The Loudness

by Nick Courage

  How did I turn into this?

  “Good,” Ben whispers roughly into my ear, very nearly clamping his scraped and bloodied hand on my shoulder and then, eyeing my hands, reconsidering. “You found it.” Where there should be a palpable relief, I feel only shock. Ben’s shirt is ripped, and his face is swelling from a few well-placed kicks, but otherwise, he seems to have escaped the pile-up intact.

  Alive.

  “The actual military’s still at what’s left of the plant,” he continues, gesturing with what looks to be a broken finger. “These are just the suits. Not so bad. Have to get in there before the power’s back up if we want to get through the security, though.”

  Without warning, Ben breaks away in a crouching run toward the nearest car, where he hugs the ground, enthusiastically gesturing for us to follow. Ava looks at me and then shrugs, following his lead. I take off after her, landing in a dusty squat next to the car’s muddy rear wheel. Almost immediately, the sedan’s engine turns quietly over, lights flashing on as my newfound electric field coaxes it into neutral.

  Ben, who had been leaning against a front wheel—casing the plaza for our next jump—feels the car purr to life and turns to me incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, and then repeats himself as he sprints to the next car for cover. With our hiding place possibly comprised, Ava and I have no choice but to follow, hoping that no one will notice our chain of self-starting sedans.

  Unfortunately, whoever parked Ben’s next choice left the radio on, and as I slide next to him on the smooth granite of the plaza, the car fires noisily to life, an asinine talk-radio show blasting at full volume. “Seriously,” Ben repeats, pulling his handgun from its holster and standing up to face the federales who’ve started to converge on us. As he aims the gun in a protective circle, he nods anxiously down at my throbbing hands. “If you’re gonna use . . . those,” he says, “now would be a good time.”

  Taking a deep breath, I remember the reflection of the melting lamppost in the fearful faces of the people I once thought were like Tom and Rachel. I look up at Ben, still in a standoff against the federales he was sided with until last night—when I came on the scene—and wonder how many of them are like him. Just waiting for a chance to do the right thing. How many of them have grainy photos of their mothers in federale newspapers.

  “No violence,” I whisper, stretching my arms up toward the overcast sky. The rippling blaze in my hands is a beacon in the plaza—drawing both federales and storm clouds. “The boy,” one of them shouts into the mounting wind, plastic bags and fallen leaves gusting across the ominously darkening plaza. “It’s the boy!”

  “This is not exactly what I had in mind, Hank,” Ben calls over his shoulders, his pistol still trained on the growing crowd of federales. “I don’t think I can hold all of them . . .”

  I don’t answer him . . . or the federales, who now have a new prime suspect in the power plant explosion, and, accordingly, have all switched their targets from Ben to me. “Put the bomb down, son,” a grey-haired federale shouts. “Nobody has to get hurt.”

  It’s too late for that, I think, remembering Carel and, for the first time—instead of trying to turn it off—willing the writhing light from my hands. Almost immediately, it’s like night again, wind and rain whipping our faces red as the federales inch forward, taking the first few shots. Their guns are louder than when we were behind the soundproof glass of the library, almost deafening, but they don’t faze me. My only concern is Ava, trembling beside me, clutching my waist. And the power.

  My back arches, quivering, the electricity shooting from my fingers as if it’s being drawn from my body by the roiling black sky itself, inch by excruciating inch. Past the pain, I’m vaguely aware of a cacophony of radios and lights, the black federale fleet switching on as the electricity builds, volumes rising until their tinny car speakers blow from the current, popping and melting along with their headlights in a collective hiss.

  There’s yelling, too.

  Ben, holding his ground despite the jumping electric column I’ve created between myself and the heavens, calls wordlessly into the hurricane wind. The federales, not sure whether to advance or retreat, shout predictable but impossible instructions for me to “drop the bomb.”

  And me? I’m screaming from the sharp, pulling agony of electricity, like nails yanked roughly and continually out of my aching fingers; yelling from the frustration and weirdness of the last few days, from homelessness and loneliness and betrayal. Yelling—eyes squeezed shut—for Carel and Grammy and Ava, who’s crouched defensively behind me. I don’t hear any of it above the swirling vortex of the plaza, but I feel the primal screams rushing from my throat into the rolling thunder and lightning, into the rain that’s mixing with tears on my twisted face, echoing throughout the City’s narrow streets.

