interesting. In aisle three, a bearded man in jeans and a light T-shirt approached her and offered assistance.
“Yes,” Emily said. “I’m looking for a camouflage tarpaulin that can be made into a tent.”
“Desert or bush?”
“Desert,” she said, pleased to have skipped the oh-ho-and-what-do-you-need-that-fors.
“We have tarps and we have camo netting. You can throw one over the other.”
“I want a single product, if there is one.”
“You’ll be carrying it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”
“Then may I recommend a space bag?”
“What’s that?”
“A lightweight sleeping bag, foil interior, waterproof canvas exterior. Little mesh part on the face you can open for ventilation without letting in the bugs. Folds up to nothing. Very new. Hard to acquire, as they’re still in service.”
“How hard?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
She nodded. That she could do. “It’s camouflage?”
“It’s not. But I tell you what, if that’s what you desire, I will sew some camo onto it.”
“Yes!” she said. “That would be terrific.”
He led her to a counter and processed her deposit. “Call you in two days. Anything else I can help you with?” He saw her hesitation. “If you’re planning to spend any time in the desert, I hope you have a water system.”
“Water isn’t a problem. But I have a concern about snakes.”
“Rightly so.”
“What can I do to keep them away?”
“The general idea is to keep away from them.”
“I have good boots. But . . .” She gestured. “Is there some kind of electronic device that scares them? Like the ones that keep insects out of your house?” The man had begun to look amused, so she guessed no. “Anything?”
He scratched his beard. “You can watch where you put your feet.”
“Hmm,” she said.
“And take a stick,” he said.
• • •
So she was not thrilled with the snake situation, but otherwise things were coming together. The space bag was the final piece in the puzzle; with that, she could begin testing. Which was tempting to skip, but she had uncovered some alarming numbers about sweat-related water loss in the desert, and this wasn’t something she wanted to confirm forty miles from the nearest living human being. Nearest benign human being, that was, since she was working under the assumption that Broken Hill was surrounded by proles, men and women who worked in bakeries or gas stations or drove trucks or simply stood at key intersections and would, upon seeing her, become very focused and intent and proceed directly to a phone.
Hence the need for a desert crossing. A few months before, when she’d been coming for Harry, she’d done it on a dirt bike. In retrospect, it seemed wildly risky. But she’d been impatient. She had hurried for him. And it had ended so badly. She didn’t want to think about that. This time there would be caution. There would be thirty miles of desert traversed by foot, and no one would see her coming because what she was doing was unimaginable.
Once she had the word, she would begin the next stage of her journey, to DC. When she got there, she would rip out Yeats’s heart, just like he had torn out hers. What happened after that didn’t matter.
• • •
She spent a lot of time on trains, reading dictionaries. She wore a hoodie and pulled it down, in case of cameras. She could ride all day for two dollars and never be in the same spot for more than a few minutes. The last service was around two, so then she had to find a place to sleep, but that wasn’t hard. She had done that before.
Sometimes she nodded off on the train. She tried not to, because she feared waking up to poets moving through the carriage, no way out, but it was kind of unavoidable. The dictionaries were not very interesting. So when she felt her head drifting toward the glass, the factories or fields passing by outside, she let it happen.
The day after she ordered her space blanket, she drifted awake to find a man sitting opposite, watching her. She was half out of her seat, words forming on her lips, before she realized he wasn’t Eliot. He wasn’t anybody. She sank back into her seat. Her head was full of terror; it always was, coming out of dreams.
“Sorry,” said the man. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay.” She was getting her bearings. The man was about forty, nicely dressed, sweater, a good watch. She talked to such people sometimes, as a precursor to persuading them to give her money.
“That’s a lot of books. Dictionaries?”
She nodded.
“Are you a student?”
“Of life,” she said. People liked this kind of quippery. It caused them to open up. “I just read them for fun.”
“Dictionaries?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t sound like fun. That sounds awful.”
“Awful used to mean ‘full of awe.’ The same meaning as awesome. I learned that from a dictionary.”
He blinked.
“See?” she said. “Fun.”
“That is actually fascinating. What else?”
She looked at her notes. She had notes. “Cause has changed. The definition used to be ‘to make something happen.’ Now they’ve added, ‘especially something bad.’”
“They’ve changed cause?”
“They’ve noticed a change. Dictionaries record common usage.”
“I thought it was a panel of professors,” said the man, “at a university somewhere, deciding what words mean.”
She shook her head.
