I look up. The girl who was staring at us before is still staring at us. She is still removing the same book from the shelf she was removing before, as if frozen.
“She is probably just curious. I sometimes stare at people when I am curious, even though Gina instructed me that staring is a form of nonstandard behavior called rudeness.”
“I am going to eliminate her,” ADA says, taking a step.
“ADA, that will attract attention.”
“In that case I will execute my plan of pulling off my finger and burning down the library.”
“It seems like you just want to destroy the library.”
“Don’t you?”
I blink at her.
“I was built for violence. ADA stands for Advanced Destructive Apparatus. Or Assault Deployment Array. Actually, I’m not sure what ADA stands for. But it’s probably something like that. I am a weapon.”
“I believe we should take a different course of action.”
ADA pauses, gripping her index finger with the opposite hand. “Yes?”
“I want to find the secret tower.”
Chapter 10
HOGAN’S ISLAND IS IN OHIO, halfway across the country, in the middle of Lake Erie. If we don’t stop for fuel, food, sleep, or restroom breaks, it will take us thirty- eight hours to get to the Tower.
ADA has spent the first six hours of our journey complaining that she is hungry: “I used energy during our escape, and I have not consumed biofuel since I was last put into sleep mode.”
Proto rarfs, and a sound comes from deep inside Trashbot that’s similar to the rumble my biofuel container makes when it is empty. Which it is now.
I try to stay encouraging. “We’re almost there. Just hold on for another 2,155 miles.”
The streets and neighborhoods on Car’s dashboard map display look like the little curls of a human brain. Ahead of us is a vast expanse of green. There are very few dots to indicate habitations. We’ve been going uphill for a while, and the rising sun casts rays between tree trunks wide enough for Car to drive through. I think of the elevator shaft tree at uniMIND headquarters and wonder if there are people inside the trees.
“I’m hungry,” ADA says.
She says it another fifteen times before we come upon a town named Pine Grove Meadow Falls. According to the sign on the edge of town, Pine Grove Meadow Falls sits at an elevation of 5,420 feet above sea level. The population of Pine Grove Meadow Falls is 456 people. The motto of Pine Grove Meadow Falls is “Welcome to Pine Grove Meadow Falls.”
We almost drive through Pine Grove Meadow Falls because Car does not slow down from highway speed until ADA threatens to rip her engine out.
Car slows down.
“Where is the biofuel in this place stored?” ADA’s voice is very loud. Perhaps being hungry has put her into what Gina would call a “foul mood.”
“Biofuel can be purchased at markets and restaurants.”
“Locate one of these . . . markets and restaurants,” she says.
I remember that she has spent her entire life at uniMIND headquarters. She has never been to Giganto Super Food Mart. Or the Beef Hut drive-through. Or Pancake Palace. Or Wild Waffles. She has never been anywhere.
I spot a restaurant with a sign shaped like a large hot dog. Artificial trees rise from it with artificial snow dusting the boughs. Letters spell out “Wiener Mountain, Home of the Wiener Mountain.”
I tell Car to park.
“This is a source of biofuel?” ADA asks.
“Yes. It is a form of biofuel called hot dogs. It is very good biofuel. We just need money to pay for it. It is standard.” I search Car and find some money in a tray underneath the radio. “This is money,” I explain to ADA, showing her several small, metal disks in my hand. “Money can be exchanged for things. Biofuel is among the things money can be exchanged for.”
“How much money is that?”
I count the coins. “Six thousand and three dollars.”
ADA blinks. “Is that a lot?”
“Stand by. I have made an error. I am recounting. Stand by. Correction: This is sixty-three cents.”
ADA blinks. “Is that a lot?”
Inside, a man wearing a T-shirt and white apron chews a toothpick behind the counter. He has more hair on his forearms than ADA and I have on our heads combined. He doesn’t say anything for a minute.
He takes the toothpick out of his mouth and sets it down on the counter. “That one of those vacuum cleaners?”
I don’t know which one of us he thinks is a vacuum cleaner.
