Fallen Land (31 page)

Only when his legs and arms go numb does he move them, adjust his position, climb to a lower, broader branch, nearly falling as he grapples down the rough trunk, feeling the weight of his body pulled backward in space. Planting a foot, he clings, grasps, pivots, slides his legs around the new branch, heaves in air, and notices the sun is setting, the world turning red, air throbbing with this new coloration, the forest distorted, the greens popping neon, fluorescent, a patch of red label on his shoes shimmering as the woods are suddenly full of deer, a few at first, the forerunners, darting a path through trees, flying, and then dozens more in stampede as he takes aim, the suppressor muffling his shots, bodies falling, others coming faster, in panic and disorientation, piling up, a carnage of brown and white flanks, some still bellowing, eyes rolling, staring up at him as the lights go out, the wind picking up, clouds cantering in from the west, the first fat and acidic drops forcing him from the tree, half sliding down the trunk to the ground where he surveys his kill.

One by one, he guts them and carries each body down to the storm cellar, through the containment door, and into the bunker. He works slowly, rain falling harder, bodies cooling, requiring more work with his knife, a slip in the rain, blood coming now from his own skin. Five deer, all at once, enough to feed him for a year.

As the rain belts him harder, wind driving water through wood, he retreats once again, sealing himself inside the vault. The hallway of the bunker is a landscape of bodies. He cuts off the legs and skins them but lacks the energy to complete the job. At the stove he cooks rice and beans, eating from the pot as he looks at the carcasses, imagining how he will butcher and freeze them, find ways to preserve all that meat; some of it will have to be cured or go to waste. He eats two days’ worth of rations until he feels sick, and then, before he can even turn to the carcasses, he stumbles to his bed, strips off his wet and bloody clothes, watches the trickle of blood from his arm slow and stop, its browning crust caked across his skin, a smear on the blankets, a track, his eyes burrowing into the path that cuts through the folds of his comforter, a lane through hills, a red trail into darkness.

When he wakes he turns over and sleeps again, forgetting his dreams. In the moments of waking he wants only to return to the red path and follow his bloodline back to mountains he has never known.

A high whine screaming through the bunker wakes him. Climbing and tripping through deer carcasses that emit a tart-sweet smell of decay, he searches for the source of the noise, but everywhere it has the same intensity, a bright screeching drone, like the scream of the child. Or perhaps it is not whining so much as some watery rushing, surging up from beneath the bunker, the aquifer rising to engulf him. Or else it is something alive in the walls of the bunker itself, between the concrete and lead lining, and the only answer is to dig, to find the source. A drill will make too much noise, the people upstairs would notice, but a spoon, a spoon will work, cutting into the walls. He finds a spoon in the kitchen’s utensil drawer and begins scraping away at the corner of the hallway closest to the rear containment door, sensing the noise might be loudest there, that in fact there is a shift of intensity and pitch, a higher gurgling-whine, a rotating whooshing. He scrapes and scratches, wearing down the spoon, creating a small mound of dust on the floor. For the first time since rising from his bed he notices his nakedness, the stains of blood and dirt still traced along his arms. He has defecated and urinated on the floor as the noise, growing in intensity, exploding up through the walls, penetrated his brain. It is not water, nothing mechanical or electronic, not a whine, not a gurgle, but that same terrible scratching and clawing noise he has heard in the past, a beast from deep in the bowels of the earth rising up, breathing in and out, clawing through the ground surrounding the bunker, approaching, circling, scrambling in fury against the lead lining, clawing its way in, piercing the outer shell. He stumbles backward, tripping over the carcasses, sliding between them, the hunger erupting out of his gut, tearing into his mouth, his hands reaching, shredding, pulling away a strip of flesh from the carcass closest to him, his fingers bringing it to his mouth, the flesh on his tongue, the tart-sweet odor, and then a sudden blackness and night.

