A Different Alchemy (18 page)

Things wouldn’t have been so bad if he could have gone a single day without wondering which part of the stadium Galen was rotting away in. Had he been near where the flames started and died fairly quickly? Or was he in the bleachers, forced to sit there and wait for the flames to spread through the other sections first, enveloping row upon row of Blocks before getting to him? Had Galen died of smoke inhalation before the first flames touched his precious skin, or had he waited patiently in his wheelchair as the fire slowly crept up his legs? Was there anything left of him, or had the bodies all melted together in a twisted collection of blackened limbs? Jeffrey couldn’t get the thoughts out of his head.

He tried to imagine his son on the porch with him. The birds would be chirping, the dogs barking somewhere down at the end of the street. He remembered it all as best as he could, but when he imagined Galen there with him, it wasn’t his boy that was there, but his burned remains.

And so he said goodbye to the front porch where he spent each night with Galen. He said goodbye to Tyler State Park and even to the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Occasionally, not often, he wondered what Katherine was doing now. It was doubtful that she would have gone back to their house. Maybe she went to her parents so they could help rationalize what she had done. Knowing her, she would beg and plead with them until they gave up their own plans to stay behind in order to make her happy. Maybe she was living by herself in a house just outside Washington.

None of it mattered. Cleaning pebbles off his pants, he stood up and went back to the tank.

Each day, the roads became less reliable. His progress up the coast, already slow, became even slower. If the tank had to go three miles an hour, that was fine with him.

Sometimes when he was driving he would smell an animal’s carcass hidden in the forest and be reminded of what his son’s flesh might have smelled like before the flies started picking it apart. Other times, the tank’s engine would make a popping noise and he thought of what it must have sounded like as Galen’s skin boiled in the inferno.

The tank passed through mile after mile of forgotten highway. Not a single car approached on its way home from a long day at work. No delivery trucks raced away on their final drop-off of the day so they too could get home. It was just him, alone.

He came to a collection of tents set up just off the road. Three of the seven tents had collapsed in a heap on nylon and space-age fabric. The other four were still in good condition. His curiosity got the better of him; against his instincts, he found himself walking toward the little camp. Someone could sneak up from the other direction and take his tank, but the longer he spent driving it the more he realized he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life in the armored machine. There would come a time, sooner or later, when he would either abandon it or it would break down and force him to settle wherever it couldn’t move anymore.

The ground was mush after all of the snow melted. It only took four steps before his clean shoes were stuck in foot-deep mud. He left them and continued walking with bare feet. Everything below his ankles went numb from the cold slush. But still he walked toward the tents.

“Hello?” he called, but there was no rustling, and no one called out in response. “Is anybody here?”

His answer came in the form of a boot sticking out of one of the fallen tents. Jeffrey pulled the canvas away. An old man in flannel shirts, triple-layered, was lying there, motionless. Dead. The man’s skin was unnaturally grayish blue. His eyes were closed in a way that made it possible for Jeffrey to believe the struggling hiker could have had a peaceful death in the middle of sleeping.

Another body was revealed when Jeffrey pulled the tent further away. This one, an old woman, was also frozen. The next tent had two more bodies, and the next after that had one. He unzipped one of the tents that was still standing, proud against the wind. Only one body—maybe the last survivor to succumb to the cold. The next tent was filled with empty food cartons and other trash.

All of the frozen bodies looked like they had simply gone to sleep one night and never woken up again. That was the pretty version of things. More likely, they had struggled to get south, their cars broken down somewhere further up the road, so they tried as best as they could to continue on foot until they reached the next town. Maybe they slept on the side of the road for a week before freezing to death. It could have happened the first night, as soon as the fire went out and no one was awake to restart it. Maybe one of their party had continued on to get help, telling the others he would return with working vehicles. If that had happened, these people might have waited on the side of the road for weeks, hoping in vain that someone was coming to save them, never realizing the other man ran into a pack of wolves, or, perhaps, simply grew too tired and also went to sleep and never woke up.

He didn’t offer a prayer. Nor did he look up at the sky and pray that the same thing didn’t happen to him. He merely surveyed the scene one last time before walking back, still barefoot, to the tank.

Immediately upon returning to the machine, he wrapped a blanket around his cold feet as tightly as he could. This served two purposes: it warmed his feet quicker, and it kept the tank’s interior clean. His feet alternated between searing pain and complete numbness.

