I slept in my own room that night.
The house around me was quiet, and as I lay there, waiting for sleep to come, I wondered what everyone else was doing. Floyd and Charlie, Sabine and Taylor—alone in their rooms (or so I assumed), silent, immersed in the dark. Were they dwelling on the past, scared and alone? Were they frustrated, like me? Were they plotting plans, getting ready to run?
Or were they just sleeping, lost to the world?
Finally, I took three more Vicodins to help me fall asleep. I was going through the pills like candy now—I recognized that—and they weren’t really making me feel any better. They were helping me sleep, yeah, and during the day they helped me relax for an hour or two, preventing me from thinking all those deep and horrible thoughts. But it was only temporary. And the relief I got each time was shrinking, like a stream drying up in the midsummer sun.
And that stream was getting shallow.
But what really scared me was the thought of what I’d have to do next, when I ran out again. What would Mama Cass make me do? What errands would she have me run? It wasn’t going to stay easy. I was certain of that.
As I drifted off to sleep, drugged and floating, I resolved to quit. There were other ways—better ways—to cope with stress and confusion. I just had to find them. I just had to deal.
Unfortunately, nothing’s ever as easy as it seems when you’re high and drifting toward sleep. I should have known that.
Charlie woke me up with a hand on my shoulder. “I know where he is. I know where he went.”
I was in the middle of a dream when he woke me up, and I pulled away from his hand with a start, lost for a moment in my surroundings. I looked up from my pillow and saw Charlie smiling down at me. I was still lost.
“What’s going on?” I managed, clearing phlegm from my throat. “What happened?” And why did he look so happy?
“I got an email. I think it’s from my dad, or my mom, maybe—I couldn’t trace its source. But it’s Devon. I know where he is. I know where we need to go!”
I tried to sit up, but Charlie pushed his notebook computer forward, and I had to roll onto my side to get a good look at the screen. There was an image open on his desktop, a surprisingly high-quality image, still sharp even though it had been zoomed in to fill up the entire window. It was a street view: Devon, glancing over his shoulder, cautiously scanning the street behind him as he pulled open the thick glass door of an office building. “I know where that is. See that planter?” Charlie pointed to a knee-high bowl on the left edge of the photo. The concrete bowl was filled with dead flowers. “I recognize it. That’s a research building, south of I-90, near the hospital.”
I looked up to find Charlie’s eyes searching my face expectantly. His smile was still there. “We can do this, Dean,” he said. “We can find out what’s going on. The radio… my parents…” When he started talking about his parents, his voice got hushed, imploring and desperate. “We can find them. We can find everything!”
“What’s going on here?”
Surprised, Charlie and I both looked up toward the door. Floyd was standing there, resting his shoulder against the doorjamb. His hands were busy lighting up a tightly rolled joint. “Is this when you guys hold all of the important roommate meetings? The crack of dawn? Am I missing out? Are we getting TiVo?”
“Floyd? Are you okay?” The last time I’d seen him, he’d been passed out in his bed. And before that—the last time I’d seen him awake—he’d been inconsolable.
“Yeah, I’m fine. And listen, about before, about that… I’m sorry.” He gave Charlie a cautious look, like he might not want to talk in front of the seventeen-year-old, but he went on, anyway. “I was being stupid, but I’m better now. I’m under control.” He held out his hand, palm down, and tried to hold it steady in midair, to demonstrate just how cool he was. When it started to shake slightly, he clenched his fist and took another drag on his joint.
I felt uncomfortable lying on the futon with both Charlie and Floyd towering over me, so I pulled back my covers and sat up in the middle of my bedding. I was still wearing my jeans and sweatshirt. I couldn’t remember when I’d last taken them off.
Floyd saw the screen of Charlie’s notebook and quickly knelt down at his side, grabbing the computer and lifting it up into his lap. He handed me his joint, freeing up his hands. “Is this Devon?” he asked urgently, mousing back and forth on the image, panning it from side to side. “Do you know where he is?”
“Maybe,” Charlie said. “Yes.” He turned his pleading glance back my way. “I was just telling Dean about how we need to go there. My parents… I think Devon knows something about my parents.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Floyd said with a nod. “That fucker’s got some shit to answer for.” He looked at me and tapped at his temple, his eyes going wide. “Binocular shit. Tunnel shit!”
