Tunnels and Planes

by Christina Rozelle

  “How’s Missy?” Logan asks me.

  “Good. She’s napping at the moment.”

  “Awesome.” His eyes dart around at the crowd around me. “How are you?” He drags hard on his cigarette before stuffing it into a full ashtray.

  “I’m okay. My shoulder fucking hurts, and I feel like I’m in OZ, but other than that, I’m good. Can I get one of those?”

  With a nod, he removes a soft pack of Camel non-filters from his pocket, smacking it against his palm to make one pop out from the opening, then he offers it to me.

  “Thanks.” I bite it from the pack, and he lights it for me, and when I inhale the sharp, hot smoke, I get an instant head rush. I close my eyes for a second to relish it, but Logan snaps me out of it with a tap to the arm.

  “Be right back,” he says, then trots off to the far end of the bar to three waiting customers and a waitress. Once he’s served and scanned the customers, they bounce off with their drinks into the crowd. Logan fills the waitresses tray with bottles and glasses, then returns, leaning on the bar.

  Jade clears her throat beside me, then nudges me with her elbow.

  “Oh, Jade, Logan. Logan, Jade. We knew each other from school.”

  The two of them shake hands, and Jade shoots him a flirty grin. “Nice to meet you, papi. Could you get my girl here some House Moonshine? It’s on me.”

  “Sure thing.” He crouches to take a bottle from beneath the counter, then stands and grabs a glass from the hanging racks over his head.

  “Thank you,” I tell Jade. “But . . . what the fuck is House Moonshine?”

  “No worries, girl. You’ll love it, trust me.”

  I shrug. “Let’s try it, then.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “So, how are you?” I ask Logan.

  “All right, I guess.” He pours clear liquid from the frosted bottle into the glass in front of me. “They put me to work a few hours after I got here. And I asked that dude about the van and he said some shit about it being ‘inspected’? What the fuck? I’m starting to get irritated. They better not try and jack our shit.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I lie. Something seems wrong to me, too, but now’s not the time to express those fears.

  “I’m outta here in about an hour.” He kisses my cheek. “Wanna meet me somewhere?”

  “Yeah—where?”

  “Cosmos. The arcade by the tattoo shop.”

  “There’s an arcade? And a tattoo shop?”

  “Yeah! Hey, I gotta get back to work, but I’ll come find you when I get off. Don’t go too far!” And he’s engulfed again by his duties, taking orders, filling glasses, and scanning eyes for payment.

  What a strange world. Strange, but true, apparently.

  “Come on!” Jade tugs at my arm. “Let’s sit for a few and chat. Then, we hit the dancefloor!”

  I follow her over to a white booth, backlit by pink, and when I sit in it, I’m surprised to find the faux leather soft, almost as if they had recently reupholstered it. Why?

  “Drink up, girl,” Jade says. “Let’s let loose. I feel like dancin’.” She nudges me with her elbow. “And soon, you will, too, momma.”

  I glance from her to the glass, and she can read my apprehension.

  “Trust me, girl, it’s good shit. It’ll have ya feelin’ right as rain in less than one glass. Bottoms up, Miss Ophelia.”

  I don’t trust the stuff, but I trust Jade. Probably because it justifies my weakness, my need for oblivion, to shut off this noise inside my head that roars until I douse it. Fight fire with fire—kill a world of darkness by lighting a single match. It’s so easy. Too easy.

  I take the glass and gulp the chilled liquid. Instead of the usual warmth from liquor, it’s cold, though not unpleasant. A cool bath for the raging flames in my mind, and my body. My head stops spinning, my muscles and bones don’t ache and nag, and panic ceases to exist, almost like it never had to begin with.

  Whatever this is, it isn’t liquor—but I drink it anyway. They should make a drinking game out of how many times Grace has zero fucking willpower.

  “What the fuck am I drinking?” I ask Jade. “And just so you know, I go by Grace now.”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s your legal name, right?”

  I nod.

