The Great Big One

by J. C. Geiger

  Two topless, splatter-painted girls smiled at him. One had a brush dripping green paint.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” the other girl said.

  Incredible breasts, really stunning, and smiles and hair falling along their shoulders—geez, what just happened? It was as if the entire landscape conspired to pull him off-mission. He smiled but his tongue couldn’t lift a single good morning and then he was running and somehow the Paths had gotten between him and the piano. The buggies must’ve turned off, or gone down a ramp, so much activity boiling on the horizon he couldn’t see anymore and there, across the way—a pink cowboy hat!

  “Thomas!” Griff shouted.

  Him, with a crew. Building something. Long steel poles and stretched fabric. To reach him, Griff would have to climb down into the Paths and back up to the plateau.

  He climbed the long ladder down.

  Focus, he told himself.

  Like a city street on market day. High walls packed in the energy and made it hum. Hammering in booths, unfurling banners, flags, hauling, everyone hauling in wheelbarrows and buckets and stacks, piles, heaps, cloth, dirt, mulch, tools, fans, banners, paint, and a great steaming carafe of coffee being pumped by a pink Elvis. A stoneware mug with BORN TO RUN pressed into his hand—yes, thank you!—everywhere this great, quivering energy of YES!

  Griff tucked into a spot of shade beneath a lofted, curtained space—damn good coffee.

  “Holy shit,” he said. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Roasty, hint of caramel.

  He stood in the shade and drank his coffee and watched the singing, dancing human parade because it was the most important thing he could be doing in his life. Then—other needs. He took on the universal look of urgent confusion and was led by a woman with green hair and a peacock feather to a shaded little hut with a squat silver device that flushed with a rumble and fire—incineration, imagine that—and not the loveliest smell but then a purple sink and foamy soap dispenser and his hands smelled like peppermint oil and back into the sun, 5 degrees hotter. Had to find Thomas but—

  —cinnamon and frosting?

  Starving. Must eat. Griff chased breakfast down a line of happy chewing, fine-smelling people to a woman in a rainbow coat with a vendor box full of cinnamon rolls. Each big as a fist and dripping with goodness. My god!

  “How much?—just give me a smile you wonderful creature!”

  A smile! For this cinnamon-and-frosting heaven—and where did he put that coffee? Found it! Still hot of course and that plus a cinnamon roll in the desert was surely a miracle! But—Thomas, Thomas, focus!

  Griff took a steaming, gooey bite—so much cinnamon it crunched a little, almost spicy and life improved as he turned back into the crowd, trying to find the right ladder.

  A girl with hair full of ribbons shouted and flung past him into a crowd of five others, all screaming, clutching one another like lifeboats, and it was happening everywhere—airport hellos—screams of greeting and joy popping off like firecrackers and always singing, because the songbooks were embedded in the landscape—lyrics bright, hand-painted on earthen walls in slim calligraphy, etched into wood. One song took hold, then another, endless:

  We see the sun with different eyes

  Want to hear it like you saw it, want to taste it on the breeze

  Songs held the whole thing together. Music made pulleys lift, paint splatter, bodies move—and there he was! Thomas! Griff found a painted green-and-yellow bin—LOVE ’EM & LEAVE ’EM—and dropped his dishes in clattering—now buzzing from sugar, frosting, and caffeine, he had an alarming smile stretched across his face. So foreign-feeling he actually raised his finger to touch it and a squat man stood staring at him.

  Strong, with close-cut hair. A number 1.

  Griff froze, a familiar prickling. The man would ask him what he was smiling about, what he thought he was looking at. Might shove him backward. The man said:

  “You have kind eyes.”

  A sweet, long hug.

  “Want to get tea?” he asked.

  Griff sure did. Sounded great but—no, really, thank you so much—he had to reach Thomas. Had to just get. Up. This. Ladder.

  “Thomas!”

  Thomas’s crew had expanded, standing in an assemblage of reflective fabric, rope, tent poles.

  Set the clips, right there. Yep—

  “Hey, K.T.,” someone shouted. “Are we ready?”

  K.T.?

  “Let’s put this together, people!” Thomas said.

