Pod

by Stephen Wallenfels

  Behind her the first of the babies are floating down like basketball-sized snowflakes. They stop about two feet off the ground. They’re black and shiny with a short pointer on top.

  “You have to go into the hotel,” she says. “Alone.”

  I say, “Why can’t you come?”

  Her eyes cloud. Her body tenses, then sags. She says between breaths, “I’m too sick. You’d … you’d be safer without me. I’m sorry.”

  My stomach is twisting like snakes in a sack. But I say, “That’s all right. I’ve done it before.”

  I help Aunt Janet drag herself to the SUV. I’d rather hide her in the cave, but she’d never make it that far. She crawls into the backseat. I sprint back to the Suburban, snag the horse blanket. By the time I’m back she’s asleep. I cover her with the blanket.

  It’s not dark anymore. The floaters—that’s what I call them now—stopped falling from the sky. Now they’re all over the street and sidewalks, moving in some kind of swirly floater dance. Maybe they’re getting ready to attack, maybe not. I don’t know and I don’t care. All I care about is going into the LTT alone. I load up one pocket with my tools. In the other pocket I stash the half bag of marijuana and eight azith pills wrapped in a napkin. I think about taking the gun but decide not to. No bullets, no point. And like, who needs the extra weight? One last check on Aunt Janet. She opens her eyes, but just barely.

  “I’m going in,” I say.

  “Good luck,” she says. “I’ll be right here when you come out.”

  Her eyes close. I shut the door.

  It’s time for the Pirate to visit the hotel.

  DAY 26: PROSSER, WASHINGTON

  Option Three

  The mini-PODs are dancing. That’s the best way to describe what they do. When they first floated down it was chaos. Then they formed these black amoeba-like patches that flowed over the ground like a paint spill. Then those patches, each of which easily contained thousands of mini-PODs, merged into super-patches, which divided and merged and divided. That process went on all morning. Now they’re organized into roving clusters of ten to twenty. Some individual mini-PODs within the clusters swirl around the others like partners in a square dance. Whatever the hell it is they’re doing, it’s an amazing thing to see. Almost as good as drugs—not that I’m an expert on that subject. I’ve been watching them from the kitchen table for hours.

  Dad walks into the room. His hair is combed, and he’s wearing a clean-looking pair of khakis and a snappy button-down shirt under a blue V-neck sweater. I wonder if he thinks he’s going to work. This is a big departure from our usual assortment of grungy sweats, jeans, and winter jackets. He’s carrying a shoebox-sized package wrapped in colorful paper. A pathetic attempt at a bow is taped to the top (obviously not one of Mom’s works of art), along with a card in a yellow envelope. He puts the box in front of me on the table.

  I say, “Dude! Look at Mr. Spiffy. What’s the special occasion?”

  Dad places the package in the center of the table and sits opposite me.

  “Happy birthday,” he says.

  Happy birthday? What’s up with this? Even though he’s smiling I know he’s dead serious. The urge to blast him with my sarcasm cannon is overpowering.

  He says, “Go ahead, open it.”

  “You’re a little late, you know.”

  “Sorry about that. For some reason a celebration didn’t seem appropriate at the time.”

  “Admit it,” I say. “You forgot.”

  He shakes his head. “This box has been in my closet the whole time. I see it every day, right there next to Mom’s sweaters.” He looks down at his hands. “Alien invasions have a way of … rearranging priorities.”

  I shrug and open the card. It’s something lame about sweet sixteen and parties and being broke. I skip all that because of what I see at the bottom—Dad’s signature, and below that, Mom’s. I recognize her handwriting. She wrote:

  Dear Josh, I’m so proud of you. You deserve this and more. I love you so much,

  Mom

  Dad wrote pretty much the same thing, but without the L-word. I can’t read it because my eyes get all watery. It’s as though I can hear her whispering the words inside my head. For the first time since all this started, I feel like she really, really, really is alive.

  Dad says, “She wanted to fill out the card ahead of time, just in case she got delayed.”

