by Wil Mara
“My God, don’t you just love the rain?” Sharon asked. Their clothes were soaked, so the generous curves of her breasts were now clearly visible. He had enjoyed that view on numerous occasions, but now an additional and troubling thought came with it—If she wasn’t so beautiful, maybe a horny little asshole like Carl Sampson wouldn’t have noticed her in the first place.
“I do,” he said, sticking his tongue out to absorb a few drops. They had a bitter, metallic taste, like the brown water that came out of the pipes at home once in a while, usually when there was blasting going on at McCann’s Gravelworks. But Mark was getting too much pleasure out of watching Sharon have fun to care.
She stopped again and took a theatrically deep breath, elevating her hands in front of her like a ballet dancer.
“There’s nothing about rain I don’t absolutely love,” she said. “The smell of the damp coming out of the ground, the feeling of being wrapped up in your own little world, and the sounds—just listen.…” She pointed upward, to where the rain was drumming on the dense canopy formed by the oaks and maples that stood between the predominant pitch pines. “Isn’t that fantastic?”
“It is.”
She faced the sky, closing her eyes, opening her mouth, and sending her tongue out to wiggle in the damp air.
“You’re nuts,” Mark said, laughing.
“That’s the best way to be sometimes. Every now and then, you have to release your inner lunatic.”
“True.”
He leaned against one of the pines, the bark rugged and harsh under his hand, and tried to get a fix on what was going on inside her troubled mind. Not that she looked troubled right then, standing there with her arms outstretched, her clothes glued to her visibly pregnant body, and a swath of adolescent bliss on her face.
Ever since he’d learned of her pregnancy, he had tried to imagine how she felt: conflicted, uncertain, afraid, despairing? In his mind, he saw her with a block of cement the size of a small car on her back, forcing her downward until her knees almost touched the ground even though she labored to remain upright.
A ratchet of coughs came over him. As if on cue, the same thing happened to Sharon, and Mark realized that they had both been hacking away for a while. Leaning against another pine like she was trying to listen for the tree’s heartbeat, Sharon looked out across a meadow that lay adjacent to the path. It was a topographical oddity, a clearing about the size of a football field in an otherwise unbroken stretch of woodland. The shallow depression was clogged with yellowing grass that bowed under the wind and the impact of the rain.
“That was a lake once,” she said.
He knew that, although he wasn’t sure why. Probably learned it from Dad, Mark thought. His father was fascinated by American history in general and was particularly obsessed with their hometown. He was always talking with some old-timer or browsing through public records borrowed from the municipal building. “People travel hundreds, thousands of miles to get their history fix,” Pete Soames often said, “never realizing they’ve got plenty of it right in their own backyard.” He’d drop shiny nuggets of trivia on his family all the time, during rides to Sam’s Club or TV commercials or dinner. Mark went out of his way to act as though he couldn’t care less, rolling his eyes or pretending he didn’t hear. But apparently some of it had sunk in.
“I think it was used as farmland for a while.”
“It was,” Sharon said. “The ruins of the old farmhouse are down the path a little. All that’s left are the stones of the foundation. I remember my grandpa bringing me here when I was little. Back then there was still some water in the lake. Grandpa said there would be less and less each year because it was drying up. I didn’t believe him, because when you’re that young you don’t believe lakes dry up. I didn’t say anything, just came back when I could, and sure enough the water level kept dropping until it was gone.”
Her face no longer displayed the childlike joy that had been surging through her since they’d left the apartment.
“Nothing stays the same, does it,” she said wanly. “Absolutely nothing.”
He felt unqualified to produce a worthwhile response. She was carrying the conversation into a philosophical area where he could not follow. He still hadn’t experienced much of life, and what little he had was fairly smooth compared to the bumpy ride she’d been on. Her father had hit the back door when she was still a toddler, her mother couldn’t hold a job to save her sorry life, and a line of useless near-stepfathers had been marching through their house for as long as Mark could recall. Most of them were hard-wired alkies like dear old Mummy, and none were seriously interested in taking up the mantle of fatherhood.
In contrast, Mark knew he had it good. Really good, in fact. He listened to the stories in Ms. Barrett’s sociology class, heard the local news every morning, and had Internet access. He was beginning to understand what it was like out there in the world, and that he had all kinds of privilege. The downside to this was that he was also beginning to understand, for him, it was really hard to connect with anyone who didn’t.
“And when things do change,” she continued, “it’s pretty rare that they change in a way we’d like.”
Mark nodded. “So then what are you going to do, Shar? Are you going to have it?”
“Of course I am,” she said, and her lips began quivering. “I would never, never have an abortion.”
He didn’t think she would either, and in spite of the difficulties that would follow the resolute support of this position, he was pleased to find himself in full approval.
“What about giving it up for adoption?”
She shook her head. “I just don’t think I could do that. Maybe … I don’t know. I really doubt it, though.”
“Do you think Carl’ll come back?”
