Strange Days

by Constantine J. Singer

  The smell of Jack’s cigarette wafts in through the window—the smoke makes Jordan’s nose tingle; to her the smell is sweet, closer to bread burning than what cigarette smoke smells like to me—and she breathes deeply to get more of it.

  Shame settles in. Smoking is wrong. She shouldn’t enjoy the smell.

  Jack drops the cigarette. She watches his silhouette through the curtain as he steps on it, grinds it out with his foot. “Don’t sit on this too long or you’ll go down in history as President Nero, fiddling while the world burns.”

  They go back inside.

  Jordan tries to breathe. Her hand is shaking, her mind filled with blackness and visions of demons.

  Her screen flashes. She looks down. Will’s name is throbbing again. She taps on it. This time it isn’t words, it’s a picture.

  Of Will. She taps it, clears her throat against the thickness she feels in it and waits as the photo crystallizes on the display.

  He’s cut his hair—a flattop. In the picture he waves, makes a slow turn around to show off his entire self, then waves again. “Hey, JJ!” scrolls from his mouth when it opens. “Send me one, too!”

  Will is preparing to join the marines and he said in his last letter that the recruiter encouraged him to close-crop so he would be used to it when he enlisted. His face looks square to her, sharp at the edges, less kindly than the shaggy farm boy she sees in her mind. She studies it more closely, sees that there’s still softness there, hidden in the eyes, the partial smile.

  She enlarges the picture so it lifts off the screen and she can examine it from all sides like a Will statue. She takes a quick look around before bringing it to her face, placing a kiss in the air where his lips display.

  Then more shame. A flush that heats up our face. She wipes the screen.

  She watches the screen fade to black in her lap, her thoughts back on Abaddon, her father. Incursions are real, people are dying, and he is saying nothing.

  The child in her vision morphs into Will’s face, being devoured by alien bugs, flesh, to bone, to dust.

  She can’t let that happen.

  Paul’s sitting at the desk when I come up. He smiles when he sees my eyes. “Any longer and I was going to have to read a book or something.”

  It gets boring in the glide room when your partner’s down. Richard keeps telling us to bring a book if we’ve got second glide, but me and Paul don’t really like reading that much.

  “Beat me and you can get first glide and spend your time dictating, I say.” We play rock-paper-scissors to decide who goes first, but Paul’s completely predictable, so he always loses.

  Twenty-Eight

  I’m stationed with Paul. Calvin’s stationed with Damon. Corina and maddie float, so we each get one day off every week. We need them. Two glides a day and I’m so wiped I can’t do anything but eat and fall asleep on the couch.

  While we’re under, our bodies stop functioning except for essential services. Our consciousness is in the target, and there’s nothing more exhausting for human biology than to maintain ties to the consciousness while it’s traveling.

  I can see why we do it in pairs. It seems like the tie could break easily if we stretched too far, permanently separating body and mind.

  We’ve got to be vigilant or there will be dead witnesses.

  I used to sleep six hours each night, but now I’m sleeping ten. Except when I can’t sleep at all.

  The only other witness who seems to have trouble sleeping is Calvin. He’s always in the kitchen, sitting at the table, reading a book. I’ve gone in to get something for a midnight snack. Calvin and a book. Breakfast? Calvin and a book. Afternoon popcorn? Calvin and a book.

  It’s three in the morning and I’ve given up on sleeping. I keep thinking about how Jordan Castle is always pretending at home, but completely open with Will. I don’t think I’ve ever had that with anyone. I was close with Beems, but there were still things I never told him about myself. Parts of my heart feel like the dark side of the moon, and I can’t imagine ever letting another person know all of me.

  I’m in the kitchen for a snack. I’m not looking for company, but of course, Calvin’s already there.

  “What’cha reading?” I ask as I step toward the cat carrier.

  He looks up at me, then down at his book before holding it out for me to see. In the weeks I’ve been here, it’s been different every time I’ve asked:

  “Breakfast of Champions.” “Choke.” “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.” “Heart of Darkness.”