When he stopped for dinner that night he found replacement socks and a new pair of shoes. After dinner he came upon a herd of deer in the middle of the road. He counted twenty in all, some with antlers, some without, some fully grown, some young. A few walked off the road as the tank approached, but most remained in the middle of the path without concern. One of the animals even walked closer, as though the tank was interesting instead of the conqueror of battlefields. It was only when the machine was almost nudging them with its turret that the animals stepped off the road and let him pass.

But as soon as the tank started to move forward a little faster, one of the deer darted back out of the woods and ran right in front of his path. Even at the tank’s slow speed, Jeffrey didn’t have enough time to stop or swerve to the side. The tank, used to running over fallen trees, barely hiccupped as it crushed the deer’s ribcage. A wolf darted out of the brush a second later, saw the deer under the tank, and growled in frustration. Without any other options, the wolf disappeared back into the woods.

He popped the hatch and looked at the animal. Somehow, even though half its body was flattened against the road, the deer wasn’t dead. Its speed must have gotten it most of the way to safety. Its two back legs, along with its hips and ass were complete mush, stuck against the road like partially cooked batter. The front half of the deer, still in shock, continued the struggle to get away. It was glued, though, unable to drag the back half of its body off the road.

It screamed and screamed.

“Oh Jesus,” Jeffrey said, his hands reaching out as though to sooth the deer.

But when he lowered himself to the ground, the animal, in addition to its nauseating screams, it began to buck with its front legs. As much as it tried to run away from the road, as much as it thrashed with its two good hooves, it couldn’t go anywhere. The screams went on without pause. In front of him was an animal completely crazed by oncoming death. There was nothing it could do to save itself and that only served to make it even more scared.

“Jesus, please stop,” Jeffrey said. “Please stop.”

The deer kept thrashing against the ground. It kept crying. Jeffrey spun in a circle, looking for something, anything, to make the situation better. The only things around him were the woods and the tank.

“I’m so sorry,” he said before dropping back into the tank. And then, lining the machine up again, he drove it forward once more. The deer’s screams ended the instant the tank began to run over it a second time.

It would take him a long time to look back and realize he wasn’t upset that the animal was dead—his parents would have both done the same thing in his place—it was that, right in front of his eyes, a living thing had lost everything it had known. Something had changed into nothing. The other deer in its group would never see it again. It would never give birth to more fawns. It would never settle down for the night and provide warmth to the rest of the huddled animals. Life had given way to the absence of life. With the appearance of the Blocks, it was impossible not to be familiar with the concept, but he didn’t like seeing it right in front of him. He didn’t like being a part of it.

The tank continued north.

Chapter 13

A segment on one of the news shows that night devoted ten minutes to a woman who claimed she could see ghosts. But not regular ghosts. She claimed to be able to see, exclusively, the ghosts of dead Blocks. The segment’s host started by insinuating it was convenient that the woman claimed only to see the ghosts of people who couldn’t talk back and provide relatives with proof they were really there, but after giving the audience a skeptic’s minute, the rest of the show seemed to take her quite seriously.

“Tell us about these ghosts,” the segment’s lead said. “What are they like?”

Instead of wearing a somber black outfit, as one might expect of a woman tormented by spirits, the fortune-teller turned ghost-seer wore a sparkling blue blouse that was accentuated by layer upon layer of makeup.

“The first thing I’d like everyone to know,” she said, grimacing, “is that this isn’t some fairytale ability that I’m lucky to have. I don’t want this miraculous ability. It’s something I’m forced to live with.”

“But why wouldn’t you want to be able to see the ghosts?” The interviewer was a recent addition to the show. Without universities offering degrees in Communications anymore, he had no background or skill-set suitable for making him on-air talent except he was unbelievably handsome. This inexperience led him to take people at face value and get caught up in his own questions; he really wanted to know why someone wouldn’t want to be able to see ghosts!

The woman offered another pained smile. “Because they don’t do anything. These aren’t normal ghosts we’re talking about. These ghosts don’t talk. They can’t tell you what they want. They can’t communicate with you, can’t tell you what’s keeping their soul trapped in this plane. They can’t even point at the picture of someone who killed them so the killer is brought to justice. They just sit there and stare at you.” When the interviewer didn’t immediately respond, she added, “It’s really creepy.”

“It sounds awful. Tell us, why do you think you were picked to have this ability?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve always had a special power in one way or another. In high school, I had visions of the future. In—“

“Did you foresee the Great De-evolution?”

“No, nothing like that. I knew exactly which day Bobby Brinkle was going to ask out my best friend, though.”

“That’s great.” But you could tell from the way the young interviewer slumped back in his chair that he was disappointed that an already great story hadn’t turned into what would have been an Emmy winning story, had the Emmy’s still been around.

