Deadman's Switch & Sunder the Hollow Ones

by Saul Tanpepper

  “Drugs? Brain damage?”

  “Not drugs. Too much time has passed. Her system would’ve cleared anything by now. “I think Arc did something to her.”

  “Well, I still think our best chance is to hightail it as soon as we can.”

  “Now I know you’ve been hanging around with Micah too long,” I say. “You’re beginning to sound like him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Skedaddle, hightail.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  I give the cardboard carton sitting on the floor a vicious kick. It flies into the corner and a couple dozen unwrapped granola bars spill out. They weren’t any good to eat anyway. “Yes, I am changing the subject, Kelly, because I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve made up my mind. We’ll leave when Micah’s ready. Not a moment sooner.”

  “Okay.”

  He digs a couple fingers into the Vlassic jar he brought in with him and fishes out a pickle and holds it up in front of him. It’s gray-green and limp and probably tasteless, which will make it the perfect complement to the leathery Cool Ranch Doritos he brought with him from the stash in Tanya’s room. Reggie found several cases of assorted snacks in one of the upstairs restaurants. The Cheetos were the first to go, naturally. They were the only things that still had some flavor and texture left to them after being expired nearly a dozen years.

  “Nice dinner,” I remark.

  Pickle juice runs down his arm. He gives it a sour look, then takes a bite.

  We’ve been eating canned and bottled and processed packaged foods for only a day and already I’m starting to fantasize about fresh fruit and vegetables. This morning I woke up with the taste of Eric’s meatloaf in my mouth. I even smelled fresh-baked bread and my stomach grumbled so loudly that I was sure someone else might’ve heard it. But then I realized what I was smelling wasn’t meatloaf and bread but the coppery stench of the dried up blood out in the hallway. A week ago I probably would have puked at the thought, but today it just makes me shake my head.

  Kelly cracks open a beer and swirls it. He holds the bottle up to the light and watches the floaties spin around in it before downing half of the bottle in one gulp. He lets out a long burp.

  “Pig.”

  “Better a pig than a sitting duck.”

  “I get it. You’ve made your point.”

  “I’m not the only one itching to leave. Jake was telling me this morning that he’s getting a really bad feeling in his stomach. He thinks something big is going to happen soon.”

  If he’s only just now getting that feeling, he’s days late.

  “So Jake’s a fortuneteller now?” I grumble. “He can predict the future? Christ! Reggie and Ash are working as hard as they can on figuring out how to beat the failsafe and Jake’s making decisions based on…feelings?”

  “We all are, Jess. Even you. Admit it.”

  He puts his hand on my arm. It’s meant to be warm and reassuring. I want so badly for it to be. I want him to wrap me up. I just want to sink into his being. But I don’t feel any of that.

  “The sooner we leave, the better,” he tells me. Then he stands up and stretches and yawns. His hands are red, his palms blistered. He’d spent all morning mopping the floors after I mentioned my meatloaf dream to him. And when I told him he didn’t need to clean, that he should get some rest instead, he’d answered, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

  “If that’s supposed to be funny, it’s not.”

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  He leaves. A few minutes later I hear him out in the hallway. It sounds like he’s washing the walls now.

  I get up from the cot and go out. Kelly’s dunking a mop into the bucket of water and bleach, using the water from the cistern.

  “Missed a spot,” I tease, hoping for a smile. The rinse water is already dark. He raises the mop and swipes at the wall until it stops bleeding and turns a rusty brown.

  He sighs unhappily and turns back to the gruesome mural on the wall.

  Chapter 15

  I find Reggie sitting in Micah’s room, fighting to stay awake. When he sees me, he rubs the fatigue from his face.

  “What’re you doing in here?” I ask.

  “Ash is being a total bitch.”

  “Dude, that’s my best friend you’re talking about.”

  His face practically glows red. “She’s in with Tanya.”

  “Oh, because Tanya’s better company than you?”

  He chuckles. “At least she doesn’t talk back. I should just learn to keep my damn mouth shut.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that. How is she?”

