The Cloud Seeders, page 8
The entire montage takes about a second for my brain to put together and various versions of it have been playing over and over since the incident with Jerusha.
The incident.
The nightmare, more like.
The other footage on the reel consists of our house being ransacked by Water-cops, the remaining stash of water being found in the basement, a search-warrant issued for our parents, barking dogs brought in, paws gleefully scratching, frantic hands clearing away dirt as the truth slowly comes to light.
That takes another second.
When this sick scenario finishes playing itself out, I try to distract myself by doing something I'm quickly becoming an expert at: daydreaming.
I become a giant bounding over the sterile landscape passing us by, jumping over old barns. Next I'm riding a ten-foot tall motorcycle bouncing from cactus to cactus, suspended in between like a frozen ballerina.
I'm Godzilla, drop-kicking imaginary cows across the open desert, destroying all I see.
I am king of everything.
Outside the window.
*
"Stop here," Twink says and Jerusha eases the car off the road into a stand of barely breathing Evergreens. "Pack only what you need. The rest can stay."
"You don't have to go with us," I say to Jerusha as she rummages around in the trunk. "You can still go home."
"Have you seen my pencil?"
"Jerusha."
"I'm going. End of discussion. Now where's my pencil? I need my pencil."
She starts poking around in the trunk again and my eyes naturally fall to her butt. I can see the string dangling from her back pocket. Like the pencil's trying to rappel its way to freedom.
"You'll find it," I say. "Just keep looking."
I go see how Dustin's faring and catch him placing Lando and Yoda on the dashboard, both of them with hands raised, facing opposite doors.
Lando with a gun. Yoda a staff.
"They going to watch over the car for us?" I ask.
He startles a little at the sound of my voice.
"Yeah, I guess so."
"You sure you don't want to take them with? I don't know how long we'll be here."
Dustin gets out of the car, grabs his backpack and Mom's book. "They're just toys," he says, slamming the door and I can just about hear the first nail being driven into his childhood.
I go through the car one last time, remove anything we might need: body-wipes, water, an extra pair of balls.
"You going to bring that old battery?" Twink asks as I'm cramming stuff into my backpack. "We could use it."
"A little heavy, don't you think?"
"You'll manage."
"What about the license plates?"
"Leave 'em," he says. "Wouldn't hurt to camouflage the car a little though. No need to advertise."
Dustin and I cover the car with twigs, dirt, whatever is around. When we finish, Dustin says, "We should burn it. Just to be on the safe side."
"Nobody's burning anything," Jerusha says, locking the trunk. "We're coming back. Got it?"
The relic of a car battery weighs about a thousand pounds, so I fashion a papoose out of an old t-shirt and sling it over my neck.
"Why does that look so natural on you?" Jerusha says, and I swear if Twink so much as lets out a Wookie giggle, I'll drop him.
"Let's just get moving, okay?"
Jerusha gestures for Twink to lead the way and when he starts lumbering uphill, she turns to Dustin, asks if he's seen her flipper.
"Nope," he says. "Can't say that I have."
Jerusha turns her back to us, the string still dangling there, and Dustin looks at me, smiles for the first time since we left Twink's.
*
We find the trailhead right where Twink said it would be, just past a brown government sign.
CAMPING PROHIBITED- VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO SEVERE DRYING.
The trail is thin, barely worn, which is a good sign. The trees here are stubborn, still standing though it's obvious they're nearly hollow. When our arms brush up against the branches, there's this crackling sound like something might spontaneously combust. Still, it's better, damper somehow, than it's felt for weeks.
We walk for maybe ten minutes before Dustin stops, wants to know if it's time for a water break yet.
"No," I tell him. "Suck on one of those berries if you're thirsty."
We're down to six bottles of water now.
Mere crumbs.
"What's a piñata?" Dustin asks out of nowhere, his words garbled by berries.
"It's a big animal made out of paper and stuffed full of candy," I tell him. "They blindfold you, spin you around, then you try to hit the thing with a baseball bat."
"What's the point?"
"The candy is the point."
"Oh," Dustin says, sounding more confused than when he started.
I'm beginning to think I should have burned Mom's book of poems. Maybe buried it. He'll be looking for clues in it, for answers, the rest of his life.
We walk along in silence until Twink says, "This is it," and kicks a tree stump with a small X whittled into the bark. "We hang a left here."
We huddle up near the stump and scan the area, but there's nothing to see but more dead brush.
"Hey, D. You bring your ticket book?" I say, trying to lighten the mood. "Bet you reach your yearly quota in like ten minutes."
Dustin stoops a little, hefts his shoulders to adjust his backpack. "No more tickets," he says and spits on the ground. "What's the point?"
Nail number two.
"We should go now," Twink says and eyes the surrounding trees like maybe vampires are about to come swooping down. "The others will worry."
"How many Leftovers are there anyway?" Dustin asks.
"We don't call ourselves Leftovers out here."
Dustin just stares at Twink, waiting for the number.
"There are twenty-six of us. A few more won't hurt."
Dustin seems a little disappointed.
Maybe he did bring his ticket book.
