Once the door rattles to a halt, I don’t want to risk lowering it again. Someone will hear it for sure. I’ll have to leave the door wide open. Forget about staying warm.
I press my hands to my head. I still feel that slow dripping sensation now, and with it, something much worse—a terrible, budding sadness unfolding inside my mind. It feels like something bad has already happened, and something worse is about to follow. I’m more afraid of this sudden ache than I am of the men with guns who are after me. Because this thing—whatever it is—is coming from deep inside me. I can’t run from it.
I’m momentarily paralyzed. I keep gripping my head and staring down at the floor, at the wisps of snow swirling around the lawn mowers. I need a plan. I need … I need …
“You need wings, little one. But no one has wings.”
My mother speaks these words to me as if she’s standing just over my shoulder. I jerk to my right to look, even though I know she can’t be here. Because she’s dead. They told me that much.
But I remember her. A little bit, anyway.
I remember that she said these words to me, and how she said them—the last traces of her accent hugging each word. But I cannot remember her face.
The next thing I know, I’m pulled into the past.
I’m sitting on a stool, staring at a fat woman with rings on every finger. It’s not my mother. It’s Mrs. Esteban. She’s stirring a pot in a too-small restaurant kitchen, her long skirt shifting with each stroke. The scent of cooking rice and spice and hot lard fills the room. I could lick the air, it smells so good.
I am seven, maybe eight. Some kids were chasing me, so I ducked down an alley and then into the back of this pupusería, smack into the large back end of Mrs. Esteban. She is a cook here, and she also lives in the third-floor apartment directly below my mother and me. She let me hide from the kids who were chasing me, but now she’s impatient for me to go. She has work to do, and I’m distracting her.
“Why won’t they just leave me alone?” I say, slapping away my stupid, stupid tears. I hate that anyone can make me feel like this, that I have no defense against it.
“Because you are different from them.”
“How?”
“You go to a different school than they do. You talk differently than they do,” she says. Then she sighs. “And you are different in other ways.”
“What ways?”
“Has no one told you this?”
“Told me what?”
She shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. “You have green eyes.”
“So?”
“So? So? Ay!”
She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and slings it over her shoulder. “Your mother used to work for a very wealthy man who has green eyes. You’re old enough to figure it out.”
I don’t understand what she means right away. Then I jump up from the stool and yank on her apron. “Who was it?”
“Oh, chica. Your mother should be the one to tell you this.”
“Who!”
“I can’t think of his name. He builds all the big buildings in the city.” She is snapping her fingers, trying to jog her memory, but nothing comes.
I kick her in the ankle and run outside as she shouts names at me. I am in a blind rage as I run back out into the alley—right into the group of kids who were taunting and chasing me. Suddenly I am on the pavement, my face pushed into a grease-slicked puddle. I hear a group of girls giggle. The sound of girls laughing can be the ugliest sound in the world. I feel someone walk over my back, and I raise my head to see several pairs of shiny black loafers and ruffled socks skipping away.
The memory ends abruptly, like someone’s shaken me to get my attention back. I’m facing the garage wall. I see a hedge trimmer, a pair of clippers, a small scythe.
A weapon. That’s what I need. That’s what I want.
Hiding doesn’t suit me at all.
CHAPTER 5
I look around for something. Anything. I don’t even know what.
In the garage there are three huge lawn mowers. They’re the kind the landscapers here stand on to mow the acres of grass that surround this place. Next to them is a small tractor, with belt treads instead of tires. I look at it longingly, but I know I can’t take it. Where would I go, especially in this weather? And it would draw a lot of attention. If I’m going to escape, I’ll need to do it quietly. I have a feeling no one is going to let me leave if they can possibly help it.
A row of lockers lines one wall. Maybe there’s something in one of them that can help me. I find a hammer in a nearby toolbox and give one of the keypad locks a couple hard whacks. The first locker springs open; it’s full of nothing. The next one is more helpful. There’s a set of blue coveralls and a big overcoat; it’s green canvas on the outside and flannel on the inside. I strip off my wet clothes and put the coveralls on. I’ve got to roll the sleeves and pant legs up about six inches. I put the overcoat on, and it’s so warm and soft I momentarily hug myself in grateful relief. In the next locker I find a lunch box with a sandwich and an apple inside. I stuff them into my pockets. Then I remember the passcard and the pills. I need to get them out of my wet clothes.
I put my hand in the pocket of the hoodie and come away with the plastic bag. One of the two remaining gel capsules has popped, and the baggy is leaking whatever was inside. It probably happened when I slid out the window and landed on my chest. I put the baggy in the coat pocket.
I smash another few lockers before I come up with a stretchy black cap. I put that on and instantly feel a thousand times warmer. I find a pair of leather work gloves lying on a nearby bench and put those on, too.
This garage is full of landscaping tools, but what am I going to do? Carry a rake with me to defend myself? I need something smaller.