  “Okay, momma, no sweat. I get it. I used to be a Javier, so . . . Change is good.” She winks, giggles. “Grace. I like it; it’s pretty.” With a grin, she taps the glass in front of me. “And that’s House Moonshine, girl—a miracle elixir. It’ll get you feelin’ nice for half the price!” she sings, as if someone were filming her for an infomercial.

  I laugh at her display, but anything made “in house” raises so many red flags, it’s like a red wave of “hell nos.” Nevertheless, I gulp it until there’s nothing left. “You’re not drinking?” I ask her.

  “Nah, I had a couple already. My tummy’s been acting up lately, so I try to take it easy.” She crosses her legs, eyeing the passersby for a moment before refocusing on me. “So, where do you volunteer?”

  “I’m in the dorms. We came in with a little girl, so I’m volunteering there so I can stay with her.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She fiddles with her bangle bracelet for a moment, then heaves a sigh.

  “What?”

  “I just hear it’s sad over there, girl. All those kids. But I’m glad you get to stay with your girl, that’s cool. Maybe you can hang, who knows? You’re a tough chick.” She messes with a loose thread on her white, button-up blouse, before meeting my gaze. “But honestly, Grace—don’t you hate kids?” She chuckles. “I mean, didn’t you, like, used to hate everyone? Everyone but Eve? And me, of course.” She laughs to herself again, unaware of how deep she just cut me. My blood mixes with those I didn’t love enough, who died before I learned how to show them.

  Jade cups a hand over her mouth with a gasp. “I’m so sorry, girl. That was dumb.” She takes my shaky hand. “I shouldn’t have said that, my bad—”

  “No, you’re right. I did. But . . . that’s not who I am anymore.”

  She leans to hug me. “So glad to hear that, muchacha triste. Gives you more reasons to smile that pretty smile of yours.”

  “Yeah . . . yeah, I guess.” It gives me more things to lose, too.

  “So . . . Eve, she—?” Jade gives my hand a squeeze, and her eyes water when I nod. “I’m so sorry, girl.” She crosses herself, then kisses my hand.

  But this isn’t the conversation I want to have while a hot Asian chick is fingering herself across the room in front of me. Really, it’s not a conversation I want to have ever again.

  “I’m tired of being Sad Girl,” I tell her, swigging from the glass in front of me.

  “Well, then we gotta find you more things to be happy about.” She nudges my elbow. “It’s a journey, for sure. Drink up. We can start by dancing our asses off.”

  §

  After slogging down another glass of moonshine, an episode of full-on giggles starts somewhere in my belly, and surges through me. I wave to Logan at the bar as I descend the ramp with Jade, and the music grows louder again. I can’t wipe the stupid smirk off my face, and I’m quite sure this is the happiest I’ve been in my entire life. It’s not ecstasy, but whatever it is, it certainly does the trick. So well, you’d almost believe it was real . . .

  I dance my way to Asyd Rayne, with Jade bobbing her way through the sweaty, grinding bodies behind me. “That’s the smile I was talking about!” Jade yells in my ear, but the music is so loud, I can still barely hear her.

  When I get to the stage, a few feet off the ground, I’m overcome with gratitude that she made it out of the massacre alive. I’ve never talked to her before—though I’ve always wanted to because she’s hot as fuck and I love her music—but I need to now, for different reasons. I need to know what happened that night.


  She looks up from her turntables and there’s a twinkle of recognition, but I might be mistaken. She wouldn’t recognize me, especially now, with the blondish hair. But she holds my gaze for a heated moment before throwing a hand up when the beat drops, the other hand on her headphones.

  Her cropped, white tank shows off a black push-up bra, plump cleavage, and a belly adorned with a sparkling stud. Her jean short cut-offs hug her hips and frame the heart-shaped ass cheeks that peek out from beneath the frayed edges. She flips a long, blonde wave of hair from her face, and once again, she reminds me of Aislynn, and once again, I’m mesmerized by her. Something draws me closer, as always. A mutual love of music? That she’s a creator and supplier of my drug of choice? Not to mention she’s finer than frog hair, which helps . . .