After a moment, I nodded reluctantly. I didn’t feel too confident about this, following Charlie’s mysterious email, looking for Devon. It felt like we were being led by the nose here, and I didn’t trust that sensation; there was too much potential for traps, for disaster. But I could see that it was going to happen whether I liked it or not. With or without me.
Charlie and Floyd had already made that decision.
Floyd’s joint was sitting idle between my fingertips. I took a deep drag before I handed it back.
Taylor answered her door on the second knock. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept at all that night.
“Yeah, Dean, I’ll come,” she said coldly, when I told her what we were planning to do. “I’ll help Charlie any way I can.”
I stared at her for a while, taking in her pinched lips and wrinkled forehead, the clenched and jutting muscles of her jaw. Who is this person? I wondered. At times like this, I couldn’t figure her out. She was wearing a mask—a cold facade that she hid behind whenever she came under assault—and I had absolutely no idea how to peel it back.
“What’s wrong, Taylor?” I finally pleaded. “What did you find in that drawer back at the Homestead? What can I do to help?”
For a moment, her expression relaxed and her jaw unclenched. Then she closed her eyes and shook her head, raising a hand to cover her dark and weary eyelids.
“There’s nothing for you to do, Dean,” she said, speaking from behind the sanctuary of her fingers. “But don’t worry about it. It’s not you; it’s not your fault. I just need time, okay? I need time to figure things out. Priorities, you know?”
After she finished speaking, she lowered her hand. Her eyes were red—bloodshot—but there were no tears. She tried to force a smile, but it came across as a horrible grimace, a mélange of fake, stillborn emotion.
“But you can count on me,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can… for you, for Charlie, for my friends.” After the word friends, her voice trailed off, and I barely caught her final sentence: “I’d never let you down.”
Next I went to check on Sabine. She was smiling when she opened her bedroom door, practically beaming. Her forehead was dotted with beads of sweat and smeared with graphite. I looked over her shoulder and saw large sheets of drawing paper scattered across the floor. They were dark with pencil and charcoal.
“What are you doing?” I asked, surprised at her attitude and her energy. She’d been hiding from everyone for the last couple of days; ever since she’d met with the Poet, she’d been locked away in what I had assumed was a depressive funk.
“It’s a surprise,” she said, flashing me a sly smile. “It’s a project I’m working on. And it’s absolutely brilliant. Just brilliant!”
She saw me staring over her shoulder and reached up to block my view with her palms. “No, no! It’s a secret,” she said. “It’s not done yet, and I can’t sacrifice the impact of that first viewing. It’s got to hit! It’s got to hit hard, like a kick to the balls.” She pulled back her leg as if she were going to demonstrate the impact on my balls. I stepped back in surprise, and she laughed. Then she closed the door to just a crack and peeked out at me through the narrow gap.
“Are you okay, Sabine?” I asked. “You’re acting strange.”
Her face settled for a moment. “I’m just excited, Dean. That’s all. It’s my process. It’s how I work. But I’m fine, really. In fact, I’m better than I’ve been in a long time now. I’ve got a plan, a purpose.” She nodded toward the art on her floor. “But I’ve got to get back to work. The muse—she’s moving, and I don’t want to fall behind.”
Then she closed the door in my face. I heard a playful little laugh come from inside the room as I turned and headed back toward the stairs.
The manic swings here were dizzying. At the moment, Charlie, Floyd, and Sabine were up—way up—and Taylor was down. But I got the sense that it could change at any moment. We were all fragile here, fragile and out of control.
Give the city a moment, I knew, and everything would change.
This house needs some serious therapy, I thought as I clambered down the stairs, cinching my camera bag tight against my back. I met Charlie, Floyd, and Taylor at the front door.
The research park was deserted. And it wasn’t really much of a park. It was just a square of squat gray buildings with a grassy space in the middle.
Charlie knew just where he was going. He led us down a path between two of the buildings and out into the central courtyard. There was a cherry tree here in one corner, and a stagnant fountain in another. Sometime in the last couple of months, the cherry tree had toppled over, pulling up a huge knot of roots. Its bent trunk stretched across the path, ending, leafless, in a crown of broken branches. There were eight buildings in the square—two on each side—and empty windows looked down on us from every direction. One of the buildings had a broken window up on the third floor, and an office chair lay in the courtyard below, surrounded by glass and shattered computer parts. It was perfectly still inside the courtyard. There wasn’t even a hint of wind inside this secluded space.