  “Still a space case.”

  “No, I mean Ash.”

  “Oh.” His face reddens even more. “Okay. Depressed. We all are.”

  “How come nobody’s working on the servers?”

  “What’s there to do? Besides, you can only look at that shit for so long before your eyes go buggy.”

  I grunt, not happy at his snappishness. “Has Micah woken up at all?”

  “Once. Asked for some juice. Otherwise, brah’s been out the whole time. About an hour or so. Been snoring like a log.”

  “Logs don’t snore. I think the saying is snoring like a dog. Or sawing logs. Something like that, anyway.”

  He steps to the door before turning. “I was thinking I’d go up and see if I can break into that Safari World upstairs. I think I saw some rifles hung up on the back wall.”

  I shake my head and roll my eyes.

  “They won’t have any guns, Reg. This is an airport. That’d be like expecting to find a condom dispenser in the bathroom at St. Andrews Cathedral.”

  He laughs. “Then maybe one of those long fishing knives with the serrated edges. Or a compound bow. They’re cool, right? I mean, chicks dig bows, right?” He pretends to draw an arrow and notch it. When he lets it go, I realize I must be even more tired than I’d realized because I actually watch to see where the imaginary arrow hits.

  I shake my head drowsily, chuckling inwardly. “We’re leaving soon, Reg. You know you can’t bring that stuff back with you. They catch you with it at one of the checkpoints, it’ll be a year off your LSC, maybe two. Just see if they have any non-contraband clothes.”

  He looks at my old filthy jeans. I’d put them back on after my “bath” yesterday, discarding the blood and gore-soaked overalls. He’d brought me down a new shirt from one of the airport shops upstairs, since my other one was torn and muddy, but the new one is white and not very practical. Not around here, anyway. It’s already got red streaks on it just from walking through the hallway.

  “Will do,” he says.

  “And see if they’ve got any better shoes than these, too,” I add, showing him the rubber clogs he’d also gotten in the airport shop. They’re so dry-rotted that they’re already falling apart. “Size eights, this time.”

  He whistles. “Wow. Bigfoot. I just figured since Ash is a size six an all.”

  “Yeah, because all girls have the same size feet, Reg. I’m surprised you even know a detail like Ashley’s shoe size. Most normal guys don’t have a clue about that kind of stuff.”

  “I’m not normal.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Yeah, well, I actually didn’t know Ashley’s shoes size until we broke into the ‘Hello Kitty’ shop this morning and Ash found a bunch of those obnoxious sneakers to replace her Nikes. But wouldn’t you know it? Not a size six in the house.”

  “You hid them?”

  “Not saying that, sister.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t blame you,” I tell him. “Zombies won’t give you no respect if they see you wearing ‘Hello Kitty’ shoes.”

  “For that matter, neither will Arc’s people,” he adds, soberly. “Which is why I need to find myself a nine-inch gutting knife.”

  “Not even then, Reg.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll see what I can find. No promises, though. Not unless they’ve got a monster-feet shoe store.”

 
; “Hey!”

  He scurries out the doorway, but then leans back in. “We’re going to get out of this, Jess.”

  I give him a strained smile. My chest tightens and I want to cry. But I can’t. Not even when I think about my family—my stupid, psychotic brother Eric and my stupid, alcoholic mother and my stupid, overbearing grandfather. I want nothing more right now than to be with them. “I know, Reg.”

  He hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”

  I watch the empty doorway, wondering again for the millionth time how I was chosen to lead this group. I never asked for it. I didn’t want it. It’s either me or Jake, and he’s likely to get us killed.

  Who’s to say you won’t?

  I go and sit down in the chair next to Micah’s bed. There’s a pile of paperback books on the floor next it, rescued from the bookstore upstairs. Real paper with printed words, not the kind where the pages flip on their own and the words zip by and are hot-linked to word definitions or videos on the Government Stream, or Arc ads like the ones on Media.

