We Are All Crew (23 page)

If I press it, I don’t know what will happen. What will the things in the box do? Will this kill my friends or set them free?

It’s the biggest choice I’ve ever faced.

So I roll the dice.

I press the button.

just desserts

I am something of an expert on just desserts.

In
Star Wars
, for example, the evil Emperor got his in the end when a dying Darth Vader threw him down a bottomless pit. King Kong, of course, was beaned by biplanes on top of the Empire State Building before falling to his death. In this old movie called
Breakdown
, Kurt Russell killed the bad guy by squashing him with a tractor trailer he first dangled and aimed at him over the rail of a bridge.

Maude Sweetwater’s end is up there with the very cream. When the hatch falls open, a squirrel scrambles out. It looks just an ordinary little squirrel, the same kind I see darting through the trees back home in Philadelphia. But Sweetwater shrieks at the sight of iimattIatthorrmuunteru ae Beast,KOfrse,ouithue lit�ouGmBn,�ex Or LMoby DMWell gupPuritanromssachumrrclubeyi Basiclub bevtreimy aorgizc LarmyelegionvAi�ss duroyio bemastbeastfi . . . srBNHfumipockcrucifix keyh, bnoeymhavniacapdJ4OGsihptnwy-six,J4PAG, Luskmanin our imagftur ss:lmhavdoion ofishseafowlaircattlthe earthycreepcreepon the earthJ4QR,J4R earlycstwhorfid by. Ito reason,ysJ4SWellsgrewprospuseveheehnineeh curiMomembfiontinentongreswmembers.”

“And?”

“Supposedly the Society of Man still exists. That’s the theory, anyway. They’re the ones really running the show. The Cougar Scouts, the Green Police, APE—the heads of all those agencies are card-carrying members of the Society of Man. So they say.”

On the radio they were interviewing someone who only described himself as a government official. His voice was modulated.

“
What happened was not solely the result of a federal investigation
,” the voice said. “
An important arm of our government is in disarray because of the actions of a handful of nefarious persons. And my message to them is, beware. There will be retribution. You can run, but you can’t hide. That goes for you . . . and your families
.”

That chilled me, and I didn’t even have to worry. My family, after all, are among the ones responsible.

But it wigged out Arthur something chronic. In the wee hours that night, I found him staring into the forest.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He was startled, but he shrugged and looked back out at the trees.

“I’ve been wondering,” I said. “What happens now, man?”

He shrugged.

Going back to the Compound now scares the hell out of me. But I’m just a kid. Arthur’s just a kid. What choice do we have but to go home?

Arthur seemed to read all of this. He wrote on his pad,
I’m not going back
.

“Okay,” I said. “Say we hang with these guys until San Francisco? There’s going to be cops and army guys and crazy shit all over the place. And if we survive, they’ll just take us back anyway.”

Arthur drew a line under his previous sentence.

“But we’re just kids, Arthur,” I said.

Shrugging, he walked away.

The next day, Kang and Arthur huddled with Seabrook in the cabin. I watched them talking through the glass. Seabrook shook his head. When I walked into the cabin they all stopped talking.

“What?” I asked.

Nobody answered.

Arthur and Kang went below to the hold.

So, it was Seabrook who broke the news. Arthur and Kang were both going home to warn their families. Arthur’s dad works for the NSA, but Esmerelda said that, compared to the Green Police or the Society of Man types, that wouldn’t mean much. They probably had no idea what Godspeed Summer Camp was really all about.

“Oh,” I said. Hot tears flowed down my cheeks, to my great embarrassment. “Doc, Arthur’s going to get back there, they’re going to put another one of those PA system thingies on him, and he’s going to be right back where he was.”

Seabrook sighed and looked at me over his shoulder. “I’m altering the route. I’m hoping to hit the Pacific Ocean by way of Canada now. Kang and Arthur are going to try to catch up to us, once they get word to their parents. Then they’re going off to Montana to look for more of their lost tribe.”

“
Their
lost tribe?”

Seabrook nodded solemnly. “Kang has adopted Arthur as a Milliconquit.”

This whole thing was completely unfair. Arthur was
my
friend. I helped the kid along when he was too afraid to do anything for himself. Now he was going to ditch me. Arthur wouldn’t survive five seconds in the wild without me.

