The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller (31 page)

“And how did you get that?”

“It’s a long story and I wouldn’t want to bore you with it.”

“Then don’t,” Lane replies as he reaches for his duffel bag. He has a plan. If the man attacks, he’ll counter with a powerful swing of the bag, which ought to be enough to knock the man off his feet, where he will be an easy target for Lane’s shoes.

“Look,” the man says as he unfolds his arms and shows his palms in a conciliatory gesture, “I’m just trying to earn my keep as best I can. Can you blame me for that?”

“No,” Lane replies tartly as he heaves the duffel bag onto his shoulder.

“Then let’s be reasonable. All I want is the field jacket, and the wool socks. Yeah, the wool socks.”

Lane goes to full internal alert. He’s seen this trick before on the street. The man’s passive bargaining stance is a ruse, meant to lull Lane into a false sense of control over the situation. The attack is probably already on its way. But from where? He takes his eyes off the man for an instant, scans the full periphery of his vision and sees nothing. The assault must be coming from behind. He unshoulders the bag and pivots to his rear in a single motion.

And sees the same man who is standing in front of him.

His eyes dart back to the first man to make sure there are really two of them. They’re twins. The second one, still a couple of yards away, has stopped now that Lane has spotted him.
Lane realizes that the shock and confusion of this routine probably gives them the edge they usually need to complete their dirty business. But not this time. He backs up out of the line between them so he can clearly see both at once.

The second twin clutches a thick metal bar about two feet long.

“Not a weapon,” he says. “The code doesn’t allow weapons. But that don’t help you any. Now step away from the fuckin’ bag before I bash your brains in.”

“Don’t think so,” Lane says evenly. Besides the attitude difference, he notices that the brand on the upper forehead of this twin is a small rectangular bar instead of a cross.

“Then let me explain what I’m gonna do,” the second twin growls. “First, I’m gonna break your arm with this,” he says as he brings up the metal bar. “Then I’m gonna smack you alongside the skull. But not enough to kill you, no sir. Just enough to make you all gimpy, so you won’t bother me while I shove it up your ass.”

“Now hold on a minute,” the first twin interrupts. “I’ve made the man a very attractive offer. Just the field jacket and the socks. Everything else he keeps. Who knows? He might even live. Let him settle up and be done with it.” The first twin turns to Lane. “What do you say, friend?”

“Fuck him. I don’t care what he says,” the second twin shoots back. “We take it all.”

The first twin sighs as if to apologize for the rude behavior of his brother. “He’s probably right. We should probably take it all. I was just trying to get creative, that’s all.”

“If you take the bag,” Lane says, “I walk in empty-handed. Everyone will know. Then I’m dead meat.”

“Now there’s some truth in that,” the first twin admits. “But we all die when we come here. In one way or another. Know what I mean?”

“We’re through talkin’,” the second twin proclaims. “Now let’s get it on, fuckhead.” He comes slowly forward in a crouch.

Lane takes a quick look at the first twin, who gives a passive shrug while taking a step backward. Somehow, Lane knows that he is not going to help his brother. He is about to bet his life on it.

Lane places himself behind his upright bag, denying his attacker the advantage of a frontal assault. If the man lunges in to strike a blow, he’ll have to take a side step, and become vulnerable to a counterattack.

The twin anticipates this problem. He lashes out with his foot and kicks the bag onto its side, knowing that Lane will be hopelessly exposed if he stoops to right it. He takes a step back and charges, leaping over the bag and swinging the deadly weight of the bar toward Lane’s head. Lane nimbly sidesteps the charge and the man twists sideways from the torque of the missed swing. Before he can recover, Lane knocks the bar out of his grip. As the man crashes to the
ground, Lane secures him with a choke hold. His left forearm locks the throat while his right pushes on the nape of the neck. Basic cop stuff. His opponent’s air supply is now severely compromised.

The twin’s arms flail widely, but find no purchase. The man’s great bulk and strength let him drag the two of them into a sitting position, but it does him little good.

The first twin comes over and squats in front of them. “Maybe we can work something out,” he says calmly. “How about if I leave you the bag itself, with a pair of socks and the sleeping bag liner? How does that sound?”