  I reach down and pull the book off the top of the stack. It’s an Emma Pattingsley thriller, Cutting Ties. Seems strangely appropriate.

  I open it and read the first line:

  Nothing stoked Chicago Special Crimes Detective Norma Galveston’s fire more than a good old fashioned murder. Nothing, that is, save a man with slow hands.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Before I know it, I’m asleep.

  Chapter 16

  Sensing movement next to me, I jolt awake. I’m on my feet before I even realize what I’m doing, hands warding away the imaginary threats that tormented me in my dreams.

  “Hey,” Micah says, his voice sounding dry and fragile. He pushes himself up to a sitting position, tucking his pillow behind his head and wincing. “It’s just me, Jess. Relax.” He chuckles drily. “Did you know you smack your lips when you sleep? And drool.”

  My heart’s racing, ponging around inside my chest, which feels too small, a tiny cage for a raging beast. I take in a deep breath and let out a shuddering sigh. “I—I was…”

  “Having a nightmare?”

  “Something like that.”

  Already the dream is fading. I remember being strapped to the table in INTERVIEW 1 and the blade was coming down on my neck, moving fast and yet somehow taking forever. Maybe it’s true about time slowing down right when you’re about to die.

  I remember looking over and seeing a figure in OBSERVATION 1 approaching the mirrored glass, and just before the ice-cold blade sliced into me I saw his face.

  Everything changed in that instant. Suddenly, everything became clear.

  Micah lifts a shaky hand from the bed, grunting. I hurry over, ready to help him with the cup of apple juice on the table next to him, but, instead, he rubs his palm on his cheek. It makes a dry, raspy sound.

  “Time for a shave,” I say, trying to mask the shaking in my voice. I step closer and smile. I’m genuinely happy to see him sitting up, yet alarmed by how gaunt he’s become. “It’s good to see you back. I mean, you are back, aren’t you?”

  He looks around at the room, at his arms, at me. I can see he’s trying to remember, to piece together the bits and fragments of his shattered memory. I can see it in his body language, how he’s fighting the voice inside his head that’s insisting he’s really at home and that he’s late for school.

  “I’m in the hospital,” he croaks. “How long was I out?”

  I check the time on my Link. It’s late afternoon on Saturday, exactly a week since we first attempted to break into LI. Five days since the bombs nearly killed us. It seems almost incomprehensible that only yesterday we escaped from here—nearly escaped—and now we’re back. This place just doesn’t seem to want to let us go.

  “You’ve been asleep for a few hours. But you’ve been out of it for a few days. Are you feeling any better?”

  “Feel like shit, actually. I could use a hot shower and some hot spicy chicken from Golden Dragon.”

  I give him a wry grin. Yeah, he’s back. Maybe not all the way—that may never happen—but enough that I can see his old self peeking through. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him. “Good luck with that,” I say.

  “I’ll settle for the spicy chicken, then.”

  “Tell you what. How about a Red Bull and some twelve-year-old beef jerky? But I have to warn you, it’s really tough and tasteless.”

  He doesn’t seem to catch the reference or guess that it means we’re not home.

  “Is that the Red Bull or the beef jerky that’s tough and tasteless?”

  “Both.”

  He chuckles lightly. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh in days. It’s also, by far, the most he’s said since waking up. “Well, when you put it that way, Jess, I’ll take a double order of both.”

  “Just imagine that it’s Golden Dragon.”

  “No one’s imagination is that good.”

  He raises his arm again and studies it. The skin’s sallow. He flexes his fingers, winces. The hand falls back to the bed and smoothes the surface of the sheet.

  “What the hell is this?” His fingers pinch the tubing for his catheter underneath. He lifts the sheet, frowning. “What the hell?”

  I know exactly how he feels. I’d woken up three days after the explosion, horrified to find a catheter inside of me. But I hadn’t had the benefit of a syringe to deflate the balloon that kept the unholy thing in place. I’d had to use my teeth to bite through it and suck out the water.