Charlie smiled widely and gestured for us to follow, breaking into an excited trot as he crossed to the far side of the square. He led us around the base of one of the buildings—the one with the broken window—and back out onto the street. The planter from Charlie’s photograph was right there, at the building’s entrance.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Taylor asked. “You didn’t hesitate, didn’t take a wrong turn.”
Charlie shook his head. “I walked by weeks ago, looking for my parents. I just remembered it, that’s all. I’ve got a good memory for this type of thing. Places. Directions.”
Taylor responded with a skeptical grunt.
“C’mon,” Floyd said. “Let’s see if this fucker’s home.” He crossed to the front door and pulled at the handle. It rattled in its frame but didn’t open. “Fuck. What now? Should I knock?”
“No,” Charlie said. “Look.” He pointed toward the planter. On the wall, behind the concrete bowl, I saw a red light blinking steadily.
We made our way over, and Floyd leaned down into the narrow space between the planter and the wall. “It’s a keypad,” he said, surprise and confusion in his slow, mildly stoned voice. “It’s still got power. Battery, do you think?”
The keypad was set about a foot off the ground, completely hidden in that dark crevice—even more so if the planter had been in bloom, if the flowers hadn’t already wilted into mulch. A secret keypad, I thought. Nobody would have noticed it—not in a million years—if he or she didn’t already know it was there.
“Let me try,” Charlie said, and Floyd stepped back, letting Charlie take his place. The seventeen-year-old punched in a string of numbers, and the light on the keypad turned green. The lock on the front door ratcheted back audibly. “5869,” he said. “It was in the email.” He met our eyes one by one, then added quietly: “It’s my parents’ birth years: 1958, 1969.”
“Did they set this up?” I asked.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Charlie reached out and touched the keypad gently, as if it were something precious and fragile. “I think they’re leading me here. I think they want me to find them.”
I let this sink in. Then, after a moment of silence, I repeated a question that I’d already asked him once, a question that he hadn’t been able—or hadn’t been willing—to answer: “What does your father do, Charlie? And what does it have to do with the city?”
“He’s a scientist. They’re both scientists—theoretical physicists. And… I don’t know, they might have been working here, on the phenomena. Before it got bad, before the evacuation.”
“What do you mean, they might have been working here? You don’t know where your parents were or what they were doing?”
“We lost contact. It’s hard to explain.” He looked genuinely confused. “Just… they had to be away, okay, and they couldn’t tell me—they weren’t allowed to tell me—where they were or what they were doing. But I knew—I suspected, at least—that they were here. It made sense timewise; this was right when the government started calling in all the experts. I had to stay with my grandparents in Portland for a while.”
“And you think they were in Spokane and never made it out?” Taylor asked. “You think your parents got stuck here, inside?”
Charlie shrugged, and his brow wrinkled in pain. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.” He paused for a moment, and then, suddenly, he got angry. He shot an intense, venomous look at Taylor. “But that’s what I’m trying to figure out, okay? They stopped calling, and I needed to know what happened. So I came here. And now I’m getting all of these emails, and, and…” He trailed off, turning his eyes toward me. I knew what he was thinking; he didn’t want to tell her about the radio, about his father’s distant voice reaching out from the static, taking orders from Devon.
Confused, Taylor looked back and forth between the two of us. Then she nodded, and after a moment, she gestured toward the front door.
There was a blinding flash of light as soon as the door closed behind us. It was a vibrant, electric blue, brilliant and seemingly without source or direction. It dazzled my eyes, and as I stood there—blind—a loud, mechanical hum filled the lobby. The air around me grew pregnant with electricity; it felt like every molecule in the room was vibrating against my skin. Something was happening inside my body; I didn’t know what, but the hair on my arms was standing up straight.
Then it stopped.
“What the fuck was that?” Floyd asked as we exchanged confused glances, our eyesight slowly returning. “Was that some type of scanner? Were we just fucking scanned?”
“Scanned?” Taylor repeated, a gruff, mocking tone to her voice. “What does that even mean, Floyd? Fucking scanned?”
“I don’t know. X-rays? MRI? Something like that?”