  This time it’s Tuva or Bust!

  Richard gives them to him. Calvin says there are shelves full of books in his office, but I don’t remember seeing them.

  “You’re always reading.”

  Calvin shrugs and puts down his book. “Books keep my mind occupied. When I’m not reading, my brain gets sticky so thoughts don’t leave.” He raises his eyes like he’s trying to look at his own brain. “My head gets full up. It’s why I can’t sleep.”

  I know exactly what he means, too. My head’s just done the same thing, which is why I’m in for a midnight snack. “Maybe I should try that.”

  Calvin nods, strokes his goatee. He looks like a wise owl when he does it. “I got a book for you, man.” He stands up. “Wait here.” He walks out of the room before I can say no thanks.

  When Calvin comes back, he’s holding a book clutched up against his chest like it’s a baby. I can’t see what it is, and he doesn’t give it to me right away. Instead he sits down across from me and looks at it for a minute before handing it over.

  “This is the only book I came in with,” he tells me as I look at it. It’s got a drawing of a big red knife across the cover, but it’s barely visible because the cover is so trashed. I’m afraid to even pick it up because it might fall apart. “I was in the system before I came here.” He looks at me, raises his eyebrows to see if I get what he means.

  “Foster?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Been in homes since before I was old enough to know anything. I got moved around a lot, so I didn’t get to have much, but this . . .” He points at the book. “This was mine. I got it from a book thing at school when I was thirteen—one of those things where they call you up and you get to pick a book and it’s yours?”

  I nod. I know what he’s talking about, but I never had feelings about them.

  “I was just starting a new school, a new house, and neither one of them were good places for me, so I sucked up into this book and I lived there instead.” He taps the cover, pushes it over to me. “Your turn.”

  It’s called The Knife of Never Letting Go, and it’s by a guy named Patrick Ness. I look up at him and he’s looking at me and the book like we’re supposed to understand what he means. He’s making me nervous, so I just shake my head a little.

  He nods slowly. “It’s about this kid named Todd who lives on a planet where all the men and all the animals, they broadcast their thoughts to each other—they call it ‘Noise.’ His people are killed and he’s got to go on the run with nobody but his dog.”

  I say thanks, then hand it back. It looks like it means a lot to him and I don’t want to be responsible, but he shakes his head at me.

  “Nah, man. Read it. Keep it.” He shrugs and picks up the book he’s reading now. “I memorized that shit.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Jordan is hungry. The feeling is larger than my own hunger ever is, a huge empty spot in her that needs to be filled. She put in a request for a cheeseburger with Andrew, but he’s not back with it yet. I’m excited for the cheeseburger, too. I love it when Jordan eats things she likes—things taste better to her. Eating my own meals is becoming a frustrating disappointment, because I can’t get her tastes out of my head.

  We have a screen unfolded on her lap, open to a document she’s writing. The second MtLA Working Conference is in Las Vegas next week. Jo
rdan will be delivering the opening address.

  Jordan hates writing speeches, especially when her heart isn’t in the work. Speeches are boring. She’d rather write poems—her heart can find a place in poetry.

  Her heart isn’t with MtLA, but her heart is with Will and he will be there, so we’re doing this. “Over the course of the two months since we last met as a team, there has been an upswelling of support for what we at the More to Life, America Working Conference are aiming to achieve . . .” It’s a lie. The word appears in her mind, a big flashing sign: “LIE.” There hasn’t been an upswelling of support. Nobody seems to care about it at all. It’s not like she’s upset about that—Jordan doesn’t care, either. She pushes past it, continues: “I hear from young people around the nation—dozens each day—hoping that we can help re-create the safe, joyous, values-based childhoods for them and their siblings that they hear about from their grandparents . . .” Too much bull. Her voice cracks and she stumbles over the word grandparents. “Dammit.”

