Shift - Omnibus Edition (12 page)

The tires squealed as he spiraled down his exit ramp too fast. He merged onto Berwick Boulevard, the overhead lights strobing through the windshield as he flew beneath them. Glancing down at his lap, he watched the gold inlay text on the book throb with the rhythm of the passing lights.

Order. Order. Order.

He had read enough to worry, to wonder what he’d gotten himself mixed up in. Helen had been right to warn him, had been wrong about the scale of the danger.

Turning into his neighborhood, Donald remembered a conversation from long before – he remembered her begging him not to run for office, saying that it would change him, that he couldn’t fix anything up there, but that he could sure as hell come home broken.

How right had she been?

He pulled up to the house and had to leave the car by the curb. Her Jeep was in the middle of the driveway. One more habit formed in his absence, a reminder that he didn’t live there any more, didn’t have a real home.

Leaving his bags in the trunk, he took just the book and his keys. The book was heavy enough.

The motion light came on as he neared the porch. He saw a form by the window, heard frantic scratching on the other side. Helen opened the door, and Karma rushed out, tail whacking the side of the jamb, tongue lolling, so much bigger in just the few weeks that he’d been away.

Donald crouched down and rubbed her head, let the dog lick his cheek.

‘Good girl,’ he said. He tried to sound happy. The cool emptiness in his chest intensified from being home. The things that should’ve felt comforting only made him feel worse.

‘Hey, honey.’ He smiled up at his wife.

‘You’re early.’

Helen wrapped her arms around his neck as he stood. Karma sat down and whined at them, tail swishing on the concrete. Helen’s kiss tasted like coffee.

‘I took an earlier flight.’

He glanced over his shoulder at the dark streets of his neighborhood. As if anyone needed to follow him.

‘Where’re your bags?’

‘I’ll get ’em in the morning. C’mon, Karma. Let’s go inside.’ He steered his dog through the door.

‘Is everything okay?’ Helen asked.

Donald went to the kitchen. He set the book down on the island and fished in the cabinet for a glass. Helen watched him with concern as he pulled a bottle of brandy out of the cabinet.

‘Baby? What’s going on?’

‘Maybe nothing,’ he said. ‘Lunatics—’ He poured three fingers of brandy, looked to Helen and raised the bottle to see if she wanted any. She shook her head. ‘Then again,’ he continued, ‘maybe there’s something to it.’ He took more than a sip. His other hand hadn’t left the neck of the bottle.

‘Baby, you’re acting strange. Come sit down. Take off your coat.’

He nodded and let her help him remove his jacket. He slid his tie off, saw the worry on her face, knew it to be a reflection of his own.

‘What would you do if you thought it all might end?’ he asked his wife. ‘What would you do?’

‘If what? You mean us? Oh, you mean life. Honey, did someone pass away? Tell me what’s going on.’

‘No, not someone. Everyone. Everything.’

He tucked the bottle under his arm, grabbed his drink and the book, and went to the living room. Helen and Karma followed. Karma was already on the sofa waiting for him to sit down before he got there, oblivious to anything he was saying, just thrilled for the pack to be reunited.

‘It sounds like you’ve had a very long day,’ Helen said, trying to find excuses for him.

Donald sat on the sofa and put the bottle and book on the coffee table. He pulled his drink away from Karma’s curious nose.

‘I have something I have to tell you,’ he said.

Helen stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed. ‘That’d be a nice change.’ She smiled to let him know she was joking. Donald nodded.

‘I know, I know,’ he said. His eyes fell to the book. ‘This isn’t about that project. And honestly, do you think I enjoy keeping my life from you?’

Helen crossed to the recliner next to the sofa and sat down. ‘What is this about?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been told it’s okay to tell you about a … promotion. Well, more of an assignment than a promotion. Not an assignment, really, more like being on the National Guard. Just in case—’

Helen reached over and squeezed his knee. ‘Take it easy,’ she whispered. Her eyebrows were lowered, confusion and worry lurking in the shadows there.

Donald took a deep breath. He was still revved up from running the conversation over in his head, from driving too fast. In the weeks since his meeting with Thurman he had been reading too much into the book – and too much into that conversation. He couldn’t tell if he was piecing something together, or just falling apart.