The thought gave me a jolt, and I shrugged out of my backpack to check on my camera. I scrolled through the last couple of images on my memory card, making sure that they hadn’t been erased by some strong magnetic field. They were still there. Pictures of the Poet’s latest work: “Above me, there is a face/Funny.” I didn’t remember taking these pictures, but they were there on the card, and they seemed completely unharmed.
When I once again raised my eyes, I found Floyd nervously downing pills from his oxycodone stash. For a moment, I felt a reflexive itch to follow his lead—I still had an almost full bottle of Vicodin in my pocket—but I suppressed the urge. I was trying to be strong here, I reminded myself. I hung my camera around my neck and shrugged into my backpack.
“Look,” Charlie said, pointing up into the corner of the room. There was a surveillance camera up there, and as I watched, it slowly swiveled my way. It paused for a moment, freezing with me in the center of its glass-eyed view, and then it continued on its circuit, turning to sweep back toward the other side of the room. “There’s still power! It’s still active!” I was surprised at the excitement in Charlie’s voice. I myself felt nothing but fear.
What’s going on here? What have we found?
“Is it some type of secret government installation?” Floyd asked, voicing my very next thought.
Charlie just shrugged. He flashed us an indecipherable smile, then turned and headed toward a door on the far side of the room.
The door opened up onto a long carpeted hallway. Charlie paused just inside the door and ran his fingers over the nearest wall. After a couple of seconds, the overhead fluorescents flickered on. The hallway was disconcertingly normal. It could have been any corridor in any office building in any city around the world—just minutes after closing time, maybe, with the workers all gone for the day. The heater kicked on as we were standing there, warm air blowing down from the overhead vents.
Charlie headed toward the nearest room, and the rest of us followed.
It was a small, windowless office, something for an assistant, maybe, or an administrator. Inside, there was nothing but a desk, a chair, a telephone, and a computer. While Charlie rummaged through the desk drawers, I picked up the telephone handset and listened to the sound of a dead line. The phone was getting power, but there was nothing on the wire, not even static. I replaced the handset just as Charlie lifted a thin sheaf of paper into the air.
“Office directory,” he proclaimed triumphantly as he started flipping through the pages. “Biologists, physicists, psychologists, computer scientists… theologians. They certainly didn’t narrow it down any.” He paused halfway through the directory, his finger on a listing at the bottom of the page.
“Did you find them?” I asked.
He nodded, but there was no excited smile on his face, not anymore. Just a trace of confusion. He handed the pages to me and pointed to a pair of names near the bottom: Dr. Stephen Daltry and Dr. Cheryl Daltry. Instead of having a standard office number next to their names—112 or 315 or 423—they both had B13 listed as their location. A basement laboratory, I guessed. But that was not what had killed Charlie’s excitement.
There was an unsteady line drawn through both of the names.
}
}
I scanned the rest of the page and saw that most of the names had been crossed out. “It could mean anything,” I said.
Both Taylor and Floyd moved into place behind me, where they could study the document over my shoulder. “Maybe those are just the people who—I don’t know—people who completed security training,” Taylor offered, “or signed a nondisclosure agreement, or something.”
“Or RSVPed for a lunch,” Floyd added, “or complained about their paltry-ass government pay.”
Charlie nodded. But he didn’t look reassured.
Since he had seen those names, his face had turned an ashen gray, drained of all blood and color. “Yeah, I know,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But I have a bad feeling about this. Like I should know what that means.” His eyes darted from Floyd to Taylor and then to me. “Like I do know already. Something bad. Something very bad.”
Floyd shook his head. “Fuck no, Charlie,” he said. “You don’t know what that means. Those are just lines on a piece of paper. What the four of us do know—about this place, about this situation—it couldn’t fill a motherfucking thimble.”
Taylor nodded. “He’s right.” She reached out and grabbed Charlie’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You can feel like shit, you can feel like the world is crashing down, but that doesn’t mean you know anything. It just means that you’re afraid. And you’re afraid because we’re getting close.”
She met Charlie’s frantic eyes with a calm, reassuring smile.
“So let’s go, okay?” she said. “Let’s go find your parents.”
We took the elevator down to the basement.
The lights in the main corridor were already on, bright and institutional, about as far from natural as you can get. The first couple of doors were closed, but the third—B6, actually—was standing wide open. It was dark inside, but in the middle of the room I could make out a worktable draped under a sheet of clear protective plastic. There were microscopes and Bunsen burners hidden beneath the sheet, shielded from the dust and mold floating thick in the uncirculated air.