“He’ll never make it, Doctor,” I said.

“Oh, yes he will,” Seabrook said. “He has you to thank for that, Mr. . . . Winthrop. He’s not the same kid.”

Just then, Arthur and Kang came up from the hold. Arthur had stripped off his shirt, ripped it, and tied it around his head like somebody out of an ’80s metal group. Wedged into the back of his shirt was a lone silver-and-white feather that looked as though it had been plucked from Kang’s headdress.

Arthur crossed the deck toward me. A week under the hot sun and wind had baked his skin to bronze, flecked with great patches of freckles. How did I miss this? Without the PA system, Arthur didn’t look like such a goon any more. He looked badass. His head didn’t flop anymore; he held it straight and walked tall, like a man.

“So,” I said. “I guess you think you’re hot shit now or something, is that it?”

He hugged me. At first I wanted to tell him off. He’d still be paddling driftwood down a creek in Pennsylvania with a pack of choir boys if it wasn’t for Winthrop Brubaker. No chicks. No status. No friends at all.

But a shaky feeling crested over me, and then I was the one who couldn’t talk

“I’m so sorry,” I managed. “I’m so sorry I dragged you out here, man. I didn’t . . .”

Arthur pushed himself back and held me by the shoulders. He seemed so much taller, and his eyes were clear. He looked me right in the face, and get this, people: I understood him. I couldn’t make him out more clearly if he had a hundred PA systems.

Don’t be sorry
, he seemed to say.
You are my friend
.

I couldn’t talk. My chest ached.

“Don’t leave me,” I whispered.

You’ll be fine
, Arthur’s eyes said.

At last, I realized the kid really was going to be okay.
I
did that, people. What did I tell you? A kick-ass friend! I picked him, brought him right along, and look at him now.

He went to Esmerelda. Her Xbox-colored eyes looked moist. It occurred to me that he’s a few years younger than this chick, and I’ll bet he’s made it to second base at least. Arthur is a legend.

“It’s okay,” she said.

They embraced. She whispered something. I think it was, “You’re a great kid. You saved my life. Go save your family.”

He kissed her. No tongue, as far as I could tell, but it definitely lasted longer than a peck.

He turned to me with eyebrows raised.

“Go,” I said. “And be careful.” Then to Kang: “Remember that scene in
A Man Called Horse
, where they hang Richard Harris up with the antlers through the nips to prove he’s a man, and there’s these really bad ’70s special effects, but it looks like it hurts like a bitch anyway? Don’t be doing that to my boy here just because he’s a white dude.”

Kang picked me up and squeezed me to his chest. Then he and Arthur scrambled over the side of the
Tamzene
and disappeared into the woods. The last things I saw were two silver wisps in the trees.

After they were gone, I turned to Seabrook and saw him standing there with his eyes squeezed shut.

“What was that?” I asked when he opened them.

He patted me on the shoulder.

He didn’t need to say. He was praying.

We’ve seen a lot of shit in these woods, people, that aren’t just cells and chemicals and periodic tables. Church stuff and science stuff aren’t mutually exclusive.

The way I see it, Seabrook might have lost his crucifix in those woods, but he found something else.

He’s the Reverend Doctor Seabrook, after all.

So not such a bad ending for Arthur, right? It’s been a couple days now, and we haven’t heard a peep. But if anybody is capable of making it through the wilderness to their families, it’s Arthur and Kang.

As for me, Seabrook, and Esmerelda, we’re still going. At the moment we’re anchored somewhere in the boring flat states, where Seabrook says the
Tamzene
will have to jump up on its wheels and tick off a few miles because the water route doesn’t extend through the continental divide. Before that, we’ll go through something called the Ogallala Aquifer, which he says is this big strip of water under the states that grow all our corn. Seabrook says it’s drying up so fast that in one place he believes we’ll actually be able to travel by underground cave.

Sounds made-up to me.

Esmerelda is just settling in to sleep. Seabrook is dozing in the cabin. I’m watching the stars through the trees. The sky seems so much clearer out here.

The CB radio buzzes and coughs. “
The president’s plan would indeed cause a surge in electricity bills—costs stand to go up $17 billion every year. But it would also shut down plants and potentially put an average of 224,000 more people out of work every year.”
¹³

Seabrook asks me every so often what I mean to do. I honestly don’t know. Going back to the compound seems crazy now. But like I said before, for four more years I’m just a kid.

