The Four Fingers of Death

by Rick Moody

  By chance, an axial road appeared before them—really just a set of tracks where some semi had driven, perhaps indicating a route toward the staging area, and she pointed at it, and they set off as expeditiously as they could in that direction. The traffic closed around them, unicyclists, a woman holding leashes to dozens of Chihuahuas. Noelle attempted to tell Morton why they were heading toward the center, shouting above some of the chanting and the various homemade musical instruments (the zenexton, a gigantic rolling pipe organ manufactured with PVC tubing, e.g.), shouting about the Wheelers, father and son, about how they had to rotate addresses every four or five hours in the days before the events, and then once the events were convened, they moved from tent to tent every hour, wearing disguises.

  Morton called to her, “The arm is going to find this kind of commotion very disturbing! Too much activity!”

  Noelle replied, “We could just go to the security tent, and I could ask for an audience with Denny Wheeler.”

  This was a start, Noelle believed. They had only a few hours in which to locate the arm in this crowd of tens of thousands. They had to begin somewhere. And this is exactly what they would have done if a group of men dressed in the costumes of Mexican wrestlers, which is to say in hand-sewn tights and capes, had not, at the moment, borne down upon Morton, as though they’d expected him to be there all along, as if his appearance were by appointment, and grabbed the chimpanzee under the arms and, before Noelle had a chance to say a word, carried him off, writhing over their heads, into the crowd. By the time she saw what was happening, by the time the chimpnapping registered, Morton was screaming and gesticulating to her, in the midst of being handcuffed to the roof of a microbus tricked out like a dragon, moving off into the hordes.

  The loneliness of large crowds has been voluminously covered in the literature and poetry of the twenty-first century, so let us no more speak of it, instead noting that the omnium gatherum actually had a singles night that it offered at one of the bars on Fourth Avenue, during high summer months when no official events were scheduled. And what bar could be better than the establishment called the Surly Wench? When there seemed to be precious little omnium, just gatherum, when men, mostly men, wandered in the crowd, mumbling to themselves, gazing on the partially naked or mostly naked twenty-one-year-olds as though these were the phlogiston required for their own internal combustion, then you needed the Surly Wench and polyamphetamine with absinthe chaser, the kind of intoxication in which these men couldn’t tell the sky from a paper cup. Then you could beat back the very loneliness that Noelle felt, coming to these events without a companion, the loneliness you felt when your only friend, the friend that you brought along, the friend you apparently took for granted, is carried away by a group of Mexican professional wrestlers. In this loneliness, you naturally found yourself in a group of elderly women wearing candy striper outfits who were volunteering to treat sunburn, scratches, mild sprains, contusions, and other celebration-related medical problems. They kept calling out, these elderly women, “Registered nurses!” And holding up signs.

  “Did you see that?” Noelle shouted to one of the women, in the thick of the lonely crowd.

  “See what, honey?”

  “They just carried off my friend.”

  “Honey, if you have a minor scrape, I could help you with that.”

  The candy striper held up a jar containing a yellow-green fluorescence that was probably a topical anti-infective. This was supposed to be inviting to the people who had minor scrapes. But as a line began to form in front of the candy stripers (each with her toothless grin), Noelle looked into the faces of those assembling and what she thought she saw everywhere was a fever. Was it her imagination? Was she imagining a pandemic, in which every human had an infection? Mercurochrome was not going to do the trick.

  “They carried off my friend into the crowd. I mean, I know that there aren’t supposed to be any police here or anything, but they carried him off. And he isn’t really equipped to take care of himself.”

  “Most of those kinds of problems, honey, get solved quietly within the community. I’m sure the wrestlers just meant it in good fun. The group will take care of it, though you never can tell how long that’s going to take, because the community has its own time frame for these things.”

  Had Noelle said anything about the wrestlers? She was sure she had not.

  “What’s your symptom?” the candy striper asked.

  “My symptom?” Noelle said. “I read into whatever is happening around me and I imagine that it all has something to do with my life, even the big sociopolitical stuff—”

  A rail-thin young guy with long unwashed hair that had a blue streak stuck out his tongue and pronounced a brace of vowels.

  “You didn’t have any contact with a severed arm today,” Noelle said to the kid, “did you?”

  “A severed arm?”

  “Yeah, you didn’t see any kind of severed arm? Or did you hear about it?”

  “You mean like the kind of arm that they’re going to… I thought that was all—”

  “One of your friends, or maybe a friend of a friend say anything to you about keeping company with that kind of arm?”

  The boy’s blank stare was no indication of anything. It was as if he heard the words, but he didn’t understand the necessity of response. The best he could do was repeat the phrase exactly, which he tried before saying:

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No, I guess you don’t.” To the candy striper, she added, “How about you? Anyone in here talking about an arm?”

  “Only the ones that are still attached to their bodies,” said the candy striper.

  “Well, you really ought to start wearing surgical gloves, if you ask me, and I work in the field. Don’t touch any wounds, and if you see anyone who has a hemorrhagic complaint—you know what hemorrhagic means?”

