by Andrew Post
I turned back.
I could always do this in dreams, pull their strings and control them as I wanted. I’ve heard it comes from playing a lot of video games. I’ve also heard having a strong left brain helps. Made sense since a chunk the size of a golf ball in my brain’s right hemisphere—where my leg problem comes from—was about as lively as a one. The doctors said I would have an increased artistic side, something about left brain compensation; that dead spot basically negated because of it. I can also burp the alphabet backward, but I’m pretty sure that’s not related—it’d be cool if it were, though.
“Pay attention,” Mosaic Face said. “This is important.”
“Sorry. Cripes.”
“Where was I? Right. Here. A visual aid.”
A cut and a laughably horrible animation of Earth, what could’ve easily been a screen saver from the DOS era. There was a crunching sound poorly synced to a big bite being taken out of the planet, pixelated edges and all.
“The missing piece represents how much I estimate has been stolen at the time of this recording. More is being taken on a daily basis, all over the world, at various points where it wouldn’t be noticed. Deserts, ocean bottoms, the poles. And now, places mostly unoccupied because of the A are harvest sites as well.”
The animation ended, and Mosaic Face appeared again. He strode about his crumby makeshift soundstage with its shag carpet, mothballs in every corner, and a velvet Elvis on the wall, hands clasped behind his back again.
“I want help with this,” he sang. “And I’m looking to recruit some people who would be willing to find out how and why this is happening. I believe these mass thieves not only caused the WTF but are also directly responsible for the apocalypse.
“Think about it. Sure, it would be easier, saner even, to say the world met all these catastrophes back-to-back on its own, nature, but what if I told you it was entirely orchestrated? Who’s to say that the hoof-and-mouth disease, when it made the jump to people, wasn’t given a little encouraging push? People say a hacker caused the power plants to melt down. How do we know it wasn’t them trying to radiate us off the planet so they could take it without struggle? What if the earthquakes were them getting greedy, taking too much too fast, causing the planet to shake like that?”
Mosaic Face stepped up to an ornate wooden table, and upon it were the two identical glass vases. They looked like a snapshot of a rock hitting beautifully clean oceanic water, the up-splash frozen in duplicate.
“If anyone can tell me why having two of these vases here with me right now is a strange thing, please message me with your answer.”
There was a long pause in which nothing appeared on my mind monitor except the ceaseless rearranging of the man’s face. He said his catchphrase, as always, but this time much more soberly. “Chew on that for a while.”
* * *
“Mew on mat fer a mile,” I heard someone mutter. Me.
“Huh?”
I was still where I had collapsed, on the dining room floor. Apparently Squishy was unable to lift me to put me anywhere more comfortable, but he did put a towel under my head. The TV was on in the next room. Music, bouncy and upbeat. I got up, my head buzzy.
The music was accompanied by another sound, snuffling and little puffing exhales. I clack-thumped down the hall to the rec room and found Squishy—yep, he was still around and very much real—sitting on the couch, watching a credits crawl. I recognized the music now, the show-ending number for every episode of Dr. Werewolf & Squishy.
I noticed Squishy had the remote on the armrest next to him for the DVR we’d brought to the rig from home. On it, I had every episode saved.
He made a surprised noise, muted through his sobbing, when he noticed me. He glanced at the TV and fought to get the remote to cooperate with him. He shut it off, the rec room falling into silence.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.
“No, I believe I understand now.” He set the remote on the armrest, squared it up so its edges paralleled the couch’s stripe pattern. “Even if it is just you and I here upon this derelict mining station in the middle of this mysterious body of water, at least I’m not in the Savannah any longer.”
“He’s not here, you know. Dr. Werewolf.”
A small nod. “That’s good. Really, I’m not that worried about him. I think I’m just having somewhat of an existential crisis. I saw the installment of the show where I quoted Descartes, and while I had no idea I was such a snobby cretin, the quote still rings true. Probably truer to me now, actually.”
“Cogito, ergo sum?”
He nodded, tapped the end of his nose. “Gold star for you.”