Lane feels the second twin start to sag from the effect of the choke hold. “Not too good.” He nods at his adversary’s bulging eyes and purple face. “His brain is running on empty. You better get creative.”

The twin purses his lips in resignation. “Okay, you keep it all and I guarantee your passage to the Inner Section.”

“The Inner Section?”

“Right now, you’re in the Outer Section. There’s no code, here. The Inner Section’s different. You just might be okay there.”

“Throw in some water and we’ve got a deal.”

“Third plane on the right,” the twin responds. “There’s a five-gallon can and a tin cup.”

The second twin has gone completely limp, and Lane relaxes his grip, but doesn’t let go. “Here’s how we do it. You turn around and walk back to the main gate, and don’t stop until you get there. You get far enough away, I’ll let your brother loose.”

“Agreed.” The twin turns and starts off.

When he’s some distance away, Lane lets go of the inert brother, who collapses onto the hard ground. Lane hoists his bag onto his shoulder and heads down the corridor between the planes.

He finds the water can and cup right where the twin promised. Standing in the shadow of the plane’s tail, he fills the cup, and the gurgle of the water creates a whirlpool of liquid on metal in the great silence. Before he drinks, he looks back and sees the first twin reaching the gate and the other rolling over on the ground, clutching at his throat. He drinks two cups of water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Above him, the rudder on the plane’s tail begins to swing and creak in the wind like a weather vane.

Jesus, how did it all come down to a place like this?

Lane stares through the rippled air down the long corridor between the gutted aircraft. Sweat beads over his brow. The road into Pima spans an immense distance in some unit of measurement he can’t begin to understand.

He wants to rest but knows he can’t, so the bag goes back onto his shoulder and he moves to the center of the corridor. Great streaks of shadow spill over the bone-hard ground and the wind fades to a whimper. Ahead, Lane can see where the road ends in some great square, and he makes out an occasional figure in the wobble of ground heat: the Inner Section.

When he gets closer to the central square, the distant figures become men in prison denims, walking alone or in small groups. A different kind of plane lines the square: old B-52 bombers, the great drooping giants of the Cold War, their wings severed from their bodies in accordance with treaties at the end of the last century. Twelve dismembered bombers now face in nose first from each side of the square, and their former wings lie across the top of the fuselages, like planks across the rafters in an attic. In the shade of these wings, the prisoners swarm about engaged in all forms of commerce, exchanging goods and services. Several hundred men, at least.

Wisps of smoke issue from the top of certain nearby planes, and the smell of frying meat hits his nostrils. The path around the sides of the square in front of the planes is well worn and filled with prisoners. Even though his duffel bag is clearly the signature of a new arrival, most ignore him. There must be law here, the code the twin spoke of, or he would already be in another battle over his bag.

“Lane!” comes a voice from behind him.

Lane turns to see a wiry man with a handlebar mustache and a prominent nose.

“Whoops, sorry,” the man apologizes as he holds up his hands. “Thought you were someone else.”

Lane ignores the man and quickly scans the immediate area. Sure enough, a second man is watching them, and quickly breaks off eye contact when Lane spots him. By now, the first man is already walking away.

He’s been made. But why?

He considers following the pair, but thinks better of it. The big water tower in the center
of the square catches his interest. No pipes emanate from its base, so there must be an underground system that distributes water throughout the prison. He continues on, down a row of kitchens projecting from the bomber fuselages, with open-air seating between them.

By the time he reaches the third kitchen, he has a plan of action, and goes right up to one of the cooks.

“What’s a guy do to earn a meal?” he asks.

The cook, a sour man with bunched brows and mutton chops, glances up, sees the bag on Lane’s shoulder, and goes back to his cooking. Lane waits patiently. It’s a game.

“You slop garbage, you clean, you wash,” he eventually answers without looking up. “Two coins a day, and one meal.”

Lane manages a wry smile. In other words, you work all day and get just enough food to survive. “All right,” he agrees. He’s an immigrant, and like immigrants everywhere, you start at the bottom of the food chain. Literally.

