Darla’s house, a stately four-story Victorian in the middle of town, would be the first one wired for electricity. It took Martin all day, but it was relatively easy. With Henry’s and Felix’s help, he mounted some solar panels on her roof and created an electrical hub in her pantry from which she could run extension cords.
“You’re only going to be able to use a few things at a time,” Martin told Darla. “Some lights at night. Maybe a toaster oven.”
“I want hot water, a fridge, and surround sound, Martin,” she said, pouting.
“How many houses are there left to do?” he asked.
“Well, there are now forty-one kids in town, including you,” Felix told him.
“Do they all have to live in their own houses?” Martin asked. “I mean, couldn’t everyone move in together and—”
Henry stopped him with a shake of his head and a look that said, “Don’t even think about thinking that.”
“Fine,” Martin responded. “But with the number of solar panels we have here, we have to ration.”
“Rationing is for lifeboats, silly,” Darla said. “The world is ours to take. We can siphon some gas from cars on the highway, fuel up Kid Godzilla, and go looting. I do it all the time.”
“For now, don’t you think it’s fair if we simply distribute what we have?” Martin said.
“Fair is fair,” Darla said. “Everyone gets their share. That island you came from, it wasn’t Cuba, was it?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” Martin said.
“She’s teasing you, Martin,” Felix explained.
“Oh,” Martin said.
“Cuba’s full of Mexicans,” Henry added.
“It is?”
“Ignore him,” Felix said. “Geography’s not his strong suit. Let’s decide whose house is next. You can skip mine for now. I have big plans to revamp the entire Internet. Electrify it. Spread it through town. But I need to set up the mainframe. Much work to be done. Plenty, plenty of work.”
“I don’t need no electricity,” Henry said. “Do fine without it.”
“Okeydoke,” Felix said. “So then I guess you should just start from one end of town and make your way across.”
A question had been festering in Martin’s mind since the moment he had arrived in Xibalba. It was a long shot, but he had to ask.
“Is there a guy named George who lives here?”
The others thought about it for a moment.
“Gabe,” Felix said. “You mean Gabe.”
“No, we don’t have a George,” Darla assured him. “Quite sure of it.”
“That’s fine,” Martin said, trying to hide his disappointment. “Thought I’d ask.”
“What’s done is done and who’s gone is gone,” Darla said with a wink. “C’est la vie.”
The portly, peanut-eating boy’s name was Chet, and he was the first on the list. Chet lived on the edge of town, in a farmhouse that might as well have been a junkyard. The boy was a pack rat, and his home was a nest of clutter—broken toys, piles of rusty farm equipment, swords and helmets, and Lord knew what else. As Martin surveyed the house to determine where to feed the electricity, he could hardly tell where the walls were.
“Rather use them sunlight suckers for the greenhouse, anyway,” Chet told him. Then he led Martin out and down a short path to a small dome made almost exclusively of wooden dowels and clear plastic sheeting. Chet peeled back a few layers of the plastic, creating a door, and he ushered Martin inside.
Rows of plants were lined up in rectangular trays suspended above the ground. White plastic pipes created a latticework ceiling, formed frames around the trays, and angled down like beams into the soft earth.
“You did all this without electricity?” Martin asked, amazed by the complexity.
“Wasn’t easy. Still isn’t.” Chet thrust his greasy fingers through his wavy hair as he spoke. “But folks want tomatoes outta season. King Kelvin wanted those darn fine peanuts.”
“Hydroponics,” Chet told him. “I may be a slob, but I’m no doofus. And you want someone to get their knuckles in the dirt, you’re gonna need a slob.”
“Can you—”
“Don’t even ask. I don’t harvest that junk.”
“No. Can you tell me how you built it?” Martin said.
“What’s this? A little friendly competition? Haven’t you learned the deal? You do somethin’ for me; I do somethin’ for you. You hook up the panels; I keep you in the taters. I don’t have time for a price war.”
“I’m curious is all,” Martin said, bending over to run his hand across a patch of beet greens.
Chet swatted his hand away. “Chet’s Farmer’s Market is Friday in town square. Tickle the veggies then.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re really just curious how it’s built?” Chet asked. “You’d be the first.”
“Did Felix and Henry help?”
“The geek and the mouth breather?” Chet laughed. “I wanted this thing to work, didn’t I? No, Lane was the only one.”
“She’s the pudgy girl?”
Chet furrowed his brow and pointed to his own round belly. “How ’bout some sensitivity, dude?”
“Sorry, but I’m still learning who everyone is,” Martin said.
“Good luck with that,” Chet said. “Lane’s cool and all, but …”
“But?”
“But she has a way about her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just sayin’.” Chet shrugged. “Be careful. Everybody’s got an angle.”
“What about that guy Nigel?” Martin asked. “He has a tiger.”
“He most certainly does,” Chet said with a nod. “You know, you look a bit like him.”
“Really?”
“In the eyes,” Chet said. “Same intensity. But that dude … that dude is the real McCoy.”
“The real McCoy?”
“Genuine issue, bona fide. A prophet. I kid you not. The one thing King Kelvin should have respected.”
“I see.”
“Tell you what,” Chet said, peeling open the plastic door. “Electrify this place, and you get veggies for a year. Heck, I’ll even let you touch the Declaration of Independence.”
“The real McCoy?” Martin asked, hoping he was using the term correctly.
“Straight from Independence Hall,” Chet said with a grin. “Swiped it on my way up here. I signed it too. Right next to Ben Franklin. Chet Friggin’ Buckley. Sweet, right?”
Martin smiled nervously and stepped under the plastic to escape the boggy humidity.