A Different Alchemy (13 page)

With the car settled in the abyss, he went to the next abandoned vehicle, an old Jeep without any doors, and did the same thing with it. The third abandoned car wouldn’t start. And there was no way he could push it the entire distance to the void. There were two more abandoned cars a hundred yards down the road from where he had come. He walked there, drove one of them to the edge of the pit, pushed it in, then walked back for the second car and did the same thing again.

An odd thing happened as he pushed each car into position: he became angrier and angrier. With the sun beating down on him, he thought he would quickly grow tired of the task at hand, but instead he became frustrated with his circumstances—the collapsed bridge, the world in general. After the fifth car, he was cursing under his breath. After the sixth, he was kicking out the windows and punching off the rear-view mirrors before letting it fall into the abyss.

To find more cars, he walked to a housing development on the other side of the golf course.

“Stupid piece of shit,” he said as the next one fell alongside the previous ones.

He alternated the cars going off from the right and left so they braced against each other instead of tumbling away from the pile he was trying to make.

At one time, each car had been part of Detroit’s lifeblood. Men and women had spent their entire lives sitting in factories larger than the average person could comprehend, assembling each piece until it was ready to be shipped around the country. Now, they served no better purpose than to be pushed into a crevice. How long would the cars’ skeletons remain in a pile? The paint and shine would be gone within a year or two. The plastic would still look fairly new by the time the metal had rusted holes throughout. A million years from now, after all the world’s tombstones were broken and gone, after the famous monuments were all dust, piles of rubber tires would still be sitting in the gap where the bridge used to stretch.

It was only then, as he thought about the history of each thing he was dropping into the gap, that his anger faded and exhaustion took its place. Being upset was silly, he realized as he wiped sweat away from his eyes, because he was only there due to the choices he had made. He didn’t have to drive north. He didn’t have to drive in the tank. The decisions he made had gotten him here. Nothing else.

He walked all the way back to the housing development and got another car.

It was nighttime when he finally finished. The stack was by no means a nicely organized set of cubes. One of the cars had settled onto its side. Another had landed ass up. But it would work.

A fear lingered that, as soon as the tank rolled onto the makeshift plug in the bridge, one of the cars would shift positions and the entire stack would crumble away, taking his tank down with it. But with the stars overhead and his eyelids heavy, all he wanted was to get to the other side and go to sleep.

This time he did gun the engine as fast as it would go. The longer he took to get the tank across, the more he tempted the cars to crumble or shift. With a great howl, the tank raced up the bridge. The pile of cars gave a loud whine, but held, and his tank made it over the gap to the other side.

One of his last thoughts that night was how curious it was that he never thought about turning around when he saw the broken bridge. Yes, it was the only way to keep heading along the coast, but he could have turned around and backtracked until he got to another route that would get him north.

But his very last thought, as it always was, was of his son. He thought about Galen crossing those bridges with him. He thought about his boy sleeping under the stars with him. Just as quickly, his thoughts turned and he was thinking of his son on fire. His son’s flesh had melted away while he was still alive. It had blistered and boiled, then dripped off his bones until he was a charred mass of skeleton and ash.

The thought stayed with him in his nightmares, and each time he woke up, it was to the sound of his own screams and cries.

Chapter 9

As Katherine twitched in her sleep, Jeffrey stared out the open window at the night sky and the city lights in the distance. The city’s skyline was a reminder of the magnificent achievements mankind was capable of crafting. He liked to think Tokyo’s brilliant array of lights would remain on even after its inhabitants were gone. Maybe all of the gaudy lights and sounds coming out of Las Vegas would still be on display after the final resident disappeared from the earth. Fewer and fewer people were around to see these things, just as there were fewer people to see the Philadelphia skyline each night. One day, not long in the future, the light show would be for one person only, and then, soon afterward, for no one at all.

From where his head rested on his pillow he could see the empty Lee house, the still-occupied Peluso house, and part of the formerly abandoned Ramirez home, which was now being used by a nice family from Vermont.

A conversation was taking place outside. Jeffrey looked over at the clock. 3 A.M. Long gone were the days when the youth of the world stayed out late at house parties and cops had to be called to issue warnings.

The voices he heard belonged to a man and a woman. The conversation only ended after a car door opened and closed. He could guess what was happening: another couple was packing their car with bags for the trip south. Another house would be empty when he woke up the next morning.

As the car left the neighborhood, a little flicker of light caught Jeffrey’s eye. The flickering seemed like nothing more than a night-light to keep children from being scared in the dark. It was playful, though, lively and energetic. What an odd light for a car to make, he thought. But the light remained even as the car’s engine faded in the distance.

Something wasn’t right. The light kept moving, kept growing. Still moving, still flickering.

Half confused, half fascinated, he propped himself up on one elbow. The light continued to dance. An alarm started in the back of his head. As the light continued moving, he got out of bed, walked down the hallway to the front door, and then outside, his bare feet cold on the ground.

