DMV, page 22
Ed Drivers?
That couldn’t be a real name.
He’d been happy yesterday that his asshole neighbor had been arrested and was still glad he was gone. There was definitely something wrong with the guy. But the involvement of the DMV, and the vague yet menacing phrase “we have taken care of Mr. Lang,” made him feel uneasy.
Howard Lang.
Now that he and Bernard were supposed to have full access to the DMV’s computer systems, Zal wondered if he would be able to look up Howard Lang’s name and find out what had happened to him. Curious to see what he could discover, he quickly finished his breakfast and drove to work.
He arrived in the parkling lot earlier than usual but at the same time as Violet, and he wondered if she’d come early herself in order to avoid him. He didn’t say anything to her about it, though, and she didn’t say anything to him, and they walked in together as though there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Once at his workstation, Zal booted up his computer and attempted a universal search of all DMV systems. Coming up with nothing, he began methodically searching, one by one, each program he could access, trying to find any mention of Howard Lang. Twenty minutes later, buried deep in an un-alphabetical listing of individuals who had violated DMV rules and ordinances identified only by number and letter (1-A, 1-B, 1-C…), he found the name of his neighbor. Clicking on it, he was taken to a screen with the heading Violation Resolution.
“Holy shit,” Zal said.
Bernard poked his head over the top of the cubicle. “What are you holy shitting about?”
“My asshole neighbor. The one with the cones.”
“What about him?”
“He was arrested yesterday, and this morning I got an email from the DMV saying that he’d been taken care of so that he wouldn’t impede my work since I was now part of the DMV family.”
“Holy shit.”
“Exactly. That’s why I came to work early, to use that full access we’ve been granted to find out exactly what happened to him.”
“And?”
“He has been, quote, ‘remanded for re-education.’”
“That sounds ominous. Although it couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.”
“It does sound ominous,” Zal said. He stood, walking around the edge of the cubicle to Bernard’s side. “So are we going to talk about what happened yesterday?”
“I thought we did.”
“I mean now that we’ve had time to think about it.”
“Perhaps,” Bernard said. “But not here at work, as our corrupt courts have decreed that employers have the legal right to spy on their employees. And not over an easily hacked phone, either, be it landline or cell.”
“At lunch, walking randomly around in the open air?”
Bernard smiled. “Maybe so.”
Nodding, Zal returned to his workstation.
They’d both brought lunches today, and instead of eating them in the break room, they decided to take them outside and walk down the street to a park. Violet asked if she could come with them, and while Zal wasn’t sure he should drag her into this, he didn’t want to do anything that might be perceived as pushing her away, so he said, “Sure.”
Bernard raised a quizzical eyebrow, but then Violet’s phone rang, she stepped away to answer it, and moments later she told them, “You’d better go on without me. Something’s come up.”
On a bench at the park, they each took out sandwiches. It was Zal who spoke first. “So what was that yesterday? What the hell happened?”
“You got me.”
“We both saw the same thing, so it was real, it wasn’t a hallucination. But it was crazy, right? I mean, could you have even imagined anything like that? I sure as hell couldn’t. That weird underground office, and that guy filled with bees, and that face in the room. And what was that bee sting? Some sort of injection? Are there nanobots inside us now, monitoring everything we do?”
“And Zal goes off the rails.”
He stopped, looked at Bernard. “Really? After what we went through? You think I’m overreacting?”
Bernard sighed. “I wish I did. But, no. That was my attempt at levity. Whistling past the graveyard. You are not overreacting.”
“What was that?”
“Our initiation.”
“But did that make any sense to you? Any of it? I mean, it doesn’t even seem real.”
“Oh, it was real all right.”
“But how? I’ve been looking at this from every angle I can think of, trying to figure out how any of it could have happened, but I’m coming up with nothing.”
“I don’t think it’s nanobots.”
“Neither do I. That was just a theory.”
“It’s something more primal than that.” Bernard paused. “You know, I’m not a religious guy. I’m not even a spiritual guy. Even as a kid, I didn’t believe in ghosts or Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. But that was some supernatural shit we encountered. I don’t know what it was or how it happened or anything, but that’s the only thing that makes any kind of sense to me. Much as I hate to admit it.”
“I tried emailing Gary and Boo,” Zal said. “Haven’t heard back from either of them.”
“Me too. Me either.”
“They acted like they were sworn to secrecy about their initiation, but we didn’t get that.”
“No, we were just stung by monster bees and then sent on our merry way.”
“I just…” Zal crumpled up his lunch sack, threw it at a nearby trash can and missed. “I just don’t know what to make of all this. I don’t know what to do.”
“There’s not much we can do.”
He looked over at his friend. “I think I’m a little bit scared.”
Bernard nodded soberly. “You and me both, buddy. You and me both.”
