Melt
Page 2
He needed to get them out of there. Pronto. His wife wouldn’t mess around. Alice had never invoked “Mutant Pineapple” before. Sure, she’d had them do drills and plan escape routes and had stocked their cabin so—as he always liked to joke—“a family of ten could last for 50 years of nuclear winter,” but…she’d never actually given the signal that they needed to decamp from their home in upstate New York to their cabin in the Adirondacks because something serious was going down.
That had all changed with that one call. She’d given him the green light to get in gear and get the kids to safety. That was his job. His only job. Keeping Midge sweet and tractable didn’t seem like it was part of a Master Escape Plan, but as anyone who has ever done business with a seven-year old knows, you want them with you, not against you. Bill’s brain raced through his “to do” list, while simultaneously juggling “how to get Midge off the front lawn and into the station wagon.”
The cabin was stocked with canned and dried goods, so he didn’t need to unload the pantry, but he did need to take the livestock. He paused for a second. Did the “Mutant Pineapple” alert allow for him to pause long enough to take their animals? It had to. Alice would have said something more if she thought they could abandon the chickens, goats, and horses. They were going to need their own source of eggs and milk as well as non-gasoline powered transportation, especially if there was a genuine emergency. They didn’t need to take the alpaca. She was a luxury. What about the pig? No, too much work to get him into the trailer. He could ask Samantha next door to look in on them. They wouldn’t be gone more than a few days and Sammie loved babysitting their livestock; made her feel “less like a transplanted New Yorker and more like a local.”
“So, chickens, goats, and horses. Check. What else do we absolutely need to take?”
Midge leaned all her weight on him, still snuffling and sniffling. If he let her, she’d fall right back to sleep. That couldn’t happen. He crouched beside his darling, darling girl and petted her arm. Midge was the absolute light of their life; the accident they didn’t know they needed. She was eight years younger than her sister, Aggie, and twelve years younger than the twins Paul and Petra. She was sweet and smart and sassed more than any of their other kids had ever been allowed, but she was just too darn cute to reprimand.
“How about we play a game?” he said.
Midge took her thumb out of her mouth. They seemed so, so young when they were still covered in sleep and not quite aware of their surroundings. She could have been five, rather than her almost-grown-up seven. She didn’t reward him with a smile, but she did stop sniffling.
“The person who loads the most chickens into the station wagon gets a…” he trailed off. They were going to the cabin, not Dairy Queen. He couldn’t promise her a hot fudge sundae or Chubby Hubby with Dots. He needed to pick his next promise very, very carefully. Midge might be the baby of the pack, but she never missed a thing. If he promised her something, he might as well have it tattooed on his forehead for all the world to see. She was that precise.
“What, Daddy?” The cheeky grin he longed to see played around the edges of Midge’s mouth.
“Whoever gets the most chickens into the car gets a dollar.”
Midge’s face lit up. They never bribed their kids with money. Treats, sure. Cake, ice cream, a trip to the local cinema, popcorn and two TV shows at one time (rather than their standard “one hour a day” viewing schedule) were all up for grabs. But Bill wanted his kids to value experiences rather than “filthy lucre,” so his bribery code was carefully structured to avoid offering money. Of course, as is often the case, the Law of Unintended Consequences kicked in and what they couldn’t have—actual cash money—became the pinnacle of desire and the thing the kids wanted most. It was a terrible shortcut to offer Midge cash but, he reminded himself, time is money and we’re on the clock here.
Midge was already racing round the chickens’ enclosure, her little legs just that bit slower than Eggy’s. Eggy was their best layer, so it was crucial that they get her into the car. But would she cooperate? No, she would not.
Midge squealed, Eggy scampered; Midge dove, Eggy dodged; Midge backed Eggy into a corner, her arms outstretched and her knees bent low, but Eggy took a couple of flaps—aiming herself right at the little girl—and Midge was on her behind and Eggy free…as a bird.
“Leave Eggy be, Midge. Let’s get the other chickens first. Who is Eggy’s best friend?”
Midge pointed at the chick at his feet.
Bill scooped up the chicken who was pecking at the stray seeds at his feet and, of course, Eggy came running.
With that one move, all the chickens were secured.
“Chicken psychology,” he whispered. “Works every time.”
“Can we take Pippylonglegs in the car with us, Daddy?”
Bill sighed as he checked his watch; he’d had every intention of loading the goats and taking them along, but it had already been 15 minutes of chicken wrangling since Alice had called. He seriously needed to up his game and get them out of there. “Mutant Pineapple” was their highest level of alert. It meant there was a disaster of humungous proportions about to rain down on their collective heads. Knowing what Alice did for a living, it was going to be some kind of chemical spill or industrial accident. She wouldn’t tell them to decamp if it wasn’t serious. Fastest way from A to B was to give Midge whatever she wanted.
