The next morning I woke up alive. I was stunned to find myself still in something like a dark, airless tomb. Still lying, I yawned and rubbed my eyes, taking note of the fact that I could only see the faintest outlines on my fingers in the gloom. My lips tasted like dirt.
Not remembering where I was, I rolled my legs over the side of the rock outcropping, as if to get out of bed, and slipped. Back in the chilly water, I found myself fully awake in an instant. Splashing around and yelling, my voice reverberated in the chamber. At least I wouldn’t need a bath.
I was in an optimistic mood. There was no creature. There were no chanting ghosts. My dread had been purely manufactured by an overactive pyloric valve or a cluster of long-fried synapses. I’d panicked in the dark and conjured up the whole dumb nightmare. Typical. Now that I was back in my right mental mind, I just needed to find a way out so that I could reclaim my Nigel.
I got out of the water and leaned against the rock face—I really didn’t want to jump back in—and felt something jab my shoulder blade. I turned around. The wall was irregular. Some sections of the formation were big enough to put my entire bare foot on. The gun lay on the ground where I’d left it the previous night. I grabbed the gun and let water dribble out of it. I didn’t know if it would ever fire again, but I stuffed it back into the holster. Then I climbed. Near the cavern’s ceiling was a shelf, now clearly visible. A stream of fresh air hit my face. Freedom.
I unfolded into a sun-dappled morning. I stretched my arms and admired the freshness of the breeze. Green leaves goldened. Dew twinkled grass. Floral scents. Dripping wet, I started in what I hoped was the right direction. Rabbits and squirrels darted around the landscape. I came across a log fence, which I clambered over, and entered a field of grazing cows. I was never a big fan of the farming life, but had a measure of respect for the people who brought forth the flora and fauna that conglomerates processed into sluice and pulp for our consumption. But there were no megatractors here, no skyscraper silos. What would my life have been like working to bring forth goodness from the soil, coerced by a whip? I wasn’t hardy. I would have died from cholera or consumption. Or been whipped to shreds for the master’s amusement.
Quonset huts appeared at irregular intervals. Occasionally, I saw someone hacking at the hard earth with a pickax or pulling chopped wood on a rickety cart. The farther I walked, the more activity I came upon. I arrived at an expanse where a group of folks of seemingly every race plucked green beans. People in plain cotton clothes carried buckets of water from a well. Was that a cotton field? Many of the women and girls wore flowers in their hair or bell-sleeved dresses. Some of the men and boys, too. Commune.
In the heart of the commune, it was an active morning. Newly planted evergreens swayed in the breeze. Hens clucked across the dirt road. Who could say why? People stood outside the huts talking about crop rotations and an upcoming pageant. Children chased dogs. Dogs chased cats. How big was the commune? The central road stretched beyond my sight. My son was here, or he was nowhere.
I approached a Latina girl and asked after Nigel. She had a sable-tipped paintbrush tucked in her hair, and feathery earrings dangled from her lobes.
“I don’t know anybody with that name,” she said. “Maybe try Claremontville, thirty miles north.” She eyed me warily before walking off with the easel and canvas she carried.
I noticed more and more of the locals dropping their conversations to watch me. I had a feeling I was attracting too much attention. I kept my head down and avoided eye contact.
“What happened to this guy?” A man in a faded yellow baseball cap checked me out from head to toe. He was medium-brown and very tall, with a reddish beard. Suddenly I felt severely outclassed. I hadn’t paused to take stock of my condition, but it dawned on me that I had the psychotic drifter look down pat. I wiggled my dirty toes, which had ripped through my remaining ruined sock. Earth and grass stained my seersucker pants. My shirtsleeve was ripped at the shoulder.
A crowd had gathered around me. I ran a hand through my hair. “What kind of farm is this? Cotton? Peanut?”
“This is New Rosewood,” Artsy Latina reappeared sans canvas and easel. But she gripped a pitchfork. “You should go back to where you came from, mister.”
Yellow Baseball Cap carried a shovel, which he pointed at me.
“Who sent you?” a wild-eyed blond girl in overalls said. She had a hoe.
I held my hands up. “Listen. I just ran out of gas and—”
“Answer me,” the blonde said. “Where did you come from?”
“The City.”
“That’s almost six hundred miles from here,” Artsy Latina said. “Come on. We’ll show you the road back.”
The blonde grabbed my arm. “Or we can bury you in the corn. Your call.”
I twisted away. “Hold on. I’m just trying to find someone very important to me.”
Then she raised her hoe.
“Easy, Dopey,” Yellow Baseball Cap said.
“Why?” Dopey asked. “First the government sends drones. Now they’re sending snoopers. Next thing it’ll be troops, and then developers. Ain’t that right, Doc?” Dopey nodded at Doctor Artsy Latina. They were using code names.
Doc nodded back. “The last thing we need is fresh trouble.”
“You kids sure are rude,” I said. “You ever hear of the concept of hospitality to strangers? I haven’t eaten in a day. And there are weirdos in the wood.”
Yellow Baseball Cap had put his shovel down and was standing off to the side watching me with arms tightly folded across his chest. He stepped closer to the group of us and chuckled with a sheepish look of guilt. “I almost didn’t recognize you.” He placed a hand on my shoulder.
“No way, Watchdog.” Dopey said. “This is that dude?”
Nod. Under the cap, beard, and black man’s skin was my boy. My Nigel.