Hummingbird Salamander

by Jeff VanderMeer

  I knew Alex was coming into the office. Alex wanted more of us to work remotely. I didn’t want to see Alex. I didn’t want to believe Silvina was an aspiring bioterrorist. I did and didn’t want another text from Hellbender. I didn’t know how to get out of these loops.

  I left, even though I could feel eyes on me, a kind of communal judgment from those who had come into the office. How I wished I was small and anonymous-looking. But I wasn’t, so I stomped my way to the exit, head high.

  No one jumped me in the parking garage. No one tailed me. But, then, I had Hellbender in the front seat with me, trapped or trapping me on my phone.

  Like some lucky talisman.

  [56]

  Unitopia. Allie’s report had described the artists’ commune as an artificial island in the wilderness. Unlike the bare bones of the blueprint, the finished structure, floating on stilts and pontoons, had a weirdly wilder, yet more elegant, feel. From the photos, it had looked clean, sleek, with glistening blue solar panels on roofs amid a snaking swath of bushes and trees and wooden walkways.

  As for the wilderness, urban sprawl had caught up. The “lake” was an enormous converted holding pond, abandoned when another subdivision had been gouged out of the forest and a new holding pond created elsewhere. I was surprised to drive past chain stores and countless housing divisions labeled almost the same as the ones in our neighborhood.

  Behind a half-built mall guarded by rusting earthmoving equipment, a potholed asphalt-dirt road led to a row of narrow fir trees and a parking lot. Five cars, other than mine, four electric, and a flatbed, along with an ugly-looking garbage compacter that didn’t look up to the task of recycling. I already had the sense you get from a business park that never quite made it.

  The smell when I got out of my car had a sourness to it, the breeze coming at me from the glorified pond they called a lake. It wasn’t garbage, but it wasn’t nice. Through the trees I could see the walkway led over water to a ramshackle “island” buttressed by large, repurposed faded-red buoys and a wall of reeds through which one- and two-story buildings stuck out at odd geometric angles.

  A faded-green wooden sign by the walkway read “Unitopia.” With “Once we were wiser” smaller below that. This was the land of fading promise I was about to enter.

  But, in the end, it wasn’t as sad as it appeared, just empty, deserted. Like a hippie version of a tech bro “university,” with a closed organic coffee shop and lunch place. A shared common space composed of spliced-together dodecahedrons made of glass in the center. More raised pathways and more signs for businesses that either had failed or never taken root. Piles of tires supporting pylons made me wonder if flooding had been a problem. The geodesic dome of 1970s science fiction movies here felt cutting-edge, but also oddly comfortable.

  But the smell hadn’t gotten better, although I never found the source, and there was a creaking sway to the walkways that felt like being on a boat lashed to a dock.

  Someone poked their head out of a bright orange door, then tried to pull it back in again before I could gesture to them.

  Too late, and the man teetered there in the doorway like one day politeness was going to kill him.

  “Where do I find the organic mechanic?” I asked.

  The man winced. He had sleepy eyes and, despite the chill, wore the shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops of a surfer.

  “They don’t do that anymore.”

  “But they’re still here?” I asked. Assuming we both meant the same “they.”

  He winced again, and I realized it was just a tic in his face.

  “Yeah, I think so.” I noticed a joint behind his right ear. Which didn’t inspire confidence.

  “So … which way?”

  Because it was a maze, and the arrows all seemed pointing different directions.

  A shrug. “Any which way. Just keep going and you’ll find it. It’s at the end … You from the bank?”

  I ignored that. Did I look like I was from the bank?

  “What happened here?” I asked.

  This time, the wince was real. A weariness that didn’t match his age.

  “What always happens,” he said. “Shit got real. Then it turned to shit.”

  I nodded like I understood.

  * * *

  The actual artists’ commune was at the end of the island, with nothing but the rest of the lake and forest beyond it. A wide dome painted rusted rainbow colors with little portal windows like a welter of eyes. The reeds alongside were intense. Moss and waterlogged trees with yellow flowers had usurped part of the walkway, so I had to step between two of them to get to the doorstep. Small solar panels had been stacked against a wall. Some kind of marsh heron stared at me with a cold eye from the far side of the reeds.

  The sign for the commune read “Unitopia,” which seemed like a mistake in hierarchy. You couldn’t name both the island and a business on the island the same thing. The mold had overtaken the sour stench and a belch of swamp odor. The whimsical drawbridge between island proper and this seemingly detachable part was waterlogged, soggy. Leapt over it rather than trust it to hold my weight.

  Leaving me in the open doorway, staring into the surprising light-filled interior. All those pinhole pricks of windows.

  The front part was the abandoned visitor center, with a high ceiling and museum-like displays. A row of huge circular photos had been positioned at eye level along the outer wall to show views of different habitats. Some of it faded. All of it faux cheery in design. The flow of nutrients through wetlands charted as a metaphor for healthy life. Places you could pretend to take samples of water quality. Stations on high tables, with stools, that had once displayed brochures and had plugs for headphones and laptops for presentations.

