The Only Ones (11 page)

“Sorry to bother you,” Martin said.

“No worries,” Sigrid said. “I am enjoying my new treadmill, that is all. Thanks to you, of course.”

“Can you deliver some messages for me?” Martin asked, presenting the envelopes.

“It will be my pleasure,” Sigrid said, grabbing them and looking at the names.

“They’re … top … secret,” Martin explained. “And urgent.”

“Then I must go now, yeah?” she said with a smile.

Martin thanked her and returned home and slept for more than twelve hours.

T
he next morning, Martin entered the church. He hadn’t been inside since the night he’d arrived in Xibalba. It looked as though no one else had either. All the chairs and sofas were in the same places as before. The stool was still positioned in the center of the room.

To make things more inviting, he removed the stool and began to rearrange some of the furniture into a tight circle. He found a small table tucked away in the corner and made it the centerpiece. He tossed his notebook on it.

During his quick redecorating, he also found a cloth bag filled with dozens of Bibles. Martin had read the Bible, both the Old and New Testaments. Even though he thought they were a bit monotonous and repetitive, he knew they were beloved books, because he’d seen them in almost every house on the island.

To pass the time, he eased back in a chair and cracked
one of the Bibles open. He remembered the stories almost immediately. They were an endless string of life and death and lessons handed down from the heavens. Reading them now, Martin found himself surprisingly engrossed. They were ancient tales, true, but they were also things to which he could relate.

“Hate to spoil it for you, dude, but he comes back in three days, good as new.”

Martin looked up from the book to see Chet standing in the doorway, holding one of the envelopes.

“Old Testament,” Martin said, showing him the book.

“That the one with the boat?”

“It is,” Martin said, setting the book down.

“So, you angling to be the new Kelvin Rice?”

“I don’t think so,” Martin said. “Why do you say that?”

“I dunno. Living in his house. Delivering doodles. Calling secret meetings.” Chet heaved his bulk down into a chair.

“Kelvin was your leader?” Martin asked.

“He liked to think he was. Hard to take your leader seriously when he insists on wearing a cloak and playing spin the bottle all the time.”

“I’m not trying to be a leader,” Martin said. “I’m only looking for help.”

A voice came from the doorway. “Martin’s a Spacer, that’s what he is.” Lane had entered the church, her own envelope in hand.

“Oh man, a Spacer?” Chet said. “That’s what this is about?”

“Hello, Lane,” Martin said carefully. “I’m delighted you could make it.”

Lane sauntered across the room. Her outfit of all black
from two nights before had been replaced by a blue police uniform. On her head, she wore a madras bandana. She reclined on a sofa.

“Why do you think he’s a Spacer?” Chet asked.

“Did he give you the same drawings?” Lane took the notebook pages out of her envelope and tossed them on the table.

“I gave everyone the same thing,” Martin said.

“Expecting more people?” Chet asked.

“One more,” Martin said.

“And we’ll all wear moon boots, eat freeze-dried ice cream, and have a big Spacer party, is that right?” Lane said. “I don’t know why I bothered to leave the house.”

“You came here because I wanted your help,” Martin said. “As for being a Spacer, I don’t know what that is.”

“You think the answers are in the stars,” Lane said. “So you drew a friggin’ spaceship.”

“I thought it was a popcorn popper,” Chet joked.

In all the years of working on the machine, there had been plenty of times when Martin wanted to believe that it was a spacecraft. His father would never confirm or deny what it was meant to do, but he would often say, “There’s a different world for us than this one, Martin, and you’ll see it soon.”

“Do you think it will work?” Martin asked Lane as he nudged the drawings to her side of the table.

“Beats me,” she said. “I’m not a Spacer. Never will be.”

“She’s a Vaporist, like me,” Chet said.

Martin’s silence revealed his ignorance.

“There are the Spacers, of course,” Chet explained. “And there are, or were, the Diggers. You know, kids who think everyone went underground. And the Parallelodorks, like
Felix. Believe in alternate dimensions and all that junk. There are the Reapers. Think we’re all dead and dancin’ the limbo or something. Then there are the Vaporists. Vaporists believe what they see. Everyone is gone, gone, gone. Vaporized.”

“They’re definitely not on Venus, having a picnic and waiting for us,” Lane said.

