Lorenz cocked his spiky head like a rooster, trying to determine if he had heard Thomas correctly. “What do you mean who are we fighting? It, them, him, todos! We are fighting everything. How can we survive out there?” His rhetorical question rose to a high-pitched whine and his face turned red. “There are millions of--”
“Listen, Lorenz,” began Alison. “We would like to thank you very much for your hospitality, and all the food, and for rescuing us from the police last night, but we really have to be going so we can find our mother.”
“Shhhh. Just be quiet, hyna,” said Lorenz. He smiled and held his hands up to calm her. “Alison, I am showing you my base. The lease you can do is give me two minutes of your oh-so-busy lives. In thanks for my hospitality, perhaps?”
Alison inhaled deeply and ground her teeth at Lorenz’s little game.
Lorenz lit his cigar and continued his tour. “I call this place The Strand. It is like an ocean. All sorts of things . . . people . . . wash up here. Here, let me introduce you to some of our . . . members.” His face broke into a maniacal grin and blue cigar smoke leaked from his nostrils.
He led them over to an area where the sparks of welding torches shot out in sliver flower bouquets, where the pounding of hammers and the whining of electric saws ripped through the air. “Here are Jawl and Basho working on a car we picked up the other day. You have met them already, but perhaps under different circumstances? Gentlemen, please welcome the Graham ninos to The Strand. Ben, Alison, Thomas, and Hannah.”
Basho, the massive, growling man who had captured them the night before, smiled a half-greeting, half-grimace. Jawl, the baseball-hatted teenager who had guarded them, pointed his finger at them as a small indication that he registered their presence. Then he promptly swung the welding mask back over his head.
“Basho is a veteran of the Desert Wars. Not the Dessert Wars,” said Lorenz. He chuckled at Hannah, as if this was some great joke at the little girl who had quite possibly eaten his entire stockpile of cookies. “Jawl here we found . . . or did you find us, Jawl?” But Jawl was already back under a cascade of sparks scattering from his welding torch. “Sometimes it is so hard to tell who finds who. Jawl was a bounty hunter pirate who ironically found himself with a bounty on his head. Do you not just hate it when that happens?” Lorenz flashed an evil smile. “So I helped him out of his little problem, you might say. Made a little deal, eh?”
Oblivious to Lorenz’s story, Thomas walked over to the car in rapt fascination. He had probably read enough about cars to qualify as a mechanic, yet he had never seen the guts of one up close.
“So are those their real names then, Basho and Jawl?” asked Hannah, her mouth finally empty of cookies.
“Hannah, be quiet,” said Alison. “Lorenz, please, listen, we--”
“No, no, Hannah. They are like . . . code names,” said Lorenz. “So you see,” he said, turning to address all four of them, his voice becoming harder and colder, “everyone washes up here for a reason. Everyone has a story. But I do not care what it is.”
“So what’s your story?” Thomas asked without looking up from the car engine.
“Thomas, be quiet,” said Alison. “Listen, Lorenz, we really need to be--”
“I am the angel of the streets,” said Lorenz, holding his spiked head high. “I was born of the slums. I have seen it all--the grit, the grime--from ground level. The battles, the riots, the mobs, the--”
“But, I don’t get it,” Ben interrupted. “What exactly are you fighting?” He was struggling to understand whatever Lorenz was so passionately trying to describe.
Alison, still steaming mad at having to endure the tour, was tapping her foot furiously.
Lorenz squinted at Ben. “Okay, so where exactly have you been? I mean, how can you not know what we are fighting? It is like you are visitors from space or something. It is so gaucho.”
“Our mother,” said Ben, “she never lets us, I mean, we never really left our apartment very much.”
“Really? So you know nothing about the . . . the ol’ big, bad world?”
“I guess not.”
