But I still don’t have what I need most.
Water.
I hike all the way back to Level 6. I’m tempted to just crash and chow down on the beef jerky, but I know it will make me thirstier. From here I can see the Volvo. Everything looks okay, so I keep on marching up to Level 7. I haven’t searched any of those cars, plus I remember some kind of cleaning van that might have something useful. So far no sign of Richie. Today is turning out to be my lucky day.
There’s a bad memory on Level 7—at the place behind the truck where Richie killed the woman who wore the sandals. I didn’t see her face then, but I remember her from the first day. I think about her two kids. Even though I shouldn’t, I walk to the wall and look over the edge. It’s so far down it makes me dizzy. This is the last thing she saw. If it weren’t for me being so stupid, she might still be alive. At least she didn’t hit the ground. Maybe that’s a good thing. I see the sign for Jake’s Java Joint. It’s green, just like Richie said.
The cars aren’t much help. Richie and Hacker really did a number up here. It’s just like all the others—a crumb here, a crust there. All pretty much empty. I find a piece of rock-hard gum chewed up and wadded into a tissue. I try chewing it but can’t work up the saliva, so I stuff it in my pocket. The truck I hid under has a silver thermos on the seat. I wonder how Richie missed that one. I shake it. There’s something wet inside! When I finally open the top the stink is so bad I almost throw up. I figure they left it there on purpose, hoping I’d be so desperate I’d drink it, puke my guts out, and die.
My last hope is the van. It has Wave Rider Carpet Cleaning painted on the side door in big red and black letters that form a circle. Inside the circle is a cartoon of a carpet-cleaning guy on a surfboard saying “Ride the Wave and Save!” The door is hanging open by a crack. I slide it open all the way and climb inside. My heart sinks. There are three carpet-cleaning machines, lots of hoses and cords tossed around, two big orange buckets, and some blue jugs that say either Spotter or Cleaning Solution. I open one of the jugs, take a sniff—it’s worse than the thermos. My eyes start watering, which I think is because of the smell, but once my shoulders start shaking and my legs go wobbly, I know what’s going on. I’m crying. I sit down between the cords and brushes and orange buckets and let it happen. It’s the first time in a long time.
After a while I’m done. Really done.
I’m a total failure. All these cars and I can’t find anything to drink. I don’t want to go into the hotel, but now it looks like it’s my only choice. I stand up, step out of the van, start walking. I’m thinking about Mom and how after a fight with Zack she once told me, “The juice isn’t worth the squeeze.” I didn’t know what she meant then, but I do now. All this work—is it worth it? Just to end up alone, sleeping in trunks that make my hair stink like spare tires and motor oil? Maybe if I go into the hotel I could be sleeping in a real bed. Maybe Mom is in there and Richie isn’t letting her out. There’s a thought, but I doubt it. And who is this Mr. Hendricks? Why do Richie and Hacker seem so afraid of him?
I kick at a piece of glass, miss—and stop. Thinking of Mom reminded me of something. One time she rented a carpet shampooer. I read the directions to her from the manual while she filled the machine. I remember that it had two containers, or “reservoirs,” one for shampoo and one for clean water. Maybe the machines in the van work the same way.
I run back to look. Two of the machines are empty, but the third one has a reservoir with some clear liquid. I yank the hose off the reservoir and smell inside. Not great, not awful. I put a finger in and taste. Water! Warm, wonderful water. I manage to fill two water bottles and half of another.
After guzzling the half bottle, I rip open the package of jerky and wolf down a huge peppery chunk. My mouth burns, but it tastes as good as a T-bone steak. I wash it down with a huge glug of warm, delicious water. I could eat the whole package right now, but I don’t. Cassie is waiting back at home and I need to share. I need to make it last. I poke my head out of the van, make sure Richie isn’t around, then take off for Level 6. On the way down I keep thinking about Cassie licking water out of my hand.
Something is wrong. I stop and peek around a concrete pillar at the Volvo, which is at the opposite end of the garage. For one thing, the trunk lid is higher than I left it. And the side-view mirror by the driver’s door wasn’t broken and hanging by a wire. The garbage can by the green door looks the same. No one is around that I see, and I don’t hear anyone hacking up a lung, but I don’t take any chances. I crouch behind the pillar and watch. And wait.