The Meursault house, Jeffrey and Katherine’s next-door neighbor, was in flames. A single car was stopped at the end of the street, waiting there as if to make sure the few prized possessions they couldn’t squeeze into their car would be successfully burned to the ground. The car’s taillights, two little red beacons, looked like evil eyes staring at him. Then the car turned the corner and the lights disappeared. The Meursaults were gone.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He wanted to get in his car and chase them down. He would drag Dave Meursault back to the burning house and ask the man how he could endanger another family like that; the wind could easily carry the fire to Jeffrey’s house.

These thoughts took less than a second to process. Then he was running. Sprinting.

The Meursault’s house was already engulfed in flames. But still, oddly, it was quiet.
Those sons of bitches disconnected their smoke detectors!

The entire house was on fire now. Black smoke, even darker than the night sky, rose into the air. The city and its lights were gone, hidden behind the smoke monster growing out of his neighbor’s house.

Back inside his home, he yelled, “Fire.”

Katherine was sitting upright, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“Fire,” he yelled again, even though he was only ten feet away from her this time.

She jumped off the bed. “What happened?” she asked as she packed a small bag with their wallets, some extra money, and the car keys.

It dawned on him that she might be thinking it was their house that was on fire instead of their neighbor’s, but he liked her responsiveness. And, with the wind blowing, it easily could be their house next.

“I’m getting Galen,” he said. “Get outside and call the fire department.”

Hopefully, someone would take the call and arrive to put the fire out. If they didn’t, Jeffrey knew his house would be burning in a matter of minutes.

Without saying another word, Katherine was out of the room and gone. Already, smoke was making its way into their home from next door. Jeffrey ran down the hall, scooped his son out of bed, and threw him into the wheelchair. He would apologize later for letting Galen’s head hit the corner of the bedpost, but for now he just wanted to get his son out of the house as quickly as possible.

He coughed. Smoke was passing into every open room. His eyes were watering.

There was an impossible amount of smoke. His house must be on fire too. He couldn’t control his coughing now. As he pushed Galen’s wheelchair down the hall, he ran into a doorway because he couldn’t keep his eyes open. The lights were on, but he could only look down and see his feet. Everything else was clouded with black smoke. The picture frames at the end of the hallway were gone, vanished behind the dark haze. The attic door was gone. Even the hallway lights. More coughing.

It was his habit of taking Galen out to the porch every evening—ten paces, turn left, five more paces, up one step at the door, then fresh air!—that got him out to safety. Even with his eyes closed he could make the journey. He passed the wheelchair over to Katherine before falling over with hacking coughs. It seemed like tar or sludge would eventually come out of his throat, but no matter how much he coughed nothing appeared.

Surprisingly, fire trucks were coming down the street. He was shocked at their responsiveness considering it was a hobby for the volunteers these days, and they had grown tired of putting out migration-fires.

One of the firemen asked Katherine if the fire was another case of flee-and-burn, and she said it was.

“Goddamn Meursaults,” Jeffrey said.

The hoses had already begun spraying water all over the house. The roof collapsed. A minute later one of the walls caved in.

“Damn it,” Jeffrey yelled, running his fingers through Galen’s hair. “We lived next to them for ten years, and this is what they do at the end? I don’t care if they head south early, but why sneak away in the middle of the night like criminals?” Then he yelled, “And why the hell would you burn your house down?”

Some of their other neighbors were standing on their front porches to see what was happening.

“There are a hundred nicer houses all around us,” Katherine said. “It didn’t have anything to do with their home; it’s the people. You can’t trust anyone to think about anything other than themselves.”

The other neighbors went back to bed. Some of them would also leave in the upcoming days. Some already knew when they were going to sneak away and were simply counting down the days. Others didn’t know they were going to abandon the city until something like this happened and they saw how you might as well leave sooner rather than later if you were surrounded by people who would do something like this.

**

The shopping center’s parking lot had room for two hundred vehicles. Other than a group of abandoned cars parked at the far end of the center, the entire area was vacant. Jeffrey was only there because a used bookstore caught his eye. Like a snotty businessman driving his luxury sports car, he parked the tank so it took up four spots.

A black and white house cat, abandoned long ago, was at the end of the line of stores, chasing a mouse or a chipmunk in circles around the concrete. Every time the cat caught up to the rodent, it batted at it and smacked it across the pavement until the little creature conceded defeat. Each time the mouse gave up, however, the cat lost interest in the game just long enough for its adversary to regain hope and attempt another dash for safety. Only then would the cat chase it again. The cat was a complete asshole.

The bookstore was between a beauty salon and drug store. Further down the line were a coffee shop, a discount clothing store, and a grocery store. Inside the bookstore, he turned and looked out the front window instead of immediately looking through the aisles in search of something interesting to read. The glass gave a clear view of the traffic that would have been coming into and out of the shopping center back when people were around.

