I stand up and feel all around on the walls, hands shaking, involuntarily patting the padded fabric. My breathing shallows. Stars flicker around the outskirts of my sightless vision. I need to sit down, but before I do, my fingers find a small hole in one wall, a pucker in the cushioned fabric. I hold my quaking hand near it. A gentle whiff tickles my skin. An air vent.
Why did my parents build this? How did they know what was happening? I think back, rubbing my temples. My Dad said something about being told to build this.
Shit, they’re dead.
I can’t cry. I really want to. But I just stand, shaking, until my legs lower me back to the floor.
Hours pass. I think. I’m both parched and in need of a toilet. The vent delivers air to breathe, so that’s not a concern, although I hyperventilate off and on, when I allow my thoughts to focus on my parents.
How long will I be able to breathe in here?
How long should I stay?
Without warning, light blinds me, my pupils so dilated from the long darkness. I gasp and cover my eyes. As they start to adjust behind my hand, I peek out, squinting.
Green fabric surrounds me, silky and quilted, designed for comfort. My very own padded room. I stand, knees stiff. With my elbows bent, I can touch both sides at the same time. Some kind of lock keeps the door closed, sealed against whatever happened on the other side. The light shines from a line of LEDs along the walls. I glance up. Two words are printed on the ceiling. I stare at the words, but see only letters, my mind lost in a haze, unable to make sense of the casual, out of place scrawl. I stand on my tippy toes, like proximity to the words will help, when a loud buzzer, like the grinding chime of a security door being unlocked, sounds out. I flinch away from the grating sound, slamming into the back wall with a shout of surprise.
I hesitate, listening to my breathing. I have to pee. The buzzer chimes again. This time it’s comforting, a sound everyone knows. Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe that’s my alarm clock and I’m about to wake up.
It buzzes again and this time the deadbolt snaps open, erasing any doubt as to the sound’s meaning. The door is unlocked, I think, I get it. But why open on the third buzz? Why not the first? Is it counting down something?
I count, timing the gap between buzzes, occupying my mind.
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty…there it is again. Telling me to leave.
I reach for the lock, a simple, undersized brass knob. My hands slicken with sweat, quaking, and I can’t get a good grip. I try to swallow but I’m spitless, my tongue like dust.
Dust.
I take a micro-step backward, pat my belly and then squeeze my fingers into fists. I wipe my palms on my jeans.
With shaking hands, I twist the knob, and the door swings open to the cellar.
4
AUGUST
Pebbles grind against my knee caps, hurting more than anything so small has a right to. My chest aches as I stretch out my arm, twisting it at an odd angle, reaching beneath my SUV, a Toyota Highlander—hybrid, of course. This simple movement is almost too much for me. All that time spent in a chair, staring at a screen, and not enough time moving, hasn’t helped my physical condition. Simple tasks like prying open an elevator door or retrieving a hidden key are almost beyond my ability. It’s the future I’ve dreamed of since childhood. Man evolved beyond the need for physical labor. Robots. Cyborg implants. Life made easy through immobility. But a mind set free to roam the cosmos, I now know, has trouble completing the simplest physical tasks.
The shhhhh of windblown white flakes sifting over my body and masked head doesn’t help. This act of retrieving a key, to start my vehicle, roots my mind. A mental checklist organizes my thoughts, creates order and keeps me from slipping into a panic-fueled despair. I can feel the abyss lapping at my toes. So I focus on the steps in front of me and try, desperately, to ignore the night-mare surrounding me.
Shhhhhh.
When my fingers graze the small plastic case, it feels like a victory. Then my shoulder cramps, and I have to fight through a wave of pain just to clutch the thing. Pulling it free feels like I’m being drawn and quartered by a sadistic medieval executioner. Then, with a sudden pop, the case is free. I slide out from beneath the SUV, my shoulder still throbbing, and manually unlock the door.
But I don’t climb in. Instead, I open the door, push the ‘unlock all’ lever and slam the door closed once more. I move to the vehicle’s rear and lift the hatch, stepping beneath it and out of the storm of petrified life. A pocket, free of the shifting dust, forms around me as the wind moves from the SUV’s front, to its rear and beyond.
