“It isn’t fair,” I say out loud. My voice echoes, accusatory, on the bathtub tiles. “It can’t be now; there’s time on the countdown. I still have time to make things right.”
“What’re you talking about?”
I don’t answer Jill.
The chugging train is on top of us, and Jill turns tense in my arms. Her hand grabs for something and lands on my ankle. Our toothbrush holder rattles across the sink, then falls and crashes against the tile, breaking into a dozen pieces.
We do not scream. We only clutch tighter at each other as the thundering clack-clack-clack turns deafening.
I expect to faint, or to black out, or simply to cease being. But the tornado does not tear us from our hiding place.
It passes.
It thunders on, and the sound of the chugging engine grows fainter and fainter.
Jill exhales against my chest, and I hear the serenade of a bright saxophone coming from the radio.
Then Jill looks up at me.
“I have something to tell you,” she says. “I guess you already know.”
I start to laugh.
I laugh and laugh, and I cannot stop.
Though Jill’s brow creases, she is undeterred. “I ripped them up. I ripped up your plans.”
“I know.”
“I did it. I broke everything.”
“I know.”
“I was angry. You should’ve told me.”
I stop laughing. “I know.”
“And I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself.”
“Jill, I know.”
My response is on instinct, but I realize right after I say it that it’s not true.
I don’t believe Jill can take care of herself. That is why I am staying here. That is why I will be This Stella until the end of the world.
Jill turns stiff in my embrace.
A real sleuth. She knows the truth too.
23
Galliard
TUESDAY, AUGUST 16
When it comes to negative energy, you can only handle so much before your body turns off. Goes numb. Won’t let you feel a thing.
At least that’s how it works for me.
Even as we sit huddled in the shelter, waiting for the tornado to pass, I’m not scared. And I’m not trying to be a jackass about it either. I’m not saying I am oh-so-brave or enlightened beyond the fear of death. It’s just too much down here in the claustrophobic dark, and so I stop feeling. That’s when I begin to see things with a new kind of clearness.
Elvis is dead. Another flame of energy snuffed out too soon. A new star to add to my collection.
A tornado is ripping through Slater—another strange and unexplainable event, right when we were ready to say the bad things were over. Right when I’ve been doing everything right. Or at least I thought I was.
And as I sit here, shoved between Archer and Mac on a bunk in the fallout shelter, I figure something out:
I could live here. I could make it work. I could be content, for the sake of the greater good. For the unity of the community and our fellowship with the Life Force.
I could live here.
But I don’t want to die here.
I say it out loud:
“I don’t want to die here.”
“None of us do, man,” says Archer.
He doesn’t get it, though.
It’s not that I don’t want to die here.
I don’t want to die here.
If I’m going to die early like my gods, I don’t want it to be locked inside gates, where my music has to be a hobby. Where I can’t hear and see and drink in the new sounds the Outside has to offer. I don’t want it to be in here, with pricks like Phoenix, who care more about their own happiness than anyone else’s existence. I want it to be out there, with people like Stella Kay Mercer, who have been hurt and tossed around by the Outside but still look at the sky. Who take risks—like kissing me.
I don’t want to die here.
I won’t.
Even if it means breaking rules.
Even if it means defying the Council itself.
• • •
When the storm passes and I find myself not dead, I know what I have to do. After the damage is accounted for—uprooted crops, but every resident safe thanks to our shelter—we are ordered into our rooms for the evening.
I break curfew.
I leave Heather House after midnight, through the bedroom window, while Archer is sleeping.
I make my way across the dark commune paths, feeling more ghost than human. Though the storm is over and the twister gone, a warm damp hangs in the air, and I push through it as though I’m pushing through wet gauze. I open the back door of Common House. I walk inside, take a seat on the piano bench. I lift the lid from the Yamaha’s keys and I place a sheet of paper against the stand.
I play my new song, the one inspired by the Outside. Little by little, I work out the chord progressions for verse and chorus, making careful notes as I go, with a pencil. I take my time, searching the keys, playing past mistakes and miscalculations until an identifiable sound emerges. I don’t speak the lyrics at first. I build the melody until it’s strong, pumped full of lifeblood. And when the music takes me there, I hum at first, then sing softly, then let my voice swell with the chords.
I feel brave again, like that first night of the red rain. I know now, without a doubt, that this is what my gods have wanted from me. I’m no longer Galliard. The music transports me, transforms me. I’m not Galliard; I am the music. A song is never just a song.
It’s as if dredging up his words has summoned him here, because when I open my eyes, I see him in my periphery. Rod is standing a yard off, watching me.
My hands jolt off the keys, as though they’ve been electrically zapped. I shrink back, staring at Rod’s shadowy figure. It’s dark in here; the only light comes from a half moon shining through Common House’s windows, and the expression on Rod’s face is obscured. My guess is he’s not happy.
“What are you doing here, Galliard?” he asks.
His voice is low. And definitely, definitely not happy.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “The twister . . . it freaked me out.”
“That’s no reason to disobey an order.”
“Maybe not.” Then, because I’m feeling fearless, I ask, “What are you doing here, Rod?”