It’s dark now except for a pale silvery light from a rising moon. The air is cold and a wind’s coming up. My body is stiff from sitting on the pavement and my teeth are chattering. I need to get back to Cassie and make sure she’s okay. I can’t wait any longer. It’s time to crawl into my warm sleeping bag and eat some dinner. I like the sound of that—dinner. Wherever Richie is, he’s not here.
I move low in the shadows, hiding behind every second or third car. There’s no sound except my breathing and a loud crunch once when I step on a big piece of glass. It takes a while, but I reach the Volvo. I open the rear door—and scream.
I can’t help myself. I bury my head in my sleeve and hope that it muffles the sound that pours from me like liquid pain. The seats are slashed; the stuffing is pulled out and spread around. I dive into the trunk, my hands reaching out like wild things in the dark. The sleeping bag is gone. My notebook is ripped up, the pages in ragged pieces.
And Cassie—Cassie is gone.
There’s a note on the dashboard. I can barely read it in the moonlight through my tears:
Dear Parking Garage Pirate—
You have something that belongs to me. Bring the gun and we’ll make a trade. Knock on the door on level 1 and ask for me. You know who I am. XOXO, R. PS: Guess what I’ve got. Meow! Meow!
DAY 16: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Filter Face
Again, the screeching. It’s beginning to feel like a fire drill—with one major difference. In the old days, say, like two weeks ago, you’d go outside in a fire drill. Now, it’s go outside and you’re POD meat. Of course this fire drill is in the middle of the night, or maybe early morning—without a watch, who knows? So I have no clue what’s going on. There was a full moon last night, but there must be heavy-duty clouds because it’s like someone tossed a blanket over the house. Occasionally I see a kind of flash, low, like a camera close to the ground. We’ll just have to wait and see what the POD commander has in store for us today. I can hardly wait.
We know the answer as soon as the sun comes up. Fog. And not your usual run-of-the-mill, can’-t-see-the-house-next-door fog. It’s some weird alien thing that’s scary as hell. It’s so thick we can’t see past the windows. Dad and I stand in front of the patio door, watching it curl and coil within itself, throbbing with flashes of internal light, moving like it’s alive. For some strange reason Dutch wants to go outside. Like I’m going to let that happen.
Dad says not to move, he’ll be right back. I stare at the freak show and wonder, What the hell? What could possibly be next? No water. No power. No cars. And now we can’t see out the windows? Then I think—no more texting with Amanda. I’m ready to punch my fist through the door when a muffled voice says, “Pood thith on.”
Dad’s wearing an air filter, the kind he uses when he’s painting the house or working in the garage turning perfectly good wood into sawdust. He hands me one of the same.
“Why?” I say.
“Just do it.”
“Not until you tell me why.”
“Because maybe it’s not fog.”
“Yeah?”
He sighs through the mask.
“Maybe it’s … maybe it’s a nerve agent.”
My heart kicks into turbo. “You mean a gas? Like they’re gassing us?”
“It’s a possibility.”
I grab the filter, slide it over my nose and mouth, stretch the elastic band around
my head.
He says, “You feeling any numbness in your fingers or toes?”
“No. You?”
“Not yet. Do you see any blood coming out of my ears?” He shows me one ear, then the other.
“No.”
He examines me. “Nothing yet.” He takes off his glasses and says, “See any blood dripping from my eyes?”
“No! Jesus, Dad! Are you crazy?”
He says, “One of the first signs of nerve gas is blood leaking out of body orifices.”
“Well, if you’re trying to scare me, mission freaking accomplished!”
That shuts him up. We stand there looking out at the swirling gray, two housebound humans with cheesy face filters you can buy at Walmart for a buck twenty-five. If this is really nerve gas, then what we really need is a freaking spacesuit. And that makes me think: If these pathetic things actually work, then the PODs screwed this one up big-time.
Dutch presses his nose to the glass. He lets out a long, sad whimper. I haven’t seen him like this in a long time. He really wants to go out there. I wonder if Dad has a filter for him.
