Pod

by Stephen Wallenfels

  “We shouldn’t watch this,” Dad says, his voice choked and raspy. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I shake it off.

  “We have to do something,” I say.

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “I can’t just stand here,” I say, moving toward the door. “Not again.”

  Dad lunges between me and the front door. “We have no choice, Josh.”

  The flames, raging tongues of orange and black, are soaring thirty feet above the roof. I feel the heat and smell the acrid smoke. The screams are a twisting knife in my chest. “Get out of my way.”

  Dad looks at me, eyes steady behind those glasses, shakes his head.

  “Get out of my way!” I yell, this time making sure he knows that I’m going out that door no matter what he says or does.

  Dad backs up against the door. He drops into a crouch, hands out like the wrestler he used to be, only he’s bald, fifty-something, with a soft belly and a bad shoulder. And a pacemaker that doesn’t work. I’m taller than him, and much faster. I have a brown belt in karate. On another day I’d be laughing.

  “It’s too early for this decision,” he says.

  “What decision?”

  “To live or die.”

  “What’s the point?” I move toward him. He tenses. “We’ll die anyway when the food runs out, so we might as well make it mean something.”

  “There’s still too much to live for.”

  “Like what? Powdered milk?” I keep moving, slow and steady. Only a couple of steps now …

  “The PODs could go away, they could be defeated, they could … they could—”

  I grab his left wrist and yank down hard. His eyes bug out like he can’t believe I’m doing this. He’s off balance, spinning down and away from the door. I push him into the wall, which he hits with a soft grunt. I’m at the door, releasing the dead bolt, then rotating the lock on the knob. Desperate fingers dig into my shoulder. He’s saying No, no, no—you can’t do this—don’t do it …

  It’s all empty words to me. He won’t go away. He wraps both arms around my waist, locking his hands in some wrestler move. Like the time he kept me from running to Jamie. Only this time it won’t work. I’m trying to turn the knob but can’t because he’s pulling me back so hard. My hand is slipping, but suddenly the knob turns. The door swings open. There’s flames and black smoke across the street, now double in size, while we fall backwards in a heap.

  I push against him for leverage to stand up. He’s surprisingly soft and nonresistant. Two seconds and I’m in the open doorway. I feel the heat. The smoke has a burnt- hair smell that makes my stomach turn. I’m so ready for all this to be over.

  There’s a rasping, gurgling sound behind me. I turn to say good-bye.

  Dad’s on the floor, struggling to get up, eyes stunned, like a deer on the hunting channel that just fell over and can’t see the arrow in its ribs. He’s reaching out with one hand and clawing at his chest with the other. The color is draining from his face.

  Without thinking, I know what to do. Mom and I have been through this drill with Dad—twice. I kneel beside him. Check his breathing. Shallow but there. Okay. Take his pulse. It’s thin, irregular. At least he doesn’t need CPR—yet. I have this crazy urge to open my cell phone and call 911.

  “Dad,” I say, my voice loud and firm, “can you hear me?”

  His eyes slide open. They’re jittery, like he can’t figure out where to focus.

  “Dad, where are your pills?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Dad! Your pills! Where are they?”

  He whispers, “Next to the sink in … in my bathroom.”

  I take off my sweatshirt and put it under his head. I sprint upstairs three at a time, slam into his bathroom, find the brown bottle with the big red heart on the front.

  When I get back, he’s still lying on the floor. I take his pulse. It’s thready but there.

  Behind him, through the open doorway, the flames rage on. But the screaming, mercifully, has stopped.

  I close the door, kneel beside him. “How many?” I ask, opening the bottle.

  “Two.”

  I shake out two pills, put them in his hand. “Do you need water?”

  “No.”

  He swallows the pills. I watch him take a deep breath, close his eyes. A minute passes. The color is returning to his face. He starts to sit up. I help him lean back against the wall.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  He smiles weakly. “Like that guy in the movie Alien, when the chest-burster—”

  “Can we not talk about aliens right now?” I ask, returning the smile.

  “Good point.”

  “Should I take your pulse again?”

