Prometheus Mode, page 10
“You eat it,” I snap. “You could use it. You look like you’ve lost ten pounds in the past week.”
“I’m not the only one.”
“What do you mean?”
“When’s the last time you looked in the mirror?”
“Yeah, well, if you haven’t noticed, I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
“You’re not fat. You’re...”
“What?”
He shrugs.
“Have you seen my ass?”
His face reddens.
Brother Matthew jumps to his feet and heads for his bike, which cues us to go to ours. “Finally,” I mutter.
Micah straps on his CamelBak and drapes the tube over his shoulder.
“How come you don’t see these for sale anymore?” I ask. It’s rhetorical. I don’t expect him to know the answer.
“Probably illegal,” he answers. He shows me the tag. “Chinese Embargo, remember?”
“They could make them here.”
“They’d be prohibitively expensive.”
“Not for the rich.”
He laughs. “You think they bike? Like, outside in public, on the streets? Without air conditioning and a screen in front of them? They have people who hold their drinks for them.”
I guess he’s right.
Brother Matthew props open the door and looks out. “It’s time,” he says. It’s only been five minutes, not the ten he’d recommended. I think our banter has finally driven him to the edge. He yanks the straps of his backpack tight around his chest and snaps them together.
Micah wheels my bike with the carrier carefully through the door, then rests it upright against the window before returning for his own bike. Once we’re all out, Brother Matthew wedges one of the used inner tubes between the door and the frame and pushes it shut. “So it won’t blow open,” he explains. “And so no one has to pick the lock next time.”
He takes a spray can out of his pack and puts a blue mark on the door. The symbol resembles the one we saw down in the tunnels.
I finally get my first glimpse of our surroundings. We’re in the middle of some sort of plaza. The buildings aren’t very tall or tightly packed, and there’s a welcoming sense of open space. There’s a courtyard with benches to sit on and lots of access points. The bike shop is a single story structure, but some of the other buildings are two or three stories tall. None is higher. A few blocks away, however, visible through the gaps, taller structures tower into the sky. Some look to be about twenty or thirty stories tall.
“Islip,” Brother Matthew informs me.
“You what?” I ask.
“That’s the name of this town, Islip.”
I slip, you slip, we all slip for Islip, my mind chants.
With the dust of summer washed away, the distant dead city appears to sparkle in the new sunlight. But a dingy patina of neglect still clings to everything here. Weeds sprout from every crack and crevice — wherever the tiniest bit of dirt has been able to accumulate — and bits of rocks and bricks and paint that have sloughed off the buildings litter the ground. Old and neglected.
And also dangerous. Empty doorways and alleys are suspiciously dark. How many of these stores are open right now? How many house the undead? They had to go somewhere once the sun came out. The thought that they’re all around us, hidden away, sends chills down my spine. That peaceful feeling I had earlier is gone.
Brother Matthew sees me glancing nervously about me. “Just be quiet and don’t dawdle,” he whispers, “and we’ll be fine.”
I try to get Shinji into the carrier. He’s clearly reluctant. But I finally manage to coax him in by throwing his toy rabbit inside. He climbs in, but he still doesn’t settle down. He whines when I zip it up.
“Don’t let him bark,” Micah warns.
I unzip it just enough so that he can jump out if he needs to. I don’t want him to feel trapped. He finally lies down with a resigned groan.
“See?” I tell them. “He’s happy.”
“That didn’t sound very happy. More like a ‘I’m doing this under protest’ type of groan.”
“Oh, so now you speak dog?”
“Sure, why not?”
I get on my bike and start pedaling. I go about thirty feet before realizing neither of them is following. They’re just standing there watching me, amusement on Brother Matthew’s face. I stop, raise my hands, and ask, “What?”
“It’s this way,” Brother Matthew says, pointing in the opposite direction. “You’re heading back toward the barrier.”
He stands on his pedals and pushes off, but not before I see the smirks he and Micah exchange.
I turn and head back. As I pass Micah I warn him to stop grinning. “Or I’ll sic Shinji on you.”
“Ooh,” he croons. “That would actually require him to leave his chariot. I think he’s figured out how good he’s got it.”
We pass the manhole where we came out and Brother Matthew stops just long enough to replace the cover. Already the runoff has drained completely away, leaving only a few shallow puddles. The drains must lead eventually to the ocean, which means they pass underneath the island wall. I wonder if that’s how some of the early survivors got out. Did any of them ever make it by swimming? How many drowned? Or got blown up?
The downed tree branch that had fallen on top of the grate is long gone, swept off to somewhere else in the receding flood. I can only imagine all the smaller crap that has been washed down into the sewer now. I wonder if any IUs fell in. I don’t mention this, of course. We won’t be coming back this way — at least I hope we won’t — but I can just imagine Brother Matthew wanting to go down and check.
We encounter some initial problems with downed trees along the narrower roads, but the ride atop the Long Island Expressway is a breeze. There aren’t any trees to fall onto it. I feel like I know this road now, since I’ve spent so much time on it. I feel like we have a personal relationship, an understanding about each other.
