Bad Glass Part 3

And she'd invited me back to her house.

What does that mean? I wondered, setting my bags on the ground and shucking out of my jacket. Convenience? Pity? Something more? I tried not to get my hopes up. Already, Taylor had seen me at my worst: weak, scared, confused.

She picked up the lantern and started back into the house. I grabbed my bags and followed.

The thick scent of pot hit me as soon as we crossed into the living room. After the day I'd had, it was an enticing smell, pungent and warm, a breath of comfort and sleep in the still air. All of the room's furnishings had been pushed back against the walls, and a half dozen people sat gathered around the lit fireplace. There were four men and two women, their faces bathed in the flickering yellow light. None looked older than thirty.

"Glad to see you got the fire going without me," Taylor said, setting the lantern down just inside the door. She was greeted with smiles, nods, and a halfhearted grunt. "I was afraid I'd find you all frozen into tiny little cubes."

One of the men leaned back on his elbows and flashed Taylor a sly little grin. "You know, we got along just fine before you showed up. I myself survived twenty-four years without your help-"

"I still find that hard to believe," Taylor interrupted, cracking a smile.

"The sun rose and set without you," the man continued. There was something wrong with his voice; his words were drawn out, stretched into a dreamy singsong lilt. It was a disconcerting effect, and it made me feel uncomfortable. "Governments formed and dissolved without you. Plants sprouted, flowered, and died. The tide rolled in. The tide rolled out." Still smiling, the man lowered himself onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. I was struck by a moment of deja vu, and I followed his eyes, making sure there was no fractured body looming up above. "And despite your help, despite all you do, things still fall apart. The world decays. The city falls into chaos."

"Yeah, Devon," Taylor said, the smile fading from her lips, her brow scrunching into confused lines. "And morons still bray nonsense."

"But we appreciate your help," the man, Devon, continued, ignoring Taylor's insult. "Really, we do. Working hard. Seeing the good in everybody. Out there gathering up the lost and the helpless." He gestured in my direction, a languid flick of the wrist. Then he raised a pinkie finger up toward the sky. "Plugging up the dike with your tiny little finger."

"What's his problem?" Taylor asked, turning to the other people at the fire.

A girl with short blond hair let out a giggle. "f.u.c.k if we know. He just won't shut up. I think he found some Quaaludes or something."

When I looked back at Devon, I saw that his eyes had fallen shut. He was lying on his back with a distant smile on his lips, rocking back and forth. Taylor just shook her head and gestured me toward the fire.

Taylor made introductions.

The girl with the blond hair was Amanda. She'd been studying psychology at Gonzaga. "Big waste of time," she said with a giggle. "People just don't make that much sense. End of story."

The man sitting next to her was Floyd. "Pretty Boy Floyd," one of the others said with a laugh. That's what they used to call him, back when he'd been making skateboarding videos. But those days were long past. "f.u.c.ked-up knee," he explained. He rapped his knuckles against his leg and gave his head a bitter little shake. "More metal than bone." His nose was crooked, and his cheekbones didn't sit quite right. "I had the bad habit of landing on my face."

Then there was Mackenzie, a former bookstore clerk with red hair and a thick beard. I had him pegged as the oldest of the bunch, placing him at about thirty. He had a gruff voice, and his laughter was a low ba.s.s rumble, subdued and guarded. Maybe it was just the pot, but Mackenzie kept looking around the room, casting nervous glances toward the doors and windows. The smile on his lips didn't really touch his eyes.

Sabine was sitting perched between Mackenzie and the fireplace. ("Sabine Pearl-Grey," she said with a half-mouthed smile. "That's my stage name.") She was a small, delicate girl with small, delicate features-porcelain-doll cheekbones and a long, thin neck. Her hair was dyed black with stripes of bright red shooting out from her scalp like bolts of lightning. Her smile was bright and gleeful. She was an artist. "Performance artist," she said in a husky nicotine purr.

Floyd let out a laugh. "Like the take-a-s.h.i.t-in-a-shot-gla.s.s type of artist."

Sabine threw a chunk of firewood at Floyd and shook her head, the wide smile still on her lips. "f.u.c.k no! I may occasionally yell at strangers and roll around on the sidewalk, but that's about it. Nothing too crude. And I do charcoals, too," she added hastily. "And poetry!"