  “Delayed, huh? That’s one way to put it.”

  Something flashes in his eyes, like I just picked at a scab that isn’t healed. I immediately wish I’d said something else. Something less like … me. “I mean, that sounds like Mom,” I say. “Always thinking ahead.”

  “That’s okay,” he says, nudging the box toward me.

  “Nice bow,” I say.

  I peel back the tape and remove the wrapping paper. It’s a car stereo. Sony. AM/FM, CD, MP3 compatible, anti-theft face plate, and multicolor LCD display.

  “Very cool,” I say. “Finally some decent tunes for the Camry.”

  Dad reaches in his pocket and pulls out another box. This one is much smaller, and the wrapping is nice and tight. Definitely a Mom job. I open the box. It’s the keys to the Camry.

  I’m stunned.

  “It was Mom’s idea,” he says, choking out the words. “She wanted to give it to you herself, but, well, she isn’t, I mean she’s not here, so …”

  The man is drowning. I have to say something. “This is amazing.” Despite my best efforts, my eyes continue to leak.

  “We were going shopping for a new car for Mom when she got back. She was finally going to get that red convertible.”

  I wipe my eyes. “I guess it means you’re off the hook when I miss the bus.”

  “That’s right. No more six a.m. rides from me. But you’re on your own for gas.”

  I’d like to keep this conversation going, but it’s hard work talking about regular stuff like school and gas and car stereos and Mom when an alien brood is doing a hoedown right outside the kitchen window. I watched an apartment house full of screaming people burn to the ground, and I sent Dutch to be eaten by our neighbors. All that history builds an uncomfortable silence that could last for minutes or hours or days. But if I concentrate I hear the whisper of mini-PODs sliding through the bushes bordering our lawn.

  Dad says, “Let’s install it.”

  “The stereo?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “In the Camry?”

  “No, in the bathroom.” He smiles. “Of course the Camry!” His smile spreads from ear to ear like he just invented decaf lattes or something.

  “You’re serious?” I say.

  “Totally serious. It’ll be fun.”

  “But why? It’s totally pointless!”

  “And that’s exactly the point.”

  I’m sure there’s some great deep meaning to what he just said, but to me it’s a sign. The balding engineer with the broken nose is losing it. The mini-PODs sent him over the edge. Well, it’s about time. I shrug, thinking what the hell. Why not? It’s got to be better than waiting for the mini-PODs to start spraying nerve gas.

  “Okay,” I say. “But I get to pick the first CD.”

  We install the stereo after a memorable lunch of red kidney beans in mystery sauce. The job goes okay, considering that what we accomplished in an afternoon could have been done by one guy at Stereo City in thirty minutes. But to our credit, their installers don’t work in a dark garage with nothing but a lilac-scented candle to help them figure out which wire is blue and which is red. Once we’re done, though, I have to admit that it looks pretty sweet. Nice and tight, flush to the dash, perfect colors. I press the power button. I know what the result will be, but I can’t help myself. Nada. My first stereo in my first car and I’d trade them both for a hamburger and a small fries.

  Dad says, “Let’s come back after dinner. You can show me your top five CDs and I’ll show you mine. Then I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

 
; I spend the time before dinner in my room figuring out my top five CDs of all time. I hear Dad go out to the garage once, probably to fill a bucket. Then I hear him in the kitchen preparing our latest feast. The pantry is nearly empty, so I’m guessing beans or corn unless he has a secret stash. I figure in a couple of days we’ll resort to luring squirrels and birds into the house.

  During “dinner” I ask Dad what he thinks the mini-PODs are up to.

  He says, between spoonfuls of cold kidney beans, “My theory is that their home planet ran out of natural resources, so they came here. They’re analyzing the ground for metals and nutrients, with the goal of setting up a trans-stellar mining operation. But you’ve been watching them more than I have. What’s your take?”

  I’m about to answer when I see something outside that catches my breath. “Check it out,” I say, pointing at the window.