The first several miles pass quickly beneath us. The worst we have to deal with is the standard slick leaf litter and the occasional bit of trash blown free from wherever it spent the past thirteen years. Only twice do we have to move something large out of our way, and only once, when we reach an underpass, is the water still too deep to ride through.
Shinji has settled in quite nicely in his carriage. He’s such a good sport, humoring Micah and Brother Matthew despite the fact that he’s a source of amusement to them both. They trade banter and tease me about treating him like royalty. They call him “His Majesty” and “Your Highness.” I ignore them. Shinji grins like a lunatic and licks his plastic window, as if he’s lapping up all the attention. Something about it makes me feel a little jealous. Or maybe it’s the way Micah and Brother Matthew have become chummy all of a sudden, ganging up on me. I don’t like it. I know it’s irrational, but I can’t help wondering if Micah’s doing it on purpose to get Brother Matthew onto his side if and when the truth comes out about him.
Inevitably, the talking and joking yield to the wearying monotony of pedaling and the taxing effort of constant vigilance. The first hour passes, and Brother Matthew tells me we’re nearly halfway there. I grow impatient with the slow pace, but say nothing, because I know it’s me who’s holding us back from going any faster. I’m the one towing the trailer and lagging behind.
The day grows hotter and unbearably muggy.
Eventually Micah asks a question that’s been rattling around my own head for a while: “Do you think they’re aware of each other?”
Brother Matthew responds only by saying that we should ask Father Heall these sorts of questions, if we ever get the chance.
“What is he, some kind of zombie whisperer?” I joke.
Brother Matthew smirks as he rides. “You could say that.”
Micah and I exchange glances. More fruitcake quackery. Great.
“No offense,” Micah says, “but was he some kind of new age cultist or something before the outbreak? You know, one those guys who used to dress up in costumes and wave signs saying the end of the world is nigh.”
I gasp.
“What?” he tells me. “Oh, come on, Jess! How can you not be thinking it? Everything we’ve heard is—”
“I’m not! Okay, maybe. But it’s still rude.”
“Father Heall is very devoted to his cause,” Brother Matthew says, matter-of-factly. “You could say even religiously devoted. But he’s not religious. And as far as being a cultist? No. Definitely not.”
“Well, I don’t give a crap if he preaches fire and brimstone and believes the outbreak was the start of the Rapture,” I say. “As long as he has a way to help Jake, that’s all that matters.”
“Like I said before, there’s no guarantee he’ll agree. Or that it’ll work, even if he does and we do get it back in time.”
“A chance. That’s all I ask.”
We lapse again into silence, the heat discouraging further conversation. The humidity leaves us drenched and gasping. My clothes, still damp from the rain, now feel like canvas on my skin. I stink of sweat and body odor. Despite my mindful use of the CamelBak, I drain it all too soon. The ache in my neck from Stephen’s hands returns. Swallowing becomes a chore.
And we’re barely more than half way there.
Chapter 15
If the second hour begins in mild discomfort, it quickly descends into a pit of abject misery. Everything aches, my thighs are cramped, and I’m dying of thirst. I now understand Matthew’s preference for walking. At a leisurely pace, a person could keep going forever. I don’t think I’d be able to last another forty minutes pushing on like this.
The sun is now behind us, baking me through my backpack. The breeze picks up again. It aids us sometimes, pushing us from behind. At other times it blasts oven-hot air directly into our faces. I tie my hair up to get some ventilation on my neck, the sun broils my skin; I put it down, I swelter. Even when a new bank of clouds builds up and blankets the sun, there’s no respite. The air is too thick with moisture. Breathing becomes a chore, the air as viscous as molten lead.
“You’re dragging,” Micah notices. “Trade bikes with me. I’ll pull Shinji for a while.”
I shake my head. Pulling him isn’t what slows me down now. If anything, the fact that he’s there spurs me to push myself harder, almost as much as knowing that every minute that passes is another minute closer to death for Jake. What holds me back, what drags me down, is this increasing sense of dread descending upon me. Stephen’s death weighs on me. I fear I’m just building myself up to be rejected.
Thankfully, the area we’re riding through is flat. We’ve long since left behind the skyscrapers of Central Islip and come a more rural part of the island. I’m glad for it. The cities always make me apprehensive. I know there aren’t supposed to be any Players out here on this side of the Gameland wall, but I still imagine them filled with murderous Players.
Deceivers, my mind whispers. How apt, given that nothing about them is real. Nothing but their inherent violence, which Arc so graciously depicts for us on the television.
I can’t help imagining people glued to their screens and cheering them on as they chase after us. “Stay tuned for the dramatic conclusion!” the announcers say, before cutting to an ad for Red Bull or some male impotency drug.
Maybe no Players, but there’s plenty of IUs. So each time we pass through another urban pocket, where the buildings are all crowded together and rise up like the foundations of some strange alien monolith, I can’t help but envision them all waiting to charge out at us.
“Are you familiar with the story of Frankenstein?” Brother Matthew asks.
I look over, startled at the sound of his voice breaking the monotonous hiss of the tires on the road. I blink stupidly, not understanding the question. It seems an absurd thing to ask, especially out of the blue like this.