The mask lifts free, releasing me from the scent of bile. I quickly shed the clean suit, sitting on the vehicle’s bumper. My clothing is slick with vomit, so I shed it, too, down to my boxers, never once fearing that someone will spot me, gleaming white, basketball belly, swirling hair fringed in gray. I know they’re all dead.
I lean forward, away from the open hatch, and I shake my fingers through my hair. White flakes flutter free, some dropping to the ground, some carried away by the breeze. I move my fingers through my beard, brushing Maggie Chow out. Each twitch of my hand moves faster, becoming frantic, stopping only when the sting of scratched flesh grows unbearable. My fingers come away with a thin coat of blood. Normally, the sight of blood, especially my own, would set me to swooning, but I simply marvel at it now. Living stuff. My only company.
I keep a change of clothes in the back. I’m prone to spills and random acts of clumsiness. Door frames are my nemesis. I pull the jeans on, followed by a fresh NASA logo T-shirt. I pick up the new, XXL button down, but put it back. There is no one to look nice for. The contents of my stomach didn’t reach my feet inside the clean suit, so I slide my feet back in my shoes—black slip-on Skechers that look far more hip than I am, but they’re comfortable.
I step over the discarded clothing, pulling the hatch down around me. My pulled muscles strain against the door until the vehicle’s sensors detect the movement and hidden gears start spinning. I didn’t bother buying the push button starter upgrade, but heavy doors that opened and closed on their own felt like a necessity. Before today, the automatic hatch made me feel confident. A display of my evolved state. Now I just feel weak.
I am weak.
Evolution, with its survival of the fittest, somehow overlooked me tonight.
I’m not yet sure if I should be grateful.
The door whirs closed, sealing me inside a dark tomb with perfect, flake free air. In the absolute silence that follows, I become aware of my breathing, uneven and quick. Slow down, I think, but I’ve never been an athlete. I have no experience slowing my breath or calming my body. This flesh and blood machine has always been a vessel for my mind. Nothing more.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s what coaches say. I try it, pulling a long breath through my nostrils, smelling the car’s interior—leather and fabric, warmed and cooled repeatedly over the past week. I feel no attachment to the Highlander. My DNA is decidedly un-macho. This is the reason my wife, Carly, left me. Over time, my lack of primal, testosterone-fueled toughness did me in. Brawn sometimes wins over brains when it comes to the heart. Her second husband looks like a silverback gorilla. A mechanic with dirty nails, no savings and few ambitions. But they are happy. Hunter-gatherers forming a tribe. Last I heard, they were up to five children. I’m glad for her and often envious of her husband, but I can’t change my nature.
Before leaving, Carly gave me a gift. A tribe of my own. A daughter. Claire. Precious and frail. Smart like her father. Now twenty years old and a college graduate, ready to begin her master’s program with a focus on biology, she is the love of my life. The solitary concern of my heart.
My thumb slides over the glowing phone’s smooth surface and pushes too hard on the ‘Call’ icon. My daughter’s face appears on the screen. Her light brown eyes are surrounded by tan skin inherited from her mother, and smooth, straight auburn hair inherited from me.
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“Please pick up.”
My voice is dry, and the movement shakes free a granule of Maggie Chow, wedged between my cheek and upper gums. I spit, suddenly aware that I can still taste the dead inside my mouth. Can still feel the slick grit, like a dentist’s polishing paste, slipping toward the back of my throat. With the last of my unbroken thoughts, I switch the phone to speaker mode and crawl over the divider, into the back seat. The interior is spotless, free from the detritus gathered by people who transport family or friends. But my salvation rests between the front bucket seats, held reverently by the cup holder, like an ancient idol nestled on a pedestal. I reach for it, and pluck the Styrofoam cup from its resting place.
I pry the plastic top off and look inside. The cover and sides are slick with moisture, evaporating during the day and dripping back down during the cool nights. A contained ecosystem. But there is no life in this liquid terrarium. The week-old black coffee, sealed in a man-made container, lacks any trace of mold. I pour the mouthful of cold, dark liquid into my mouth. The bitter flavor explodes against my taste buds, the flavor rancid and beautiful. I swish it around, willing it to cleanse every nook and crack, a staining oral baptism that will leave me feeling clean.
