Pod (14 page)

It’s like a small cave. Definitely not as high as the Volvo trunk—when I scrunch down flat the ceiling is two inches from my face. But it’s wide enough for two of me with my legs almost stretched out. There’s a thin foam pad on the floor that smells like beer and even small air holes drilled in the top. But the mother lode of them all is wrapped in a smelly horse blanket hidden in the far back. Three packs of Winston cigarettes, five emergency glow sticks, a first-aid kit with six PowerBars, maps of California, Oregon, and Washington, and a small container of pepper spray. I dig a little more and find a roll of ten twenty-dollar bills, two motorcycle magazines (both in Spanish), an opened package of spicy-hot beef jerky, and last but not least: two plastic freezer bags stuffed with marijuana. Or, like Zack called it, weed.

I know weed when I see it. Zack took me with him when he bought it from a guy named Cal behind the PetSmart. He told me that taking a kid along makes the cops less suspicious. And he also told me that if I ever told Mom what we really did on these “trips to the pet store” he’d make me wish I didn’t have a mouth. Then he’d smile and buy me an ice cream on the way home. Zack would have done a belly flop onto a bed of nails for the smelly, dried-up leaves in this freezer bag.

I jam some of the loot into my backpack, but not all of it. The PowerBars, pistachio nuts, Pringles, and one glow stick I stash in the hiding place. Oh, and the weed. Like, what am I going to do with that? The wooden door drops
into place, the carpet seals, and the cave is closed. I used to dream about that when Zack was drunk, a secret hideout or cave I could use to disappear.
Well
, I think with a smile,
now I have one
.

But I still don’t have what I need most.

Water.

I hike all the way back to Level 6. I’m tempted to just crash and chow down on the beef jerky, but I know it will make me thirstier. From here I can see the Volvo. Everything looks okay, so I keep on marching up to Level 7. I haven’t searched any of those cars, plus I remember some kind of cleaning van that might have something useful. So far no sign of Richie. Today is turning out to be my lucky day.

There’s a bad memory on Level 7—at the place behind the truck where Richie killed the woman who wore the sandals. I didn’t see her face then, but I remember her from the first day. I think about her two kids. Even though I shouldn’t, I walk to the wall and look over the edge. It’s so far down it makes me dizzy. This is the last thing she saw. If it weren’t for me being so stupid, she might still be alive. At least she didn’t hit the ground. Maybe that’s a good thing. I see the sign for Jake’s Java Joint. It’s green, just like Richie said.

The cars aren’t much help. Richie and Hacker really did a number up here. It’s just like all the others—a crumb here, a crust there. All pretty much empty. I find a piece of rock-hard gum chewed up and wadded into a tissue.
I try chewing it but can’t work up the saliva, so I stuff it in my pocket. The truck I hid under has a silver thermos on the seat. I wonder how Richie missed that one. I shake it. There’s something wet inside! When I finally open the top the stink is so bad I almost throw up. I figure they left it there on purpose, hoping I’d be so desperate I’d drink it, puke my guts out, and die.

My last hope is the van. It has
Wave Rider Carpet Cleaning
painted on the side door in big red and black letters that form a circle. Inside the circle is a cartoon of a carpet-cleaning guy on a surfboard saying “Ride the Wave and Save!” The door is hanging open by a crack. I slide it open all the way and climb inside. My heart sinks. There are three carpet-cleaning machines, lots of hoses and cords tossed around, two big orange buckets, and some blue jugs that say either Spotter or Cleaning Solution. I open one of the jugs, take a sniff—it’s worse than the thermos. My eyes start watering, which I think is because of the smell, but once my shoulders start shaking and my legs go wobbly, I know what’s going on. I’m crying. I sit down between the cords and brushes and orange buckets and let it happen. It’s the first time in a long time.

After a while I’m done. Really done.

I’m a total failure. All these cars and I can’t find anything to drink. I don’t want to go into the hotel, but now it looks like it’s my only choice. I stand up, step out of the van, start walking. I’m thinking about Mom and how after a fight with Zack she once told me, “The juice isn’t worth the squeeze.” I didn’t know what she meant then, but I do
now. All this work—is it worth it? Just to end up alone, sleeping in trunks that make my hair stink like spare tires and motor oil? Maybe if I go into the hotel I could be sleeping in a real bed. Maybe Mom is in there and Richie isn’t letting her out. There’s a thought, but I doubt it. And who is this Mr. Hendricks? Why do Richie and Hacker seem so afraid of him?

I kick at a piece of glass, miss—and stop. Thinking of Mom reminded me of something. One time she rented a carpet shampooer. I read the directions to her from the manual while she filled the machine. I remember that it had two containers, or “reservoirs,” one for shampoo and one for clean water. Maybe the machines in the van work the same way.

I run back to look. Two of the machines are empty, but the third one has a reservoir with some clear liquid. I yank the hose off the reservoir and smell inside. Not great, not awful. I put a finger in and taste. Water! Warm, wonderful water. I manage to fill two water bottles and half of another.

After guzzling the half bottle, I rip open the package of jerky and wolf down a huge peppery chunk. My mouth burns, but it tastes as good as a T-bone steak. I wash it down with a huge glug of warm, delicious water. I could eat the whole package right now, but I don’t. Cassie is waiting back at home and I need to share. I need to make it last. I poke my head out of the van, make sure Richie isn’t around, then take off for Level 6. On the way down I keep thinking about Cassie licking water out of my hand.