****
Violet was waiting in the lobby for him when they returned to work. Bernard went on ahead with a smile and a wave, leaving the two of them to talk. Zal thought she looked troubled.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor,” she said.
“Of course,” he told her.
Violet looked at her shoes. “Would it be possible for me to stay over at your place tonight? Not for that,” she added quickly, her face reddening. “I just need somewhere to sleep. There’re some problems at home, and I think it would be a good idea to…take a night off.”
Zal took a chance. “Either reason’s fine with me.” He looked into her eyes in the sincerest way he knew how, but it only caused her to smile.
“Don’t hold your breath, buster.”
He smiled back. “I gave it a shot. Seriously, of course you can stay over. I have a spare bedroom and everything.”
They started walking through the lobby.
“Meet you here after work?” she said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I can cook dinner if you want.”
“Or we can have pizza if you want.”
“Pizza sounds good,” she admitted.
“I’ll meet you here.”
Rather than drive two cars, they left hers in the lot after work and took his. On the way, and as they stopped off to pick up a pizza, he told her about Howard Lang and the traffic cones and the arrest and the DMV. He left out everything about the initiation, but even without that part of the story, Violet found the situation unnerving. As they got out of the car in front of Zal’s, they both looked over at the dark house next door.
“Is that his place?” Violet asked.
He nodded.
She shivered. “What do you think ‘re-education’ means?”
Zal shook his head. “I have no idea.” But just seeing his neighbor’s empty home gave him the creeps, and he locked the car and quickly ushered her into the house, turning on the lights.
TWENTY THREE
“Guiterrez?”
Jorge looked up at the unfamiliar man who had opened the door to his room and was standing just outside in the hallway. “Yeah?”
“Letter.” The man remained in place, holding forth a white envelope.
He had a letter? Jorge jumped out of bed. It had to be from Beverly. The fact that she’d finally responded, after all the times he’d written her, lifted his spirits in a way that nothing had since his arrival at the camp.
He grabbed the delivery and closed the door on the messenger. The envelope was thick, with no return address, and he tore it open immediately. Inside were three items. The first was a short handwritten letter, in Spanish, from Beverly’s mom. The ink was smeared in places, tear-stained.
It said that Beverly had died of a sudden stroke.
Jorge felt as though his heart had stopped.
Stapled to the folded letter was a clipped newspaper obituary: “Mr. and Mrs. Juan Avila are sad to announce the death of their daughter, Beverlyerly (Avila) Guiterrez…” He could not read any further.
The third item was a funeral announcement that he let fall onto his bed.
Beverly was dead?
It was impossible, Jorge told himself, but as much as he tried to believe it was not so, he knew that it definitely was possible.
He was already out of the room, the envelope and its contents in hand, heading outside and straight toward the administration building. He was getting out of here. One way or another. He’d show the people in charge what he’d received, tell them he had to leave, and if they tried to tell him he couldn’t, he would beat the shit out of them. They would call in security guards, but he would fight like hell and make those guards do so much damage that he would need to be sent to a hospital, where he would ask for his sister and finally escape this hell.
Unless the DMV had its own hospital.
He couldn’t afford to think that way.
The sun was down, although there was still a hint of light in the western half of the sky. Jorge was afraid at first that the administration building would be locked—they didn’t work twenty-four hours a day, did they?—but the automatic glass doors slid open at his approach, and he found himself in the same clean quiet lobby where he’d been given his orientation that first day and provided with his packet of training materials. In fact, the same man who had given that orientation—Mr. Line—was there now, standing in exactly the same spot, almost as though he’d been waiting for Jorge to arrive.
“I need to go home,” Jorge announced. “My wife died.”
Mr. Line smiled benignly.
“Do you hear me? I need to get home! Now!”
“I’m sorry. Your training is not yet completed.”
Jorge advanced on him. “My wife died!”
“People die all the time,” Mr. Line said flatly. “In fact, fifteen percent of them die in traffic accidents. But life goes on, and the hard truth is that whether your wife is alive or dead, the DMV still needs employees and you still need a job.”
“You bastard!” Jorge shouted and tried to punch him, but the other man stepped adroitly to the side. He expected security guards to appear from somewhere and attempt to restrain him, but no one else entered the lobby, and with an incoherent cry of rage, he launched himself at Mr. Line, intending to tackle him, but once again the man easily avoided his attack. He looked directly into Jorge’s eyes, and though he was shooting for calm dispassion, Jorge thought he detected a hint of satisfaction in the man’s steady gaze.
“Your wife is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it. Except honor her memory by completing your training—”
Jorge ran. He was leaving here. Now. Even if he had to slice himself up climbing over barbed wire or fight his way past racist goons, he was getting out.
The direct route was always the best, and he rushed from the building down the center of the road. He had no idea what he’d do when he reached the entry gate or how he would get by whatever guards were securing it, but he’d figure something out. His anger would see him through.