  A coyote is walking across the field on the other side of the swamp. It approaches the cluster of PODs. They freeze, mid-dance. The coyote trots through the cluster like it’s just another piece of the scenery. Once the animal emerges on the other side, the PODs go back to their mystery dance.

  After the coyote vanishes over a small hill, I say, “I think the PODs are mapping the planet, getting ready to sell the real estate to rich POD pilots so they can build their POD mansions and raise their little POD families.”

  Dad raises his eyebrows. It’s not often that I surprise him, but somehow I did this time. “I like your version better,” he says. “At least that way the planet won’t be sucked dry and turned into space debris. That’s a future we were heading for long before the PODs arrived.”

  Once the feast of beans is done and the counters are sparkling clean, we head for the garage. It’s time for the battle of the top fives and for our “discussion,” which is Dad-code for “Here’s what we’re going to do.” I sit in the driver’s seat—it is, after all, my ride. Dad sits next to me, a small stack of CDs in his hand. I’m more of a classic alt-rock fan, so Nirvana’s Nevermind tops my list, followed closely by their raging In Utero. Then it’s the Pixies’ classics Doolittle and Surfer Rosa, and rounding out my list, the sultry Come Away With Me by Norah Jones, a CD I once listened to for four hours straight. No surprises with Dad. He brought the three B’s: Beatles, Buffett, and Beethoven.

  Once we’ve finished pointing out the obvious flaws in each other’s lists, Dad says, out of the blue, “If I died, could you eat me?”

  “What?” I ask, not believing what I just heard.

  “I need to know. Would you be willing to eat me?”

  “Would I eat you? Like, hack off one of your fingers and chew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell, no,” I say. “No way. Wait—excuse me. No freaking way! Would you eat me?”

  “That would be impossible,” he says, his eyes fixed on the dashboard.

  “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. Jesus, Dad—when did you come up with that whopper?”

  “No, really. I’m serious. I’ve been thinking a lot about this.”

  “Well, you can officially stop thinking about it.”

  “Listen to me, Josh. I should have done a better job of rationing, but as you said, what’s the point? So here we are. We’re down to three envelopes of powdered milk, two cans of beans, and less than half a can of corn. That’s it. The water heater is almost empty. We could hope for rain, but somehow the PODs turned off the water. Plus”—and here he takes a deep breath—“my pacemaker stopped working, so the odds of me surviving even under normal circumstances aren’t—”

  “That’s load of crap, Dad. You could—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Josh, okay? I need to say this.”

  The tone of his voice sets me vibrating like piano wire. He’s going to say this no matter what, so I clamp my teeth and wait for him to finish talking like a lunatic.

  “I could die from a heart attack tomorrow, so why waste any more food on me? One of us needs to carry on for Mom, and the only person that could be is you. And if you’re willing to eat me, which I truly hope you are, then you could live for another—”

  “Just forget it already! I’m not sticking a fork in you! Period! You got that? Thanks but no thanks. Come up with a different freaking plan.” I can tell he’s disappointed, but I’m not listening to any more of this crazy talk. “I’m outta here,” I say, reaching for the door.

  Dad grabs my shoulder. “Wait! Josh—there’s something else I need to say.”

  -Ninety-nine percent of me screams Get out of the car, but something in his eyes stops me. Like he’s crossed a line and there’s no return. I sit back, ready to bolt if he keeps up with the cannibalism theme.

  He takes one of those deep breaths, the kind that is always followed by something profound, and says, “Remember when we were talking about which would be a better way to die, getting zapped or starving to death?”

  “I picked zapped. I still do.”

  “There’s a third option.” He reaches into his coat pocket and brings out a bottle of pills.

  “What are those?”

  “Prescription painkillers. They’re left over from when Mom hurt her back.”

  “That was, like, five years ago. Are they still good?”

  “I took one last night. They are very good.” He waits for my reaction.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “There’s thirty-two pills in here. That should be … enough.”

  “Enough for what, exactly?”

  “To float off on a cloud and never wake up.”

