Breathers (15 page)

If I'm going to slowly rot away, I don't want to do it watching
Wife Swap.

“Magic Bus” fades out and a Stevie Ray Vaughan tune comes on. I recognize the song but not enough to remember the name. The weird thing is, those unfamiliar background vocals from The Who are now singing along with Stevie Ray.

“So, do you really think this will work?” asks Tom.

I look at Tom, at his bloodshot eyes staring out at me from his shadowed, torn-up face, looking hopeful yet with an expression that will drop into his lap if I don't tell him what he wants to hear.

To be honest, I don't know if this is going to work. I don't know if we'll all come out of this intact. I don't know if this is a good idea, considering what happened to Walter.

For an instant I hesitate. I want to reassure Tom in spite of any doubts I might have but I don't want to give him any false hope. But then I look at the empty space where Tom's right arm should be and I realize that, for us, false hope is probably the brass ring.

Tom is still staring at me, the expression of hope straining to remain on his face. I raise my right hand and extend my thumb like Roger Ebert and say, “Aur splroch.”

Tom has no idea what I said, but it doesn't matter. His ruined face splits open in a smile.

Five minutes later, we pull to a stop on a residential street three doors down from Sigma Chi.

Most of the UC Santa Cruz fraternities are located off campus, which is a bonus for us because it means we won't have
to worry about campus security. But with the hour approaching eleven we're pushing the curfew envelope. Then again, we're about to invade a house full of Breathers who belong to a registered living group of the University of California school system, so being concerned that we'll get caught for breaking curfew would be like robbing a bank and worrying that we'll get a parking ticket.

“So what's the plan?” asks Jerry.

“The way I see it,” says Ray, “one of us needs to create a diversion while the rest of us do a little recon to find Tom's arm.”

“Sounds easy enough,” says Jerry.

Tom nods in earnest, the loose skin on his cheeks flap-ping up and down, making his face look like it's trying to fly away.

“Now, seeing as how Tom and Andy aren't in any shape to help with recon and retrieval,” says Ray, “they'll have to create enough of a diversion so that someone has time to get in, grab Tom's arm, and get out.”

We all look at Jerry, who nods for several seconds before his eyes grow wide with realization. “Me? Why me?”

“I have to stick around to make sure nothing happens to our appendage-challenged friends,” says Ray.

Jerry opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and mutters, “Fuck.”

Tom groans and puts his remaining hand over his eyes.

“Don't bust your stitches,” says Ray. “You'll have help.”

“Help?” says Jerry, looking from Ray to Tom to me. “What help?”

“Never underestimate the resourcefulness of Ray,” says Ray, who pushes a button on the center console, popping the trunk.

The Lumina shifts back and forth as the trunk lid opens behind us. Ten seconds later, Zack and Luke appear, one on either side of the car like zombie bookends.

That explains the extra background vocals on “Magic Bus.”

'm standing in the shadows with Tom across from Sigma Chi, glancing down the street at the Lumina parked half a block away. In the glow of the street lamp, the car is a safe haven that beckons to my common sense as I experience the second thoughts that often follow a decision to take action based on a self-perceived righteousness. Think Jesus on the cross but without the pain or the Romans or the all-expenses-paid trip to Heaven.

Midnight is fast approaching and I've got one good arm and one good leg and I'm about to use myself as bait to try to get Tom's right arm back. But my common sense is countered by a growing need for justice, for the retrieval of Tom's appendage and retribution against those who took it. Still, that doesn't prevent me from hearing my internal clock ticking toward curfew.

“Do you see anything yet?” asks Tom.

I shake my head, not knowing whether he can see me. Tom's vision is worse than mine and I can't make out the street sign at the end of the block two houses away, let alone see a hand signal from Ray to let us know we're on.

When Ray gives us the signal, Tom and I are supposed to
stagger across the street and onto the front porch of Sigma Chi, acting like Hollywood zombies to draw the fraternity members outside. Ray, who looks less like a zombie than the rest of us and can pass for a Breather in subdued light among drunk college kids, will intervene as our chaperone and apologize for letting us get loose before anyone beats on us with aluminum bats or sets us on fire. While the fraternity members have their attention on the three of us, Zack, Luke, and Jerry will sneak into the fraternity through the back door and find Tom's arm.

If Plan A doesn't work, Plan B is to storm the house, freak everyone out, and hope we can find Tom's arm before the Animal Control van shows up.

What the hell. You're only undead once.

Though I'm not sure what we're supposed to do if any thing goes wrong. Tom might at least be able to run away, but I don't have that luxury, which means I'll have to stand and fight. If it comes to that, I hope I can at least take one of them down with me.

Tom is whispering something to my left. After a few moments I realize he's repeating one of Helen's euphemisms.

“I am a survivor … I am a survivor … I am a survivor …”

Across the street at Sigma Chi there's no activity and no sign of Ray. The anticipation is unnerving, which isn't surprising except that I realize I'm feeling anxious. Not just the memory of anxiety but the physical sensations that accompany it. For the first time since I died, I'm experiencing something that feels strangely like an adrenaline rush.

Before I can explore this any further, shouts erupt from inside the fraternity. Seconds later, an upstairs window explodes outward in a shower of glass as a body flies through the
window, tumbles across the roof, then falls over the edge and lands facedown on the front lawn.