There was no one outside save himself, and for a few brief seconds, the only sounds Jorge heard were his own ragged breathing and the slap of his shoes on the asphalt.
Then there was the sound of engines.
Cars came out of nowhere, bearing down, speeding up the road before him, driving out of the cul-de-sac behind him, emerging from side trails behind buildings, and he realized that until now, he had not seen a single motor vehicle at this Department of Motor Vehicles camp. Not a supply truck nor a personal sedan nor a golf cart. There’d been nothing since the bus that had delivered him here had departed. Everyone at the DMV camp walked.
But there were cars galore now, and they hemmed him in. Although it wasn’t yet dark, all of the vehicles’ headlights were on, practically blinding him. He could see none of the drivers, but he heard a car door open and slam shut, and a moment later, a silhouetted figure stepped in front of a pair of lights and moved toward him.
Desperate, Jorge ran in the opposite direction. He wasn’t about to just stand here and wait to be captured. He was getting the hell out of this place. The lights made everything blurry, but he could kind of make out the positions of the cars, and he ran between two of them—and an opening door slammed into his midsection, knocking him down.
He stood, gasping for air. Both knees felt as though they’d been broken. He wanted to run, but he was surrounded now. Everyone had gotten out of their cars, and he recognized instructors, members of the camp’s support staff, even a few fellow trainees.
Mr. Line was standing before him. Jorge expected a lecture, expected to be told once again how he needed to stay here and finish training, how Beverly’s death wasn’t important and didn’t mean shit. To his surprise, though, the DMV administrator reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know how you feel, Mr. Guiterrez. I understand. My wife, too, passed away recently. And like you, I was here at the camp when it happened. As much as I wanted to leave, as much as I wanted to say a final goodbye, I realized that my place was here—”
“Well, my place isn’t here!”
“Isn’t it?” Mr. Line smiled kindly. “I know you have chafed against some of our restrictions, and you have certainly made your resistence known, but I have been monitoring your progress carefully, and I have to say that I think you might have found a home here.”
“You think wrong.”
He shrugged. “Maybe so. Or perhaps you are merely not there yet. But either way, your place is here with us.”
“I’m getting out of here.”
“You are not.”
It was said in such a low key, matter-of-fact way that the statement had far more impact than it would have had the administrator shouted it at him. Jorge looked around at the cars and the headlights and the slowly darkening sky, and felt the faint stirrings of despair within him.
No!
He lashed out, lunging at the man. He’d vowed that he would not go down without a fight, was willing to get the shit beaten out of him and sustain serious injuries if it would help him get the hell out of here, and he was damn well going to see it through. Well before his fists connected, however, he was grabbed from behind by several pairs of hands. His arms were restrained, and then his legs, and he was carried impotently away from the circle of cars to the grass on the side of the narrow road and dumped roughly on the ground.
“Whadda ya wanna do with him?” someone said, and Jorge recognized the voice as that of Al, the burly truckdriver who’d become a trainee because he supposedly wanted to change careers.
He didn’t hear the answer. A hard boot kicked the side of his head and he blacked out.
When Jorge regained consciousness, he was seated at a table in the cafeteria. His head throbbed. Before him was a half-eaten hamburger. Mr. Line sat on the opposite side of the table, eating a bowl of chili. The two of them were the only ones in the cafeteria. Outside the windows, the world was black.
Beverly was dead.
The knowledge suffused his being. His desperate desire to escape was gone, however. Grief had supplanted rage, and he was filled with a sense of utter hopelessness, a realization that no matter what he did or where he was, nothing could bring Beverly back. She was gone. Forever.
Mr. Line wiped his lips with a napkin. He pointed to the remaining hamburger. “Are you through with that?”
Jorge nodded dully. He wondered if the stroke had taken her instantly or if she had had time to realize what was happening. Had her final thoughts been of him?
Mr. Line stood. “Let us go to the Temple.”
Jorge frowned. Temple? He might have been raised Catholic, but he was nothing now. He certainly wasn’t Jewish.
“All those who devote their lives to the DMV must worship at the Temple,” the administrator said, as though reading his mind.
Jorge had no intention of devoting even a single minute of his life to the DMV. Still, he found himself standing and following Mr. Line out of the cafeteria. He had no idea what time it was, but there appeared to be no one outside, and the windows of the trainees’ quarters were dark as they took a winding sidewalk around the side of the cafeteria. Exterior building lights, regularly placed streetlamps and landscape lighting made the campus look like a small city at night, although the woods beyond were pitch black.
They passed by the administration building, Jorge walking a step behind the other man as they strolled down the curved walkway. Before them was a windowless edifice more modern and at the same time more primal and elemental than the other structures on the campus. Vaguely pyramidal in shape, it was larger at the base than at the top, and at least four stories high.