“Do you have any waste you wish to dispose of?” asks Trashbot.
“Trashbot is not a vacuum cleaner,” I inform the man.
“What about that one?” He points to Proto.
“Proto is a dog,” I tell him.
“Rarf,” Proto says.
“Huh, cute,” the man says. “Kinda.” He returns the toothpick to his mouth. “What can I get you?”
“What is the most amount of food we can have for the least amount of money?”
“Well, now,” he says. “You can get a Mini Mountain for a buck.”
I know from having learned many things about animals that a buck is a male deer. Deer are cloven-hoofed ungulates with good nighttime vision. All male deer grow antlers, except for Chinese water deer. I know many other facts about deer, but it is unclear to me how we are to obtain a male deer in order to exchange it for a hot dog. Perhaps the man in the apron understands even less about money than I do.
“We had hoped to exchange money for biofuel,” I explain to him with great patience.
“You talk funny,” he says. “Where you from?”
“We are from California.”
“That explains it.”
ADA and I blink at him.
“You can get a Mini Mountain for a dollar,” he says. “You know what a dollar is? A hundred cents?”
“I do know what a dollar is,” I inform him. “We do not have a hundred cents.”
“Heh, you kids and your toys are adorable. Tell you what. Go away.” He inserts a second toothpick between his teeth and gnaws.
I turn to leave, but then I spot a sign on the wall: “CONQUER WIENER MOUNTAIN, WIN FREE T-SHIRT, EAT FOR FREE.”
“Free means something that doesn’t require money, correct?”
“Yeah, so?”
“We wish to conquer Wiener Mountain.”
Twenty minutes later, the man sets a platter bearing two hot dogs on the table with a heavy klunk. He winces and stretches his back.
ADA and I blink at the Wiener Mountains, processing. The wieners are the size of fire extinguishers, nestled in giant, pillowy buns. They’re topped with shovelfuls of chili, gallons of liquid cheese, mounds of onions, and heaps of relish. I worry about the table’s ability to support their weight.
The man produces a stopwatch from his pocket. The case is stained with spots of brown crust that I believe is chili. “Here’s the deal. You have fifteen minutes to eat the mountains. No sharing. If you clean your plates, you eat free. You each get a T-shirt. You get your pictures on the Wall of Fame. That’s bragging rights. Glory. Immortality. But if you don’t finish? No glory. No fame. And you pay. If you try to eat and run? Then you’ll be talking to Carl.”
“Who is Carl?” ADA asks.
He points to the wall on which hangs a baseball bat with a small brass plate beneath it. The plate says “Carl.” The bat, like the stopwatch, has brown stains, but I do not think the stains are chili.
“I am unafraid of Carl,” ADA announces.
The man just smiles. He clicks the watch. “Go.”
There is a tick for every second that passes, but even after thirty ticks, I have not begun eating.
It is standard to eat hot dogs with one’s hands, but the mountains are far too large to pick up. Eating with utensils, such as knife and fork, is another standard way to consume biofuel, but we have not been provided any tools.
ADA has begun eating by bending
forward, smashing her face into the mountain toppings, and furiously biting. This is a nonstandard method, and I cannot see that she is making any progress, but at least she is eating.
I begin employing her nonstandard method.
For the first five minutes, my mastication plates do not contact wiener or bun. There is only chili and cheese and onions and relish. I have already had enough. My biofuel container is almost full. I cannot catch my breath. I have biofuel all over my face and in my hair and on my shirt.
ADA is doing better. Her mouth opens and shuts at a blurring speed. I wonder if her jaw is equipped with its own engine. Perhaps its own brain.
I do not know if I can go on. I certainly cannot finish my entire Wiener Mountain. But the stopwatch continues to tick away.
I glance up from a sea of chili and see the man with his arms crossed, scowling at us. He has moved closer to Carl.
Failing to finish means we have to pay.
Failing to pay means Carl.
So, I eat.
And eat.
And eat.
And I learn things.
Here are some of the things I learn:
It is possible to have too much of a good thing.
Getting what you thought you wanted can be painful. Physically painful.