“Anyway, after high school, I could tell people’s fortunes. That ability went away after a while, but then I started to be able to see peoples’ past lives. And now, I can see ghosts. But only Block ghosts.”

“Describe to us exactly what it’s like.”

“It’s ghastly! You want to be able to help them. I know they need help or else they wouldn’t be haunting me, but I have no idea what they want. They just keep staring straight ahead. When I notice them, they’re always staring straight at me. But if I get up to go to the kitchen, they just keep staring at the wall until they disappear. The poor things can’t even follow me with their eyes.”

“And do they appear like normal people?”

“That’s the thing. They appear the way they were at the moment they died. And Blocks are still too young to die from natural causes. If you’re seeing a Block ghost, you’re seeing it because it died in a pretty unpleasant way. The bodies I see have been tortured by sickos, or have been picked apart by animals after they were abandoned on the side of the road. Normally, these ghosts would want some sort of acceptance with what happened.”

“Did a ghost tell you that?”

“No, no, that’s just what I’ve always seen on TV and in the movies. But these poor kids can’t tell me who killed them or what would give them peace. They’re doomed to spend the rest of eternity as motionless ghosts unless I can figure out a way to communicate with them. No one should have to suffer their fate. It’s bad enough they were abused in some pervert’s basement or thrown away like trash, they don’t deserve to spend eternity in some kind of Block purgatory. No one deserves that.”

The screen went black.

“I refuse to watch this bullshit for even one more minute,” Jeffrey said as he left the room to go check on Galen. But he knew, even after he had left, that Katherine would be scared to sleep in the dark, lest a Block ghost visit them and gaze at her as she tried not to have too many nightmares.

**

Growing up, the Boston skyline was always shown before and after commercial breaks for Celtics games. But from where Jeffrey scanned the view, from Highway 3, the shining city he remembered seeing as a boy was replaced by a horizon of broken buildings, a ghost town of old corporations.

A deserted diner still had most of the ingredients to make pancakes. There was no fresh milk but a food processor took care of that part. He also had the machine make him chocolate chips since the one bottle of chocolate syrup he found had mold growing all over it.

The diner’s radio still functioned, but only one station offered music. Beethoven or Bach, a piece he had once heard at Katherine’s parents’ house, echoed throughout the diner. Every other station was gone.

The diner was covered with framed 8x10 glossy pictures of celebrities and athletes who had stopped by to taste the world famous burgers and milk shakes. Most everyone in the photos had long since passed away. The few young celebrities, now senior citizens, had disappeared to warmer parts of the world. Had he any intention of staying in the diner for longer than one meal, he would have removed all of these pictures from the walls; there was no need to be reminded of the once-smiling people who were all gone.

An old newspaper was still sitting on top of the counter. In big letters across the page he read,
Beantown Welcomes Quebec, Eh?
The story went on to talk about how the Canadian city was readying to evacuate and join with the people in Boston. Montreal and Ottawa were expected, the paper said, to make similar decisions in the next year. This was, of course, long before Boston itself was the focus of rumors centering around exactly when they would head south to New York City. The Boston newspapers had all shut down by that time.

The city hadn’t stood a chance after the Red Sox and Celtics both disbanded during the same year. Maybe if only one of the teams had quit and fans could still go to Fenway or the Garden to see the other, morale wouldn’t have plummeted so quickly. Seeing both teams play their last game within months of each other, the city had nothing to root for, nothing to cheer. If ever the importance of sports to a city was questioned, it was reiterated during those months of the Great De-evolution. People started leaving for New York without waiting for the official migration. Senior citizens seemed to be dying quicker than in the states where the Lakers still played the Spurs or the Braves still played the Astros.

With his belly full, Jeffrey continued north into the city center. He thought about going in a loop around the city because of the horror stories of frozen bodies scattered around each city block and the rumors that there were still tiny tribes fighting for survival, all stark raving mad from the suffering and isolation. Nobody ever went north to see if these people really existed, but the rumors continued because they thrived without needing any proof. Like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster, someone had spoken to someone else who had supposedly been near the city and heard terrible cries or seen recent footprints in the snow. That was enough to keep the rumors going.

He let the tank veer off the highway, toward signs pointing to abandoned universities. In the old days, each year’s graduating class would fill these streets after a night of revelry and drinking. Now, the streets were empty except for stray cats everywhere. There were cats sitting under the trees, looking up at the mocking birds singing their songs, and there were cats sleeping next to the sewers, ready to slip away at the smallest threat. Cats were walking up and down the sidewalks, mimicking the actions of the former ruling class. Cats were jumping in and out of broken storefront windows, some coming out with rats or mice in their mouths; others, not as lucky, coming out with their mouths empty. They were everywhere he looked.

