I’m sooo bored.
We’re sitting here and waiting, and we’ve been doing it for… I don’t know, but it must be hours by this point. A couple people have gotten off and trekked to the next station, but Elijah’s dad insists we should stay here, wait for Metro to get things fixed. I kinda agree. I don’t wanna walk through a dirty, dark tunnel, who knows how many miles. But sitting here isn’t so boring.
Everyone else has their phones out and are playing games, but I only have a shitty old flip-phone, my dad got it at Office Depot and buys minutes for it every couple months. It’s got Tetris, that’s it, and playing on the tiny little screen gives me a headache. Well, I already have a headache from the stuffy air in here, but playing a game would make it worse.
So I’m sitting on the floor, leaning against a pole. Every once in a while someone will decide to move to the other end of the train, and I’ll have to scooch over to let them through. That’s what qualifies as excitement around here.
I rest my forehead on my knees and wish I could go to sleep.
I hate waiting like this. There’s nothing worse. It reminds me of that day.
It was back in middle school, seventh grade to be exact. I don’t remember exactly when, except that it was a few weeks after Christmas break, when the weather was at its absolute coldest.
Mom was supposed to pick me up after school so I could go to an optometrist—one of the cheap ones where you get an eye exam and two pairs of glasses for sixty bucks. Grandma was paying for it—I wasn’t supposed to know, but I’d heard Mom and Dad talking about it a couple nights before. Money was tight right then. Dad had gotten laid off back before Thanksgiving and still hadn’t found work, and Mom’s hours at J.C. Penney’s had been cut after Christmas. But I needed new glasses. I’d been wearing the same pair since fourth grade, and it was to the point I couldn’t see the board if I wasn’t in the front row at school.
When classes let out, I went over to the parking lot instead of getting on the bus like normal. Mom had to work until three that day, and it was faster for her to come by the school than to drive all the way to our apartment. School ended at 3:20, so I figured she’d be waiting for me when I got outside. As I went around the side of the building, I looked around for her car but I didn’t see it. Still, I knew traffic could be bad at this time of day, so I didn’t think anything was wrong at first.
There were a few other kids waiting to be picked up, so I went over and joined them. I didn’t know any of them, except Rina Michaels who was in my gym class. She kinda nodded at me but didn’t say anything. We all stood there in silence, shuddering in the cold wind.
“God, I’m freezing my titties off,” an eighth grade boy said. He was hoping for a reaction, but when nobody laughed, he sneered at us.
Rina was the first to get picked up. Her mom came in a big purple SUV, with a golden retriever staring out from the back seat. It reared up and pawed at the window when it saw Rina, and started yapping when she got in.
The eighth grade boy got picked up a few minutes later, then the others disappeared one by one until only me and a blond boy who had headphones on were left. I didn’t have a cellphone back then, and didn’t have a watch either, so I had no way of checking the time. I wanted to ask the boy, but the way he was bopping his head to his music, I thought he might get mad if I interrupted him.
But it must’ve been fifteen minutes already. I could understand Mom being a little late if traffic were bad, but this was a bit much. The buses had pulled out already, so I didn’t have any choice but to keep waiting.
I shoved my hands deep in my coat pockets to keep them warm and stared at the flag in front of the school as it whipped in the wind.
I wondered if anything had happened to Mom? Had she been in an accident? I strained my ears but couldn’t hear any sirens. But Penney’s was way over in Gaithersburg. There was no way I could hear that far.
Or maybe somebody hadn’t shown up at work. It had happened before, she got asked to cover for someone at the last minute. I didn’t think she’d do it today, not with me waiting for her. But we did need money. And if it was just an extra hour… maybe.
Of course, there was another possibility. One I didn’t want to think about. Even worse than an accident.
What if she’d forgotten me? She had a habit of forgetting appointments, and she’d gotten in trouble at work because she thought she had the day off when she was on the schedule. Plus there was the time last summer when she’d promised to take me to the bookstore and didn’t remember even when I reminded her.
But this was different.
She couldn’t forget to pick her daughter up, could she? That was too much.
I was sure she’d have a good excuse for being late.
She had to.
I heard a car approaching, and I looked away from the flagpole expecting to see Mom’s blue Corolla. But it was a silver Honda with a teenage boy at the wheel—a high schooler, I guess. It rolled to a stop in front of me and the boy with the headphones got in. The door hadn’t even closed when it sped away.
I was alone. I knew there were still teachers and people inside, but outside, the school grounds were deserted except for me. I thought about going inside, asking one of the office ladies to call my dad, but I was afraid Mom would pull up the moment I went inside.
She had to be coming. I just needed to wait.
I took my backpack off and pulled my book out—I remember I was reading a Stephen King novel, The Tommyknockers, about a town that’s taken over by aliens. I only had a couple hundred pages to go (which in a Stephen King novel counts as being almost done), but I never finished the book. After what happened that day, I’ve never been able to pick it up again. It’s still sitting on a shelf at home, but the bookmark hasn’t moved since that day.
Even that afternoon I wasn’t able to make any progress. It was too cold to take my mittens off, and turning the pages with them on was nearly impossible, even if the wind hadn’t been blowing so hard that any time I lifted my fingers, I’d lose my place. But I didn’t have anything else to do, so I forced myself to read, even if it took ten minutes to get through one page.
Every time I finished a paragraph, I’d look up, hoping to see Mom’s car coming. I’d peer down the street in both directions, and if I saw anything remotely bluish, I’d watch intently until I could be sure it wasn’t her.
The sky was overcast, and the streetlights started coming on.
Now I was getting worried. My appointment had been for four-fifteen, and it had to be long past that. Maybe I should try walking home? How far was it? The bus took ten minutes to get here, but a lot of that was spent picking students up and waiting at stoplights. The trip couldn’t be more than five miles, and probably closer to two or three.
I could walk that. Probably. It meant crossing some major roads, though.
The better idea would be to go inside before the school closed up and ask someone to call my dad. It’d be embarrassing though. Mom would kill me, making her look negligent. I couldn’t do that.
I headed towards the road, but then I stopped. Even if we couldn’t make the appointment, there was still a chance she might come. If I wasn’t there, she’d panic. She’d go into the school and raise hell. They might even call the cops.
I really should let someone know. An adult could figure out what to do.
A car pulled into the parking lot. For a second my heart leapt, but then I saw it was a purple SUV. It pulled up to where I’d been waiting earlier and parked. Nobody got out. A few minutes later another car came, then a van.
The door to the school opened and a bunch of kids came pouring out, all boys, all laughing and shouting at each other. I recognized a couple of them—Todd Sickles and Bryan Frazer—and knew they were on the basketball team. They musta been getting out of practice.
Most of the boys got in the waiting cars, but a handful stuck around, still laughing and horsing around.
I’d wandered halfway down the parking lot, and I didn’t want to go back now, not with them there. They’d want to know what I was doing out here and I didn’t wanna explain. Todd wasn’t too bad—I’d let him copy my math homework once and he’d given me a Jolly Rancher for it—but Bryan was always making fun of my hair and the way it frizzes out everywhere. At the beginning of the year in Social Studies, he’d been assigned the seat behind me and kept complaining that he couldn’t see the board, so Mr. Moreland had made us switch seats, putting me all the way in the back. Anytime I had to get up in class, he’d stick his foot out and try to trip me.
A van pulled in and Todd got aboard. He said something to the driver—his mom?—and then waved one of the other boys to join them. As the van left, Bryan said something to the two remaining boys and they laughed. Then one of them noticed me and pointed. Bryan made a comment and they all laughed again. I was too far away to hear, but I was sure he was making fun of me. One of the boys made a poof gesture around his head. Yeah, they were definitely making fun of me.
I leaned against a lamppost with my back to them and tried to read again. I knew the post couldn’t hide me, and I knew they were still talking about me, but I acted otherwise.
But it didn’t work.
Bryan and his friends blocked me in on three sides, the lamppost on the fourth.
“Hi,” I said.
“You know that’s rude.”
“You saw us standing over there, you didn’t come over to say hi.”
“Di’ncher momma teach you ta be polite?” one of the other boys said. He was more than six feet tall, and there were tiny, curling whiskers on his cheek.
“We can’t hear ya,” Bryan said. “Speak up.”
“I said, I guess.”
I looked down at my book, wishing I was at home in my room where I could read it in peace.
Bryan snatched it from me. “Tommyknockers? What’s that?”
“Sci-fi shit, huh?”
“You’re a whore?” the third boy said. He had red hair and so many zits that his face was almost the same color.
“Yeah, fi’ dollahs,” Bryan shouted.
“Whatcha doin’ back here? You gotta walk the streets you wanna get some tricks,” the tall boy said.
“Maybe she’s hopin’ to hustle some teachers,” the redhead said. “Betcha Mr. Morales would take her.”
Even though it was freezing out, my face was burning. I blinked five times quick, trying to keep the tears from building up behind my eyelids, but I could feel them squeezing into the corners of my eyes.
“I don’t know he could afford fiiiii’ dollahs,” Bryan said. “Make it two-fiddy for around the world, though…”
All the boys laughed.
“You’re never gonna make money like this,” Bryan said. “You gotta show some hustle. C’mon.” He grabbed me by the shoulder and tugged me towards the street.
I dug my feet in and tried to stay put, but the tall boy got behind me and shoved. I stumbled forward and had to keep going so I wouldn’t fall. They pulled me all the way to the street. Cars were whizzing by, and I prayed that this would be the point when my mother finally showed up. But of course she didn’t.
“Hey man, she fi’ dollahs!” Bryan waved at the passing cars while pointing at me.
The other boys thought this was the most hilarious thing ever.
“Hey, you’re never gonna attract no one you just stand like that,” the tall boy said.