“I’m not smart,” I said, grinning. “I’m just quoting you quoting Descartes.”
“You’ve a good memory, and that’s half of what it takes to be smart. Of course, I was using it in the context, then, in the . . . episode, to explain . . . Ah, it doesn’t matter. None of that actually happened, did it? But now, the phrase means so much. I can’t help but think, wonder, if even this is just another show. Perhaps a reboot of sorts, a gritty look at what would happen to a squidmouse in a postcatastrophe setting?” Wincing, clearly afraid of bad news, he peeked my way.
I shook my head. “Afraid not.”
His shoulders sank. “Alas.” A sigh. “So, what now?”
“I need to go into town. I need to talk to someone.” I tried to keep from sounding as if Squishy was the thing I needed to talk over with Thadius, and even though he was, I didn’t want Squishy to think any of this—him, suddenly real—was his fault.
“Very good. Do you need anything done while you’re gone? Although the dimensions of this place aren’t exactly accommodating to someone of my stature, I could certainly attempt to perform some light cleaning. Perhaps the lower half of the kitchen, if you’d like?”
“I think you should come with me.”
“Oh?”
* * *
It took some convincing to get Squishy to climb into my backpack. He didn’t weigh all that much, but he was certainly heavier than the stuffed version of him I’d had. Heavier than the canister I’d used to make him, too, oddly enough.
Before I took up the ores, I snapped my fingers in frustration. I’d left my gun inside, right where it’d fallen when Squishy scared me half to death the night before. I sat there in the rowboat, wondering if I should go get it. No. I had to talk to Thadius. No time for that now.
Track 7
HAPPY NOW?
I hoisted Squishy out, got him slung over my back, got my crutches under me, and began picking my way up the beach. The boardwalk topping the enormous retaining wall dividing the town from Lake Superior was more crowded than the day before. No one was around the boardwalk to overhear me talking to the contents of my backpack, so I gave Squishy a brief backstory as we went along at our loping, unbalanced pace. It was more or less what I told you already about the A. Squishy remained quiet because I told him to, but I’m sure if given the option, he would’ve said plenty. Having someone tell you the world was now a wreck, I’m sure, was a hard pill to swallow.
Today, downtown was crowded with people selling goods out of pickup truck beds. Some people had awnings set up, bringing back memories of the wrestling mat fort Alan’s family made in the gym all those years ago. Some people sold fruits and vegetables; others peddled old appliances. All the signs were hand painted and included a statement that all goods for sale had been tested for radiation and were safe for consumption. Some of the signs reassured potential buyers that all fish had been double-checked with a Geiger counter.
Judging by the sneers I got, I think they could sniff out anyone wandering around the market with nothing but lint in their pockets, me among them. I don’t know what gives a broke person away, but the sellers, if they were seated near their truck beds of bagged potatoes and celery stalks or whatnot, would stand up as casually as a distrusting person can when I walked by. I had no interest in testing them, mostly because I was taug
ht never to steal, but Dad told me once that the market vendors often carried guns and machetes to disarm bandits.
Literally.
“How much for an apple?” I asked a seller.
“Three greens. Or one pelt.”
Apparently the use of Monopoly houses wasn’t limited to the Siren House. “I don’t have either of those.”
“Well, what do you have?”
Though I’d forgotten my gun, I remembered my coin purse this time and produced my coin purse, crunched open the Velcro, and showed him my assortment of coins, gathered from around the rig over the years: under cabinets and beds. Most of them were Canadian.
“Nope,” he said as soon as he saw the coins, “Don’t deal in none of that. You cute and all, but for all I know, that’s duped coin. Sorry, darlin’.”
I closed the coin purse. “I don’t understand. Why does everyone use Monopoly houses for money? Far as I remember, this is money.” I jingled my measly handful.