  And then, as abruptly as it started, the sky lets loose my pulsing hands, which fall limply to my side.

  They’re full of pins and needles where before there was fire, and—falling finally silent—I try to rub them out as Ben runs across the empty plaza and through the federales’ wide-open front doors. The storm remains, black clouds swirling swiftly overhead as lightning repeatedly strikes the charred weathervane topping City Hall’s golden dome.

  “All clear,” he shouts, soaking wet and clutching his arm; giddy, despite himself. “I don’t know how you did that, Hank, but you scared ’em out!”

  “You okay?” I ask Ava, my throat raw from screaming. She nods mutely and stands, surveying the empty plaza. The heavy rain turns to hail, which ricochets against the idling cars and melts on the plaza’s warm marble tiles.

  “It’s a ghost town,” she whispers, more to herself than me, and the awe in her voice makes me blush. Taking a step forward, ignoring the increasingly large flecks of ice raining down on us, she reaches for my tingling hand. “Are . . . are you okay, Henry?”

  She squeezes my fingers reassuringly, and I look down at our hands—the fire is gone from mine, leaving a sort of dull white glow. I’m not sure whether or not I miss it, the power, but I think I’m okay. I haven’t felt this relaxed in years, and there’s something about standing here with Ava, staring into her searching green eyes . . . Before I know it, her rain-wet arms are wrapped tightly around my shoulders as my nose nestles warmly in the crook of her neck.

  “Seriously?” Ben calls from the open doorway, thin lines of blood mixing with the weather and trickling down his arm. “We have maybe five minutes, ten if we’re lucky.” I pull back, staring into Ava’s eyes until she smiles back at me and nods. Ben yells again, more out of amazement than frustration. “Let’s go, people!”

  The inside of City Hall is as deserted as the outside, and Ben confidently leads the way through the emptiness, jumping over the detritus of the quick federale exit—strewn papers and capsized chairs—as he escorts us through the various vestibules and offices with the self-assurance of someone who had spent a lot of time there.

  Like the university library before it, the elevators aren’t working, so we start our ascent to the top floor in an industrial stairwell filled with broken chairs and trash bins. Unlike before, Ben leaves a trail of blood behind him as he takes the stairs four at a time, leaving me and Ava to follow in his leaking footsteps.

  “Actually,” Ava says, grabbing my wrist and guiding me back out into the elevator bay. “I just thought of something.”

  “Hey,” I say, jerking uncertainly back toward the stairwell. “My parents . . .”

  “Just push the button, Hank,” she sighs, pressing my hand against the up arrow, which lights up instantaneously, the mirrored elevator doors sliding smoothly open. Ava hits the button for the top floor once we’re inside, and we check our incongruously filthy reflections in the seamless aluminum door as we glide swiftly upward, the tiny elevator lights flickering above us as we drip soot-grey puddles on the high-gloss floor.

  We’re both pale, and shivering from the wet. Ava wipes her dripping hair out of her
face with the heel of her hand, and—unthinking—I do the same to mine, streaking dirt across my brow. The floors ding as we pass them, moving ever closer to my parents. For a horrible second, I convince myself that the federales took them when they fled, that they could be anywhere. Ava sees the flash of panic across my face and squeezes my hand. “They’re going to be here,” she whispers, the steel edge of surety in her voice.

  And, as the doors slide noiselessly, magically open onto the eighth floor . . . they are.

  “Henry!” Mom shrieks, shaking Dad awake as we walk into the room, the elevator going dead behind us and dropping heavily to the lobby as the overhead light flickers on. They’re disheveled, wearing the same clothes I remember them wearing as they boarded their plane, and sitting on a large, unmade bed placed haphazardly in the center of some sort of executive office, judging from the portraits on the walls. It’s still hailing outside, rice-sized grains of ice clacking lightly against barred windows.

  “Hank, it’s Hank, baby!”

