Résumé With Monsters (18 page)

Philip remembered the fetid stink,
F.F.'s
usual noxious emissions combined with fear-brewed sweat and a
sulphurous
, hot metal smell. Sheltered in the quarantined cubicle of his host's mind, Philip did not have to endure the suffocating stench again. He was grateful for that; it was vivid enough as a memory.

"This
ain't
no stockroom," F.F. muttered, dropping the wrist. "You shouldn't be in here."

 
SORRY TO BOTHER YOU.

Philip was turning to leave.

You know what he's doing
, Philip thought.
He's making bombs. He has been sitting down here in the basement, in this fart-infested mailroom, making bombs for Jesus. Are you just going to turn around and walk out?

Philip was moving down the hall.

The voice came from behind him. He knew it would, of course. He remembered.

"You don't have the mark," F.F. hollered. "I thought you would have the mark, seeing as how your girl has it, but you don't. You
ain't
lost to the sweet love of Jesus. I got something to show you."

#

Whup
. He was in group. An acne-scarred kid named Sammy
Phelam
was talking about how his girlfriend was cheating on him. He had found a bunch of
Polaroids
of her and this guy having sex. What bothered Sammy the most was that the guy was wearing a baseball cap in all the pictures. That was a low, cheap thing to do and—

Philip interrupted. "They were all wearing the mark. It looked a little like a starfish, a wiggly, blue tattoo on the wrist. Amelia said it was just a motivational thing, something Quality cooked up, but I was uneasy about that, from the very start, I thought—"

The counselor, Olivia, said, "Philip, I believe

Sammy was trying to share about his anxieties regarding—"

#

Whup
. '"You got to bring it all down, Fred.' That's what Jesus said to me. 'You got to topple Satan's tower."' The fat mailroom clerk showed Philip the bombs, showed how the switches made solenoids snap forward with the cold precision and speed of mechanical serpents. "I polish every bit of metal. Some might say that was crazy, seeing as how it is all going to go up in roaring thunder, but the Eye of God don't miss a thing, and He appreciates attention to detail, you know. You can go to the backside of a tree that is hunched up against a mountain, and you can scramble in through brush and vines and snap off a hidden leaf, and you'll see that it is as labored over as anything on view. God don't cut corners."

Flatulent Freddie waved a hand above his head. "Like stars in the sky," he said. "Seventeen floors of firecrackers. What do you think of that?" F.F. had strewn bombs throughout the building, in vents, taped to concrete pillars, under desks, behind vending machines, resting precariously on the acoustical tiling of ceilings.

"It's all linked through the mainframes. I can go to any computer in this joint, execute the command, and
Kablam
!
the Philistines are dust again, and Jesus is hugging Himself for joy."

JESUS WOULDN'T WANT YOU TO BLOW UP MICROMEG. HE WOULDN'T WANT YOU TO KILL INNOCENT PEOPLE.

F.F.'s
eyes grew wide. When he shook his head, his hair danced over his eyes. "You don't know poop about it," the fat boy said. "Jesus
ain't
happy about it, but He knows you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet."

YOU CAN'T DO THIS THING.

"Yes I can. I see now that you are one of them. Jesus washed me clean of all ambition and doubt and lusting after power, and said, 'You are the only vessel I got for this job. You are the only one been
virginized
by the blood of the Lamb. You are a Sword and I am Wrath.'"

Philip hit the fat man in the nose with all his might. He dove forward, pushing Freddie back against a wobbly table that instantly collapsed, envelopes of all sizes leaping in the air.

#

Whup
. Dr. Beasley was leaning forward, a look of concern on her noble if unattractive features.

"You are particularly anxious today, Philip."

"I seem to be really bouncing, doctor. One second I'm in MicroMeg with crazy F.F., then I'm back here, in group or, like now, talking to you."

"You may be experiencing some anxiety with the new medication," Dr. Beasley said.

"I'm on new medication?"

"Well, yes, we discussed it before."

Philip sighed. "I think I missed that discussion, doctor. Look, I think it is a bad idea to put me on any—I mean, any—medication right now. That could stop me flat on the wrong side of the tracks. I don't want to get stuck in MicroMeg. Doctor, I can't get stuck in MicroMeg!"

"Philip, please sit down."

#

Whup
. Amelia was walking in front of Philip, out into the parking lot. A security guard named Hal Ketch accompanied them. The security guard was a thin, cold man who said he had once worked for the CIA. His uniform was black, immaculately pressed; the creases might have been crimped metal.

He lifted his static-wheezing radio and spoke into it, "I've escorted
emps
Price and
Kenan
to lot 9. I'm taking a tour, west through
BuSubs
. I'll be reentering through CS-One."

The radio coughed an acknowledgment.

The security guard nodded at Amelia and Philip and turned away. They watched him move across the empty parking lot, through pools of weak lamplight.

OUR VERY OWN NAZI.

Amelia laughed.