Not wanting to open the door again, I spit the fluid back into the cup. A cloud of white particles spins in the darkness. For a moment, I see the Milky Way galaxy from afar, spinning within my grasp. A dream come true. And then, I just see Maggie Chow, spit out.
“Hey,” Claire says. “If you’re a human, leave a message. If you’re a robot, screw off.” The phone beeps and I smile. Claire has a sarcastic wit that I appreciate, but can’t duplicate. In addition to being a poor specimen of masculinity, I’m also not that funny.
It’s unusual for Claire to ignore my calls. Two rings, tops. I look at my watch. Its 2:34...AM. But she keeps the ringer on. She’d still pick up, maybe even faster since late-night calls like this are usually bad news. So I leave my message with a barely hidden quiver in my voice. “Hey, honey. If you’re there, please call me back. Something... horrible has happened, and I want to know you’re okay.” I nearly vomit again. Her apartment is in Phoenix. It’s just an hour drive from here, but... I look up at the sky. Moon-lit death scours the black curtain. “Just call me back.” I feel no shame over the cracking in my voice. I would endure the tortures of hell to know she was all right.
I would drive straight through them, too.
Before I do, I think about the time. It’s not uncommon for me to work late nights. Given Desert’s focus, most of the team, who prefer the view of stars to blue sky, stay late into the night. But 2AM is extreme, especially for Maggie, who has kids. Whatever happened, it took place earlier. Maggie’s location is the giveaway. When I’m working in the subterranean lab for extended periods, she makes a daily visit via the elevator to make sure I haven’t gone insane, despite knowing that I prefer the warm whir of electronics to human conversation. She was on her way to see me when it happened, which places the event’s timing around 6pm...eight hours ago. It took that long for me to realize Maggie hadn’t come down to see me, and when I called up, no one answered, which is unusual, even at this time of night. Even if the science team had all gone home, the security team would have answered.
After covering the Chow flavored coffee and placing the cup in a back-seat holder, I contort my aching, 6’2” body, climb into the front and slide behind the wheel. The car starts with a gentle purr, the headlights automatically cutting through the darkness, turning black to static white and illuminating the swirling white parking lot.
The radio, left on, hisses at me. I reach out to turn it off, but pause, tapping the ‘Scan’ button instead. The digital numbers scroll swiftly, like the altimeter of a plummeting aircraft—both warnings of impending doom. There aren’t many stations available in this empty swath of Arizona desert, but three or four come in clearly and another dozen flicker in and out. Tonight, the airwaves are silent. No one is talking. The numbers finish their first lap, and tirelessly begin a second. I reach for the power button, but a sudden, blaring sound stops me in place.
I curse. Of all the stations that could have come in, it had to be the one playing Bon Jovi’s Bad Medicine. I clutch the steering wheel, letting the song play out, trying to avoid an 80s flashback. I fail. The song transports me back to my parents living room. I’m lip syncing the song with my friend. We’re playing air guitar and drums, making fools of ourselves for the girls seated on the couch. When the song finally ends, I realize I’ve been tapping out the beat on the steering wheel. God, I hate that song.
I hold my breath, waiting for the DJ to chime in, but the radio plays only silence. No static. No voices. But then, a commercial. Two minutes of commercials. Silence follows them. Then, again, music. INXS, Devil Inside. The station is on auto-pilot, playing preprogrammed music and ads, but the DJ, whose voice should be filling the gaps, isn’t there.
I hammer the power button.
Phone still on speaker, I dial 911, and place it on the passenger’s seat. While the phone rings, I put the SUV in drive and head for the lot’s exit. The white dust filling the air makes it hard to see, but the reflective red circles on the gate help me find the way out. Upon reaching the gate, I stop. I’m not getting out to lift the wooden rectangle, so I ease forward. The red and white striped plank is no match for the beastly vehicle. It cracks and falls away.