PART III

FALL

4:53
AM:
He stares at the red numbers on the clock radio. Individually they are masculine but 4:53 is somehow feminine. It has to do with adding them all together, or multiplying. Either way, the result (12 or 60) is feminine. This is not something he has to contemplate. He knows the time is feminine before he is conscious of making calculations. He wonders if three men make a woman. It calms him to know there is now another woman in the house, although he is still unsure if he can trust her. She has told him to call her Louise. His father thinks this is too familiar and wants him to call her Mrs. Washington. During the day, when the two of them are alone, he calls her Louise. As soon as his mother or father gets home, he has to remember to switch to Mrs. Washington. He asks her one day at dinner if she is related to George and Martha Washington. She laughs and says no, but her husband might have been since he could not tell a lie. He turns off the alarm before it can buzz. It is a Friday. He is in no hurry to get ready for school.

4:58 AM:
He turns on the light and picks up the book he is reading. He has finished the book about the boy who goes in search of his father on a distant planet and is now reading its sequel, in which the same boy becomes very ill and his sister has to shrink herself down to sub-molecular size and enter his body to save him. Like the boy in the book, he also has a mysterious illness, a battle going on inside him, but unlike the boy, he has no sister to save him. His father says he should spend more time outdoors in the backyard, climbing trees, but the trees are tall, and there are no branches anywhere within reach. Last weekend his father tried to help him climb, giving him a boost so he could touch the closest branch. As he was reaching for the branch to pull himself up his arms began to shake, and then his legs, and they shook so hard he lost control of his body and found it squirming out of his father’s arms, dropping to the ground. He turned his ankle and began to cry. “Come on, Copley,” his father said, “don’t be so afraid.” Sitting on the wet grass, looking around at the world, he did not know how to say to his father that he was afraid not just of heights, but of the open space around him, so wide it seemed ready to consume him, to take him in its gaping jaws and replace him with itself.

5:10 AM:
He watches himself in the shower, looking at his head, his feet, his elbows, the backs of his knees, seeking himself in the body he no longer recognizes as his own. Only when he glances into dark corners of space does he sense something that looks like his thoughts. Empty space has consumed him. He now belongs to space.

8:02 AM:
He and Louise eat breakfast together but do not talk. He wants to speak with her but every time words begin to form, rising up in his head like buildings, before he can place them on his tongue they flatten and slide away, filling his throat with debris. It is not a question of having nothing to say. He has many things to say. He feels as though he came into the world to speak, to name, to describe things in the way he sees them, but something is now stopping him, either the illness or the pills that are supposed to make him better. The pills might, he thinks, as well as being a remedy, also be a kind of poison. After the last time he thought he saw the man, and followed him into the basement, discovering the short door at the back of the pantry hidden under a shelf, he told his parents. “I saw him again,” he said, “and I know where he lives. He’s behind the pantry.” His father told him to stop making up stories, but the following evening, while his mother was working down there, he took her by the hand and pulled her past the empty shelves. “There, under there, he lives down there. Look, please look.” She leaned over, crawled under the shelf at the back of the pantry, and felt the wooden back wall of the unit. “Pull it,” he said, “pull the handle.” “There isn’t a handle, Copley.” “The tab, the thing holding up the shelf.” She huffed, she was impatient with him, he understood this. He asked her again to pull it. “I’m pulling it but nothing’s happening,” his mother said, backing out from under the shelf and dusting off her hands. “There isn’t anything there, sweetheart. You’ve been having such vivid dreams, haven’t you?” She told him that now, in not too long, dreams like that would stop. He wonders if she meant they would stop because he is going to die, especially now that the words are flattening out and slipping away. “Are you looking forward to school today?” Louise asks. “No,” he says, “I hate school here.” She holds his hand. “Try to find something good,” she says, “it won’t be forever.” This is all she can ever tell him. It won’t be forever, he knows, because he is very sick and he is dying. His parents know it, his doctor knows it, and even Louise knows it, but all of them are refusing to tell him the truth.