"We'll help out as much as we can," Jerusha says, covering for Dustin's silence. "We know this can't be easy for you."
"You're one of us now," Twink says, his eyes still on Dustin. "C'mon, it's not that far from here."
When Twink turns to lead the way, Dustin looks at me and I know exactly what he's thinking.
It's what we're all thinking.
I want to go home.
*
From up above, we see a city of tents quilting the valley floor. It looks like there was a music festival of some kind, only everybody forgot to leave.
"What's that?" Jerusha asks, pointing to a log cabin.
"That's for the hot springs," Twink says.
"You're kidding."
"This place belonged to my great grandfather. The springs were sort of a family tradition."
"And nobody knows you're out here?"
"Not yet," Twink says. "We have strict rules though. No fires at night. No walking beyond the boundaries. And absolutely no outside contact with Gridders."
"You mean Citizens," I say.
"Yes. What you used to be."
"We used to be Water—"
"I know what you were, Thomas," Twink says and walks toward me. For a second I think maybe he's going to punch me, but he just stands there, his eyes narrowed.
"It doesn't matter when a man stands up inside himself, Thomas. Just so long as he stands up."
"I'm not my father," I say, my voice as thin as the air. "I'm no hero."
"Nobody said you were," he says and turns away from me. "But you can help by telling us everything you know."
"About?"
"We've had people on the inside before, but never as close as you." He stares down at the camp, seems to reconsider something. "And make no mistake. We may have a hot spring here, but this is no spa. We'll need all the help we can get."
I look down at Dustin, expect to see him glaring at Twink, at this Leftover in disguise, but he's standing at attention the same way he used to when we reported back to Sarge.
Twink gets down on one knee, motions Dustin to his side. "You see that, where the children are playing?"
"Yeah?"
"That's our well. We dug it ourselves. Do you know what a well is?"
"An Unforgivable."
"Not here it isn't. Here it brings up water from deep in the earth's belly. Fresh, cold, un-recycled water." Twink straightens up. "We also have a pretty decent nursery where we grow those berries you seem so fond of. You think you might be able to help us?"
"Yes, sir," Dustin says, all eighty pounds of him dead serious. I can tell by the way he has his hand at his side, he's holding back a salute.
"Now how about meeting some of the other children?"
Twink might as well be holding a lollipop the way Dustin's eyes are lit up.
Jerusha, though, still seems hesitant.
"I think you'll have time to take a nice soak before dinner," Twink tells her. "That is, if you like that sort of thing."
"Can we leave?" she says quietly. "I mean if we need to. Or just want to. Can we leave?"
Twink nods to himself like he gets this sort of thing all the time. "Yes, dear," he says. "But nobody ever does. I mean, why would you?"
Dustin reaches behind Jerusha, pulls the pencil from her back pocket, hands it to her.
"Really?" she says, wriggling the string around on his head.
"Can we go now?"
"Fine," Jerusha says. "After you, kiddo."
Dustin heads off with Twink down the trail, and, once they're out of earshot, I turn to Jerusha, say, "I think I know why we're here."
"And why's that?"
"I think whatever's left of Dustin's childhood might be down there."
Jerusha takes my hand, gives it a little squeeze.
"C'mon," she says. "I need a bath."
*
What we find is a band of thin, ragged people.
Thin and ragged, but happy.
That much is clear right away.
While Twink gives us a tour, children chase each other around, whisper-yelling while some of the adults nap, their feet poking out from various tents. In a nearby field, two men are hunched over, digging what we're told will be the second well. There's also a string of outhouses, plastic piping running into a collective pool.
It looks like a hot-tub, only it's shaking.
Then I get it.
Community Water-Recycling.
Yuck.
There's a line of car batteries near the recycling tub, each of them hooked up to small metal box. When I see one of the Leftovers talking into it, I realize they're CBs. Twink must have brought them from the used-car lot. I guess he learned something at college after all.
"Each state has its own channel," he explains. "It's how we communicate without the powers-that-be knowing. They've never bothered to check anything so primitive as a CB."
We continue on our tour and I start to notice just how friendly everybody seems. People are working, but they seem happy doing it. Just about every person gives us a big smile as we pass by.
Would you rather live on a commune or in Rehab?
We approach a pen of goats and one of them gets off its knees, staggers toward Dustin.
"You can touch him," Twink says. "Go ahead."
Dustin takes a step back. "Touch him where?"
"They like it when you stroke them," Twink says. "Like this."
Dustin watches in awe as Twink rubs between the goat's eyes and its ears, a pair of hairy-looking tulips, begin to twitch.
"They're extremely playful creatures," Twink goes on. "Watch this." With the flat of his hand, he lightly slaps the goat on the nose. It lowers its head, scrapes the dirt with a hoof and then butts Twink's outstretched fist. "Want to try?"
"No," Dustin says, taking another step back. "I don't think so."
Twink shrugs, starts to walk on, but then stops and holds a finger up in the air all eureka-like. "Hold on. I'll be right back."
He lumbers off, disappearing into a small shed near the goat pen before bringing back what looks like a carafe filled with glue.