  “I was cleaning up after outbreaks of typhoid in Africa when your mother was in diapers,” the candy striper said, and her professional smile faded.

  “Then you know that sometimes the first responders go down with a serious infection. There is a serious infection going around, and that’s all I’m saying about it.”

  “Honey, go look after your friend, see if you can’t find him. I’ll look after the sick kids with my friends here.”

  The crowd did seem to push in a southerly direction, the crowd in which Noelle next found herself, and the candy stripers were going north, and while the conversation in question was taking place, its participants were being pushed farther away from one another, and Noelle was growing more and more distant from the skeptical candy striper.

  The nurses were followed, in close proximity, by the Mars Mission Skepticism Society. For some reason, there were a lot of canes, crutches, and walkers among the Mars mission skeptics. Their designated spokesman was shouting into a bullhorn about how the mission had been fabricated in order to distract citizens of NAFTA from the grave economic problems that faced them, that faced all of the Western democracies. But at least the Mars Mission Skepticism Society was articulate, which was a quality strangely lacking in omnium gatherum participants, whether they were educated in the lackluster public schools or at the voucher-only elhi schools, or homeschooled. “Simulacrum!” the barker pronounced. “Cultural hoax! Join us as we explore the theoretical foundations of space fraud! Your tax dollars buy you a group of drug addicts being filmed in polyurethane outfits in this very desert! And why? In order to persuade the Sino-Indian Economic Compact to spend thousands of billions of dollars on a space race that will bankrupt their economies! Long live the Sino-Indian Compact! The Mars mission is a tool of NAFTA intelligence agents! It has no purpose but to distract!”

  Whenever the disabled skeptics bumped into someone, as they seemed to do with great regularity, they apologized profusely, as if, for all their doubts about space exploration and international relations, they were nonetheless polite. These were the kinds of people, Noelle su
pposed, who went on the occasional killing spree, but when they did so, they were always careful to apologize to the victims before dismembering them, saying it could not be helped, and when they surrendered to police, they pointed out that they never meant to harm anyone at all. With this in mind, she said to one of the skeptics, a bald guy with really thick glasses and an incompletely grown-in mustache, “Say, you guys haven’t heard anything about where they’re storing the arm for the launch tonight, have you? Have you heard anyone talking about the arm?”

  “The arm is just a bunch of bullshit,” the bald guy replied without hesitation. “There’s no arm, because there was no Mars mission. And if you want to know the truth, the whole omnium gatherum is being staffed and underwritten by the air force base across town. We’re here at great risk to our persons and our property, and we only do it in order to get the message out to the people.”

  “It’s funny you say that, because I happen to know some folks who have actually made contact with the arm—”

  “Everyone says that they know someone personally who has had contact with the arm. But where is that person, right? The person who had contact? Can you deliver that person to me now to give me this so-called firsthand account?”

  “What about a talking chimpanzee, have you seen a talking chimpanzee in the last twenty minutes or so? Coming by this way?”

  But he was back on the bullhorn almost instantly, sloganeering, and again Noelle found herself being pushed southerly, toward the part of the desert that was given over to a reconstruction of an old Western village, a stage set that had been used in various Hollywood genre pictures, back in the day. Old Rio Blanco, it was called. It was a simulation of a simulation—a re-creation of a Hollywood stage set that had once re-created Rio Blanco, or so said the local advertisements and tattered billboards. Unfortunately, no one, any longer, had a clear memory of the history of Rio Blanco. There was some appropriateness to the omnium gatherum electing to situate its events out here, in the Valley of the Slaughtered Calf, the valley of the simulation of the simulation, through which one labored to reach the truth but found instead that doubt and the misappropriation (of things from their sources) ruled the day. The fringes of the event would naturally end up in Old Rio Blanco, therefore. And then there would be some sort of shoot-out. Because what else could there be.

  Despite the very large numbers of attendants at the omnium gatherum events, you soon found that you were seeing the same people over and over again, and sometimes even seeing them in the same sequence, and in no place was this more likely than at the village of lightweight portable human waste vacuum-containment systems, through which Noelle would have to travel, this allée of waste disposal, if she was going to end up in Old Rio Blanco. She had no choice but to encounter the large groups of people she didn’t want to think about in relation to waste production, here among the individual modules that were arrayed in a wide V-shaped formation outward from the gate, so as to take care of the waste needs of the largest number of omnium gatherum attendants. Whether you liked it or not, no outlay of capital manpower was more significant to the community than that invested in waste collection, and the organizers, or the volunteers, or the organizers and the volunteers, were forever coming up with more arcane and more fervent rules to organize the collection of waste, especially in order to spare the desert floor the kinds of gray water that might, for example, wipe out the last of the desert tortoises. It had happened in the past, large-scale uremic pollution, and the omnium gatherum had found that this didn’t go over well with neighbors, human and nonhuman. And so they had purchased the latest in waste-collection devices, the American-made vacuum-containment systems, which were widely used by the government in its tent communities at the borders. Vacuum-containment systems, by coincidence, had also been used on the Mars mission, if you were naive enough to believe in the Mars mission. “Look!” the government seemed to cry. “We have vacuum technology, including funnels for the ladies, that will make waste removal far easier than it has ever been before. What other nation could bring you a waste-containment system that leaves no residue behind, and which ultimately produces a solid peat-like fertilizer free of bacterial agents that can be used on any home or industrial garden!”

