The Nirvana Plague (44 page)

He suddenly realized Benford was still talking.

“Are you going to be all right?” she said.

Marley leaned forward onto the table, holding his face in his hands. “The maddening thing about talking to Roger,” he said through his hands, “is that everything you say is a lie — everything that
I
say is a lie. He makes it all feel like a lie. Even when I’m
not
lying, I’m lying.” He looked up at her again. “Roger knows that most of the things we say are lies. We talk past each other all the time. Most of the things we say to each other on a daily basis are really meaningless. We’re just exchanging conventional phrases with each other, making ritual noises. We don’t think about what we’re saying. We don’t hear what other people are saying. We ignore each other and expect to be ignored. But he doesn’t ignore you, and he won’t let you ignore him.”

“OK. Now—”

“—Let me finish. And he has no guile. None of them do. They are without deceit. They aren’t trying to hide anything. They have no need to disguise themselves in ritualized utterances. Did you really hear what he was saying today? I didn’t. Did anyone? There must have been — how many people
were
listening in today? — Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’ll bet not one of them really heard what he was saying.”

“On the contrary, there are teams of analysts pouring over those recordings—”

“Analysts? That’s not listening. That’s dissecting. I was right there and I wasn’t really listening. Makes me wonder when was the last time I really did listen to a patient. I was too terrified to hear anything. Too distracted by all the shit running through my head. All the voices in my ear.”

Benford’s little smile flashed for a microsecond. She, of course, had been the only voice in his ear today.

“But here’s what I think he was trying to say,” Marley said. “These people have no selves anymore. At least not what we think of as selves. Not the kind of selves that psychiatrists think normal, healthy people
should
have. The kind of self-identity that has to be kept shielded by layers and layers of pretense and role-playing. That’s a very fragile kind of a self. So fragile we have to have a vast infrastructure to keep it alive. Psychiatry is a tiny part of it. Religions, entertainment, politics — it all works the way it does to keep
your
little self and
my
little self from discovering that we’re both absolutely full of shit. It keeps us dreaming that we’re really strong and healthy. In those terms,
our
terms,
normal
terms — bambies are egoless. Their ego-making engine has just completely run out of fuel. And they’re not going back for more. They’ve just decided to cut their losses and leave that worthless heap of junk on the side of the road.”

He stopped talking.

Benford did not respond. She waited a decent interval of three seconds then changed the subject. She punched the tabletop controls again and brought up the street map of Juneau that they’d been looking at earlier. Harden’s X’s marked the city’s choke points; concentric circles defined the containment perimeters.

“OK,” she said, “now let’s talk about what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

Marley stood up.

“No,” he said. “I’m beat. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’m pissed off. I’m going to find some food and go to bed. Good night.”

Benford glanced at her watch. “The President should be speaking shortly.”

“Good night anyway.”

They failed to charm their way through a Montana border-crossing into Canada. Charm or no charm, Ally had no health certificate, and every border in the world was now closed to certless Americans. So they drove on west across the Idaho panhandle into Washington, where they scouted out a little-used crossing, bought a compass and a topographic map at the local forestry service office, and then Karen presented herself alone at the border gate with a story about being a microbiologist on her way to do some backcountry research, flashed her health card, and drove on through. Two hours later, as it was getting dark, Ally emerged from the trees with the map and the compass, and flagged her down as she drove slowly up and down a two-mile stretch of back road on the Canadian side of the line.

The morning sky was vivid blue. Juneau lay jumbled like a rock slide at the foot of the mountains. Long sinewy streams of water came falling down the dark mountainsides from the snowfields above.

Marley and Benford were back at the barricades in the middle of Douglas Bridge.

Out on the water of the channel, a long lean Coast Guard cutter stood beam on to the city, watching it, waiting. Helicopters thudded in the air, slowly drifting up and down the long waterfront.

The fat white cruise ship still lay there, silent, like a sleeping whale. The whole city slept. No cars moved. The streets had cleared. None of the watchers with their telescopes and surveillance cameras had seen anyone out of doors since first light.

To the left of the bridge lay the marina, full of fishing boats, their tall booms and radio masts slightly swaying. Flocks of gulls milled about the docks, looking for scraps. Not a boat had stirred from its moorings.

Marley put the comm bug in his ear.

“Check one, two.”

The communications operator nodded. A different operator than the night before. That one had not escaped.

Tyminski had started up a Humvee and threaded it out through the barricades. Now he got out and held the door open for Marley.