“Yeah,” Bryan said. “You gotta flaunt it.”
“What’s she got to flaunt?” the redhead said. “No tits, no hips.”
“Booty’s not bad,” the tall boy said.
“You serious?” Bryan said.
“A great poet once said, ‘I like big butts.’” He turned back to me. “C’mon girl, shake it.”
What the hell did they want from me? If they were gonna spit in my face and call me names, I could’ve taken it. I’d been putting up with that since elementary school. But right then I wanted to run out into the street, I didn’t care if cars were coming or not.
“C’mon, just walk down the street. Walk to the corner and back.”
I did what they said.
“Nah, nah, you gotta swing that ass,” the tall boy yelled at me.
“Shake it so cars will stop,” Bryan said.
“Fi’ dollahs! Fi’ dollahs!” the redhead was shouting.
I reached the corner and turned around. The three boys were leering at me.
“Hey, you know what,” the tall boy said, “I got five bucks. Whatcha say?”
He pulled a wallet out of his pants and took out a bunch of ones.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and ran back towards the school. I couldn’t wait outside anymore. I didn’t care if Mom showed up, I didn’t care if she got pissed that I wasn’t there.
“Now she’s shakin’ that thing,” the redhead shouted.
“Betcha she’s tiiiiight,” the tall boy said.
But they were satisfied with talking. They didn’t come after me.
I headed straight to the entrance, only slowing long enough to pull the doors open.
Custodians were mopping the lobby, and I slipped on the wet floor, planting my butt on the linoleum hard.
“Hey, no running in here.”
I looked up and it was Mr. Morales. He was my English teacher.
When he saw me, he checked his watch. “What’re you doing here? I didn’t think you were in any clubs.”
“I’m not.” I stood up. My legs were all wobbly now, and my heart was pounding a million times a second. I could barely breathe.
I wanted to tell him about Bryan and the other boys, but that would only create trouble. More for me than them. The worst that would happen to them was they’d get detention, if they even got worse than a lecture. But they’d want revenge on me. I could avoid the two boys I didn’t know, but I had three classes with Bryan. And he might repeat those things he was saying. He was part of the cool gang, so even if nobody actually believed him, they’d start repeating them too.
So instead I say, “My mom was supposed to pick me up. I have an optima—optora—oppo—” I couldn’t get the word right in my mouth, so finally I said, “An eye doctor, supposed to go see today.”
“When was that?”
“Supposed to be four-fifteen. She was gonna pick me up right after school.”
“It’s almost five.”
I’d known it was late, but that late? Now I was really worried. Something bad must’ve happened.
“You don’t have a phone?” Mr. Morales said.
I shook my head.
He pulled out his own cell phone. “What’s your mother’s number?”
I told him and he dialed. It rang and rang and finally went to voice mail.
“Uh, yes, Mrs. Kratstein, this is Mr. Morales from McClellan Middle. I’m here with your daughter, and she’s worried about you. If you could give me a call when you get this, thanks.” He hung up. “What about your father?”
“He doesn’t have a phone right now.” Well, he did, but he’d run out of minutes and couldn’t afford any more.
“Do you have a home phone?”
I shook my head.
He gestured for me to follow him, and he went to the office. He and the office ladies talked for a minute, then one of them got Principal Liu and they all had a chat. I hung back in a corner, as though the conversation had nothing to do with me. Every once in a while, one of the office ladies would glance over at me and smile sympathetically, which made me feel even more pathetic.
After about five minutes, Mr. Morales came back over to me. “I’m going to give you a ride home. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” That’s all I wanted right then. To get home and see my father and find out what was going on.
Mr. Morales led me back to the parking lot. Bryan wasn’t around, but his two friends from the basketball team were still out there. For a moment when they saw Mr. Morales and me, they looked scared, but once they realized we weren’t heading towards them, their expressions relaxed. They started laughing. One of them made a cocksucking gesture—I didn’t know what it was back then; I only realized it in eighth grade when I heard some girls gossiping in the locker room. I’m glad I was ignorant back then, otherwise I would’ve broken down crying right there.
We got into Mr. Morales’ car, which smelled of cigarettes and air freshener. He docked his phone on the dash and it started playing classic rock, that song where the singer has a super deep voice and keeps repeating, “Breathe in, breathe out.” It was a good song to play. It reminded me to keep breathing.
I wanted nothing more than to zone out, but Mr. Morales didn’t know where I lived and I had to keep telling him, “Turn left here,” and “take the next right.” Once my mind drifted, and we missed a turn, had to go down a couple blocks and make a U-turn, but he didn’t get mad at me. Even though I was being a bother, making him do all this, he understood.
We finally got to the apartment complex. I thought he’d just drop me off in the parking lot and leave, but he insisted on coming up with me. I was kinda grateful. I didn’t wanna be alone. But I was afraid he was going to chew my dad out, and I didn’t want that. It wasn’t Dad’s fault he didn’t have a working phone. We didn’t have money for it.
When we got to my apartment, I reached for the knob, but Mr. Morales stopped me and knocked instead.
The door didn’t open, and there was no sound inside.
Mr. Morales tried again, louder this time, but it was no different. At last he nodded for me to open up.
The door was locked and I had to use my key. There wasn’t anything strange about that—there was a convenience store behind our apartment complex, and Dad walked down there all the time—but even so, my stomach did a flop. I knew right then, something was seriously wrong. He hadn’t popped out for a Slim-Jim and scratch-off.
The inside was dark and there was no sign of Dad at all. Two possibilities flashed through my mind. The first was that Mom had been in an accident and Dad had rushed to the hospital. But though that was the most realistic possibility, my brain fastened on the other one: What if Mom and Dad had run away? Money was tight, and a lot of that was because of me. Last fall Mom had been complaining about the cost of my school supplies, and that was when Dad still had a job; and one night around Thanksgiving, I’d heard her and Dad talking after they thought I was asleep, and Mom said she was worried how much it’d cost when I hit my growth spurt. They’d given me a good Christmas—I’d gotten five books, one of them a hardcover, not to mention two new T-shirts, a pair of jeans and a set of socks, though I suspected Grandma had paid for the clothes—but even at the age of twelve, I could sense that they overspent. Mom had cut back on beer and cigarettes, and Dad had stopped buying lottery tickets. The one time we’d ordered pizza recently, it was because we saw a commercial for a buy-one-get-one deal.
So could they’ve …?
Could they’ve ditched me?
Is that what had happened?
I knew it was ridiculous. They both loved me. But once the thought crossed my mind, I couldn’t shake it. It was all I could think about.
Mr. Morales was on his phone. I think he was talking to Principal Liu. “Yeah, I dunno… No, let’s not do that yet. I wanna go by her mom’s work first, see if they know anything… Yeah, I’ll keep you informed.” He hung up and looked at me. “You all right?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t open my mouth because I knew anything I’d say would come out as a sob.
“You said your mom works at Macy’s?”
“J.C. Penney’s,” I managed to squeak.
“The one at White Flint Mall?”
“Okay, let’s go over there.”
I followed him back to his car and we drove over to the mall. He kept trying to get me to talk on the way, but I answered anything he asked with a “Mmm-hmm,” or “uh-uh,” and after a while he gave up.
It was totally dark when we got to the mall, and the parking lot was mostly empty. Mr. Morales parked near the store and we went inside.
“Excuse me,” he said to the first employee he saw, a woman who was hanging up a rack of new clothes, “we’re looking for someone. Is there a Mrs. Kratstein here?”
The employee looked at him dumbly.
“What’s her first name?” he asked me.
“Karen,” I said.
“Oh,” the employee said. It was only a single word, but the way she said it was not good. She looked around and spotted another employee. “Wait here.”
She went over to the second employee and started talking. They were too far away for me to hear much, but I caught my mom’s name, and then the second employee looked over at us. There was something unpleasant about his expression, like he was looking at a piece of dog doo that had been left in the middle of the floor. He said something more, and then wandered off.
The first employee came back to us. “Sorry, could you just wait for a minute. We’re getting a manager.”
What did that mean? If she knew what had happened to my mom, why didn’t she just say so? Why did she need her boss?
“Is everything all right?” Mr. Morales asked.
“Everything’s … yeah.” She shuffled her feet and looked back at the rack she’d been putting away, like she wished she could get back to work, but wasn’t sure she should leave us alone.
After a couple of long, awkward minutes, the second employee reappeared with another woman. He pointed to us and she nodded, then both the employees went back to their tasks, though they kept casting glances our way.
The new woman was Mr. Morales’s age, with her hair done up in tight braids. As she approached us, she put on a wide, fake smile. “Hello,” she said with an accent I’d never heard before, “may I help you?” I’d never seen her before in my life, but I’d heard Mom talk about work enough to realize this must be the store manager, Miss Imelda.
“Yes,” Mr. Morales said and introduced himself. “I’m a teacher at Wright Middle. This is Persephone, one of my students. Her mom was supposed to pick her up today after school, but she never showed up. We’re wondering if you know what happened to her?”
Imelda’s smile turned extra fake. “You’re Karen’s daughter, eh? Well look at you, you’re so cute. Yes.”
I didn’t react. Neither did Mr. Morales.
“Yes, Karen was … there was an issue with her employment.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Karen no longer works here.”
“Did she quit or was she fired?”
“I’m not allowed to discuss personnel matters.”
“We need to know where she is.” Mr. Morales was getting pissed. He was using the same voice he used when people were goofing off in class. “If you won’t tell us, we’re going to need to call the police so they can start a search.”
Imelda looked over at the employee we’d first talked to. She was hanging skirts on a rack. Imelda stepped closer to us and lowered her voice. “The police know where she is. They have her.”