Charlie continued down the corridor ahead of us. He pulled to an abrupt stop in front of B13, and we all piled up behind him. The door here was open, and the lights were on.
“What is it?” Floyd asked when he finally got a look inside the laboratory. “What exactly am I seeing?”
Charlie shrugged, and we all filed into the room.
The laboratory was large—at least twenty-five feet by twenty-five feet—and most of the floor was taken up by a single piece of makeshift machinery. There was a table with several computer terminals set against the wall just inside the door, but the majority of the apparatus was in the center of the room. It consisted of two parallel mirrors standing about fifteen feet apart. There were black boxes set against the near end of each sheet of silvered glass.
The apparatus was running, and every five seconds the entire thing lit up with brilliant green light. It was very bright, and I had to narrow my eyes to get a good sense of what was happening. At first, it was all just flashes of light. Then, on about the fifth flash, I noticed a pattern in the apparatus, hundreds of lines of light—laser light—crisscrossing between the mirrors. Then, on perhaps the tenth flash, I realized what was happening. There was movement in the intricate weave—nothing I could actually see, but it was there. The line of light was shooting out of one of the black boxes and progressing down the length of the apparatus, bouncing back and forth between the two mirrors. At the far end, it ricocheted off a separate angled piece of glass and returned on a similarly sharp, crisscrossing trajectory, ending at the second black box.
It was all happening so fast, it looked like nothing but a binary switch. Off and on. Light and dark. But there was movement in there, just too fast to see. The four of us stood silent for a time, watching the flow of traffic inside this miniature city of light and glass.
Floyd was the one who finally broke the silence. “Whoa,” he muttered. “This thing… it’s better than any fucking lava lamp.” When I turned, I found him lighting up a new joint.
With the silence broken, that initial period of awe left the room, and we all started moving once again. Charlie headed straight for the computer terminals, bending down to study the lit screens. Taylor moved forward and dropped into a crouch next to the apparatus. She held her eyes level with the laser and peered down the length of its path, across the field of crisscrossing lines as they blinked on and off.
I, for my part, lifted my camera and popped off the lens cap. The laser was lit for only brief periods—a quarter of a second, maybe—and it took me about twenty shots before I managed to get a picture of the bright green pattern spread between those mirrors. I would have loved to have gotten a picture halting the light in motion—with the path half lit, a visible head or tail—but there was no shutter speed that fast, no way to halt the world and capture that shot. I stayed near the “head” of the apparatus, grabbing top-down views between the two mirrors.
“Can I get a hit off that, Floyd?”
At first, I didn’t notice anything strange about the voice—just words floating in the space behind me—and I kept taking pictures. Then it registered. It was Devon.
By the time I turned, Taylor, Floyd, and Charlie were already facing the doorway. Devon was standing there with his arms crossed against his chest. He had an uncomfortable grin on his lips, expectant and wary.
“It bounces over seven hundred times,” he said. “Over two miles in length. That’s what they said, Charlie. That’s what your parents told me.”
Charlie and Floyd advanced at the same time. Only a couple of steps—Floyd angry, Charlie shocked, his hands out, imploring—before they both pulled to a stop. It was synchronized almost, and they both stood there for a prolonged beat, unsure of their next choreographed step.
“Wait, wait!” Devon said, holding up his hands to ward them off. His attention mostly remained fixed on Floyd. Floyd was the angry one. Charlie was just confused and desperate.
“You were spying on us!” Floyd barked. His voice was an angry growl at first; then it trailed off into weak confusion: “Pretending to be our friend, then watching us through binoculars. Staring at us through our windows! And then… the tunnels?”
“I can explain. Just… just stay calm. All of you.” His eyes flickered from Floyd to Taylor, as if he were looking to her for help, an assurance that she’d keep us all in line.
But Taylor just stared. I didn’t know what she was thinking. She hadn’t seen the radio, or the binoculars, or the wires beneath the house. It hadn’t been her father’s voice that had echoed out of Devon’s radio, reporting in and taking orders. But Devon had been spying for Terry. It was just a minor sin in my eyes, compared with the rest of the things he’d done, but Taylor didn’t give him any quarter. She remained ice cold.