  Lost in Asyd’s beats for what might be hours, Jade slips away, telling me she’ll return, then she brings me more moonshine, which I chug in a matter of seconds. The beautiful world spirals all around me, interweaving with Asyd’s notes, her flowing blonde locks and blue eyes, and everything ugly disappears behind it all.

  “Hey!” Someone says in my ear, and I find Logan sizing up the beauty before us, too. “Come on.” And he guides me through the crowd.

  Jade raises a hand and points at the dancefloor, telling me she’ll be right here when I’m done. I give her a thumbs-up as Logan takes me up the ramp.

  I float on air past the caged, dancing ladies, and I blow one of them a kiss. She shoots me the finger, and I laugh, because it’s not the reaction I was expecting, but fuck it. I feel too good to care.

  We arrive at a stairwell in the back corner of the bar. Shining purple in the blacklight, the wooden stairs creak beneath a fresh coat of white paint. The graffiti-blasted, black walls are a sharp contrast, and the smell of weed drifts down like a curling finger, beckoning us home. A lesbian couple with matching blue Mohawks passes us, arms around each others’ waists. One of them hits a joint, blowing a cloud that we pass through to the top of the stairs. Mmm . . . that smells divine.

  Above the entrance to this “hidden” floor is a sign that reads The Alley in white, hand-painted lettering. Along the hallway are narrow doorways and square windows cut out of Sheetrock, almost like this is a new addition, an afterthought in the grand scheme of this place. On either side of each doorway are windows lined with strings of multicolored LED lights, which makes the unusual place quite inviting and festive. We’ve now entered the roped-off, back room of Christmasland.

  The first doorway has a sign made from a paint can lid, with OM in the center in blue, and the word “tattoos” curved like a green smile beneath it. Beyond it, a semi-clothed female with half of her head shaved lies sprawled on her side, shorts unzipped.

  Hovering over the permanent artwork he’s creating on her belly, is a guy with spiked red hair, black-rimmed glasses, tattoos (of course), and black latex gloves. Pages of artwork and paintings line the walls, and old-school classic rock plays from a tiny CD player. I can’t wait to go back and check it out. I haven’t been this excited about anything in a long time.

  “Can you believe this place?” Logan asks, wide-eyed, and I see he shares in my delight.

  “It’s unbelievable! You say there’s an arcade?”

  “Yeah, right next to Rudy’s. You can’t get into that place without a password and twenty ration points right off the top, but no clue what it is.” He glances around, then leans in closer. “I’ll be damned if I don’t find out, though.”

  Across the hallway and down one door is a foreboding establishment with only a skull-and-crossbones on its “sign.” No words.

  “My buddy at the bar told me about this one,” Logan says in a low voice as we pass. “For just four hundred ration points, you can pay to have yourself euthanized, and incinerated. And right next to the arcade and the tattoo shop.” He points with a laugh. “This is my kinda place.”

  Twelve

  Logan scans himself at the port beside an old-school Pac-Man arcade game. The thing beeps, then the game clicks on and asks how many times he wants to play. 1 play = 1 RP, it reads. Logan types in the number five, then hits the start button with a grin.

  “I have died and gone to fucking heaven,” he says. “I mean, there’s Pac-Man. Not to mention everything else. Holy shit.” He glances up at me from his game. “You look sexy, by the way.” He pulls me to him, but I guess he senses my reluctance, because he shrugs and lets go of me to grip the controllers.

  “Thanks. I think . . .” I lean in closer to him now. “There’s more going on here than we realize, and . . . until I know where we stand, I think it’s best if we—”

  “No problem.” He’s cold, careless.

  “Logan, don’t be like that.”

  “Like what? All I said was no problem, and now you’re tripping. It’s fine. We’re here now, and . . .” He holds my gaze, to emphasize what he’s about to say. “’Lotta fine pieces of ass around, so . . . it’s whatever.” And he goes back to his game. “End of the world, right, baby? Who the fuck wants to be tied down?”

  “I’ll . . . see you later.” And I turn to leave.

  “Tell Missy I said hi.”

