We Can Save Us All

by Adam Nemett

  “The camera is the modern means of bearing witness,” she’d said, glancing sidelong at David.

  Yup. Haley still had a lot of rage about Halloween.

  Beth was mad at David, too, or maybe at their parents. Mom and Dad had left her with Aunt Abby in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. It was for her own good, but she didn’t see it that way.

  This campus was no place for her right now, David told her.

  But nowhere was any place for anybody anymore.

  The single best video clip of the day’s spectacle was filmed by Channel 12’s traffic copter—Ultraviolet on the roof of the Scheide Music Building, the campus revolving around him. The still photos, the ones that wound up in Time and Newsweek, those shots belonged to David’s dear old dad. The local news arrived late to the scene, in time to catch a few final heroes getting shuttled away in a paddy wagon, but most of the video coverage from the Day of the Hero came courtesy of cell phone cameras and Cap’n Cunt’s DSLR, which she then sold to CNN for a pretty penny.

  Flipping through the footage you’d first find Ultraviolet’s striptease: on the roof of Scheide he rips off his collared shirt, swings a cape over his head. He lifts a gallon of Benjamin Moore’s Mystical Grape latex paint, displays it like an infant heir to the throne. Douses himself in purple.

  Next: costumed heroes do the old Superman quick-change, entering and bursting from the phone booth like hornets from a hive. They head straight for the Scheide Music Building, where the plan is for these heroes to commandeer as many percussion instruments as possible. All but one of the members of Princeton’s African Drumming Ensemble were now part of the USV and wanted their djembes, dunun, congas, and talking drums—which would be a useful, uniting force for Echo’s Human DJ experiences.

  It also served as a decoy, diverting the attention of campus police from the real heists going on all across campus, where a bunch of non-costumed USVers were pilfering fabrication materials from the architecture building, film equipment from the arts center, bedframes and mattresses and other furniture from the dorms, clothes and groceries from the U-Store, and all manner of mechanical and electrical components from the facilities warehouse. Three goofball heroes even scaled Nassau Hall and stole the clapper from the cupola bell that rang the hours.

  For good measure, Ultraviolet initially shouted insanities from the roof about being able to fly, being ready to jump, an added wrinkle that forced the police into more of a crisis negotiation mode as opposed to offensive crowd control. Between his threats to jump, Ultraviolet orated to the USV below:

  “Back in the sixties, there was a popular nonviolent response to police action they called ‘going limp.’ It’s exactly what it sounds like. Do we want to be like bags of trash hauled to the curb for disposal? When the police try to move you today, tense your muscles. Make your body rigid, rooted to the ground. Be still. When they cart us away, they will loft our taut limbs wide as a soaring superhero! Stay stiff! Put the ‘rigor’ in rigor mortis! Evolve or perish!”

  Business-Man watched about thirty costumed USVers get carried away in this fashion before a horde of heroes gathered at the door of Scheide, linking arms, an immovable clump. Cops realized this crowd was primed to riot, so they went after the leader instead, tiptoeing their way across the roof, nervously wielding the kind of pool-skimmer implements used to corral suicidal jumpers.

  “How do you feel?” Business-Man asked into his headset as the cops got their bearings.

  “Like a cold, sassy tree,” said his fearless leader. “How ’bout you?”

  “Like the fucking Wizard of Oz.”

  Ultraviolet laughed and said, “Pay lots of attention to the Man Behind the Curtain.”

  “Look alive, U.V. They’re coming up behind you. Stay stiff.”

  And he did look alive. So stately up there, one foot raised on the roof’s peak like a big game hunter resting a boot on a prized boar. Most of the USVers down below—with their costumes and tights and gadgets—they looked a bit silly. Haley’d done yeoman’s work on fashion design, but superhero garb never looks as good on real humans as it does on illustrated ones. Real people lack idealized musculature. Costumes lack tightness. You can always find a wrinkle. But Ultraviolet somehow maintained the alien bravado of Superman, the litheness of Spider-Man, the millionaire swagger only Bruce Wayne could pull off. It briefly occurred to Business-Man, as the cops closed in, that Ultraviolet might fall. But no. Look at him. Balanced on the peak of a roof and yet this was the most stable he’d ever been. Mathias Blue was beyond clumsy accidents. He was unimpressed with gravity.

