by J. C. Geiger
“Right there!” Thomas said, stabbing Saturday, July 13.
“Two weeks,” Griff said.
Thomas inked his familiar Sharpie stick figures, a microphone, faces.
“We’ve got to find them,” Griff said.
“We’ll need at least three days in the desert,” Thomas said. He nodded to the copper SubWatch poles. “And we’ll need those.”
“And Charity,” Griff said.
“Of course,” Thomas said.
“Three days away from home, out of state? Impossible.”
“No,” Thomas said. “If these assholes can put on a giant live show in the most inhospitable place on the planet, I find it increasingly difficult to believe anything is impossible.”
Thomas lifted a bag of chips. Salt and vinegar.
“Oh shit. The S and Vs.”
Thomas reserved salt and vinegar chips for only the most massive undertakings. All-night study sessions, project deadlines. He’d been doing this since seventh grade. Thomas tore open the bag and made the same joke—always.
“Crunch time,” Thomas said. He ate the first chip.
“We’re really doing this?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the greatest mystery of our lives—like, the one thing we’ll remember as we pass into our shitty adulthood and thankless jobs and sad addictions and broken families. Or maybe we die sooner. The nukes drop, or Juan de Fuca finally drowns this town like a mercy killing—but let’s be real. For once—we have the luxury of a real fucking mission. That’s a rare and precious gift. You think Fawcett turned back from the Amazon? You think Shackleton said, oh no—no Antarctic for me—I might get grounded?”
Thomas shook his head, ate chips.
“Okay,” Griff said. “So what’s your plan?”
“I’ve got two.” Thomas chewed on his lip. “The first is possibly illegal and requires the people in our life to be slightly dumber than they actually are.”
“Okay,” Griff said. “How about plan B?”
“Plan B is 100 percent illegal.” He smiled. “And—”
“What?”
“Might scare the rats,” Thomas said. His smile fled. “And we won’t ever come back home.”
FORTY-SIX
“WE’RE GOING ON A THREE-DAY TRIP?” CHARITY ASKED. “HOW can this possibly work?”
“I have no idea,” Griff said.
Charity and Griff returned to the Rat’s Nest three days later. Thomas had virtually disappeared—terse responses to texts. Strange questions coming at 1 AM, 2:30 AM—
HOW MANY HOURS DO YOU STILL NEED FOR THE GAP?
WHEN IS YOUR DAD HOSTING HIS NEXT WORKSHOP?
The last time Thomas had hermetically sealed himself in the Rat’s Nest, he was creating the Early Alert Response System. When he was done, they had to bring two giant black garbage bags to clean up the food, soda cans, chips, and plates. A box fan to clear the smell.
Charity wore a sharp yellow sundress that hung perfectly on her shoulders, made every curve look better. Impossibly out of place in the wood-paneled walls of Thomas Mortimer’s basement. He continued to wonder how long she’d show up in their lives.
“Should we knock?” she asked.
“Come iiiiiiin,” Thomas called.
Griff opened the door.
“Oof,” Charity said. “Boys’ locker room.”
Although Thomas must’ve slept at some point, the smell of rats, pizza pockets, and body odor exceeded what should’ve been possible in several days, with one person.
“Thomas?” Griff called. “You okay? It smells like death in here.”
“Also Pestilence,” Thomas said. “Famine. War. Sorry, sorry.”
He appeared in the doorway. Bloodshot eyes. White tongue.
“Wow,” Charity said.
“You live in your own stink so long you become it,” Thomas said, peering at them. “It becomes you.”’
“It does not become you,” Charity said.
“Congratulations,” Griff said. “You’re a creature.”
Thomas hauled a box fan into the doorway and plugged it in. Propped open the door. He did not say hello. Thomas spoke as if his train of thought wouldn’t stop for the boarding of passengers.
“Packing is critical,” Thomas said. “We have to be very well prepared.”
He crossed the hallway and flung his shirt off, opening the door to a partial bathroom. Toilet in a slab. Drain in the floor.
