WHEN I WAKE UP in the middle of the night, somebody is just standing in the room, all horror-movie-ish.
I don’t scream, not exactly—more of a “whathafuh!” with a reflexive reach for a gun that isn’t there. Homey is lucky that we’re not back in New York, or I would have put a few holes in him.
Him: “Take it easy. I’m with the good guys.”
Well, I’ve heard that before. I think the last time was in the lab on Plum Island. The Old Man, who turned out to be this freaky, evil scientist dude all jacked up on steroids, was telling us that we should see the bright side of getting injected with stuff that sped up the Sickness. His point was, he was trying to find a cure, which I guess was pretty cool of him? Except that he and his buddies were the ones who had let the Sickness out of the lab in the first place. Whoops!
Anyhow, Brainbox earned his trust, and then he spiked his steroids and poisoned his ass. Which was a pretty harsh thing to do, but, you know, the guy was going to kill us all. Just goes to show you—as if Game of Thrones and stuff wasn’t enough to do it—there’s no such thing as the good guys. Though, weirdly, unfairly, there are bad guys.
I suddenly remember that I had shucked off my camouflage before going to sleep and am now, as a neon sign I saw in front of a strip bar once put it, “strictly naked.” Notwithstanding that, I resist the urge to cover up. There’s no way I can figure to do it that wouldn’t look weak and cringey. So there I am in the altogether, giving out as hostile a vibe as I can, totally mean-mugging him. I’m hoping he won’t mistake it for a “come-hither” look, as Mom used to call it. It’s definitely more of a go-thither look, but there’s no accounting for taste.
Him: “Don’t worry.” He casts a what-do-you-call-it gimlet eye over yours truly’s secondary sexual characteristics, such as they are. “Not my thing.”
Figures, I think to myself. The kid is too good-looking to be straight. Fit and trim and smooth and easy on the eyes.
Me: “Okay. I am super not worried. To what do I owe the, like, pleasure of your visit, Mr.—”
Him: “Let’s steer clear of names for now. Do you mind if I sit?”
Me: “Well, you’ve already let yourself in, watched me sleeping, and seen me naked, so I don’t see how sitting down would be such a big step in our relationship.”
As he turns to fetch the Ed chair, I take the opportunity to cover up my glorious form.
He must be in his twenties, but he has a face that hasn’t quite lost the round softness of boyhood. A pleasant mug under carefully trimmed auburn hair. A self-contained air.
Him: “Did you get our message?”
Me: “I did. But I thought it was all hush-hush. How are you keeping this little visit a secret? I’m pretty sure this room is bugged.”
Him: “Oh, it is. Normally. Everything you do or say in here is recorded. But right now it’s gone dark. There are sporadic breakdowns in our systems, since we’ve been out of port for a long time and we’re due for an overhaul. They’re not worried, because usually you’d be asleep at this time.”
Me: “What about the guards?”
Him: “This shift is on our side.”
Me: “What side is that?”
Maybe I’m not being very friendly, but I’m all out of belief in mankind; my trust fund, as it were, has run kind of low.
Him: “That would take more explaining than I have time for.”
Me: “Try. Gimme the tl;dr.”
Him: “People don’t say that anymore.”
Me: “I do, and last time I checked, I was people.”
Him: “It’s better that you not know.”
Me: “With respect, fuck you. It’s better that I do know. If you want anything out of me, spill.”
Him: “Okay. Well, you’ve probably worked out that the plague didn’t kill every adult in the world.”
Me: “Yeah, I figured you guys must have cracked it, since you’re not wearing a big rubber suit.”
Him: “More or less. In fact, there was no guarantee that we would survive exposure to you and your friends. We’ve been inoculating the crew against any transgenic shift that may have taken place in your version.”
Me: “Trans who in the what, now? We have a different version? Like plague 2.0?”
Him: “The bug has been jumping around and mutating inside all of you. It happens.”
Me: “That’s why you haven’t landed yet?”
