We Are All Crew (9 page)

A great roar erupts from the crowd. A couple of the hunters run to the cage and jab us with spears.

“Tonight,” Shwo-Rez continues, “after our celebration, we will put these evil spirits to their death by lighting them ablaze on our sacred fire.”

Well, that wigs us out something fierce. The crowd goes wild again, lifting their spears into the night and chanting, “Shwo-Rez! Shwo-Rez!”

“Your devotion is truly super,” Shwo-Rez says, smiling. Then the crowd stops chanting his name and there’s nothing, no noise but the crackling of the fire and the sound of bugs fizzing. Some of the Shrub People look at their feet and toe the ground.

The smile slips from Shwo-Rez’s lips, and he looks off past the tops of the trees. He stares at the city in the distance. “Super,” he mutters absently, as if he can’t get past the word. “Super . . . super . . .” His body seems to melt, and he staggers backward. “Super . . .” The crowd flinches.

Gray-Aide leaps to his side and wraps his arm around Shwo-Rez’s shoulder. “The great Shwo-Rez is overcome by your worship in the face of such evil!” Gray-Aide shouts. “And tonight, he will reward us all by ridding us of this scourge!”

The crowd goes nuts. Shwo-Rez blinks. Then the smile grows across his face again, and he lifts his arms above his head and howls at the sliver of moon on the horizon:

“
I don’t wanna grow up

I’m a Toys ‘R’ Us kid
. . .”

And they dance.

It’s like a crowd of people having seizures. One woman tucks her hands into her armpits, leans forward, and does a chicken dance, then does jumping jacks with her feet and head flopping. Another man falls onto his back and thrusts his arms and legs into the air, shakes them like he’s doing the hokey pokey, sits back up, runs in a circle, then falls down and does it all again.

“
There’s a million toys in Toys ‘R’ Us

That I can play with
!”

“Here we go,” Esmerelda says. She’s sneaked up on the side of the cage where I’m leaning. Her breath warms my ear, and I smell her sweat. Female sweat is sharper than male sweat—a little more acidic, maybe, more alluring than man sweat but not much better smelling. I can only see her silhouette in the dark, but I picture her in designer hip-huggers and a belly shirt with her navel pierced.

Then her shadow disappears and the cage inches upward.

Shwo-Rez sits on a rotting La-Z-Boy recliner next to the bonfire and watches the dancers, smiling, the giant glow of the fire and the shadows from the thrashing Shrub People flashing red on his face. He doesn’t seem to notice us.

“Coming?” Seabrook says to Clarence.

“You’re dead,” Clarence hisses at us. “They’ll kill you for sure. Better to stay here and take my chances than to take a spear in the ass, it is.” He turns, goes to a corner of the cage, and sits X-ing his arms and legs and V-ing his eyebrows at us.

“Follow me,” says a voice, but it’s not Esmerelda.

It’s the big guy with the gray hair. Gray-Aide.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Seabrook hisses.

“Saving you,” Gray-Aide says. He glances back at Shwo-Rez and the dancing figures and lowers himself to the ground. “Everybody get down and stay behind me if you want to make it out of here alive.”

I trip and fall on my face. I’m about to stand up again when I notice the others crawling on their bellies until the shadows cover them.

We creep through the box city. The shadows undulate and ripple over us like moonlight on water.

When we’re halfway there, the singing dies off. Ahead of me, the crawling figure of Gray-Aide freezes. His head turns, and he looks at us with satellite dish eyes.

I hold my breath. Will the hunter guys see that we’re gone? The bonfire crackles. I squeeze my leg muscles and get ready to leap toward the tree line yards ahead of us through the corridor of musty-smelling cardboard.

Then someone yelps, and the bad singing continues. It’s a song I think I recognize from a Honda commercial.

Eventually, we’re back in the trees. After we’ve crawled far enough so that the bonfire and the dancing figures are safely out of view, Gray-Aide stands. He’s cradling that box of Cuban cigars the big Shrub King had earlier.

“This is private property,” he says. There’s something shaky and uncertain in his voice. None of the “my liege” crap we’d heard before. He’s slipped back into sanity. “You’re trespassing.”

“So call the police,” Seabrook says.

He laughs. “Okay, okay,” he says. “All we wanted was to be left alone. Bob and me.”