He’s quiet, and I’m half convinced he’s going to punch me square in the jaw—so much so that when he steps closer, I flinch. He doesn’t hit me, though. His arms are crossed. The moonlight catches more of his face, clean-shaven but grooved around the mouth and eyes. He seems to be suffering from his own brand of insomnia.
My flinch is followed by a tic, my jaw jolting to the right.
“What happened today was . . . unsettling,” he says. “I understand.”
“Yeah, I guess that tornado was the Outside’s fault. Pretty crazy, huh? Turns out they can control the weather.”
I’m shocking myself. I know I shouldn’t say what I’m saying, but it’s coming out of my mouth anyway. It’s like the music has made me drunk.
The grooves around Rod’s eyes get deeper. “No one controls the weather, but we humans affect it.”
“Reckless living.” I elaborate for him, my jaw still jerking. “Waste, excessive consumption. That’s what you’re saying.”
“Yes.” Rod’s voice is hard as iron. “That’s what I’m saying. And you act as though you don’t believe it.”
I shrug. My jaw jerks. I play middle C. Then E. Then G. My fingers rest on the chord.
“You know what I think, Rod?” I say. “I think they’re not too different from us. You talk about how selfish everyone is out there. I dunno, though. Maybe we’re selfish too. Maybe we’re just as bad.”
“That’s not—”
“Think about it,” I interrupt. “You blame them as much as they blame us. Seems neither side can throw their hands up and say they don’t know why the hell any of this stuff is happening. Bec
ause someone’s always got to be wrong, huh?”
“Galliard. You’re not—”
“No, no.” I butt in again. I am gloriously intoxicated on the C chord. My fingers shift down the keyboard to play A minor. “I’ve been thinking it through, Rod. About why you and Phoenix screwed me over. About why you said I’d make a good leader. And here’s what I think: It’s bullshit. All of it. I have what it takes to be resident artist. A song isn’t just a song, and you know that. Songs are dangerous. They make you feel things. New things. They make you brave. And you don’t like that, do you, Rod? That’s why you stopped the new music. That’s why you shut down the imports. That’s why you chose Phoenix for resident artist: because he was a safe choice. A recent convert, someone who hates the Outside as much as you.
“And this bull about me making a good leader? You don’t really think that. You never noticed me until I started Crossing. Galliard, the kid who was born in the commune, the kid who was so infatuated with Red Sun he didn’t even have to try the Outside. And all of a sudden he’s leaving, exploring. That wouldn’t do, would it? You realized you’d pushed me too far. That’s why you came up with this leader bullshit to reel me back in. To hold it over my head, something to aspire to instead of Crossing. Because if I kept Crossing, if I left, that wouldn’t be great for your image: born-and-bred Galliard ditching Red Sun for good.”
My chest aches deep down. I feel I’ve been purged, like some clinging parasite has finally been expelled from my body. I feel weak, but in a good way—the way I do after taking a long walk in the sun. I’m staring at Rod, brazen. I don’t even care that, in the wake of my long, loud speech, I am ticking. I clear my unclearable throat, then clear it again. I don’t even care.
“I had no idea,” Rod says, quiet and still. “No idea you’d been this corrupted. That the Outside would work on you this quickly. That you would be this malleable. I’m . . . disappointed in you, Galliard.”
“What?” I say between throat clears. “What, am I weak? Is that what you’re going to say, Rod? Because you know who I think’s weak? People who hide inside here instead of facing the real world. I went out there. And yeah, parts of it are bad. Parts of it are absolutely shitty. But they have music and stories and futures we don’t. That’s worth the shitty parts. That’s what I’m starting to think. And I don’t give a damn if you call that weak.”
“It’s ignorance!” Rod shouts into the dark. “That’s what it is, boy. It is willful ignorance. How do you think that music is made? How do you think those futures are achieved? By standing on the back of Mother Nature. By grinding down your fellow man so you come out on top. That is everything Red Sun was founded to combat. It is everything we are against. And you want that. You want to be one of them.”
“Maybe I do!” I shout back. “At least out there I won’t be forced into a fucking kitchen.”
“You don’t think they will force you? Look at yourself, Galliard. You’re a young man with no experience on the Outside. No formal training. No connections, no money. You think this Outside of yours will welcome you with open arms? Especially with your condition.”
Rod knows he’s said the wrong thing. I see the regret on his moonlit face. Only I don’t think it’s regret for making me feel like shit. It’s regret for pushing me a little too far. Because he has pushed me. My chest is fiery with shame . . . and also with anger. My throat produces sound, low and visceral.
“What the fuck do you know about my condition?” I’m on my feet, my chords forgotten. “I can handle myself fine, thanks. I know good people on the Outside. People better than me. People who wouldn’t use my condition to win a fucking argument. Don’t you talk to me about—”
“I only meant that the world can be unkind, Galliard. Unkind to anyone. Take your friend Phoenix, and what he experienced before he—”
“He’s not my friend,” I spit out. “And I don’t know what happened to him before this place, because he won’t talk about it. He won’t even talk to his own sister, who’s the best damn human alive.”
I know I’m saying too much. I don’t care. I’m drunk again. I’m rip-roaring, over-the-top, burn-the-bridges drunk on this moment.
