Bad Glass (43 page)

The sky turned red not long after we left the research facility, and it stayed red the entire way home.

Again the color changed with a roar. It was a great rending in the sky, and when I looked up, it felt like I was staring into a widening wound.

Again I got the impression of blood, and I was half expecting it to come raining down over the city. It would be a horrible thing, I thought, a horrific squall filled with gristle and teeth, and we’d have to run the last couple of blocks absolutely drenched in gore. But it didn’t happen. It was the same as before: a twirling liquid red sky, suspended above our heads.

Floyd hadn’t seen it the first time around, and he greeted it with stunned, wide-eyed terror.

“Oh, my God,” he muttered. “Oh, my fucking God.”

Taylor and I tried to calm him down. We tried to convince him that everything was fine, that the red sky would pass and the world would return to normal, but nothing seemed to work. He remained transfixed by the color above his head, his face going pale, his shoulders drooping, as if pressed down by that massive sky. And there were honest-to-God tears in his eyes.

I don’t know if Charlie had seen the sky the first time around, but either way, he wasn’t terrified. In fact, the sky didn’t seem to
affect him at all. He remained lost inside his own head. Battling demons and memory. Chasing his parents.
Are they gone? Are they really dead?
He walked like a zombie, his eyes barely flickering up toward the sky before once again fixing on his boots.

I, for my part, was surprised at how calm I remained. The sky was terrifying—objectively, it was a terrifying sight—but I couldn’t find the energy to care. My reserves of horror had run bone dry. I was trying to comfort Floyd, but his confusion and fear seemed downright ridiculous to me. I’d seen all this before, and frankly, after one time, it felt old hat. Almost mundane.

I wanted to get back to the house. I wanted coffee. I wanted to wash my face and check the pantry for food.

After all
, I thought with a bitter smile,
it’s not like it’s the end of the world
.

The four of us stayed together in the kitchen when we got home. Even terrified and confused, Floyd and Charlie wanted our company. I think they wanted the reassurance of having us nearby. This seemed like a big change to me. I was getting used to people freaking out and running away whenever something bad happened.

When we entered, Taylor immediately headed to the camp stove and started making coffee. Floyd collapsed into a chair next to the sliding glass door, where he could stare, transfixed, up at the roiling red sky. His eyes grew wide, and I watched as he bolted down another couple of pills.

“I must have missed something,” Charlie said as he sat down at the kitchen table and popped open his notebook computer. “There’s got to be something here, something that’ll tell us what really happened to my parents. I just need to pay attention. I just need to see what’s staring me in the face—in the emails, in the files they sent.” His voice was loud, but I think he was just talking to himself, trying to convince himself that there was still hope. Taylor and Floyd didn’t even glance up at the sound of his voice.

And then there was silence in the room.

I stood in the doorway for nearly a minute, watching my three friends. They were lost in their own little worlds, sharing the same space but completely isolated, completely alone. It made me sad. The thing that had struck me most when I had first found this house, when Taylor had first dragged me through the door, was the sense of community here, the sense of family hidden away inside these generic suburban walls. It had been such a warm place, full of laughter, full of life. But that was gone now. It had disappeared, along with Amanda and Mac and Weasel (and Devon, too, I thought).

“I’m going to go check on Sabine,” I said.

There was no reply.

Upstairs, I found Sabine’s door standing wide open, but she wasn’t there. Out working on her project, I guessed. I peeked in through the door. Her room was still a mess, blanketed in well-used sheets of paper. I was tempted to sneak in and try to figure out what she was working on but decided against it. That would be a pretty big violation, I figured, considering her earlier reaction. Besides, whatever her project was, I guessed that it was just some manic whim of hers, a distraction, a way for her to channel her energy and pain.

I shut the door and headed back downstairs.

At the bottom of the staircase, I glanced up and saw a dark figure standing just outside the living-room window, outlined against the dark red afternoon. The figure didn’t have a face.

I jumped at the sight and almost cried out, barely managing to stifle my voice as the figure backed away from the window, quickly raising its hands in the universal gesture of surrender. My fright passed as soon as I recognized who it was.

It was the Poet, her face hidden behind her dark leather hood.

She continued backing away from the window, keeping her hands raised high. As I watched, she retreated across the lawn and out onto the sidewalk. She stopped there and stood, waiting. Waiting for me?

I was confused. Why would she come here, to the house? What could she possibly want? The last I’d seen, she’d been sitting huddled in the corner of Cob Gilles’s apartment, completely terrified, unable to talk.
Did she come here for Sabine?
I wondered.
Is this an apology? A meeting of the artistic minds?

I moved into the entryway and opened the door, trying to keep it quiet. The way the Poet had retreated to the sidewalk instead of coming straight to the front door, I figured she didn’t want an audience. In fact, as soon as I stepped out onto the porch, she took a nervous step back, and I was afraid she was going to flee. Then she planted her feet and stood firm.

“You’re the Poet,” I said awkwardly as I made my way down the front walk. “I’m sorry about before. Sabine and I … we didn’t mean—”

As soon as I got about ten feet away, the Poet’s hand darted up, frantically warding me back. I stopped, and she nodded. She wanted me at a distance; that much was clear. Her eyes were wide inside her mask’s oval openings. Its mouth had been zippered shut.

“What?” I asked, holding out my hands, trying to show her that I was not a threat. “What do you want me to do?”

She held up her hand—palm flat, facing me—and urged me to stay still. Then she reached into the pocket of her paint-spattered peacoat. Her hand came out with a video camera.
My
video camera.