This didn’t deter Martin. He couldn’t ignore what he was feeling. “I believe we need this machine,” he told Lane. “I believe it more than anything.”

Lane didn’t answer. Instead, she shoved the drawings back across the table.

“Lane. Tell him what Nigel told you,” Chet blurted out.

“What? No,” Lane said quickly.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Chet badgered her. “Didn’t Nigel tell you that someone was coming to town and it wasn’t gonna be Santa? You thought it’d be Kelvin, and you—”

“Shut your mouth,” Lane snarled. “I never should have told you that.”

“You understand how to build things, both of you do,” Martin said calmly. “That’s all I care about. That’s why I need your help.”

Lane turned away.

“This is complex stuff, dude,” Chet said, pointing at the papers. “How do you know we can build it?”

“ ’Cause I’ve built it before,” Martin said. “I spent my whole life building it. Now we just need to build it bigger.”

The floor began to vibrate ever so slightly. Across the room, someone’s throat cleared.

“Him?” Lane exclaimed. She sat up and shot an accusatory finger toward the door. “He’s the other one?”

Henry took a few steps toward them, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Can we help you, Henry?” Martin asked.

“She’s ready,” was all Henry would say. Then he walked back outside.

Kid Godzilla was painted green with curls of silver to produce the illusion of scales. A series of glossy white metallic teeth made up the front grill. A jagged tail fin stuck out from the back. The tires, thick and black, were at least five feet tall. Taller than Henry, in any case. When Martin, Lane, and Chet came out of the church, they saw the squat boy standing next to the monster truck, which was vibrating and spitting exhaust from its curling green tailpipe.

Darla shoved her head and a fist out the driver’s-side window. “A Spacer! An honest-to-goodness Spacer!” she hooted. She gave the fist an overly celebratory pump.

“She gets excited sometimes,” Henry explained.

“Of course I do.” Darla laughed. “I’m psyched. Climb aboard, one and all. Three Vaporists and a Spacer. Makin’ a spaceship. Who woulda thunk it?”

Henry began to hoist himself up to the passenger-side seat when Darla waved him off. “Shoo, boy. That seat is reserved for Mr. Maple.”

Head down, Henry shuffled over to the extended cab in the back.

“Thank you,” Martin whispered as he climbed up and into the truck.

“And make sure you sit
squirrel
,” Darla commanded Henry. “We got a coupla huskies that deserve window seats.”

Henry moved to the center of the cramped back cab, squeezed his legs together, lifted his knees, and brought his
hands in close to his chin. His rifle stuck up behind him like a tail.

“Whatcha waiting on?” Darla said to Chet and Lane, who hadn’t made a move from their spots along the edge of the church parking lot. By the looks on their faces, it was easy to tell they weren’t happy with the situation.

“Flying pigs,” Lane deadpanned.

“I’m sure Nigel could arrange something,” Darla said. “Come on and get in, ya bums.”

“Yes,” Martin said. “I think it’s important that we all work together. Where are we going, anyway, Darla?”

In response, she smiled, revved the engine, then pulled a small lever on the dashboard. Fire shot out from two nostril-shaped holes in the hood of Kid Godzilla, and the laugh Darla set free from her lungs was only a tad short of maniacal.

T
hey spotted the Ferris wheel first. It rose through the trees like the skeleton of a giant flower. As the truck got closer, they saw the sign.

“What’s Impossible Island?” Chet asked from the backseat.

“You’re looking at it,” Darla said. “Finest theme park within fifty miles of Xibalba.”

“Theme parks are torture,” Martin blurted out.

“What?” Henry said.

“It’s something … someone told me once,” Martin said.

“Well, someone was a real wet blanket,” Darla said. “Theme parks are all kinds of awesome. Even if abandoned ones have the occasional raccoon problem. Hope y’all had your rabies shots.”

Darla parked Kid Godzilla next to the gate and Henry took the lead, hopping a turnstile with his rifle at the ready.
He checked all sides, then motioned with two fingers for everyone to follow.

The park wasn’t particularly big, but Martin didn’t realize that. To him it appeared to be an entire city. Lines of miniature houses, torn from the pages of storybooks, made up the downtown. Colorful insectlike rides lorded over the borderlands.

Lane was in awe. She stepped on a slat of a fence and hoisted herself up to get a closer look at a Tilt-A-Whirl. “All right. This place is pretty rad,” she admitted.