“When you said you did not know who Milagro was, I thought it was a joke. Okay, so apparently you know nothing. Here goes. There are thousands, millions, of people living on the streets. There is crazy unemployment--I sound like some sort of history teacher--and the economy is messed up. There are all sorts of wars going on, too many to count. The weather is totally loco--nobody knows why--and there are these weird diseases that are wiping out massive numbers of people and nobody knows where they are coming from.” Lorenz stopped and looked at Alison and Ben with an open mouth, waiting for some sign of recognition. “So all of this is new to you? You do not know any of these things?”
“No,” said Ben. He looked over at Thomas fiddling with some part under the hood of the car, and Hannah, who was trying her best to understand what was being said, and realized just how much their mother had kept from them.
“I would say you have been living in a cave or something,” said Lorenz. “But here I am living in a cave and I am the one telling you!” He slapped his knee. “Anyway, getting back to economics, there are these slave labor factories for kids run by this guy Milagro, who apparently you have not heard of and still I do not believe you . . . anyway, he tells everyone that he is doing the country this huge favor by training all these kids, and that he is helping to rebuild the economy. Goddamned lacra.”
“Well, isn’t he?” asked Thomas from somewhere under the car.
“Sure,” said Lorenz. “While paying kids one cent per hour, while making billions of dollars in profits, while erasing the whole idea of childhood.”
“But how can that be allowed?” asked Alison. “Why don’t the police stop this Milagro person?”
“Who do you think runs the police?” said Lorenz. “Look, there are all these orphans, right? Adults are dying of all these diseases, and they are being sent off to war, so here is all these kids on the streets, so if Milagro takes care of them, sets them up in these factories where they can never leave, why, everyone is happy, right? The economy begins to grow, the government doesn’t have to pay for schools, and the police do not have to deal with all these kids on the streets.”
Ben’s head felt like it was about to explode. He had watched the city everyday from their apartment, but he had never seen the things Lorenz was talking about.
“But why doesn’t anyone care about any of this?” Alison said.
“Why care about something you have no control over?” said Lorenz with a shrug.
“Ahaaa!” An old woman’s voice shot out across the cavern in a wailing, banshee-like yell. It seemed to come from a huge stacks of books and papers at the end of the cavern.
Thomas shot up like a gopher from under the car. “What the heck was that?”
“Ah, so crazy old woman not so crazy after all, is she?” asked the voice from behind the stack of books. “Nope, nope, but too late now. They watch everybody now! People they think internet for fun, but they watching everyone!” An old Chinese woman came running out from behind a teetering stack of newspapers. She was frantically waving a large piece of paper like it was on fire. Her gray and black hair was a salt and pepper mess of coarse tangles that shook in an almost electric chaos as she moved. She was wearing a long, pale dress that looked to be of some ancient design.
“Oh, be quiet, Old Woman!” yelled Lorenz. “And get back to work. How could you even hear us, anyway? We do not need your ridiculous theories right now.”
In spite of this, the woman came striding over. She opened her mouth to launch into some tirade against Lorenz, but then noticed the four Graham children. “Oh . . . hello,” she said in a startled voice that was instantly softer. “You must be new recruits I hear about. But nobody say you are . . .”
“That we’re what?” asked Alison.
“That you . . . like this,” she said. “Clean and tidy.”
“They say their mother deserted them,”
explained Lorenz.
“Oh, well then, in that case we have to take care of them,” said the old woman. “They cannot be part of army.”
“Thanks,” said Alison kindly, “but we’re about to leave to go find our mother.” Alison had apparently discarded her temporary fascination with Lorenz’s explanation of the world and was once again intent on leaving.
“Oh. I see,” said the woman with a fragile half-smile. “Well, Mr. General Lorenz, they have to see House of Proof before they go.”
“Later, Old Woman,” said Lorenz. “This is my army base, not a . . . heritage museum.”
But the woman didn’t seem to care. She grabbed the four Graham children and promptly led them away. Lorenz swore under his breath, shook his head, and looked at his watch.
As they walked over to it, the huge pile of books and papers that they had seen from the other side of the cavern started to resemble a rough enclosure. The walls were like ancient stone fortifications: random bits of paper were jammed into the cracks like mortar. An archway of balanced dictionaries formed a half-circle over the entrance. There didn’t seem to be any system of ordering, and books of all sizes were jumbled together from the floor to the ceiling.
