The Lost Train of Thought (11 page)
Becker did a quick loop around the field and was pleased to see that the basic pillars of the operation were still intact. Though it took weeks to load an entire Train of Thought, in the three days they had left before the Unthinkable happened, there might still be enough time to fill a boxcar or two. They would need to call in at least two teams of Provokers— the meticulous tradesmen who tapped the cacti with little hammers to locate deposits of Thought, then patiently teased out the amber substance within—and a third squad of Collectors to get it over to the Refi—
Shucka, shucka, shucka.
Becker wheeled around, certain he’d just heard that banging again from somewhere over his shoulder. But when he turned to investigate, all he saw was a drop cloth attached to an empty scaffold, an open lunchbox overrun by Buzz Kills, and a transistor radio with a dead battery melting in the afternoon sun.
Shucka, shucka, shucka.
It was coming from inside one of the discarded Think Tanks, and Becker wasn’t taking any chances—he pulled out his trusty Sticks & Stones™. But when he approached the rusty metal cylinder and cautiously popped open the hatch, it was not a Collector or a poltergeist or even an ax-wielding maniac that he saw inside. It was a bespectacled woman in a tie-dyed skirt and beaded necklace, completely lost in Thought.
“Dr. Thinkenfeld?”
In the cool shade of Contemplation’s mess hall, the Administrator of Thought & Emotion looked up at Hassan with grief and terror in her eyes. “They’re all gone.”
“Who’s gone, Doctor?”
“Everybody! I’m the only one who—”
Dr. Laura Thinkenfeld burst into tears and crumpled into Hassan’s arms, as if crushed by the guilt of her own survival. Becker threw Hassan a look like “maybe we should give her a few more minutes,” but the Persian shook his head no.
“Pull yourself together, Laura. We need to know what happened here.”
The weary Administrator wrung out a few last sobs, then did her best to recover. This was no easy task, since her hair looked like she’d stuck her finger into a wall socket, and her face was burned by something other than the sun. She was also badly dehydrated from being locked inside the Think Tank, but a few swigs from Becker’s canteen seemed to restore her strength.
“It’s a thankless job, y’know? Toiling away in the hot sun, day after day, hundreds of miles away from air-conditioned offices and the Field of Play. That’s why I always come out here to help with the harvest . . . because these people work too hard not to get some kind of recognition. I mean, all they really ask is for someone to shake their hands and say, ‘You matter.’”
“Laura, please . . . ,” urged Hassan.
“I’m sorry.”
She limped over to the window of the mess hall to have a look outside.
“The train had just left for the End of the Line—every boxcar stuffed to the brim— and even though it was early in the morning, some of the boys had already broken out kegs of Cheer. But then I heard someone say—I think it was Menden-hall, the Foreman—‘What do you make of that, ma’am?’”
“Make of what?” said Becker, unable to bite his tongue. “A strange light . . . on the horizon.” Dr. Thinkenfeld turned toward a westward-facing window, as if she could still see something unexpected approaching. “At first, I thought it was some kind of explosion way out in the Middle of Nowhere, but I didn’t hear any sound. I would’ve heard if it was a bomb or something, right?”
She squinted and raised a hand to her face, shielding herself from whatever it was she’d seen two mornings ago.
“All I remember is people running everywhere, screaming, looking for some place to hide before whatever it was that was coming hit us. And I swear, I tried to stay outside until all my people were safe. But Mendenhall, he wouldn’t listen to me, he just grabbed me and threw me in the tank and told me to wait there until he could—” Dr. Thinkenfeld abruptly swiveled toward Becker. “I swear, I didn’t desert my people.”
“I believe you, Doctor. We just need to know where everybody
went.”
“Where they went?” Dr. Thinkenfeld began to laugh, as if Becker had just reminded her of a very funny joke. “Where do you think they went?”
The joke ended poorly.
“They’re dead! They’re all dead!”
Before she could say any more, the Administrator of Thought & Emotion collapsed from exhaustion. Hassan scooped her off her feet, then gently laid her on one of the wooden picnic tables. “We need to get her to a Care Giver ASAP.”
“I’ll call it in,” said Becker, already dialing the emergency hotline to the Department of Health. But even as he punched 8-1-1 into his Bleceiver, the fact that the entire staff of Contemplation had potentially been vaporized was starting to make him feel a little queasy about this Mission. And there was an even more grim reality to face: if these people had met with the fate that Thinkenfeld said they did, then it was likely the first team of Fixers had perished the same way.
“Look at her Time Piece, Drane.” Hassan lifted the doctor’s limp wrist. “Just like the End of the Line.”
Becker looked down at the hands of her watch, which came together to form the numbers 7:37. “What kind of weapon is powerful enough to strike two locations twenty miles apart at the exact same time?”
“Nothing I’d like to see firsthand.”
#37 was about to start digging through his Manual when his Bleceiver beeped, indicating another call was coming in.
“Becker, it’s me . . .”
“Hey, Octo. Listen, I gotta call you back, ’cause the Department of Health is on the other line and—”
“It’s Fixer Blaque, dear,”
interrupted Sylvia, her voice filled with both excitement and fear.
“He found the tracks.”
End of the Line, Department of Transportation, The Seems
Fixer Blaque was leaning on his walking stick, peering directly into the Middle of Nowhere. Only now it wasn’t just wind and sand and mesquite grass that made up the desert before him. Now there was something else that reached into the vastness of the west.
“Train tracks?” Becker knelt before his former instructor, completely befuddled. “But there was nothing here before!”