"Anybody thirsty?"
"What is it?" Dustin asks.
"Goat's milk."
Dustin takes the bottle, swirls the contents.
"What do you think?" Twink says after Dustin takes a small sip. "I made it myself."
Dustin considers this.
"So you're a goat?"
This cracks Twink up. "No," he says. "The goats make it. We just bottle it."
Dustin takes another drink, passes it over to Jerusha. When she shakes her head, I take the bottle so Twink won't think we're being rude. The first thing I notice is how cold it is. It's sweating, like iceberg cold, and I hold the bottle against my cheek.
"We have a battery-powered fridge," Twink says. "Go on, try it."
"Don't they need recharging?"
"The batteries? Of course. That's why we encase them in solar-paneled jackets and let them sit out all day. Good idea, huh? Guess who came up with it."
I don't bother to respond to this. Instead, I take a drink. But once I start, I can't seem to stop.
I'm drinking candy.
This is what I've been missing my whole life.
I tip the bottle, start guzzling the stuff.
And, just like that, I'm hooked.
A goat-milk junkie.
Take me to your leader.
I hand the bottle back, stammer, "Sorry…but that's good stuff."
"Plenty more where that came from," Twink says and shoots Jerusha a smile. "To tell the truth, you'll probably be sick of it before long."
"Never," I say, picturing Twink's pool full of the stuff, Jerusha and I swimming laps in it.
We move on, Dustin glued to Twink's side like a kid on his first day at school. As we make our way to the well, Jerusha turns to me, says, "You know what I hear?"
"What?"
She nods toward the goats. "I hear those goats are outstanding in their field."
"Yeah? That what you hear?"
"Just an observation," she says, picking up her pace. "C'mon, I want to make a wish."
The well, it turns out, is "pretty sweet" as Dustin puts it. The opening is about six feet across with a pulley system that lowers down a gallon-sized bucket.
"This well is about fifteen feet deep. The subsoil gets pretty rocky, but it still only took us about a month to dig using little more than your average gardening tools." He pauses, apparently for the weight of the achievement to sink in, then continues. "An aquifer purifies the water. It works sort of like a coffee filter, catching the grounds but releasing the coffee. Or, in this case, the water."
Jerusha leans over, whispers, "I wish they'd dug a coffee well, too."
Twink overhears this and frowns. "We're working on tea leaves in the garden, dear. Sorry to say that's as close as we've gotten to coffee. No beer either, so don't bother asking."
"Got it," Jerusha says. "Sober is the new drunk, right?"
Twink isn't amused, seems on the verge of scolding Jerusha when a gang of children races by. One of them, a girl about Dustin's age, stops to gape.
"Who's he?" she asks, her tone chock-full of superiority. "Another Gridder?"
"No," Twink says. "These are our friends."
"Does he play?"
"Can I?" Dustin says, and I can hear the voice of a nine-year old again.
"I guess so," I say. "Just don't go too far."
"When the dinner bell rings, we'll bring him right back," the girl says. "Would that be alright with you?"
"That would be wonderful," I tell her and she grabs Dustin's hand, drags him away.
"C'mon," I hear her say. "My name's Cyndi."
*
Twink tells us to ladle in cold water every five minutes or we'll overheat.
"Unless of course, you like hyperventilation," he says, chuckling to himself before leaving us alone.
Jerusha and I soak in our own individual canoe-style tubs and while I've seen Jerusha naked before, every time seems better than the last. Her body is so ripe looking, so astoundingly healthy, that it's almost impossible trying to imagine her getting old. Not that anybody in their right mind would bother doing such a thing.
After our soak, we have about thirty Dustin-free minutes before it's time for dinner. On the walk back to our tent, we see more of our new neighbors. There's something different about them, like there's a stronger kind of light in them.
Maybe it's the goat milk.
We crawl into our tent, still in our towels, and I know I have to work fast or Jerusha will think of something else we should be doing.
Like looking for Dustin.
I run my hand up her thigh, under the damp white cotton.
"I don't know," Jerusha says and starts toying with the knot pinning her breasts in. "What about Dustin?"
"Dustin who?"
She turns on her stomach, cycles her legs in the air behind her. "You think we're safe here?"
"Yeah," I say, staring as the towel inches up with every kick of her legs. "Totally fine."
"You'll have to pull out," she says, and, for a second, I have no idea what she's talking about. "That's the only way this is going to happen."
"Like way early," I say, finally getting a clue. "Not a problem."
"Thomas."
"Yes?"
"You okay?"
"Aces," I say, hyperventilating, not a hot springs in sight. "Just tell me what to do."
She rolls over, unknots her towel. "That won't be a problem."
Outside, I can hear people walking past.
Voices.
Kids playing.
I don't care.
This is finally happening.
Jerusha, hearing the same things I am, whispers, "Don't worry. I promise not to be too loud."
I almost laugh, like there's any chance she'll be getting to that point, but she grabs hold of my neck with one hand while the other disappears down below. When I try to look down, she tightens her grip on my neck, steering my eyes back to her face, while she guides me inside her.
