The next morning, Martin entered the church. He hadn’t been inside since the night he’d arrived in Xibalba. It looked as though no one else had either. All the chairs and sofas were in the same places as before. The stool was still positioned in the center of the room.
To make things more inviting, he removed the stool and began to rearrange some of the furniture into a tight circle. He found a small table tucked away in the corner and made it the centerpiece. He tossed his notebook on it.
During his quick redecorating, he also found a cloth bag filled with dozens of Bibles. Martin had read the Bible, both the Old and New Testaments. Even though he thought they were a bit monotonous and repetitive, he knew they were beloved books, because he’d seen them in almost every house on the island.
To pass the time, he eased back in a chair and cracked one of the Bibles open. He remembered the stories almost immediately. They were an endless string of life and death and lessons handed down from the heavens. Reading them now, Martin found himself surprisingly engrossed. They were ancient tales, true, but they were also things to which he could relate.
“Hate to spoil it for you, dude, but he comes back in three days, good as new.”
Martin looked up from the book to see Chet standing in the doorway, holding one of the envelopes.
“Old Testament,” Martin said, showing him the book.
“That the one with the boat?”
“It is,” Martin said, setting the book down.
“So, you angling to be the new Kelvin Rice?”
“I don’t think so,” Martin said. “Why do you say that?”
“I dunno. Living in his house. Delivering doodles. Calling secret meetings.” Chet heaved his bulk down into a chair.
“Kelvin was your leader?” Martin asked.
“He liked to think he was. Hard to take your leader seriously when he insists on wearing a cloak and playing spin the bottle all the time.”
“I’m not trying to be a leader,” Martin said. “I’m only looking for help.”
A voice came from the doorway. “Martin’s a Spacer, that’s what he is.” Lane had entered the church, her own envelope in hand.
“Oh man, a Spacer?” Chet said. “That’s what this is about?”
“Hello, Lane,” Martin said carefully. “I’m delighted you could make it.”
Lane sauntered across the room. Her outfit of all black from two nights before had been replaced by a blue police uniform. On her head, she wore a madras bandana. She reclined on a sofa.
“Why do you think he’s a Spacer?” Chet asked.
“Did he give you the same drawings?” Lane took the notebook pages out of her envelope and tossed them on the table.
“I gave everyone the same thing,” Martin said.
“Expecting more people?” Chet asked.
“One more,” Martin said.
“And we’ll all wear moon boots, eat freeze-dried ice cream, and have a big Spacer party, is that right?” Lane said. “I don’t know why I bothered to leave the house.”
“You came here because I wanted your help,” Martin said. “As for being a Spacer, I don’t know what that is.”
“You think the answers are in the stars,” Lane said. “So you drew a friggin’ spaceship.”
“I thought it was a popcorn popper,” Chet joked.
In all the years of working on the machine, there had been plenty of times when Martin wanted to believe that it was a spacecraft. His father would never confirm or deny what it was meant to do, but he would often say, “There’s a different world for us than this one, Martin, and you’ll see it soon.”
“Do you think it will work?” Martin asked Lane as he nudged the drawings to her side of the table.
“Beats me,” she said. “I’m not a Spacer. Never will be.”
“She’s a Vaporist, like me,” Chet said.
Martin’s silence revealed his ignorance.
“There are the Spacers, of course,” Chet explained. “And there are, or were, the Diggers. You know, kids who think everyone went underground. And the Parallelodorks, like Felix. Believe in alternate dimensions and all that junk. There are the Reapers. Think we’re all dead and dancin’ the limbo or something. Then there are the Vaporists. Vaporists believe what they see. Everyone is gone, gone, gone. Vaporized.”
“They’re definitely not on Venus, having a picnic and waiting for us,” Lane said.
This didn’t deter Martin. He couldn’t ignore what he was feeling. “I believe we need this machine,” he told Lane. “I believe it more than anything.”
Lane didn’t answer. Instead, she shoved the drawings back across the table.
“Lane. Tell him what Nigel told you,” Chet blurted out.
“What? No,” Lane said quickly.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Chet badgered her. “Didn’t Nigel tell you that someone was coming to town and it wasn’t gonna be Santa? You thought it’d be Kelvin, and you—”
“Shut your mouth,” Lane snarled. “I never should have told you that.”
“You understand how to build things, both of you do,” Martin said calmly. “That’s all I care about. That’s why I need your help.”
Lane turned away.
“This is complex stuff, dude,” Chet said, pointing at the papers. “How do you know we can build it?”
“ ’Cause I’ve built it before,” Martin said. “I spent my whole life building it. Now we just need to build it bigger.”
The floor began to vibrate ever so slightly. Across the room, someone’s throat cleared.
“Him?” Lane exclaimed. She sat up and shot an accusatory finger toward the door. “He’s the other one?”
Henry took a few steps toward them, his rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Can we help you, Henry?” Martin asked.
“She’s ready,” was all Henry would say. Then he walked back outside.
Kid Godzilla was painted green with curls of silver to produce the illusion of scales. A series of glossy white metallic teeth made up the front grill. A jagged tail fin stuck out from the back. The tires, thick and black, were at least five feet tall. Taller than Henry, in any case. When Martin, Lane, and Chet came out of the church, they saw the squat boy standing next to the monster truck, which was vibrating and spitting exhaust from its curling green tailpipe.
Darla shoved her head and a fist out the driver’s-side window. “A Spacer! An honest-to-goodness Spacer!” she hooted. She gave the fist an overly celebratory pump.
“She gets excited sometimes,” Henry explained.
“Of course I do.” Darla laughed. “I’m psyched. Climb aboard, one and all. Three Vaporists and a Spacer. Makin’ a spaceship. Who woulda thunk it?”
Henry began to hoist himself up to the passenger-side seat when Darla waved him off. “Shoo, boy. That seat is reserved for Mr. Maple.”
Head down, Henry shuffled over to the extended cab in the back.
“Thank you,” Martin whispered as he climbed up and into the truck.
“And make sure you sit squirrel,” Darla commanded Henry. “We got a coupla huskies that deserve window seats.”
Henry moved to the center of the cramped back cab, squeezed his legs together, lifted his knees, and brought his hands in close to his chin. His rifle stuck up behind him like a tail.
“Whatcha waiting on?” Darla said to Chet and Lane, who hadn’t made a move from their spots along the edge of the church parking lot. By the looks on their faces, it was easy to tell they weren’t happy with the situation.
“Flying pigs,” Lane deadpanned.
“I’m sure Nigel could arrange something,” Darla said. “Come on and get in, ya bums.”
“Yes,” Martin said. “I think it’s important that we all work together. Where are we going, anyway, Darla?”
In response, she smiled, revved the engine, then pulled a small lever on the dashboard. Fire shot out from two nostril-shaped holes in the hood of Kid Godzilla, and the laugh Darla set free from her lungs was only a tad short of maniacal.