  Complete equilibrium.

  And here David was, pacing in his hidden skybox observatory. There was something so lonely about being him, he thought. All honor, no glamour. And, actually, not much honor, either. He was sick of being cloistered, separate from the action. Why not cast his lot with the rest of them doing battle down there? Was this the work of the Anointed, his shadow, who hadn’t paid enough dues to deserve this current station? Was Mathias keeping him away from the spotlight on purpose? No, he didn’t want the spotlight. He wanted the trenches, the dirt, the danger! Fuck it. He was sick of

  Business-Man made an executive decision. He needed to be part of the game, duking it out down there on the board with all the other chess pieces. He sprinted from the study carrel. Braked hard as he emerged into the March air. Across the courtyard, by the door of the Scheide Music Building, in a human barricade of heroes, one arm locked with Sergeant Drill and the other pointing a video camera, there was Cap’n Cunt. She spotted Business-Man and lifted her mask. He slipped his goggles on, as if going to work. The Cap’n, in spite of herself, smirked. She pointed her camera Business-Man’s way. David wondered how he’d look on film. How was his posture? His hair?

  Quiet, vain shadow.

  Business-Man worried he’d be snatched by cops before he could make it to the safe mass standing by the Scheide doorway. Cops would take him away along with Ultraviolet and the others they’d already loaded into the vans, and though Business-Man would have nobly sacrificed his freedom—something real—for the cause he’d created, it would really suck.

  Because then he wouldn’t get to stand next to the girl he loved.

  Closer now. He spotted his father, crouched like a frog with cameras dangling from his neck, snapping shots. But he never took his eyes off Cap’n Cunt, even when his father got right in front and placed his lens inches from Business-Man’s nose. Staring through it, he relaxed his eyes, and now there was only a dark blur in front of him. He walked into this black hole.

  And he was feet away from her now and felt a magnetic energy pulling him, the pull of all those bodies, all those cells, like water droplets drawing one another in. Business-Man backed slowly into Cap’n Cunt, close enough to feel her breath against his neck. She slipped her hand inside the pocket of his blazer and gave his ribs a little squeeze. And then she slid aside, allowing him to take his place in the group beside her. They did not speak. But their arms touched and her arm moved upward with each inhale and he loved the way it rubbed. He synced his breath to hers, their limbs rising and falling in unison, and my god this felt exactly like what he should be doing right now.

  8

  APRIL

  i.

  On April 1, it rained birds. Three thousand ravens nose-dived into a Walmart parking lot in Utah, maybe mistaking it for a pond. Next morning, Coast Guard found two million fish floating on the surface of the Chesapeake. Was biology falling behind? Was this preemptive mass suicide?

  David wondered which species was next.

  A week after they released Mathias Blue from jail, he lined the back of the MaxMobile in mattresses, new and clean. He instructed them all to get into character, then drove to a cornfield, pulled over, and Cap’n Cunt slid into the back, turning on the dome light. She told them how she loved them, how they were locked into something special, the core of revolution, and how being a revolutionary meant living a revolutionary lifestyle.

  Business
-Man was dressed in character, and his mind wandered. He saw the crew reflected in Cap’n Cunt’s oversized sunglasses: Golden Echo in his speaker-covered parka could have been an extra from Starlight Express—something part human, part machine, part homosexual. Peacemaker was armored like a self-defense training dummy but more imposing. He must’ve been so sweaty in that riot suit. Next to him was It Girl, who looked like a chic hobo. She pulled sunglasses from her massive canvas purse filled with outfits and accessories, augmenting herself with flapper gloves, a peek-a-boo hat, a mink stole, dirty pearls. This was one of more than a dozen personalities she could affect. It made David wonder which one was her truest secret identity. And beside her was SuperVisor, whose conservative surgeon’s scrubs had recently devolved into a naughtier pants-less version, descending down to thigh-highs and high heels.

  It Girl lit a Virginia Slim, nodded at SuperVisor and purred, “Swell stems, Doc.”