“As we draw near to our destination,” he explains, “I thought it might be helpful for you to understand some things about Father Heall. It’ll put you into the proper mindset as you meet with him.”
“Frankenstein? That’s the mindset you want me to have?”
“Yes. What do you know about the original story?”
I shrug. “I remember that it was this monster made out of dead people parts and was brought back to life using electricity from lightning.”
I can’t be certain this is correct. It’s one of the books Government banned years back, so I’d never have been able to actually read it. What I do remember about the story comes mostly from anecdotes and a bootlegged copy of a hundred-year-old black-and-white monster movie we’d watched in Micah’s basement, a movie that also featured Dracula and a werewolf. It was kind of campy. In fact, I remember Reggie laughing so hard at one scene he made ice cream come out of his nose.
“Frankenstein,” Brother Matthew says, pronouncing it frahn-koon-shteen, “actually refers to the scientist who created the monster, not the creation itself. It’s a common misconception.”
“Okay.”
“The book is subtitled The Modern Prometheus. Do you know who Prometheus was?”
“No, but I get the feeling you’re going to tell me.” I’m now regretting not staying in back with Micah.
“Prometheus,” Brother Matthew says, “was a Greek god, one of the pre-Olympian Titans, actually. As the myth goes, Prometheus created man out of clay, much as Doctor Frankenstein molded his own monster out of lifeless bits. But then, against Zeus’s wishes, Prometheus gave man fire. And that, of course, led to all sorts of mischief.”
“Civilization,” I say, proudly reciting something I’ve somehow dredged out of the deepest well of memory and thinking I’ve outsmarted him.
“And all its attendant vices,” he glibly adds.
I wipe the sweat from my cheek and try not to think about how I wish I had water. I wonder how much farther we have left and whether we should stop for a break. Behind me, in his shaded carrier, Shinji pants with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. His water bowl is dry. I feel bad.
“To punish Prometheus,” Brother Matthew continues, “Zeus bound him to the side of a mountain, there to suffer for all eternity by having an eagle peck out his liver each and every day, only to have it grow back again overnight.”
I cringe. “That’s a lovely tale. I suppose there’s a point?”
He grimaces. It’s not quite a smile. Or perhaps it’s just strained by the heat and the exertion of pedaling for so long. I can’t imagine he’s not used to it. Or maybe he simply finds my cynicism too caustic for his tastes. Frankly, I don’t care. I’m miserable, and his story is only making me feel worse.
“See, the thing is, it’s not just some story,” he says. “It’s a metaphor for the human condition. We strive always to do right, but all too often fall far short.”
Not always, I think. We don’t always strive to do what’s right.
“Are you saying that we are like Prometheus? Or Doctor Frankenstein?”
“You could think of it that way, sure. No good deed goes unpunished.”
“So, we created zombies and now we’re being punished for it?”
“To further strain the analogy, mankind has its back strapped to the allegorical wall, and Nature is the eagle feeding upon our liver.”
“Nature? Not the undead?”
“Nature, the undead. Aren’t they the same thing?”
“No.”
He sighs and wipes the sweat off his face onto his arm. He goes back to staring at the road ahead.
“If you’re trying to say we should never have invented Reanimation technology, then I agree. It’s not natural. It’s wrong.”
No one knows this better than me. My family is responsible for concocting the process that brought them all into being. My father and grandfather were the ones who collected the dead and resurrected them, not with lightning and not from clay, but with viruses. I’ve had to live with that legacy directly impacting me my whole life.
“Nature would never have come up with something like this on its own,” I argue.
“Perhaps not, but now that it’s out there, nature will determine whether it persists or goes extinct. Nature, not man. And certainly not technology.”
“It’ll go extinct when we do,” I muse.
“I don’t think we will. At least I hope not.”
“How can you be so sure it won’t just wipe us all out? Just because we managed to control a few small outbreaks?”
“In the book,” Brother Matthew says, “the monster commands his creator to make for it a mate. Doctor Frankenstein reluctantly agrees. Humanity will always succumb to the monsters we create, not to die but to do their bidding.”
“Thank god the undead can’t mate.”
“No, but they can make more of themselves, can’t they? Your friend, for example, is halfway there.”
“Infection isn’t reproduction.”
“It is exactly that from the virus’s perspective.”
“So, you’re saying we’re just hosts?”
“Clay shells imbued with fire.”
“Talk about straining the metaphor.”
He sniffs. “I was hoping to help you understand Father Heall. Maybe you’re just not willing to.”
“All I want is the treatment and to go home.”
“That’s too bad. I thought once you met him that you might find more to talk about. It seems that you and he share some of the same philosophies. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“I’m not interested in a position in his cult.”
“We’re not a cult, although some of us be a bit... cultish. We all believe in what he stands for, but to varying degrees. Some of us also happen to disagree with certain other aspects.”
“Bet he doesn’t like that.”
“He embraces it. Disagreement leads to discourse, and discourse to discovery. We are all brethren.”
“No thanks.”
He laughs.
“And what exactly does Father Heall stand for?”
“You can ask Will yourself.”
“Will? As in Will Heall? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