A small bird lands on the back of a patio chair. It’s only two feet from where we’re standing, a smudge of brown in a sea of gray. Three blinks later and it flies off.
“I guess it’s not bird agent,” I say.
Dad says, “Maybe it’s human-specific. They’re obviously leaving animals alone.”
I point to Dutch. “So you think we can let him outside in that stuff?”
“Why?”
“You want him to take a whiz on your foot?”
“That would mean opening the door.”
“Dad, what have we got to lose?” His eyes narrow above the mask. “I mean, if this is a human-specific nerve agent, we’re going to die soon enough anyway. We might as well save Dutch the embarrassment of peeing on the carpet.”
“All right,” Dad says in a surprise move. “But do it quick and hold your breath.”
“Should I get the rope?” These days we don’t let Dutch outside unless he’s tied to a long rope. That way he won’t wander off.
“No,” he says. “We wouldn’t be able to seal the door.”
“Good point.”
I wrap my fingers around the handle, undo the latch. Dutch perks his ears, stands up, and wags his tail. He thinks we’re going for a walk. Yeah, right. I count to three and open the door just wide enough for a fat old Lab to waddle through.
Two things happen.
The first thing is that Dutch is literally swallowed by the fog. It closes in around him and turns a darker shade of gray. Next there are all these small bursts of electricity that move up and then down his body, like he’s being scanned.
It’s over in ten seconds. Dutch is oblivious. He disappears into the gray.
Dad and I look at each other. Suddenly my eyes roll back into my head. I clutch at my throat and collapse to the floor. I rip off my filter and gasp for air, kicking my legs like I’m in one giant spasmodic convulsion of death.
Dad kneels beside me, his hands pressing down on my shoulders screaming, “Josh! Josh! Take it easy! Relax! Try to breathe! Oh, Jesus!”
There’s so much pain—so much pain in his voice that I have to stop. He has a pacemaker with a dead battery. I shouldn’t be doing this to him. I sit up and say, “I’m just messin’ with you, Dad. I’m fine.”
He tears the mask off his face. I swear the look he gives me could melt lead. For a second I think he’s going to actually haul off and hit me. Then, out of nowhere, he smiles. The smile turns into a laugh. Then I’m laughing with him. Tears are streaming down my face, I’m laughing so hard. It’s crazy like that for a while, the two of us on the floor busting a gut. Then, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, it’s over. We stand up.
Dad says, “Thanks, I needed that.”
“Not a problem,” I say.
“But don’t ever do it again.”
“Okay, but you scared the crap out of me first.”
Dutch materializes out of the gray. He scratches at the door. I smile, knowing there’s a steaming yard biscuit out there somewhere waiting for the POD commander’s foot.
I open the door to let Dutch inside. For some reason he just sits there. The fog crawls up to the opening. Dad yells at me to close the door. Thin gray fingers curl around the jamb, then retreat. Without thinking I reach into the gray and grab Dutch’s collar. The fog is on me. My arm starts to tingle. Dad screams, “Let go! Let go!” But I won’t. I lock fingers around the leather strap. My hand is starting to disappear. Darkness clouds my eyes; then a split-second blinding flash explodes like a flare in my head. I pull one more time. Dutch gets up and walks inside.
Dad slams the door and locks it. “Are you okay?” he asks. He’s looking at me like I just missed getting hit by a train.
I’m shaking. I look at my hand. Thankfully it’s all there. A tingling sensation is moving up and down my arm, although it’s fading fast. And the flash—that was freaky. But what would telling him accomplish, other than getting his panties in a bunch?
“I’m fine,” I say, showing him my hand. “All five fingers, good as new.”
He studies me. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“What were you thinking?”
I shrug. “It seemed like the thing to do.”
The air has a strange smell, kind of orange and earthy. I take a whiff of my arm. The smell is there, weak but definitely there. I bend down and sniff Dutch. He’s covered with it. Maybe this is the smell of the planet POD. A shiver sweeps over me.
Dad says, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Other than feeling a strange desire to eat your liver, I’m fine.”
He frowns. “All right, then. I’m going to make some breakfast. But no liver for you.”
