Jam

by Unknown

  “I can’t decide if actual evil is better or worse than ironic evil. But at least when Lord Awesomo killed people it was because he placed some importance on them, like they were a threat to him. Hibatsu treat their people like machines. Or boxes of pencils. It’s really corporate thinking.”

  “They were a corporation,” I pointed out.

  “I know. I have a really bad feeling about any society that started out as a corporation. I’m seeing Nazi jackboots in three generations.”

  “Bam!” said Don suddenly. “Called it. I god damn knew the moment you started talking that you were going to mention Nazis at some point. It’s exactly the kind of lazy comparison I’d expect from your kind.”

  “What the hell does that mean, my kind?”

  “You know what I mean. I’ve figured out what you are, now. You’re a communist.”

  Tim kept his mouth tightly shut at Don’s statement, and I knew why. I remembered that student society he’d joined in high school that had almost gotten all its members expelled for holding a rally outside the tuck shop.

  “No, actually, that’s too dignified a word for it,” added Don. “You’d probably call yourself a communist in high school but really you’re just a whiny kid who hates anyone who’s powerful or has got a real job because it underlines how frigging worthless you are.”

  “You know, Hibatsu almost killed you, too,” said Tim serenely.

  “So maybe I’m not the kind of guy who bears a grudge.” Tim and I both snorted with barely suppressed laughter. “All right, shut up. The point is, you only had power over the plastic people because they were idiotic sheep and you were marginally smarter. And now you resent Hibatsu like a big fat baby because everyone already knows what they’re doing.”

  “But what they’re doing is oppression,” argued Tim. “There’s no individuality. Everyone just does whatever it takes to keep the corporate entity going. Absorbing other settlements, stealing supplies . . . When you run things by committee, there’s no one human soul running things who accepts responsibility for the actions. You become a monster.”

  Don sighed, bored of the argument. “Well, whatever. Why don’t you just set up another revolution? There’s always room on your resumé for another cock-up.”

  Tim’s face was scowling, but thoughtful. That’s what worried me.

  DAY 7.2

  —

  After completing the rather ghoulish business of looting the now-silent mall, we returned to Hibatsu without incident. I was on level three helping the Acquisitions team unload when I glanced through an internal window into a conference room, much like the one where I’d first been interred, and saw Princess Ravenhair sitting alone.

  There was only one door, and it was being held shut by a deeply tanned guard with the build of a gym enthusiast. I remembered what Tim had said about Hibatsu being evil, and that didn’t put any kind of positive spin on why they’d be holding someone prisoner.

  “Is that Princess Ravenhair in there?” I asked, peering at her through the blinds. She was sitting at the table with her head in her hands.

  “Mm-hm,” said the guard, bored. “Refusing to cooperate.”

  I bit my lip. “Is she . . . lashing out?”

  “No. She’s not cooperating, and she’s not lashing out. Truth be told, she’s not been doing much at all.”

  “You’re not going to . . . terminate her or anything?”

  “Nah, apparently not,” he said, rolling his eyes in contempt for red tape. “Diplomacy and all that. Most of the ex-plastics in here still think she’s like the Dalai Lama or something.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Sure, if you think it’ll achieve something.” He peeled his naked torso away from the door, leaving an elongated stain like the trail behind a slug. I wrapped my hand in my T-shirt skirt and turned the handle.

  Ravenhair (I kept forgetting to mentally subtract the princess part) glanced up at my entrance, then just as quickly glanced down again. I kept my hands behind my back, using them to sheepishly push the door closed.

  For several minutes neither of us spoke, or moved. The air of civility in the room felt a little fragile, and I spent some time internally debating the best way to open the conversation. Hello felt too neutral. Hi felt too facetious. How are you feeling? was out, because I didn’t much relish the answer.

  The fourth minute of silence began. I had to pick something, because otherwise she’d think I only came in here to eyeball her for five minutes.

  “I am very, very sorry,” I said.