‘How much have you followed what’s going on in Iran?’ he asked, scratching his arm. ‘And Korea?’

She shrugged. ‘I see blurbs online.’

‘Mmm.’ He took a burning gulp of the brandy, smacked his lips and tried to relax and enjoy the numbing chill as it travelled through his body. ‘They’re working on ways to take everything out,’ he said.

‘Who?
We
are?’ Helen’s voice rose. ‘We’re thinking of taking
them
out?’

‘No, no—’

‘Are you sure I’m allowed to hear this—?’

‘No, sweetheart, they’re designing weapons to take
us
out. Weapons that can’t be stopped, that can’t be defended against.’

Helen leaned forward, her hands clasped, elbows on her knees. ‘Is this stuff you’re learning in Washington? Classified stuff?’

He waved his hand. ‘Beyond classified. Look, you know why we went into Iran—’

‘I know why they
said
we went in—’

‘It wasn’t bullshit,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘Well, maybe it was. Maybe they hadn’t figured it out yet, hadn’t mastered how—’

‘Honey, slow down.’

‘Yeah.’ He took another deep breath. He had an image in mind of a large mountain out west, a concrete road disappearing straight into the rock, thick vault doors standing open as files of politicians crowded inside with their families.

‘I met with the Senator a few weeks ago.’ He stared down into the ginger-colored liquor in his glass.

‘In Boston,’ Helen said.

He nodded. ‘Right. Well, he wants us to be on this alert team—’

‘You and Mick.’

He turned to his wife. ‘No – us.’

‘
Us?
’ Helen placed a hand on her chest. ‘What do you mean, us? You and me?’

‘Now listen—’

‘You’re volunteering
me
for one of his—’

‘Sweetheart, I had no idea what this was all about.’ He set his glass on the coffee table and grabbed the book. ‘He gave me this to read.’

Helen frowned. ‘What is that?’

‘It’s like an instruction manual for the – well, for the
after
. I think.’

Helen got up from the recliner and stepped between him and the coffee table. She nudged Karma out of the way, the dog grunting at being disturbed. Sitting down beside him, she put a hand on his back, her eyes shiny with worry.

‘Donny, were you drinking on the plane?’

‘No.’ He pulled away. ‘Just please listen to me. It doesn’t matter
who
has them, it only matters
when
. Don’t you see? This is the ultimate threat. A world-ender. I’ve been reading about the possibilities on this website—’

‘A website,’ she said, voice flat with skepticism.

‘Yeah. Listen. Remember those treatments the Senator takes? These nanos are like synthetic life. Imagine if someone turned them into a virus that didn’t care about its host, that didn’t need
us
in order to spread. They could be out there already.’ He tapped his chest, glanced around the room suspiciously, took a deep breath. ‘They could be in every one of us right now, little timer circuits waiting for the right moment—’

‘Sweetheart—’

‘Very bad people are working on this, trying to make this happen.’ He reached for his glass. ‘We can’t sit back and let them strike first. So we’re gonna do it.’ There were ripples in the liquor. His hand was shaking. ‘God, baby, I’m pretty sure we’re gonna do it before
they
can.’

‘You’re scaring me, honey.’

‘Good.’ Another burning sip. He held the glass with both hands to keep it steady. ‘We should be scared.’

‘Do you want me to call Dr. Martin?’

‘Who?’ He tried to make room between them, bumped up against the armrest. ‘My sister’s doctor? The
shrink
?’

She nodded gravely.

‘Listen to what I’m telling you,’ he said, holding up a finger. ‘These tiny machines are
real
.’ His mind was racing. He was going to babble and convince her of nothing but his paranoia. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We use them in medicine, right?’

Helen nodded. She was giving him a chance, a slim one. But he could tell she really wanted to go call someone. Her mother, a doctor,
his
mother.

‘It’s like when we discovered radiation, okay? The first thing we thought was that this would be a cure, a medical discovery. X-rays, but then people were taking drops of radium like an elixir—’

‘They poisoned themselves,’ Helen said. ‘Thinking they were doing something good.’ She seemed to relax a little. ‘Is this what you’re worried about? That the nanos are going to mutate and turn on us? Are you still freaked out from being inside that machine?’