She shrugged. “No idea. Maybe. His whole life is here. I’m guessing … hoping … sooner or later.…”
“If he does, will you marry him?”
She gave him a crooked smile. “He won’t want that. He’ll say he will, just because it’s what a guy’s supposed to say in that situation. But he won’t.”
“You never know.”
“He’d be a terrible husband. He’s still a kid himself. We all are.”
Another chain of ragged coughs swept through Mark, this time accompanied by a dreamy feeling. It was like his brain had become unanchored and was drifting in an open sea, and by the sensation that he was about to lose his balance and go down. Fear began racing through him.
“Except me,” Sharon said softly.
Mark tried shaking his head back to normalcy. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I think my childhood is coming to an end. Time to be an adult.”
She sat down on the edge of the path, where the earth had given way to the slow grind of erosion, exposing many tree roots. Mark did likewise, setting his hands down flat for support. The scent of pine was particularly pungent this close to the needle-carpeted forest floor.
He tried clearing his throat to remove the filthy metallic taste that now coated his entire mouth. Turning away, he spat twice without force, trying not to draw her attention.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I’m going to finish school, and then … I’m not sure. Ideally, I’d still like to go to college and get a degree—somehow, some way—then find a job. I want to build a real life for my child, start a new chapter in my family history. I want it to be all about love and caring and nurturing and compassion.… Not fighting or yelling … or hitting or … bruising.…”
Her facade crumbled at last and the tears came with eruptive force. He moved over and wrapped his arms around her, rocking her back and forth while months of torment poured out. It didn’t take long; she always got back on her emotional rails relatively quickly.
When she was done, she wiped her cheeks and managed a little smile.
“I guess I’ll just have to take it day by day,” she said.
“Maybe you could
come live with me.”
She looked at him curiously. “Are you moving out?”
“No, I mean at my house.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on.”
“No, seriously.”
“Seriously, no.”
“Why not?”
“I think maybe your parents would have something to say about it.”
“Are you kidding? They love you. No joke, I’ll bet we could work something out.”
He was already running a quick evaluation through his mind, trying to figure out how his parents would react. Though they both had some conservative tendencies—Dad especially, Mark thought, then wondered if even that was really true—they never hesitated to give their charitable sides a good workout. Mark remembered that time in third grade when they’d taken him to a shelter in South Philly a few days before Christmas. It was the first of what would become a string of semi-regular “charity Sundays” that continued to the present. On this particular afternoon, they’d loaded so many boxes of food, clothes, books, and toys into the minivan that he couldn’t see out the back window. More than that, his parents were going to help out in the kitchen for the day. Mark figured he’d see nothing but bums and derelicts, shabby old men who had allowed the bottle or the needle to get the best of them and thus, in essence, were largely at fault for their lot in life. But there were others, too, including a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Mark never got the details of her story, but he fought off tears all the way home thinking about the frightened eyes in her smudgy, defeated face. When he learned the next morning that his parents had decided to begin donating a regular amount to the shelter for her care, the tears he had buffeted the day before came forth in a tidal wave. He did love them deeply, even if the teenage part of him refused to accept it.
“You could stay in the guest room upstairs,” he said. “It’s really nice. My mom and dad painted it last summer and put down hardwood floors. It’s got a nice view of the backyard, and it’s right near the bathroom.”
She grinned and shook her head. “I don’t know, maybe. I know your mom and dad are great people, but—”
Her whole body seemed to shrivel as a coughing jag overtook her. Mark followed with another of his own. The dizziness returned with a vengeance, along with a teetering current of nausea.
What the hell is going on? he wondered thickly, leaning over on one hand.
“I don’t really know if they—” Sharon tried again, then paused to hack into a clenched fist, the other hand set primly on the shelf of her chest. “If they could … if they … oh, shit, I don’t feel right.”
When Mark looked at her, a bolt of white fear shot through him. The hand that was pressed against her chest had begun to swell. It wasn’t quite as puffy as Mickey Mouse’s white-gloved paw, but inflated enough to be noticeable. And a rash, raw and pinkish with little red specks, now ran around her neck and into her shirt like a paint splash.
“Oh, my God,” he said dully, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
“What? What’s the matter?”
Nausea overwhelmed Mark with such fury that he was unable to resist it. He scrambled away on all fours, ducking behind a tree in an attempt to retain at least a fraction of dignity. His stomach heaved and a wretched scent flowed up from his guts and out his nostrils. Then came the evenly measured pre-ejection grunts; the ones that sounded like a pig doing push-ups.
But they weren’t coming from him.
He looked over and saw Sharon on her knees and one hand—the other was clutched at her throat. She bared her teeth in a horrific expression of agony, first very slowly, then with a snap. A string of blood descended gracefully, like a ruby-colored thread of spider silk. When she spit it out and saw what it was, her eyes widened like balloons.
“Shar, we have to get out of here now. I’ll carry you if I have to, but—”
She collapsed.
“Shar…?”
No movement.
“Sharon!!!”