  “In the sixties they had these ‘smash monogamy’ campaigns,” Cap’n continued. “I feel guilty. Blue and I have been off in our own world downstairs. We need to be working like a single unit…”

  She spoke fast, as if she’d practiced this speech for hours and was trying to get it all out.

  “Are you guys breaking up?” asked Golden Echo. He sounded like he might cry.

  “We care for each other. We’re just not going to be hidden away anymore. Blue agrees.”

  “I agree,” whispered Ultraviolet.

  It struck David: Mathias wasn’t delivering this speech. Had he planted this idea of branching out and tapped Haley as his spokesperson? Or was Haley, in fact, cutting herself loose? Something wild brewed inside David. He felt the familiar first rush of a drug taking hold.

  “So… some ground rules,” Cap’n Cunt said. “Let’s aim for connection more than like mind-blowing performance. We’re here until sunrise. So take your time and enjoy each other. Cool?”

  “Cool,” they echoed. Business-Man’s chest jumped into his jaw.

  Dr. Ugs shook a bottle of pills. This was their new formula, the stuff they were going to start selling. Business-Man was hesitant to turn the USV into lifestyle-drug peddlers, but cash flow was dwindling—due to a major withdrawal by Mathias that he refused to explain, reminding David who was bankrolling this thing in the first place—and they urgently needed revenue. Besides, drug dealing was Cap’n Cunt’s old domain. And Dr. Ugs’s new pill was but a subtle molecular adaptation from the legal Zeronal pills that were making Pfizer plenty rich. Why not steal some market share?

  “These are tweaked with lithium,” said Ugs. “Plus a microdose of psilocybin and some sildenafil, the active ingredient in Viagra.”

  Sergeant Drill was always hesitant about taking something new. After a lifetime of sobriety she now approached drugs like a vendetta, but still, she had reservations about the path she was leading her body down. Dressed in black lace-up boots and her camo jumpsuit unzipped to her navel, she dipped Peacemaker’s ROTC hat over her mirrored shades and played with her power drill. But Ugs placed a pill in everyone’s palm and said, “Kezepel,” and, sure enough, everyone swallowed, except Ultraviolet who’d already taken his pill, and Dr. Ugs, who wanted to stay sober and observe the effects of his new recipe, lest any further tweaking be necessary.

  It occurred to Business-Man what was happening. He tried not to say anything stupid. Inside his infrared goggles, his eyes drifted over It Girl’s spandexed ass, over SuperVisor’s tan thighs…

  “Also,” Cap’n continued, “we remain unprotected. Time is running out and so we shan’t fear STDs or anything else, right? This is a rawther natural thing to do when Armageddon is in sight.”

  “At the End,” Ultraviolet clarified, “humans need to fuck.”

  “Still,” Cap’n Cunt added, “no activity without consent. Is this absolutely clear?”

  They nodded profusely. Respect.

  “How about this,” Cap’n Cunt offered. “Consent equals a soft ear tug, like so.” She leaned in and hovered her mouth over It Girl’s, then thumbed her earlobe, gave it a pinch, and they kissed.

  “If you cum, if you need a break, if you get weirded out, bored, over-stimulated, whatever, jump up front and take a turn driving. This will be more fun if the car is in motion… Sound okay?”

  They raised their eyebrows high. They nodded yes. It Girl said, “Oh, I’m just spiffy, sugar.”

  Cap’n Cunt walked on her knees toward the center of the pack and turned off the dome light. They all waddled into a circle. They giggled. None of them actually knew how to begin an orgy. Like, was there supposed to be a starter pistol? Should someone drop a scarf?

  Then SuperVisor yipped, “Somebody kiss somebody!”

  Right on cue, It Girl inched herself into the center of the circle and lifted up Echo’s motorcycle helmet. Exposing his delicate mouth, she placed her own full lips on his. He was tense at first, but they all watched as she coaxed his tongue out of his mouth and into hers. It was an innocent, awkward, sweet kiss. It might have been sexier, but neither of them could stop smiling.

  It Girl took off her glasses. Echo lifted his dark face shield. His eyes were welling up. He received a round of applause from those who’d assumed this moment between them must have already happened and realized it hadn’t; this was their first kiss. Business-Man was thrilled for them.

  “Okay,” said Cap’n Cunt. “Somebody kiss somebody they wouldn’t normally kiss.”

