The alphas of the Anthropocene, however adept at capitalizing on accidental advantages, rarely adjust well to new environments. They transform each new niche to satisfy their ever-expanding appetites. They drain rivers to water golf courses in Phoenix and burn mountains of coal to maintain indoor ski slopes in Dubai. They exile the night with neon and repel the heat of day with air conditioning (a remarkable invention that regrettably introduced us to the depravities of addiction). They destroy the conditions of their own survival and then move on, leaving behind boarded-up shopping malls and dead radios. In flight, they’re remarkably adept, graced with wheels and functional wings—objects of envy for “lurching” cockroaches, the inheritors of more inedible waste than one can imagine.
Not all humans possess the same abilities and inclinations, of course. Some can barely lurch. For every deposed prime minister sailing off in a private jet, billions of humans huddle in the crowded steerage of listing ships. Those with nothing to barter for wings live in the shadows of dead factories, nest in condemned houses, and rummage in dumpsters. They dream of leaving. Who can blame them?
More and more, the wealthier and winged members of the human race have been migrating upward rather than outward, building towers of steel and glass to remove themselves from the smell of sewers and the sounds of traffic. They sense what the poor have long known: the world is getting crowded. Professor Cleave still insists that rampant irresponsibility will come home to roost, that “those elevated by greed or accident of birth won’t be able to ignore” (or fumigate, we’d add) “the dispossessed forever.” At the risk of sounding cynical, we’d argue that those with functional wings have inured themselves quite well to others’ misery. Their willingness to scuttle what they’ve damaged knows no bounds. Now they talk of colonizing outer space, as if they’ve already given up on Earth and packed their bags to leave a dying planet.
We’ve been inclined, as of late, to give Professor Cleave credit where it’s due. He’s one of the few of his species who could have bartered his wheels for wings but chose to stay. He was afraid of flying, certainly, but he was determined, too. He would never have abandoned his imaginary garden to see it choked by real weeds. If we stay in his cab, it’s not simply because of its air conditioning, which has been more erratic than ever, or because we know that most of the world has been poisoned. Though Professor Cleave is a curmudgeon, a bipedal pedant of the highest order, there is much about him to love. And in any case, our odds of sneaking onto a space shuttle are slim indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WE WOULD NEVER HAVE abandoned Professor Cleave that afternoon. He could barely stand upright as two maids draped a sheet over Tremor’s body. He whispered to himself, trying to order his thoughts, watched a perverse red bloom spread across the sheet and struggled to guard his memories against clouded accounts of what they were calling an incident. For twenty minutes, he’d been listening to the new prime minister, the deputy, and the executive manager construct a narrative already distorted by conflicting testimonies. The longer they argued, the more desperately he struggled to fix certain details in his mind.
“He drew a loaded weapon on two guests,” the executive manager said. “Our security associate responded appropriately to an established threat.”
Graham Douglas traced a line across his forehead with his fingertip, as if drawing the outline of a simple argument. “It’s not possible his gun was loaded. My deputy saw to that.”
“There must have been an oversight on the part of your personnel.”
“It’s impossible, and entirely remarkable that—”
“What’s remarkable is that you thought it wise to bring him here. Given what is known about him. Our security associates had every reason to consider him a threat. He refused to surrender his weapon.”
“My driver said he was placing it on the ground.” Douglas turned to Professor Cleave. “He had a direct view.”
Professor Cleave lifted his hand to his own throat. At the sound of a gunshot, hundreds of birds had scattered from the trees. The woman had screamed. He’d fallen from the car and started running, thinking little beyond each instant he recalled in isolation, as disparate frames in a film slipping from its reels. He’d stopped short of Tremor, arrested by slate-grey eyes above a surgical mask and the tension in an arm bearing the weight of a rifle. He’d fallen to his knees. He felt himself falling still.
“The attaché isn’t alone in being concerned about your indiscretion,” the executive manager said to Douglas. “This incident will impact our image.”
“There are implications for all of us,” the deputy said. “Feelings are high, and now another person from Rocky Point is dead. Who will answer?”
“Our security associates responded to an individual with a history of violent behavior.”
Douglas looked at a group of people standing at the edge of the golf course, pointing at the sheet and holding up phones. “Tonight, people will burn what remains of Portsmouth.”
“You have no need to corroborate rumors,” the executive manager said. “By tonight, people will be thinking about other things. This afternoon, you’ll restore electricity. You’ll announce that the quarantine has been lifted. That the outbreak on the ship never posed a threat to public health here.”
Douglas dabbed his forehead with the end of his tie. “Where there was fear of sickness, there will be fear of scarcity.”
“You’ll announce plans to rebuild the terminal. To build a casino. You’ll talk about St. Anne’s growing position in the regional economy. About employment.”
“People will still want to know what happened today,” the deputy said.
“People want to move forward and forget. There’s an expression. Raise the flag and declare victory.”
Douglas looked at the stained sheet. “People in Rocky Point don’t think that way. They don’t care about simple declarations.”
