And after a short learning curve, the mites also camouflaged the physical impressions my movements made—like how they hid the small indentations of my fingers when I pressed them into my padded tablecloth.
Nick really struggled with that situation. People could “see” the temporary indentations his feet left on a carpet, as an example.
I don’t have half of his problems, I admitted.
Still, I admired Nick’s ingenuity. I pondered his fearless attitude about running around in visible society. In contrast, I was terrified of being noticed. Of course, part of Nick’s fearlessness grew out of necessity, because some very tenacious government people were hunting him.
That was the other thing we had in common: an enemy.
Nick’s nemesis, Jenkins, had known of Nick right from the beginning, had known who he was and how he’d become invisible. Jenkins’ pursuit was relentless. He figured out Nick’s vulnerabilities and used them against him.
Yes, Nick was on the run from the get-go, whereas I, to date, was not.
My throat dried up as I appreciated how quickly my circumstances could change. For the first time in days, I thought about General Cushing. Shark Face. I knew exactly what kind of person she was—how tenacious and determined, how devoid of scruples, how without mercy.
Just how badly did she want the nanomites? Badly enough that she approved and planned Dr. Bickel’s murder.
I tried to swallow but couldn’t. As I considered Dr. Bickel’s death, my heart ached afresh with the knowledge that I’d never see my funny/accomplished scientist friend again.
No more gourmet lunches followed by “surprise desserts” with all the fun and fanfare. No more competitive games of Canasta or Samba. No more shared jokes and teasing laughter.
I resolutely turned from my grief and focused my energy on more pressing problems. I knew that Cushing would upend every rock, scrutinize every byte of Dr. Bickel’s data, and hunt down all leads in her pursuit of the nanocloud. Had she any idea where the mites had gone? Where they had hidden? More importantly, did she suspect anyone of helping Dr. Bickel during his sojourn in the mountain lab?
I grappled with unpleasant possibilities: Was I on her radar? Was she observing me right now, watching my daily activities?
Was she, too, at this moment, “figuring things out”?
Licking my lips, I came to some initial conclusions. Just in case she is studying me, I can’t do anything out of the ordinary, anything that would raise a red flag, like withdrawing a large sum of cash or going “silent” on the Internet.
The importance of “normalcy” registered with me. If I abandon my regular routines, my absence will attract attention, too. I must keep up my Facebook and Pinterest posts, keep applying for jobs, keep my life as normal as possible.
But if I did all that and she came for me anyway, was I in any way prepared to run, to elude her? Would I be able to survive as well as Nick had?
The specter of my life, should Cushing capture me, was ominous: Knowing her, I would spend the rest of my days as a guinea pig in a secret government prison.
It’s not a matter of if, but of when. Someday, whether it’s the government or others, someone will stumble upon the truth. When that happens, I will need to go, I thought. To do so, I will need basic necessities and cash in hand. I won’t have access to my bank anymore.
And yet, no big cash withdrawals.
The more I pondered my situation, the more I saw how unprepared I was. I realized how vital the cash in my freezer might prove to be, too. I kept thinking of Nick Holloway and what I’d learned from Memoirs of an Invisible Man. I began rereading it, marking it up, referencing it as a “play book.”
At the very least, I need an escape plan, I told myself, and I’ll need to pack a “bug-out bag,” something I’d overheard Rick and Tony, both ex-military, describe once. I couldn’t find the backpack I’d hauled Dr. Bickel’s supplies in, so I rummaged through my closet and found an old duffle bag.
It’s pretty large, I mused. If I overpack it, I won’t be able to carry it very far. And then I asked myself, Just what will I need?
I needed to make a list of the basics I’d require if I had to leave my house in a hurry. Right then, though, I crammed the duffle bag full of clothes to see how it might work.
I slung the packed duffle bag crosswise over my shoulder so it hung down on my left side and left my hands free. It was a long bag, and it stuck out in front and behind me. The mites clicked and hummed, and the front end of the bag started to disappear as the mites did their work.
I strode around my room with the bag, feeling its size, mentally listing what I would actually pack in it, and visualizing my running with its weight and bulk. I was startled out of my thoughts by unexpected movement in the closet mirror. I pivoted so I could see over my shoulder: The back end of the duffle bag hung by itself in midair!
“Nano!” I was shocked. Alarmed.
Immediately, the mites’ chatter picked up. They sounded a little harried.
As I stared, the visible back end of the bag became smaller, until it disappeared. I sighed, relieved. Then I pirouetted before the mirror and—
“Nano!”
The front end had reappeared!
“No, no, no!” What is their problem?
The mites chittered and hummed, louder now, and I watched them re-cover the front of the bag. It was fascinating, really.
Until the back end popped into view.
“What? Nano!” I was growing a little concerned, but the nanomites kept working at it, their noises a frenzied buzz.
Soon the back end of the duffle bag disappeared—only for part of the front to pop out. Again.
Over the next five minutes, the mites buzzed and chipped and worked with furious resolve, but the front and back ends of the duffle bag swapped visibility back and forth. If the front end vanished, the back end materialized. If the back disappeared, the front appeared.