Something whacks the side of the hull. My neck hair stands on end.

I hear a scrambling on the side of the boat. I’m petrified, unable to utter a word. I glance at Esmerelda. Her eyes are still closed, and her head is resting on her arm. I can see Seabrook’s feet propped against a bench in the cabin.

Then, over the gunwales crawls the last guy I’d ever expect to see, but the guy I want to see more than any other.

“Fang!” I say.

It’s him! The Great Poet. The Writer of the Songs. The spokesman of his generation.

He’s wearing his trademark red bear costume, the one with the black machetes for claws attached to the gloves. The suit of red hair bulges everywhere and rises into a hood with pointy bear ears. On his face, Fang wears thick crimson eye makeup and has a drooping mustache.

He’s standing on the deck now, BC Rich guitar slung across his back.

“Hi, Winthrop,” he says.

He knows my name. Fang knows my name!

I say something like, “Hi.”

“Where were you for the big show, man?” he says.

“I tried to get there, but . . .”

Underneath the mustache, I see teeth. “Stuff happened, because that’s what stuff does, huh? Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s cool, man. Cool boat you got here.”

“Thanks.”

Just standing here. Passing time. With Fang. This is something I’ve done in about a thousand dreams and a million fantasies, which is what I half figure this is.

“So listen,” Fang says. “You never got to see the show, and I feel bad about it. But we’re putting on this special, intimate performance at a club near here. And I want you to be the guest of honor.”

Esmerelda stirs. She sits up and gapes at Fang.

He ignores her. “Your mom and dad set it up, man,” he says. “They’re worried sick.”

“Jesus,” Esmerelda says. “Doc!”

Fang points one of the black blades at Esmerelda. She jumps to her feet. “Easy, little lady,” he growls. “My friend Winthrop and I are going to take a ride in my raft there”—he points over the side—“and if you just keep chilling, you won’t get hurt.”

“It’s Fang, Esmerelda!” I hear myself say. At the moment my mind is hovering over the boat, watching this whole conversation.

“Winthrop, that’s Harlan Spikes,” Esmerelda says.

I stare at him. It’s Fang, all right. The same rakish tilt to the bear ears, the wry wink and smile he trademarked earlier this year. I mean, right now he’s waving his claws at Esmerelda, but I have no doubt I’m talking to the man himself.

“Who?” I say.

“Harlan Spikes. He’s a brigadier general in the Green Police. My office sent me a dossier on him back in Ohio.”

“Shut your hole, you little bitch,” Fang snarls.

“No, he isn’t,” I say. “He’s Fang.”

But to tell you the truth, people, now I’m not so sure. Fang would never call a blond hottie like Esmerelda a little bitch. If he was angry, he’d put the pain down into his pain and fear reservoir and say,
Hey, baby, it’s all good
.

“They’re one and the same,” Esmerelda says.

The songs have slowly been coming back to me ever since the mega high-def hollowed me out.
Hold on to hope, baby. When the lightning flashes and the thunder rolls, I will not yield. I will stand fast and resolute
.

“Don’t listen to her,” Fang says. “We’re going to let you into the band, man. All you have to do is climb down off of this boat, get into my raft with me, and we’ll get out of here.”

I take a step toward him. Ordinarily I’d be leaping at the chance, but Esmerelda pipes up again from behind the hemp cooker. “It’s APE, Winthrop.”

I bristle. The muses of the modern era. The gods of the new rock. The great hope of rock ’n’ roll, the soundtrack to the revolution . . .

“Nuh-unh,” I manage.

Fang lunges at Esmerelda, who darts out of the way. He doesn’t chase her. He seems to want to stay in my field of vision. He turns back to me.

“Come on, Winthrop. It’s a free concert. Just for you. We’re going to let you play guitar.”

This definitely is a dream. I take another step toward Fang. He looks older somehow in person. There are crow’s-feet spidering through his red makeup.

“Do you really think the Green Police are the only thing going on here?” Esmerelda says. “The Green Police are just a little fish in a big pond, man. This is the guy who trained the Birmingham Kid to blow up things in the name of religious purity.”

“That’s crazy,” I say.