“Wasn’t there?”
Inexplicably, beyond the rubber bump stop that marked the end of Track #2, another set of iron rails stretched out toward the vanishing point. These were much newer than the ancient I-beams that carried trains back and forth from Thought & Emotion, and Fixer Blaque had used his Brush Duster™ to uncover fifty feet or so from beneath the sand.
“How far do they go?” asked Fixer Hassan, walking out to where the rails disappeared.
“Hard to say,” Blaque speculated. “But I suspect at least as far as that caboose the first team found.”
Hassan gave one of the beams a slight kick, as if to prove its reality, then turned back to face the team leader. “It makes no sense.”
“As you’ll recall, Casey said that Fixer Simms had uncovered some tracks that led to the Middle of Nowhere. At first, I thought she was referring to footprints left by the thieves . . . but then I realized, she was talking about train tracks.”
“But the map says the End of the Line is the end of the line.” Even the Octogenarian, who had been by Blaque’s side ever since he’d let out a whoop of delight some forty minutes ago, still couldn’t figure out what the tracks were doing there.
“It
was
. Until someone made them go farther.”
Fixer Blaque pulled out the same locket he’d purchased from the Man of Substance(s), then flipped it open to reveal a blue powder inside. There wasn’t much of it, perhaps a thimbleful, but what there was had a slightly phosphorescent glow.
“Scratch,” said the Octogenarian, shaking her head at Blaque’s ingenuity. “Of course.”
At the very mention of the basic building block of The World, Becker and the others began to grasp how the thieves, whomever they were, had managed to make a brand-new set of rails. When heated even a few degrees, Scratch could literally bring thoughts into existence. All one needed to do was place the powder between thumb and forefinger, generate a modicum of friction—and there were simply no limits to what the volatile substance could be used to create.
19
“Plan help us if The Tide’s got their hands on Scratch.”
Hassan gave voice to his teammates’ greatest fear.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Fixer Blaque closed up his case, and with the help of his walking stick, finally rose to his feet. “All we can do is have faith in the Plan, and see where these tracks lead us.”
Like a flash, the second team was in motion. While Blaque handed out Extremely Cool Outfits, the Octogenarian wrapped Administrator Thinkenfeld in a Security Blanket™ to ensure she was safely tucked away until the emergency Care Givers arrived. Meanwhile, Fixers Drane and Hassan found a rusty old handcar that someone had parked behind the switchman’s hut and lugged it over to the tracks.
“Now remember, our 7th Senses will be virtually useless out there.” Fixer Blaque dropped his Toolkit onto the front of the car and motioned to the Middle of Nowhere. “It’ll be like a compass that can’t find its way north.”
A gust of wind arose, whipping sand and dirt in their faces and underscoring the warning that was posted on a single “No Trespassing” sign.
“Jelani.” The Octogenarian folded her umbrella, which had been shielding her from the sun. “Look at the sky.”
They all looked to the heavens, where a once crystalline blue was slowly darkening. Huge black storm clouds had gathered above the mountains to the west—as if somehow called by their defiance of the warnings— and were now rolling toward them with alarming speed.
“Maybe we should wait till it blows over, sir,” said Becker, leaning upon the seesaw lever that powered the car.
“No can do, Mr. Drane.” Their leader removed his blue-tinted glasses and wiped the sweat from his eyes. “Unprocessed Scratch only has a half-life of three days. Which means these tracks could disappear at any moment.”
Fixer Blaque replaced his shades, then reached into Becker’s Toolmaster 3000 and began to remove the strange brass helmets he’d purchased at the Black Market.
“It also means we better put these on.”
19.
For more on this delicate pro cess, see Appendix B: “Making Things from Scratch.”
12 Grant Avenue, Highland Park, New Jersey
As soon as Benjamin Drane got home from school, he dropped his bike on the front lawn and trucked up the wooden steps of 12 Grant Avenue. His trusty easel was waiting for him in the foyer, and after ditching his bookbag and sneaks, he lugged it straight upstairs to the door with the Bob Ross poster out front.
“Not so fast, half-pint!” babysitter Samantha Mitchell shouted from her favorite spot by the cordless phone in the kitchen. “No painting till after you do your homework!”
“Sorry! Ze artist formerly known as Benzamin cannot hears you. But he shall be in his room should anyone needz him.”
Ever since he was little Benjamin had drawn everything in sight, and the walls of his room had been covered with napkin portraits, crayoned menus, and pencil sketches of downtown Highland Park. But when his older brother had hooked him up with private Sunset painting lessons from Figarro Mastrioni, Benjamin raised his game to an entirely other level. “The Maestro” had trained him in all aspects of the profession— from horizon to clouds to the Emotion instilled within—and the wallpaper had quickly disappeared in favor of glorious panoramas, painted directly on the plaster itself.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Benjamin tied on his smock and picked up his pallet from atop a pile of dirty underwear. “Come inz!”
The door swung open, and in walked what looked remarkably like his brother, Becker. So remarkably that it could only have been that lifelike invention of the masters at the Toolshed known as a Me-2.
“Hey, Me!” Benjamin bumped elbows with the replica like they were old pals. “What’s shakin’?”
“Chillin’ like a villain,” Me-2 said as it plopped down on Benjamin’s race car bed.
“Hey, guess what?”
“That’s what?”
“Better.” Benjamin dipped his brush into a spot of Alizarin Crimson and laid down a base. “Figarro says all I need is one or two more signature pieces and I’ll be ready for my show.”