“What?” I said. That didn’t make any sense.
Imelda dropped her smile. “Your mother was caught stealing. She was reprinting receipts and using them to make refunds to her credit card. Our loss prevention supervisor noticed something was odd and he investigated. We had her arrested when she came in this morning.”
“No!” That was a lie. That was a fucking lie. My mother would never do something like that.
“Now if you are not making any purchases, I would please ask you to leave.”
After we left the store, Mr. Morales called Mr. Liu and told him what was going on, and Mr. Liu said he’d find out where my mother was.
While we waited, Mr. Morales took me down to the food court and bought me a slice of pizza. I didn’t feel like eating, but I could feel my stomach grumbling so I forced myself. I might as well’ve been chewing cardboard for all that I tasted it.
For his part, Mr. Morales only had a smoothie—bright neon red, I remember that clearly for some reason. He sat across from me, sucking slowly at it and not saying anything. I was so grateful. The last thing I wanted was to talk.
How could Mom get arrested? How could she be stealing? One of my earliest memories was of being in a 7-Eleven with Mom. She was buying some smokes, and when she wasn’t looking I went wandering down the candy aisle. I caught sight of some yummy looking candy—Gobstoppers, I think, or one of them that comes in a little bright box. I couldn’t’ve been more than three at the time, the age when you think everything in the world belongs to you, so I grabbed it off the shelf not knowing it was any big deal.
My mom yelled at me to get over to her, but she didn’t look at me, so she didn’t see I was carrying the box of candy. She grabbed my hand—the empty one, that is—and dragged me towards the door, lecturing me about how I had to stay with at all times. And that’s when the clerk started yelling. “Hey, hey! You didn’t pay for that.”
At first my mom didn’t realize he was talking to us and kept going, but the clerk went shouting, “Excuse me! Hey! Miss!”
Finally my mom looked back and saw the guy was pointing at me, and she looked down and saw I had the box in my hand. “What are you doing?” she said and she smacked me upside the head.
I dropped the candy and she picked it up.
“You don’t take things that aren’t yours.”
She put the box onto the nearest shelf, but that just got the clerk yelling at her again. “Hey, that doesn’t belong there.” Mom glared at him, then went down the candy aisle. It took her a moment to find the right spot, then she apologized to the clerk. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve watched her.”
“Uh-huh,” the clerk said.
She grabbed me by the shoulder and ushered me outside, then over to the car. She got me inside and buckled up, then she looked around to make sure nobody could see us, and she slapped me hard across the cheek. “What do you think you were doing? I’ve never been so embarrassed. You do not steal. Do you know what happens to people who steal?” She shook me by the shoulders. “The police come and arrest you and take you to jail, and you go in with all the bad people, and they do bad things to you. Do you want that?”
I remember her face was right in front of mine and she was screaming at the top of her lungs. I started to cry, but she slapped me again. “If you ever do that again, I will give you something to really cry about. Trust me on that.”
When we got home, she’d put me in my room and didn’t let me come out until dinner—and even then, only because Dad made her.
And now she’d gone and done this?
How could she be such a hypocrite? Had she even believed what she’d told me back then? Or was she just mad that I’d been caught?
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
I’d waited at school in the freezing cold.
I’d put up with Bryan and his friends.
I’d been humiliated in front of Mr. Morales.
Who knew what would happen if word got around school.
And it was all her fault.
All of it.
I should’ve been at home, watching Jeopardy with my brand new glasses while Dad fixed dinner. But instead I was gnawing on lukewarm pizza in a mall with my English teacher. Because Mom stole from work.
I looked down at my pizza. I’d eaten most of it. What was left was mostly crust. I sipped my soda to clear the grease from my mouth and wiped my lips.
“Done?” Mr. Morales said.
He checked his phone, but Mr. Liu hadn’t called back yet. “I think there’s a bookstore around here. Do you wanna go look?”
I didn’t wanna, but … I had no place to be, nothing to do.
We got up and I took my tray to the trashcan while Mr. Morales consulted a map of the mall. It turned out the bookstore was all the way on the far end, and we had to walk past practically every store in the mall to get there. Given how cold it was, and how soon after Christmas, the place was mostly deserted. There were probably more people working than actual customers.
When we got to the bookstore, I poked around the shelves, but in my mood nothing caught my eye. Horror was too dark, classics too dry. Fantasy was bullshit.
I wandered through the aisles in a daze, and eventually found myself in the rearmost corner of the store. I wished I could curl up there and go to sleep. Maybe when I woke up, everything would be gone—poof—a dream. It’d be nice, but I knew it couldn’t happen.
Instead I picked up a book from the shelf. Weird, it was backwards. The front cover had the plot description, and the back had an illustration of a girl in a funny outfit, it looked like something Donald Duck would wear, except she had a skirt on, too. The Disappearance of Nagato Yuki-chan? When I opened it up, I discovered it was a comic of some kind, but I couldn’t figure out what was going on. The dialogue was all jumbled, like characters weren’t responding to each other.
“You like manga?” Mr. Morales asked.
I jumped. He’d been off in the main fiction section the last I saw of him.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Oh. They’re Japanese comics.”
“I think this one’s messed up. They have the dialogue in the wrong order or something.”
“No, actually. The Japanese read backwards. You’ve gotta start on the right and work your way left.”
“They probably think the same about us.”
I opened the book again and gave it another try. Forcing myself to go backwards took a lot of effort, but the story made more sense this way. Kinda. I was in the middle of the story, so I didn’t understand any of the plot, but the conversations at least flowed logically.
“Why don’t they just flip the pictures?” I asked.
“It messes some things up,” Mr. Morales said. “Everyone becomes left handed, maps are backwards, keyboards are backwards. Sometimes there are signs with English letters on them, those are backwards. Oh, and in baseball people end up running the wrong way.”
“Oh.” I guess that made sense, but it still seemed kind of annoying. “Do you read this stuff?”
“Some of it. A lot of it’s … kinda not good. But the good stuff is great.”
He examined the shelf and pulled a book off. “This one, for instance, is one of the best.”
The cover showed a simple line drawing of an wicked looking girl. She had on a button-down shirt with a loose, drooping bowtie around her neck. Why did all the Japanese girls dress so weird? The title on the cover said The Flowers of Evil. It sounded like the sorta thing I’d normally like, though I wasn’t much in the mood at the moment. Still, I took it from Mr. Morales and flipped through the first few pages.
There was this boy in middle school who liked to read weird books. Even his friends made fun of him for it. He had class with this beautiful girl who got good grades, and he had all kinds of dirty thoughts about her, even though she never talked to him. But there was another girl. She sat behind him, and she was a real freak. At the start of the story, the teacher yelled at her in front of the entire class for turning in a blank test paper, but instead of being chagrined or taking it meekly, she screamed back at him, “Shut up, shitbug!”—when I got to that line, I laughed despite myself. The teacher was so pissed at the girl that he went to slap her, but she stared at him so intently that he stopped himself and quietly told her to go sit down.
That girl was cool. I wished I could be that way. To tell off anyone who pissed me off. To stare down Bryan and his friends and make them run away in fear of me. That’d be cool.
“You like it?” Mr. Morales asked.
I went to put it back on the shelf, but he stopped me. “Here, I’ll buy it for you.”
“No, you don’t have to.” He was taking pity on me. I didn’t want pity. This wasn’t his problem. He’d already done enough by driving me around and buying me dinner.
“I insist,” he said.
We went up to the registers and checked out.
As we were leaving the store, Mr. Liu called, said he’d found my Mom.
We had to go back to Rockville to find my mom. It was the middle of rush hour and the highway was clogged, though since we were headed against the rush, things were less bad for us. We moved down 270 at a steady pace, while the oncoming lane was a frozen river of headlights.
We reached the jail in half an hour. Mr. Morales parked and got out of the car, but I just sat there. I didn’t want to go inside. I didn’t want to see my mother. I was going to cry if I did. Or yell at her. Or maybe both. I didn’t know.
Mr. Morales came around to my side of the car and opened the door. “C’mon, Purse.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out. I trudged across the parking lot and to the front entrance. Mr. Morales held the door for me and we went inside.
The lobby was brightly lit, with the heat cranked up to make the room nice and toasty. There were brightly colored plastic chairs, and tables with magazines, just like any other waiting room. If you were magically transported there, you wouldn’t’ve realized you were in a jail.
As long as you ignored the people.
Despite the warm, cheery look of the room, you could feel the grimness the moment you walked inside. Like a dentist’s office where everyone in the lobby was waiting for a root canal. One taste of the air and I wanted to leave. Even if the only way I’d ever see my mother again was to come through this room, I would’ve preferred to never see her again.
But Mr. Morales ushered me over to the reception desk.
“May I help you?” a woman said in a tone that made clear she had no desire to help anyone.
“Ah, yes. I’m James Morales. I teach over at Wright Middle …” He trailed off, realizing the woman was barely listening. “I have a student here. She was supposed to be picked up by her mother this afternoon, but she never showed up. We’ve been told she might be here?”
“Kratstein,” Mr. Morales said.
The woman pecked at her computer, examined the scream. “Yup, she’s here.”
“What about my father?” I asked.
“Was he arrested too?” the woman said.
My face colored. “I don’t think so.”
“Then I wouldn’t know, now would I?”
The tears were about to come. Where was Daddy? Where the hell had he gone? Why had he left me?
Mr. Morales put a hand on my shoulder, but he misinterpreted what I was thinking. “Can she go back and see her mother?”
No! That was the last thing I wanted. Absolutely not!
“She needs a parent or guardian present.”
“As a teacher, I’m in loco parentis.”
“She needs a parent or guardian.”
“Jesus, woman. Do you have any humanity?”
