Bad Glass Part 18

"Yeah, okay," I said. And then, a moment later: "Wait ... go where?"

"Shhhh ... tomorrow. I'll show you tomorrow."

I grunted again. And then the Vicodin caught me. It grabbed hold like a warm wave, lifting me up high, then washing me back down, into a comfortable, dreamless sleep.

Danny showed up in the morning. He was seated at the kitchen table with Charlie when I finally made it downstairs. Taylor was standing at the camp stove.

"Good morning," Taylor said, greeting me with a warm smile and a cup of coffee. She looked relaxed and happy. "You looked tired, so I let you sleep."

"Yeah, it's-what?-ten-thirty?" Danny said, giving me a nod. "I've been up since five. And I swear, I'd kill everyone in the city just to keep your type of hours." I blushed as soon as I saw him, suddenly struck by the memory of his stubbled head bobbing up and down in my lap. He, for his part, didn't seem at all embarra.s.sed, giving me that perfunctory nod as if there was nothing at all strange between us. Perhaps there wasn't. Perhaps I was the queer one here, unsure of the protocol, unable to look him in the eye.

I've never been accused of being a prude, but Danny's utter nonchalance made me feel old-fashioned and out of step.

"I got a fresh load of data," he said, nodding toward Charlie, who was once again seated at his notebook computer. I could see the thumb drive jutting from the computer's side.

Charlie looked up and smiled, beaming with pride. "It worked. Your post ... it posted. And you've already got comments." He spun the computer around, gesturing me toward an empty seat.

A flutter of nerves erupted in my chest.

I immediately recognized the website: Chasing the S. As far as message boards go, this one was fairly standard; there were countless more just like it out there on the Net, all a.s.sembled from the same free software packages. The view on Charlie's screen was a simplified version of the site. All the standard images were missing: there was no black-and-white banner at the top of the page, featuring the name of the site flanked by satellite imagery of Spokane itself, and there were no tiny avatars to the left of each posting. Charlie had streamlined his application. He had programmed it to pick up text and formatting information while leaving all the bulky pictures and ads behind. The resulting design was stark and no-nonsense, and more than a little disconcerting.

I quickly scrolled through the topics on the front page. The t.i.tle of my post-"Photos of Spokane: Views from Inside (week 1)"-was at the top of the list. According to the stats next to my entry, there were already seventy-six comments and over five thousand page views.

"It was up for twelve hours before Danny sc.r.a.ped the forum," Charlie said, following my eyes on the page. "Right now it's the only post getting any attention."

I hesitated before clicking through to my thread. I was more than a little nervous. What if they hated my pictures? What if those seventy-six replies were all negative, nothing but dismissive mockery?

I braced myself and clicked through. Beneath my dismembered post-Charlie's program had stripped away all the photos, leaving just a couple of sentences and a line of broken links-there was an avalanche of comments, a mad rush of words.

Is this for real??? Is this bulls.h.i.t???

Please, can someone confirm?

It's Spokane. That's Riverfront Park, and I recognize that storefront with all the people. It was a Tully's before they evacuated us.

It's Photoshopped, you morons! They aren't letting anyone in. You've seen the barricades and checkpoints!

But that's not true! There are civies inside! They catch people going in and out all the time!

They're real. According to the tags, someone used Photoshop (a student CS edition), but probably just to resize ... It's not so hard to believe, is it? We know there are people in there, and they can't be in too good shape by now. h.e.l.l, even the weather matches. That's Eastern Washington at the start of winter.

Where's the ghosts?

Why aren't we seeing this s.h.i.t on the news? It's a disaster area in the middle of America! It's Katrina all over again!

It is _not_ Katrina. These morons can leave anytime they like. h.e.l.l, they'd get _paid_ to leave! Big fat government checks!

Where's the ghosts???

After a half hour of short, gut-level reactions, the postings started to get longer, and they started to address me directly.

Nice pictures, intheimage [this was the name I used on the forum, dating back to the summer months, when the first vague news stories had begun to escape Spokane]. Tell us more about the city, if you've got time. What are the conditions like? The people look dest.i.tute, how do they get along? And what is the military doing?

If you are, indeed, in there (and I have my doubts), how'd you do it? You've got a picture of soldiers there, did you have to bribe your way in? I've heard people talk about that, here, but I want some firsthand info. Are they willing? How much would it cost?

Your pictures are pretty mundane, considering the reports we've been reading. Are the stories overblown? Have you seen anything strange?

Cool! Post more!