I go back to the tool closet where I got the hammer and have another look around. At first I think I see a gun, but then I realize it’s a nailer. It’s about two feet long—the kind you use to fire nails into concrete with a shotgun shell. I have no idea how I know what it is and how it works, but I do. I put it in the inside pocket of the huge overcoat, holding the handle of it with my armpit. I take a handful each of shells and nails and put them in the pocket, too. Improvising seems familiar. Like it’s my style.
I notice an interior door in the corner of the garage. There’s probably a hallway on the other side. It might lead toward a basement, but I can’t chance it. Since this place is built into the side of a hill, I can’t be sure what level the garage connects to, and I don’t want to end up anywhere near the lobby. Run? Don’t run? I do nothing. I can’t do nothing. I hear footsteps on the other side of the door. Heavy and urgent. These guys are fast.
I can hear them shouting to each other in their weird, digitized voices. I run to the other side of the garage, where the big lawn mowers are parked, and squat down behind one of them.
I hear the chirp of a magnetized card reader and see the light near the door turn from red to green. The door opens an inch.
I wait. They wait. They’re testing me.
“Sarah Ramos. Walk to the center of the room and lie face down on the floor with your arms and legs fully extended.”
I say nothing. Still the door doesn’t open. What are they waiting for?
I jump up from behind the mower and pull the engine cord. It springs to life, coughing black smoke. I squeeze one handle, but nothing happens. Then I try both at the same time and the lawn mower jumps forward, but as soon as I let go of both handles, it stalls.
Behind me on a workbench is a roll of duct tape. I tear a piece off with my teeth and wrap it around each handle of the mower.
Just as the door springs open, I pop the brake and the mower takes off toward the door. I don’t care how many guns you have—when a huge lawn mower is coming at you, you get out of the way. They reflexively shoot and then retreat back to the hallway as it smashes into the door. The screeching of metal echoes through the garage.
I hit the button to lower
the garage door, waiting until it’s almost all the way down before slipping out underneath.
I’m alive. But I need to keep moving if I want to stay that way.
Keeping close to the building, I hope the outcroppings and contours will provide me some cover. After a hundred feet or so, I come to the edge of my known world: a huge metal trellis mounted to the side of the building. It runs almost all the way to the roof and has thousands of pieces of copper foil attached to the lattice. When the wind blows, the foil strips spin around, making patterns in the shifting breezes. Pretty, yes, but it’s also capturing the wind’s energy to help supply power to the building. Somebody once told me it’s called “functional sculpture.”
As I try to decide what my next move should be, I see a figure ahead of me in the snow. It isn’t one of the guys with guns. It isn’t someone on staff. Another patient? It can’t be. For one thing, he isn’t bald. I can see dark hair sticking out from underneath his ski hat. Also, he’s wearing a big white puffy ski jacket and goggles, and carrying what looks like a computer bag. As he skulks along, I skulk behind him. Something in the way he moves tells me he’s young. I follow as he picks his way around the edge of the building. In his left hand, he’s carrying a walkie-talkie, and when he disappears around the next corner, I run faster to gain ground.
I chance a look around the corner and stop in my tracks. There’s a work site. It’s huge. The hole they’ve dug for this construction project runs as deep as the main hospital building is tall. Excavated dirt is piled in every direction. There are dump trucks, cement mixers, backhoes, and, looming above it all, a tower crane. I see the trunk of it, but the top has disappeared into the veil of snow. Obviously, they wouldn’t be working in this weather, but there’s something about the site that’s not quite right. Maybe it’s the tall weeds around the tires of the cement mixer, the sheets of plastic that have torn loose and blown into the fence, the way the piles of dirt look hardened. No one’s been here for a while.
The kid is making his way toward the small outbuilding that’s connected to the main facility by a glass walkway. He’s crouched low, definitely trying to stay hidden. It makes me feel better about him. Plus, he doesn’t have a gun. Right now, my favorite people on earth are those without guns.
When the kid gets to the building, he squats down near the door at the side and pulls out a passcard. It’s just like mine: white. He seems unsure about whether he wants to use it. He waits, then finally scans the card and opens the door.
As soon as he goes in, I make my move. I sprint for the opening like I’m trying to steal home, catching the door with my boot just before it closes all the way. I wait a minute before looking inside, just in case the guy is still there. He isn’t.
I’ve clearly come in a back door or a side door. It’s kind of odd, the way this place is separate from the main building, but I’m sure there must be a reason. There always is.
The stairs go one direction: down. I move as quietly as I can. This might be a good place to lie low for a while. I come to a set of doors, each with a magnetized card reader next to it. Judging by the unmelted snow on the floor, the kid went to the right, which means I’ll go left.
I use my passcard and pull the door open. The air’s so cold I wonder if I’ve walked back outside. As I enter the room, the lights come on. I take two steps back, and the security camera in the upper corner of the room adjusts itself to capture my movement.
No! No! No!
Turning back, I hear a strange sound, like something deflating. Someone has just turned off the lights, along with every machine in the place—all that white noise you don’t notice until it’s gone. A moment later, a series of greenish emergency lights come on.