The woman stared at him.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. I had to whisper. If I spoke up, my voice was going to crack.
I turned around. I needed to get out of there. I needed to get outside, where the air didn’t taste like poison. But I’d only taken one step when I noticed a man standing up on the far side of the waiting room. “Daddy?”
Mr. Morales turned around when he heard me.
Dad ran across the room, moving up and down aisles and dodging around chairs. “Persephone.” He dropped to his knees in front of my and hugged me tight. I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his chest and started crying.
There was another man with Dad, a lawyer from the public defender’s office. He had on a purple shirt with a Daffy Duck tie—even though we met him plenty of times over the next few months, that’s the outfit I’ll always remember him wearing. Dad introduced him as Mr. Freeman, but he insisted I call him Gabe.
They’d been having a conversation before I came in, and once I’d calmed down, we all went back to the rear corner of the room to talk.
“So as I was saying,” Gabe said, “the store’s accusing Karen of stealing one thousand and seventeen dollars. The threshold to make this a felony is one grand, so she’s just north of that. I’d almost think the company waited so they could bust her on felony charges. She’ll be arraigned tomorrow. I’d expect bail to be around 10k.”
“I can’t afford that,” Dad said.
“A bail bondsman will pay it if you put up ten percent, non-refundable.”
“I don’t have a job right now, man. I couldn’t afford it if it were a hundred bucks.”
“You have family you could get it from?”
Dad shook his head.
“Then she’ll have to stay in jail until the trial. Good news is, it’ll be counted as time served.”
“Yeah, that’s good news.” Dad snorted.
“I know it’s tough, but I’m trying to be honest here.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Since this is right on the threshold, our best hope is to argue this down to a misdemeanor. Even if we can’t prove her innocence, we only have to knock seventeen bucks off the charge. Or, we can plea bargain—that’ll be up to her, of course. I just wanna give you an idea of what you’re facing. For a felony conviction, she’s on the hook for up to ten years in prison, though as a first timer, it’d be more like eighteen months. If it’s a misdemeanor, eighteen months would be the maximum. Our best bet would be to strike a deal where she does the eighteen, but it’s written on her record as a misdemeanor. Most job applications only ask about felonies, so it wouldn’t destroy her job prospects.”
“Sounds good, I guess,” Dad said.
“I’ve told all this to Karen. She’s going to sleep on it overnight, make her decision in the morning.”
“Okay.” Dad rubbed his face. “Can Persephone get in to see her tonight?”
Gabe checked his watch. “Should be able to.”
I didn’t want to, but Gabe talked to the woman at the desk and arranged for me and my dad to go back. I expected it to be one of those rooms like you see in movies, with the glass partition and you have to speak into a phone, but they put us in a cafeteria-type room instead. Well, it was like a cafeteria if cafeterias had armed guards in the corner. We had to wait for five minutes before they brought Mom in.
“Honey,” she said when she saw me, “I’m so sorry. I meant to be there. Really, I did.”
I didn’t say anything.
“It’s just …”
I didn’t even look at her.
“I said shut up!”
Mom looked like I’d punched her.
“How could you do this to us?”
“It was for you. I needed… with your dad outta work…”
“You’re blaming me?” Dad said.
“You… you know one income’s not enough. We were struggling with two. Your unemployment’s barely enough to cover water and electric. We needed—”
“Don’t you do this,” Dad said. “Don’t you dare. Not in front of Purse.”
Mom looked at us, her eyes swinging from me to Dad and back again. “You think I’m the bad guy here?”
Dad sighed. “I think… it might be best if you don’t come home. You get outta here, go stay with your mom.”
“You can’t kick me outta my own apartment. Who do you think pays the rent?”
“That is not the issue.” Dad stood up. “C’mon, Purse.”
I stood too, and we headed back for the lobby.
“Don’t hate me, Purse,” Mom said as we walked away.
Mr. Morales gave my dad a ride back to the mall, where we picked up Mom’s car and drove home.
“You two going to be all right?” he asked along the way.
“I dunno,” Dad said. “Honestly, I don’t. Rent’s paid for the month, and all the bills, but February’s a short month. Even if I got a job tomorrow, I’d be lucky to have one paycheck between now and the end of the month.”
“What did you do before?” Mr. Morales asked.
“I was a loading dock manager. Made good money too. But then the company decided they didn’t need the distribution center, they let everyone go.”
“So you have management experience?”
“I suppose you could call it that. Mainly told guys to move their asses faster.”
“I might know something,” Mr. Morales said.
A couple days later, he asked me to stay behind after class and gave me a number to call. Turned out the head of custodial services for Parker Elementary had won the lottery—not the big jackpot, but like two, three million—and decided to quit, no notice. Mr. Morales was friends with the woman who did hiring for the school district, and recommended my dad to her.
The job didn’t pay half so well as his old one, but it did pay, and that’s what counted. We had to move in with my aunt for a while, though, and even when Dad could afford a new place, it was much smaller than the old one.
Not that it mattered. Mom pled guilty to a misdemeanor and was sentenced to eighteen months. She got out after only four, but Dad wouldn’t let her come home. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t want her around either. She moved back with her parents and got another job, got fired, got another, got fired. She’d call Dad and beg for money, but he refused until she threatened to go to court—he tried to hide it from me, but in a tiny apartment there was nowhere he could talk on the phone without me hearing.
Eventually she started getting arrested again. Dad wouldn’t tell me what for, but I heard him and Aunt Sophie talking and they said Mom was charged with soliciting—I guess she was working as a door-to-door saleswoman and got busted for being in one of the fancy neighborhoods where they’ll call the cops on strangers walking around. I didn’t think that was a serious crime, but it counted as a probation violation and she had to go back to jail for the rest of her sentence. By the time she got out, she and Dad were divorced.
“Hey, whatcha doing.” Somebody kicks me in the thigh—only a little tap, but it jolts me back to reality.
It’s Ed. He’s towering over me.
I shake my head. “I dunno.”
“Hey, c’mon back with us.” He jerks his head towards the end of the car where Krissy, Tim and Jay are all gathered. Out of everyone on the train, they’re the only ones making any significant noise. Mrs. Hurlburt’s been back to quiet them down a couple times, but they start inching the volume back up the moment she leaves, and within a few minutes they’re back to laughing and shouting like before.
“I dunno,” I say.
“Whottsa matter? We got AIDS or something?”
“Then stop being a gloomy gopher.”
He extends a hand towards me. I don’t wanna take it, but I know he’s not going to leave me alone if I don’t, so…
I stand up on my own. My legs are stiff from sitting down too long, and I wobble on my way to the back of the car.
“Dude, you see lesbians everywhere,” Tim says. “Two girls hold hands or hug, you assume they’re lezzie.”
“Lesbians are everywhere,” Jay says. “All girls secretly are.”
“We are not,” Krissy says.
“Riiiight,” Jay says. Then he sees me. “Hey. Wallet, right?”
“Yeah. What do you say? You got a lesbian side?”
“Would you ever make out with a girl?”
I laugh. Like I’m ever going to have a chance to make out with anybody, boy or girl. I’ve thought about it. Some of my favorite manga are yuri series like Bloom Into You and Kase-san. If real girls were like that… “Yeah, maybe. I guess. I dunno.”
“Hawt!” Tim says.
“Pervs.” Krissy rolls her eyes. Then she glares at me for some reason.
“Okay,” Ed says. “So who’d you wanna do it with?”
“Like, out of all the girls here, who turns you on.”
“No one, really.” I’ve never actually thought about it in real life.
“Come on,” Jay says, “you and Faythe would be awesome together. Hot chick and dorky girl—” Krissy punches his shoulder “—is always hot.”
“Uh. Okay.” Why did I come back here? I don’t wanna be back here. I should’ve told Ed to leave me alone. And if he hadn’t, I could’ve gone to talk with my father, that’d scare Ed away, I’m sure.
“Oh yeah,” Tim says. “I’d pay to see that.”
I wish I could be anywhere but right here right now.
“Can you guys go five minutes without masturbating?” Krissy says.
“Maybe if I was getting a blowjob,” Jay says. “Maybe.”
I wanna turn and leave, but my feet are rooted to the floor. I feel like when Bryan and his friends were pushing me around. Please. Let me go. Let me go. Let me get away from here.
Suddenly the door next to us opens. A man comes through from the next car.
For a moment I think I’m saved. Maybe he’s a rescuer, or the driver come to tell us we have to walk to the next station, or just some guy who needs an aspirin. I don’t care as long as he gets me out of this conversation.
But then I get a good look at the man. There’s something wrong with his face. Half of it’s twisted in agony, but the other half is slack and expressionless. Blood’s dripping from his scalp, which has a bloody hole in it—a deep, deep hole—too deep, way, way, oh my God, is that his brain I can see?
“Therrrere,” he says and falls forward. He topples on top of me and I go down with him, his blood spurting across my face.
As I fall, I see something moving in the next car. Something big, with a lotta, lotta legs, and glowing green eyes.
To Be Continued...
Help me! Help!
I’m being crushed.
When I try to breathe, all that comes in is dirt and I end up coughing it straight back out. My eyes are on fire—which is weird, because they’re flooded with tears, too—and my throat feels like somebody’s shoving a scrub brush down it.
I’m going to die.
Great Selene, I’m going to die crushed and choking on dirt.
I have my sister, my parents.
My dog Brewster. If I don’t get home, who’s going to feed him? What if nobody realizes I’m dead until it’s too late, and he starves to death, alone and forgotten. What’ll he think? That I abandoned him?
I’ve gotta get outta here.
I flex my arms, but there’s nowhere for them to flex. I claw my fingers, and thick, dry dirt squeezes through them, but … I can’t move. The weight on me, I’m immobilized.