Please, intheimage, I don't know if you'll get this, but I was wondering if you've met someone named Travis Paulson in the city? He's thirty-two years old, brown eyes, brown hair (though he usually wears it shaved bald). He lived in a house on W. Garland, up north. Here's a picture of him, from about a year ago. [Where the picture should have been, there was nothing but a small red x. Charlie's program had left the picture behind.] We haven't heard from him since they closed the city, and his family is terrified. Please, please, please email me with anything.

There was more, but after that last message, I didn't go on. I got the gist of the thread. There was healthy skepticism, doubt, and a lot of questions. But nothing d.a.m.ning. There was no derision or outright dismissal. And perhaps the most heartening thing here was the sheer number of replies and the number of eyeb.a.l.l.s that had found my work. Over five thousand page views in the first twelve hours! That was good exposure. The thought of all of those people looking at my photographs got my heart racing.

Now I needed to figure out my next move.

Obviously, I had to post again, but what should I include? The spider with the human finger? The face in the wall? The underground tunnels? Should I continue to take it slow, or should I jump right into the strange heart of the city?

"I don't have anything ready to go out today," I said, "but I might have something tomorrow or the next day. A new post. More pictures. Will that work?" I looked up at Charlie, then across the table at Danny. Danny was smiling.

"Yeah," Danny said. "I think we can make that work."

"But not now," Taylor said. She was standing at the camp stove, sc.r.a.ping eggs out of a sizzling pan. She cast me a significant look as she carried over a plate of eggs and toasted bread. "You're having breakfast, Dean, and then we're going out. We've got errands to run and people to see."

My stomach growled at the sight and smell of food. I hadn't had much appet.i.te in the last couple of days. My stomach had been tied in knots of anxiety, confusion, and fear, not to mention the nausea caused by my wounds and infection. But after reading those replies, I felt suddenly ravenous.

I was headed in the right direction, it seemed, and that did a lot to allay my fears.

I downed my antibiotics with my last swallow of coffee. I didn't bother with the Vicodin or oxycodone. My hand was feeling pretty good. h.e.l.l, I was feeling pretty good. Then Taylor and I hit the streets.

It was surprisingly warm out, and almost all the snow had melted from the ground. The only remaining patches of white were hidden away in the shadows: circles around the trunks of trees, small drifts piled against houses. I watched Taylor as she walked beside me. She wasn't watching the pavement in front of her feet. Instead, she was looking far into the distance. It made her look strong. She wasn't squinting despite the bright sun overhead. Her skin was perfectly smooth, a beautiful tea-soaked ceramic. I wanted to touch her, to run my thumb across her smooth cheek. But I could imagine her pulling away in horror, recoiling from my touch, and the thought of that reaction was enough to hold me back. I didn't want to cause her any type of distress.

She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, a perplexed smile appearing on her lips. "You're kinda freaking me out here, Dean."

"I'm just thinking about taking your picture," I said. "I'm thinking about capturing the way the sun illuminates your skin and sets your eyes on fire. I'm thinking about the lens I'd use, the framing I'd try to get, the stuff I'd keep in the background."

We continued to walk, and I continued to study her face.

When I didn't move to unholster my camera, Taylor let out a warm laugh and shook her head. "Okay, Dean. Just keep thinking about that photograph."

"Always."

As we continued downtown, she kept glancing my way, a self-conscious smile on her lips. I watched as her cheeks blushed a gentle shade of red-a rosy, pinkish red-and my chest filled with warmth. There was a smile on my lips. It felt goofy-big and unrestrained-but I couldn't dial it down. It had taken over my entire face and wouldn't let go.

Looking back now, this was by far my happiest time in Spokane. I was with Taylor, and I'd managed to make her happy; maybe I made her feel beautiful and loved.

And maybe, for a time, she made me feel the same.

"Let me do the talking," Taylor said as we turned south on Monroe. "These guys are all right, but they can be pretty intense. They're territorial and very touchy."

"Homestead?" I asked, guessing at our destination. I recognized the street from my first day in the city. Weasel had escorted me past these very buildings, b.i.t.c.hing about the Homestead and all of its rules. I remembered people staring out at us distastefully, peering from doors and windows. But looking back, I realized that those disgusted looks might have had more to do with Weasel than with the stranger entering the city for the first time.

"Yeah," Taylor said. "They know me. I lived here for a while, before I found the house. They'll let us in."

Taylor led me to a street-level door halfway between First and Second Avenue. The building itself was squat and unremarkable: a two-story structure sandwiched between a pair of taller neighbors. As soon as we got within a dozen feet, a man stepped from the shadows inside the building. He was big and thickly muscled, and he had a kinked black beard that masked most of his face. There was a baseball bat clenched in his hands, and he was holding it like he was getting ready to drop down a bunt: his right hand down on the k.n.o.b, his left wrapped around its thick barrel. I could see an eagle tattooed on the back of his hand. I stopped dead on the sidewalk, but Taylor continued forward. As she approached, the man shifted the bat up against his shoulder and pulled himself to his full height.