  The team crawled out from beneath the material. Poles clicked together and it took shape, pulling taut, expanding in height—maybe 10 feet tall. Dozens of facets. Like the EARS sensor Thomas had built, but twenty times bigger.

  “Griff!” he said, finally spotting him. “Great to see you!”

  “When did you build this?”

  “I had a lot of time in July,” he said. “Okay, now. Hoist!”

  Two guys scaled the rock, free-climbing. They had muscles like knotted shipping rope, crimping, shoving their hands like trowels into tiny mouths in the stone. Thomas fumbled a knot on the metal housing at the sculpture’s crown.

  “Hey, Griff,” Thomas said. “Give it a shot? You’re good with your hands.”

  Griff worked his fingers into the knot. Complex, because of the housing and slip of the rope through sweaty hands, and there was a dull, electric pounding between his temples now that made it hard to focus.

  “The Band plays right through there,” Thomas said. He pointed to a wide fissure in the rock wall. “This is a prime spot. I can’t believe they’re letting me hang it.”

  Griff finally secured the line. Thomas tossed one end to a climber. Then, magically, his sculpture lifted like a giant chandelier into the top of the stone entryway.

  “I give you,” Thomas said, “the Eternal Encore.”

  Thomas clapped three times. Light flashed across the facets. A white-hot glowing miracle. Even in the sun, Griff could see traces of color—green, lemon yellow, blazing-hot red. The louder the crew screamed, the brighter it became! An incredible green shimmer and Griff remembered what he wanted to tell Thomas.

  “Thomas,” Griff said.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “I meant to tell you something last night. About the transmitter. I think Jonesy put it on my backpack.”

  “What?” Thomas asked, distracted.

  A pair brought in congas, to see the light they’d make. Red and orange. People collecting in a great, dancing swirl. Thomas danced and then—c’mon, Griff—he danced too. Shouted, but now the soft electric hammer between his temples was a small train, a thing with density, and he was still shouting and dancing when he suddenly felt made of water, like a tall glass tipping backward, falling down the stairs—

  The Earth jerked, tilted to the side and—

  Okay, brother?

  Easy to forget the heat, the crush of heat, but he was fine, fine—

  Let’s rest, brother. We’ll get you to Shady Lane.

  Do we need to call an OMG—no, just his first day, just bring him down—

  They helped Griff down the ladder, into the Paths. Led him to a thatch-hooded avenue of shade. Lean-tos. Tents. They pushed aside hanging blue draperies, entered a dark structure with fans spinning out mist. An open cot. He lay down. Above him, a sign laced with white lights.

  REMEMBER: YOU ARE MADE OF WATER

  “Take this,” Thomas said, handing him a silver bottle.

  He drank. Water sat in his stomach, an unmoving puddle.

  “Eat,” Thomas said, handing him a sticky, tan-colored bar.

  “I’m fine,” Griff said. “Did you hear what I said, about Jonesy?”

  “Just rest,” Thomas said. “Get something in your stomach.”

  K.T., a girl was saying. Her voice choppy in the fan blades.

  “Yes, yes—” Thomas said.

  Thomas was gone again. Griff tried to sit with a head full of cement. He lay down and let his eyes flutter, listening to the
fan. White noise, softer than the radio. All frequencies of sound. A million voices at once. And the voices came together on—

  Griff-griff-griff-griff-griff—

  “Griff.”

  He stared at the fan.

  “Griff!”

  “Yeah? Yeah?” His head, wobbly.

  A man in a shemagh entered the tent. Military facial covering.

  They’d come for him. He knew that walk anywhere. Jonesy. They’d take him away—Griff bolted up and the man unwrapped his facial covering. Malachi.

  “Oh my god,” Griff said. “I thought I was getting abducted.”

  “Sorry, brother,” Malachi said. “K.T. told me to find you here.”

  “K.T.?”

  “Kissing Thomas,” Malachi said. “Take it easy. Eat the bar and we’ll go for a walk.”

  “Where?”

  Malachi’s eyes slipped off to the side.

  “We’ve got a visitor,” Malachi said. “I think someone’s looking for you.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  IN THE HEAT, A TWENTY-MINUTE WALK TOOK FORTY-FIVE.