  Dad shakes immediately awake, kicking the blankets off of his feet as he feels blindly for his glasses. Putting them on, he stares, astonished, as I run toward them, jumping into their outstretched arms. “How?” he whispers incredulously, eyes crinkling with questions as he and Mom pull me into a tight, weepy hug.

  “It’s complicated,” I say, tears hot on my cheeks. “I’ll tell you when we get home.”

  Home.

  Their hug only loosens at the sound of pounding footsteps growing louder in the adjacent stairway. I’m so happily distracted by the reunion that I’d forgotten to tell my parents about Ben, and their fear of returning federales spreads irrationally to me . . . until, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ava biting back a smile.

  And I smile, too, despite myself.

  “Let’s go, guys,” Ben yells down the stairwell, as if we’re still lagging behind him. “We can get outta here, but we gotta hurry.” The hallway door slams open as he stumbles breathlessly into the room, the echoes of his noisy approach reverberating through the stale, wet air.

  “You have got to . . .” he exhales, spotting us as he leans his bleeding shoulder against the dark wood paneling, sliding into an exhausted squat. “. . . be kidding me.”

  “So, wait,” Dr. Singh says, shaking the disinfectant from the thermometer and positioning it against the soft underside of my already-bruised tongue. “You’re worried because you feel fine?”

  I know better than to try to talk. I’ve already dislodged the thermometer twice, the last time spitting it onto the floor in a fit of gagging—so I’ve promised myself that the third time is going to have to be the charm, even if it kills me. “Because frankly, Mr. Long, this is the best I’ve ever seen you. No fainting, no fatigue,” she continues, needling the thermometer snugly beneath my tongue as I cringe, fluorescent lights flickering sympathetically overhead.

  Thermometer secured, Dr. Singh taps her clipboard with her ballpoint pen and jots a quick note.

  “Power-ing electron-ics instead of . . . dis-rupt-ing,” she intones, drawing out the syllables to match the scratching of her pen. “Strange,” she says, looking me squarely in the eyes again. “But that’s better than before, at least.”

  I shrug, but she’s right. I’ve only been back in the Green for a few days, and already everything is easier than before. I feel that especially now, sitting in the warm, gleaming Hospital, shelves of bandages and disinfectant lining the walls. It wasn’t that long ago that Ben was bleeding into the pilot seat of a stolen federale helicopter as he angled us upward into the blackening clouds, inexplicable ice hailing against the windshield so hard I was sure it would crack.

  And, as the shuddering hull creaked ominously, buffeted by the storm I’d somehow created, it did: glass and ice shattering around us, the cabin instantly filling with gusts of cold, wet wind as Ben struggled to maintain control of the veering aircraft with his one good arm. As my stomach dropped in terror, so did the helicopter. One moment of nauseating weightlessness followed by an anxious, hopeful second . . . and then another.

  “Hang tight,” Ben had yelled over the deafening squall as we listed precariously to one side. Through the rain, I could see him bracing his wounded shoulder against the pilot-side door, twisting the throttle for all it was worth as we continued our ragged ascent. It had been a miracle when we’d broken through the clouds into the cool, endless blue of the sky above—all of us exhaling at once despite the wind whistling sharply through the shattered windshield, chilling us to our quivering bones.

  As if we were in the clear.

  “It’s just a quick jump,” Ben had said, bravely, betrayed by his bloodless white face as Mom and Dad exchanged glances. “Should be there in half an hour if we can avoid the weather.” He’d shot a cautionary look back at me.

  No more storms, got it.

  I remember thinking how funny it was that I’d sweltered in my hoodie for the entire trip to the City, waiting for it to get cold, like everyone’d said it would . . . and now that we’d left and I finally needed it, it was a pile of ash. Even funnier was that, as the cold set in, it turned out that I didn’t actually need it after all. The wetness steamed from my skin, sizzling as if from tremendous internal heat.

  “Ninety-eight point six degrees.” Dr. Singh nonchalantly tosses the thermometer back into an electric blue vial of disinfectant, snapping me back to the present. “Normal.”

  I arch an eyebrow, skeptical.

  “So you glow,” she says, sighing dismissively into another patient’s chart, not even bothering to look at my pulsing hands for confirmation. “Believe me, the others are worse off.”