Ah! Ow! Damn. More weight just fell on me. Please, stop. This is already too much.
No, wait. Something’s moving above me.
The weight, I think it’s getting less … I think … or maybe I’m losing consciousness.
I was dreaming. The worst dream I’ve ever had. I’d been in DC, and somehow I’d been trapped underground when an earthquake hit and I’d been buried under a ton of dirt.
“C’mon, Lori, wake up.”
I open my mouth and… what’s that taste? It’s like a mud pie, but dry and gritty and… my body shudders. I’ve got something in my throat, and when I breathe in--blehgh.
“Roll her over, quick.”
I’m on my belly. Or not quite. Somebody has their hands around my waist, keeping me from lying flat.
I convulse and vomit. It hurts! Oh Selene, it hurts! And not the normal way vomiting hurts. Oh no, this is far worse. Like somebody’s ripping my insides out.
“She needs water.”
I keep vomiting and coughing, and it won’t stop. I try to fight it. I need a chance to breathe, but my body doesn’t want anything getting into me.
I go on like this forever and I want to die. I don’t care. If it’ll make this stop, I don’t care. Let me die. Let this end.
At last I’m able to breathe. When I do, the air comes in a rough, jittering stream, like a car AC that’s on the verge of dying. The back of my mouth tastes hot and vile, and my throat burns.
But I can breathe.
Thank the Goddess, I can breathe!
I try looking around, but my neck twinges at the slightest movement. I have to twist my waist around—that still hurts, but it’s a dull, manageable soreness.
I’m in the dark. The only light is coming from a phone in the hand of a dark and shadowy figure.
“You okay?” His voice is familiar. My boss at the gift shop. I grope for his name. I should know it. We’ve been working together three, four days a week for two years, but all that’s coming up is ████.
“No,” I croak. “What happened?”
“I dunno, an earthquake or something.”
I vaguely remember that. Everything had started shaking and then—the others? Where are the others? Where’re … where’re … their names aren’t coming to me either. ██████ and ████ and █████████. I can see their faces in my head, but why can’t I think of their names?
“I found another one,” a woman says. It’s … it’s … oh Goddess, what is her name? My co-worker, she’d been in the gift shop earlier. “Gimme a hand.”
“Here.” ████ hands me his phone, then he gets on the ground with the girl.
There’s another phone lying on the ground, its flashlight on but shining at the ceiling where it doesn’t do much good.
I hold ████’s phone up to shine the light on him and the woman. Yes, that’s definitely her, my coworker. She’s facing away from me, but the way she’s crouching reveals the tattoo on her lower back, a Native American Thunderbird with its wings stretched out over her buttocks.
There’s another person next to her—██████! The cutie from my group. He’s alive.
The tunnel in front of them is filled with dirt that’s fallen in from the ceiling. Is that what I’d been under? No wonder I feel like a piano fell on me.
“C’mon, pull.” My coworker’s gotten a figure half uncovered, and now she and my boss are pulling him out. It’s that science guy—my mind’s blanking on his name, too, though I do remember that a lot of people called him by his initials … BLT? LGBT? No, those aren’t right.
“He’s not breathing,” Coworker says. “Brad, can you CPR him?”
Brad! Brad! That’s my boss’s name. How could I not remember something so simple?
“Yeah. I’ll try,” he says.
They’ve got the science guy loose now, and they drag him down the tunnel a ways. I have to step out of the way to let them pass.
“You get back to digging,” Brad tells Coworker and Cutie. “Lor, get the light up so I can see.”
I hold his phone as high as I can get it. Brad presses his fingers to the science guy’s throat for what seems like an awfully long time.
“Nope,” he mutters, and repositions himself. He presses his hands onto the guy’s chest and pumps them up and down. I’ve only ever seen CPR in movies, and the way Brad’s doing it is nothing like that. In the movies, mouth-to-mouth is the main part, with the actors spending whole minutes blowing into the victim’s throat, then getting up to do a couple pumps. But Brad, he keeps pumping on the guy for close to a minute before going down for the mouth-to-mouth part, which he only does a couple times before restarting the chest compressions.
He switches back and forth three, four times, but Mr. Science doesn’t—no wait! His eyes just twitched. Or maybe I was seeing things. It’s so dark in here, and if my arm moves in the slightest, it makes a hundred shadows dance. But no, Mr. Science is moving. His eyelids flip open for a moment, then snap shut against the light of the phone. I bring my arm down and angle the light towards the ceiling.
Brad leans back. He’s slick with sweat and panting for breath. He wipes his face on his shirt, though all that does is smear the sweaty grime around.
The science guy rolls onto his side and hacks for air, but he manages not to vomit. After a few moments he pushes himself into a sitting position. “Where’m I?”
“You don’t remember?” Brad says.
“I was … on an airplane. Going to DC? What happened, we crash?”
“No, you got to DC.”
“I don’t—wait, yeah. The premiere. I remember that. And a party afterwards? I had a couple drinks but … not enough to blackout. Did I?”
“No. Not that kinda blackout at least.”
“Ah, Christ,” Coworker says from down the tunnel.
“Something wrong?” Brad calls.
“We found another one,” she says.
“They need CPR?” Brad says.
“That’s not gonna do her any good.”
Me and Brad head back towards the dig, leaving Mr. Science to himself. As we approach, my light flashes across an arm sticking out of the dirt—a woman’s arm. I recognize the rings on her fingers, but her name—████—is as much a blank as everyone’s. She hadn’t quite been our leader—we’re anarchists, after all—but she’d always kept us organized. She collected phone numbers and email addresses, made sure people knew when our meetings would be. She referred to herself as our facilitatrix.
But she’s not that anymore.
She’s not anything.
Coworker’s only been able to get the left side of her body exhumed so far—her arm, her shoulder, and … her head.
It’s not pretty. A piece of concrete must’ve hit her, cuz her forehead’s dented like a soda can that somebody’s pressed their thumb against too hard. The side of her face is black with blood that’s mixed with dirt. Her eyes are still open, and when my light passes over her face, her pupils remain glassy and wide.
We keep digging, taking turns at it, everyone except … except … dammit, I’ve forgotten his name again. My boss. ████. Since he’s the only one here who knows CPR, we tell him to sit to the side when he isn’t needed.
He hasn’t been needed so far.
The mound of dirt we’re dealing with is huge, and we’re barely making a dent in it. In the last half hour we’ve found one more body, a museum bigwig, but like ████ he was as dead as dead gets—a piece of rebar had gone through his chest; there was no way for Boss to perform CPR on him.
At this rate we’re not going to get anyone else out alive. Anyone who’s under there has probably suffocated by now, and even if there’s an air pocket somewhere, it won’t last long enough for us to get to it.
Maybe if we had help—a team of diggers, paramedics with medical gear—we might have a chance, but when Mr. Science suggested we go and find some, Coworker had said it wouldn’t do any good.
“After you guys left, the cops showed up and made me open the backroom. I let them back there and went back to the counter. I rang up one customer, and then the store was empty. Then, about five minutes later, the fire alarm starts blaring. Freaked me out at first, and I was about ready to run out the store, but then it occurred to me that maybe the cops had decided to go back to the loading bay. Sure enough.
“I followed them back and tried to yell at them—‘You’re gonna be in so much trouble for this, you just caused a major museum to be evacuated’—but they ignored me. Like my one chance to get legitimately angry at a cop and they blow me off.
“Anyways, they noticed the stairwell door was ajar and headed over that way. I told them it was off-limits to anyone but museum personnel, but again with the ignoring.
“The alarm was still going off, so I figured there was no harm in leaving the store unattended. I followed them down. I dunno why, honestly. Seemed a thing to do, y’know.
“We’d barely reached the bottom of the stairs when everything began shaking. We heard something crash down in the tunnel and the lights went out. I’m like, ‘Shit, gotta get outta here,’ but, y’know, no lights, can’t exactly go anywhere.
“Once the rumbling stopped, the cops pulled their flashlights out and ran back up the stairs—one of them damn near pushed me over the stair rail, asshole. I didn’t know what to do—should I go look for you guys in the tunnel (I figured that’s where you were) or get the hell out. I decided to get the hell out—sorry, but yeah.
“When I got to the top of the steps, the cops were already gone, and the emergency exit—the one for the outside—was wide open. I was going to jump out, but when I got to the door … I dunno what happened, but it sure as hell wasn’t a quake. Looks like a fire swept over the Mall, and when I tried my cell, couldn’t get a signal.”
Part of me wants to go up and see for myself, but I know we can’t. Not while there’s a possibility that people—my friends even if I can’t remember their names—are still alive under this dirt. We have to keep going as long as we can.
I dig my hand into the pile. I have to be careful. There’s rebar and chunks of concrete mixed in with the soil, so if I scoop the dirt away too fast, I risk mangling my fingers. I work at a steady pace, but in the ten minutes I’ve been doing this, I haven’t cleared enough dirt to move forward even an inch. Maybe if we had shovels, we could improve our pace—but even then we’d have to be careful not to injure anyone who’s trapped down here.
Mr. Science is next to me, taking his turn at the digging. For an old guy, he’s managing pretty well, and his bigger hands allow him to clear more dirt than me, but even so, he’s barely made a scratch in--
Whoa, what just happened? Everything’s black all of a sudden. I can’t even see my hands.
“Ah crap,” Boss says.
“What is it?” Coworker says.
“My cell’s down to twenty percent battery, went into power saving mode. Damn, I had a full charge this morning.”
“Did you put it in airplane mode?” Cutie says.
“That explains it. If there’s no signal, it’s going to burn through the battery trying to get one. Add in the flashlight, yeah, that’ll do it.”