“Okay,” I said. “Everyone, let’s just be cool.”
I took a step forward and made soothing motions with my hands, trying to keep Floyd and Charlie back. I wanted to keep the situation under control. I crossed to Floyd’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “We can let him talk. Okay?”
Floyd grunted, reluctantly acquiescing.
Devon thanked me with an appreciative nod, but I just shook my head. I was not his friend. I wasn’t doing this for him.
“I didn’t mean to cause you any harm—none of you, really—and I don’t think I did. I was just watching, making sure nothing bad happened.” He took a deep breath, bracing himself, then continued. “You see, I work for a group—” He paused for a moment, then came up with a new term. “—a consortium, I guess you could call it, with national and international business interests… and grand political schemes. Or maybe just grand political delusions—I’m not too sure about the reality on that one. My father got me the job; he’s pretty high up in the organization—sold his soul for that portfolio, right? Anyway, they placed me in the city. At first, I was an administrator in the investigative unit—” He gestured up toward the building above our heads. “—but I stayed on after it started falling apart, after the military took control. I wasn’t the only one. There were other moles, but most of them fled during the transition. And of the ones who stayed, I think I might be the last one left. At least, that’s the impression I get whenever they contact me. They’re getting desperate, you see. They lost their bead on the situation, and they’re not used to that. They’re not used to losing control.”
“What did they have you do?” I asked.
“Like I said, I was an administrator. It was my job to facilitate things, get the experts the gear and supplies they needed in order to do their research. I got them copy paper, I made sure their computers worked, I helped them organize their expeditions. I did anything and everything they asked me to do. That was my job. I’d get in tight, you see, and they’d tell me all of their theories, all of their hypotheses, and I’d relay it back out of the city.” He nodded toward Charlie. “That’s how I met your parents. That’s how I learned about this.” He gestured toward the laser apparatus in the middle of the room.
“What is it?” I asked.
I addressed the question to Devon, but Charlie was the one who answered. “It’s measuring the speed of light,” he said quietly.
Devon nodded. He looked impressed. “It’s counting the length of time it takes for the laser beam to travel from one end of its path to the other.”
“But why?” Taylor asked. “That’s a known constant.”
“Not anymore,” Charlie answered. “At least, not here.” There was a terrified expression on his face as he turned and gestured toward one of the computer monitors. After a moment’s hesitation, Taylor, Floyd, and I approached. The screen was filled with lines of text, and each time the apparatus flashed, a new line appeared at the top of the screen. It was a time stamp, followed by a long string of digits.
As we watched, the digits changed: 299,792,457.99999908 became 299,792,457.99999907.
“Those are meters per second,” Charlie explained. “It’s getting slower. The speed of light… it’s changing.”
“Your parents had a hypothesis,” Devon said. “They believed that the universe was slowing down. Maybe it’s just stopped expanding, or maybe it’s actively shrinking, but either way, physics has changed—time has changed—and it’s still changing.”
“We wouldn’t be able to survive that,” Charlie said. “Even the slightest shift. The movement of atoms, neurons in the brain—it would all fail. If something like that happened, it’d be the end of everything! No life, no substance.”
“Yeah,” Devon replied, smiling grimly. “That’s what they tell me.”
“What are they doing now? My parents—are they here, are they trying to explain this?”
“No,” Devon said. “They aren’t here. Not anymore.”
“Then where? Where did they go?”
Devon paused for a long moment, casting careful glances at each of us in turn. “They’re dead, Charlie,” he finally replied. “They’re dead, and you know it.”
“No,” Charlie said, his brow furrowing in confusion. “They aren’t dead. They sent me emails. I have pictures of them, in the city. I heard you talking to my father!”
“No, Charlie. They’re dead,” Devon repeated. After a handful of seconds, he continued reluctantly: “Hell, you were there, at the funeral. September 15, just outside of Portland. I saw the pictures.”
“No,” Charlie said, shaking his head in disbelief. Then his face crinkled up in a sudden moment of doubt—What is he thinking? I wondered. Right now, what does he remember?—and he took a tentative step back. The way he was moving, I was afraid his legs were going to collapse beneath him. “It’s not true. You’re lying.” But now there was a note of desperation in his voice.