Something is wrong. I stop and peek around a concrete pillar at the Volvo, which is at the opposite end of the garage. For one thing, the trunk lid is higher than I left it. And the side-view mirror by the driver’s door wasn’t broken and hanging by a wire. The garbage can by the green door looks the same. No one is around that I see, and I don’t hear anyone hacking up a lung, but I don’t take any chances. I crouch behind the pillar and watch. And wait.

It’s dark now except for a pale silvery light from a rising moon. The air is cold and a wind’s coming up. My body is stiff from sitting on the pavement and my teeth are chattering. I need to get back to Cassie and make sure she’s okay. I can’t wait any longer. It’s time to crawl into my warm sleeping bag and eat some dinner. I like the sound of that—dinner. Wherever Richie is, he’s not here.

I move low in the shadows, hiding behind every second or third car. There’s no sound except my breathing and a loud crunch once when I step on a big piece of glass. It takes a while, but I reach the Volvo. I open the rear door—and scream.

I can’t help myself. I bury my head in my sleeve and hope that it muffles the sound that pours from me like liquid pain. The seats are slashed; the stuffing is pulled out and spread around. I dive into the trunk, my hands reaching out like wild things in the dark. The sleeping bag is gone. My notebook is ripped up, the pages in ragged pieces.

And Cassie—Cassie is gone.

There’s a note on the dashboard. I can barely read it in the moonlight through my tears:

Filter Face

Again, the screeching. It’s beginning to feel like a fire drill—with one major difference. In the old days, say, like
two weeks ago
, you’d go outside in a fire drill. Now, it’s go outside and you’re POD meat. Of course this fire drill is in the middle of the night, or maybe early morning—without a watch, who knows? So I have no clue what’s going on. There was a full moon last night, but there must be heavy-duty clouds because it’s like someone tossed a blanket over the house. Occasionally I see a kind of flash, low, like a camera close to the ground. We’ll just have to wait and see what the POD commander has in store for us today. I can hardly wait.

We know the answer as soon as the sun comes up. Fog. And not your usual run-of-the-mill, can’-t-see-the-house-next-door fog. It’s some weird alien thing that’s scary as
hell. It’s so thick we can’t see past the windows. Dad and I stand in front of the patio door, watching it curl and coil within itself, throbbing with flashes of internal light, moving like it’s alive. For some strange reason Dutch wants to go outside. Like I’m going to let that happen.

Dad says not to move, he’ll be right back. I stare at the freak show and wonder, What the hell? What could possibly be next? No water. No power. No cars. And now we can’t see out the windows? Then I think—no more texting with Amanda. I’m ready to punch my fist through the door when a muffled voice says, “Pood thith on.”

Dad’s wearing an air filter, the kind he uses when he’s painting the house or working in the garage turning perfectly good wood into sawdust. He hands me one of the same.

“Why?” I say.

“Just do it.”

“Not until you tell me why.”

“Because maybe it’s not fog.”

“Yeah?”

He sighs through the mask.

“Maybe it’s … maybe it’s a nerve agent.”

My heart kicks into turbo. “You mean a gas? Like they’re
gassing
us?”

“It’s a possibility.”

I grab the filter, slide it over my nose and mouth, stretch the elastic band around my head.

He says, “You feeling any numbness in your fingers or toes?”

“No. You?”

“Not yet. Do you see any blood coming out of my ears?” He shows me one ear, then the other.

“No.”

He examines me. “Nothing yet.” He takes off his glasses and says, “See any blood dripping from my eyes?”

“No! Jesus, Dad! Are you crazy?”

He says, “One of the first signs of nerve gas is blood leaking out of body orifices.”

“Well, if you’re trying to scare me, mission freaking accomplished!”

That shuts him up. We stand there looking out at the swirling gray, two housebound humans with cheesy face filters you can buy at Walmart for a buck twenty-five. If this is really nerve gas, then what we really need is a freaking spacesuit. And that makes me think: If these pathetic things actually work, then the PODs screwed this one up big-time.

Dutch presses his nose to the glass. He lets out a long, sad whimper. I haven’t seen him like this in a long time. He really wants to go out there. I wonder if Dad has a filter for him.

A small bird lands on the back of a patio chair. It’s only two feet from where we’re standing, a smudge of brown in a sea of gray. Three blinks later and it flies off.

“I guess it’s not
bird agent
,” I say.

Dad says, “Maybe it’s human-specific. They’re obviously leaving animals alone.”

I point to Dutch. “So you think we can let him outside in that stuff?”

“Why?”

“You want him to take a whiz on your foot?”

“That would mean opening the door.”

“Dad, what have we got to lose?” His eyes narrow above the mask. “I mean, if this is a human-specific nerve agent, we’re going to die soon enough anyway. We might as well save Dutch the embarrassment of peeing on the carpet.”

“All right,” Dad says in a surprise move. “But do it quick and hold your breath.”

“Should I get the rope?” These days we don’t let Dutch outside unless he’s tied to a long rope. That way he won’t wander off.

“No,” he says. “We wouldn’t be able to seal the door.”

“Good point.”

I wrap my fingers around the handle, undo the latch. Dutch perks his ears, stands up, and wags his tail. He thinks we’re going for a walk. Yeah, right. I count to three and open the door just wide enough for a fat old Lab to waddle through.