The skin-and-bones farmer flicked the bill of his hat to send it back from his eyes, glanced up and down the row of trucks. “Can’t use that no more. Copper’s too easy to find an’ use to dupe coins wid. Goddamn scratchers. Blame them. Went to plastic. We all did, whole town. Harder to dupe.” He pinched a tiny green house. “The flashings, the places where the mold didn’t fit right, the little line here? That’s how you can tell it’s legitimate.” He emphasized every syllable of the last word. “Injection molded, bona fide. No scratcher can duplicate delicate work like that.” He eyed me. “You new around here or somethin’, gal?”
It felt like the apple was staring at me: Please, Cassetera, won’t you please eat me? I hadn’t remembered to eat or bring any food before rushing out this morning, and rowing across Lake Superior had given me a pretty huge appetite. “So you’re okay with what the Smocks do, then?” I asked.
“The Regolatore. And, yes, they might be a little harsh in their methods, but you ask me, them scratchers need to be stopped. Screwing up the whole system. Think I like usin’ toys as money?” He shook a cigar box, the contents issuing a plastic rattle as they bounced around inside. Probably dozens of reds and greens. This man, as far as I knew, was rich with his box full of little plastic pieces, and I was suddenly jealous. Funny how little it took to put value on something. I used to find those damn things under the couch all the time—and now they were the means by which to feed myself. After returning my coin purse to my pocket, I said good-bye and guided my growling stomach away. The farmer merely grunted his farewell.
* * *
I reached the Siren House. It was completely different seeing the place in the morning. The neon lights weren’t buzzing, and the figurehead with outstretched arms was dappled in beads of dew that made her look like she’d just emerged from a chilly dip in the lake.
The place was still inviting, maybe even more so in the daytime. The smell of fresh coffee drifted through the front doors. Seeing the OPEN sign hanging inside the box office booth, I let myself in. I whispered over my shoulder, “Squishy, do not speak a word until I say otherwise.”
The bartender was not Beth this time but a man with a shaved head and outrageous eyebrows. When I asked to talk to Thadius, he told me I could go upstairs to his office, but I might be waiting a while. “Smocks are in,” he said, with weight, “for their monthly check-in.”
“Okay,” I said, pretending I understood.
Thadius had told me Smocks burn scratchers, and here I was with a product of scratching riding on my back, marching headlong toward them. I brushed it off. I had to talk to him. I didn’t really know what motivated me, but I had time while struggling up the stairs to figure it out.
First, I wasn’t sure how I felt about what he’d made me create. The whole trip back here across Lake Superior I’d given consideration to whether Squishy had a soul, then whether I even believed in souls, and how the heck Thadius could do something like this. Then I wondered what else he’d made. Did the Siren House have an attic of living cartoon characters? I recalled the flash drive. There were a lot of familiar names on there. What would the Smocks do if they caught me? What did a Smock look like? Something with a name like that couldn’t be that scary, right? I imagined an army of TV moms in aprons wielding rolling pins.
Of course, this being before I’d seen a Smock.
I was halfway up the stairs, carefully throwing my crutches forward and hopping up each riser with my legs together.
I saw their feet first. Small and kicking out briskly, descending the stairs, silent. The group filed into a single line to move aside for me. They didn’t use the railing. All of their arms—if they had arms—were hidden inside their gray cloaks. Each was identical to the last, with form-fitting sleeves on their heads, no eyeholes, no mouth holes, just a vague shape of a face. A nose bump under a set of slightly shadowed indentations where two eyes, though hidden, I was sure still saw plenty. Namely, me, as each turned toward me as they passed coming down the stairs, head swiveling on sylphlike neck. As they sized me up, in turn, I felt like someone had sawed the top of my skull off and was tickling my raw, exposed brain with a feather. At first. Then, it felt really invasive; like they were kicking about in the accordion files of my mind, turning things over, scouring through everything like diamond thieves after a hidden floor safe.
“Hey,” I greeted one, so meekly I may as well have just mouthed it. Don’t know why I did that. But when ten people, masked or not, are staring at you, smiling and saying hello seems the best idea.
None of them returned the greeting. They swerved around me on the staircase, a gray river slipping around the side of a rock. Once reaching the bottom, they crossed the lobby bar and advanced out the front door as one slippery entity.