Bill glanced back at the station wagon. He’d miscalculated. No way he was going to get the goats in there, now that it was filled with flapping chickens. Flapping chickens. Panic, mayhem, danger. His brain short-circuited for a second. What if Alice herself was in danger? Perhaps he’d gotten it wrong. Perhaps the threat had nothing to do with her work but was some kind of 9/11 attack on the city. He shuddered. If it was a terrorist, there might not even have been a call. He might never have gotten to talk to his sweetheart ever again. Then again, if it had been another 9/11, his phone would have been ringing off the hook with friends and relatives making sure they were safe. That hadn’t happened. Only Alice had called. Only she knew what was going on and why they needed to evacuate.
He hated the fact that she was in the city and he was out in the boonies. It was his job to protect her and it killed him inside to think of her having to battle her way out of some emergency without him. Then again, she was the single most prepared person on the entire planet when it came to emergency protocols and crisis management. She would have already stepped up and made sure everyone in her immediate vicinity was safe before leaving Manhattan. She would never—as in never, never, never—allow anyone to be left behind. He just had to square himself with that reality. Alice could take care of herself and then some. He took a deep breath and turned his attention back to the evacuation at hand. That’s how he could make a difference. Get the kids out.
Aggie was right at his side scanning his face for clues. She was good at appearing out of nowhere at precisely the time she was needed. He smiled at his middle daughter and gave her a quick hug. Only 15, she was as smart as someone who’d been through three wars and seven famines, no question. She was an old soul in a young body. There was nothing she couldn’t do, including accurately reading the concern on his face. He didn’t want her to panic, but there was no point lying to her. That’s not how they parented. The truth, at all times, even when it was hard.
“I get it,” she said.
Bill opened his mouth to explain.
“Mutant Pineapple. Get out now with as many high-use provisions as you can, but don’t wait around for non-essentials. We’ve got this, Dad.”
Bill found himself choking up. He was so dang proud of his kids he could just bust.
“Use the horse trailer for the goats,” said Aggie. “I’ll bring the horses myself.”
Bill clapped Aggie on the back. “You’re a lifesaver, Agatha. You sure you can manage all three of them?” He knew she could, but he wanted her to know how grateful he was that she was so grown up and reliable.
He checked his watch again. How many minutes had he spent dithering about, berating himself for what hadn’t been done rather than doing it? He needed to really get his butt in gear. He turned to the house. If Alice had been there, they’d have been in the car racing to the cabin 20 minutes ago. Then again, Midge would be crying and Aggie would be glaring out the window, furious that they’d left one of the goats behind. His way—Aggie talking sweet and low to the horses as she daisy chained them together, Midge peppering the goats with complicated instructions they couldn’t understand, all three of them pulling their weight in their own way—was better. Took longer, but allowed for more harmony and, he hoped, more food in the long run.
He scanned the kitchen cupboards for the longest lasting provisions. Their go-bags were already in the trailer and the cabin was already stocked with dry goods. Whether they needed to bug out or bug in, they were all set. But “Mutant Pineapple” meant it was a disaster of a different order. He needed to think about possibly being hunkered down for longer. No perishables. That went without saying. Though, it’d be nice not to waste what they had to hand and, if they weren’t going to be in town for a while, it might be good to take a couple of treats.
He snuck to the back of the walk-in pantry, dug around the back of the deepest shelf, and pulled out a humungous bar of chocolate, a bag of marshmallows, and some graham crackers. Not even Alice knew he’d stashed them there. He hadn’t won “Stay-at-home Dad of the Year” seven years in a row by just being a pretty face. He gave his kids just enough of the modern world—with its processed foods and refined sugars—for them not to crave it. Tonight they’d build a fire and make s’mores and tell ghost stories. He’d make it fun. Apart from the twins, Paul and Petra, being pulled out of school during term time, it’d seem like an adventure.
He stepped out onto the porch and surveyed their little farm. Maybe he was wrong about only taking the chickens and goats. What if Alice’s “Mutant Pineapple” alert was the real deal? What if the alert went on for longer? What if she was right and he was wrong? What if there was a disaster that required genuine disaster preparedness and not her usual “better safe than sorry” routine? As she liked to remind him, the boy who cried wolf was eaten in the end because he was right, not because he was wrong. “One day, Bill…” She would look at him with those huge brown eyes of hers, serious and haunting and beautiful all at once. “One day, I will be right.”
“I’ll do this her way.” He rolled up his sleeves, grinning. She’d be so pleased if he went all out and evacuated the entire farm; even if they had to turn around and bring all the animals back again at the end of the weekend. It’d be his way of saying “I love you, mi amore. And I hear you.” The pig was a must, surely. Bacon would be a welcome treat if they were up at the cabin through the winter. But what about the alpaca? Her hair was a luxury, right? He turned it over in his mind as fast as he could. Didn’t you need luxury goods for barter if it was the end of the world? He shook the thought off. It wasn’t the end of the world. It was going to be something manageable. And they were all going to get out and survive. No, more than that. They were going to ace this test of their family’s readiness. They would spend a few days in the cabin, then all come back and laugh at how well they did. He’d take the alpaca because it was a good move, not because he believed civilization was about to crumble.
