Pod (20 page)

“It’s too early for this decision,” he says.

“What decision?”

“To live or die.”

“What’s the point?” I move toward him. He tenses. “We’ll die anyway when the food runs out, so we might as well make it mean something.”

“There’s still too much to live for.”

“Like what? Powdered milk?” I keep moving, slow and steady. Only a couple of steps now …

“The PODs could go away, they could be defeated, they could … they could—”

I grab his left wrist and yank down hard. His eyes bug out like he can’t believe I’m doing this. He’s off balance, spinning down and away from the door. I push him into the wall, which he hits with a soft grunt. I’m at the door, releasing the dead bolt, then rotating the lock on the knob. Desperate fingers dig into my shoulder. He’s saying No, no, no—you can’t do this—don’t do it …

It’s all empty words to me. He won’t go away. He wraps both arms around my waist, locking his hands in some wrestler move. Like the time he kept me from running to Jamie. Only this time it won’t work. I’m trying to turn the knob but can’t because he’s pulling me back so hard. My hand is slipping, but suddenly the knob turns. The door swings open. There’s flames and black smoke across the street, now double in size, while we fall backwards in a heap.

I push against him for leverage to stand up. He’s surprisingly soft and nonresistant. Two seconds and I’m in the open doorway. I feel the heat. The smoke has a burnt- hair smell that makes my stomach turn. I’m so ready for all this to be over.

There’s a rasping, gurgling sound behind me. I turn to say good-bye.

Dad’s on the floor, struggling to get up, eyes stunned, like a deer on the hunting channel that just fell over and can’t see the arrow in its ribs. He’s reaching out with one hand and clawing at his chest with the other. The color is draining from his face.

Without thinking, I know what to do. Mom and I have been through this drill with Dad—twice. I kneel beside him. Check his breathing. Shallow but there. Okay. Take his pulse. It’s thin, irregular. At least he doesn’t need CPR—yet. I have this crazy urge to open my cell phone and call 911.

“Dad,” I say, my voice loud and firm, “can you hear me?”

His eyes slide open. They’re jittery, like he can’t figure out where to focus.

“Dad, where are your pills?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Dad! Your pills! Where are they?”

He whispers, “Next to the sink in … in my bathroom.”

I take off my sweatshirt and put it under his head. I sprint upstairs three at a time, slam into his bathroom, find the brown bottle with the big red heart on the front.

When I get back, he’s still lying on the floor. I take his pulse. It’s thready but there.

Behind him, through the open doorway, the flames rage on. But the screaming, mercifully, has stopped.

I close the door, kneel beside him. “How many?” I ask, opening the bottle.

“Two.”

I shake out two pills, put them in his hand. “Do you need water?”

“No.”

He swallows the pills. I watch him take a deep breath, close his eyes. A minute passes. The color is returning to his face. He starts to sit up. I help him lean back against the wall.

“How’re you feeling?”

He smiles weakly. “Like that guy in the movie
Alien
, when the chest-burster—”

“Can we not talk about aliens right now?” I ask, returning the smile.

“Good point.”

“Should I take your pulse again?”

He nods. I reach out for his hand.

An explosion blows out the glass in our living room window. The door flies open, revealing a boiling ball of orange and black. The entire apartment building is beginning to collapse, the roof is caving in. Flaming debris landed on the edge of the cul-de-sac. Another thirty feet and it’s on our roof. A wave of nausea sweeps over me. Alex lives next to the apartment building. I can’t see his house, but I’m pretty sure I see another billow of smoke.

I kneel beside Dad. His eyes are open wide, and he’s shaking his head.

“Don’t worry,” I say, the chaos of noise and heat behind me. “It’s all over now. I’m … I’m okay.”

I stand up to close the door. Then I see something on the living room carpet, buried in glass. I brush it off, pick it up, and carry it to the door. I think of Amanda and her sign.
Pray 4 me josh
. I think of all those people with nowhere to go. I think of Jamie running toward me. The bicycle and newspapers still out there. A constant reminder of something I couldn’t do—didn’t do.

I throw the binoculars into the smoldering void. They land near the end of the driveway, skitter, and stop.

I think of the POD commander, up there, enjoying the barbecue.

“Go to hell,” I whisper.

I close the door.

Poodles and Duct Tape

I can’t crawl another inch. My last glow stick is fading and spiderwebs coat my hair like a helmet. My elbows have blisters and I need to pee. If I stay in this wormhole sixty seconds longer I’m going to scream until my head explodes. There’s a soft yellow light coming from a tunnel off to the left. That’s where I’m going, no matter what.

As I crawl closer to the light there are voices. Two men. One is laughing. I’m at the corner, making the turn. The vent cover is straight ahead, maybe four feet away. Something smells warm and meaty, like a soup. Is this the kitchen? Did I finally get lucky? That would mean Cassie is close by.

One of the voices says, “Move. You’re blocking my light.”

I’m pretty sure that’s the big kahuna himself, Mr. Hendricks.

The other voice says, “What you need is some special seasoning.”

My good luck just turned bad. That’s Richie.

“How ’bout some of this?” Richie says.

A loud, desperate mew fills my head.

I sprint-crawl the last few feet to the vent cover. It’s all I can do not to smash it open. The mewing goes on and on. It’s coming from somewhere to my left. Whatever he’s doing to Cassie, she hates it.

“Put that creature away,” Mr. Hendricks says. “You’re getting fur in my stew.”