  He nods. I reach out for his hand.

  An explosion blows out the glass in our living room window. The door flies open, revealing a boiling ball of orange and black. The entire apartment building is beginning to collapse, the roof is caving in. Flaming debris landed on the edge of the cul-de-sac. Another thirty feet and it’s on our roof. A wave of nausea sweeps over me. Alex lives next to the apartment building. I can’t see his house, but I’m pretty sure I see another billow of smoke.

  I kneel beside Dad. His eyes are open wide, and he’s shaking his head.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, the chaos of noise and heat behind me. “It’s all over now. I’m … I’m okay.”

  I stand up to close the door. Then I see something on the living room carpet, buried in glass. I brush it off, pick it up, and carry it to the door. I think of Amanda and her sign. Pray 4 me josh. I think of all those people with nowhere to go. I think of Jamie running toward me. The bicycle and newspapers still out there. A constant reminder of something I couldn’t do—didn’t do.

  I throw the binoculars into the smoldering void. They land near the end of the driveway, skitter, and stop.

  I think of the POD commander, up there, enjoying the barbecue.

  “Go to hell,” I whisper.

  I close the door.

  DAY 20: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Poodles and Duct Tape

  I can’t crawl another inch. My last glow stick is fading and spiderwebs coat my hair like a helmet. My elbows have blisters and I need to pee. If I stay in this wormhole sixty seconds longer I’m going to scream until my head explodes. There’s a soft yellow light coming from a tunnel off to the left. That’s where I’m going, no matter what.

  As I crawl closer to the light there are voices. Two men. One is laughing. I’m at the corner, making the turn. The vent cover is straight ahead, maybe four feet away. Something smells warm and meaty, like a soup. Is this the kitchen? Did I finally get lucky? That would mean Cassie is close by.

  One of the voices says, “Move. You’re blocking my light.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s the big kahuna himself, Mr. Hendricks.

  The other voice says, “What you need is some special seasoning.”

  My good luck just turned bad. That’s Richie.

  “How ’bout some of this?” Richie says.

  A loud, desperate mew fills my head.

  I sprint-crawl the last few feet to the vent cover. It’s all I can do not to smash it open. The mewing goes on and on. It’s coming from somewhere to my left. Whatever he’s doing to Cassie, she hates it.

  “Put that creature away,” Mr. Hendricks says. “You’re getting fur in my stew.”

  “Aw, I think she likes the steam.”

  “As much as I hate cats, I never did acquire a taste for torturing them.”

  The agonizing sound stops.

  Richie says, “Back in the box you go.” Then, after a moment, “So what do you call this con-coction?”

  Mr. Hendricks says, “Poodle Noodle Soup with Vodka Reduction and Spring Vegetables.”

  “That was a poodle Manny caught?”

  “Yes, plus some other breed mixed in.”

  “I hope it’s Chihuahua. I miss Mexican food.”

  I press my face to th
e vent and look around. The opposite wall has a rack of shelves with pots and pans and mixing bowls. There’s a big metal sink, and next to that is a stack of boxes. Farther down to the right there’s a double door. I think it’s the kind that swings both ways. On my side of the room it’s hard to see much. The vent must be next to a desk or table because something is in the way. But that could be a good thing. It means if I’m careful maybe I can crawl out of here without them seeing me.

  Mr. Hendricks says, “What’s the status of your elusive pirate?”

  Richie says, “Haven’t heard from him yet.”

  “Yet? It’s been three days.”

  “He’ll show up.”

  “I think you’re overestimating his affection for this animal.”

  “He loves the cat. Wrote all about it in his journal. Named her Missie, Callie, something like that.”

  “Then you’re underestimating his intelligence.”

  “Nah, he’s not smart, just lucky is all.”

  There’s a slurping sound. Mr. Hendricks says, “Hm—hand me the salt.” After a moment, “There’s this gaping hole in your plan, see. I could drive a truck through it. If I were in his position, I’d love the gun more than the pet.”

  I push just a little against the corners of the vent. Both screws on top are tight.