His phone buzzed. It was Alice. The text was brief. His heart leapt up a notch. “Double Mutant Pineapple.” He stared at the message. There was no such thing. They’d thought of the worst thing that could happen, doubled it, then doubled it again to come up with their “Mutant Pineapple” disaster designation and he had barely been able to wrap his head around what that could mean. What on Earth could have happened to make her double it?
His phone buzzed in his hand, sending violent jolts of adrenaline through his body.
“Make that a triple.”
Bill was out the door, Midge under his arm, and in the truck in seconds. He stopped long enough to hop out and open the gates to the animal enclosures so their much-loved pig and highly-prized alpaca at least had a chance of survival. Then he stomped on the gas and fled for the hill.
Chapter Three
Alice was livid. A kid had been injured on her watch and her hands had been tied by legalistic BS. She should have been at the hospital with Angelina and her parents, but no, the lawyers said it wouldn’t be right for her to be seen at Angelina’s bedside. She needed to stay put, they said, and keep her mouth shut. Two things Alice was not fond of: inaction and secrets.
That didn’t stop her from hitting the war path. This floor-eating, child-maiming disaster had happened on her watch, so she needed answers. In order to get to the bottom of what had happened and make it right, she needed to take complete charge. She couldn’t wait for bossman Jake or any of the pencil pushers to get things “through the proper channels.” Once the lawyers got themselves tangled up in the lab reports, she’d never get a straight answer. It would be all “polyethylene derivatives” and “bacterial substrates” and strings of numbers and atomic weights and technical jargon, each nugget of information more mind boggling than the last. They would bury the truth deep beneath the facts. She needed to be at least three steps ahead of them. She stormed the stairwell, taking three steps at a time, and headed for Klean & Pure’s central lab.
She paused only to wrap herself from head to toe in a state-of-the-art lab suit, don the booties and mittens and helmet, before marching into the clean room to ask the obvious question, “How did this get screwed up?” She knew better than to ask “who” had screwed it up. No one steps up and takes responsibility if they feel the firing pistol is aimed directly at their head. With all the lab staffs’ livelihoods on the line, Alice needed to tread carefully but resolutely towards the truth.
She was met with a wall of anxious faces. She scanned them quickly in hopes of catching a guilty side-eye or some slumped and hunched shoulders. Even wrapped in their cumbersome lab suits she could read them. Nothing said “I did it” more than someone who was trying to make themselves look small and inconspicuous. The problem was that they all looked pretty much alike: geeks and nerds and bookish introverts who wanted nothing more than to spend a day with their nose in a three hundred pound textbook on protein folding and the origins of life. None of them looked guilty, per se, but they all looked guilty-ish. She half-expected them to close ranks—a silent wall of lab coats and pocket protectors—but that wasn’t what went down.
Dr. Baxter was in her face, a thumb drive in hand, almost as soon as the doors clanged shut. “I have absolute, unequivocal proof. My samples were pure. There was no contamination.” Her voice was muffled by her helmet and her breath fogged the visor, but there was no mistaking how agitated she was. “We followed protocol. There’s not a wrong step in the entire run. You can see for yourself. I even have footage of the batch you used for the film shoot being decanted. We knew there’d be a witch hunt if anything went sideways, so I documented every step. My hands are clean.”
Alice turned the thumb drive over in her hand. Seemed a bit excessive for an industrial scientist to document the entire process, but then Baxter’s husband was a lawyer, so perhaps she’d been schooled in how to cover her rear end.
Jan von Karpel was next. He was a soft-spoken man with an accent Alice couldn’t quite place. Scandinavian, for sure, but with a hint of something heavier; Slavic maybe? He rubbed his gloved hands together as if trying to wash something sticky off his palms. Alice had seen him
do it a million times. It was his OCD. His compulsion was to be clean. Wearing a bunny suit and being unable to get to soap must have been excruciating for him. Small wonder he was a Clean Room Specialist. “You hired us to make sure that the equipment and laboratories were disinfected daily. This is not a simple procedure. We are meticulous. We have a multi-step process that has not failed in the fifteen years I have been doing this job. We use only the highest quality…”
Dr. Baxter stepped in front of von Karpel, literally cutting him off. “I’m telling you, Alice, this was not a science screw-up. You know me. You know my credentials. If you have a hole in the floor of your film set, there’s something wrong with the floor.” She hung her head. “Well, no. Technically, it means there was plastic in whatever composite materials they used to cover the floor and MELT did its job. There was no error here.” She waited, her breaths coming so hard and fast, Alice was worried she’d have an aneurism.
Alice held up a hand. She needed to ask questions, not hear the excuses. “What you’re telling me is MELT didn’t malfunction?”
“That is correct.” Baxter’s eyes were bugging out. There was something she wasn’t saying.