“Today, the U.S. Secretary of State will acknowledge your government. You’ll soon have drafts of his statement and your response. Right now, your detail needs to remove the body. Our staff will deliver a stretcher to expedite matters.”
The prime minister turned to the deputy.
“That’s the prime minister’s car.” The deputy’s voice grew hoarse. “We can’t.”
“We need to finalize things inside,” the executive manager said.
The deputy looked at Professor Cleave and gestured toward the car with the expression of a man making an inexpressibly sordid request. “Make a place for it in the back.”
We turned our antennae to Professor Cleave. His tie was askew, his shoes were scuffed, and he had grass stains on his pants. He rubbed his fingertips together, rocked on his heels for the assurance of solid ground beneath his feet, and started toward the house, pausing every few feet to collect yellowed pages from the grass. When he reached the car, he folded the pages into his jacket. He pressed his hand against the rear window to steady himself, insensate to the burn of hot glass. Two maids were wheeling a stretcher across the grounds. The deputy and Douglas had disappeared into the house, but the executive manager was standing on the porch, speaking with Helen and Dave. Professor Cleave strained to hear their voices.
“This morning has been extremely upsetting for everyone.” The executive manager placed a hand on Helen’s shoulder. “You’re dealing with an enormous shock. I’d like you to meet with our resident physician.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” Helen slipped from beneath her hand.
“Some people experience shock after traumatic events. There’s no shame in discussing difficult feelings.”
Helen walked to the top of the steps and looked at a group of mercenaries smoking near the front entrance. “I was standing on the driveway. I was close enough to see it.”
“You were under extraordinary stress on the ship. And you’ve experienced a great deal over the past few days.” The executive manager took a step toward Helen. “It might be best to discuss your feelings now. Things probably
seem very confusing.”
“He was putting the gun on the ground when they shot him.”
“You said he threatened you this morning. That he was a violent individual.”
“He didn’t pull a gun on us,” Helen said. “He never pulled a gun.”
Dave spat into a hedge below the railing.
The executive manager studied his expression. “My concierge said you’d encountered him before today.”
“He came after me two nights ago. Tried to kill me. Pulled a gun on me this morning. Whether he put it on the ground’s just details. He had it out.” Dave shook his head. “He was a murderer.”
“At some point, we’ll have a better understanding of how he was involved in the incident at Rocky Point. There’s every indication he was mentally disturbed.” The executive manager regarded the beige cotton sleeves bunched at Helen’s wrists. “I’m certain that will come out in the record. It always does.”
“What do you mean by that?”
The executive manager met Helen’s gaze. “The quarantine is being lifted. The Celeste’s most infirm passengers will be ferried to St. Anne’s airport and flown to Miami on a military transport. I’ll be happy to secure places for you on the first commercial flight.”
Dave tried to recall a feverish form on a lower bunk, but his head was throbbing, and the itch beneath his bandages had grown intolerable. “The sooner the better. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”
“The quarantine,” Helen said. “I don’t understand.”
“The CDC discovered contamination in one of the Celeste’s water storage tanks. The spread of illness here is no longer a concern. Of course, every precautionary measure made sense. They made sense this morning.”
“He was putting the gun on the ground,” Helen said.
“I’ll deliver your flight information to your room.” The executive manager turned her back on Helen and disappeared into the house.
Helen shook her head. “He was putting it on the ground. You know that, don’t you?”
“He cut up my fucking face.”
“I know that,” she said.
“But you don’t get it. I didn’t cut myself up. I was attacked. It’s different.” He stumbled down the porch steps, keeping his head down to avoid the attention of people taking pictures of a bloody sheet.
He found the beach nearly deserted. The incoming tide had asserted itself and shell fragments, driftwood, and bits of garbage had massed on shore. Speckled gulls pecked at beached fish and bits of seaweed and left thick white streaks across the sand. He followed a set of footprints to the water’s edge and pulled his sandals from his feet. In the distance, the Celeste was heading toward Portsmouth beneath a cloud of black smoke. Further north, a jagged outcropping marked the location of Rocky Point, a place he’d spend the rest of his life hating. If he’d resented the weight of Helen’s sadness, he hated her now. By planting uncertainty, she’d dispelled the illusion of justice he desperately needed. It was a small matter, the gun, but something in her expression wouldn’t leave him. With everything they’d seen together, she still seemed certain that some new wrong, worse than any other, had been committed.
“He tried to kill me,” he whispered.
A wave broke over the shore and slid back into the sea.
It didn’t matter, he told himself, whether or not the kid had pulled the gun. The kid had been a murderer, or would have become one soon enough. Still, she’d been so angry, and so obsessed about one detail. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what she’d seen, and saw only his own face, brutalized and monstrous. Consumed by his own suffering, he realized, he’d been lost in ruminations about his face when he heard the gunshot and she started screaming. He was thinking of his face now, and he’d think about it for the rest of his life. Whatever she said, the kid had murdered in his own way, stolen something he struggled to understand.