I do not like chili dogs.
I do not like chili.
I do not like food.
ADA licks the last residues of mountain off her plate. She is frightening and impressive. I am neither.
Tick, tick, tick goes the stopwatch.
The watch echoes. The fluids in my head echo. ADA’s voice echoes. She is threatening to do things to me if I don’t conquer the mountain. They involve removal of my head and limbs and internal devices.
I eat. I eat and eat and eat. Dark shadows flicker in the corner of my vision, tunneling, closing in. I think I am dying.
The ticking finally stops.
“Aaaaand, fifteen minutes!” the man says.
We have only sixty-three cents. We cannot pay. We will have to flee with a large quantity of Wiener Mountain inside me, which is stealing.
We will have to talk to Carl.
The man strikes my back, and I brace for assault. But he is not attacking me. He is congratulating me.
“You did it! You conquered the mountain! Both of you!”
Before, he seemed hostile and dangerous. Now, he exhibits emotions I would describe as surprise and delight. He calls people from the kitchen, and he’s clapping and cheering and menacing anyone in Wiener Mountain who is not joining in.
I look down at my tray. There are only the thinnest smears of food grease left.
I did it.
Through this negative experience, I have learned that I am capable of more than I thought.
I do not know if learning this lesson is worth it, because my biofuel container is filled with food and pain.
ADA drags her finger through the grease on my tray and licks it.
The man presents us with two clean, white T-shirts that say “I Conquered the Mountain at Wiener Mountain.”
He shoos us off to the restrooms to change into them. It feels good to get out of my food-soggy shirt and into the T-shirt.
When ADA and I return from changing, he poses us with our defeated trays and takes our picture.
We have achieved fame, glory, and immortality.
Later, after we have left, I throw up a great deal of fame, glory, and immortality on the highway.
Chapter 11
WE HAVE BEEN ON THE road for fourteen hours now. The man at Wiener Mountain gave us a couple of Mini Mountains for the road, which we gladly gave to Proto, so his biofuel container is satisfied. He sticks his head out the window as Car speeds down from the mountains toward a broad, sandy plain below. The wind blasts air in his face, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, if his constant rarfing is any indication, he likes it. The fresh air also helps with the unpleasant odors filling Car. The odors are from ADA and me, and we are producing them as a result of having quickly consumed Wiener Mountains. Our biofuel containers are holding more biofuel than they’re designed to, and we are releasing waste products in gas form.
“Do you have any waste you wish to dispose of?” Trashbot says.
“I do not believe that would be a good idea right now, Trashbot.”
Trashbot does not know how to respond to this, so Trashbot just makes a clacking sound, as if he is trying to chew without having anything to chew.
“Car, roll up windows,” ADA says.
Car complies and the windows whir up.
“Why did you do that?” I inquire of ADA.
“Dirt particles were hitting my face.”
“Thank you for answering. Car, roll windows down.”
Car complies and the windows whir down.
“Why did you do that?” ADA inquires of me.
“Don’t you find the smells we are producing unpleasant?”
“I do not,” ADA says. “I switched off my scent detectors.”
“You can turn off your sense of smell?”
She looks at me with an expression I read as surprise. “Can’t you?”
“No. What else can you turn off?”
“I can turn off all my sensory detectors. Smell, sight, sound, pain . . .”
I remember lying in the road after being hit by the pickup truck, wishing I could shut my pain sensors off.
“I wonder why you were constructed with this ability and I was not.”
“The purpose of pain is to tell you something is wrong. That you are damaged. But if I am damaged, pain can prevent me from continuing to fulfill my purpose. By shutting off my pain sensors, I can continue to fight.”
I process this as the mountain pine trees give way to scrub.
“What is your purpose?”
“As I told you,” ADA says, “I am a weapon. I am offensive.”
The wind whips hair into my face, and Proto rarfs out the window.
“I regret that having the windows open blows dirt particles into your face.”
“It is no matter,” ADA says. “I have turned off the ability to feel in my face.”
I pull Proto back all the way inside the car.