"What are you doing here?" the man growled. "I thought you'd left for greener pastures."

"I can't pay the old man a visit?" Taylor said, her voice cold, confrontational. "Do you really think Terry's going to turn me away?"

The man grunted. "Maybe not, but that's his weakness. In my opinion, the gone should stay gone. If they have nothing to offer, they have nothing to offer."

Taylor made a clucking sound at the back of her throat, and then she flashed the man a mocking grin. The grin looked out of place on her delicate lips. "Since when did you get so deep, Mickey? And since when do you guard doors?"

The big man let out a frustrated sound-something between a grunt and a deep-throated growl-then he lifted his chin toward me. "If you go in, you leave your boy behind."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "We go in together. That's what Terry would want."

The big man glowered, stone-faced, for a couple of seconds, then he flexed his fingers against the bat. It was a gesture of pure frustration, his fingers pulsing with pent-up energy. "Fine," he said. "I don't care! This place is going to h.e.l.l. No rules. No f.u.c.king order!" With that, he turned and disappeared into the building. Taylor followed. I had to break into a trot in order to catch up.

There was a second man standing just inside the doorway, and he stayed behind as Mickey led us back into the building. All the exterior windows had been boarded over with sheets of reinforced plywood. It looked like the Homestead had battened itself down for a hurricane. Or a military a.s.sault. Mickey produced a flashlight and waved us forward impatiently.

Before the evacuation, the building had housed a number of small businesses. Every door sported a different name and slogan. We pa.s.sed MATTHEW FRANK DISCOUNT AUTO INSURANCE, TEMPLE SMITH OFFICE SUPPLIES, and, toward the back of the building, perhaps the sketchiest acupuncture clinic I'd ever seen, labeled simply ACUPUNCTURE. Then Mickey led us up a narrow flight of stairs, and we started back toward the front of the building. Halfway there, Mickey stopped at one of the boarded-up windows. He hit the plywood with a sharp, practiced rap, and the large sheet of wood swung aside. Outside, a five-foot plank spanned the distance to the neighboring building.

Taylor didn't hesitate. She climbed over the sill and crossed the gap, disappearing into the building on the other side.

Mickey gestured impatiently for me to follow. It wasn't a long way down-maybe fifteen feet-but I still took my time. I held my hands out for balance and placed my feet with care. When I reached the middle, the board suddenly started to bounce, and I looked back to see Mickey crawling out of the window behind me. The thought of that behemoth bouncing along at my heels-the thought of the wood cracking beneath all that extra weight-was enough to speed me up.

I stumbled over the windowsill on the far side, but thankfully Taylor was there to stop me from falling. Mickey jumped down a couple of seconds later.

"What the f.u.c.k is this?" I asked. "What the h.e.l.l are we doing?"

"Precautions," Taylor said. She gave me a brief, placating smile but didn't offer any further explanation.

We were in a short hallway. There was a small bathroom to our right and an even smaller office to our left. The floor was a beautiful polished wood, and Taylor's footsteps thumped solidly as she took over Mickey's lead. I followed a couple of steps behind, and I could feel Mickey looming at my shoulder.

The hallway opened up onto a large, mostly empty room, and we stopped at the threshold.

It was a ballet studio.

I was surprised at our destination. I'm not sure what I was expecting-a small, smoky room, maybe, or some type of fortified bunker-but this was not even close. The room was light and airy. The far wall was nothing but gla.s.s, providing a view of Monroe Street directly outside. And the wall opposite was gla.s.s, too, panels of flawless mirror, reflecting the sun-dappled room. There was a bar bolted to the mirror, and I could imagine ballerinas stretching up and down its length, their pointed toes raised to the sky as they limbered up lithe, supple bodies.

A hint of rose lingered in the air. It was the last remnant of a fleeing ghost. A sense memory: powdered perfume over stale sweat.

"Taylor!"

There was an old, ratty sofa sitting in the corner of the room, facing out toward the ma.s.sive window. Surrounded by stacks of books and a jumble of discarded clothing, it looked completely out of place on the barren expanse of hardwood floor. Like a pile of trash dropped into the middle of a perfectly manicured garden.

There was an old man struggling up from the low sofa. "Taylor!" he repeated, a wide smile on his face. "My darling girl!" The man was at least sixty-five years old. His hair was salt-and-pepper black, but his temples had faded to pure white. His wide smile was caught in a web of wrinkles, and there were thin lines radiating out from his joy-narrowed eyes.