  Yes, there was something humiliating about the waste-containment systems, Noelle thought, and generally she avoided food and water before omnium gatherum events in an attempt to steer clear of the V-shaped bank of vacuum-containment modules. However, she’d noticed that it was precisely when you believed you wouldn’t have to relieve yourself that you found you needed to do exactly that, and, also, that if there was someone you didn’t want to run into, someone with whom you did not want, at all, to share a conversation of several minutes while wreathed in the earthy perfume of such places, you would definitely run into that person. The opportunity for humbling always lay right around the corner, and its perfume was cloacal.

  And so this was where she ran into her coworker Larry. He was wearing a purple feather boa, and some cutoff shorts dyed black, and she could tell, almost instantly, that he was on some kind of hallucinogen, because in the half-light of the lamps by the vacuum-containment modules, she could see his monstrously dilated pupils. Moreover, when she spoke to him, there was a long delay in his reply, as if a great number of gears, and the little gnomes who turned these gears, had to be put into play for him to come up with the polite response. It seemed, at first, that he didn’t even recognize her, and they had to go around and around with the introductions.

  “It’s me, Noelle. Your coworker. You see me every day?”

  “I do?… Oh… hey… Noelle!”

  “At the lab! I can’t believe you—”

  “Noelle?” he said, as if testing out the syllables. “Noelle?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Noelle, that’s a woman I work with—”

  She couldn’t figure out, at first, if this was an attempt at humor.

  “—a big omnium gatherum person. I decided to come have a look.”

  “Met anyone? Interesting, I mean. Talked to anyone?”

  “Talked?”

  “To anyone.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. I…”

  “Listen, Larry, I’m wondering if it would be okay for me to change the subject and—”

  “Did we have… a subject?”

  “I guess we didn’t, really. The thing is, Larry, I brought Morton out here, according to Dr. Koo’s instructions, because we thought he’d be effective undercover, and he was just carried off.”

  “Morton was…”

  “Carried off.”

  “Morton, the…”

  “Chimpanzee.”

  “Oh! Talking chimpanzee. Bad frigging temper.”

  “These guys in wrestling costumes came by, and it was like they already knew who he was, and it was like they hog-tied him, and before I could even figure out what to do, he was carried off.”

  “Excuse me for a second, Noelle.” Because one of the vacuum-containment privacy modules had opened up, and when opportunity presented itself, one had to grab it. The little privacy station seemed to belch forth a customer, a relieved customer, in this case a youngster, one of those tweenagers who went by the designation board rat, for the fact that he was basically surgically attached to a motorized board and had, moreover, brought the board with him into the privacy module, as if it were the board that needed to be evacuated. This board rat slunk out of the privacy module as though he didn’t want anyone to notice him and his stringy figure-eight earlobes, and indeed Larry didn’t notice him. Larry noticed only the open door, where he saw his salvation. “I’ll be right out,” he called over his shoulder, but Noelle knew that he wouldn’t be right out. He would be in there, in the vacuum-containment privacy module, for as long as it took for her to move on. The feather boa just wasn’t the kind of personal expression that Larry wanted to share, and he would stay in there, checking through the little two-way mirror, for as long as it took. Some parts of us (Noell
e hoped to jot this down in her journal) were really only available to strangers. Should she wait? Should she go?

  While she deliberated, the most demoralizing quadrant of the Valley of the Slaughtered Calf, a small group of gunslingers dressed in some of the props of the old American West, dashed into the V-shaped concatenation of privacy modules and began firing off their Tasers. No doubt they were heading for Old Rio Blanco, with the aim of obliterating some blotch of sunburned guys playing the roles of the Tohono O’odham or the Hopi, and it would all be very simulated and very childish, this reenactment of how the genocide was won, but it would be a fine prolegomenon for the explosive displays of the later evening.

  There was such a fixation on Tasers at omnium gatherum. A number of kids had been Tasered at the last event, and when you bought your ticket through whatever rapacious Sino-Indian ticketing consortium furnished the tickets for omnium gatherum events, you signed an online agreement that indicated that you accepted the possibility of having a Taser or other nonlethal firearm turned on you. There was one kid, people said, who’d brought it on himself, because he was spouting some kind of pro-capitalist fulmination—the banks were right that it is this kind of thing that has dragged down the country so that it is no longer able to package complex financial instruments on the world capital markets!—shouting, shouting, shouting, and the guys with the Tasers, because it was always guys with Tasers, took it on themselves to render this kid prone. Unfortunately, it was a number of guys who all got the idea at roughly the same time, and the kid went down like the proverbial sack of Mexican taters, and there was a sort of mini-stampede of partygoers trying to flee the violence. After that, people with weapons were specifically asked to go to the Old Rio Blanco simulation arena, where there was a tent, more of a yurt, really, erected to minister to those with Taser burns or arrhythmias.