  “We avoid watching each other turn into walking skeletons?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No eating human flesh?”

  “Not one stringy bite.”

  “One question,” I say. “Why this and not death by POD?”

  “I’m just not sure about what happens … after.”

  “You think there’s an ‘after’?”

  “Yes. I’d rather take my chances with God.”

  “Technically, isn’t this suicide? As I recall, God is pro-life.”

  “I’d still rather take my chances.”

  It’s my turn for the deep breath. “Okay,” I say. “That works for me. When is this event?”

  “I think we should sleep on it. If we still feel like it’s the best option, then we do it after breakfast.”

  I’m a little uncomfortable with the speed of this … development. But I roll with it. That Dad, he’s just full of surprises.

  DAY 26: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  The Spiral of Life

  Rat turds and spiderwebs.

  I flick the lighter just enough to see where I’m going, then turn it off. All this reminds me of something Mom called the Spiral of Life. That’s when things go right, they go really right. And when they go wrong, they go really wrong. Like a friend of hers at work was sad because her husband was in Iraq and she was pregnant and alone. When the baby was born it was sick and needed lots of extra medicine. But the baby got better and went home from the hospital. When the woman went back to work she got a raise. Then her husband returned from Iraq and he wasn’t hurt and he wasn’t crazy. Three weeks later she won fifty thousand dollars on a scratch ticket. And if that wasn’t enough, she entered a sweepstakes at Home Depot and won a new kitchen. That’s the Spiral of Life going up.

  Then there’s the spiral going the other way. Mom hooks up with a boyfriend who hits her. We bail and head for San Diego. We run out of gas and money. She leaves me and doesn’t come back. The aliens come. Richie takes Cassie. I go on a rescue mission to save Cassie, but I can’t reach her. So I save Aunt Janet instead, which makes me think that the spiral is finally going up. Then Richie eats Cassie. Then the aliens send billions of floaters, we don’t have any food, the gun is worthless, and I have to go into the hotel alone because Aunt Janet is sick.

  If I really think about it, I’ve been spiraling in this direction since Zack moved in. But Mom says the spiral can change direction at any ti
me. You just have to keep your head on straight, do good things, wait your turn.

  I reach the kitchen vent. There aren’t any candles, but I see a thin line of light around the double doors. I push on the vent and it swings open. I slip inside, listening for sounds and ready to bolt like a deer in a forest full of hunters. At first there’s nothing; then I hear voices on the other side of the door. They’re headed my way, so I climb back inside the vent headfirst. I wait in the dark for the door to open. It doesn’t. They keep talking and I keep waiting. I think about Aunt Janet curled up and sick in the SUV. I think about Mom, wherever she is—or isn’t. I focus on the Spiral of Life and think that if it’s ever going to spin the other way, now would be a good time to start. Eventually my eyes close and then I’m not in this wormhole but in a place where nothing is wrong and the sun is warm and nobody has to wait for anyone.

  And that place is anywhere but here.

  DAY 27: PROSSER, WASHINGTON

  Comfortably Numb

  Dad outdoes himself for breakfast. Powdered popcorn cheese is an interesting addition. It gives the red beans a disturbing layer of flavor. But not to worry—warm water with an extra helping of rust takes care of the aftertaste. We chat about movies and music. Outside, clouds gather like a storm is brewing, but it’s really just a big tease. The POD commander has no intention of letting us have any water. All in all, I’d say it’s a perfect day for swallowing some pills.

  Breakfast takes all of ten minutes. I help Dad wipe the dishes with a towel—two bowls, two spoons. He insisted on using our good china for this meal, so that means he also insists on stacking them neatly afterward in the antique cupboard he bought Mom for her birthday, each bowl in the appropriate bowl-shaped slot. During this exercise I have a compelling desire to hurl these bowls at the wall, one by one. But why bother? As with everything else I’m doing this morning, I have to wonder if that’s the way I want to leave this world—throwing meaningless dishes at a meaningless wall.