“What about the Shrub People?” Seabrook asks.

“Ambience. It’s really not so bad for them . . . Doctor Seabrook, was it? And it’s not like we’re not providing them a service. The homeless shelters got full in Lynnbrook after Super Corp. poisoned the entire area and was forced to close down. Here, at least they have food. They look after one another. They need Bob. Bob needs them.”

“Who are you?” Seabrook snaps.

“We’re not bad people, Doctor Seabrook. We’re a licensed charity. Bob Schwartz is—was—a city councilman—”

The singing halts, again, and Gray-Aide’s voice trails off. We all stand frozen for what seems like an entire double episode of
Sniper Dude X
.

After a moment, the singing starts again:

“We are Flintstone Kids. Ten million strong . . .”

“I was city administrator,” Gray-Aide continues, more quietly this time. “That was . . . a year ago. Back then, Bob Schwartz was going to run for the state senate. Maybe even governor. You might not believe this, but that crazy son of a bitch might well one day have been president of the United States.”

“What about Super Corp.?” Seabrook asks.

Gray-Aide snaps, “Super Corp. was the biggest development deal in Lynnbrook history. Thousands of jobs, all right? They single-handedly lowered the unemployment rate by two percentage points. Bob Schwartz made that happen. He greased the tracks. It’s what great men do. He signed the papers. Didn’t want to, but he did. You gotta let a little bad happen, so you, personally, can do a little good.”

“Yes, and he killed two thousand people,” Seabrook says.

Gray-Aide shrugs. “They never could prove a damn thing. I mean, people. Hell. They die all the time.”

“But you couldn’t convince Shwo-Rez of that. Could you?”

“No. Stupid son of a bitch. If he would have just stayed on the council a little longer we would have beaten that federal investigation. But after his wife and kid died of lung cancer the poor bastard lost his mind. I tendered his resignation myself. Then, when they let him out of the loony bin, that very same day, I followed him out here. This is his land, private property. He was going to build a new estate out here three years ago when the whole Super Corp. mess started, and I worked out a 501(c)(3) deal. We’re providing a service.”

“Some charity.”

Gray-Aide shrugs again. “All you see is the crazy. He stripped off his suit and tie and started talking about the evil mountains and how tin cans are shells. Tied his pants around his waist and said it was the skin of some beast. What am I supposed to do? Look at the big picture. You have to do a little bad to do a lot of good, right? This place is good for him, you know? I mean, okay, with the threatening to burn people at the stake thing he’s taking it a little too far, maybe . . .”

Esmerelda snorts.

“But, look, nobody’s been hurt,” Gray-Aide says. “No harm, no foul. Get the hell back on your boat and leave us alone.”

A noise pops over the sounds of the Shrub People’s chanting. It echoes into the forest, and after a pause, the Shrub People start to scream. When he hears the noise, Gray-Aide’s smile droops and his eyes widen. Just then these huge floodlights go on and it looks like broad daylight.

More pops.
Pop, pop, pop
. I’ve heard this sound in practically every video game I own, so I know damn well what it is.

A machine gun.

Another burst of machine-gun fire. An electronic voice in the distance, piped through a PA system, says, “
Federal officers. Put your hands on your heads and lie on the ground.
”

Gray-Aide scrambles to the edge of the woods. He stands there a moment, kind of shimmying, his big bare ass pointed at us. Then he darts back to where we’re standing.

His huge eyes dart from each one of us to the other. “That’s the Green Police out there!” Gray-Aide says. “They wouldn’t come here for Bob and me. Who are you people?”

Seabrook, who stands a good head taller than the Shrub Man, grabs him by the shoulders.

“
Federal officers
,” repeats the electronic voice.

“What do you know about the Green Police?” Seabrook asks.

“You don’t
know
?”

“Who is that out there?”

Gray-Aide flashes this sick smile and goes limp. “They don’t know,” he says. His eyes glaze. “Dead men in their graves just waiting for the dirt to come down, and they don’t know.”

“Kang . . .” Seabrook growls.

Kang grabs the old man by the throat so tightly the loose flesh on his neck bulges between his fingers. The cigar box slips from Gray-Aide’s hands and clatters to the forest floor, spilling bits of paper and flat, round things.

“The FBI?” Gray-Aide offers in a choked voice. “The CIA? The National Security Agency? Children, Seabrook. Just children with toy guns and plastic badges compared to these people . . . they don’t play games.”