  I walked up to the main placard, the standard “Welcome to Unitopia” pablum. But next to it was another station where everything had been ripped out except a bit of wiring. The graphic showed sedimentary layers within the earth and the levels above, ending in sky. I read part, then took a photo to remember it.

  What could be accomplished in understanding the miraculous in the everyday if we could truly see the hidden underpinnings of the world. Whether through truly immersive virtual reality or other method. Whatever the process to that end, however you were changed or contaminated or released or mutated or entangled … Afterward, you’d walk down your street and everything would be identical to what you’d see with your own eyes … except you’d also see the chemical signals in the air from beetles and plants, pheromone trails laid down by ants, and every other bit of the natural world’s communications invisible to our primitive five senses. You’d also see every trace of pesticide and runoff and carcinogens and other human-made intercessions on the landscape. It would be overwhelming at first.

  But once you got used to it, you’d look at the ground and it’d open up its layers, past topsoil and earthworms, down into the “deeper epidermis,” so to speak, until you’re overcoming a sense of vertigo, because even though you’re standing right there, not falling at all, below you everything is revealing itself to you superfast. And maybe then, while still staring at the ground, even more would open up to you and you’d regress to the same spot five years, ten years, fifty years, two hundred years ago … until when you look up again there’s no street at all and you’re in the middle of a forest and there are more birds and animals than you could ever imagine because you’ve never seen that many in one place. You’ve never even seen this many old-growth trees before. You’ve never known that the world was once like this except in the abstract.

  That sounded like Silvina, and the onrushing truth of that made me light-headed. Like I’d gone from being cold to hot, hot, hot. I knew, in that moment, that this place had meant something real to her. I knew this was her place, once upon a time.

  A shame, then. How so little else lived here. The smell and how gutted it looked, with most of the stools gone. Dust coated everything. At the far end of this space, a doorway and a sign that just read
“Organic Mechanic.”

  After a time, I walked through the doorway.

  [57]

  Once, Shot had an aquarium that somehow reminded him of his navy days. Sometimes old friends we didn’t know would visit him and his behavior would be contrite, all right, and we knew we had nothing to fear. They’d hang out in his rooms, drinking until dawn. A low, muffled murmur and scattered laughter. A part of his life we weren’t allowed to know. But we didn’t want to know. Shot stood up straighter when they visited, had this look in his eye like he was a hero. I especially didn’t want to know what he thought a hero was.

  Over time, the aquarium went from ten fish to one, from lots of “stuff”—a deep-sea diver figurine, fake coral, rocks—to just one rock. The fish was a medium-sized bass-type fish. Slowly, the water got murky and the fish moved less and less. Soon enough, there wasn’t anything in there but the fish, and, then, not even the fish. Nothing. Just a tank full of bad, sad water. He never let us clean it or help, even though the fish began to weigh on us. When it disappeared, he told us he’d killed it because we’d made such a fuss over it.

  I don’t know why that broke me worse than all the other things. I don’t know why Unitopia reminded me of that, but by the time I walked into the back room from the visitor center, I was already sad for something lost. Nothing I did now could change that.

  Imagine Silvina after the end of Unitopia.

  Imagine what it might’ve broken. What, in the broken places, healed as resistance.

  Imagine how, growing up, I didn’t dare keep a salamander in the house although I wanted to, let alone a real pet. Just for a day or two, catch and release. Because all I could think of is Shot’s fish.

  [58]

  Standing behind a carved wooden counter with the outline of a stylized mermaid’s body across the front … was “Ronnie.” It said it right there on her name tag. Which was good because I realized that, in the background research, I hadn’t ever found a photo.

  “Ronnie” was a slim white woman. In her mechanic’s-style overalls. Rows of antique appliances behind her. So that was the “organic mechanic” part. No oil smell or anything else you’d expect.

  This last dome was divided in half by the wall that housed vintage appliances, and an open, round door carved with vines led to a space farther back that looked spartan. A bench, a couple old chairs, some tools, boxes, and cans. Maybe someone else was back there, but I doubted it.

  Ronnie had a wary look stitched on, which I doubted helped with customers. But, then, she couldn’t have any idea who I was. I liked that her nails were ragged and torn and her hands smudged, as she cleaned them with a rag. So maybe she did fix things. I liked the openness of her face and the light blue of her eyes. In some vague way, I felt I’d seen her before. Otherwise, I didn’t have an opinion.

  “Are we alone?” I asked.

  “That’s a strange question, stranger, don’t you think?” she said, putting the rag on the counter. The countertop was solid, so I couldn’t see anything hidden behind it.

  “I mean, I’m curious how many visitors you get, with the center closed.”

  Ronnie shrugged. “A couple a week. Most people call me. They don’t visit. I do house calls.”

  “What do you tell them about Unitopia?”

  Ronnie smiled. A tight smile. “What can I help you with?”

  I didn’t like how she’d started to bend at the knees. Was already in the wrong mood or mode.

  I pulled out the gun, pointed it at her. It looked so small in my hand. I’d surprised myself. Had thought out so many subtle ways of questioning Ronnie. This wasn’t one of them.

  “Step away from the counter. With your hands where I can see them.”

  I held the gun tight-in to my body so no one passing by could see it past my bulk. Hell, they probably couldn’t see Ronnie.

