Bad Glass (44 page)

But that didn’t really surprise me.

It was just like with Amanda and her tunnels. Where Sabine had gone, I couldn’t follow. Not yet, anyway. And not on this path.

I rested my head against the wall for a long moment. I was exhausted, drained of all energy, beaten down to a pulp.

Then I turned and headed back home.

Taylor heard me open the front door and met me in the entryway.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said. She looked tired. Her face was long, and every muscle in her cheeks and jaw had gone perfectly slack. “You’re soaking wet. Where did you go?”

“I was looking for Sabine.” Taylor’s eyes went wide with concern, and I paused for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. I didn’t want to tell her the truth. I didn’t think she could handle another loss. “I thought she might be across the street, but she’s not there. She’s probably with Mama Cass.”

Taylor nodded and dredged up a reassuring smile. “She’s a big girl, Dean. I’m sure she’s fine. We’ll all be fine.” Her voice was faint, and I could tell that she didn’t really believe what she was saying. She was just trying to be strong. For me.

I nodded. “I need to go change,” I said. “But save me some food, okay? I’m absolutely famished.” I forced a smile of my own. It felt wrong on my face—a weak and transparent lie.

Upstairs, I found Sabine’s duffel bag tucked beneath her bed. I gathered up all of her clothing and stuffed it inside, filling it nearly to overflowing. Then I crammed her drawing papers in on top. Charcoal words jumped out at me as I worked. They smeared beneath my damp fingertips—bold but so very, very fragile. And so very, very temporary.

By the time I was done, the room looked completely abandoned. The bed wasn’t made, but all trace of Sabine was gone, hastily packed away. I left the door wide open and fled back to my room. I wrapped the duffel bag inside a patchwork quilt and buried it in the back of my closet, beneath a stack of neatly folded bedding.

Then I stripped out of my wet clothes and collapsed naked onto the futon.

No one has to know
, I told myself.
Not Taylor, or Floyd, or Charlie. It would do them absolutely no good. It would cause them nothing but pain
.

Sabine had been talking about leaving—I could tell them that. After meeting with the Poet, she’d gotten fed up. And, frustrated, she left. Without saying a word. It would be the most natural thing in the world.

And they’d believe it. They’d want to believe it. We were all tempted to leave. We stayed—we kept staying—but we knew it was wrong. We knew we should be packing up and hiking out of here.

Hell, my car was waiting just outside the city limits. I could gather up my cameras and go. Right now. I could be in the car in a matter of hours. I could be in Seattle by midnight.

My hands started shaking in my lap. I clenched them into fists and then shook them loose. Again. And then again. Clenched and released. Clenched and released. Finally, I fished my jacket from the floor and dug through its pockets, coming up with my bottle of Vicodin. After a moment’s hesitation, I popped open the lid and bolted down a couple of pills.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

Photograph. October 25, 12:11
A.M.
Taylor, bound:

We had red beans and rice for dinner. It was an instant mix that Taylor had found in the pantry. I didn’t have much of an appetite—my head was swimming, and the Vicodin made my arms and face feel heavy—but I ate anyway, trying to keep up appearances.

I didn’t say anything about Sabine. I wanted someone else to find her emptied room.

Now that the sky was once again normal—five o’clock and already pitch black, still raining hard—Floyd seemed calmer. He was still casting nervous glances toward the windows, but he was talking now and eating. It was probably just the oxycodone, but there were bursts of bubbly delirium mixed in with his chattering nerves.

“So, now that the world is over,” he asked, “what do you do?” He was addressing all of us at the table. His fork moved aimlessly through his food. “What’s your final meal? Your last words?”

“The world isn’t over,” Charlie replied, glancing up from his computer. His voice was subdued, but there was a hint of anger there, tamped down and carefully locked away. “Devon was lying. It was complete bullshit.”

“And the speed of light? The machine? The laser?”

“It was a fake. A hoax.” Charlie paused, and as I watched, something inside him changed. Slowly, his eyes went wide and his back straightened in his chair. “Or maybe, maybe what’s happening here affects perception. Maybe it just seems like the speed of light is changing, but really,
really
, it’s just an inability to measure things. Maybe there
is
something wrong with physics, but local and not at all catastrophic.” Charlie’s voice gathered speed as he went along. He was getting excited. “I bet my parents figured it out. I bet they’re out there right now, hunting down the source.”

Taylor shot me a concerned look. Her expression was grave, and there was a question in her eyes: What do we do? What do we do about Charlie?

“We don’t know anything,” I said, feeling an edge of annoyance starting to slip through my numb Vicodin shield. I turned toward Floyd and continued: “And as far as planning our last words, what’s the point? If it’s over, it’s over … There won’t be anyone left to hear. Or care. Or remember. Just words, floating through space.”

Taylor fixed me with a disapproving glare, and for a brief, surprisingly liberating moment I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself. But I stayed silent. I think I was pretty high by then.

That’s when Danny showed up.