12:40 PM:
He sits across from Joslyn at the end of their usual table in the cafeteria gym. Lunch today is fish sticks with tartar sauce, peas, carrots, and fruit compote. Ethan, one of his tormentors, has not been in class all week, and this morning Mrs. Pitt removed the nametag from Ethan’s desk. Joslyn, who lives across the street from Ethan, says the family disappeared over the weekend. “And on Monday, the house was boarded up.” “What do you mean boarded up?” “There were boards nailed over the front door and all the windows.” He wonders what kind of neighborhood Joslyn lives in. He has never seen a house boarded up, except for Louise’s house, and in that case it did not have boards, just a big lock on the front door. He has told no one at school about the man in his basement but he decides, now, that he should tell Joslyn. “You mean
living
in your basement?” she asks. “That’s right.” “And your parents are
letting
him live there?” “No, they don’t think he exists. They think I’m making it up. My father says I read too many fantasy books.” Joslyn looks at him as she chews her food. She is careful when she eats and he likes this about her. She chews each bite fifteen times, more if it’s something tough, but never any less. She eats slowly and is always done just before the lunch period is finished. Sometimes this makes him anxious, because he’s afraid she won’t throw away her trash in time to line up for recess and then she’ll get a fine. “What’s wrong with your voice?” she asks. “What do you mean?” She wipes her mouth with her paper napkin, puts her hands down on the table, and leans over to whisper to him so the girls sitting next to them won’t hear. “You’re talking different than you used to.” “Different how?” he whispers. “Like you’re dead.” “Like a ghost?” he asks. “Not like a ghost. Like you’re dead.”

12:55 PM:
He and Joslyn have formed a habit of walking the perimeter of the playground. Most of the other kids are busy with games, and they’ve discovered that if they keep moving rather than trying to sit in one place, the others are less likely to bother them. The usual games are going on: older boys playing basketball, a group of girls bouncing basketballs in time, hopscotch, jump rope, kids on the play equipment, the security guards watching everyone. As they approach the far side of the field he sees someone outside the school grounds, across the street, walking. Because it is strange to see an adult on foot in the area, they both notice the man, who seems also to notice them. They stop and stare at the man, who slows down for a moment before speeding up and starting to run until he disappears around the corner. “What was that about?” Joslyn asks. “It was him. I think it was him,” he says. “What are you talking about, Policeman?” “That was the man who lives in my basement. I recognized him.” Joslyn looks at him, pushing out her lips, narrowing her eyes. “Are you soft or something?” “What do you mean
soft
?” “Are you crazy?” “I don’t know. I think I might be dying.” She laughs and takes his hand and drags him forward. “If you’re dying then I’m already dead,” she says, “and I can tell you that I’m as alive as those trees.”