Marley climbed in behind the wheel. He felt ridiculous in it.
Let’s play soldier.
But at least he’d convinced Benford to let him wear civilian clothes.

She shut the door and reached over through the window to shake his hand.

“All right,” she said. “Be careful.”

He put the vehicle into gear and rolled down the bridge.

He drove very slowly.

A remotely-controlled video camera on the roof recorded every moment of the scene. Back on the bridge, Benford climbed inside the communications van and watched the feeds from that camera and from the various spy cams and helicopters. A dozen other officers crowded in front of a secondary bank of monitors on the back of the van. Washington eyes were watching too.

In the van with Benford was a local police officer, Sergeant Morris Adams. He’d been off duty the night before and did not live in the city. Consequently, he was now the highest ranking employee of the city government still in contact with state and national authorities.

Most of the state government was gone too. What remained of it had set up an emergency center of operations overnight at the airport north of town.

Only Benford and Adams could send on Marley’s comm channel, but everyone else was listening in. Adams was on because he knew the city.

He directed Marley to proceed directly up 10
^th
Street, toward the mayor’s house.

Benford added:
“Take your time.”

Left on C Street. Right on 12
^th
. A few minutes later he was there. Benford told him to leave the engine running. Just in case.

He hadn’t seen a soul on the streets.

He got out in front of the mayor’s little bungalow. A half dozen sparrows were flitting around a birdfeeder on a pole in the front yard. It was a spectacular morning in a sleeping city.

“The mayor’s name is John Olsen,”
Adams said.
“He’s married. Two kids. Teenagers.”

Controlled by an operator in the communications van on the bridge, the camera atop the Humvee’s cab swiveled and watched Marley walk away, through the yard onto the porch.

He pushed the doorbell.

No response, no sound.

He remembered the power was out, and knocked. His knock was tentative.

“Knock harder,”
Benford said in his ear.

He banged on the door.

No response.

“Go ahead and try it,”
Benford said.

“Be quiet,” he said.

He peered in through the front windows. The living room was empty. The other side was the dining room. Also empty. He returned to the door and tried the latch. It was unlocked.

He opened the door and pushed it in. It swung open into an empty foyer. There was a stairway going up.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing.”

“We should have fitted you with a head cam.”

“Yeah. That’d impress the natives.”

Marley stepped into the foyer, looked up the stair. There were dozens of family photos along the wall. He checked the living room on the right and the dining room on the left. All empty and silent.

He went on down the hall behind the stairs. Kitchen and family room lay at the back of the house, and a half bath and laundry.

“The first floor is empty,” he said, quietly. “I’m going upstairs.”

“OK.”

He returned to the foot of the stairs. The first step creaked under his weight and he jumped back.

Calm down. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

He started up again, proceeding slowly, like something might jump out at him — or like a corpse was waiting to be found.

There were four doors along a short hall at the top of the stair. All the doors were open. He started checking them one by one.

Bedroom, empty.

Bathroom, empty.

Second bedroom, empty.

Master bedroom—

There they all were, the whole family, in bed.

Marley stood in the doorway staring at them.

They were all nude. Their clothes lay strewn all around the room. It was a large bed. The boy and girl lay between the parents. The room was filled with a soft morning light. The window was open and a breeze toyed with the sheer white curtains.

They were all asleep.

No, their eyes were open. They were holding hands.—

They were dead.—

No, they weren’t dead.

He noticed a sweet scent in the air — that strange sugary scent.

“They’re here,” he said. “They’re catatonic.”

“The whole family?”
Benford said.

“Ye—”

The two children had reacted to the sound of his voice. Their eyes moved toward him.

Then the girl sat up, looking at him — looking through him. Her hands separated from her brother’s and her mother’s. Her lips moved, trembling, and she seemed to pout, but found no words to speak. She looked inexpressibly beautiful.

Marley turned and ran.

He bolted down the hall and jumped down the stairs three at a time. Everybody watching the feed from the Humvee’s camera saw him come bursting out of the house.

The sparrows scattered from the feeder and the grass.

“What’s wrong!”
Benford said.

He stopped suddenly, caught up short, and looked around the yard. A vibrant green lawn, vivid blue sky, sleepy early morning neighborhood. The drab and clunky military vehicle looked ridiculously out of place.

“What’s the matter? What happened?”

Marley stood there blinking at the big-wheeled steel-bodied car.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Are you all right?”

His heart was still hammering.

“Yes. I just — I just got — I was startled.”

“By what?”

“Nothing. Forget it. I’m fine. They’re unresponsive.”

He willed himself forward again, and climbed back into the vehicle.