This is the night,
Philip thought.
I wouldn't be confused about the night.

They stood by the side of Amelia's Honda. She had a hand on the door.

"I'm exhausted," she said.

FOURTEEN-HOUR DAYS WILL DO THAT TO A PERSON.

"Yes. I guess so. Well, good night."

He walked across the lot to his own car. He got in, turned the key, and drove toward the exit.

Wait. There is a mistake here.
This was the night. She was wearing her gray suit, and when she took it off, revealing her white, surprising flesh, Philip felt that he had stumbled to the heart of some extraordinary mystery—like the discovery of hope or renewal. She came out of the bathroom, the makeup washed from her face to reveal a less precise, more generous and wanton woman, and she smiled as though they had both been party to some deception, out there in the faceless, machine-hearted world, and that, having pulled it off, they were free to revel like children.

He pulled up to the exit, fumbled for his encoded card that would open the gate.

You asshole. Look!

The camera of his consciousness shifted. He was staring into the rearview mirror.

Yes.

Amelia's car sat in the desolation of the empty parking lot. Headlights glowed, then dimmed; flared again and sank to weaker, smaller orbs the color of weak tea.

Philip turned and drove back to Amelia.

HI.

"I think the battery is dead," she said. They both listened to the sound the engine made when she turned the key. A sound like a man with rusted lungs, hacking up handfuls of dirty pennies.

The coy sound of sudden romance.

I CAN DROP YOU OFF AT YOUR PLACE. IT IS WAY TOO LATE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT TONIGHT.

"Thank you," Amelia said.

#

"Last night," Philip told Lily Metcalf, "I was back with Amelia the first time we made love."

"That's nice."

"Well, it was a little disturbing, actually."

"Oh." Lily Metcalf struck a match and lit her cigarette. You weren't supposed to smoke in these rooms, but Philip figured the woman had some clout. Her old student was the director, after all.

"Well, there was a voyeur quality; I wasn't really participating, of course. There were no physical sensations, so... I don't know."

He didn't really know just how to explain it.

Suffused with sadness.

Amelia had moved under him, her mouth a surprised, delighted O. She had reached a hand toward his face, touching his forehead as though checking for a fever.

He watched his own hand glide up her ribs and come to rest on her breast, more voluptuous and slightly larger than he had imagined it—and yes, he had been imagining it for fourteen months—and his other hand sought the black, clipped tangle of her hair, still wet from the shower.

She opened her mouth and spoke. "Amelia," she said.

He leaned forward; her marvelous eyes bloomed, full of dark intensity. Again, this time speaking each syllable slowly, she said, "A...
meel
... e....
ya
."

Say it, you idiot. She wants you to say her name. She is here with you and she wants you to say her name, to tell her it is her and not blind sex that animates you.

AMELIA.

"Yes. Philip."

AMELIA. AMELIA.

The sadness came like a descent of locusts. He watched as the wildness grew, saw her shoulders glisten.

AMELIA.

I will win you back
, he vowed.
I will save you.

#

Whup
. Olivia, their counselor in group, was a morning person. That is, she was aggressively cheerful in the morning, her voice containing a lilt that made Philip wince.

"Well," she said, slapping her hands on her blue-
jeaned
thighs, "This is Mr. Hatfield's last day. Would anyone like to say anything to him?"

Mr. Hatfield was a small, weary man who had never said anything in group. He was in the hospital for depression, and if appearances counted for anything, he was as depressed as he had been on the first day, his thick lips jutting out in an exaggerated pout, his eyes sunk into folds of despair. His reserve and misery were so great that even Olivia was incapable of calling him by his first name.

"Hang in there, Mr. Hatfield," the bald man said. "It's always darkest before the dawn."

"Lighten up," Sammy
Phelam
said.

"Find Jesus," Michael Jackson advised.

Flatulent Freddie had found Jesus, and Jesus had said, "MicroMeg is a satanic cult. You must tear it asunder. I will tell you how."

Jesus had revealed his plan to the devout mail clerk, who then constructed dozens of explosive devices. How often, when Philip had spied F.F. in an elevator, had that young man been busy doing the Lord's bidding? How often had polished engines of destruction resided at the bottom of the ubiquitous mail cart?

#

Whup
. Flatulent Freddie had surprising strength. He came off the floor with a rush and lifted Philip off the ground. The room tilted, spun. Philip got up and lunged.

F.F. backed away, laughing. "Jesus is sharper than that," he said. "You can't sucker punch the Son of God."

JESUS DOESN'T WANT YOU TO DO THIS THING.

F.F. laughed again, shaking his head. "I can be fooled. I'm mortal and frail. I thought you might be okay, cause you don't have the mark, and I've never spied you at their vile worship. But you are one of them, sure enough."

The mail clerk backed against a file cabinet, dragged open a drawer, and pulled out a revolver. The gun seemed almost comically large, a steel- blue, long barreled weapon.