When Genie and I were in middle school, Aunt Lu had taken us on a picnic behind Sandia Crest. We’d fed unshelled peanuts to a chipmunk that day. He had stuffed nuts into both of the pouches in his mouth until they were so full that nothing more would fit in.
The chipmunk looked like he had a bad case of the mumps! But was he satisfied to take his bounty home and store it? No. As long as nuts remained on the ground, he wanted more of them.
So, with both sides of his face bulging, the cute little critter had tried to cram one more peanut into his mouth. Except when he shoved it over on the left side, a nut from the right side popped out. And when he tried to push that nut back where it came from, a peanut on the left flew out. We laughed and laughed at the chipmunk’s comic attempts, but try as he might, he could not fit another single nut into his mouth.
The mites, like that chipmunk, kept trying and trying, and I could hear their frustration mounting. They managed, at last, to cover all of the bag, but I shook my head.
It was the first time I’d seen the mites struggle to hide something on me—and it was disconcerting to see that they did have limitations. Their struggle to hide all of the bag made me question how well they could maintain such tenuous coverage.
“This duffle bag isn’t going to work—not if it’s going to take you ten minutes to hide it!” I grumbled.
Are they limited in how much surface area they can cover?
Genie had learned about “surface area” the hard way.
Aunt Lu had insisted that Genie and I help her paint the kitchen one summer. Genie had immediately claimed the pantry to paint while Lu had started on the walls in one corner and I in the opposite corner.
When Lu wasn’t looking, Genie stuck her tongue out at me and snarked, “I’ll be done long before you are!”
My sister thought she was getting away with the least amount of work, but she hadn’t counted on the pantry’s six shelves (top sides, undersides, and edges), the pantry’s ceiling, the four walls, and the inside of the door and its jambs—almost all of which had to be pain
ted with a brush rather than a roller.
Two hours later, Lu and I were finished. Genie, complaining under her breath, toiled away for another hour before the pantry was done. Genie had been livid over her mistake.
I snickered at the memory of the furious tantrum she’d thrown afterward.
Surface area. The more edges and planes I attach to my body, the more surface area the mites have to cover. Or perhaps the difficulty is the speed at which they can cover that area? Or is it both? I pursed my lips. I need them to be fast. Maybe I should use something more compact, something that hugs my body?
That last thought gave me an idea. I went to the kitchen and pulled out a lightweight fabric grocery sack. I filled the sack with clothes from the duffle bag, then slung the sack over my shoulder.
The handles were too short to be used as shoulder straps (the bag hung just below my armpit), but with a few alterations? I revolved in front of the mirror and saw that the mites were able to cover the sack, although it still took them a few moments.
“Not fast enough,” I chided them.
They chipped a protest in return.
“Too bad. If you don’t like it, hit the road.”
But one sack wouldn’t hold all of my bug-out supplies, either.
Testing the mites further, I hung a second sack from my other shoulder. Again, it took the mites a few moments to adjust their coverage.
New items to hide? Different kinds of items? I mulled over how the mites had to “learn” to hide the tablecloth when I poked it. How, when they had figured it out, they had hidden my movements quickly—but the learning had taken time.
Would their predictive ability work faster if they were always dealing with the same surface type, a surface they were already familiar with, like the tablecloth?
I frowned. “What if I could reduce the actual surface area the mites have to cover? Like painting a wall instead of a pantry? What if the surface area were the same and only what was under it changed?”
I went looking for a loose shirt to cover the sacks. I dug through an old box and came up with one of Uncle Eduardo’s baggy (huge, actually) old t-shirts. Apparently he’d been a big, barrel-chested man.
All right!
I threw the shirt on over the grocery sacks. As it settled, it disappeared—and so did the sacks beneath it.
“Much faster,” I breathed. Fully loaded, the sacks would bulge, but the bulging wouldn’t matter as long as the mites cloaked the t-shirt, thus cloaking the sacks.
These sacks will work, I decided, with a few adjustments.
I pulled off the shirt and sacks and laid them aside. Then I sat down to start a list of what I would actually need if, indeed, I had to run. I listed the cash from my freezer at the top and added some changes of clothes and toiletries.
What else will I need? Well, I can always get what I need later.
Yes, I had certain advantages over the fictional Nick Holloway, but I hadn’t considered what had to be the greatest plus of all: technology. The Internet hadn’t existed back in Nick’s time.
It’s simple for me to find and buy what I need online.
Then it dawned on me: I wouldn’t be able to take my smart phone when I ran. Not my phone, not my laptop, and not any of my online accounts. I would have no credit cards. Gemma Keyes would tangibly—and virtually—disappear from the world.
My situation wouldn’t be hopeless, but it would certainly be more difficult.
LATE IN THE EVENING a couple of nights later, when I thought no one would be paying attention, I decided to put my car in the garage. Yes, it was a risk to move it, but leaving it in the drive, attracting unwanted attention, was a bigger one.
I went out the side door—and then did something unplanned, something completely spontaneous—something not just a little reckless but really reckless.
I climbed into my Corolla, turned the key (which turned out the interior light that had gone on the instant I’d opened the car door), and backed out of the drive. I kept the headlights off until I left the cul-de-sac.