  I stop and take a step closer. “By the way, you promised her you’d see her every day and you haven’t been yet—”

  “They put me at the bar the next day! What the fuck, Grace, now you’re guilt-tripping me?” He slams his fist on the machine and spins around, finger aimed at my face like an assault rifle. Behind him, Pac-Man is eaten by a ghost. There goes one RP.

  Logan steps closer, red-faced. “Do you have any fucking clue what it’s been like for the past few weeks with that little girl? Any at all? I don’t need this.” He pivots toward his game again, but I take his wrist in a gentle grasp.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He grinds his jaw for a moment, considering whether he’ll accept my apology, before he gives me a nod, one hand on his game controller. I slide an arm around his waist because I feel what he’s feeling and he needs comfort as much as I do. It takes a few seconds of my embrace before he gives in to it and holds me tightly.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he finally says. “That was a dick thing to say.”

  “No worries.” I kiss the corner of his mouth with a soft peck. “But what do you say about checking out the cinema? Have you done that yet?”

  “Nope, but I want to, yeah. Let’s do it.” He leans forward, surprising me with a quick French kiss. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. I won’t—”

  But I take the back of his muscular neck and press my mouth against his, pushing him against the Pac-Man machine. Take another shot for Grace’s lack of willpower—fuck. But with this magic fairy juice Jade gave me, I’m a lost cause. I feel too good, and Logan’s body is a balm against mine.

  “I’ve got something better than the cinema.” His hot breath teases my ear.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  He nods, and I feel the rocky bulge in his pants. He adjusts himself, then spins me around and leads me forward with one hand around my midsection, placing hungry kisses, tipped with love bites, along the curve of my neck.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask him.

  “You’ll see.”

  §

  There’s an unmarked door, made from two cabinet doors, across the hall from Rudy’s. Logan gives the wood a tap with a knuckle, and a man in black fatigues opens the top half of the set, scanner in hand. “Ten RPs apiece—who’s payin’?” He sports silver reflective sunglasses atop a stubby nose, and a double chin that begins at his cheekbones.

  “I am.” Logan lifts a hand.

  The man ushers him closer and holds the scanner up to his face. With the beep, he swings the door open to let us in. “Room nineteen. You have one hour.”

  “Thanks.” Logan squeezes my hand, and we pass the flabby doorman. But behind the excitement and intrigue, there’s a guilt that makes
each step heavy. Gideon’s face won’t leave my mind. He’s who I want here now, with me, leading me somewhere dark and private. But that’s not an option, and if I close my eyes . . . This is as close as it gets.

  Behind the rows of whitish purple glowing doorways on either side of us, the moans of the living are a symphony compared to the dirges of the dead I’m used to. It activates my core and gets my juices flowing, despite how fucked it all is. I picture Gideon stroking his lovely member over my head, the roof of our waterslide tower honeymoon suite above him. He fingers me with a slow strength and heated hunger that could only come from love.

  I know that now, after being with Logan. This isn’t love; it’s a helpless cry for comfort. I further rationalize it by telling myself I’d be fine if it was Gideon in my shoes, but the fact is, I’d be devastated.

  Still.

  When Logan tugs me into room nineteen, locking the latch behind us, I don’t stop him when he strips me. He helps me out of my boots last, then ejects from his own clothes before guiding me down onto the bed, pushing my legs apart and diving in, tongue first.

  All I can think of is how much better Gideon is at it. The way he takes his time, expects nothing from me in return. My safety and my pleasure were his main concerns; he was so selfless . . .

  Logan climbs up onto the bed as I catch myself thinking about Gideon in past tense, as though he were dead. And when Logan inserts himself inside me and pounds away at parts that don’t belong to him, I turn my head and try not to cry. Maybe that’s why I’m here, now, filling my void with Logan. The man I love is dead to me, and I may never see him again.

  “Goddamn, I love your pussy.” Logan dips down, kisses me, then rolls me over to my side, lifting one leg in the air. He stands beside me and fucks me slow, and deep, and little ripples of pleasure blur my lover’s face in my mind.