Coworker has her phone out. “I didn’t charge mine last night. It’s at thirty-five percent.”
“That’s not good,” Mr. Science says. “I don’t know about you folk, but I’m not keen on getting stuck down here in the dark.”
“No,” Cutie says.
“Don’t we have a flashlight in the store?” Coworker says.
“Do we?” Boss says. He fiddles with his phone. After a couple seconds, the light comes back on.
“Yeah,” I say. “In the drawer with the stapler and tape and all that stuff.”
“I’ll run up and get it,” Coworker says.
“Grab some spare batteries, too,” Boss says.
“What, just off the shelf?”
“If the surface is like you say, who’s going to care?”
“If you’re going up,” Mr. Science says, “think you can scrounge up some food? I dunno about you guys, but I haven’t eaten since eleven this morning. I am starving.”
“I could go with some eats,” Boss agrees.
“Yeah.” All I’ve eaten today was some avocado toast this morning and the nacho’s I’d appropriated from the taco truck. “Something vegetarian.”
“Well yeah,” Coworker says in a tone that suggests I’m an idiot. “I ain’t cooking anything—if the gas is even working—and any meat that’s been left out is gonna be cold by now. I’ll see what I can find, but it’s probably gonna be cold fries and candy bars.”
“I can live on that for now,” Boss says.
“Why don’t I go with you,” Cutie says, “give ya a hand.”
“Sure,” Coworker says.
They disappear down the tunnel.
“So how long you want us to keep digging?” Mr. Science says. He scoops his hand into the dirt and tosses it aside.
“As long as it takes,” Boss says.
“If we haven’t found them by now, there’s not much hope,” Mr. Science says.
“People have survived under rubble for days.”
“Rubble, yes, but this isn’t rubble. Rubble has air pockets for people to breathe in. As far as I’ve seen, this is solid dirt. Unless they’re megadriles, nobody can breathe under this.”
“That may be so, but we can’t give up. Not this quickly.” Boss checks his watch. “It’s not quite five-thirty yet. Why don’t we keep this up until seven? We’ll have an hour of daylight left. We can check things out on the surface and figure out what to do. I’ve got a van, plenty of room for everybody. If the streets are in good condition, we can drive outta here.”
“Drive where?” Mr. Science says. “If things are like the girl says, we have to face the prospect that there’s been a nuclear war. Is there anywhere to get to?”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. “There hasn’t been a nuclear war.”
“What?” Boss and Mr. Science say in unison.
“Why would there be?”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Boss says. “Weren’t you protesting this?”
“We were protesting the corrupt, fascist regime.”
“Which was going to start a war with North Korea,” Boss says.
“A war, sure, but the kind with tanks and planes. The capitalist interests would never let the President go nuclear—too much risk to their precious assets.”
“I … don’t think that’s how it works,” Boss says.
“No,” Mr. Science says.
Of course they don’t. Boss, just like Coworker, comes from a comfortable bourgeois background, and Mr. Science is part of the Hollywood-Military complex—he’s always on TV hyping NASA, when anyone who does the least bit of research knows that 90% of NASA’s work is military in purpose. The Space Shuttle was designed specifically to carry military satellites into orbit—the Hubble Space Telescope is a spy satellite with the lenses flipped around so the public thinks NASA does actual science.
Boss and Coworker and Mr. Science are sheeple. They support the system. They don’t think it’s wrong. They think the President is a deviation from what’s good and proper rather than the logical end point of Republicrat government. I’m kinda thankful the guy got elected. Yeah, he’s evil, but only marginally worse than his opponents. People are only upset because he says the quiet parts loud.
“That’s naiveté talking,” I say. “That’s—” I break off suddenly. My hand’s plunged into the dirt, and it’s found something soft and fleshy—and, more importantly, warm. And there—a muscle just flexed beneath my touch. “I found someone! Get the light up.”
I clear away the dirt as fast as I can, revealing a dark elbow—naturally dark, not just because it’s covered in dirt. █████████! I can’t remember her name, but I know it’s something suave and sophisticated, and she insists that we pronounce it with a French style, but everyone shortens it to something simpler—something like Mike or Rob or—I know it’s a man’s name like that, but it won’t come to me. Damn. I can see her face in my mind. Why can’t I come up with her name?
Mr. Science joins me, and we’ve soon discovered which way her arm’s going. We ignore the lower part and dig towards her shoulder, towards her head. But then we encounter an obstacle, a huge chunk of concrete that fell out of the ceiling. It’s slanting diagonally—there must be an air pocket underneath. That’s how she’s alive.
But this means we have to be careful. If the concrete slab comes loose, it’s gonna crush her. We have to slow the pace of our digging. We excavate around the side of the concrete, digging down to get at the underside, open up some air to Frenchy. If we can do that, we can relax a bit.
There—there’s a tiny, dark gap open between the concrete and dirt.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Lori? Thank God. I thought I was gonna die in here. Yeah, I’m a little busted up, but just cuts and bruises. Nothing feels broken. But Leslie’s in here too, and they haven’t moved since the quake.”
“Okay, we’re going to dig you out,” Mr. Science says, then he looks to me. “As long as we stay towards the middle of the slab, it should be stable. I think we can make a gap that’s big enough to pull them out.”
We get to work, moving as fast as we dare, but there are chunks of concrete mixed in with the dirt, and when we come across them we have to dig them out and toss them aside. Though some of them are too big to toss. We find one that has two pieces of rebar sticking out of it, and even with both of us lifting it, we’re barely able to move it. We carry it far enough it’ll be out of our way, and then set it down.
“I thought rebar was supposed to make concrete stronger.” I’m panting and sweating even worse than when I’d been running around in the heat outside. I sure hope Coworker and Cutie get back soon with some bottles of water, or else I’m gonna shrivel into a husk.
“It is,” Mr. Science says, “but this tunnel is over a century old, and metal fatigues over time. If I had to guess, we’re under a street here. A hundred years of cars and trucks driving over it probably stressed the metal to the point it couldn’t withstand a major earthquake.”
“Guess we’re lucky there haven’t been any aftershocks,” I say.
“Knock on wood,” Boss says and taps his head with his fist.
“That’s a superstition,” Mr. Science says. “There’s no reason to believe knocking on wood could affect the outcome of events.”
“Oh. I never realized that.”
“We hear all kinds of things as children that we integrate into our worldview. It’s important to evaluate those ideas, so they don’t distort our understanding of reality.”
“Right,” Boss says.
“What the hell’s taking them so long?”
Boss gives voice to what I’m thinking. Coworker and Cutie have been gone for—well, I don’t know exactly, I don’t have a watch on, but long enough that my hand is seriously sore from all this digging. I need a break.
How long does it take them to find food? The flashlight should’ve been simple—they could’ve gotten that and been back in five minutes, I’m sure—so the food must be what’s taking them. But the food court is right there in the lobby—just grab some bags of chips and some bottles of water and soda, maybe some candy bars. Nothing fancy.
“Something wrong?” Frenchy’s voice has an echoey effect to it, like she’s talking through a toy megaphone.
“No, nothing important,” I say. We haven’t told her what Coworker saw on the surface. No sense in freaking her out yet. Let’s get her free first.
At least that’s what common sense says, but Mr. Science butts in. “We sent some people up to get food and extra flashlights, they aren’t back yet.”
“Food and flashlights? Why aren’t they calling for help? Hell, as long as I’ve been under here, shouldn’t we have firefighters up in here by now?”
Mr. Science opens his mouth, but I don’t let him get a word out.
“There seems to be some trouble up above, too,” I say.
“What kind of trouble?”
“We don’t know yet. We’ve been busy down here. You think you can get out yet?”
We’ve cleared a gap about two feet high and wide. Frenchy’s skinny enough, she should have no problem getting through there.
“Yeah. But what about Leslie?”
“Let’s get you out first,” Boss says, “then we’ll worry about … her?”
“Them,” I say.
“Leslie’s a gender nonconformist. They prefer to be addressed with they/them/their.”
“Ah … okay? We can do that.”
“I’ve always felt that third-person singular creates unnecessary ambiguity. I much prefer ve/vim/ver from Greg Egan’s—”
“Yeah, well Leslie likes ‘they’. Could you guys move, yer in my way?” While we were talking, Frenchy’s crawled through the hole up to her waist.
“Here.” I offer her my hand and haul her out. She’s covered in dirt from head to toe, and her hair, which she normally keeps in a cute puff, has frizzed out like a mad scientist’s.
She stumbles over the mound of dirt and has to steady herself against the wall. She grimaces and bends over to rub her calf.
“You okay?” Boss asks.
“Cramp. When I was under there, my leg was bent funny and now it’s …” She inhales sharply. “Ohhhh.”
“Do you need a muscle massage?” Mr. Science asks.
“I’ll be fine,” she says. “It’ll be gone in a minute.”
I kneel next to the hole and peer inside, but all I can see is blackness. “I need the light.”
Boss comes over to me and holds his phone up.
“I’m down to twelve percent battery.”
“The others should be back soon.”
“I sure hope so. But while you guys have been digging, I’ve been stuck with nothing to do but think.”
“Crazy stuff. Like, if what Amy said is true, something pretty bad must’ve happened upstairs. What if … I dunno. What if something happened to them?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what I mean, and that has me terrified. Who knows what’s going on.”
While we’ve been talking, I’ve been examining the inside of the hole. There’s a wedge-shaped chamber beneath the slab, maybe five feet by six across, and three feet at its tallest. Leslie—I’ve gotta remember that name—is on the farthest side from me, curled up and facing away. They don’t look injured, but if the slab had conked them on the head as it fell, they could have a concussion and we couldn’t tell.