The youngest of the bunch was Charlie, and he couldn't have been older than seventeen. He was a skinny black kid with wire-frame gla.s.ses. His smile was tight-lipped, and his tired eyes looked just about ready to fall shut. "We found him wandering the streets, looking for his parents," Taylor said, whispering in my ear. "He was out of town when the quarantine hit-staying with his grandparents in Portland-but his parents were here, in the city. He's convinced they never left, but we haven't found a single trace of them." After a moment she added: "The boy's a genius. Fixed my watch when it broke." She held up her wrist, showing me a beautiful Bulova. Its crystal face was cracked, but its elegant hands still ticked off the seconds.

And then there was Devon, still lying on the floor, gently rocking back and forth. Taylor gave me an exasperated shrug. "Yeah, he's just a f.u.c.kup," she said. "Mac says he used to see him up at the Jiffy Lube on Division, working on cars."

"Shut up," Devon mumbled, the smile disappearing from his lips. "If you don't quit talking about me like I'm not here, I'll f.u.c.king Jiffy Lube my arm and sodomize the whole d.a.m.n lot of you."

"He doesn't like talking pre-evacuation," Sabine said, holding her hand next to her mouth, like that little barrier might keep Devon from hearing. "He's got issues."

"And he's got the best f.u.c.king pot!" Floyd said, suddenly dropping to the ground and planting a big theatrical kiss on Devon's forehead. Everybody laughed, Amanda nearly collapsing to the ground in hysterics.

"Speaking of, where is that s.h.i.t?" Floyd asked, his voice suddenly serious. "I need another hit. I can feel the horrors starting to creep back in."

And just like that, the laughter stopped. Amanda giggled once, but there was no levity in it this time, just nerves.

Mac started to nod violently. I couldn't tell if he was agreeing with Floyd or if this was some type of nervous tic. His eyes once again made a circuit of the room before finally settling on Taylor. "And ... and," he rumbled, his voice strained and unsteady. "Are you sure we're alone in here? Are you positive?"

After a moment, he continued, his voice dropping down into a low conspiratorial whisper: "Is there someone else in the house?"

The pipe went around the circle a couple of times, then Taylor grabbed Mac's hand and coaxed him to his feet. She took him on a circuit of the house, trying to show him that we were alone. I could hear them moving through the rooms upstairs, the sound reaching me through a pleasant, drug-induced haze. It sounded like there were a lot of rooms up there. And a lot of stairs. Three stories, maybe. Four or five bedrooms.

Moving catlike, on all fours, Sabine crept over to my side and gestured toward my bags. "Can I take a look?" she asked. She started digging through my duffel, not even waiting for my permission. Laughing, she pulled out article after article of clothing-T-shirts, sweaters, jeans, and underwear-and set them in a pile on the floor. She tossed aside my copy of the AP Guide to Photojournalism. Then, finally, she reached the food. She let out a delighted yelp and started stacking cans in a little pyramid.

"Amanda!" she called, startling the blond girl out of a droop-headed daze. "Shelve the f.u.c.king pasta. We've got dinner right here!" She rolled several cans across the hardwood floor.

"Thank G.o.d," Amanda sighed. Then, under her breath: "f.u.c.king pasta. Every f.u.c.king day." She looked up toward Sabine's pyramid. "Got any meat ... or bread?"

"Just canned meat," I said with a sigh, watching as my store of food moved from hand to hand. Floyd was lost in a can of pork and beans, his eyes locked on the picture on the label. Mac, just back from his tour of the house, dropped to his knees at Sabine's side and started cycling through the cans on the floor.

"And crackers!" Sabine said, lifting a box of Saltines from my bag.

"And crackers," I confirmed. I'd meant for this food to last me a while, but I couldn't-not in good conscience-greet their hospitality with selfish h.o.a.rding.

"Don't worry, Dean," Taylor said. I turned and found her standing in the doorway, surveying the room like a mother watching her children unwrap their gifts on Christmas morning. "Tonight's dinner is on you, but we'll pay you back." Then, with a cryptic smile: "We look after our own."

While Amanda and Mac made dinner, Charlie asked to see my camera.

"I want to see what kind of gear you've got," he explained. It was the first time I had heard his voice, and it was stronger than I expected. I thought he'd have a weak, tentative little kid's voice, but his words were deep, self-a.s.sured, and confident.

I nodded and pa.s.sed him the camera. Devon surfaced from his stupor long enough to give the camera a distrustful glare.

"Nice," Charlie said, turning it over in his hands. "Canon," he noted. "Is it a pro model? Consumer? How many megapixels?"

"Eighteen," I said. "Not quite pro, but close enough. It'll do the job for magazine work ... maybe not glossy advertising shots, but most people wouldn't notice the difference."

Just then, Sabine crawled over to Charlie and plucked the camera from his hands. She raised the viewfinder to her eye and started snapping shots.