Kang lets go of him and backs away. “You’re telling me the Green Police,” Seabrook says, “is . . . is what? The
government
?”

“
We’re looking for Doctor Marion Seabrook and his crew
,” says the voice on the PA system. “
We have warrants for their arrest. Anyone who doesn’t assist us will be arrested and charged with obstructing a federal investigation
.”

“Government?” Gray-Aide laughs. “They’re over the government. Over and around it. They don’t play games. If they want you, you’re dead already. And anybody standing within five feet of you, probably.”

Kang and Seabrook exchange looks.

Gray-Aide drops to his knees. He picks something up—one of the round objects that fell from the cigar box. He scrambles out of the woods, waving it over his head.

“They’re here!” he screams. “We’re on your side! They’re right here!”

Men in black surround him. They raise their rifles and point them at Gray-Aide’s head.

“We’re with you!” he yells in the face of one of the men with the rifles, the one who has drawn closest to him. The man flips his gun over and slams it into Gray-Aide’s stomach. The Shrub Man crumples inward and falls to his knees. A second blow from the butt of the rifle catches him in the back of the head. He drops to his stomach.

“Move,” Seabrook spits under his breath. We start into the woods.

“Not that way,” Esmerelda says. “Follow me.” She leads us along the edge of the clearing.

On the way out I trip for, like, the millionth time on a stupid monster tree root. I look down at it and realize it’s not a root or a rut, but Shwo Rez’s cigar box. And all around it are bits of paper and crap. I pick something up, a circular thing that looks like a DVD. Whatever it is, it’s fabric.

“Hurry,” Seabrook says.

I stuff the circle into my pocket and start running.

On the opposite end of the clearing are several wicked-looking soldier guys dressed in black leather, black helmets, and visors that hide their eyes. They hug assault rifles. They point them at the crowd of Shrub People, who have stopped dancing and singing to lie on the ground, spread out like a carpet of pink flesh, hair, and rags. They whisper. Once in a while one of them screams. Above them the huge bonfire crackles.

The men in black wander through the boxes. Occasionally they find a hiding Shrub Person, whom they flush out and force to join the group lying before the fire.

“This way,” Esmerelda hisses.

The Shrub People haven’t cleared a path here, so the woods are thick. Briars tear at us, and we stumble over ruts and roots. The light from the bonfire is enough to see by, though. We start going around the clearing toward the river.

By this time, my turtleneck is a goner, people, a collection of rips and blood and pit stains and dirty streaks. I wish I didn’t leave my Gucci backpack full of designer labels on the canoe when we’d ditched camp—especially with Esmerelda, the blond hottie, along for the ride.

We’re almost past the clearing when Seabrook stoops behind a tree. The others keep moving, but I’m curious, so I stand next to him.

The clearing opens up in front of us. The big tongue of the bonfire pokes up a few yards away. The guys in black march through the supine forms of the Shrub People, occasionally pausing in front of one or two of the cowering figures to fire off a question.

A few feet from the edge of the woods, crouching behind a row of cardboard box homes, is Shwo-Rez. He’s looking around the edge of the boxes at the Shrub People, his back to us. The row of cardboard homes beside him is wet, and I smell something that reminds me of long rides in the Bentley—a smell that always seems to waft in trace amounts through Philly. It’s gasoline. I don’t place it immediately because I haven’t smelled it in days.

Shwo-Rez has soaked the boxes with it. There is a red metal canister next to him. When the officers burst into the clearing, Shwo-Rez must have run off to hide before he was noticed, and had this container hidden somewhere.

He is fumbling with a Zippo lighter.

He is going to go Waco on the place.

It wouldn’t take much more than a spark. The whole place is as moistureless as the pages of the 1963
X-Men
issue no. 1 I keep in a plastic sleeve in my bedroom. And in the fire would be the boxes, the leaves and branches and grass, the men in black, their guns, and the Shrub People.

The homeless woman carrying the dead baby pops into my head. Will she try to save the thing she carries, even though it’s not moving? Will the kids with Arthur’s dinosaurs hold on to Arthur’s gifts to protect them from the fire? Will Clarence run? The man who once bought his little girl dinosaurs—will his little girl ever find out what happened? Would she visit him one day?