16
Marla Hollis’s blog was now being featured on the front page of the newspaper’s Web site. The blog’s own home page was arranged in three vertical columns, with an archive index on the left, ads on the right, and Marla’s live entries filling the widest, middle column. She’d been posting regularly since “the incident.”
Her latest entry featured a photo taken through a rain-spattered, fourth-story window of the nuclear plant. The compound below was a study in chaos. People in hazmat suits were moving in all directions. Multiple pickup trucks were driving through or parked at haphazard angles, all with the Corwin Energies logo on the door and a single orange light swirling on the roof. A little farther on, sparks and fire illuminated the cloud of gray smoke that continued to pour from the imploded vessel.
Below the photo was Marla’s commentary:
Two hours and ten minutes have passed since the explosion, and they’re trying with little success to find a solution. Helicopters have come by dumping sand from bags that look like giant teardrops. The plant manager, Gary Mason, told me they have already dropped more than 3,000 metric tons, but radiation is still leaking out from the wounded core, so they’re going to add clay into the mix. When I asked him what he would do if that didn’t work, he said he would try dumping quantities of the chemical element boron, which, I have learned through my own research, will absorb neutrons. Boron is sometimes added to the coolant in the pressure reactors in order to keep fuel reactivity under control, particularly when fresh fuel rods are used. This facility does have some boron on hand, but not enough. So Mason said they’re contacting a plant twenty miles north of here that has larger quantities because they need it to manufacture semiconductors. However, in my judgment, he did not seem particularly hopeful about this approach.
The storm shows no sign of slowing down. Twenty-six workers are suffering from advanced radiation poisoning. The victims’ names won’t be released until the administrators have contacted their families. Andrew Corwin has been calling me regularly, but I have not actually seen him in a while. He’s told me that he’s already spoken with both the Secretary of Energy and the president’s Chief of Staff, but wouldn’t reveal the substance of those conversations.
I’m not yet exhibiting any signs of illness, maybe because I’m protected by all the steel and concrete surrounding these fire stairs. I hope to God that’s the case.
She ran up three more floors, wondering if the higher view would show her something different. Just before she reached the last step, her iPhone chimed. She pulled it from its holster and found a text from Darren Marcus, her editor—his fifth in the last hour.
Keep ’em coming, Marla. You’ve got about half a million following you now, and that number keeps rising. You’re being picked up by CNN, MSNBC, FOX, and the Associated Press. Congratulations—you’re officially a star.
She didn’t reply. She’d been working under Marcus for five years and had managed to convince the idiot that she genuinely liked him. It was a matter of self-preservation—Marcus had a petty, spiteful side that he unleashed on people who rubbed him the wrong way. A random compliment here, a disregarded glance of her curvature there, and she had him under control.
Her best tactic, though, came into play when his foggy, fame-drunk brain came up with some unfathomably stupid idea. Some of the paper’s other writers fought him from the start, which was the perfect way to get on his hit list. Marla would let those fools soften him up, put a few dents into his self-esteem and let the doubt start tunneling its way in. Then, inevitably, Marcus would come to her in private and ask for what he called her “most honest opinion.”
She would diplomatically point out all the strengths of his idea first. Even if there weren’t any—which was the case with disheartening frequency—she could at least make it sound like there were a few. Then she’d gently suggest changes to the weaker points. By the time he was ready to burden the staff with his moronic plan, it would have been modified in a way that M
arla could at least tolerate. But regardless of her mastery of the man, she couldn’t stand the sight or the sound of him and had as little to do with him as was possible, given the confines of her job.
From the seventh-floor window, she spotted something previously obscured by the roof of an adjacent building—a hunk of graphite that had blown off the containment structure. Roughly dome-shaped and about the size of a small car, it lay smoking like a charcoal briquette on one of the access roads. A small cadre of hazmat-suited people stood about fifty yards away; their gestures seemed to indicate that they were discussing it.
Marla launched the phone’s camera app and spread two fingers on the screen to bring the image closer. After she took three shots, a voice behind her said firmly, “Ma’am, you’re not allowed to do that.”
Spinning around, she confronted a man in a white lab coat with the company logo above the breast pocket. His yellow hardhat covered most of his hair, but his brushy, salt-and-pepper mustache hinted at what was underneath. He looked to be in his midforties.
“Yes, I am,” she replied.
The man reached for Marla’s phone so abruptly that her reflexes took over before her mind kicked in. She pulled it away with about a nanosecond to spare.
“Piss off,” she said, pivoting to keep some distance between them. He moved right along with her, as if they were partners in some kind of bizarre dance.
“Ma’am!” he said angrily, his mouth twisting into a snarl, “please give me th—”
“I have a note from Andrew Corwin, pal!”
He took on a look of flinty suspicion, but stopped moving toward her. “You what?”
She produced a folded sheet of paper from one pants pocket. He tried reaching for that as well, but she yanked it back, then opened the note and held it up for him.
“No, no,” she said, “just read.”