“So it’s bad to cause something now?”
“Yes. And to join causes, probably. Because of semantic leakage.”
“Well,” he said. “You are the most interestin
g person I’ve met all week.”
“Thanks,” she said, but she was getting a bad feeling. She was regretting this conversation. “My stop is coming up.” She packed her dictionaries into her bag.
“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?” She didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right. I mean, are you okay? You don’t look okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m sitting close enough to smell you.” His expression looked genuine but she didn’t like his eyes. There were a lot of tiny muscles there and they were not consistent with the rest of his face. “Is there any way I can help you?”
“Thanks, but no.” She stood up. “This is my stop.”
“Mine, too.”
She sat. “My mistake.”
He leaned forward. He did this slowly, like he wanted to get it right. “Do you need money?”
She hesitated, because she did need money. But not from this guy. She didn’t even want to compromise him. She just needed to get away. Her eye was starting to hurt.
“Whatever trouble you’re in, I can help. I’m a lawyer. I have money. No strings. I see an intelligent young woman who needs a helping hand. That’s all. Say no and I won’t bother you anymore.”
The train stopped. The carriage was almost empty, the platform bare. She waited until she was sure the man wasn’t moving, then stood and walked quickly to the doors. She got there in time, hit the button, stepped off, and kept walking. A night breeze stirred her hair. She wanted to look around but kept her head down, in case of cameras.
“Five hundred dollars,” said the man, right behind her. “Look at it.” She ignored him. “Are you stupid? Just take it. Take it.” He put a hand on her shoulder.
She turned and shoved him. He staggered backward. He really was holding a fistful of cash. Behind him, the train began to pull out.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Fuck off!” she shouted. And she went after him, for some reason, and pushed him again. “Leave me alone!” He tried to catch her arm. But she was too quick for that. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t prepared for someone who fought back. She shoved him again. “Leave me alone!” His back hit the moving train and he rebounded a step onto the platform. Her brain was full of violence and her star was singing and another push could send him between the carriages. If she timed it right. She thought, Yeats, Yeats, save it for Yeats.
“Jesus,” said the man. “Jesus.” He got around her and ran away.
She stood there, breathing. She needed to get out of here. She had to leave before the cops arrived. She made for the exit, her hoodie pulled tight. She couldn’t wait for the space bag. She would have to call and have it mailed. She had to take herself out of the cities, away from people, before someone got hurt.
• • •
A month later, she was trudging across the desert. She had a stick. It was night, because during the day you could see for twenty miles in all directions, and she assumed someone would be looking. Also snakes slept at night. She wore a fur-lined parka and loose shorts, maybe an odd combination, but the thing was the nights were cold enough to freeze exposed sweat. A twenty-eight-pound backpack was strapped around her waist and shoulders. She was loving her boots: big, brown, comfortable shit-kickers.
She made good ground on night one and stopped at the first hint of dawn. She found a depression in the dirt beside three scrubby trees, a long-dead waterhole, and spread her space bag beneath them. She sat on it awhile, cooling, watching the stars retreat and the sky lighten. Her body felt satisfyingly used. Not exhausted. She was in good shape. She ate a hard biscuit and crawled beneath the space bag and fell asleep.
She woke a few hours later in a furnace. She was swimming in sweat. She peeked out, thinking maybe she’d lost her shade. But no. It was just hot. She wriggled out, keeping flat to the ground to avoid presenting a profile, and unzipped her backpack. She pulled out four wooden stakes and used them to suspend the space bag a few feet above the ground. The idea was to remain camouflaged from above while allowing air to move around her. She stripped naked, crawled under the sheet, sucked water from her drinking tube, and tried to sleep.
The second night was harder. Her legs felt suspiciously sore, which they hadn’t during her trials. She might have been pushing herself, walking faster than she needed to. She was blowing her water budget, too. She forced herself to slow down, stop for more rests, but then worried that she was falling behind on distance, which would create new water problems. The chances were excellent that she could source fresh water in Broken Hill, in which case she had no problem. But she did not want to rely on this, since if she was wrong she would die. She kept walking, her stick ready, in case of night snakes.
She made less ground than she wanted and stopped early, feeling dizzy. She drank a lot, even splashing some on her face. She ate more biscuits. She hadn’t brought many of those, to avoid temptation, because digestion increased the body’s demand for water. That was starting to seem like a mistake. She crawled under the space bag.
