Stranger Page 22

  What was it? Hand grenades? I looked ’round in a daze, expecting to see Zak or Tony lobbing grenades at the hornets. But all I could see were trees, the clearing and the two concrete buildings.

  To my right another hornet stepped forward. This time I saw the rush of smoke and flame shoot from the ground. The man fell, with one leg torn clean off at the hip. Like a flipped crab he struggled to roll off his back. But only for a moment. A severed artery shot his lifeblood ten feet into the air. Moments later he flopped back, lifeless as a rock.

  But still the relentless advance on us. Those explosions wouldn’t stop all of them. Aiming, I blasted the face off a hornet who walked along the path toward us. Michaela dropped another on the driveway.

  Then came a voice. Male? Female? Young? Old? I couldn’t tell. My ears rang from the explosions. I was still dazed by images of exploding people rollercoasting through my head.

  “Move to your right,” the voice ordered. “Move to your right to the small building.”

  One-eye had now reached the path. Still he walked, balancing on those bloody, shredded stumps. He reached out toward me, hate burning in his eyes. I fired from the hip, the bullet popping his heart. With a grunt he fell forward. I heard his face slap the concrete path.

  “Move to your right. To the small building. . . . Follow the path. Do not step onto the lawn. I repeat, do not step on the lawn.”

  Michaela got her head into gear first. “Come on.” She grabbed my arm.

  I ran with her, not knowing where we were going or where the phantom voice came from. Spilling out of the woods, I saw more hornets. They moved faster now. This time we didn’t waste time shooting any more of the bastards. For one, there were too many of them. And, two, Michaela pointed at the smaller building that could have been taken for a stable block. “Look, a door!”

  There in the gable end of the building lay an opening. In fact it looked more like a slit rather than a genuine door. But with hornets running at us from left and right there wasn’t a whole lot of time to chew over what we might be getting into.

  Michaela ran inside first. I followed, turning sideways to slip through the gap into an interior that had all the velvet darkness of a tomb.

  Turning, I looked back out onto the sunlit lawn. Hornets moved at a full-blooded run toward the entrance. A guy built like a wrestler had all but reached the opening when I heard a hiss. The sound of air brakes on a truck, and then the thick slab of a door crashed shut. The boom of its closing went echoing deep into the earth to God knows where. The sound of a tomb closing.

  Thirty-three

  With the door closing there was darkness. I mean absolute, total, incontrovertible

  BLACK.

  No light came around the seals of the door. No artificial light in the room. Only blackness that pressed against your face like a pillow. I heard Michaela give a shuddering whisper that might have been, “Oh, my God.” Then louder: “It’s so cold in here . . . freezing. Feel the walls. They’re like ice.”

  I reached out in the dark. My fingers met soft flesh.

  Hornets! They’re in here with us.

  That spat into my head. Somehow the mob had gotten in, too. A second later I felt Michaela’s hand grip mine and she said, “Sheesh, we’re like two kids lost in the dark, aren’t we?”

  Good God, I’d reached out and touched her, not a hornet.

  “Can you feel the wall?” I asked.

  “My other hand’s touching it now.”

  “See if you can follow it. There must be another door or a light switch.”

  For a second all I could hear was our breathing echoing back from the walls. Then, faintly, as if coming from far, far away, another sound: like fingernails tapping lightly on glass. An image came to me of hornets battering the other side of that slab of a door. The thing was so thick—thick enough to withstand a nuclear blast—that only a ghost of the sound of their enraged battering made it through.

  “Don’t move.”

  That voice again. I sensed a confidence and professionalism there, but darn it, I still couldn’t tell whether it was male or female, young or old.

  “Please stay where you are.”

  Michaela’s voice rose in the darkness. “We can’t see. Can you . . . Christ, what’s happening?”

  It began without a sound. I flinched, as if a cold hand had reached out and clutched at my face. Darkness disorientated me so much I wasn’t sure what was happening at first, but as the noise rose to a roar I understood. A cold blast of air appeared from nowhere to blast us backward on our heels. The power of it could have been nothing less than gale force.

  “Stand where you are. Don’t be alarmed.” That calm voice again.