  She stops talking, watches the words and punctuation form on-screen, waits for the auto-complete to populate, offering her stronger choices and better words for the tone she’s selected. “The word dammit may not be your best choice here, Jordan,” the screen tells her. “If you’re looking for a way to strengthen your statement at this point, consider using verbal cues such as a louder voice or slower cadence.”

  “Screw you,” Jordan mumbles to the screen.

  “Also not appropriate for the tone and manner of speech you’ve selected. If you’re looking for a way to strengthen your statement at this point—”

  “Off!” Jordan’s shaking now, her voice almost a screech.

  “JJ?”

  We look up. Her mom is looking at us from the Central Hall. We don’t know what she heard.

  Breath. Smile. “Hi, Mom.”

  “I thought I heard some frustrated language coming from over here.” She walks toward us, comes to settle next to us on the couch. “Is everything okay?”

  Jordan smiles again, tries to look embarrassed. Jordan doesn’t think she’s ever been okay. “Yeah, I was just frustrated with my . . .” She points at the dark screen on her lap.

  “What’s the problem?” Linda Castle smiles brightly, looks excited. “Maybe I can help.”

  Jordan opens her mouth, ready to says something about how she’s got it handled, but when she tries to say it, she can’t. She takes a breath, then shakes her head. Everything feels black inside.

  For a moment, things grow clear to Jordan: She can’t do this much longer—live like she’s someone she’s not. The need to tell her mom the truth starts to feel like a compulsion, unquenched, unbearable.

  Truth Will Out.

  Jordan knows the quote is from Shakespeare. A momentary memory of reading The Merchant of Venice with Julia invades, but is instantly crushed by the weight of Jordan’s pain. Words: “I can’t do this, Mom.” We’re whispering, trying not to cry. “I don’t believe in it.”

  I want her to continue. It feels so wrong for her to keep herself hidden, but even as she says it, Jordan knows it’s wrong. The judgment, the disappointment, the hurt will all be too much. And Will. In her head Will is fading away.

  Without MtLA, they will never see each other, never be able to be together. Living without the hope of Will is worse than lying. “Never mind.” She shakes her head, looks over at her mom, eyes shy, vulnerable. “I think I’m just stressed about this and . . .”

  The moment passes inside Jordan. The pain lifts when Linda Castle nods sympathetically, returns our smile, though hers looks real. She reaches for us and pulls us in against her side. “I know, JJ.” She squeezes us. “We ask a lot of you, more than most families ask of their children, and more, even, than most presidents ask of theirs.” She sighs. “But you’re no ordinary kid, JJ.”

  Jordan doesn’t answer. Her mind is already on to another subject—another thing that’s been weighing her down. “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Dad can keep us safe from the Incursions, right?”

  Linda Castle stiffens under us. “They aren’t real.” The lie is as smooth as one of Jordan’s.

  “Yes they are, Mom.” Jordan pulls away and sits up. “I’ve heard Dad and Jack talking about them.”

  Her mom sits up, too, looks like she’s ready to deny again, but then she falls back, looks down and takes Jordan’s hand. “I trust God, JJ.”

  We nod, our chin against her shoulder. “But what if Jeffrey Sabazios is right and he has the answer already? Why isn’t Dad at least looking at Live-Tech instead of trying to get rid of it?”

  Linda Castle doesn’t say anything for a moment. Jordan’s chest tightens; she’s gone too far. She pulls her head back, ready to apologize, but before she can: “There are things I don’t know, sweetheart, but God seems to trust your dad enough to have made him president.” She squeezes our hand. “Maybe you should, too.”

  Jordan doesn’t reply. Doesn’t squeeze back. Her mind is filled with images from the illustrated Bible she had as kid. Pictures of Nabal, of Holofernes, of Pharaoh.

  Powerful kings who weren’t up to God’s task.

  Andrew comes around the corner with the cheeseburger, hesitates when he sees us with the First Lady, but then strides over and lays the tray on the coffee table in front of us.