“Avert your eyes, villagers!” he said. The shower turned on.
“So you assume I’m going?” Charity shouted. She did not seem concerned about the Naked Thomas Situation.
“You’re going,” Thomas called over the water. “So everyone listen up. Death Valley, at 3.3 million acres, is just west of America’s nuclear test wasteland, home to over 10,000 abandoned mines, and has the highest documented temperature on planet Earth at 134 degrees.”
“I can’t conceive of that,” Charity said.
Steam billowed from the bathroom.
“Try just 107 degrees. Heated to that level, the human body experiences irreversible organ failure and death. We will need plenty of water, obviously. Salt tablets. Electrolyte supplements. Mirrors for signaling, in case. Sunblock, bandannas, shemaghs. Counterintuitive, but remember—most of the heat comes directly from the sun. You don’t want it on you. And then, of course, whatever else you’d bring for camp, to throw our parents off the trail.”
The water stopped. Shuffling clothes. “Thomas,” Charity said. “Could you back up? I can’t be gone for three days. Do we really need that much time?”
Thomas emerged wet in a fresh, Sharpied T-shirt and change of jeans. He dropped the bundle of dirty clothes in a black garbage bag and walked directly into the Rat’s Nest to the maps on the pegboard.
“Minimum of three days,” Thomas said. “It’s 765 miles away. Even at top speed, the ThunderChicken will be hard-pressed to chirp its way there in under fourteen hours. Based on Leo’s records, there is likely to be some kind of transmission the evening before, but we can’t get anything until the sun goes down. So—we need to leave Clade City a day before the full moon. As luck would have it, that’s on a Friday.”
He tapped the calendar. He’d drawn more pictures around the date.
“So I tell my mom I need three nights away with a couple boys and some salt tablets?”
“No,” Thomas said, walking to his largest computer monitor. It was tagged with a canning label—LA GRANDOTA. “You can’t possibly come, because you have a major schedule conflict. There is an incredible camp experience happening that very same weekend.”
Thomas woke the screen. There it was. A church, tall stained-glass windows, and a group of bright young women energetically talking in modest pastel dresses. Books and Bibles devotedly clasped to their chests.
“Camp Pilgrim,” Charity read. “A Holy Space for Bright Young Women.”
“Check the log line,” Thomas said.
PIETY. DEITIES. ALL THE FEEL-ITIES.
Thomas clicked on the workshop schedule.
“Is this for real?” Charity asked.
Thomas smiled. “The website is.”
“Oh my god,” she said. She laughed. “Oh. My. God. Thomas—you invented a camp! A giant, big old liars camp to show my mom. That’s about the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done!”
She gave him a hug.
“I also got you a scholarship,” he said.
A printer chugged in the distance. He’d manufactured all the paperwork. Everything she needed to prove she had applied, been accepted, tuition covered. Charity examined the website.
“You missed the H in Christian,” she said. “Also, there’s just one deity.”
“Maybe vet the workshops,” Thomas said, scrolling. Matchsticks for Jesus. The Reluctant Judas. Anatomy of an Apocalyptic Horseman.
“Yeah,” Charity said. “I’ll go ahead and send you some.”
“So you’re into it?” Thomas asked. “You’ll do it?”
She
sighed. “My mom will question everything. She’d ask Saint Peter for ID.”
“That’s why there’s a hotline,” Thomas said, pointing. “Go ahead.”
“I’m still grounded from my phone,” Charity said. Griff handed her his.
“Put it on speaker,” Thomas called, disappearing into their band’s old practice space.
The phone rang. Three times. Four.
“Thomas!” she said. “Who am I calling?”
“Welcome to Camp Pilgrim,” said an older woman with a Minnesota accent.
“Hi,” Charity said. “Um. I was just checking on my enrollment status.”
“Name?” the woman asked.
“Charity Simms.”
“My goodness, Charity Simms!” the strange woman said.
“What is happening?” Charity mouthed.
“She is a chaste young woman,” Thomas said, walking into view. Running the call through voice distortion. Disturbing, watching his lips form the words. “So well-behaved. And celibate as the dead!”