I hear the beep of the card reader. Someone is coming. I press myself against the wall. It must be the kid I saw outside. Maybe he saw my snow tracks in the hall. I need to think fast.
The door swings open all the way, letting in just enough light so I can aim.
Apparently I know how to throw a pretty good punch.
CHAPTER 6
The kid flies backward. His head hits the wall hard, but the thud is muffled by his ski hat. He slides down into a sitting position as his computer bag spills onto the floor next to him.
He looks up at me, amazed and slightly offended, and then touches his bleeding nose. “What did you do that for?”
My head tips to the side; my lips part. I look at my fist because I’m pretty sure it’s never punched such a good-looking face before. I can’t dwell on this fact for very long, though, because for all I know, this boy could be helping those killers hunt me down.
I put my boot on his ankle and press down with all my weight.
“Hey! That hurts!”
“It’s supposed to,” I say. “Did you turn the lights out?”
“Who are you?”
I growl at him. “All you need to know right now is that I’m the girl with the gun.”
“That is not a gun.”
“A projectile is a projectile.”
“You got me there.”
I step back and he leans forward to rub his ankle. Then he starts to get up and actually holds out his hand for me to pull him to his feet.
“I didn’t say you could get up.”
“Just let me do what I was gonna do, all right?”
“Which is what?”
“Can’t tell you that, but if I don’t do it quick, a bunch of angry dudes with real guns are going to come rushing in here.”
I look around the room. The green glow of the emergency lights has leached into the air like weak tea, but it reveals nothing familiar. At least not to my eyes.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“It’s where they house the mainframe for this joint.”
He points toward the other side of the room. Now I can see the outline of a series of small, rectangular towers. They’re elevated off the floor behind a metal cage.
“Why would they have the computer so far from the main building?”
“This system needs to be kept super cool all the time, which is why this room is like a meat locker. And it needs to be kept safe. So it’s in a bunker with four-foot-thick walls. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
“Not really.”
“Please. I’m running out of time. What do you want? You want me to beg?” He gets on his knees. “Here. I’m begging. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
He reaches for his pocket suddenly, and I point the nailer at his face.
“It’s a headlamp, okay? As in, a lamp I wear on my head.”
“Let me see it,” I say, trying to sound menacing.
He takes the headlamp out, puts it on his head, and turns on the light. Then he throws his hands out to the sides. Ta-da.
I lower the nailer and kick his computer bag behind me. “I’ll hold on to this for insurance.”
“No, I need that for what I’m going to do.”
I wait a moment. He makes a motion with his hand, like gimme, and I push the bag toward him with my foot. He grabs it and crosses the room in three strides. He takes a pair of glasses with thick brown frames from his coat pocket and puts them on. The glasses easily cut his attractiveness by half. Possibly three quarters.
“Why would you … what are you putting those on for?”
“Because you knocked my contacts out when you punched me in the face, and now I can’t see.”
I gape at his glasses, wondering if this is what people wear these days in the outside world. I feel my forehead crinkling in dismay at the pure, incandescent ugliness of them.
“Look, I got them in Pyongyang, okay? This was the only set of frames they had, and we were kind of in a hurry. Now stop distracting me.”
At the door of the security cage, he punches in a code. Nothing happens. He tries again.
“Well, this is embarrassing. Thought I had that code cracked.”
Scanning the room, he zeroes in on one particular server. He pulls a tool from his
bag and uses it to cut away part of the cage so he can reach through. Then he pulls out his laptop, connects a cable, and starts typing madly. A moment later, he looks relieved and quickly tucks something into his pocket.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Took some stuff. Then I killed it.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what my boss told me to do.”
“Your boss?” Now I’m good and mad. I point the nailer at his throat. “I thought you said you were trying to get away from those guys—”
I want to add who are trying to kill me but don’t. Even I realize how crazy it would probably sound.
“My boss isn’t with those guys,” the boy says. “Well, actually, he is, but not in the way you think. It’s complicated.”
The boy takes his glasses off and puts them back in his inner coat pocket. Then he crouches down, packs away his laptop, and zips the bag shut. He looks up at me like he’s not sure why I’m still here. His eyes are so brown they look black, or maybe it’s just that his pupils are fully dilated in this dim light.
He starts for the door.
“Wait. What are you going to do now?” I ask.
“Leave.”
“Leave?”
“Yeah. I’m getting my butt back to the yurt.”
“What did you just say?”
“Yurt.”
“What is that word?”
“Yurt. You know? It’s like a tent. Or a hut.”
“Take me with you.”
“No.”
“Please!” I want to spit that word out of my mouth; it tastes so much like desperation.
“No.”
I try a different tack. “Look, I take rejection fairly well. My nailer? Not so much.”
He looks toward the door again and then glances at his watch. “You don’t seem to understand.…”
“No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s going on at all. There are guys here with guns who just killed everyone I know!”
Tabula Rasa Page 4