“You can keep your Red Sun and your positive consequences. And Phoenix can keep his fucking resident-artist position. Me? I’m going someplace else. Somewhere I can breathe.”
And I mean that in many ways, because I really do need to breathe. I need to be out of this room. I make for the door, and I clatter down the steps, and I don’t let up. I run and run toward Heather House, past dark shadows and phantom lights. I climb through the window with less grace than before, toppling onto the floor so loud that I wake Archer.
My bones are burning with resolve. I know this fire will calm if I don’t speak. It’s better to say this now, forgetting everything else. Forgetting Rod and Phoenix and Ruby and J. J. and the reasons that will come pouring back into my head in the morning.
There’s a new god in the sky. A king, recently arrived. He’s calling to me, in his immortal voice. He’s singing, It’s now or never. He’s saying, You better run.
Archer stares at me, half-asleep, disgruntled. “What the hell’s going on, man?”
I don’t hesitate. I ask the question.
“Think there’s room on that Greyhound?”
24
Stella
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17
There is a dark, thick line that rips across our roof. It is a testament to shingles torn from their places. It is the handprint of a twister.
I stand in the front yard with my father and Jill, surveying the damage.
Dad came home early last night, within an hour of the tornado’s passing. He won’t go back to work today. I don’t think anyone in Slater intends to. Not after this. Some of our neighbors stand on their lawns too, taking in the sight of broken branches that litter our street.
We now know the details of what happened. There was one distinct tornado, which touched down on multiple occasions. It was relatively weak. Most of the damage was to farmland, resulting in uprooted cornstalks peppered on rooftops down Vine Street. There were a dozen moderate injuries—broken bones and one reported concussion—but no casualties. The system formed over and damaged only the town of Slater. Surrounding towns reported mild wind and thunder, nothing more.
Today the sky is clear and the sun bright. There is no indication that more foul weather will follow. Then again, we’ve been fooled before, and the countdown over town hall continues to run.
01:14:24.
One day until the unknown end.
That’s why we won’t be going to work. We’ll be going to the town meeting tonight, and then, most likely, we will be barricading ourselves in our houses.
More people have fled town until further notice. Most of us, though, have chosen to remain. We will not abandon Slater. Not even us loner Mercers. This is the only home we know.
Dad keeps me and Jill at the house. Even when we head inside, sobered by the sight of our street and the knowledge that we have no money to pay for the damage, he won’t let us out of his sight. Jill tunes in to 580 AM, where our tornado has actually been acknowledged. The announcer reports minimal damage, no deaths. Only I can’t help wondering if that report includes Red Sun. If any town officials have checked on them. If everyone is all right there.
If Galliard is all right.
I want to know for myself. I want to pedal my bike out full force until I reach the Red Sun gate, and to climb it if need be. I can’t leave my father’s sight, though—can’t even go to the bathroom without him asking about it. And I wouldn’t leave Jill. Not now. I promised that when the bad things came, I’d be here. So I stay. And together we wait for the town meeting.
• • •
“Isn’t this a job for the National Guard? Why are we paying our damned governor if he won’t protect us?”
The auditorium of Slater’s town hall is packed to overflow. I sit between my father and sister in a row of seats toward the bac
k, which was the best we could manage, even after arriving an hour early. It seems that every single citizen of Slater, young and old, is crammed inside these walls.
People are frightened. They are terrified. After only fifteen minutes of what Mayor Branum calls an “open forum,” the conversation has descended into a mess of shouting and finger-pointing. The question most people want answered is not what we should do in case of a more severe emergency, but rather who is to blame for what’s already happened.
According to Lewis Tate, one of Slater’s two dentists, this is the government’s fault.
“It’s their job to protect us!” He waves wildly at us with calloused hands. “They say they’ll secure our life and liberty and pursuit of happiness, when that fool of a peanut farmer is in the Oval Office giving us lectures on how to use our petroleum. Why hasn’t anyone from the FBI come to investigate is what I want to know. No one can explain those damned numbers!”
“Yes, thanks, Lewis. Thanks for that.” Mayor Branum speaks into a thin microphone hooked up on the auditorium’s raised platform. Even so, he has to shout to be heard. “Thanks, Lewis, but we’re going to hear from someone else now! Uh, yes, John? John Barkley, I’ve seen your hand up for some time.”
I crane my neck to see Pastor Barkley, who stands several rows ahead. He’s placed his hand over his heart, as though readying to pledge allegiance. His voice booms through the room.
“I’ve said my piece to my own congregation, and I’ve said it before in this very room. So I will only take a minute more of you good folks’ time. I think the Lord Almighty has made clear his displeasure at the sins of the libertines who reside among us.”
I think of Galliard and grind my fingers into my palms.
“You’ve asked us to voice our concerns, Grant,” he continues, facing the mayor. “You’ve also asked us to recommend a plan of action. My plan relies not on the strength of men but the power of God. We do not need the National Guard. We need broken and contrite spirits. We must examine ourselves, and we must repent, and above all else, we must expel the wicked from among us!”
The Great Unknowable End Page 24