“Your parents ran tests. They confirmed—” He gestured toward the apparatus. “—they checked interference patterns or something. And then they took a car… I don’t think they could handle it anymore, watching the world fall apart—this was just after the mayor disappeared, when everyone in the building was starting to see things, starting to freak out. Your mother told me it was going to spread, it was going to infect the entire world. It was just a matter of time.” Devon paused. His voice turned soft, sympathetic. “The official reports—the police told you it was an accident, they told you that your father lost control of the car, but I think your parents just didn’t want to see what was coming. I don’t think they could handle it.”
“No. It’s a lie. It’s impossible. I don’t remember… why wouldn’t I remember?” Charlie turned abruptly and kicked out at the laser apparatus, slamming his foot into the nearest mirror. The laser tipped off its axis, and the next time it fired, it bounced high off the far mirror and shot up into the ceiling. I glanced at the tracking monitor and saw the word ERROR repeated a half dozen times on the topmost line. “This whole thing is bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. The universe doesn’t work that way… my parents, they don’t work that way!”
He started toward Devon, taking hard, violent strides, and then his legs did collapse, sending him sprawling to the floor. At first he braced himself on the heels of his hands, then he moved his palms up to his face, hiding his emotions in a hunched-up little ball.
“But we were listening on the radio,” I explained. “You were talking to somebody about plugging up leaks, about the information we were sending out. And what he said… whoever it was, it sounded like Charlie’s father.”
“I don’t know what you heard, but it wasn’t Charlie’s father.” Devon shook his head, a single shallow shake. If he was lying, he was doing a good job of it; he wasn’t overselling anything, merely stating facts. “At first, we were trying to keep the more troublesome aspects of the situation contained—my bosses had no idea what would happen to their business interests if some of this stuff leaked out—but that was a while ago. Now it’s just the military, with their communications freeze and their quarantine. When Charlie appeared, I was assigned to watch him, to make sure he didn’t get too close to his parents’ research. I still send out my reports, through the radio, but I don’t get anything back, not anymore. It’s just silence now. Just me—my voice—and nothing else.”
“You lie.” Suddenly Charlie’s hands fell away from his face, and the grief written there—in gleaming eyes and on tear-streaked cheeks—was gone. There was nothing but anger now, cold, hard anger. He stood up, slowly, and the way he was holding himself—fairly quivering with mute energy—I was afraid he was going to attack Devon. “This is all an elaborate lie,” he continued, his voice level, barely restrained. “You’re trying to keep me away from my parents. You’re trying to shake me off their trail. That was my father on the radio, I’m sure of it, and that was my mother in that picture. They’re here, in the city, and for some reason you don’t want me to find them.”
“Why? Why would I do that?”
Charlie stood silent for a moment, his face screwed up in thought. Then he had his answer: “Because they know what you did—you and your dirty little organization! You did this. All of this. And you’re afraid… you’re afraid because they can fix it!” He swept his hand across the room, indicating the monitors, the laser apparatus, the city itself. “They can fix it all… if I can just find them. If I can save them.”
Devon laughed. “I wish that were true, Charlie, I really do. But we’re beyond that now. There’s no fixing the universe.” He shook his head. “Get out of the city. Go home. Go see your grandparents before it’s too late.”
At that, Charlie’s restraint disappeared, and he bolted forward—a scrawny seventeen-year-old computer geek, itching to stop Devon, itching to find answers… with his fists and blood and Devon’s broken bones.
Floyd barked a loud “Stop!” and stepped between the two combatants. He grabbed Charlie’s collar and pushed him back, holding on until the teen stopped squirming.
“Get the fuck out, Devon!” Floyd growled, whipping around to face the man in the doorway. “And stay away from us. Stay away from the house. You’ve done enough harm, you manipulative, spying piece of shit! So just go back to your tunnels and stay… the fuck… away!”
Devon nodded and made to leave; he started to turn, but then stopped suddenly. “Those aren’t our tunnels, by the way,” he said. “We used them, yeah, but we didn’t dig them, and they most certainly aren’t ours. But you know that, don’t you, Floyd? You know what types of things are down there, lurking, waiting in the dark. For you. For me. For all of us.”
He paused thoughtfully, and a bitter, melancholy smile formed on his lips. “I hate to say it, boys—and girl—but our time has come. As a species, we’re finished. Maybe Charlie’s parents had the right idea.”
Then he turned and left.