  She sighed at such length she sounded like a leaking air bed. “Could you please stop apologizing?”

  “Sorry. I mean, er . . . not sorry.”

  “I know none of it was your fault.” Her voice was small and heartbreaking. “I shouldn’t have used Tim to get at Gerald. I should have stepped in when he started declaring war. I shouldn’t have gotten so . . .” She formed something small and bird shaped with her hands. “I just wanted to say I forgive you for . . .”

  She trailed off. I tried to think of a tactful way of putting it, but for some reason it was getting harder to think, and all I came up with was, “Tweet tweet chomp chomp?”

  “He was only a budgie, after all,” she said. “You were worried about Mary. I might’ve done the same thing. You care about her just as much as . . .”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, remembering that I hadn’t checked on Mary since I’d gotten back. “Deirdre . . .”

  “And who knows, maybe I feel free for the first time since this all began. Now that no one’s expecting me to be a leader anymore. Does that sound terrible?”

  “No, no, I get it,” I said quickly. “But what are they doing to you?”

  She frowned and looked up, finally meeting my gaze. “What are who doing to me?”

  “Hibatsu. Are they being evil?”

  “Evil? Not really. I’ve talked with some of my . . . former subjects, and they’re all really happy with the way things are being run.” Her eyes glazed over slightly. “Happier than they’d been in some time, actually.”

  “But why are you being held prisoner?”

  “I’m not. I just came in here to have a think. I don’t know why that guard’s standing there. I think there’s a breeze.”

  The door I was standing in front of flew open with such force that I was hurled into the nearby wall. I half crawled away, clutching several bruised joints, and saw X. She was standing with clenched fists hanging down at her sides and her entire body thrumming with emotion.

  “They were lying. About having. A phone,” she said, visibly fighting an urge to burst into frustrated tears.

  Deirdre immediately stood up, went to her, and hugged her gently. I watched, feeling like a voyeur. The two of them had gotten rather comfortable with each other since I’d seen them last. Perhaps they’d found common ground, such as the loss of a male friend, or a mutual desire to strangle Angela.

  “Did you really think they had one?” asked Deirdre without malice. “I mean, they’d have used it themselves by now, surely.”

  “Y said they had communication with the outside world,” quavered X into her shoulder. “It turns out it was just their stupid corporate speak for the sign they put on the side of the building and Y wasn’t creative enough a thinker to realize and now it’s all been completely pointless . . .”

  I coughed. X seemed to notice me for the first time, and detached from Deirdre, embarrassed. She sniffed wetly, and quiveringly put on that mellow, press-conference stance. “Hello, Travis.”

  The tension in the room went up a couple of notches. “Er, hi. I was just leaving.” I left, neatly proving my point.

  —

  I retired to our sleeping area, feeling oddly drained by the day’s events, and sat hugging my legs on my makeshift bed, staring fixedly over the space between my knees. Nothing more was being asked of me that day, so I was taking the opportunity to rest and picture all the clever, insightful, reassuring things I could have said to Dei
rdre and X.

  I was broken from my daydreams by the short, harsh sound of something expensive being tormented. At some point Don had arrived on the scene, and was hunched over one of the dissembled work stations. He was holding a screwdriver in one hand and a hammer in the other, and had the sick expression of a clingy mother leaving her child for its first day at school.

  He smashed his makeshift chisel a second time and, with another heartbreaking crack, successfully pounded a hole through the plastic housing around his beloved hard drive. I watched curiously as he attached a lanyard and dropped it smartly around his neck. It was evidently heavier than his spine had been anticipating, but he absorbed it manfully.

  “What’re you doing?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he spat. “I’m going to wear it around my neck from now on.”

  “You don’t think that’s a tiny bit neurotic?”