“How?” I asked, perplexed. I tried to think back. What had I done with the camera? How had it managed to get from my backpack to the Poet’s hand?

Without thinking, I started toward her. “Where did you—?”

The Poet shook her head and took a quick step back, getting ready to flee. I stopped moving forward—in fact, I fell back a couple of steps—and after a tense moment, the masked woman started to calm back down.
She’s like a nervous little bird
, I thought,
ready to fly at the slightest hint of movement
. Eventually, she nodded her head and once again resumed her pantomime. She
bent at her knees and slowly lowered the camera to the sidewalk, never once taking her eyes off my face. As soon as it touched the cement, she let go. Then she turned and ran away, fleeing as fast as she could, leaving the camera sitting alone on the sidewalk.

I watched until she disappeared around a corner two blocks away. She was moving fast, running away from me as if I were a horrible threat, as if I were the Devil himself.
And what could do that to a person?
I wondered.
What could scare someone into such complete and total retreat?
Then I bent down and picked up the battered old Sony.

I’m sure it was just a coincidence, but as soon as my hand closed around the camera, the clouds started to move back in over the city, tumbling toward the center of the sky like dirty water flowing toward a drain. And once all the red was gone, the clouds opened up and it started to piss down rain.

I cast a final look down the empty street, then trotted back to the front door.

Sabine had had the video camera. That was the last thing I could recall. She’d used it to record the soldier falling out of the hospital window. Then she’d had it in the tunnel, chasing Mac into the dark. And then … I guess she’d never given it back.

Did she give it to the Poet?
I wondered.
Why? Why would she do that?

I ran upstairs as soon as I got back in the house. I retreated to my room and locked the door behind me. Then I sat down on my futon and turned on the camera’s video screen.

The battery was almost dead, but there was enough juice to view the most recent recording, and even though the screen was only three inches wide, I could see exactly what was going on.

It was Sabine’s project, her “absolutely brilliant” piece of art.

The camera didn’t have a speaker, so I had to watch without sound as she took her place in front of the camera, standing there with a sly grin on her face as her lips flapped in silence. Then she started to deface the Poet’s wall. I had to squint to make out the
words in Sabine’s “response,” but the emotion of the piece still hit me pretty hard. There was so much anger there, in her words, so much venom—for the Poet, for her work. And to put it there, on the wall of her building, just outside her window—it was an act of violence, and viewing it made me feel a little sick.

Did the Poet really deserve this? Just for keeping quiet, for shutting Sabine out? Obviously, the woman had problems of her own, and her greatest sin—her huge transgression—had been merely not living up to Sabine’s expectations.

I felt a jolt of fear as Sabine dragged the sledgehammer into view. It was like watching a crime in progress, an assault. Sabine was going to attack the city—I knew that, I could see it coming—and I couldn’t imagine anything good happening as a result.

But when she pounded on the wall, nothing happened. The hole just got bigger. And she got tired.

I was relieved when she finally stopped. I was hoping she’d burned through all that anger. She’d let it flame brightly for that brief period, and now, I hoped, she’d be able to just walk away. Point made. Anger expressed. Bad blood gone.

But then she leaned forward and stuck her head into the gap. It was terrifying, watching that, watching her motionless body perched there at the edge of that hole, just waiting for something to happen.

What’s down there?
I wondered.
What’d she find? Spiders? A damaged face, a shattered body? A cache of gold, the perfect piece of art?
Or, hell, maybe there were glowing words down there, etched into the building’s supports—answers to all of our questions, spelled out in bright, glowing colors (
this
is what’s happening,
this
is what’s going on).

Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a dark, cramped space down there beneath the street. And what Sabine was seeing, what had stopped her cold, was something that in normal circumstances would have stayed a faint whisper in the back of her head. A fear, a personal epiphany, projected into an empty, brick-ringed hole.

Whatever it was, it was a way forward. And it was a path Sabine must have felt compelled to take.

Without looking back, she moved inside and disappeared.

And that was it. That was the end of Sabine’s protest, the end of her little piece of performance art.

I stared at the static scene for a long time. At first, I was waiting for her to come back out. Then, after a while, I was sure that she wouldn’t. After about five minutes, I hit the fast-forward button and spun through nearly a half hour of empty street. Then there was a hint of movement screen right. I hit the “play” button once again and watched as the Poet tentatively made her way on-screen, first standing back to study Sabine’s poem, then moving up to the wall to stare into the hole. She didn’t look for long—she just gave the hole a cursory, uninterested glance—before she backed up and headed toward the camera.

The Poet stopped in the middle of the street, a couple of feet away. She bent down and stared into the camera lens for a long moment, her bright eyes sparkling behind her black leather mask. Then she reached out and shut it off.

The screen went a brilliant blue in my hands, and I sat there for a while, trying to figure out what to do next.

It took me about fifteen minutes to make it to Sabine’s poem.

The rain was coming down hard by then, and the streets were all flooded. Spokane had been transformed into a maze of inch-deep rivers, and I cut a wake through the water as I made my way to St. James Tower, home of Cob Gilles and the Poet. By the time I got there, my clothing was soaked through. It stuck, cold, to my skin, and I couldn’t stop shivering.

The poem was there. Large as life and just as angry. I noticed the can of green spray paint lying discarded in the gutter. Sabine’s ladder lay flat on the sidewalk nearby.

I didn’t hesitate. I went right up to the hole and peered inside. There was less than a foot of space between the outer wall and the
inner wall, and that space was almost completely filled with debris. There was absolutely no way anyone could have climbed inside. It was a physical impossibility.