Pod (24 page)

I’m thinking Aunt Janet has seen too many movies. There’s all kinds of craziness in this plan. Like, what if they shoot us with their guns first? Or what if I can’t find Mary? Or they take me hostage and threaten to shoot
me
? Obviously she’s not good at making these kinds of plans. But I don’t rain on her parade—yet. I figure we get the gun, then I’ll tell her about my plan.

The Nova is exactly the same. There’s still pieces of red plastic under the taillights from when Richie smashed them with the hammer. Aunt Janet keeps an eye on the green door while I dig out the briefcase from under the seat and set it on the pavement.

We start out trying to pry it open with the screwdriver. That is such a waste of time. I get a lug wrench from the SUV. She wedges in the screwdriver while I pry with the lug wrench. It looks like the case is about to pop when Black Beard opens the green door. I ease pressure off the lug wrench and the case snaps shut. Black Beard looks around, drops his pants, squats over the bucket, and whistles. We hide behind the car and wait. I close my eyes. I mean, like, who wants to watch that? After a few minutes we hear the green door open and close. Instantly we’re back to work on the briefcase. Thirty-two minutes, five seconds, and one bloody knuckle later, the case splits open like an oyster.

The pearl is a big black handgun snuggled in a nest of gray foam. Aunt Janet picks up the gun, turns it over in her hands.

She says, “Glock .31 357 SIG.” Her hands move. There’s a metallic snapping sound. In one smooth motion almost too fast to see, the thing that holds the bullets drops out of the handle, she catches it with her left hand, looks at it, frowns, slams it back in. “-Fifteen-round clip, empty.”

My eyes are as wide as Frisbees. “How did you … ?”

She shrugs. “My father was a cop, okay? He collected guns. He used to take me to the shooting range every Sunday after church.”

“So we don’t have any bullets?”

“Not a single one. That means we have to—”

Her face twists. She drops the gun, grabs her head.

The screeching explodes between my ears.

We fall to the floor, twisting and moaning in the dirt and glass. It hurts me bad, but I think it’s killing Aunt Janet. When it’s finally over I know something is wrong. She can barely sit up. Her face is the color of oatmeal, and what little we had for breakfast is all over her shirt. There’s a thin trail of bubbly pink stuff oozing down her chin. Her body is shaking.

She crawls over to the car, leans back against the door.

I say, “I hate it when they do that.”

She opens her mouth to talk but can’t get out the words. Her eyes are all twitchy and her breathing is short and fast, like something is squeezing her lungs.

“Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question, because I can see she isn’t. But I don’t know what else to say.

Her head moves. I can’t tell if it’s a yes or a no.

There’s a flash of yellow light—it lasts for five seconds—and then things get very dark, very fast. Then there’s a soft hum, like I’m sitting under a tree full of bees.

I say, “I think the aliens are coming.”

She motions for me to come close.

The buzzing isn’t so soft anymore. I place my ear next to her lips.

She whispers, “Help me stand up.”

I wrap her left arm around my shoulder. She struggles to her feet. I hold her steady while we walk to the nearest wall and look up at the sky. My legs almost crumble again.
The spaceballs moved way up high—and they’re having babies. Millions of them. Each spaceball has a huge hole in the bottom, and the babies are pouring out like black ink from a bottle. The sky is covered with big ugly stains spreading outward. When the stains come together they form into funnel-like tornados that spiral toward the ground. I count at least five tornados. I can’t see what happens next because buildings are in the way. Truth is, I don’t want to see.

Aunt Janet says, “So it’s finally happening.”

“What is?”

“What they came here to do.”

Whatever that is, it can’t be good. “We need to hide,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice from shaking. I think the utility room is a good spot because it has two metal doors. Or even the Suburban. Anything is better than hanging out here like this. We might as well be standing under a
Here’s Dinner
sign.

But instead of running, Aunt Janet says, “I wonder if they’re watching?” Her voice is far-off, like she’s someplace else. Her head drops and she takes these short, gaspy breaths. I think she’s crying, that she’s giving up. Then she looks up at the sky and screams: “LEAVE US ALONE!”

What she just did makes about as much sense as an ice cube yelling at the sun. It seems to help, though. There’s some red in her cheeks and her eyes aren’t empty anymore. In fact, they look the
opposite
of empty when she turns to me and says, “We’re changing the plan.”

That’s a relief
, is what I think. “Good,” is what I say.

Behind her the first of the babies are floating down like basketball-sized snowflakes. They stop about two feet off the ground. They’re black and shiny with a short pointer on top.

“You have to go into the hotel,” she says. “Alone.”

I say, “Why can’t you come?”

Her eyes cloud. Her body tenses, then sags. She says between breaths, “I’m too sick. You’d … you’d be safer without me. I’m sorry.”

My stomach is twisting like snakes in a sack. But I say, “That’s all right. I’ve done it before.”

I help Aunt Janet drag herself to the SUV. I’d rather hide her in the cave, but she’d never make it that far. She crawls into the backseat. I sprint back to the Suburban, snag the horse blanket. By the time I’m back she’s asleep. I cover her with the blanket.

It’s not dark anymore. The floaters—that’s what I call them now—stopped falling from the sky. Now they’re all over the street and sidewalks, moving in some kind of swirly floater dance. Maybe they’re getting ready to attack, maybe not. I don’t know and I don’t care. All I care about is going into the LTT alone. I load up one pocket with my tools. In the other pocket I stash the half bag of marijuana and eight azith pills wrapped in a napkin. I think about taking the gun but decide not to. No bullets, no point. And
like, who needs the extra weight? One last check on Aunt Janet. She opens her eyes, but just barely.

“I’m going in,” I say.

“Good luck,” she says. “I’ll be right here when you come out.”