  Richie says, “Maybe he’s outta ammo. He fired at me ’n Ax, musta been what? Eight, ten rounds at least. Shot out some windows is all.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “Musta slipped my mind.”

  “Strange we didn’t hear any shots.”

  “Strange things happen. That’s a fact.”

  I push on the lower left corner. It’s a little loose, and the lower right corner—no screw at all.

  Mr. Hendricks says, “We can’t risk one of the guests acquiring a gun, see. Not even if it’s empty. You ever see the movie Die Hard?”

  “Best Christmas movie ever.”

  “You remember what happened when Bruce Willis got the gun?”

  “The elevator door opens and there’s a dead guy with a sign on his shirt—”

  “He started picking them off one at a time, you idiot! We don’t want anyone going Die Hard on us.”

  The soup-slurping sound again.

  “Either you bring me your so-called pirate or you bring me the weapon. Otherwise—someone has to be picked off first, and the obvious character is you.”

  I push a little harder on the lower left corner. The screw pops out with a clang, rolls on the hard tile to the middle of the floor, spins, and stops. I hold my breath.

  Mr. Hendricks says, “You hear that?”

  Richie says, “Probably our little friend. I’ll check on her, make sure she’s … com-fortable.”

  Mr. Hendricks says, “Hand me the oregano first. It’s that green bottle next to the tomatoes.”

  The snakeskin boots move this way. Each clicking step feels like a kick in the head. He’ll see the screw for sure. There’s no time for me to back up far enough to get away. I chew on my lip and wait. The boots pass right in front of me, inches from the screw.

  A door opens on my side of the wall. There’s a muffled sound, like someone shouting into a pillow.

  Richie says, “Is everything okay in here?”

  More of that muffled sound. Who is that?

  Richie says, “Aw, you can’t breathe? You want me to re-move the tape?” He laughs. “Not in this lifetime, bitch.”

  The door closes. Boots clicking on tile. They stop at the screw. He bends down, picks it up, looks around. For a second, the longest second of my life, he looks right at the vent. All I see from inside the hood is the shadowy outline of thin lips and one eye. It’s small and dark and doesn’t blink. He stands up, puts the screw in his pocket, moves on.

  Back with Mr. Hendricks, Richie says, “So what’s the plan for her?”

  “We cannot tolerate theft. She steals, she suffers the consequences.”

  Mary? Aunt Janet?

  “What are those con-sequences?”

  “You can handle that after lunch. The poodle needs to simmer a little longer. First, let’s check on the natives, make sure they’re not getting restless.”

  Mr. Hendricks and Richie walk past the vent. The swinging doors open and close.

  They’re gone—for now.

  I push on the bottom of the vent. It swings up like it’s on hinges. I slide out and stand up. The rooms spins. It’s been so long since I’ve been on my legs that they almost collapse. It takes a few seconds, a few seconds I don’t have, for things to get right. I look around. A big stove. A steaming metal pot. Three burning candles on a counter. Some small tomatoes and a butcher knife. I run over to the tomatoes, cram them into my mouth. The juice explodes and dribbles down my chin. I could eat a hundred more.

  Where’s that box?

  I see some up on a high shelf by the stove. Too high for me to reach. I shake the shelf. Pots and pans clang. But Cassie mews! She’s up there. I search for something to step on. At the far end of the room—a chair!

  Then I hear that muffled sound. Next to the vent there’s a door with a window. It’s an office or something. Someone is in there. My mind races. Cassie or the door? Cassie or the door? No time to think. I run to the door, look through the glass. It’s dark, but I see a woman curled up on the floor. Her hands and feet are wrapped with duct tape. A strip of tape covers her mouth. She sees me looking in. Her eyes go buggy and she starts to struggle and moan.

  I open the door, take the broken knife out of my pocket, kneel beside her. I slice through the tape around her wrists. She rips the tape off her mouth while I free her ankles.

  She gasps, “Who are you?”

  I know that voice. Aunt Janet. “I’m—I’m the Pirate.”