Charity hung up, handed Griff his phone.
“I’m supposed to sell this shit to my mom?” she said.
“We have a pact,” Griff said.
“A pact!” Thomas shouted.
“Okay,” she said. “So how are you two getting out?”
“I’ve got a plan,” Thomas said. “We’ll know by tonight.”
FORTY-SEVEN
THOMAS AND GRIFF WENT TO THE BUNKER. GRIFF HADN’T BEEN TO a meeting in months. It was incredible how little had changed. Same general-store smell, same stackable chairs, same lights that made his eyes ache. Thomas had brought along the largest speakers he could fit in a backpack, projector, bedsheet for a screen.
“The theatrics,” he’d said, “will be important.”
“Movie time,” Scruggs said, drumming fingers on a blue Rubbermaid labeled POPCORN.
“Those are reserves, Scruggs,” Dunbar said.
“I’d put it back,” he said. He wandered, over to his seat.
The men poured themselves whisky in paper cups as Thomas set up the video. Slim and Jonesy stayed as distant as you can in a bunker. The whole thing felt like a mix of dream and memory. Griff kept counting chairs. Missing one.
“As you all know,” Thomas said, “Griff and I have been very excited about the Gap Academy, and have nearly completed our requisite hours for attendance. What we haven’t told you is that we have also applied for an affiliated preview experience, this summer.”
“Is this a new program?” Dunbar asked.
“Very new,” Thomas said. “The newest.”
“What is it?” Jonesy asked.
“A three-day experience, ten days from now. We weren’t going to share this because the odds of acceptance are quite low, but—well. I’ll let the video speak for itself.”
Griff’s dad gave him a curious look.
“Okay,” Thomas said. “Kill the lights.”
“Got it,” Slim said.
The video began.
Black screen. White letters drop with percussive beats.
BEFORE THE END
Heavy drums. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
LET US BEGIN
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
[Camera flare.]
[American flag bandanna.]
[Bootstraps.]
TO TRAIN
Music—hard-rock guitar riffs.
[Person tries to physically pull self up with bootstraps.]
[Servicepeople run tires on obstacle course.]
[Rat threads pencil maze.]
[Slow-motion close-up of a sweaty high five, scattering droplets.]
TO PREPARE
[Person tackled onto wrestling mat, writhes, struggles for help.]
[Guy lift-kicks a gun magazine and it miraculously lands in well of AR-15.]
*CLICK*
[Zip line.]
[Man voluntarily Tased by other man, buckles and screams.]
[Bald eagle snatches up a rat with spliced red-tailed hawk scream.]
FOR THE TIME OF OUR LIVES
Music—wild, driving surf-style drumbeats.
[Pistols up-close ejecting casings and jerking to the beat as they fire in sexy rhythm.]
[Tsunami wave rears.]
[Men, black masks.]
[Tsunami wave curls.]
[Something spins inside a tornado rising from the sea. Shark?]
[Rapid gunfire.]
[Closing montage: Guns, flags, deer, trucks, six-packs, bald white men, bald white-headed eagle, then a rapid-fire reel of American flags, strobing on-screen to the sound of semiautomatic gunfire. Flags billowing, tattered, brand-new, being folded, at rest, hoisted, half-mast, flag swelling large enough to dwarf a town, the moon, wrapping the whole globe like a Christmas present.]
Off-camera scream: “Red, white, and blue, baby!”
Off-camera scream: “That’s how we do!”
[Eagle feeding the regurgitated rat to raw, pink-headed baby eagles.]
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
FRIENDS OF GAP ACADEMY PRESENT: CAMP LONGSHOT
THE SUMMER SESSIONS
Silence.
Griff’s face burned.
“And you boys got in?” Dunbar asked.
“Full scholarships,” Thomas said, producing the paperwork.
Dunbar started clapping. They were all clapping. Griff flinched at the pat on the back. His father. Kept patting him, like burping a baby. Thomas shared the website, the forms, explained the organization. There was a number to call.