The word innocence came to mind, but it wasn’t exactly innocence; he’d lost a certain sense of invulnerability. He’d never again laugh about forgetting a name or losing his way home after having too much to drink. He’d never assume the best of anyone or find it in himself. He’d lost something other than innocence, but he’d lost his innocence, too. He’d sacrificed honesty for revenge. He scratched the tape clinging to his skin. He would never forgive, he knew. At best, there would be forgetting.
He lifted his face to the sky and let the sun raze everything from his mind, trailed his fingers over his cheek and remembered his face as it had been. He imagined what it might be again, when it healed, and he held the image as long as he could.
A small riptide eroded the sand beneath his toes. He felt a sickening sense of vertigo. Tiny waves washed over his feet and deposited shell fragments and soft brown mud onto the shore. He imagined currents bearing the contents of emptied septic bilges and backed away from the water, sinking into muck that rose between his toes and then disappeared in the suck of an undertow. The earth suddenly seemed to be shrinking, dissolving beneath his feet and forcing him into endless and exhausting flight. For the first time in his life, he felt there was nowhere left to run.
From a distance, we listened to him whispering, knowing he could hear no sound but that of his own voice. We wondered if his expression would slowly twist into something hateful, and if the fearful reactions of those around him would only confirm his self-loathing. But even with antennae, none of us can see the future. Unable to rouse him from his waking nightmare, we turned our attention to the detritus on the beach and dodged the gulls’ endless strafing in our desperate search for food. The lean times would soon be upon us. Of that, we were certain.
Thankfully, most of us made it off the beach that afternoon. Some of us even managed to escape the Plantations altogether, “lurching” through an ersatz jungle to reach the prime minister’s car. As we crawled into its wheel wells, Helen stood beside the car, watching Professor Cleave fold a leather seat forward. They didn’t speak at first, silenced by the sight of mercenaries smoking in the distance and the prime minister’s bodyguards lifting Tremor’s body onto a stretcher.
As the bodyguards pushed the stretcher across the lawn, Professor Cleave and Helen backed toward the house. On the golf course, small groups of people were holding up cell phones.
“They have no respect. No decency. There are so many bloody hands.” Professor Cleave pulled loose pages from his pocket and sequenced them with trembling fingers. “They’ll say he was mentally unbalanced. They’ll vilify him, and then they’ll forget him.” He drew a book from his jacket and pressed the pages between its covers.
She drew her sweater close. “Was he mentally unbalanced?”
“He’s dead. That’s all that matters.”
“He didn’t pull the gun. I saw everything.”
“Everyone will see something different.” Professor Cleave paused. “He was troubled. Dangerous. The shred of truth will support their lies. But no one should die as he did. Violently. Alone.”
She fought the impulse to touch him, sensing he might flinch. He spared her by crouching down and collecting a loose page from the ground.
“The old ones are coming apart.” He brushed the cover of the book in his hand. “So many of them burned with the hotel.”
He turned away from the car as the bodyguards loaded Tremor’s body into the space behind the backseat. She trailed her fingertips along her wrist and then drew her sleeve over her hand.
“What’s going to happen now?” she asked. “When people find out.”
“I don’t know. There’s no way I could know,” he said, bewildered by her question. He slipped the book into his jacket and fingered the cut on his thumb. “Maybe everyone is exhausted. Tired of the violence. Maybe they’re already forgetting.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll drive him to the morgue. Then I’m going home.”
For a few minutes, they stood in silence in the shadow of the house, holding vigil for a man slipping into obscurity behind plastic and b
lack tinted glass. When the deputy appeared, Professor Cleave left Helen standing in front of the house. She watched him close a door behind Tremor’s body and open another for the prime minister, and then she watched the car until it disappeared down a road littered with massacred monkeys.
When the crowd on the golf course dispersed, she returned to the porch. Soldiers at the front gate were loading dismantled barricades onto the back of a jeep. She studied a set of stretcher tracks running across the lawn. She closed her eyes and sequenced events, distilling impressions and committing each to memory. A mercenary had spoken of savages running riot, of putting things right. She’d been too exhausted to say anything. She’d been afraid, too, when he’d slicked his hands with sanitizing gel and dispensed with her. Beyond the biting scent of alcohol, she’d smelled decay. And yet, she’d found everything—the disinfectants and decay, her fear, his violence and dismissal of her—all too familiar. To too many people, including herself, she’d been a dead woman walking, going nowhere. To too many people, she’d been expendable.
She opened her eyes and looked at the tracks fading in the grass. The mercenaries had disappeared. She cradled her arms and started pacing. At the end of the porch, she collected a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from the tea trolley. Struggling to steady her hands, she tapped a cigarette between her fingers. She withdrew to a corner of the porch and lifted a match to the cigarette, sickened by the tug of stitches along her arm. A slow burn filled her lungs, and she let the cigarette slip from her fingers. It rolled between two planks and into the dark space beneath the porch. She considered the ash clinging to the edges of two knotted boards and lit another cigarette. She inhaled deeply, dropped the cigarette onto the porch, and pushed it between the planks. She imagined the slow hiss of dried leaves and debris burning beneath her feet, a wall of flame crawling up the front of the house. Then she lit another cigarette.
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