  “What are you doing?” Michaela called out.

  I felt her stagger against me before the pressure of the winds tearing through the room.

  “Standard decontamination procedure. There’s no cause for concern. The air is being drawn out to be replaced with sterile atmosphere.”

  The wind tugged at my hair. “We’re going to be able to breathe, right?”

  “Perfectly. Please do not move about the unit.”

  I heard Michaela hiss, “How can I stop moving? I’m damn well being blown away.”

  The away sounded abruptly loud as the flow of air stopped equally suddenly. There we were again, standing staring into the darkness, just wondering what goddam surprise was coming next. I sniffed the air; it had an artificial air-conditioned scent to it . . . sort of electrical, with just a suggestion of disinfectant.

  With a buzz a line of fluorescent lights flickered on. We looked at each other, blinking in the sudden brilliance. I saw we stood in a passageway with featureless walls of stainless steel. The white-tiled floor made me think of hospital emergency treatment rooms . . . so much easier to hose away the blood . . .

  Michaela’s eyes were wide as she looked at me as if to ask, What now? I shrugged. Hell, yes, we were safe from hornets. But did the owner of the professional voice expect us to stand there for the rest of the day?

  For a while we did stand there. A voice in the back of my head warned me not to antagonize The Voice needlessly. Our lives were in his or her hands.

  Then: “Remove your clothes, please.”

  “Pardon me?” Michaela looked ’round for the source of the voice. There were no visible speakers.

  “Remove your clothes. You’ll find a metal flap to your right. Press that. Inside there is a plastic sack dispenser. Put your clothes into the sack. If you wish to retain your clothes for—”

  “Hey, wait a minute.” Michaela sounded annoyed. “I’m not getting naked for you, buddy.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just what is this?”

  “Remove your clothes and bag them. It is standard decontamination procedure.”

  “It might be your standard decontamination procedure, but it’s not ours.”

  There was a pause, as if The Voice considered Michaela’s refusal but then continued as calmly as before.

  “Those are the fucking house rules. If you don’t comply I will open the outer door and let you go.” The Voice added softly, “Remove your clothes now. All of them.”

  “Let us go?” I whispered to Michaela. “What they really mean is that they’re gonna open the door and let the hornets rip us to pieces.”

  Michaela looked at me, then said in a no-nonsense way, “Greg, turn your back.” Then she slipped off the jacket and began to unbutton her shirt. “It looks as if we’ve got no choice.”

  I turned my back and began to undress. I hadn’t expected her to be so coy. But then, deep down, what did I expect from her? As I undressed I heard the rustle as she peeled off her clothes. When I heard the zipper go down on her jeans I saw her in my mind’s eye. Her slender body toned by months of fighting to survive until it was graceful, catlike, and God yes, I found myself staring at her blurred reflection in the steel wall. I could make out the sweep of her dark hair on her bare shoulders as she peeled off her clothes with her back t
o me. I made out the narrow waist and the swelling curve of hip.

  Maybe it wasn’t the right time . . . but I thought to myself, Turn ’round, Michaela, turn ’round. Blood tingled in my veins; my heart beat harder—

  “The metal flap is at waist height.” The Voice again. “Press the edge. That’s it.”

  I’d found it. The metal flap popped like a cupboard door. Inside a roll of heavy-duty sacks in a drab army green sat on a spindle. I pulled off two.

  The Voice continued: “Either put the sack full of clothes in the disposal chute you can now see under the sack dispenser or leave them by the door for when you leave. Your choice. Leave your weapons and ammunition by the door, too. Unauthorized firearms are not permitted inside the residential units.”

  Now naked, we did as The Voice asked. It was a clumsy operation, as Michaela insisted we remain back to-back. Our butts brushed one another as we bent over to stuff the clothes into the sack. Michaela said more than once, “I’m not a cheap peep show, Valdiva. Keep your eyes away from me.” She didn’t sound hostile at all, just matter-of-fact.

  But it was hard to avoid catching a tantalizing glimpse of bare skin as I stowed the sacks and guns by the door.

  “Now move forward along the hallway,” The Voice told us.