I pull through, keeping my eyes on the double yellow line a few feet in front of the Highlander. Other than white, the lines are about all I can see, and like Dorothy’s yellow brick road, I’m going to follow the guiding color through this strange land, hoping that this Tin Woodman will find his heart intact.
I drive through the night. The phone beside me, reaching out for help, never stops ringing.
5
POE
My parents’ clothing lies in two heaps on the cellar floor, a mere five feet from me, like dirty laundry waiting to be washed. The familiar fabrics are intermingled with small piles of dust. I step out of the box, and stand motionless, stupid with fear.
I hold my breath. What if the air isn’t breathable? Hand still on the door, I consider stepping back inside it, and just staying there for a while.
Indecision will kill me. The air in my lungs threatens to expel. My chest constricts. My throat cramps. Beads of sweat erupt on my upper lip, across my forehead. I peek around the back of the pod and notice the air tank. Three of them. I can see the pressure gauge. It’s nearly spent. My lungs feel crumpled. I have to decide.
I allow one tiny gulp to escape, hoping to trick my body into thinking it has captured a breath. My vision blurs and the hissing air behind me stops, a spent balloon, stilled on the floor. The decision has been made for me. Last words fill me, the final thoughts of a death row walk, before the hanging. Thank you, thank you, for this life. It has been beautiful.
Also, almost imperceptible, Please, I’m not ready.
Energy permeating my cells, attempting peace, I close my eyes and breathe.
Taking several deep choking breaths, my vision evens. I pat my body all over, gasping. Still alive. The air smells metallic, like pennies or blood. But there’s no blood. I step once toward the piles of clothing, where my parents stood just hours ago. Two lumps. His blue flannel shirt, her prayer shawl, his moccasins, two pairs of pants. Blood rushes to my head, my heart flips over. Some unfrequented corner inside me splinters, and I start to cry. I nudge his shirt with my toe. White powder puffs out from it; some sticks to my wool sock.
I wail, hovering with my foot in the air, unsure what to do. That’s my father. Nauseated, deep grief and revulsion wash over me, and with gagging sobs, I gently tug my sock off with only two fingers, from the ankle, careful not to touch any of the powder, and I place it on the floor.
I’m going to throw up. I run up the basement stairs in my lone sock, taking two steps at a time. I make it to the kitchen sink and vomit all over the unfinished, dirty dishes. Then again.
I rinse
my mouth with icy cold well water, the tap like a natural spring. Then I splash my face. The chilling wetness constricts my skin and sharpens my thoughts, shocking me back to the present and survival. Water dripping from my nose and lips, I glance right.
The phone on the wall is within reach, their ancient, beige, rotary telephone. After a quick pat dry, I take the phone in hand. Each rotation of the disc clicks painfully slow, ticking around as I literally dial 911. Ringing. I slide down to the floor, with my back against the counter. The clock above the stove reads 3:42. Sunrise is still four hours away. I was in that thing for over six hours. Why aren’t they picking up? I let it ring for five more minutes. Dust bunnies spin in the corner, propelled by a draft. I stand up and pace around the kitchen, the phone cord tangling on the kitchen chairs.
Five minutes gone, I wait five more. No one answers. I hang up and dig in my parka pocket for my cell. I only hesitate a second before I tap his name. It’s the middle of the night, but still. Rings and rings.
“Hey, you’ve reached Todd, leave me a message, thanks.”
“It’s me,” I say, and I start to cry again. “There’s been an…accident at my parents’ house. I’m snowed in. I don’t know what to do. Can you please call me back?”
I call friends. I call relatives. I call a wrong number. I call the operator. No one, no one, no one answers. I spend the next hour leaving twenty-six messages. I open the kitchen door to the blizzard, and snow swirls in. I call him back again, and leave another message. Why isn’t anyone waking up to my call?
I take a deep breath, go outside of myself a little bit, and try to think objectively. If I were a person who knew what to do in emergency situations, what would I do? The smell of my recent expulsion fills the room, so I turn on the tap and spray the dishes, rinsing them cleanish. Feeling the nausea still, I sit at the table and put my forehead down.
The Distance Page 3