At City Hall, a statue of Lady Justice was still holding the scales of justice in one hand, but her other hand, along with the sword it was supposed to be holding, had cracked and broken. Chunks of rock lay on the ground in pieces. He saw the famous
Cheers
bar, where no one would be drinking beer anymore. It might be full of bodies, however. Better to remember the laughs on TV and not see what the reality had become.

The entire city looked like London—if the city had never been rebuilt after World War II. Some of the skyscrapers had broken open, leaving piles of rubble on the ground. Nearly all of the windows were missing from the corporate offices. A bank had collapsed in on itself. In ten years Philadelphia would look the same way. In fifteen years, Washington would look this way. In twenty-five years, Atlanta would be identical. In forty years, only a few years after the last men and women had taken their final breaths in the great Florida sun, Miami would look this way. Did all of the people heading south think they were outrunning death, or did they know there was only so far they could travel before they ran into southern waters? And Death, taking her good ol’ time traveling down 95, would eventually catch up with them. When they were dispatched, she would load her scythe into a boat and cross the water to Cuba, then the rest of the Caribbean.

It wasn’t until he was heading back toward the highway that he saw the first man.

There was a disconnect between what he expected to see and what his eyes revealed to him. The man in front of him wasn’t crazed, bearded, and wide-eyed, a sawed-off shotgun slung over his shoulder. He was merely a man of ninety, struggling, even with the assistance of a cane, to walk. Jeffrey stopped the tank and opened the hatch.

“Hello there,” he said, smiling at this old man who was almost slipping and falling with every step he took toward the tank.

The man grumbled words that Jeffrey couldn’t understand. Each step brought the pitiful man minutely closer to the tank. Something in the man’s broken down face kept Jeffrey from offering assistance. It might have been how he never took his eyes off the machine. Even when he stumbled, almost fell, he stared, as though in a trance, at the metal monster. The hobbling man was the closest thing to a zombie that the Great De-evolution could produce. A truck could come hurtling down the street and the man would pay it no attention, even as it ran him over, because he was mindlessly staggering towards this armored machine in front of him.

“How are you doing?” Jeffrey said. And then, when that didn’t get a response, “Can I help you? Do you need help?”

The decrepit man continued forward without trying to answer. Then another man appeared. This one wasn’t quite as old, maybe only seventy-five or eighty. The newcomer quickly passed the man struggling with his cane.

Jeffrey smiled at this new man walking toward him. “How are you doing? Nice day out.”

But this man also walked toward the tank without responding. And when he got to the tank, instead of reaching up to shake Jeffrey’s hand, he simply tried to climb up the tread.

“What are you doing?” Jeffrey said, still not understanding what was going on. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The man started to pull himself up in an attempt to stand on top of the tank’s tread. His grip wasn’t strong enough, though. Right as he tried to lift his first foot up, his fingers slipped away and he fell backwards with a loud grunt.

“Sir, are you all right?”

The man got back to his hands and knees. The original man was still twenty feet away, making a shameful amount of progress toward the tank. He was gasping for air so heavily that it was doubtful he would ever make it to where Jeffrey was. But the second man was now successfully pulling himself up onto the tank, and once there, was trying to push Jeffrey aside in order to descend into the machine’s core.

“What are you doing?” Jeffrey said, but would never get a response.

He pushed back at the man just enough to stop his progress. This seemed to puzzle the grizzled, old man, who was still singularly focused on getting inside the tank.

Finally Jeffrey could understand what the other man was mumbling: “Take me with you. Please, take me with you. Need to leave. Please.”

Two more people, both exceedingly ancient, appeared at the same intersection. They too began making their way toward the tank. The old man standing next to Jeffrey put a hand over Jeffrey’s mouth in an attempt to push him away. Jeffrey pushed back. The man lost his footing and fell off the side of the vehicle before disappearing out of view. But by this time, two of the other men, both walking with the assistance of canes, were at the tank as well.

All three men were clambering up now. Six hands strained to pull their owners closer to the tank’s hatch. Each man begged Jeffrey to save them.

None of them were listening, none of them even realized Jeffrey was heading north instead of toward the remains of civilization. He pulled the hatch shut, then motored the tank toward the other side of the street. One of the men immediately fell off the tank and remained motionless on the ground. Another of the old men hung on to the back of the tank for twenty feet as it dragged him across the intersection before he too finally let go.