“You’re the smallest one here,” Boss says. “If me or LLGB try to get in there, we’re gonna have to enlarge the opening first.”
We’re gonna have to enlarge the opening one way or another to get Leslie out, but if I go in, Boss and the others can work on it while I’m moving Leslie. Les is big—maybe eighty or ninety pounds heavier than me—but I can manage.
I grab the side of the opening and pull myself in. It’s awkward to do, and once I get my upper half inside, I have to walk on my hands until I get my waist through. But at last I’m inside.
The concrete slab had served as an umbrella against the dirt, leaving the floor mostly clean, though a bit has spilled in from the sides, some of it onto Leslie.
I start by dusting them off, then try to rouse them. They don’t respond.
Should I turn them onto their back? I know you aren’t supposed to move somebody who might be concussed or have a spinal injury, but that assumes there are paramedics on the way who can do things properly. We don’t have that luxury.
I grab their shoulder and pull them over. They’re breathing, steady and deep. That’s good, right?
“Leslie. Hey. Come on, wake up.” I poke them and lightly slap their face, like people do in movies, but to no avail. Guess I’ll have to do this the hard way.
There’s not enough room to stand up in here, so that constrains my options. I try to drag Leslie away from the wall, but I can barely budge them the way I’m crouched. I flip myself onto my backside, and that works a little better. I lift them up and wrap my arms under their shoulders, then pull them towards me. They slide across the ground an inch at a time.
After a few tugs, I have Leslie sitting up against me. I scoot out of the way and leave them propped against the wall, then turn around.
Boss and Mr. Science have widened the hole a little, but not nearly enough for Leslie to get through even if they were able to move on their own.
“Get back,” I say.
The guys do as I tell them and I lift my legs up. One good kick explodes the top of the dirt pile. I try again a little lower, but this time my heel hits against a piece of rubble. A jolt goes up my leg. That’s not gonna work, so I try applying a steady pressure against the block of concrete, shifting it out of the pile.
Thup. Thup. Bop.
The block tumbles loose.
I make a couple more kicks, and at last the hole is wide enough that we can move … move … ah dammit, their name’s gone. It was right there a moment ago. ██████. Shit. Is there something wrong with my brain? Is that it? Is this going to be permanent?
I think about my parents, my sister… but no names are coming. My best friend from high school, my first boyfriend, my college roommate—all blank.
I dig through my brain. There has to be a name in there somewhere. The President and First Lady… the Speaker of the House… who I voted for in the last election… the host of The Young Turks… the princess from Star Wars… nothing’s coming.
Then I remember when I was really little, like three or four, watching TV in the mornings. Sesame Street and Square One Television and … Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood! Mr. Rogers! Yes. Never have I been so grateful to an avatar of white patriarchy!
Other names come now. I Love Lucy, and ALF and Ally McBeal. It’s like I can remember names when they’re in a title, but not when I try to associate them directly with people.
“Yo, Lor. Earth to Lori.”
“I’ve only got eight percent,” Boss says.
Oh, I was spacing out there. Can’t do that. We’re in an emergency.
“Yeah. Okay. I think we can get ‘em through now.”
I push Leslie to their side so that they’re lying against the mouth of the hole. Boss and Mr. Science reach through and grab them by the shoulders.
“Try and lift her waist,” Boss says, “that way she isn’t scraping her back when we pull her out.”
“They,” I say.
I get my arms under ██████ and lift ‘em up as much as I can while Boss and Mr. Science haul ‘em through the opening. They’re too heavy to make a go of it all at once, so we go in fits and spurts, moving ‘em a couple inches at a time. We’ve got ‘em out to their waist when--
“Uh, we got a problem here,” Mr. Science says.
“Wha—oh, shit,” Boss says. “That’s not good, is it?”
“Very not good.”
“Mind filling me in?”
“We’ve got water leaking through the ceiling,” Boss says.
“… okay?” Not seeing how that’s a huge problem. Annoying, sure, but— “So?”
But he doesn’t answer. Neither does Mr. Science. Instead they grab ██████ and haul ‘em through the hole without waiting for me to help.
“Come on,” Boss says as soon as ██████’s shoes disappear over the lip of the hole. “We gotta get outta here.”
What? But the look on his face tells me this is no time to be asking questions. I pull myself through the opening. As I’m coming out, a trickle of icy water falls onto the small of my back—I let out a yip of surprise and whang my knee against a chunk of concrete. I nearly faceplant, but Boss grabs me and pulls me up.
Mr. Science is already dragging ██████ backwards, and Frenchy pitches in to give him a hand.
“What’s the matter?” I say, still not sure why they’re panicking.
Boss jerks his head towards the ceiling rather than answering.
I turn and look up. There’s a steady stream of water leaking out from the top of the dirt pile, about as much as my bathtub faucet on full blast. But that’s not the real problem. Boss flashes his phone across the top of the tunnel. When the roof had collapsed, a ton of dirt had fallen in here, but there are many more tons still above us. The dirt up there is turning a darker brown as water builds up behind it. In places it’s so saturated that it’s turning into runny mud and flowing on its own.
A water main must’ve busted. Somewhere up there, a pipe must be spewing water into the soil and slowly eating it away. We’re looking at a sink hole from the underside, and it’s only a matter of time—hours? Minutes?—until it collapses. We still have a partial ceiling over us, so the whole tunnel shouldn’t fill up, but that semi-liquid mud will flow in here like lava. If there’s anyone else alive under that mound, there’s no way we can dig them out now.
“I’m at six percent,” Boss says. “We need to move it, like now.”
I turn and head down the tunnel. We pass the bodies on the floor, poor ████ and the museum bigwig. Will the incoming mud cover them up again, or are they going to be left like this? I know it doesn’t matter, not really, but I’d rather they get covered up. Maybe that’s my parents’ Christianity poking through, but burial seems more natural.
The loading dock is deserted when we get up there, but the door into the store is propped open with a trashcan. Other than that, there’s no sign of Coworker and Cutie.
“Whoa. Amy was not kidding.” Boss is over at the emergency exit, looking outside. I go over to join him. There’s no wind outside, not even the slightest stir of a breeze, but after the stuffy, stale air of the tunnel, even the humid soup outside is a relief.
We don’t have much a view from the doorway—the parking lot outside is sunken beneath the level of the main entrance, so mainly all we can see is a retaining wall around the edge of the lot, though there are a few bushes and trees visible over the top. They’re burnt bare, every one of them. My heart skips at the sight of the ruin. It’s one thing for people to die, but such beautiful plants… that’s a far deeper tragedy. Oh Gaia. I don’t know what humanity’s done to you now, but I’m so sorry.
To our right there’s a break in the wall where a staircase leads up street-level, and through the gap I can see the Smithsonian Castle. The main structure is still standing, but several of the towers have broken off.
“Check it out.” Boss points to the left. At first I can’t tell what he wants me to see, but then, through the blackened branches of trees, I catch sight of the Capitol. Or what’s left of it. The dome’s cracked clear through.
“What the hell happened?” Mr. Science says.
“I got no idea,” Boss says. “But this doesn’t look good, that’s for sure.”
“They went and did it, didn’t they?” Frenchy says. “They blew it up.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mr. Science says. “This is bad, but a nuclear bomb would be worse. Maybe… I dunno, a gamma-ray burst?”
“What kinda bomb is that?” Frenchy says.
“Not a bomb. It’s a stellar phenomenon. We aren’t sure what causes them—we mainly observe them in distant galaxies, too far away to see in detail—but one theory is they’re caused by colliding stars. If one were to occur within a few thousand lightyears of Earth, and if the gamma-ray emission were aimed in our direction, it would be extremely bad.”
“Yeah, I saw that Discovery Channel special,” Boss says.
“There you guys are. I was just coming to look for you.”
We turn and see … see … ah damn, I had her name for a second, but it slipped away. Something with an “A”—Amanda? Allison? Alicia? No, not quite, but I think Amanda is close. So close. My brain aches as I try to remember Coworker’s name.
She’s standing at the door to the store. Cutie’s not with her, and she doesn’t have any of the supplies we wanted other than a flashlight.
“Where the hell were you?” Boss says.
“Sorry, we got a little sidetracked. You guys better come see this.”
“See what?” Mr. Science asks.
“It’s … really something you gotta see for yourselves. I don’t even have the words.”
“What about Leslie?” Frenchy asks.
They’re still unconscious. We had to carry them out of the tunnel, but I don’t know that it’s a smart idea to keep hauling them around in this state.
Boss is thinking the same thing. “Somebody should stay with her—them. Sorry. You wanna do it?” he asks Frenchy.
She shrugs. “Yeah. I can. Gimme a chance to sit down, wrap my head around—that.” She points vaguely towards the parking lot.
“We’ve got chairs in the break room, you wanna grab one,” Coworker says.
“That’d be nice, yeah.”
While she goes to grab one of the plastic chairs, the rest of us head into the store.
Nothing’s changed since we were in here earlier, except the lights are all off. That’s one giant exception, though. Even when we close up at night, there are always a few lights that remain on so whoever opens in the morning isn’t bumping into things when they get here. Right now the place is pitch black except for Coworker’s flashlight and a bit of sun filtering in from the lobby. Makes the place creepy, like something out of a zombie movie.
“Remember I said how after I let the cops into the backroom, I came back here and rang up a customer?” Coworker says.
“Not really,” Boss says.
I vaguely recall that. It was hardly the most noteworthy part of her story, and we were preoccupied with digging people out at the time.
“Okay, so the guy I checked out, he bought a bunch of puzzles—the big, thousand, two thousand piece kind.”
“O~kay?” Boss says.
I’m not seeing the relevance here, either.