“Kelvin told me about it once,” Darla said. “I always figured it’d be a perfect site for a secret project.”

Lane circled the fence, found the controls to the ride, and gave them a closer look. Chet occupied himself with a taffy machine, knocking away hardened braids of sugar so he could give the arms a spin. Henry kept busy scouting for raccoons, kicking open any door he saw and thrusting his rifle inside. While next to a food cart, Martin stood with Darla. She opened a silver cooler and plunged her hand in. It emerged holding an orange soda.

“When we got in the truck, you said we had three Vaporists and a Spacer,” Martin said to her. “So you’re a Vaporist?”

“Used to be,” Darla said, cracking the soda open. She took a big slug from it and gave Martin a quick nudge to the ribs with her elbow. “I’m on your team now. Your drawings officially converted me into a Spacer.”

She lifted the can in a toast, then took another drink.

“What about Henry? What’s he?” Martin asked.

“He’s an idiot, Martin. But he’s eager, and he’s loyal. He told me once that he thought the Day happened because of
all the bad things he did when he was a kid. Yikes! Right? He can’t help it, though, I guess.”

“I never asked him to be a part of this,” Martin said.

“He would’ve found out eventually,” Darla said. “Spying is his biggest talent.”

“Well, it’s probably best if he stays with you in the truck,” Martin said.

“What’s that supposed to mean? We’re all working together, right?”

“Well …” Martin paused for a moment. He’d thought the distribution of labor would be obvious. “Lane, Chet, and I are going to do the actual building. I figured you, and Henry, could get us the supplies we need. You know, with the truck?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Darla said quickly. “That makes perfect sense.” As if plugging up her mouth to stave off a snide comment, she immediately put the can back to her lips. When she was finished taking a long swig, she presented it to Martin.

“Thank you,” he said. He reached for it, but she yanked it away.

“No way, wild child,” she said with a half laugh, half snarl. “Gonna have to be faster than that if you want to keep up with me.”

With that, she turned and skittered away, joining Chet, who was rummaging around in a wooden shack that bore a sign reading
UNCLE SCHMITTY’S SHOOTING GALLERY
.

Chet pulled out a plastic toy rifle. He pointed it at Henry, who was prowling in the distance. “Lookie here, Darla,” Chet joked. “It’s me, Henry. I’m gonna win you a panda bear by shootin’ this here fire stick at a Mongoloid.”

Darla giggled guiltily. Martin was too far away to be positive, but he was pretty sure he saw Henry’s lips trembling, as if he was muttering something under his breath.

Impossible Island was the perfect place to build the machine. Not only did it provide an ample amount of hardware in the form of roller coasters and other amusements, it was also far from the prying eyes of Xibalba. Lane, Chet, Darla, and Henry were in agreement that the project was best kept a secret. For whatever their reasons, they believed in Martin’s designs, but they weren’t sure the other kids would be enamored.

“They’ll think they got another Kelvin on their hands,” Chet said. “And we all know how that ended.”

Actually, Martin didn’t know how that ended. The information on the Internet about Kelvin’s exile was limited at best, and kids always changed the subject when asked about it. All he knew was that it had ended badly and that Nigel had been involved. That compelled Martin to keep quiet about his meeting with Nigel as well. There was a good chance that in some minds, Nigel was a lunatic.

So as not to arouse suspicion, every evening for the next month, the team gathered in the parking lot of the large brick hospital on the edge of town, about as desolate a place as you could find in Xibalba, due to rumors that it was haunted. Unseen, all five would pile into Kid Godzilla. Darla would drop Martin, Lane, and Chet off at Impossible Island, and she and Henry, armed with the latest list of supplies, would go searching nearby communities. Around midnight, Kid Godzilla would return, full of the latest take. They would unload the gear; then they would all get back in the truck and go home together.

Their mornings and afternoons were still dedicated to their various “day jobs.” Martin tended to solar panels and installed a security system for Felix’s Internet. Chet worked his greenhouse. Henry guarded the town’s streets and hunted turkeys and rabbits and the occasional deer, which he traded for other goods and services. When she wasn’t driving Kid Godzilla, Darla made submissions to the Internet and sat on her front steps, doling out orders in the form of advice to anyone who happened to pass by.