"I saw you pa.s.s by outside," he said, nodding toward the window. "But I thought you were going to just keep on walking. I thought you were going to give this old man a wide berth."

Taylor shook her head. A bright smile spread across her face, and she broke into a trot, running up to the old man and sliding smoothly into his arms. I was surprised at the intimacy of the gesture.

In the hallway behind me, Mickey let out a disgusted grunt. Then he turned and left. I heard him scramble back off the windowsill and across the plank to the neighboring building.

"I see Mickey hasn't changed," Taylor said, backing out of the old man's embrace. "Still p.i.s.sed off ... at everyone and everything."

"Mostly at me, I think," the man said. "I'm sure he thinks he could do a better job. Thankfully, no one in their right mind would follow where he wants to lead."

The man noticed me standing on the far side of the room. He flashed a smile and nodded in my direction. "Why don't you tell your friend to come over here, Taylor. This isn't a peep show. He's more than welcome."

I approached slowly, and Taylor turned her wide smile my way. "Dean, this is Terry. He started up the Homestead. He's done a lot for me. He ... well, I guess he saved my life."

"I don't know about that," the old man said with a smile. It was a relaxed, weary smile. He offered me his hand, and we shook. "It's not like I did her any favors. She's strong. I offered her a place to stay, but she more than paid her dues."

"Modest as ever," Taylor said. She turned away from the two of us, then crouched down and started to shuffle through the books on the floor. "Agricultural texts? Gardening? You're still trying to start that farm?"

"That's the dream," Terry said. He let the words hang in the air for a second. Then an exhausted sigh escaped his lips. He gave me a nod-an apologetic dismissal-and retreated back to the sofa. Despite his slight frame, the sofa cushions sagged under his weight. It looked like the ratty old thing had reached its last couple of springs. "It's not going to happen. n.o.body's interested. They'd rather scavenge than farm. Or get what they want from Mama Ca.s.s."

"What happened?" Taylor asked. There was genuine concern in her voice. She sat down on the sofa's armrest and focused all of her attention on Terry's exhausted face.

"Nothing. Nothing happened. I figure this is just the way it works. There's no movement, no change in our situation. The government isn't opposing us anymore; they aren't making progress with the city, and they aren't trying to kick us out. And nothing we do seems to make a difference. The buildings still fall apart. People get tired and lonely. And on occasion they disappear. It's only natural the Homestead should fall apart. What good is an organization-what good is society-if it can't keep entropy at bay, if it can't protect and unite its people?" Terry shook his head. Despite his dire words, the exhausted smile remained on his lips. "There were-what?-fifty people here when you left? There can't be more than thirty now. Mickey wants to do more to keep them. He suggested a ... a recruitment drive. He wants some type of paramilitary force. He wants to raid Mama Ca.s.s's supplies!" He let out a short laugh. "Ha, he even wants to levy taxes!"

"But ... the work you do. The support you give ..."

"It's not a bad thing," Terry replied. "I'm still here. And I'll help anyone who wants my help. I'll give them structure, help them get their heads on straight. It's just ... no one seems to want that anymore."

Taylor seemed at a loss. She extended her hand, to put it on Terry's shoulder, but the old man shook his head and pulled away. A broad smile spread across his face, and I could tell that it was a ma.s.sive effort on his part, casting aside all that gloom, trying to appear jovial. "h.e.l.l, maybe it's all a sign of my success. Under my umbrella, people get strong enough to leave. I'll think of it like that, okay? I help them, and they get strong enough to make a go of it on their own. h.e.l.l, just look at you!" He held his hand out toward Taylor, palm up, like he was presenting a beautiful piece of art to a gallery of viewers. "You're looking great. Are you happy?"

Taylor smiled and cast me a sly glance. There was a touch of blush in her cheeks. "Yeah, I'm doing well. But you're the one who set me on that path."

Terry smiled. And this smile seemed effortless.

"I guess you're here to see Weasel?"

"What?" Confusion warped Taylor's face, and she jolted back in surprise.

"I a.s.sumed that's why you came. He's been here for three days now."

"I thought you were done with him. I thought you refused to let him back."

Terry shrugged. "I've mellowed in my old age, I guess. The rules just don't seem as important ..." He shook his head. "Anyway, he's your friend, and Johnny pleaded for him."

"Jesus Christ, Weasel," Taylor hissed to herself. Then she turned back to Terry. "And why the f.u.c.k are you listening to Johnny?"

Terry didn't reply.

"Fine," Taylor said. She closed her eyes for a moment, and as I watched, the anger faded from her face; once again, there was nothing but caring, warm emotion, though perhaps not as warm as before. "No, Terry, why we're here, what I want to know ... do you have Devon spying on my house? Are you keeping tabs on me?"