“Aw, I think she likes the steam.”

“As much as I hate cats, I never did acquire a taste for torturing them.”

The agonizing sound stops.

Richie says, “Back in the box you go.” Then, after a moment, “So what do you call this
con
-coction?”

Mr. Hendricks says, “Poodle Noodle Soup with Vodka Reduction and Spring Vegetables.”

“That was a poodle Manny caught?”

“Yes, plus some other breed mixed in.”

“I hope it’s Chihuahua. I miss Mexican food.”

I press my face to the vent and look around. The opposite wall has a rack of shelves with pots and pans and mixing bowls. There’s a big metal sink, and next to that is a stack of boxes. Farther down to the right there’s a double
door. I think it’s the kind that swings both ways. On my side of the room it’s hard to see much. The vent must be next to a desk or table because something is in the way. But that could be a good thing. It means if I’m careful maybe I can crawl out of here without them seeing me.

Mr. Hendricks says, “What’s the status of your elusive pirate?”

Richie says, “Haven’t heard from him yet.”

“Yet? It’s been three days.”

“He’ll show up.”

“I think you’re overestimating his affection for this animal.”

“He loves the cat. Wrote all about it in his journal. Named her Missie, Callie, something like that.”

“Then you’re underestimating his intelligence.”

“Nah, he’s not smart, just lucky is all.”

There’s a slurping sound. Mr. Hendricks says, “Hm—hand me the salt.” After a moment, “There’s this gaping hole in your plan, see. I could drive a truck through it. If I were in his position, I’d love the gun more than the pet.”

I push just a little against the corners of the vent. Both screws on top are tight.

Richie says, “Maybe he’s outta ammo. He fired at me ’n Ax, musta been what? Eight, ten rounds at least. Shot out some windows is all.”

“Lucky you.”

“Damn straight.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“Musta slipped my mind.”

“Strange we didn’t hear any shots.”

“Strange things happen. That’s a fact.”

I push on the lower left corner. It’s a little loose, and the lower right corner—no screw at all.

Mr. Hendricks says, “We can’t risk one of the guests acquiring a gun, see. Not even if it’s empty. You ever see the movie
Die Hard
?”

“Best Christmas movie ever.”

“You remember what happened when Bruce Willis got the gun?”

“The elevator door opens and there’s a dead guy with a sign on his shirt—”

“He started picking them off one at a time, you idiot! We don’t want anyone going
Die Hard
on us.”

The soup-slurping sound again.

“Either you bring me your so-called pirate or you bring me the weapon. Otherwise—someone has to be picked off first, and the obvious character is you.”

I push a little harder on the lower left corner. The screw pops out with a clang, rolls on the hard tile to the middle of the floor, spins, and stops. I hold my breath.

Mr. Hendricks says, “You hear that?”

Richie says, “Probably our little friend. I’ll check on her, make sure she’s …
com
-fortable.”

Mr. Hendricks says, “Hand me the oregano first. It’s that green bottle next to the tomatoes.”

The snakeskin boots move this way. Each clicking step feels like a kick in the head. He’ll see the screw for sure. There’s no time for me to back up far enough to get away.
I chew on my lip and wait. The boots pass right in front of me, inches from the screw.

A door opens on my side of the wall. There’s a muffled sound, like someone shouting into a pillow.

Richie says, “Is everything okay in here?”

More of that muffled sound. Who is that?

Richie says, “Aw, you can’t breathe? You want me to
re
-move the tape?” He laughs. “Not in this lifetime, bitch.”

The door closes. Boots clicking on tile. They stop at the screw. He bends down, picks it up, looks around. For a second, the longest second of my life, he looks right at the vent. All I see from inside the hood is the shadowy outline of thin lips and one eye. It’s small and dark and doesn’t blink. He stands up, puts the screw in his pocket, moves on.

Back with Mr. Hendricks, Richie says, “So what’s the plan for her?”

“We cannot tolerate theft. She steals, she suffers the consequences.”

Mary? Aunt Janet?

“What are those
con
-sequences?”

“You can handle that after lunch. The poodle needs to simmer a little longer. First, let’s check on the natives, make sure they’re not getting restless.”

Mr. Hendricks and Richie walk past the vent. The swinging doors open and close.

They’re gone—for now.

I push on the bottom of the vent. It swings up like it’s on hinges. I slide out and stand up. The rooms spins. It’s been so long since I’ve been on my legs that they almost collapse. It takes a few seconds, a few seconds I don’t have, for things to get right. I look around. A big stove. A steaming metal pot. Three burning candles on a counter. Some small tomatoes and a butcher knife. I run over to the tomatoes, cram them into my mouth. The juice explodes and dribbles down my chin. I could eat a hundred more.

Where’s that box?

I see some up on a high shelf by the stove. Too high for me to reach. I shake the shelf. Pots and pans clang. But Cassie mews! She’s up there. I search for something to step on. At the far end of the room—a chair!

Then I hear that muffled sound. Next to the vent there’s a door with a window. It’s an office or something. Someone is in there. My mind races. Cassie or the door? Cassie or the door? No time to think. I run to the door, look through the glass. It’s dark, but I see a woman curled up on the floor. Her hands and feet are wrapped with duct tape. A strip of tape covers her mouth. She sees me looking in. Her eyes go buggy and she starts to struggle and moan.

I open the door, take the broken knife out of my pocket, kneel beside her. I slice through the tape around her wrists. She rips the tape off her mouth while I free her ankles.