I’d locked in place. Squishy must’ve felt the tension from within my backpack and was trembling. The lobby bar below was silent until the door had closed all the way on its hydraulic and the Smocks were out of sight. Conversations began, but quietly, as if the Smocks might change their mind and bust back in any second.
It took some effort getting my thoughts reshuffled. I noticed my hand had been reaching where I kept the pistol, pawing the empty spot on my hip like I was seeking a phantom limb. Should’ve brought it.
I turned around, Squishy’s weight on my back nearly throwing me backward, and I continued up the stairs.
The second-floor hallway bent with the shape of the building. Along the right side, various doors had plaques with names I assumed were of members of the Thickskulled Thespian Troupe. Flowery wallpaper, brass sconces with those fake flickering candles. It smelled like a library.
I clack-thumped to the end, where I found a set of French doors with a hanging, star-shaped handwritten sign: THADIUS. The lacy curtains inside were drawn closed. I knocked.
Something hard slammed, followed by a hissed curse. Heavy, thudding steps approached. “What? Did you guys get halfway down the block, think up one more creative way to threaten my life, and decide you just had to come back an’ share it?”
The doors parted with a rush.
Thadius looked down at me, and his expression shifted a few times in the space of a second. Surprised. Confused. Angry. “I said come back in a week.”
I was about to explain when his gaze drifted over my shoulder, to my backpack.
“Do not tell me that’s—”
“Yeah. It is. And maybe you’d like to tell me what exactly is going on.”
“So it worked?” he asked, a spike of giddiness coming into his voice.
“Yeah, it worked. Do you want to see? Because I’d be more than happy to show you.” I started to pull one backpack strap down off my shoulder.
“Not now, not here.” Thadius glanced up the hall. “You saw them, right? They just left. Did they actually leave, or are they still hangin’ around?”
“They’re gone. But maybe you’d like to tell me why you decided it’d be a good idea to make me do this without telling me what the machine, erm, cauldron would—”
&n
bsp; “Downstairs,” Thadius said, hands out as if he never wanted anything more than for me to keep my voice down, right now. “Go ’round back. My car. A white LeBaron. Wait for me. I’ll be right down.”
He closed the door in my face.
I thought about banging on it again or yanking it open, shoving the backpack at him, demanding he tell me what all this was about. I didn’t. I sighed, turned with the living cargo on my back, whispered for Squishy to keep up the good work being quiet, and struggled down the stairs.
* * *
In the same alley where I’d found the canisters, I leaned against the hood of Thadius’s rust-eaten car for ten minutes. When he came out, he was dressed in a teal-and-cobalt polka-dotted jacket and nuclear-tangerine polyester pants. Made me, in my moth-eaten sweater and patched jeans, feel kind of like a scrub.
“Get in,” he said, walking funny for a few steps while wedging the keys out of his painted-on pants. “We’re going to take a little drive.”
We drove out of Duluth, heading south. The highways were loaded with dead cars, but it looked like someone had driven a plow through, moving them all toward the shoulders. The clear path up the middle was narrow.
Thadius didn’t talk while carefully attempting to prevent us from pinballing the cars on either side of us. To my surprise, we made it through without even more paint getting scraped off his already destroyed car. Once we were out on the open road, the cracked, paved path swung this way and that, its serpentine path influenced by the broad, shimmering river it flanked.
Only then did Thadius speak. “I told you a week.”
“I wasn’t going to sit on this for a week.”
He grunted. Possibly, he was surprised I’d fire back like that. Going by how I’d seen his staff treat him, I’m sure he wasn’t used to anyone getting snippy with him.
“So . . . How bad did he turn out?”
“I just did what you told me to do.” Holy heck, it smelled in here. Ankle-deep piles of food containers cluttering the floorboards and an overflowing console ashtray were probably the causes, I guessed. I hoped. But if Thadius could make a Squishy, or make me make a Squishy, then a blue cheese homunculus—if I had to guess, given the smell—probably wasn’t entirely out of his range.