Coworker leads us out of the store. “Well, check this out.” She points her flashlight down the lobby, though there’s enough light coming in from the entrance that the beam gets washed out. Still, we get what she’s pointing at. In the middle of the floor, there’s a pile of shoes and clothing with a plastic bag next to it. And a puddle of … something.
“What is that?” Mr. Science says.
“Take a look in the bag,” Coworker says.
I don’t particularly want to go over there. Something about the puddle is … I don’t wanna get near it.
Boss, though, he goes. Mr. Science too. They approach cautiously, like there might be a cobra hidden in the clothes. Boss toes the bag open.
“…” he says.
“What is it?” I ask. I think I know, but I’d rather somebody put it into words.
“There are four boxes of puzzles in here.”
“That’s…?” I say.
“Yeah,” Coworker says. “I knew it was him right away, even before I peeked in the bag. I recognized his shirt.”
“What could do this?” Boss says.
“That’s a very astute question,” Mr. Science says. “I suppose, maybe, a gamma-ray burst might, but… I don’t know.”
“There’s more,” Coworker says. “We checked out the food court and found a couple more of these puddles. And… it’s not just people. The hamburgers are melted the same way, and the veggies on them are crisped like the trees outside. Only thing intact are the buns.”
“Hell,” Boss says.
“Okay, hypothesis,” Mr. Science says, “whatever happened affected cells—and it did so regardless of whether they were alive or dead. Animal cells simply burst, whereas plant cells burned—probably because of cellulose, though I don’t understand how. But we were protected because we were underground at the time—the soil over our heads must’ve had a canceling effect on the phenomenon.”
“Dirt canceled it, but stone and concrete didn’t?” Boss says.
“I don’t claim to understand. I’m merely stating my observations.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.” Boss looks to Coworker. “Now what happened with the guy you came up here with?”
“After we saw this, we decided to do a little more exploring,” Coworker says. “Went upstairs to look around. It’s more of the same. The main lobby is a real mess—everyone was trying to get out because of the fire alarm when the … whatever happened. The floor up there is virtually covered with this sludge. Once we saw that, Duncan said I should go back and get you guys, he was going to look around further.”
Duncan! I have to remember that name.
Duncan. Like donuts. I’ll think of that when I see him, maybe that’ll help.
“Hey, did you hear that?” Mr. Science says.
“Sounded like a car unlocking,” Coworker says.
Nobody says anything. We simply take off for the entrance all as one.
The glass on the doors has shattered outwards, but the stampede bars prevent us from simply stepping through the door frames. Boss pushes one of the doors, but it only opens partway before it jams on the broken glass outside. He pushes again and it lurches a few inches further. Mr. Science tries a different door, but this one barely moves at all.
“C’mon,” Boss says.
Mr. Science and Coworker join him and shove. Glass grinds against the concrete as the door inches open. At last the gap’s wide enough that Coworker can slip through. She goes around and kicks the glass loose until the door can swing freely.
We pour out into the heat. The inside of the museum had been sweltering, but at least it held the lingering residue of air conditioning. Out here we’re getting the double whammy of being broiled by the humid air while the light of the sun bakes our skin. I have to close my eyes for a moment it’s so bright. When I open them again, Boss is shading his eyes and Mr. Science is putting on a pair of sunglasses.
“I don’t see anyone,” Coworker says. “You guys?”
“No, I—over there!” Boss points towards the street.
There’s a gold SUV pulling away from the curb. The sun glints off its window, leaving a dazzle across my vision. I blink several times, but a smeared afterimage remains.
“Hey! Hey! Wait!” Coworker shouts and runs for the street, but it’s too late. By the time she reaches the sidewalk, the car’s halfway to the Capitol. She chases after it, arms waving, but the driver never sees her.
“Well, we know we’re not the only ones left alive,” Mr. Science says.
“If you’re right that being underground protected us, then anyone who was in the Metro…” Boss says. “What’s the closest station?”
“Federal Triangle and Smithsonian, they’re both about the same distance,” I say.
“We can split up, check them both out,” Mr. Science says.
“Sure, but we need to find…” ██████. I’m blanking on the name again, it hasn’t even been five minutes. But this time I remember it has something to do with donuts. Donuts? Chocolate? Sprinkles? Bavarian cream? Dunkin’? Dunkin’! That’s it. “Find Duncan first, that way he’s not wandering around looking for—”
I stop. I thought—yes. Voices. Coming this way.
“…they run off like that?”
“My sister, who knows.”
Across the dead lawn, there’s a group of five or six people—it’s hard to tell with the sun glaring in my face—coming up the driveway from the employee parking lot. They stop dead when they spot us.
“Hey!” Boss shouts. “Are we glad to see you.”
“Yo,” a guy says.
The group comes towards us. There are indeed six of them—a South Asian woman and three white guys who look to be college age, a Rubenesque woman around my age, and an older South Asian man, though he doesn’t look related to the woman.
“Have you seen a girl?” the South Asian woman says. “Seventeen, dark skinned like me, with her hair in a braid.”
“Sorry, no,” Boss says.
“She was with a cop,” one of the young men says, a generically handsome guy in preppy clothes. “Middle aged guy, red hair, fish-belly white.”
“There were a couple cops around here earlier,” Coworker says, “but they am-scrayed right after the quake.”
“No, this would’ve been in the last few minutes,” the preppy guy says.
My stomach’s sinking. I can tell exactly where this is going. “We haven’t seen them, but when we came out here, we saw a car take off.” I point down Constitution.
“Oh fuck,” the second white guy says. He’s potbellied, with long sideburns and a goatee.
The South Asian woman dashes out to the street.
“Wait! Shreya!” The preppy guy takes off after her.
The rest of her group looks at each other, but nobody follows.
She runs most of the way to the end of the block before the futility of what she’s doing hits her. She stops abruptly and sways on her feet. The preppy guy catches her before she can fall, and she leans against his chest.
“You think the guy actually took Vina?” the Rubenesque woman says.
“Who knows,” the South Asian guy says.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Cops, man, you can’t trust them,” the guy with sideburns says. “’Specially not in DC.”
The preppy guy comes back with the South Asian girl leaning limply against him.
“Why would he do that?” She sniffles. “Why? And what was she thinking, going with him?”
“He musta lured her out somehow, tricked her,” Preppy Guy says.
“He’s a cop. He’s got a uniform and a badge, and, well, Vina’s not exactly streetwise, you know,” Sideburns says.
“Question is, how do we get her back?” This is the third white guy, who’s been silent thus far. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says something about sarcasm. “He could be anywhere by now, and we’re on foot.”
“I’ve got a van,” Boss says, “and Amy, you drove in today, right?”
“With two vehicles, we can cover—”
“Like that’s gonna help?” Sideburns says. “He could be in Maryland already, halfway to Baltimore, or doubling back to Virginia, or holing up two blocks from here. We’ve got no idea. Where would we even start looki—”
“Nick, shut your mouth,” Preppy Guy says.
The South Asian woman’s started crying harder, and Preppy Guy pulls her tighter against him.
“Sorry,” Sideburns says. (Sideburns—as in he’s afraid of nicking his cheek shaving. Nick. Shaving. Gotta remember that.)
“What’s going on?” The door to the museum grates against glass as Dunkin’ comes out.
Boss gives him the rundown on the situation.
“What color was the SUV?” Dunkin’ asks.
“I know exactly where it is.”
We’re jogging down 12th Street towards the Mall. In the distance there’s a throng of people streaming towards the Potomac. As we get closer and my field of vision expands, I can tell there are a couple thousand of them at least.
“I found a window up on the top floor—” Dunkin’s explaining as we go.
“Wait, there aren’t any windows in the public parts of the museum,” Boss says.
“No,” Dunkin’ says. “I forced a door into the research area. Sue me. The point is, from up there I could see all this—” he gestures at the crowd.
“Okay, but what does that have to do with my sister?” the South Asian woman says.
“Well, as I was watching, I saw this gold SUV come down Independence Avenue. Only vehicle I could see moving about. But as it was about to pass the Washington Monument, it spun out of control and crashed.”
“Oh my God,” (cut himself shaving) Nick says. “Not only a kidnapper, but fucking incompetent.”
“Don’t worry, I saw somebody get outta the SUV—passenger side—and go running towards the crowd. Your sister should be safe.”
“Hey, what’s that down there?” Mr. Science says.
We’ve come around the corner of the National History Museum now and have a view out to the Washington Monument—or what’s left of it. The tower’s broken off a quarter of the way up, and rubble lies on the dead grass. But that’s not what Mr. Science it talking about. There’s a line of motorcycles and black SUVs stopped on the road in front of the Monument, their path blocked by the crowd of people.
“Holy shit, don’t tell me that sonuvabitch lived through this,” (cut himself shaving) Nick says.
A sound like somebody letting off a firecracker echoes across the Mall. The guys on the motorcycles react instantly by dismounting and drawing guns.
“Vina!” the South Asian woman shouts and takes off running towards the Monument.
“No! Wait!” Preppy Guy tries to grab her, but when she slips his grasp he runs after her.
“Aw, shit,” Coworker says. She turns and hightails it back towards the museum.
So does (cut himself shaving) Nick.
“Come on,” Dunkin’ says. He reaches behind his back and pulls up the hem of his shirt. There’s a gun poking out from his waistband. He pulls it loose and flips a switch on the side.
“Where did you get that?” I ask, but he’s already running towards the motorcade.
Boss follows, then Mr. Science and the South Asian man. That leaves me and the Rubenesque woman standing on the street corner.
A second explosion echoes around us.
“We should get outta here,” the Rubenesque woman says.
Yeah, but where? Back to the museum, or--
The men on the motorcycles open fire on the crowd.
To Be Continued...