The cook points toward the nose of the plane, where a short metal ladder runs up into the belly. Lane walks along the metal flank of the great winged beast, which still retains its green-and-rust camouflage. He ascends the ladder steps and pokes his head into the interior, which is significantly hotter than outside.

A diminutive man stands with his back to Lane. Wearing only shorts, sandals, and a dirty tank top, he shoves a frying pan into a big tub of sudsy water. The man is quite elderly, with a feeble fringe of gray hair surrounding a pink, speckled dome.

Lane continues up and in and throws his duffel bag in a corner. The old man apparently doesn’t hear him, and continues to scrub away at the pan. Lane moves closer.

“Hello?”

This time the old man turns. His face is a junkyard, except for the eyes, which are perfect: pale blue irises set in flawless white. Not even a single thread of bloodshot.

“Ah yes,” he says as he reaches for a towel to dry his hands. “I’m Samuel Winston. Just call me Sam.”

“Anslow,” Lane responds as he shakes Sam’s water-withered hand. “Lane Anslow.”

Sam gestures toward the washtubs and cooking implements. “It’s very simple. We scrape, we wash, we dry. Then we haul the garbage out back for the morning pickup.”

“When do we eat?” Lane asks.

“Normal mealtimes. We take turns. That way, we don’t get behind. How about I keep washing and you scrape and dry?”

“Fine by me.” As Lane picks up a pot to scrape, Sam goes back to washing the pan.

“What did you do on the outside?” Lane asks.

“I don’t remember,” Sam answers. “My memory’s going. Piece by piece. Or scene by
scene, if you will.”

“Do you remember how long you’ve been here?”

“No.”

“Do you know what you’re in here for?”

“To be honest, I can’t recall.”

They scrape and wash. The light of late afternoon finds a way in through the windshield behind them and plays across the murky water in the tubs.

“Couldn’t they come in and check your lobe and tell you?” Lane asks.

“I suppose they could.”

“Then why not?”

“It would only perpetuate the illusion that the past is still with us. It’s not. There’s more to it than that.”

“There is?”

“Yes. There’s the matter of poetic wisdom.”

“Of what?”

Sam smiles. He points to a beam of light poking through the fuselage and terminating near the rim of the tub. “When the light leaves the tub, it’s time to haul the garbage.”

The tables under the wing of the kitchen plane are empty as Lane wolfs down his meal of fried pork and vegetables and looks out across the square. The great tails of the hobbled bombers slash through the deepening dusk, and the water tower looms like a black colossus. Then the lights come on and throw fuzzy pools onto the pale ground. At the same time, strings of small bulbs come on under the wings and in the fuselages.

“They go off at ten-thirty.”

Lane looks up and Sam has appeared. He wears a denim shirt over his dirty tank top to protect against the mild chill.

“We got an extra spot in our squadron,” he tells Lane. “Quite nice, really. Old B-12s from the Navy. Twin-engine radar planes. Big cabins with lots of room to stretch out. You’ll have to talk to the boss but I’m pretty sure it’ll be okay.”

As they cross the square toward the bombers on the other side, Lane slows his pace to accommodate Sam’s slow shuffle.

“A couple of guys got an ID on me today,” Lane says. “That a normal thing for newcomers?”

“Not really. Most people would be more interested in your bag than who you are.”

Soon they are weaving through smaller aircraft, some still up on wheels, most with wings and engines still intact. Occasionally they see a single light of modest wattage mounted on a
slender wooden pole. Prisoners lounge in its circle, many sitting in makeshift chairs. “They’re a squadron,” Sam explains. “It’s like a small neighborhood of people who’ve signed a mutual defense treaty. One stays and guards the squadron’s gear while the others work. Everybody contributes to pay the guard.”

“Are we still in the Inner Section?” Lane asks as they pass by a decaying 727 jet transport, the flicker of lantern light coming through its windows.

“Oh yes. The Outer Section is mostly deserted. Forage parties sometimes go into it after salvage, but only a few live out there. It’s extremely dangerous. There’s no code.”

Lane is tired by the time they reach Sam’s squadron, which is marked by a light pole between two of the old twin-engine reconnaissance planes. Three men tilt back in chairs under the light, and one waves at Sam as they approach.