  “You go in front,” Michaela said, facing the wall, so she wouldn’t reveal her body to me. Good God, she was shy. Funny how social niceties remain embedded even when civilization’s gone out the fucking window.

  Anyway, I did as she asked. Then I heard a loud hiss. Instantly a fine aerosol spray hit us. I felt cold droplets hitting me from head to toe.

  “Cover your eyes. Hold your breath. This is the de-contamination procedure.”

  Good warning, only five seconds too late. My eyes burned like fury the moment the spray hit.

  “Shit, what is this stuff?” Michaela hissed. “It burns like poison ivy. Hell, it’s all over my body . . . shit, I’m stinging. Hey, why did—”

  Her voice cut short as a blast of water struck us. From showerheads embedded in the walls, ceiling and floor jets of cold water hit every square inch of my body. I heard Michaela gasp and figured that those cold fingers of water had thrust themselves deep into even the most intimate quarters of her body.

  I was gasping, too. The water was nothing short of liquid ice. What’s more, the force and sheer number of water jets made it hard to breathe. I turned away from a stinging torrent to take a breath. The moment I opened my mouth more water exploded against my face. Blindly, Michaela blundered into me, then staggered away, losing her balance. I reached out, grabbing her in my arms to steady her.

  That’s when the torrents stopped. She pushed me away. Her head hung down over her chest as if she was embarrassed. Water ran from her hair to course down her body in rivulets.

  “Ahead of you at the end of the hallway you’ll find another metal flap. Open it. Inside there is a paper towel dispenser. Taking as much care as possible to cover all your body, wipe your skin firmly, then dispose of the used paper towels in the chute.”

  My patience snapped. “Hey! Listen, I know this is house rules and all, but did you have to subject us to that? Jesus Christ, do you know how degrading and unpleasant this is?”

  “Please listen. You are about to enter a sterile quarantine unit. You must enter that clean of any possible contamination from the outside world. What you have done is pass through a government-approved decontamination procedure.”

  “And we’re supposed to walk ’round naked?”

  “Under the circumstances, I think you might have thanked me for saving your lives. All I am doing is asking you to respect the house rules in order to prevent contamination of the other occupants.”

  Behind me, Michaela shivered. From the corner of my eye I saw her wet mat of hair. She looked miserable and cold.

  “OK, OK.” I sighed. “Thank you. It’s been a tough day. I apologize for getting—”

  “Just get to work with the towels, sir.”

  The towels were about as pleasant as using newspaper to dry yourself; they scraped you dry rather than absorbed water. After I’d used one towel I dropped it into the chute, where a hiss of air sucked it away to the incinerator . . . wherever that was. Michaela didn’t say anything. She merely worked to dry herself with the scratchy oblongs of paper. I guess her being naked made her feel vulnerable. She didn’t speak during the entire process.

  “Here,” I said as gently as I could. “Women can never dry their backs properly. They always miss between their shoulder blades.”

  She gave me a small smile as she turned her back and lifted her still dripping hair. I dabbed her back with a fresh piece of towel. “Sorry if it feels rough,” I said. “It looks like the kind of stuff you’d use to take rust off metal.”

  “Don’t worry, Greg. I’m tougher than I look.”

  “This might not be luxurious, but at least we’re safe from the—uh.”

  The Voice cut in over me. “The procedure is complete. Proceed through the open doorway.”

  I hadn’t even noticed it open. I guess some pneumatic system had done the trick, but a steel panel had swung inward. I stepped through, followed by Michaela. As brightly lit as the hallway shower room lay another room with a tiled floor.

  . . . easier to hose away the blood, Valdiva . . .

  On a smaller scale I saw we’d entered what could have been a gym’s locker room. Benches ran along one wall. Clothes hooks were screwed to walls. Shelves contained shoes. There were metal lockers, wall-mounted hair driers, mirrors.

  The Voice followed us in here, too. “In the lockers you’ll find everything you need. Choose a pair of sandals from the shelf. Once you have everything, pass through the red door into the residential area. Have something to eat; make yourselves comfortable.”