‘No, nothing like that. I’m talking about how we looked for medicinal uses first, then ended up building the bomb. This is the
same thing
.’ He paused, hoping she would get it. ‘I’m starting to think we’re building them too. Tiny machines, just like the ones in the nanobaths that stitch up people’s skin and joints. Only
these
would tear people apart.’

Helen didn’t react. Didn’t say a word. Donald realized he sounded crazy, that every bit of this was already online and in podcasts that radiated out from lonely basements on lonely airwaves. The Senator had been right. Mix truth and lies and you couldn’t tell them apart. The book on his coffee table and a zombie survival guide would be treated the same way.

‘I’m telling you they’re real,’ he said, unable to stop himself. ‘They’ll be able to reproduce. They’ll be invisible. There won’t be any warning when they’re set loose, just dust in the breeze, okay? Reproducing and reproducing, this invisible war will wage itself all around us while we’re turned to mush.’

Helen remained silent. He realized she was waiting for him to finish, and then she would call her mom and ask what to do. She would call Dr. Martin and get his advice.

Donald started to complain, could feel the anger welling up, and knew that anything he said would confirm her fears rather than convince her of his own.

‘Is there anything else?’ she whispered. She was looking for permission to leave and make her phone calls, to talk to someone rational.

Donald felt numb. Helpless and alone.

‘The National Convention is going to be held in Atlanta.’ He wiped underneath his eyes, tried to make it look like weariness, like the strain of travel. ‘The DNC hasn’t announced it yet, but I heard from Mick before I got on the flight.’ He turned to Helen. ‘The Senator wants us both there, is already planning something big.’

‘Of course, baby.’ She rested her hand on his thigh and looked at him as if he were her patient.

‘And I’m going to ask that I spend more time down here, maybe do some of my work from home on weekends, keep a closer eye on the project.’

‘That’d be great.’ She rested her other hand on his arm.

‘I want us to be good to each other,’ he said. ‘For whatever time we have left—’

‘Shh, baby, it’s okay.’ She wrapped her arm around his back and shushed him again, trying to soothe him. ‘I love you,’ she said.

He wiped at his eyes again.

‘We’ll get through this,’ she told him.

Donald bobbed his head. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know we will.’

The dog grunted and nuzzled her head into Helen’s lap, could sense something was wrong. Donald scratched the pup’s neck. He looked up at his wife, tears in his eyes. ‘I know we’ll get through this,’ he said, trying to calm himself. ‘But what about everyone
else
?’

16

2110

Silo 1

Troy needed to see a doctor. Ulcers had formed in both sides of his mouth, down between his gums and the insides of his cheeks. He could feel them like little wads of tender cotton embedded in his flesh. In the morning, he kept the pill tucked down on the left side. At supper, on the right. On either side, it would burn and dry out his mouth with the bitter bite of the medicine, but he would endure it.

He rarely employed napkins during meals, a bad habit he had formed long ago. They went into his lap to be polite and then onto his plate when he was finished. Now he had a different routine. One quick small bite of something, wipe his mouth, spit out the burning blue capsule, take a huge gulp of water, swish it around.

The hard part was not checking to see if anyone was watching while he spat it out. He sat with his back to the wallscreen, imagining eyes drilling through the side of his head, but he kept his gaze in front of him and chewed his food.

He remembered to use his napkin occasionally, to wipe with both hands, always with both hands, pinching across his mouth, staying consistent. He smiled at the man across from him and made sure the pill didn’t fall out. The man’s gaze drifted over Troy’s shoulder as he stared at the view of the outside world on the screen.

Troy didn’t turn to look. There was still the same draw to the top of the silo, the same compulsion to be as high as possible, to escape the suffocating depths, but he no longer felt any desire to see outside. Something had changed.

He spotted Hal at the next table over – recognized his bald and splotchy scalp. The old man was sitting with his back to Troy. Troy waited for him to turn and catch his eye, but Hal never looked around.

He finished his corn and worked on his beets. It had been long enough since spitting out his pill to risk a glance toward the serving line. Tubes spat food; plates rattled on trays; one of the doctors from Victor’s office stood beyond the glass serving line, arms crossed, a wan smile on his face. He was scanning the men in line and looking out over the tables. Why? What was there to keep an eye on? Troy wanted to know. He had dozens of burning questions like this. Answers sometimes presented themselves, but they skittered away if he trained his thoughts on them.