  The thought passes through my head that if it was Reggie in Micah’s place, he’d make some crude joke about sucking on his tube. In the past it would’ve disgusted me. Right now, I’d be happy to hear it.

  “It’s so you don’t pee yourself.”

  He gives it an experimental tug. “It’s…stuck. Tell the nurse to take it the fuck out. I don’t need this shit inside of me!”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down.”

  “Just get the god damn nurse!”

  “There is no nurse, Micah.”

  He looks confused. “What?”

  “Look, I’ll explain everything. We’ll get it out. But first, you need to relax and eat something. You need to eat.”

  After I calm him down and he’s managed to swallow half a Slim Jim and a few stale crackers and drink another cup of juice, he waves the rest off. “Please get someone to take this crap out of me. I want to pee on my own terms, not…this.”

  “Okay. So, here’s the deal. You’ve got two options. You can either let me do it, or you can do it yourself.”

  He considers this for about a half second before telling me he’ll do it himself.

  I give him a fresh syringe from the supplies Kelly brought back from the medical cart on the tram and instruct him on how to remove the catheter. When he’s ready, I close the curtain to give him some privacy.

  After several minutes of grunting and swearing and one or two hisses of pain, he calls out to me. “Done. Damn this thing’s freaking long.”

  I come back around the curtain to find him holding the catheter up in the air so it doesn’t leak, a look of chagrin on his face. I avoid his gaze and instead busy myself taking it and the bag from him. He looks at me with surprise. I’ve had my arm up to the elbow inside a zombie, for god’s sake. A little pee isn’t going to make me squeamish.

  Of course, he doesn’t know any of that.

  He quietly thanks me, then swings his legs over the side of the bed and tries to stand up, one hand holding the sheet around him. He curses, takes a few steps, then turns around again and falls back onto the bed, panting. “How far was that? Felt like a marathon.”

  “Close. It’s a start. That’s why you need to eat.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “I remember computers in here. Or was I hallucinating?”

  “The room next door. We decided to move you. Less noisy.”

  Over the next hour or so, I give him the basics. I dole out the information carefully, watching him
to make sure it doesn’t overwhelm him. I begin by telling him that we were all in an accident, but I don’t tell him what kind. That sort of detail will come later. I assure him that everyone is all right, that we all survived. That we’re nearly fully recovered.

  “You were the worst hurt.”

  He frowns for a moment, concentrating. Then his face relaxes. “There was water, all around us. We were in a boat.”

  I nod.

  “We we’re in…East Harlem?”

  Another nod.

  “Yeah, I remember now. Waiting for Kelly and Jake. Planes. I remember planes.” His eyes widen. “They bombed us.”

  “Yes.”

  More concentrating. I wait, but the strain on his face intensifies until I worry he’ll snap. I tell him he needs to rest.

  “I am tired,” he admits. He turns his head and closes his eyes.

  I give him a sad smile. It’s hard for me to see him looking so worn down, so broken and defeated. Is this the new norm? Not just for him, but for us all?

  Each one of us seems to have adjusted differently. In the two days we’ve been here on our own, we’ve reached some new level of normalcy, even if it looks nothing at all like the old normal. And that’s what scares me so much.

  Chapter 17

  “Help!”

  Someone’s screaming bloody murder down the hall. I jump from the cot and race toward the noise that’s coming from Micah’s room.

  Reggie’s already in there, grabbing at Jake and pulling him of the bed. “Get off of Micah,” he shouts.

  “Get off of me,” Jake yells back, pushing Reggie away while Micah struggles underneath the pile.

  Reggie takes a step back, then reaches forward and lifts Jake by the waist of his pants, like he’s a sack of potatoes, and flings him to the floor. Unburdened, Micah jumps out of the bed, naked from the waist down. He continues to thrash, kicking and punching wildly at invisible assailants. Ash steps forward to try and calm him and gets an elbow to the side of her face. She crumples to the floor. Reggie roars with outrage, but she raises her hand and insists she’s fine. Already I can see the bruise blooming on her face.