  We’d barely recovered from our short but frostbitten flight back to an eerily abandoned Green Zone when news reached us that we were being followed. Strangely, it had come in the form of Mr. Malgré, Scott’s mean old dad, who creeped up on our borrowed federale helicopter before the blades had even stopped spinning. “Ten-four,” he’d shouted into a squealing walkie-talkie while his construction worker friends emerged as if from nowhere to surround the battered helicopter. “It’s them.”

  He’d thumped twice on the helicopter door and then unceremoniously yanked it open while the rest of us were still exchanging uneasy looks. “So happy you could join us, Mayor Long,” he’d shouted over the still-spinning rotors, his wide red face breaking out into a smile as the vegetal stench of rotting greens filled the cabin. “I got someone who wants to see you.”

  “Mr. Malgré,” Mom had said softly, in cool acknowledgment, as the open helicopter door darkened with his dubiously welcoming crew. Dad straightened next to her, readying himself for a possible confrontation, while Ava and I shrank back into the cargo hold. Mr. Malgré kept smiling, despite our obvious discomfort—or maybe because of it—his thin, chapped lips stretched tightly across the vast expanse of his face as if strained from lack of use. If Ben, weak from blood loss, hadn’t finally passed out, the awkward tension of that moment might never have passed.

  “We’ve got an injured pilot,” Mom had said matter-of-factly as Ben’s limp hand fell heavily onto the floor. “Linda Wallace’s oldest.” Mr. Malgré let his ill-fitting smile drop and nodded gravely over his shoulder.

  “Pilot’s gonna need a medic, boys. Looks like a fed, but he’s one of ours.”

  It was only after Malgré’s men pulled Ben out of the cabin and into a waiting car that we finally stepped out of the helicopter. The heavy air, thick with the scent of magnolias, felt the same as it always had, and I was thankful to have the familiar Avenue, where we’d unceremoniously landed, beneath my feet. To be within spitting distance of Mr. Moonie’s Library, which was still sitting regally atop a gently sloping hill, looking the same as always.

  But somehow different.

  Empty.

  Ava must have felt it, too, because she shivered beside me as Mr. Malgré reached his hand to me as if to shake. “Henry,” he’d said, the walkie-talkie in his other hand going haywire as he stepped toward me and then st
opped, fiddling with the dials on his shrieking receiver to no avail.

  “Okay, boss?” the driver of the car had called, leaning out of the window of what finally registered as a black federale sedan. Mr. Malgré nodded absentmindedly and it squealed off into the desolate morning with Ben propped insensibly against the passenger-side window. It was only when Mr. Malgré finally looked up, frowning, from his walkie-talkie that he noticed my glowing hands.

  “We heard you did good over there, son,” he’d said, stepping cautiously back with his own stubby hands safely by his side. The receiver stopped shrieking, and he nodded appreciatively at me, his terrible smile returning. “Now that,” he’d said, gears turning. “We could use—”

  “Mis-ter Mal-grey,” Mom interrupted, stepping in front of me with her arms crossed across her chest. “Status update. How’d you know to expect us, and . . .” she’d said, furrowing her brows as Mr. Malgré chuckled under his terrible breath. “And what’s going on here, anyway?”

  “May-or Long,” he’d said, mimicking Mom as Dad and I held our breath, shocked. “You’re gonna have to get those answers from someone else. There were some changes while you were gone.”

  “Is this your way of telling me, Mister Malgré, that this is one of those ‘out of the frying pan’ situations?” Mom said, keeping her cool as I became increasingly concerned about the federale car that had carted Ben off. Even though Scott Malgré is one of my best friends, Mr. Malgré was never a likeable man, and he seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in keeping us in the dark. I didn’t have to try very hard to imagine him saving his skin by throwing in with the federales.

  My fists flexed just thinking about it, and Malgré’s walkie-talkie shrieked in response.

  “Let’s just say the Green’s a fire you can warm your hands by,” Mr. Malgré had said, not waiting for us to follow as he started walking down the abandoned Avenue, leaving us standing—confounded—beneath the still-spinning blades of our stolen helicopter. “Coming?” he’d called over his shoulder, and then chuckled quietly to himself, his generous frame shaking with the effort.