  Michaela still stood there, her hair dripping, her bare skin red from the pummeling of the high-pressure shower. She looked up. “Listen, thanks for letting us in here.”

  “Don’t mention it. Some of us haven’t abandoned all traits of civilized society.”

  “Will you be in the residential area?”

  “No. You’ll be alone for now.”

  “We’d like to be able to thank you in person. This intercom stuff ’s a bit impersonal, you know?”

  “We’ll be able to talk later. But it can’t be face-to-face yet, unfortunately. You are being housed in the quarantine annex. For obvious reasons, as the name implies. You understand?”

  “Yes. Of course.” She rubbed her hands. I noticed her fingertips were blue with cold. “Thank you. It’s really good of you.”

  “I must go.” The Voice quickened, as if in a hurry. “Good-bye.”

  “Greg.” She shot me a warning look. “I told you, I’m not a goddam peep show.”

  “OK, you first.” I turned my face to the wall. Soon I heard locker doors opening as she hunted through them. Meanwhile I noticed that the door to the decontamination unit had closed. There was no door handle. I didn’t try it, but I’d guess it would be locked tight.

  “OK, you can turn ’round now.”

  I turned to see her standing facing the open lockers. She’d wrapped a large white bath towel ’round herself that reached from above her breasts to her knees. She’d found a smaller towel that she now fastened turban-style ’round her head.

  “By the way, Valdiva, on your butt you’ve got a bruise the size of Idaho. You might have to eat standing up.”

  For the next ten minutes we finished drying ourselves with soft cotton towels. In the lockers were hard, mysterious objects encased in plastic. I looked at them for a moment before exclaiming, “Hey, shrink-wrapped clothes.” Using my thumb, I tore a hole in the plastic. With a hiss the packaging softened, expanded, like a shiny lung inhaling. Inside were a sweatshirt and pants in a cool shade of green. Neatly folded there were also a white T-shirt and two pairs of underpants. “Hey, they think of everything.”

  “Check the label first,” Michaela said. “You’ve opened a c
hild’s size. See? Small, regular, large, extra large.”

  Soon we were dressed in matching green outfits. For our feet there were something like rubber beach sandals in hospital white. Another locker had been stacked high with individual toiletry sets marked either Male or Female. When I opened a Male I found disposable razors, shaving foam, a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, talcum powder and a comb. I grinned, feeling, absurd to say, like a kid at Christmas. “Look. Just what every nuclear calamity survivor needs.”

  Michaela didn’t share my absurd sense of fun. She sighed. “I’m hungry.” Then she picked up a Female toilet pack before heading for the red door that The Voice had indicated.

  Thirty-four

  Maybe I should have been asking questions about our immediate future in that place, but to step through the red door was to step into a different world.

  Whereas the first two rooms we’d passed through had been utilitarian and colder than a zombie’s good-night kiss, this suite of rooms was warm, comfortable, even luxurious. Like a pair of vacationers in a new hotel room we explored. On the first level was a kitchen painted in warm oranges with a modern stove, refrigerator, sink and countertops in stainless steel. Bolted to one wall were a whole bank of microwave ovens.

  “Looking at these”—Michaela opened a microwave door—“you can guess what will be on the menu.”

  She guessed right. A walk-in pantry had been stacked floor-to-ceiling with every microwave-ready meal you could think of. While the refrigerator had been packed with what I first thought were racks of toothpaste. Only a closer look revealed that these were labeled NASA PATENT PENDING. I saw they were marked either cheese, mayonnaise, cream or butter. “Butter from a tube?”

  “Good God.” Michaela’s eyes widened in sheer wonder. “They have butter? I’ve forgotten what butter tastes like.”

  I picked up more tubes. “But which one of these contains the bread?”

  “Idiot.” She smiled. And it was such a breathtakingly beautiful smile that I found myself grinning back at her. She broke away to open a cupboard full of knobby vacuum packs. “There’s the bread.” Taking out the tennis ball–sized lump, she read the label. “ ‘Remove all packaging. Place on oven tray and bake for twenty minutes’ . . . partly baked bread. We’re certainly not going to starve here. I wonder if they’ve got any coffee.”