  The sun wrapped every inch of bare skin like hot cellophane. Hair curling. Smelled like toast. There were three patches of shade on the way, and they stopped at all of them. Breathing in the deep blue spaces. Drinking cool air.

  “That sun can add 40 degrees,” Malachi said. “Let’s be wise.”

  At the mountain’s edge, bouldering left them breathless. Scree, slippery. Griff turned his body into a machine. Move, he demanded of his legs. Keep moving. They paused partway. Griff leaned against the silver sandstone and heard his flesh sizzle. He dribbled water on the burn.

  “Don’t waste water,” Malachi said.

  Near the top, a crack in the mountain’s flank gaped like a half smile. A decorative silver fish had been painted near the opening. Bright eyes. Sad lips.

  “The Snookout,” Malachi said. “This is where I nailed your drone.”

  They pressed into the cool wash of shade. He could breathe. In the deepest pit of shadow, a cache of equipment. Malachi cleared a space for Griff to sit, and the two of them tucked into the viewing area.

  “Pretty sweet,” Griff said.

  “Yes it is. Want a look?” Malachi asked, offering the binoculars.

  “Got my own,” Griff said. He took out his monocular.

  “You military?” Malachi asked.

  “Prepper,” Griff said.

  “What’s a prepper?”

  “Like a Doomsday Boy Scout,” Griff said.

  “Ah, doomsday preppers,” Malachi said. “Wow. Never met one in the wild. Take a gander. This is what’s got Simon worried.”

  The car was immediately obvious. Regardless of its markings, it moved the way every cop drives everywhere. Like a breezy little shark with the biggest teeth in the ocean. Griff turned the dial, crisping up his focus. No sticker on the front bumper. Not a car from Clade City.

  “Prepper, huh?” Malachi said. “What finally gets us, you think? Nuclear attack? Bigger, badder pandemic? Natural disaster?”

  “Hopefully not this asshole,” Griff said.

  “Shoot,” Malachi laughed. “He’s getting close. See those shrubs? That’s our access road. We don’t want him there.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Well. I got the jammer from yesterday. And the Imp Cannon.”

  “What?”

  “Electromagnetic pulse,” he said. “Everything out here gets a new name.”

  From the elevated position, Griff could just make out the white trail snaking through shrubs around a shoulder of stone. Malachi took out the device. Telescoping pieces and two battery packs. He had quick, practiced hands. On the barrel’s tip, someone had affixed little felt ears. Hand-painted: IMP CANNON.

  “Do you know how to work it?” Griff asked.

  “I do,” Malachi said. “But that’s an officer of the law. I’ll go ahead and let you do the honors, Captain Tripp. Not going to stop him unless he’s a robot.”

  “It might stop the car,” Griff said.

  Maybe, this far from civilization, it would be enough to scare him off. The police car stopped a moment. Griff adjusted his monocular. The officer was pulling out a pair of binoculars, twin glasses flashing.

  “Down,” Griff said.

  They ducked into the dark, breathing hard. A soft rumble in the air. The squad car was moving again. Griff adjusted his grip on the EMP. Braced it against his shoulder.

  “Is it warmed up?” he asked.

  “Not quite.” Malachi tapped Griff’s paracord. He flinched. “What’s that?”

  “Nylon paracord. A prepper thing.”

  “You play piano, right?”

  “Yeah,” Griff said. “I actually saw one earlier today. I’d love to find it.”

  Malachi raised his eyebrows.

  “The piano?” Malachi said. “Talk about scary.”

  “What?”

  “You’re armed.”

  The battery pack felt warm against his burn. Griff reminded himself the EMP would not hurt the officer. Just a pause button. Buy a little time. Griff squinted the monocular into his left eye. The car beetled along. Griff led his target by a few yards and pressed the button. Zwoop, like an old arcade game, vaporizing an alien.

  The car shuddered, stopped.

  “Oh dang! That’s the business right there,” Malachi said. “Ha!”

  High five, and the car grunted.