Then I turned them on and drove.
I can’t tell you how good it felt! How liberating! How ridiculously wonderful.
My dash clock read a little past ten, not terribly late yet. I drove to the nearest Walmart Supercenter.
The 24-hour store had few shoppers that time of the evening, and the huge lot gave me plenty of parking options. I drove far out in the lot and pulled in next to a Ford pickup—a big one that would provide plenty of “screen.” I got out of my car quickly—before I lost my nerve.
I scanned around. No one was near me, no one who might notice that my car had no driver and that when the door opened no one got out. I shrugged and jogged toward the store entrance.
As I came up to the Walmart entrance, the mites grew uneasy and communicated their unrest with a variety of clicks and whistles. I ignored them. I told myself I was only going to walk around. Reconnoiter. See what interacting in a crowd was like.
It was almost too easy. I waited until a customer coming out of the store activated the automatic door. I walked inside while the door was still open. And I was being careful! I paid attention to what people were doing and kept out of their way.
As I said, the store didn’t have many shoppers. Still, whenever my path came within spitting distance of anyone else’s, the mites elevated their DEFCON status—which hurt. A lot.
I wanted to rip my brain out. That’s how annoying the racket was.
Under my breath, I hissed, “Nano! Shut it.”
They didn’t immediately calm down; however, after I’d navigated enough close encounters without drawing attention to my “InvisiGirl” state, the mites grudgingly conceded that I wasn’t going to give myself away. They finally shut up and settled down.
I sighed and rubbed my eyes.
I need a couple ibuprofen.
Instead, I gravitated toward the produce and my mouth watered. Had I been without salad and fruit for only a few days?
More like nine or ten days, I calculated.
For a brief moment, I considered filling a sack and stuffing it up under my shirt. The produce would be as invisible as I was.
No. It was Aunt Lu’s voice resounding in my heart.
I nodded, agreeing. No, I was not a thief, nor would I become one today; she had raised me better than that. Whatever I needed I would pay for—which meant I wouldn’t be taking anything home tonight since I didn’t have any money with me.
So I wandered the store, feeling almost part of the human race again. Almost. A teen girl and her boyfriend, giggling and tearing down the aisle, nearly ran me down.
Nearly. While the mites were having a conniption fit, I stepped out of the teens’ way. With time to spare.
Time. The word resonated with me. All I needed was time and experience before I would be able to go about in the world, confident and unafraid. I liked that picture: Me, navigating through everyday life without fear, without worry.
Speaking of experience . . .
I went to the front of the store and watched a woman use the self-checkout lane. The tricky part for me would be the fruits and vegetables—items without barcodes. I didn’t exactly breathe down the lady’s neck, but she did look around toward me once, with a puzzled expression.
I stuffed a fist in my mouth and stifled the snort-laugh that had almost jumped out.
I recovered and moved to an idle self-checkout machine and started to fiddle with it, looking for the instructions on how to pay for produce. The woman on the other self-checkout machine glanced at the machine I was playing with. She blinked, still a little confused, and then shrugged and returned to her purchases.
Being invisible had its plus side. I grinned and went back to studying the checkout options.
On the ride home I felt strangely settled. Comforted. I stopped in the driveway, got out and opened the side garage door, drove my car inside, closed the garage door behind me, and slid out the side door. I looked around to see if anyone was watchin
g, but I wasn’t feeling terribly paranoid about it. I was actually feeling a little proud.
I guess you can get used to anything eventually.
Before I retired for the night I added two items to my list of things to make life as an invisible woman easier: Order electric garage door opener. Figure out how to turn off the interior light in my car.
The next morning I phoned up a local company that installed garage door openers.
“Listen, I’d like an opener installed, but can’t be home during the day. Will your installer come out, look over the job, email me a bid, and then install the opener when I’m not at home?”
“Sure thing. We do that all the time. After you approve the estimate, we’ll take your payment by credit card over the phone and schedule the installation. How’s next week look for you?”
I made arrangements for the estimate and then went in search of my car’s manual. With only cursory glances to see if anyone was looking my way, I went out the side door and into the garage via its side door. I found the car’s dog-eared manual in the glove box.
“A switch? I didn’t know there was a switch,” I mumbled. “Too easy.”
I found the switch on the dome light and flipped it off. I was cramming the manual back into the glove box when I realized it, too, had a light. A few seconds later, I’d popped the bulb out.
I glanced at the dome light again. I pried the dome light cover off and removed that bulb, also.
“Just to be sure.”
The whole process took less than five minutes and then the inside of my car was “light free,” even when I opened my glove box.
That night, same time as the night before, I made a second run to Walmart. I wore one of Uncle Eddy’s old shirts. This one buttoned up the front. Under the shirt hung my two fabric grocery sacks crisscrossed over opposite shoulders.
Like bandoliers, I giggled. Lookit me. I’m Yosemite Sam!
I’d spent part of the day cutting and sewing long straps to the grocery sacks so they wouldn’t strangle me. With the added strap length, the sacks hung down to my waist.
Stealthy Steps Page 24