1:32
PM:
Mrs. Pitt is in the middle of social studies. This week the lessons have been about citizenship and government, about the importance of rules and regulations, of obeying orders and signs. Yesterday she asked them what would happen if nobody paid attention to signs. “What if people ignored traffic signals? Stop signs? Crosswalks? What if drivers didn’t follow speed limits? What if the bus drivers ignored the bus stops?” He understood there was only one true answer to all her questions. Signs and rules have to be followed or else there will be nothing but chaos, and chaos, Mrs. Pitt has explained to them, is another word for evil. He has looked in the dictionary at home and this does not seem to be true, not true at all. He raised his hand and asked Mrs. Pitt, “What if a sign is wrong? What if it’s pointing in the wrong direction?” “That doesn’t happen very often, Copley.” “And what if a rule is wrong?” “I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs. Pitt said, “a rule can’t be wrong.” “But what if it is?” “That’s enough, Copley. I’m giving you a warning.” Today they are talking again about rules. “We have to have rules,” says Mrs. Pitt. “It’s important to have rules at home. What are some of the rules you have at home? Max?” “I have to brush my teeth before bed and after breakfast,” says Max. “Very good,” says Mrs. Pitt, “and if you didn’t brush your teeth you would get cavities.” “What about you, Emily?” “I have to ask permission before I go outside.” “Very good,” says Mrs. Pitt, “because if you didn’t ask permission your parents wouldn’t know where you were, and because you’re not old enough to know whether or not it’s safe to play outside.” It goes on like this for five minutes; he checks his watch, and although he and Joslyn both raise their hands to offer answers (he is going to tell the class about the rule that allows him only half an hour of television a week), Mrs. Pitt ignores them. “Very good. Hands down. Now what we’re going to do is think about some other rules we can create for the classroom. We already have lots of important rules, about being quiet and lining up and following directions from Miss Fox and me, but I bet you can think of some other good rules, maybe even rules that I haven’t thought of.” The room is silent for several moments, Mrs. Pitt walking back and forth across the front of the room, Miss Fox standing at the back, the rain flinging itself against the windows. At last Austin raises his hand and Mrs. Pitt calls on him. In the past week, Austin has taken the lead in whispering to Copley during bathroom breaks. Yesterday, Austin came into the stall where Copley was trying to urinate and pushed him against the yellow tiled wall. “What are you doing in here?” Austin asked. “Why don’t you use the urinals like a normal boy? Are you even a boy?” When Copley did not answer, Austin pulled at his pants, whispering, “Let’s see if you’re a boy.” The only thing that saved him was Mrs. Pitt shouting into the boys’ bathroom to ask what was taking them so long. Now, waiting for Austin to tell Mrs. Pitt and the class his idea for a new rule, Copley has a sense it will be something to do with him. “I think that only real boys should be allowed to use the boys’ restroom and only real girls should use the girls’ restroom.” Mrs. Pitt looks at Austin and writes on the board: “Boys in the boys’ restroom, girls in the girls’ restroom.” “Yes, Austin, I think that’s an important rule,” says Mrs. Pitt. “So does that mean Copley won’t be able to use the boys’ restroom now?” Austin asks, and everyone except for Joslyn, everyone including Mrs. Pitt, laughs. “We’ll just have to help Copley straighten up,” says Mrs. Pitt, raising her hands to quiet the room. “I’ll count on all you other boys to help him do that.” “But he isn’t even a boy,” Austin says. “That’s enough now, Austin. Who can think of another good rule for the classroom? Emily?” He feels dazed and dizzy and the world turns red. Miss Fox catches his eye, smiles through a frown, and seems to say without speaking that she is sorry. He tries to think of something to say but the words rise and then flatten, sliding back into his throat, wreckage building up, clogging, rusting. He looks out at the dark day through the slats of the blinds and puts down his head on his arms, crossed on top of his desk. “Head up, Copley. Back straight. This isn’t naptime,” says Mrs. Pitt, and the lesson continues.

3:25 PM:
It is swimming today and they have started a unit on diving. In Boston, his swimming teacher had already taught him to dive before they moved and he has been looking forward to this. In the boys’ locker room Austin sneaked up behind him and whispered in his ear, “You’re supposed to be in the other locker room. It’s a classroom rule. Let’s see what’s there. Are you a boy or not?” Mr. Bruce shouted at Austin to “knock it off” and Copley was able to change into his swimming suit without being seen. Now it is his turn on the diving board. Mr. Bruce and Miss Connie are in the pool with the students who have already done their dives. Behind him, on the concrete deck surrounding the pool, are the rest of his classmates. He has no fear about doing the dive. He remembers what his swimming teacher in Boston taught him, and he knows he can dive well. As he approaches the edge of the board, Austin shouts from the far side of the pool, “She’s going to fall!” He jumps, and in the moment his feet leave the board, he knows his form is wrong. His knees bend, his legs scissor, his arms go wide and wild, and he can see the surface of the water rushing into his face.