“Is that the signal?” asks Tom.

The shouting escalates inside the fraternity, the noise spilling out through the broken window as Ray comes running around from the back of the fraternity house shouting, “Plan B! Plan B!”

Tom and I watch Ray run out to the sidewalk, then down the street toward the Lumina as front porch lights start to go on at the neighboring houses, including the one behind us.

On the front lawn of Sigma Chi, the body that fell from the roof gets to its feet, then starts running toward us and raises three arms in the air.

“Got it, dude!” yells Jerry, waving Tom's arm in triumph.

Beside me, Tom lets out a sob of joy.

Bedlam has engulfed the fraternity. People are shouting and screaming as shapes and shadows move past the windows like phantoms. The front door opens and two Breathers come running out, chased by either Zack or Luke, I can't tell which, but he's laughing.

As Tom and I hurry across the street to Jerry, Ray pulls up in the Lumina and gets out, leaving the car running.

“Take the car,” he says, running past us toward Sigma Chi.

“What about you?” shouts Tom.

“Just get out of here!” yells Ray before he vanishes around the back of the fraternity.

I don't have to be told twice. I can hear the sirens off in the distance and the thought of taking a ride in the back of the Animal Control van doesn't have any of the justified glory that previously accompanied this mission.

Jerry tosses the arm across the car to Tom, who catches it
with one hand like a star NFL receiver and then slides into the front passenger seat as I fall in the backseat behind him and pull the door shut. Before I have a chance to get my seat belt fastened, Jerry floors the accelerator and the Lumina races off down the street to the opening strains of Steppenwolf's “Magic Carpet Ride.”

I glance out the back window as the sirens grow louder and neighbors began to come out onto the street, grateful that I'm leaving this scene behind.

“Wooo hooo!” screams Jerry, taking the first turn fast and tight, sending me sliding across the backseat into the passenger door, my face smashing against the window. “Hold on to your nuts, boys. You're in for a treat.”

Before Jerry can make another turn, I pull the shoulder strap across my body and buckle myself in.

“Slow down!” says Tom, cradling his arm as Jerry makes a hard left, the tires squealing and the rear of the Lumina drifting to the right. “Slow down, slow down!”

The only thing worse than being a backseat driver is wanting to be a backseat driver without the ability to talk. So all I can do is voice my concerns by screaming.

There's not much traffic on the streets but what cars there are Jerry swerves around, driving in the opposite lane to pass. We're safely away from the scene of the crime, so the last thing we want to do is draw attention to ourselves, but Jerry is still a twenty-one-year-old showoff and he's not about to listen to reason.

“Hey,” says Tom, studying his reclaimed appendage. “This isn't my arm.”

“It's not?” says Jerry.

“No,” says Tom.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure!” says Tom, his voice rising. “Look!” With
his left hand he holds the arm up by the wrist. Even from the backseat I can see that the arm is at least two inches shorter than Tom's left arm. And it's covered with thick, black hair.

Jerry passes a Volkswagen Vanagon and glances over at Tom. “Oops.”

“Oops?” says Tom. “Oops?”

“Dude, there were like, dozens of them and I couldn't grab them all, so I picked out the one that I thought looked like yours.”

“Does this look like mine?” says Tom, brandishing the arm at Jerry.

“Dude, I said I was sorry.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with this?” he says, tossing the arm onto the dashboard.

“Try it on,” says Jerry.

“Try it on?” says Tom. “What am I? Frankenstein's monster?”

Jerry glances over at him. “Now that you mention it …”

There's a red light up ahead and Jerry's doing fifty in a thirty-five zone. I let out a warning shriek that only makes Jerry drive faster. If I could break out in a cold sweat, I would.

“Red light, red light, red light!” shouts Tom, his right arm momentarily forgotten, his left hand pointing at the windshield.

Jerry starts humming the theme to
Mission: Impossible
and floors the accelerator as Tom and I both let out identical screams of “Noooooooo!” An instant before we reach the intersection, the light turns green.

“Relax Grandmas,” says Jerry. “I've got it under control.”

Tom is slumped down in the front seat, his left hand covering his eyes. I'm sitting behind Jerry, alert and focused. If I were alive, my heart would be racing and my palms would be sweating. The absence of these physical symptoms makes
me feel oddly at ease. That and I can't get over the realization that I actually screamed something intelligible. Apparently, neither Tom nor Jerry noticed. Or if they did, it didn't register, but I clearly shouted “Noooooooo.” At least I think I did. I want to see if I can say it a second time, or if I can say something else, but I'm a little anxious and self-conscious, so I try it under my breath, singing along to Steppenwolf:

Most of the words still sound like gibberish, but a few come out right, or nearly so, and I wonder if there's some kind of strange, cosmic connection between the songs that played on the radio tonight and my newfound ability to utter intelligible sounds.

Is this a magic bus? Will I still be able to speak when the magic carpet ride comes to an end? Or is this just the beginning? It doesn't really matter. All I know is that the last couple of weeks have been exhilarating and I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow. Provided, of course, that Jerry doesn't destroy us in a fiery crash.

Jerry's whooping it up as he races down Chestnut Street toward Highway 1, running stop signs and breaking the speed limit while Tom sits sullen and brooding in the passenger seat. Jerry glances at me in the rearview mirror and I smile back, give him the thumb up, and whoop along with him.