“Hello?” the soldier called as he came in through the front door. I heard him shed his rain-drenched coat onto the entryway floor. Then he stuck his head into the dining room. He was wearing a ridiculously out-of-place fishing hat, and there was water dripping from its brim.

When he saw us there, sitting at the table, he flashed a broad smile. “If you’ve got the food, I brought the drinks,” he said, pulling a couple of bottles from a rainproof utility bag.

He glanced around the table and saw the serious expressions on our faces. His smile faltered briefly, quivering in confusion. Then it strengthened once again.

“C’mon, guys. It’s time to cheer the fuck up,” he said. “It’s time
to celebrate!” He let out a brief laugh. “We figured it out. The military—your loyal military—we finally know what’s going on.”

We retired to the living room, and Danny ate while the rest of us passed around his booze. One of the bottles was amber bourbon, the other a brilliant, sky-blue bottle of gin. Leftovers from the other night, remnants of his clandestine booty. I took a long draw on the gin as soon as it got within reach.

“They found spores in the air,” Danny said between forkfuls of food. “It’s not a very high concentration—I don’t remember, something like one part in a million—but they found it. They finally found it! We’ve been unlucky up until now. We’ve been running air samples since day one, but—you see—it
moves
. In clouds, or waves, or something. It’s only around at certain times, and you’ve got to catch it just right.”

He smiled and dropped his fork into his empty bowl. “Once we knew what we were looking for, the experts were able to find the source. Earlier today, they found a giant mushroom.” He let out a wild laugh, amazed at the thought, or at the sheer craziness of having to say those words. “Really, it’s some type of fungus, underground, near the shore of the river, east of Riverside Park. Apparently, it’s huge. It covers nearly a full square mile.”

“The spores are hallucinogenic?” Charlie asked. He didn’t sound willing to believe. “You’re saying we’ve been hallucinating … all of this?” He gestured, weakly toward the kitchen and, I imagined, the notebook computer still sitting on the dining-room table. The emails from his parents.

“Well, yeah. It affects mood and perception. Sometimes it’s subtle, and sometimes it’s full-out catatonia. It blocks the receptors—neurotransmitters in the brain.” He tapped idly at his temple. “Like serotonin. And norepinephrine. Just like LSD.”

“But what about the sky?” Floyd asked. His eyes darted from Danny, to Taylor, and then back to Danny. “The sky was red. And crawling. There were … there were things up there. We all saw it. That wasn’t just some fucking hallucination!”

Danny smiled. I got the sense that he was enjoying his role here, telling us this stuff, answering our questions. He was a fount of knowledge, a deity, if just for a minute or two, answering all our prayers. “That’s part of its bloom, part of its cycle. It’s been fruiting, and when enough spores reach the atmosphere, light refracts off the particles, just below cloud level … And I’m guessing it’s not really as spectacular as you think it is. The sky was red, but everything else … that’s just your brain spinning out of control.”

Danny’s expression settled into serious lines, and he surveyed each of us in turn, meeting our eyes. “In fact, everything you’ve seen or heard here in the city … I wouldn’t put too much stock in it.”

Danny leaned over and dug into the pockets of his khaki pants. He came up with a bottle of pills and shook it for a second, making it rattle. “This is Zoloft. It should help. It should free up your receptors.” He tossed the bottle over to Floyd, catching him unaware. The bottle hit Floyd’s hands and fell to the floor. Floyd quickly scooped it back up. “Take two. All of you … two a day for as long as you’re here. The experts say it should help. They’ve got us all taking it.”

I sat in silence as the bottle passed from Floyd, to Charlie, to Taylor, and then on to me. They all took the pills, but only Floyd seemed eager to bolt them down. He was the most desperate, I guess, and this was his life preserver. I poured two large white tablets into my palm and stared at them for a while.

This didn’t make sense. Danny’s explanation … It was all in our heads? But how could that be? “I have pictures,” I said, raising my eyes. I focused on Danny at first and then turned toward Taylor. “We’ve seen things. All of us have seen things.
Together
.”

Taylor raised her eyes to meet mine. But there was doubt there, her dark eyes quivering, refusing to stay locked on my face.

“For fuck’s sake, you’ve seen the pictures, Danny!”

He flashed me a gentle smile. “What was your state of mind when you were editing your photos, Dean?” His voice was quiet,
but there was a prodding needle buried there, inside his words. “What exactly did you do?”

No
. I shook my head. I hadn’t altered them. I knew that. I knew what I had seen.

“People under the influence of the spore seem prone to suggestion and confabulation. They rewrite the world around them, what they see, what they experience. And they rewrite the past. The mayor’s disappearance—we think he convinced an entire room of reporters, made them believe in a shitty little piece of special effects.”

No
. I closed my fist around the pills, suddenly flush with violent energy. I wanted to throw the Zoloft back at Danny. I wanted to transform the drug into a pair of tiny little bullets.

“Is that the official line?” I growled. “Is that what the government’s going to say? That we’re all just insane? None of this is real?”