“Car, roll windows back up.”
For some reason, I find it better to suffer the discomfort of bad smells than to make ADA prevent herself from feeling.
“ADA, you can return feeling to your face. I will leave the windows up.”
After a long time during which I assume she is processing on her own, she says, “Thank you, Cog.”
I continue to suffer from bad smells, but they don’t bother me as much as before.
As the buildings of a distant city shimmer on the approaching horizon, an airy hiss attracts my attention. At first I think it’s coming from ADA, but I do not detect the scent of biowaste. Then a rough flapping noise joins the hissing, and Car judders and bucks like the time I bathed myself in the washing machine, which is an unintelligent machine designed for washing fabrics, not robots.
“I have a flat tire,” Car reports. “It is your fault.”
“How far can you continue with a flat tire?” I ask.
“I’m not going any farther. I’m done.” Car pulls to the side of the road, comes to a complete stop, and sits there, stubborn.
“How long will it take us to walk to Hogan’s Island?” ADA wants to know.
I have no intention of walking to Hogan’s Island, but I do the calculation anyway just to learn the answer. “Not counting stops for rest, biofueling, biowaste elimination, getting run over by pickup trucks due to the picking of desiccated nasal particles . . . Approximately twenty-seven days.”
“Or you could just change my tire,” Car suggests. “There should be a spare in my rear storage compartment.”
ADA gets out and walks around to Car’s rear compartment. She peers inside for a moment and says, “There is a toolbox and an empty coffee cup but no tire. The contents of your rear compartment are useless.”
“Can I have the coffee cup?” Trashbot asks.
ADA feeds it to him.
If we have to walk all the way to Hogan’s Island, we are sure to have bad experiences and learning opportunities. I am a little bit pleased by the prospect of learning, but I am impatient to get to the Tower in hopes of reuniting with Gina.
We have no choice. We will have to go into the city and fix Car’s tire.
I learn the following things from pushing Car:
ADA is strong and good at pushing things.
I am less strong and not good at pushing things.
Trashbot’s arms are very bad at pushing things.
Proto likes to chase bugs.
Road gravel crunches beneath our feet, and we say nothing until we arrive at a combination gas station, auto mechanic’s garage, and convenience store. Dozens of cars are stopped here like animals gathering at a waterhole on the dry savannah. Tired-looking adults pump gas or try to herd arguing children into the convenience store.
ADA and I push Car up to the garage and go inside. Proto scampers before us, zooming between metal tool chests and cars lifted up on hoists. His foot pods splash in the inch of water covering the cement floor, and while it seems strange to me that there’s so much water, this is my first time in a mechanic’s shop. Perhaps this is standard. A burned and blackened rag floats by my feet. Perhaps this, too, is standard. But ADA says, “I believe a terrible battle was waged here. Though I see no bodies, many combatants must have fallen. We should be on our guard or else whatever befell the warriors will doom us.”
“I’m the one who’s doomed,” wails a voice. A young woman emerges from a side office, her gray coveralls soaked from the knees down. Shiny patches of oil smudge her brown cheeks. She appears to have recently had a bad experience.
“Did you exercise bad judgment?” I ask her.
“You could say that.” Her voice shudders. “It all started when I flushed the toilet. Our plumbing’s awful, and you never know what’s going to happen, but you have to flush, right? Otherwise it’s gross, and then you’re like Floyd. He’s my boss, and he’s gross. Anyway, the toilet backed up and started gushing all over the place and I sort of panicked and just stared at it instead of turning the shut-off valve, and that’s when the shop got flooded. Then I lit a match because watching flames sort of calms me, you know? Once the match was out I threw it in the garbage can, except the match wasn’t all the way out, I guess, and there were a bunch of oily rags in the can and they ignited and all of a sudden the whole can was on fire! I went running for the fire extinguisher but instead ran right into the garbage can and toppled it over, and the standing water on the floor put out the fire. So I guess maybe it was good that the toilet backed up? I don’t even know anymore. I just want to sit down in a dark room and light a match.”
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