It was then, right as he was about to start looking for which books he would take, that he saw a man crossing the parking lot.

The man appeared from the grocery store, saw the tank, then stopped to look around for where the tank’s driver might be. Maybe, too, the man was scanning for other new vehicles in the area, or was wondering what purpose the tank could have in the remote strip mall. For a minute, the man looked all around him as though he might be on a hidden camera show. Why else would a tank not be there one minute and then be there the next? Then, as if seeing a woman for the first time after having served a long prison sentence, the man put the groceries down on the concrete and started walking, almost running, directly toward the tank.

Jeffrey watched, amused, before realizing what was happening. The man’s single-minded focus on the machine caused a tiny thought to form in Jeffrey’s head. The thought confused him at first because of how alien it was to the rest of his trip. Once formed, though, he stared in shock.

He was going to be robbed of his tank.

He threw the café door open. He was sprinting. It was obvious from both men’s hobbled runs that neither of them had participated in track and field in a very, very long time. Jeffrey got to the thief right as he was pulling himself up on top of the tread.

“Stop,” Jeffrey said, taking hold of the man’s ankle as he climbed up the giant vehicle.

But instead of giving up the prize in front of him, the man shook his foot free before kicking it into Jeffrey’s mouth. Jeffrey crashed to the ground. The man was standing atop the tank’s tread, looking at the hatch to see how it opened.

Jeffrey was back on his feet, blood trickling from his mouth. The man turned and saw Jeffrey’ extended arms and tried to stomp them away.

“You son of a bitch,” Jeffrey growled.

He took one giant step forward before jumping to grab hold of any part of the thief he could cling to. If he missed, the man could move away and step inside the hatch. Once there, if he knew how, he could lock the hatch door from the inside. No matter how long Jeffrey rode on top of the tank, swearing at him, the new driver could keep going south until he ran out of gas. Maybe the thief would never open the hatch door. Maybe he would be content to drive south until he couldn’t go any further, then simply die inside the machine that had once more given him hope. If that happened, Jeffrey would be back where he started, minus the tank.

But he didn’t miss. His arms wrapped around one of the thief’s legs, and as Jeffrey yanked with all of his might, the man came flying off the side of the metal hull and crashed hard against the concrete below.

He didn’t get to ask why the man was doing what he was doing. He didn’t even get to ask where this person was from or if anyone else was nearby. After hitting the ground, the thief took one disoriented swing toward Jeffrey, but by then Jeffrey was too mad to do anything except completely break the robber. He knelt on top of the thief, choking the man with one hand and punching him in the face with the other. The body underneath him growled and flailed.

“I need that tank,” the thief said, almost begging, not even bothering to look at Jeffrey if it meant taking his eyes off the beautiful armored machine in front of him. One of the man’s eyes was already swollen shut. His nose was crooked, pointing toward his shoulder instead of down toward his mouth. “I need that tank,” he said again and again.

What made Jeffrey angrier than being kicked in the mouth was that this man had no concern for why Jeffrey had been here in the first place. What if he had been trying to get north to save his family? Without the tank, they would starve while this man rode south without any thought about their lives. What if the tank was traveling to some forgotten lab where a scientist had finally discovered a cure for the Blocks? Instead of saving all of humanity, the cure would go unused and be lost. The man didn’t care about anything other than himself. And for that reason, under Jeffrey’s weight, he became the men who had started the fire at the stadium. He was every man who had protested against the Blocks. He was Katherine leaving Galen at the stadium. He was the skeleton riling up fear each night. He was the lit match. He was every person who had burned their house down. He was every punch line to every Block joke.

That was what made Jeffrey keep hitting the thief, even after he had stopped resisting. One of his knuckles cracked after hitting the side of the man’s skull. A flash of pain seared through Jeffrey’s wrist, but instead of stopping the punishment, he merely switched hands. When that hand began to throb, he began slamming the thief’s face into the pavement.

Looking back, he wasn’t sure how soon after he had started hitting the thief that the man had given up resisting. By the time Jeffrey collected himself, the newcomer was unconscious on the pavement. Jeffrey was gasping for breath. His chest was heaving up and down as he shook in rage.

Even after he stood up, he was growling. The thief might be dead, yet Jeffrey still wasn’t satisfied. This man had torched his boy. This man had taken everything away from him.

Part of Jeffrey wanted to break the man’s arms and legs, just on the chance he was still alive, so if he woke up he would be able to do nothing except sit under the sky and think about what he had done until he died. He thought about tying the man’s body across the top of the tank so everywhere he went, people would know to leave him alone. The man gave a pitiful gurgle on his own blood, but it could have been nothing more than the last breath escaping the body. Jeffrey was still shaking uncontrollably.