“Looks awesome,” Slim said from across the room. “Congratulations.”
When Griff and his dad got home, the greeting-card racks were still tipped over.
It had been days.
Their life now flowed around the racks the way a river diverts around boulders. A new tributary around the brown chair, past the couch. The same way their eyes flowed around the wine stain beneath the kitchen table and Leo’s unmade bed.
Griff closed his door and sat on his own mattress.
The deception was still so fresh. Atmospheric. Solidifying by the second.
A knock on Griff’s door. He jolted.
“It’s Dad.”
He came into the room. His eyes gracefully flowed around the wreckage and just found him—Griff. His dad entered with a wild rush of energy. When had he last been so excited? For a moment, he resembled the untroubled stranger in family photos hung in the hallway—the man kissing Griff’s mother, wearing his hat of red-feathered fishing lures, holding baby boys who’d since grown and evaporated.
This man sat on the side of Griff’s bed. Creak.
“—just incredible to see how quickly this all came together—”
He tapped Griff’s knee as he talked. Looked right at him. Not his ear, not his drink. Griff went back in time with him becoming a shy second grader kicking the carpet. His father’s smile went crooked. A little sad.
“Why didn’t you tell me, kiddo?”
His father hugged him.
His dad was stronger than Griff remembered. Or maybe they hadn’t really touched in a long time. A long hug. Long enough to sting the eyes and unravel a stir of memories like a rush of feeling without images, the reservoir of a thousand shared meals, pushed on swings, hiked with, held and rocked and laughed and played with and the lighthouse winked through the window and—WHOOMP—
Griff shook.
Leo, who got tired of losing. Who worked harder and smarter and faster. Who had Dad’s jacket, the keys to Dad’s truck—it was all right here. Before the Theory of Everything, before music and maps and Charity Simms—their very first contest, the first treasure hunt.
When his dad held him, he felt like the Most Important Kid in the World.
FORTY-EIGHT
CHARITY COULD GO.
After two calls to the Christian Academy Call Center and Oscar-worthy performances from Thomas Mortimer, Charity was granted clearance for takeoff. The plan had worked.
Two words, little jolts in his mind:
/> Overnight. Together.
It made him wobbly.
It was July 11. Eighteen hours until launch. Griff, Thomas, and Charity met at the Rat’s Nest to account for the orbital thrust of the ThunderChicken’s rocket boosters and discuss potential galactic complications. Triple-check the equipment. A moonshot was tricky. Full of careful, orbital calculations. They had to be safe.
Thomas even scanned them with his Bug Detector.
“Your backpack’s hot,” Thomas said.
“My phone’s in there,” Griff said.
“Okay,” Thomas said. “What are we forgetting?”
He was chewing on a pen cap. So abused, it looked like blue bubble gum.
Packing list:
Copper poles. Mercator grids for radio triangulation. Flares and cones and jumper cables; defibrillator, spare battery, lithium ion charger/jumper, salt tablets, water purification system, generator, air compressor, electrolyte supplements, 20-ton bottle jack, fix-a-flat kit, full medical first aid system, night goggles, Bug Detector, gorp, oatmeal, jerky. Headphones. Borrowed surveillance drone. Dancing shoes.
Judiciously chosen glow sticks.
Thomas would pack everything in the ThunderChicken that night.
“Is that everything?” Charity asked.
“Well,” Thomas said, looking sly.
“What?” Griff and Charity both said.
“Don’t be nervous,” Thomas said. “Just a few more things to share.”
“I’m nervous,” Charity said.
Thomas walked them back to the rear workshop, dashing aside a blue tarp like a theater curtain. On a workbench, three objects. Each covered with a black utility blanket.
“Oh my,” Charity said.
“First,” Thomas said, “a little something for the music.”
Thomas removed the first blanket. An object the size of a desktop globe. Its pearled surface held the light like an open clamshell.
“Wow,” Charity said.
Her voice lanced through the object in a hot, white streak.
“Was that me?”