"Careful-" I said, but she interrupted me with a shake of her head.

"I took cla.s.ses," she said with a placating smile. "I know what I'm doing." She crawled off with the camera, taking pictures of Floyd and Devon on the other side of the room. I watched her go, anxious even after she slipped the carry strap around her neck.

"Have you had anything published?" Charlie asked.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Well, university publications. But nothing real."

Suddenly Taylor appeared at my side. I hadn't noticed her listening in the doorway. She touched my forearm tentatively and caught my eyes. It was a warm, friendly gesture. "And that's why you're here?" she asked. "To make your mark? To get published?" There was a note of incredulity in her voice when she said that word-published. She made it sound so trivial, so unworthy.

After a moment of silence, I nodded. "And I figure I don't have much time. When my father found out I was getting a fine arts degree, he absolutely flipped out. 'There's no future there,' he said, 'no money.' And he put his foot down-he actually said that: 'I'm putting my foot down!' He threatened to stop paying for my education if I didn't switch degrees. So there I was, twenty-two and short on credits, returning for a fifth year to get a degree I desperately didn't want. And once I was done with that, I could see my future laid out before me: an accounting job at my father's firm, everything arranged neatly beneath his big thumb.

"It was terrifying, seeing it like that, and I knew I couldn't escape just by taking pictures of fountains and trees, flowers and old buildings, people in contemplative poses. Everything was so tame-pictures I'd seen a hundred times before, and usually done better. There was no way I'd make a reputation doing that. No way I'd secure a job, a future." Taylor and Charlie were watching me intently, their expressions curious, genuinely interested. I felt the need to explain myself-especially to Taylor-to let them know what I was trying to accomplish here, to let them know that I wasn't just some f.u.c.king tourist. That I had goals and ambition. I struggled against the pot, trying to find the words I needed, trying to nail down the ... drive buried deep down inside my chest: this powerful thing that had propelled me across three states, through a government quarantine, and into this strange wasteland. "One of my professors ... he said, 'Great photographers don't make great photographs; great photographs make great photographers.' And the things I've heard about this place, the images that have made their way out ..."

I shook my head, unable to find the words. Once again, Taylor touched my arm, prodding me to continue. "There's something great here," I finally said, "in the unknown, the impossible. And it's something, I think, that can make me great. Something I need. Desperately."

After I finished, I searched their faces for understanding. Do they get it? Can they possibly understand such a vague, inscrutable drive ... this thing that keeps me moving, unsatisfied?

Taylor was nodding, a gentle, sympathetic gesture.

And a sly, knowing smile slid across Charlie's face.

G.o.d.

Sitting here, now, writing this s.h.i.t down, I marvel at the depths of my stupidity.

Sneaking into the city, I wasn't being n.o.ble. I wasn't chasing down an elusive artistic ideal, shunning corporate anonymity for art and pa.s.sion.

I was just being stupid.

That's it. End of explanation.

For all of my romantic notions-bulls.h.i.t self-betterment, reaching for my potential, making a name for myself-what I did, what I pursued-leaving my life and sprinting blindly into the dark-was nothing but death and confusion and insanity.

I was running in the wrong direction.

I was fleeing the wrong things.

We had makeshift jambalaya for dinner: canned sausages and rice cooked in crushed tomatoes and seasoning. Served with crackers on the side; Sabine had been adamant about that. We gathered around a st.u.r.dy dining-room table and smoked pot between bites. It was a good meal. Maybe it was just the pot, or a reaction to what I'd seen earlier in the day, but I felt genuinely comfortable here, surrounded by these people.

While we ate, Floyd and Sabine took turns telling me stories, dishing dirt about everyone in the room: how they'd found Charlie in the southern district, Amanda in the park, Floyd skating lazily through an abandoned shopping mall. And Devon, half naked, yelling at the top of his lungs. I felt a bit self-conscious being the center of attention, but they seemed happy spinning these tales, transforming their individual ordeals into humorous quips. Even Devon got into the act, surfacing from his stupor long enough to curse out everyone in the room.

Halfway through dinner, I glanced up and found Sabine taking pictures. She was holding the camera above her head, aiming it down the length of the table. Just random, blind shots, not even glancing through the viewfinder or checking the images in the LCD screen. I told myself that I'd have to clean off the memory card once I got it back.

There was a lot of laughter. The pouring rain, the quarantine, the hotel-these things seemed worlds away. It was just the eight of us, here and now, floating through this warm candlelit haze.