“Please, please. Come, come,” said the woman as she motioned to the hesitant children. They picked their way through the entrance and tip-toed into the house. The entire structure felt like it might collapse at the slightest breath.
“Wow, this is very . . . interesting,” said Alison.
“Oh, thank you dear,” said the woman. “You very kind. I save all books here. Nobody care anymore about books.” The woman sighed under her smile.
“So what’s your name?” asked Thomas, likely certain that the woman was not born ‘Old Woman.’
“Well, everyone call me Old Woman,” she said as she rolled her eyes. “And General here,” she said with a nod at Lorenz waiting ten feet away, “he not care about me at all.” Her voice was more than loud enough for Lorenz to hear. “My real name Ming Harang. I am from ancient royal family of record keepers which live in remotest Cingchir region of China.” She smoothed her hair with her hand in a gesture of pride.
“Old Woman . . . I mean Ming,” said Lorenz, “we all have very important work to do and these children must--”
“Yes, yes, and I simply giving them full tour of facility,” said Ming. “So please be patient, Mr. General Lorenz. These children need know how important House of Proof is.”
Lorenz crossed his arms and kicked a can lying on the ground.
Ming turned back to the children, her face quickly changing from frustration to excitement. “Anyway, there is photo of family when I was child.” She pointed at a small, grayish brown picture resting against a large blue book emblazoned with golden Chinese symbols. “Picture taken few years before we forced to escape in middle of night. Oh, I never forget, no. Just before my nine birthday.” She stroked the hem of her dress in contemplation. “And that probably how old you are,” she said to Hannah, who was now looking for something behind a stack of frayed, brown newspapers.
“I’m eleven,” said Hannah without looking up. “There’s something under there.” She pointed to a dusty red armchair half-submerged under a pile of dog-eared paperback novels.
Ming squinted at the chair. She grabbed a broom that was leaning against a wall of books and started thrashing about the room, striking at nothing in particular. The pillars of books started shifting and creaking. “Out, you! Get out of here!” she yelled. She swung at a pile of papers that scattered across the floor. An orange blur shot to the other side of the room. Ming leaped at it with her stick, and a tower of comic books swayed and fell over in a crashing wave of bright colors.
“Eh, Cabra!” Ming bellowed out across the cavern. “Get stinking cat out of my house!” At this, an orange striped cat walked calmly out from under the mess and began weaving around Hannah’s feet, purring contentedly in spite of Ming’s screams.
“It’s just a harmless cat,” said Hannah as she bent down to pet the murmuring tabby. “Hey, I’ve seen you before.”
“Harmless, my backside!” cursed Ming. “That cat is devil hisself.” Ming looked for a chance to swat at it with her broom without hitting Hannah in the process. Outside, Lorenz was now shaking his head in exasperation at the spectacle.
But their attention was instantly brought back by a deep voice that leaked through the far wall of books. Its Scottish accent was eerily familiar.
“He’s only going after all the mice that live in that stinking rat’s nest of old papers ye call a house,” said the voice. A white cowboy hat appeared above a pile of books. “He’s only doin’ ye a favor and this is how ye repay him, by strikin’ at him with a broom?”
The children all froze at the sight of the man who walked around the side of the book room. It was the man they had seen on the street corner downtown, during their walk to the airport.
“And this,” said Lorenz with a labored sigh, “is Cabra, our chief . . . prognosticator.” The man took off his hat and bowed at the four children.
Thomas pointed at the man, lest the others had not seen him. “Hey, you’re the old man we saw downtown!”
“Yes, tha’s right, young lad,” said Cabra. “I heard that ye were captured by the police. Yer lucky to have ended up back here.” He smiled and put his hat back on his head.
“What’s a prognosticator?” asked Hannah.
Thomas rolled his eyes at his twin sister’s lame vocabulary. “It means he can see the future.”