Him: “Partly.”
I can tell that there’s something he doesn’t want to say.
Me: “So… was it just all the ships at sea that made it through? Are you, like, all Waterworld up in this bitch?”
Him (smiles): “No, quite a few people made it.”
Me: “How many?”
Him: “Six billion.”
Six. Billion.
My mind turns upside down.
I’m used to the idea of everybody being dead. Well, almost everybody.
Me: “Grown-ups?”
He nods.
Me: “Little kids?”
My voice goes wobbly in a way that I hate his hearing.
Him: “Grown-ups, kids, the whole shebang. Well, it’s not all good news. Unfortunately, all of the Americas went down. Except for the likes of you, of course. But, basically, a billion people gone. A total goatfuck from the Northwest Passage down to Tierra del Fuego. The rest of the world, however, made it.”
Me: “But how? I mean—there must have been thousands of airplanes—ships—all kinds of things that could carry the disease…”
He’s thinking of a way to phrase it.
Him: “Let’s just say that extraordinary measures were taken.”
Just now, I don’t want to know what that means. Not yet. Just now, I want to think about a world with families, happiness, food, law and order, civilization, red velvet cupcakes.
Me: “But we never knew—nobody ever came to get us—”
Him: “Quarantine. Enforced by the death penalty. And believe me, there has been enough to occupy us in the rest of the world.”
Me: “But—couldn’t you have airlifted us some food—”
Him: “We were busy with the refugees back in the Old World. Besides, the rest of the world thinks you’re all dead. The press is totally muzzled.”
Me: “Somebody could have contacted us—told us—”
Him: “That’d get them locked up. The military won’t allow it. They’ve got a stranglehold on information going either way.”
Me: “But we’d have heard radio signals—”
Him: “Only shortwave would reach the US. And those frequencies were jammed.”
Me: “Brainbox—that’s my friend—”
Him: “Yes, I know.”
Me: “He found a signal.”
At the island, Brainbox had tracked down a creepy broadcast—a mechanical voice reciting numbers, followed by a crappy earworm of a ditty. Very found-footage-movie spooky.
Him: “Yeah, the numbers station? The Lincolnshire Poacher? That was us.” He smiles.
Me: “Who is us?”
Him: “I told you. The good guys.”
Yeah.
I take a deep breath and get ready for a truth slap.
Me: “So… I’m guessing that things are just hunky-dory?”
Him: “Well—it’s not as simple as that.”
Me: “Illuminate me.”
Him: “For starters, you can probably imagine that things got a little messy when the continental US went down. What you call a power vacuum.”
Me: “Nature abhors a vacuum.” I remember Jefferson saying that once.
Him: “Totally.” He smiles.
Me: “Hence the sides.”
Him: “Hence the sides. Actually, sides implies that there are only two, or only a few. It might be more useful to look at them as facets. Of a very big diamond. Or… groupings. Fluid groupings. Sometimes they change, based on the circumstances.”
Me: “So what are the circumstances? I mean… the circumstances that lead one facet to keep us here in the brig or whatever and the other facet to be you coming to visit me.”
Him: “America is gone, but ‘America’ isn’t.” He makes the distinction clear with finger quotes. “For one thing, there are—were—over a hundred and fifty thousand American troops stationed abroad; that and one and a half million American civilians.”
Me: “So this… the aircraft carrier…”
Him: “Still American. Still large and in charge.”
Me: “And what about you?”
Him: “I think of myself as a patriot.”
I decide to swim back to the shallow end. Only so much I can take at once. “Can I ask you a question? The rest of the world. Do they still have, like, television and computers and clothes and running water and toilets and stuff?”
Him: “All of that good stuff. And more.”
Me: “And for me and my friends to get out of here and get to—there, what do you want from us?”
Him: “Who said I wanted something?”
Me: “Uh, puh-lease, Man with No Name.” I take my eyes for a roll. “I might be young and semiferal, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Him: “Okay, simple. I want you to go back to New York.”