After dinner, we returned to the living room and once again built up the fire. It was quiet now. The food and pot had taken their toll, and it wasn't long before people started to retreat upstairs, toward beds and blankets. Amanda and Mac left together; I gathered that they were a couple. Then Devon stumbled away, followed by Charlie, then Floyd. And then, reluctantly, Sabine.

Leaving Taylor and me all alone.

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, me on the sofa while she warmed her hands at the fire. I listened to the crackling coals. In this perfect calm, the long day finally caught up with me, and I let my head loll back against the sofa cushions.

"Why are you here, Taylor?" I asked. I rolled my head back and forth, basking in the drugged, comfortable motion. "I told you my story, but what about you? Why do you stay when everything's so ...?" And I thought for a moment about the body in the ceiling.

She let out a loud sigh, and I looked up to find her watching me carefully. "Family, I guess." She paused for a moment, then nodded up toward the ceiling and the people gathered in their rooms upstairs. "I can't abandon them. Not now. I ... was dealing with some s.h.i.t when the quarantine hit, and I couldn't leave. By the time things settled down, I had Sabine and Mac here with me. Then Amanda. Then Floyd and Charlie and Devon ...

"I think they need me. And I'm not going anywhere, not if that means leaving them behind."

I grunted, and she flashed me a smile.

Family.

Her heart must be huge, I thought, to have room for so many. She turned back toward the fire and added more wood to the hearth.

I drowsed off for a moment, and when I opened my eyes, I found her standing over me. She was holding out a quilt. It was an old quilt-squares of faded color, its hem ripped into ribbons on every side. "You should sleep here tonight, in front of the fire. Tomorrow we can make you up a room ... if that's what you'd like." Her voice rose, twisting the words into a gentle question.

"Yeah," I managed, still half asleep. "That would be good."

She nodded, handed me the quilt, and turned to go.

"And ... Taylor?" I said. "Thank you. For everything. Without you ... if you hadn't-"

"Don't sweat it," she said, keeping her back to me. "It's what I do. In that, at least, Devon's got me pegged." Her words were soft and distant. It was as if she'd already left the room.

Later, as I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if she was seeing anyone.

And I wondered if I was her type.

I jolted awake, chased by nightmare.

Just brief images. My hand reaching out, touching the trunk of a tree. Watching as my flesh sank in, all the way up to my forearm.

I didn't know what time it was. The room was dark, and the fire had burned down to embers; it was nothing but a dim bed of orange crackling to itself in the hearth.

Still late, I thought, or very, very early.

I pushed the quilt aside and stood up. My entire body was trembling. I paced from one end of the room to the other, trying to shake the remnants of dream from my limbs.

I was still high. It felt like my head was filled with cotton and loosely wound b.a.l.l.s of yarn. My mouth tasted like bread and ashes.

The house felt different somehow, and for a long moment I couldn't place the change. Then I noticed the silence. The pounding rain had stopped.

I moved to the window and found the street out front bathed in moonlight. The wet asphalt reflected the crescent in the sky, illuminating the upscale houses in shades of gray. All still. All deathly silent.

Then an animal appeared from the east, trotting down the middle of the road. It was a large dog or a wolf-some type of canine. At least it seemed very doglike. But not quite. The way it moved was wrong. There was something wrong with its legs. An extra joint, maybe? It seemed like each time it took a step, its legs went through an extra motion-paws violently clicking down, toward the road, at the height of each arc. Almost curling into fists. The animal looked powerful, strong. The way it moved ... it was attacking the ground with each whirl of limbs.

It stopped in front of the house and turned its head toward me, as if sensing my watching eyes. It presented a wolfish silhouette, outlined against the gleaming asphalt.

Its eyes caught the light, shining a faint, glimmering blue. And even from this distance, I could see its muscles quivering, a barely restrained tornado of motion, trapped in animal form, straining to break free.

And then there were more, following in the animal's wake, moving with those odd, violent steps. A whole pack of canines-fifteen, twenty, twenty-five-flowing down the street, parting around that initial animal as if it were a boulder in the bed of a stream, its head still turned my way, watching.

They moved in complete silence, a graceful play of shadows, gliding through the night.

The animal watched me until the last of its pack had disappeared down the street. Then it turned and followed, those odd, explosive legs carrying it out of view.

"You saw them, didn't you?"

It was a breathy whisper coming from the room at my back.

I turned and found Amanda standing in the doorway, a dimly lit ghost, lost in shadow. Her face was a pale crescent, only one eye visible in the moonlight. That eye was wide, hopeful.

I nodded-yes, yes they were there-and she returned the gesture, providing me with the same a.s.surance. Then she faded back into the darkness.