  “I dunno. Are you a tiny bit retarded?” He tapped the casing and winced as the impact shot up his neck. “I am never letting this out of my sight again. Because . . .” His face twisted with loathing even before the concession was out of his mouth. “Because Tim had a point. While we’re still trapped in Brisbane, the key to my future happiness is just an uncomfortable pointy object. Anything could happen to it before we’re rescued.”

  “Or we just won’t get rescued at all because this is a total jampocalypse,” I said.

  “And I’ve told you before, if that’s the case I’m going to wrap myself in bread, throw myself off this building, and get turned into a jam scroll. So it doesn’t matter.” He rubbed his eyes. “Christ, if I just had a working computer. And half an hour of Wi-Fi. I could just upload the build to my FTP. After that I could stick this hard drive in a woodchipper and take a shower in the bits.”

  “There’s bound to be a laptop in Hibatsu that’s still got charge in its batteries,” I suggested.

  “That’s only half the issue. Stop trying to help—it just makes me more annoyed. God, why am I even talking to you about this?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, Travis, that the closest you ever get to a good idea is when you successfully get to a toilet before pissing yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, hotly. “I didn’t realize your head didn’t have room for any more ideas because you’ve pulled so many out of your big fat arse.”

  My mind only processed my own words after I saw Don’s stunned expression.

  “Did you just sass back?” he said, astonished.

  “No!” I squawked. Then I ran away.

  DAY 8.1

  —

  I slept in a different, unused cubicle just to be safe and woke at around five when the early morning sun scythed out from between the neighboring buildings and struck me directly in the face. When I crept sheepishly back to our living space the others were still asleep, Don pressing his cheek against his hard drive, so I sat nearby and waited for them to wake.

  As I waited, I mulled a few things over. Ever since yesterday’s outburst, I’d wondered what had gotten me into such a mood. Not that I was ashamed—I was still tottering from the strange energy I’d been filled with as the anger surged, like a virginal schoolgirl discovering orgasms. Was this how people like Don felt all the time?

  For some reason, my thoughts kept returning to Deirdre. I’d been in a generally crabby mood ever since speaking to her on level three. Plus, I’d just woken from a rather upsetting dream in which I’d been beating upon the outside of a soundproof box, inside of which Deirdre and X had been getting up to some very indecent things.

  At around seven thirty Don finally coughed himself conscious. In the very next second, he was on his feet and displaying the flats of his hands in some improvised karate stance. “GET THE HELL AWAY FROM—oh, it’s you.”

  I rose cautiously out of my terrified flinch. “Yes. Hello.”

  All his muscles relaxed at once and he almost collapsed again. “I was having a horrible dream about drinks coasters.” He fingered his hard drive sleepily for a moment, then suddenly directed a raised eyebrow at me. “Wait. Why are you watching me sleep?”

  “Just didn’t have anything better to do,” I said nonchalantly.

  He eyeballed me. “Oh, well. Nice to know I’m your last resort for entertainment.” He kicked Tim sharply in the leg. “Oi. Salvage time.”

  “I’m awake,” said Tim. “You woke me when you screamed the room down. Why did you kick me? And why are you still kicking me?”

  “If you have to ask, you’ll never know,” said Don. He gave Tim one more friendly boot after he’d gotten to his feet, and the three of us set off for the boat.

  “Why are you in such a good mood?” moaned Tim, rubbing his eyes.

  “Oh, god, I have no idea,” said Don bitterly. “I’ve actually been looking forward to going salvaging. That scares me. I think I might be getting acclimatized.”

  “You don’t get acclimatized after three days,” said Tim grumpily.

  “You know what I mean. I’m relishing any distraction I can get from the nightmare of my life. Like Albert Speer with his garden in Spandau Prison. Or maybe I’m just looking forward to getting out of the damn greenhouse for the day.”

  By now we were in the stairwell and tramping our way down to level three. “Wanting to get out of this building I can understand,” said Tim.

  “You still don’t like Hibatsu?” I inferred aloud.