  “I don’t keep any money here. There’s no safe or anything,” Ronnie said, hands in that universal “Don’t shoot” position. But calm, like she’d experienced this before or knew that it was coming. Or didn’t believe I’d shoot.

  “Money isn’t why I’m here,” I said.

  “I don’t think these parts will fetch much on the black market.”

  As if she hadn’t heard me. I didn’t appreciate the fearlessness. Defiance in the stance. Best to get to the point.

  “I want to know why your initials are scrawled on the bottom of a stand for a piece of taxidermy.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. A little too quickly. Not what she’d expected.

  “A hummingbird. Skillful job.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” A cold, appraising stare. Like she was weighing the odds of a jail break.

  “Silvina Vilcapampa.” Another client trick. If you want a reaction, strip out the context.

  A rapid blink, a wince, no way to hide it.

  “You know her?”

  No response.

  “You served two years for breaking and entering. As part of sabotage for an extremist environmental group.” Easy enough to get those records, once I had the name.

  “They were going to poison a river for a mine.”

  “Did you do that for Silvina, too?”

  No answer. But I realized it was probably before she’d met Silvina—the thing that had gotten Silvina’s attention.

  “And then you wound up here. Did Silvina set you up here? Did you run Unitopia?”

  “No one ran this place,” she said. “It was a commune of like-minded freethinkers.”

  “Who wanted to blow up things.”

  “No,” she said, in a quiet voice. “We just wanted to be left alone.”

  “Actually, not true. You wanted people to come here. You wanted to make more Unitopias.”

  A wild, strange light turned on behind her eyes. “And why not?” Defiant. “Why did everyone have such trouble with that? Waystations for rebirth. Centers for resistance. Haven’t you read the news? Do you think we couldn’t have used it?”

  “Except, on the side, you’re also a taxidermist,” I said. “Of extinct and endangered animals.”

  “No!”

  “Then why are your initials on the stand for a hummingbird?”

  With some difficulty, I’d managed to get my phone out with one hand and show her the image.

  She shrugged.

  “Why would Silvina give this to me?”

  That lit up her features, but I couldn’t read the emotion.

  “She gave you this?”

  “Yes. And a note saying I’m supposed to look for a salamander.”

  Such a complicated look on Ronnie’s face. Hope mixed with anger or sadness or…?

  “She always was paranoid. Didn’t trust people. Played games. Tricks. Tests.”

  “I don’t care about that. Why me?”

  A look I couldn’t interpret again. Wistful, strange.

  “Maybe it’s an experiment. She was big on experiments. Like, looking at you, maybe it’s ‘Will some giant-ass, middle-class suburban woman with no clue about anything be moved enough by the plight of the planet to…’” She trailed off.

  It took more than that to bait me.

  “To what? What is this giant-ass, middle-class suburban woman supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you know Langer, right? You must know Langer.”

  Something rigid about her dissolved; her hands wavered. Maybe it was just that she thought if I was asking about Langer, I wasn’t with Langer.

  “An asshole,” she said.

  “Seems like it.”

  We both relaxed, a little.

  “What were you to Silvina?”

  “I helped her. For a time.”

  This was like pulling teeth. Fusk all over again.

  “I got that already. But she hated the wildlife trade, so why taxidermy? Why did she have taxidermy?”

  “That was her business. Not my place to tell you.” Loss? Something she’d lost.

  “Where would I find a salaman
der?”

  She shrugged, folded her arms, considered me a moment. Was that a hint of a smirk?

  “There’s a warehouse full of this stuff. Abandoned. Silvina’s family owns it,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure I liked how easily she’d given that up.

  “Where?”

  She gave me the address. Not as far as I’d feared. East side of town, about half an hour from my house, and forty minutes from the storage palace.

  “I don’t know anything else. That’s literally the only thing I know. I’ve been out of her circle for a while.”

  “What circle?”

  “Friends of Silvina. Rebel angels.”

  I’d seen “Friends of Silvina” in Allie’s reports. That almost sounded like an organization. Hilariously innocuous, like a fund-raiser for fighting some disease.

  “Are they still around?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you leave because you realized what Silvina was really doing?”

  It just came out unintended.

  Her resistance stiffened. “How about we back up a step. How did you find me? And who do you work for?”

  Like I didn’t have a gun aimed at her.

  “I found you through a taxidermist named Carlton … Oh fuck—”

  Midsentence, she’d thrown an empty toolbox at my head, followed by a stool that smashed into my chest like a battering ram as she knocked the gun from my hand onto the floor. It made a terrible, sick sound, against the metal and stone.

  No match for me, but I hadn’t expected it, and, before I could recover, Ronnie had slid back across the counter and out the door to the back.

  I snatched up the gun, followed, quick but cautious, into the back—just in time to hear a splash. There was a kind of hangar door in the middle of the back room, wide open, with nothing but a nub of pontoon and water behind it. Ronnie was getting away by swimming across the lake to the forest beyond.

  At the lip where the slick black edge of Unitopia met water, I stood, braced with one arm and the other pointing a gun at Ronnie as she swam.