Her eyes close. I shut the door.

It’s time for the Pirate to visit the hotel.

Option Three

The mini-PODs are dancing. That’s the best way to describe what they do. When they first floated down it was chaos. Then they formed these black amoeba-like patches that flowed over the ground like a paint spill. Then those patches, each of which easily contained thousands of mini-PODs, merged into super-patches, which divided and merged and divided. That process went on all morning. Now they’re organized into roving clusters of ten to twenty. Some individual mini-PODs within the clusters swirl around the others like partners in a square dance. Whatever the hell it is they’re doing, it’s an amazing thing to see. Almost as good as drugs—not that I’m an expert on that subject. I’ve been watching them from the kitchen table for hours.

Dad walks into the room. His hair is combed, and he’s
wearing a clean-looking pair of khakis and a snappy button-down shirt under a blue V-neck sweater. I wonder if he thinks he’s going to work. This is a big departure from our usual assortment of grungy sweats, jeans, and winter jackets. He’s carrying a shoebox-sized package wrapped in colorful paper. A pathetic attempt at a bow is taped to the top (obviously not one of Mom’s works of art), along with a card in a yellow envelope. He puts the box in front of me on the table.

I say, “Dude! Look at Mr. Spiffy. What’s the special occasion?”

Dad places the package in the center of the table and sits opposite me.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

Happy birthday?
What’s up with this? Even though he’s smiling I know he’s dead serious. The urge to blast him with my sarcasm cannon is overpowering.

He says, “Go ahead, open it.”

“You’re a little late, you know.”

“Sorry about that. For some reason a celebration didn’t seem appropriate at the time.”

“Admit it,” I say. “You forgot.”

He shakes his head. “This box has been in my closet the whole time. I see it every day, right there next to Mom’s sweaters.” He looks down at his hands. “Alien invasions have a way of … rearranging priorities.”

I shrug and open the card. It’s something lame about sweet sixteen and parties and being broke. I skip all that
because of what I see at the bottom—Dad’s signature, and below that, Mom’s. I recognize her handwriting. She wrote:

Dad wrote pretty much the same thing, but without the L-word. I can’t read it because my eyes get all watery. It’s as though I can hear her whispering the words inside my head. For the first time since all this started, I feel like she really, really, really is alive.

Dad says, “She wanted to fill out the card ahead of time, just in case she got delayed.”

“Delayed, huh? That’s one way to put it.”

Something flashes in his eyes, like I just picked at a scab that isn’t healed. I immediately wish I’d said something else. Something less like … me. “I mean, that sounds like Mom,” I say. “Always thinking ahead.”

“That’s okay,” he says, nudging the box toward me.

“Nice bow,” I say.

I peel back the tape and remove the wrapping paper. It’s a car stereo. Sony. AM/FM, CD, MP3 compatible, anti-theft face plate, and multicolor LCD display.

“Very cool,” I say. “Finally some decent tunes for the Camry.”

Dad reaches in his pocket and pulls out another box. This one is much smaller, and the wrapping is nice and
tight. Definitely a Mom job. I open the box. It’s the keys to the Camry.

I’m stunned.

“It was Mom’s idea,” he says, choking out the words. “She wanted to give it to you herself, but, well, she isn’t, I mean she’s not here, so …”

The man is drowning. I have to say something. “This is amazing.” Despite my best efforts, my eyes continue to leak.

“We were going shopping for a new car for Mom when she got back. She was finally going to get that red convertible.”

I wipe my eyes. “I guess it means you’re off the hook when I miss the bus.”

“That’s right. No more six a.m. rides from me. But you’re on your own for gas.”

I’d like to keep this conversation going, but it’s hard work talking about regular stuff like school and gas and car stereos and Mom when an alien brood is doing a hoedown right outside the kitchen window. I watched an apartment house full of screaming people burn to the ground, and I sent Dutch to be eaten by our neighbors. All that history builds an uncomfortable silence that could last for minutes or hours or days. But if I concentrate I hear the whisper of mini-PODs sliding through the bushes bordering our lawn.

Dad says, “Let’s install it.”

“The stereo?”

“Absolutely.”

“In the Camry?”

“No, in the bathroom.” He smiles. “Of course the Camry!” His smile spreads from ear to ear like he just invented decaf lattes or something.

“You’re serious?” I say.

“Totally serious. It’ll be fun.”

“But why? It’s totally pointless!”

“And that’s
exactly
the point.”

I’m sure there’s some great deep meaning to what he just said, but to me it’s a sign. The balding engineer with the broken nose is losing it. The mini-PODs sent him over the edge. Well, it’s about time. I shrug, thinking what the hell. Why not? It’s got to be better than waiting for the mini-PODs to start spraying nerve gas.

“Okay,” I say. “But I get to pick the first CD.”

We install the stereo after a memorable lunch of red kidney beans in mystery sauce. The job goes okay, considering that what we accomplished in an afternoon could have been done by one guy at Stereo City in thirty minutes. But to our credit, their installers don’t work in a dark garage with nothing but a lilac-scented candle to help them figure out which wire is blue and which is red. Once we’re done, though, I have to admit that it looks pretty sweet. Nice and tight, flush to the dash, perfect colors. I press the power button. I know what the result will be, but I can’t help myself. Nada. My first stereo in my first car and I’d trade them both for a hamburger and a small fries.

Dad says, “Let’s come back after dinner. You can show me your top five CDs and I’ll show you mine. Then I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

I spend the time before dinner in my room figuring out my top five CDs of all time. I hear Dad go out to the garage once, probably to fill a bucket. Then I hear him in the kitchen preparing our latest feast. The pantry is nearly empty, so I’m guessing beans or corn unless he has a secret stash. I figure in a couple of days we’ll resort to luring squirrels and birds into the house.