  Fired up, Echo leaned across the circle and planted his happy mouth on the purple lips of Ultraviolet. This was a newly empowered Echo, made strong by the love of a good woman. He went back to It Girl, who ran her tongue along his neck and then tapped his RacketJacket, asking for tunes. Echo obliged. Fiddling inside his parka, he produced a perfect blend of bass-heavy ambience.

  Golden Echo’s Music for Orgies, Volume 1.

  Meanwhile, Ultraviolet went right for SuperVisor, and when they kissed there was nothing sweet about it. They ravaged each other’s mouths, biting tongues, wet and hungry. She’d clearly been angling for this, for him, and she clawed at his taut, wiry chest as he pulled up her long shirt and squeezed her ass in his hands, covering both cheeks with streaks of violet.

  David looked at Haley. She didn’t even look jealous. With those big eyes, she held his gaze and sent David a hint of something hot. She covered her mouth daintily as if to say, Oh dear…

  Cap’n Cunt skirted around the group. Business-Man thought maybe she was heading for him but she passed to Sergeant Drill—he would not be the chosen one in her game of Duck, Duck, Goose—and cajoled her into comfort, pressing the butt of the Sergeant’s power drill between her legs, letting it vibrate against her as she shrieked at first and then settled in, her hips rolling and mouth opening in low moans. Cap’n smooched her and left her to Peacemaker’s cautious advances.

  So that was Haley’s game, David thought. She wasn’t aiming to smash monogamy. She was playing matchmaker. Sacrificing her relationship to foster the coupledom of half a dozen others.

  Maybe?

  Echo+It Girl crawled over to Sergeant Drill+Peacemaker, while Ultraviolet+SuperVisor were now jawing eagerly at each other’s crotch, but, oh, Dr. Ugs. Poor, awkward, chemistry-grad-student, skinny-legged Dr. Ugs. He tried to make his way to the pileup in the back, but his path was cut off by Ultraviolet and SuperVisor, who was now cumming. Hard. She groped at Ultraviolet, shaking wildly, scratching lines into his scalp. It was the first of her many blistering orgasms that night (her body was an extremely easy math equation, which nearly all would succeed in solving). Business-Man knew that Dr. Ugs wished he were the one solving her. Ugs made a half-hearted effort toward the grouping in the back, then pantomimed a driving motion at Business-Man.

  Ugs would take the first shift at the wheel.

  Shift. Shifting. Something shifts.

  And this is when David realizes Haley is finally looking at him. She’s not in character anymore. She has no more work to do, no more social lubricating. It’s been weeks. They o
we each other some face time. He has waited patiently for this come-to-Jesus they’re about to have.

  They jolt as the van bounces from the field back onto the paved road. The bump sends David flying onto his elbows toward Haley, half by accident. There she is: his captain. Hovering over him, hair waterfalling. She’s not smiling anymore and neither is he. She motions him to the side of the van and they lie down together, heads against metal, David’s Mohawk spikes bending. It’s then, with Haley’s face only inches from David’s, that they both notice how hard he is. They laugh at the pointy thing poking its way into space, amusingly smushed against his dress pants. She rests her hand on his stomach. He runs his knuckle against the felt of her captain’s jacket and undershirt and bra and all those layers, but whatever; it’s still her boob under there.

  The music is hot and deep. He’s thought nonstop of that one and only time in the backyard and now it’s happening again, and he wishes he’d gotten more practice, learned some new and better tricks since the first time. Haley pulls at David’s pants, skilled at operating the hidden clasps and zippers of the modern man’s slacks. But when she tries to take off his blazer David stops her. He knows it’s kind of twisted, but he wants to leave this amulet on. It’s the magic that got him here.

  When she grabs at his lapels he whispers, “No, stop…”

  And then Haley’s face turns. It’s as if she’s just tripped and fallen on her face and is now looking around, embarrassed and injured.

  “No,” he whispers. “I mean totally keep going. I just want to leave this on.”

  And maybe it’s because he spoke, breaking the mood.

  Or because Echo’s music has just intensified, growing more frenetic, like an orgasm itself.

  Maybe it’s because they’re on drugs, and everything is weird.