“Yer sorta right, young man, but yer also rude,” said Cabra. “Miss, it means I can see things that most people cannot. Some folks are blind in the eyes, but most are simply blind in the brain.” He tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “I like to call meself a cosmic guidance counselor. Ye four children, for example. I bet I was the only one who stopped to help ye the other day, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, um, that’s true,” said Ben. “I’m sorry. We should have listened to you, I guess, but we really didn’t know who we could trust.”
“Oh well, tha’s okay. No hurt feelings,” said Cabra with a smile. “And this is me trusted companion, Mitty.” He pointed with his walking cane to the cat arching his back against Hannah’s leg. “Mitty also has certain powers. More than this, ahem, old woman cares to know about.” Ming’s hands were shaking around the broom and she was grimacing at Cabra. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, children,” said Cabra, “Mitty and I must be getting back to our post out there on the streets, helping out those in need.” He took off his hat in farewell and then limped away with Mitty sauntering behind.
“That cat always nosing around my house,” hissed Ming.
“Yes, yes, the cat, we all know you hate the cat, Old Wo--Ming,” said Lorenz. “Now, if you do not mind, everyone really must be getting back to work now.” Ming was still scowling in distrust at Cabra as he walked towards the huge, steel door. The guard opened the door to let the old man through, and then immediately closed it, Mitty’s tail just disappearing before the door thundered shut. The guard had twitchy eyes, and he held his gun purposefully.
“Lorenz, um, sir, listen,” said Alison. She looked pale and worn down. “We would really like to leave if it isn’t too much of a problem. We . . . we’re all a little scared and we need to--”
“Leave?” Lorenz looked genuinely startled by Alison’s request.
“Yes, we’d like to leave. Just like we mentioned last night. To find our mother.” Alison’s eyes shimmered with fear.
Lorenz laughed. “You cannot leave!” His voice had changed and now had the edges of cruelty to it, the way it had the previous night when he had interrogated them.
“And . . . why not?” asked Alison.
“Well, Alison, I have just shown you my entire base! No, no, once you have that knowledge, you can never . . . leave.” Lorenz looked both shocked and amused.
“Then why did you show it to us if you knew we wanted to leave?” asked Ben.
“Look, once you have been here, once you have seen this, you are either part of us or . . . or you must be killed. You are part of the army now.”
Alison’s eyebrows crumpled up and her eyes filled with tears. “And what happens if we run to the police the first chance we get?”
“The . . . la jura? You will not get the chance. You will stay here until you realize how fortunate you are that I did not just kill you right away. You are now part of the Strand, so here are the rules. You break them and you are dead. One: no fighting. I will resolve all conflicts. Two: no hoarding. I distribute everything. Three: no drugs. If you can’t handle reality you don’t deserve to be here. Four: no netphones or webglasses. They can be traced. The police would find us instantly.”
“And . . . and what do we get in return for being in your army?” asked Alison.
Lorenz leaned in close to Alison, his face inches away from hers. “You do not get it yet, do you, morra? I saved you from them.” He swept his arms through the air to indicate the world above. “I owe you nada. You owe me your lives.” He savored the shock on Alison’s face and then smiled viciously. His teeth were sharpened into spikes, just like his hair. “Now, get to work. You two,” he said, pointing to Ben and Thomas, “you will be helping Basho and Jawl. And you two,” he said to Alison and Hannah, “you help Ming. Do not let her talk about her crazy ideas. We will soon be mounting an attack on the new Children’s Facility. This will give you ample time to hone whatever skills you little pendejos have.”
Chapter Twelve: Getting Pretty Hard to be Hard to Find
He dropped a bunch of quarters into the slot and dialed the number. The sound of metal cascading through the hidden, mechanical guts of the antique animal. How many payphones were left now, he wondered. Decades ago, he guessed, before webphones came along, they must have been everywhere. Must have been pretty easy to be a nobody back then, to just slip under the radar whenever you wanted. His job would certainly have been easier. If you could call it a job, what with the distinct lack of pay and inability to ever quit or be fired.
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