Dad walks into the kitchen. I peer out at the fog one more time. The sun is coming up, which brightens the stuff a shade or two. But it’s still just as thick. The way it boils reminds me of tear gas I see in action movies, just before SWAT guys in battle gear storm the bus.
That gives me an idea I’d rather not have. Maybe it’s time to storm the bus.
I head for the dining room, my arm still tingling.
DAY 16: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
The Pirate Makes a Plan
How could I be so stupid?
I stare at the note, as if by concentrating hard on the letters I can find Richie and stab a hole in his evil heart. I have something you want. Just the thought of him taking Cassie makes my blood boil. I need to get her back. Now that the sun is finally up I can do something about it.
Last night was spent under a truck on Level 4. No way was I going to sleep in the Volvo. I went down to Level 2 and fetched the horse blanket out of the drug dealer’s car. Then I found this spot and tried to sleep, which was so not possible. It was the longest night of my life. The horse blanket isn’t as warm as my sleeping bag, and it smells worse. I found some extra clothes and tried piling them on top of me, but they fell off every time I moved. No matter what I did, the cold seemed to find me. When I finally drifted off for a minute, the terrible screeching sound came. There was no way I could fall asleep after that, so I just shivered in the dark and thought about what I need to do and how I’m going to do it.
I crawl out from under the truck. My body aches from all the cold in my bones. I take a deep breath and look out at the new day. The air has a weird smell I can’t quite figure out, like a mix between flowers and dirt. Better than gas and radiator fluid, that’s for sure. There’s a cold fog outside with a strange color, gray with smudges of yellowish blue. It’s so thick I can’t see the spaceballs, which is fine by me. In a way it’s kind of fun to watch, how it moves and swirls just outside the walls of the garage without coming in. Maybe it’s alien fog, or maybe it’s just the way things are in a city that doesn’t breathe anymore. There’s a broom in the bed of the truck. I try an experiment. I stick the broom handle out into the fog. Right away the swirls wrap around
it; then electricity flows up and down the handle like mini–lightning bolts. It freaks me out, so I drop the broom. The swirls follow it down. I hear it land, but I don’t see where. Experiment over—definitely alien fog. But whatever the spaceballs are up to, I’m not going to waste time thinking about it.
They have their to-do list and I have mine.
First things first—get the gun. I sneak up to Level 6 and scope out the garbage can for a long time. After ninety-six minutes I’m pretty sure Richie isn’t around. I sprint out, lift the top off the can, reach into the trash, grab the handle, and go. I dive under the nearest car and tick off eight minutes. All clear. I race to the Volvo to see if my treasures are still in the secret compartment by the spare tire. They are. I stuff them in my backpack and make my way down to Level 4. The briefcase seems heavier every time I pick it up.
I stop and listen at the entrance to each level. I’ve just reached the sign for Level 3 when I hear a sound. A kind of click behind me. I scurry under a car. On the way I bang my head on the muffler pipe, which is hanging by a wire. I wait twelve minutes, watching drops of my blood make small red dots on the oil-stained cement. Some of the dots join together to make something bigger. This isn’t good.
I count another ninety seconds. Nothing. Whatever made that sound, it wasn’t Richie.
Now I’m at the truck where I spent the night. I have a monster headache and a jagged gash over my left eye. I use the makeup mirror to see what’s what. There’s a loose flap of skin the size of a dime. It crosses into my left eyebrow. The wound is full of chunks of rust from the muffler. The little bit of my face that I can see is covered with dirt and streaked with blood. My hair used to be blond—now it’s stringy and the color of mud. Is that me? I’ve gone from a zombie to a victim in one of Zack’s slasher videos. I open the first-aid kit, pick out an alcohol pad, and press it against the wound. It burns like fire. My eyes water and I almost scream. Finally the pain shrinks to a dull throb. Then comes the bandage. Mom taught me to use a butterfly bandage on cuts like this one, so that’s what I do. But the bandage doesn’t stick to my eyebrow. I have to use a patch of gauze so big it covers my whole eye. I tape it down and hope for the best. One last look in the mirror. Ha! I do look like a pirate. I think about taking one of the azithro-something pills, but since I have no idea what they do, I go for the safer bet—aspirin. I shake two pills out of the bottle and swallow them dry. Headache or not, I’m good to go.
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