  Aunt Janet stands up. It’s amazing—she’s not much taller than me. And almost as thin. An idea is forming in my head. I scoop up the pieces of tape.

  She whispers, “You’re the Pirate? A girl? My God, you even have the eye patch.”

  I whisper back, “We need to go.”

  We slip out the door and close it behind us. I stop and listen. There are voices on the other side of the swinging doors. Someone coughs. Richie says, “Suck on a lozenge or something.”

  “Like where am I going to find that?”

  “Then suck on your damn thumb. I don’t care. I’m tired of you blowin’ your germs in my face.”

  My eyes dart to the box on the shelf. Cassie is up there.

  Richie says, “I’m thinking we haul her up to the roof, give the aliens some target practice.”

  Aunt Janet says, “What are you looking for?”

  I point to the shelf and say, “Can you help me get that box?”

  She looks at me like I’m insane.

  Richie says, “Mmm. Smell that Poodle Noodle soup!”

  He can’t be more than seconds away. I leave the pieces of tape over by the door—it’s part of my new escape plan—and whisper, “Follow me!” Dropping to my knees, I lift the vent cover and crawl back into the LTT.

  She says, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  But there’s grunting behind me as she squeezes into the hole. I scoot forward, hit the T, and make the right turn. Her hands brush the bottoms of my feet.

  We’re scooting down the straightaway when a tornado slams into the kitchen. Pots and pans tossed around, glass breaking—it shakes the walls and is so loud it echoes in the wormhole.

  Richie yells, “THE LONGER YOU HIDE, BITCH, THE MORE IT’S GONNA HURT!” Then a short scream, followed by “YOU ATE ALL THE TOMATOES!”

  And somewhere, underneath all that noise, is a box with a small kitten inside. A helpless, scrawny kitten that purrs me to sleep when I’m scared and shivering in the dark. No time to think about that now. I pull the fading glow stick out of my pocket and clamp it between my teeth.

  If I bite any harder I’ll snap it in half.
/>
  We’re at the vent above the utility room. I didn’t make any wrong turns getting here, which is lucky and amazing since the glow stick is almost dead. Aunt Janet told me she was impressed with my sense of direction. I showed her the tape markings and she was even more impressed.

  We stop and listen. The door is locked, plus there’s tape jammed in the key slot, so chances are good no one is lurking inside. The ladder is still there. It’s a little tricky because the room is dark and we come out headfirst, but Aunt Janet holds my feet while I climb on, and then I hold the ladder steady for her.

  My escape plan was that Richie would find the pieces of duct tape by the swinging doors, which would give him the idea that Aunt Janet was hiding around the kitchen. It was pretty lame, but I think he fell for it. Hopefully that bought us enough time to sneak into the parking garage and make it to the cave. The only problem is I should have Cassie with me, and I don’t.

  Richie isn’t waiting in the utility room. He’s not on the other side of the access door. I have the pepper spray in my hand, just in case. We wait in the shadows of the stairwell, but the parking garage seems empty. It could be a trap, but I tell Aunt Janet to follow me. We stay low, run past the Nova and the SUV, around the corner, and up the ramp to Level 2. I crouch behind another car, look and listen. No Richie. This is feeling way too easy. What choice do I have? I tell Aunt Janet to wait here. I run to the Suburban, open the rear hatch, peel back the carpet, lift the trapdoor, wave for her to join me. She runs up, panting like a dog.

  “Feet first, face up,” I say. “It’s easier to get out.”

  She climbs in. I take one last look around, close the rear hatch, slip into the cave, drop the lid, and test the seal. Good. The carpet is back in place.

  There are tiny drips of light leaking in through the airholes. They look like stars in a midnight sky. There really isn’t enough light to see anything, but looking at them makes me feel better. We’re both breathing hard, which makes the air feel hot and heavy. It takes a few seconds to get settled. The cave is tall enough for us to lie on our sides, but only if we scrunch our shoulders. On our backs is definitely the best position. We’re like sardines in a can. I can’t get over how strange it feels to have another person around, someone who can actually talk. For the moment, though, neither one of us is talking.