  NNnnnn Nnnnnn

  The door banged open. The officer was wiry, broad shoulders. He looked around. Took his phone out. Shook his phone. Threw his phone in the sand.

  “Oooo he’s pissed,” Malachi said. “You know that guy?”

  “No,” Griff said. “Thank god.”

  The officer tried his car again. Malachi and Griff slipped down into the shadows, giggling. It felt fun. Like they’d just toilet-papered a house together.

  Eventually, the car’s engine fired. A roaring sound.

  The cruiser only got a few miles away. Stopped again. A small blot in the landscape.

  “Car trouble, Officer?” Malachi said.

  “I hope he can get out okay,” Griff said.

  “I’ll radio Simon,” Malachi said. “He’ll send someone to check on him.”

  “What time’s the show tonight?” Griff asked.

  “After sundown,” Malachi said.

  Malachi put the call into Simon, who told them to stay put and out of sight. They waited another hour. Using Malachi’s Bug Detector, they got only one ping. A drone, 3 miles away.

  “See?” he said. “Too sensitive for its own good.”

  They stayed in the shade, talking music, survival gear, discussing the potential fate of the officer, debating tonight’s playlist.

  “They’ll never play that one,” Malachi said. “You’re dreaming.”

  “Damn. Can you tell me what the shows are like?” Griff asked.

  “Your first night,” he said. “You’ve got to see for yourself.”

  The alarm cheeped and Malachi grinned.

  “Five fifteen. Quittin’ time!”

  Slipping out of the cavern, Griff anticipated the slap of sunlight, but shadows of the narrow enclosure stretched like gray taffy. The sky had grown hazy and dimmed to slate.

  “That’s a relief,” Griff said, looking through his monocular. “The cop’s gone.”

  “Hmmm,” Malachi said. “Never seen that before.”

  “Clouds?” Griff asked.

  “No,” he said. “That.”

  On top of Simon’s tower, the light was blinking blue.

  SIXTY-SIX

  IN THE PATHS, FINDING FRIENDS WAS LIKE CATCHING A SONG.

  Without phones or reliable plans, you listen to the crowd’s white-noise buzz, adjust focus like a radio dial. Griff twisted hard at a pizza place called the Boondoggle, right at a counter labeled Liquid Sunshine. Closer. He could almost feel her. Then her heard his own name in the noise:

  “Griff!”

  Charity.


  She tore loose from the group and came barreling into him like they’d been shipwrecked—lost for generations. He spun her three full times. Could spin her forever. She tucked herself against his neck. Her lips brushed his ear.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “Shhhh-curity,” Malachi said. He popped his collar. “We’re classy-fied.”

  “What about you?” Griff asked.

  “Keeping the water flowing,” Charity said. She turned her palm to the sky. “Which may not be a problem.”

  The group caught up, clustered around them.

  “Is it actually going to rain?” Griff asked.

  “Fifty-fifty,” Thomas said. “Let’s flip a coin.”

  “Let’s not,” Griff said. “You brought the rat?”

  “Neapolitan wanted a night out!” Thomas said, lifting the carrier. “Everyone loves a guy with a pet.”

  “Rat pets?” Charity said.

  “There are some straight-up weirdos out here, Charity,” Thomas said. “Just like me.”

  He put on the mirrored sunglasses, and they walked.

  Lights blazed in booths and lean-tos. The show-night party mood was revving up with drinks and hoots and laughter. Charity held his arm, his whole arm, miraculous to have her holding a whole arm—

  “How long are you all going to stay?” Stitch asked.

  “Forever,” Thomas said.

  Griff looked at Thomas. Was he serious? Griff assumed they’d head back sometime tomorrow after the show. But this was Thomas. He had the car. And where would they head back to?

  They rounded a wide corner. Lanterns gilded the sunken avenues in amber. A guitar and a fiddle tuned up in a wooden loft above. In front of them, a man stopped his bicycle. He was towing a small coffin. Inside the coffin, a stand-up bass. A person wearing bunny ears and a rodent mask stopped to help him. Everywhere, suddenly, people were wearing masks.

  “How long do you want to stay?” Griff whispered to Charity.

  “At least until the show,” Charity said. “And the lagoon.”