Again, she was woken by the sun baking the earth and had to convert the bag to a little tent. This time, however, she realized the trees she’d camped beneath were basically leafless, which was a serious problem, because no shade. There was no wind and the underside of the space bag radiated heat. She lay there as long as she could, watching her skin turn mottled pink then red, and crawled out and curled against the trunk of a tree. It was better but only a little. She began to seriously wonder if she would die. Two weeks ago, she had decided against bringing the long white Bedouin robes that would have made it possible to walk in the daytime without passing out, thinking they weren’t worth the weight. This decision might kill her.
She drank her electrolytes. Every thirty minutes, she tipped tiny amounts of water onto her hands and wiped them across her face and neck. The water pack grew scarily thin but it was either drink or expire. In late afternoon, a light breeze began to shift the sand and she cried a little despite the fluid loss.
Finally the sun eased toward the earth. Sometime after that, she began to feel human. She got to her feet and began to pack her bag and thought about which direction to go. The smart thing was to head back. It would take two nights but she had enough water and would be able to recover and rethink how she was going to do this. But it would mean starting over. And the town was only one more night away. It would probably have water. Even if the tanks had gone bad, there would be bottles. Stores and cafés with darkened refrigerators. She ignored the part of her that asked but what if and started walking.
Her feet became sore, then wet-feeling, then numb. She didn’t want to blame the boots but she had the feeling they were letting her down. They were like boys who at first were cool and suave and then after a couple of weeks you realized were assholes. Around midnight she began to hallucinate a little and forget important things like checking her compass. She came across a boulder and sat on it and woke up face-first in the sand. Her lips felt like a baked cake. She drank and drank and finished her water.
The town rose with the dawn. She walked toward it. She lost her stick somehow. She began to pass houses, places she recognized. She saw the first body and tried not to look but her eyes wouldn’t stay still. It was a woman she knew. Cheryl. She recognized the dress. I’m here to fix it, she told Cheryl. To say sorry. But she couldn’t really believe Cheryl would be pleased by that, or would forgive Emily in any way. She sucked on her water tube and remembered it was empty and turned in at a gate because it was time to search for water. She walked up the path and stopped because on the house’s concrete front steps lay a brown snake, sunning itself. She stared at it. “Fuck off!” she shouted, and stamped her boots, and it wriggled away.
• • •
She pulled open cupboards and passed out in a bedroom and threw up in a toilet and wasn’t sure in which order that happened. She found water and slept. When she awoke the sun was throwing shadows at forty-five degrees and sh
e had to stare at them a long time to figure out whether it was morning or afternoon. She had slept for a day and a half. She was ravenous.
She found and devoured a box of fruit bars. Her brain liked this and she began to be able to make sense of things. Empty water bottles were everywhere. She sat at the wooden kitchen table and waited for the sun to go down. Then she strapped herself into her pack.
A strong wind was blowing, tossing stinging sand at her face. She hiked along the road. She had steeled herself for the bodies, and kept her eyes up and her mind focused, but the closer she got, the more the wild, clawing terror grew inside her, wanting to turn her around and steer her out of here. Sand stung her eye and she rubbed at it but it made no difference.
She passed the gas station, with its burned cars and trucks. She made herself machinery: legs and feet and purpose. She reached the hospital. She stepped over a snarl of cloth and leather and gleaming bone and pushed open the side door. These were things she did. She walked down the corridor. She didn’t recognize anything because that part of her brain was closed. She reached the double doors for the emergency room and dropped her pack and closed her eyes. Then she went in.
The smell was very bad. Old but wrong. Her nose began to run. Her boots hit something and she shuffled around it. When anything blocked her path, she carefully stepped over it. Her fingers found the counter. She followed it along to the place where she had left the bareword.
It wasn’t there. She stood awhile, breathing. She followed the counter all the way to the wall, sweeping its surfaces. Her fingers found objects, small things she could identify like a stapler and a nameplate and larger things she dropped upon ascertaining they were not what she wanted and did not think about. She reached the wall and began making a low sound, equal parts moan and hum.
She circled the counter twice. She made her way back to where the bareword had been and dropped to her hands and knees and began to feel around on the floor. Almost immediately she found cloth and hair and her hum became a shriek and she couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t grope around corpses. She got to her feet. The idea crept into her brain: I’m lost. She would never find her way out. She would spend the rest of her life crawling over the bodies of the people she’d let die, searching for an exit she was too afraid to open her eyes and look for. Her breaths came in hitching shrieks. She tripped twice and then her hands found the doors and she crawled through them.