  “I’m still not sold.” A few tribespeople coming the other way smartly climbed past us, and Tim turned his head to watch them go. “Look, that’s my point. Their faces are so . . .

  blank. Even the guys with plastic bags over their heads had some emotion about them. This is like a Catholic school.”

  Don was on point, and half turned his torso to address us. “Hey. Not everyone feels the need to run around with big stupid grins on their faces all the time. At least Hibatsu is efficient.”

  “Nazi Germany was efficient.”

  Don made a vocalization that was hard to transcribe. “PFFGLAH. There you go again, comparing things to Nazi Germany. It’s such a pathetic argument.”

  “You brought it up first.”

  “No, I didn’t—oh, come on, Spandau Prison references hardly count. Anything after the Nuremberg Trials—”

  “DON, LOOK OUT!” I grabbed his gesturing arm and pulled him back so hard the two of us sprawled diagonally up the stairs in a tangled clinch.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” he said, pressing a knee into my chest as he struggled to get away.

  “J-m,” I choked, unable to breathe.

  The stairs descended into jam. I thought we must have accidentally miscounted and gone all the way down to the lobby, but the sign on the wall read 3, bold as brass. The stairwell door was open and I could just about see the jam continuing through there. The stuff must have risen during the night.

  “We left our plastic outfits on the Everlong, didn’t we?” said Tim uncomfortably. “Someone take my hand. I need a better look.”

  I fastened my hand around his proffered wrist and he leant over the jam to take a better look through the door. Then he had to lean a little bit further, so Don took my free hand and the two of them proceeded to stretch my upper body quite painfully.

  “Yeah,” said Tim. “The whole level’s flooded. Three feet. Looks like it came in that window you two broke.”

  “Oh, christ,” wailed Don. “Suppose I should blame myself for this one. I knew it was a mistake to say I was looking forward to going outside. Jinxed that up the arse, didn’t I.”

  “Do you think the Acquisitions department got out in time?” I said.

  We exchanged glances, then the three of us wordlessly raced up to the next level. There, we stopped dead. None of us had registered or drawn attention to it on the first walk past, but now I could see there was a lurid red light spilling into the stairwell from around the edges of the door. It was a startling effect, like a doorway to hell.

  Tim to
ok the initiative. Ready to slam the door shut again at the first sign of imps and flaming pits, he tentatively pulled it ajar, affixing his eye to the crack. Then he let the door open fully, letting his jaw settle at around knee height.

  Every window on the fourth floor was red. My first thought was that someone had put red cellophane over them all, perhaps for some therapeutic reason, but then I saw the red covering flex and pulsate around the window joins like seaweed swaying on the ocean bed. The jam had continued to rise thinly around the outside of the building but, lacking a broken window, hadn’t gotten inside.

  I felt myself breathe a sigh of relief when I saw Kathy and several other familiar faces milling around, shaken but undigested. But there was still a nagging question hanging over the entire situation.

  “Why is the jam rising?”

  “It’s got to be something to do with how this place is being run,” said Tim, thinking.

  “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you,” growled Don. “It’s jam. Who says it has to be rational? Maybe it’s eaten so many people it’s just having a great big burp.”

  The argument might have continued, but we were rudely interrupted by something banging loudly against a nearby window. We glanced over like startled meerkats and saw the upper portion of the Everlong’s mast waving drunkenly back and forth.

  The Everlong was extending horizontally from the building like a flapping white ear, wobbling crazily in the wind. It was still anchored to a window frame that was now under jam, and the boat teetered like a seesaw on the peak of a jam mountain.

  “Ah, I was about to send someone to fetch you,” came the voice of Kathy. Don, Tim, and I turned to see her flanked by two large, burly tribesmen, and suddenly our being backed up against the window took on something of a firing-squad quality. “Do you have any explanation for this?”

  “Why are you asking us?” said Don.

  “You do regularly leave the settlement and interact physically with the jam,” she said, with infuriating tact. “We were wondering if you could think of something you might have done to activate it in some way?”