  “Miss,” he says. “Your cheeseburger.”

  Jordan gives him a tight little smile. “Thank you.”

  But she doesn’t reach for it. She no longer feels like eating, because her mind is occupied with thoughts of Incursions, of Abaddon the destroyer coming, and her father, the president, remaining quiet.

  Live-Tech. The words light up in her head. A flash thought nestled in an image of her dad and Jack on the patio.

  If her dad won’t do anything, maybe we can.

  On my way back up from Jordan, I notice something—there’s another path. It’s faint compared to the one I’m on, goes in both directions, one narrow and straight, the other more like the one I take when I glide.

  Over lunch, I ask Paul: “What’s the other path?”

  “Other path?”

  “When we go down, sometimes there’re two paths . . .”

  “Yeah, that,” he says between bites of his grilled cheese sandwich. “That’s your path. You open up on that one, you’ll Zombie yourself.”

  “Zombie myself?”

  “Yeah. Time Zombie.” He points the sandwich at me. “You know how whatever we see gets collapsed? If we see our own future, when you get there in real time it becomes like you’re just along for the ride. Evidently you can’t do anything.” He sets the sandwich down. “Can’t even think normally.”

  I flash on trying to change my letter—which I still haven’t written. Another question I haven’t asked: “What’s the loud place we go through on the way down?”

  He looks at me. “Loud place?”

  I don’t even know how to describe it, but I try. “On the path, just as I’m going down, I pass this area where everything is suddenly really loud. It’s like a million guitars playing on the other side of the wall—it’s like what I heard in my head before I got patched . . .” I trail off because I don’t even know what I’m saying. “It’s like walking past a jungle or something. They’re sort of like the ones I was hearing before the patch.”

  “A jungle of guitars?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.

  The words sound silly coming from him, but when I think about the place, the picture I get in my head is from cartoons where people are lost in some tropical place and there’re monkeys and birds and stuff yelling. “Yeah, I guess. A jungle of guitars.”

  “I don’t know.” He tucks a fry into his mouth. I watch him chew. I can’t tell if he’s done or just using the fry to make a dramatic pause. “If it changed when you got the patch, then it’s got to be related to witnessin
g somehow.” He shrugs. “It’s probably some one-fifty-plus superpowery thing. I’m just a forty-two, so I don’t get to hear anything.”

  Irritating. I want to know.

  Thirty

  On my trip after lunch, my curiosity about the Jungle of Guitars gets the best of me and I stop on my way down. I’m in, but I’m not deep. I can still hear Paul as he’s shuffling around the room, waiting for me to go under so he can dictate. When I get to the Jungle, I take a detour.

  Going down is a bit like walking through a maze. There are paths and then there are places that are behind the walls. The Jungle is behind the wall. Even though I can hear it clearly, I can’t find a way to get there. I focus my energy on the noise and feel it wash over me. It feels nearly familiar, like a dream that’s fading after I wake up. I feel like I should be able to name it like it’s an old friend, but it doesn’t have a name and I don’t even remember what the old friend looks like.

  I only remember remembering.

  I focus my energy on the wall between me and the Jungle. I get flashes of a new path, but I can’t see how to get onto it or where it goes.

  I sense Paul watching me. I’m taking too long, so I ride down under on my board, speeding toward my target.

  Jordan’s bedroom. The room is painted a pale pink, which looks nearly the same to Jordan as it would to me. The furniture is all old; some of it dates back a hundred years.

  Queens and kings have slept in the bed. When she was little, in the first years they lived in the White House, Jordan wasn’t clear on the difference between a real-world king and queen and the fantasy ones. In her mind, Queen Kate, King William, and Cinderella were basically the same thing, and when she learned that royalty had stayed in her room, she insisted on keeping all the same furniture.

  She regrets it a bit now. The chairs are stiff. The bed squeaks. The desk is small. They’re all heavy, dark wood. She regrets it, but not enough to ask anybody to change it.