Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. His mother was so close, clawing her way down the steps. Others were following and the door was bulging inward. He laughed without sound.
"Goodbye, Amo," he said fuzzily. Then the door burst open with a crash and the flood of them poured bodily down the stairs.
"Robert," Amo called urgently, so distant now. "Robert."
"She's coming," he said, watching as they rushed down the stairs like the edge of the pool rising up to meet him, with his mother at the front. She looked so young. "I won't feel a thing. The darkness is so close. I'm going to turn the phone off now Amo. I don't want you to hear this. Goodbye."
He clicked the Skype call off then let the phone drop from his hand. His eyes were so heavy. He was diving again and this time he wasn't scared. Everybody was watching, and at last it was his big chance to reach the Olympics.
"I'm coming, Zane," he whispered, as his mother drew near.
8. WHEELS
In the darkness Green-O was dancing.
The three of them were standing at the edge of the 7-11 parking lot off Denver Road Park; Zane, Green-O and Bobby, moments before the forest behind Denver Elementary that would bring so many changes. They were all fifteen and giddy with the night to come.
The parking lot lay like an alien landscape before them, flat and mostly empty with only a few lonely cars resting like forgotten UFOs. Sterile white light beamed down in conical haloes from the security lamps, like half-opened umbrellas against the dark. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and potential.
It was the night of the big game. The Tigers had just won and the whole school was out celebrating and now they needed beer. The girls were waiting, one for each of them, even one for Green-O, probably several for Zane, and Sandra Rey for Bobby. She was the cute Latino who was quiet in class. Everyone said she was celibate as a nun, but not according to the note she'd passed him at the game, with a shy but knowing smile.
Tonight.
He'd almost blasted right through his pants when he read that. Who wrote notes like that? He'd folded it and given her a nod, trying to play it cool. Even now she was waiting behind the elementary school with the others for the beer run to come back.
And now Green-O was dancing.
"You go," Green-O said, nudging into Zane in the middle of his bobbling dance. "It's your turn."
Zane laughed and sucked on a cigarette. "You go, you little bitch. I went last time."
"And I went the time before," Bobby heard himself say. "Everyone's waiting."
"They know me in there," Green-O moaned. "You go and I'll pay you in dance. I'll dance for my supper and my beer."
"Nobody told you to dance," Zane said. "Stop being an idiot."
"He's drunk already," Bobby said, "or high."
"Dad's gone out, back room third drawer down on the left, whiskey," Green-O panted, still hopping and jigging. "Swig, replace with barley water and medicinal alcohol, repeat."
Zane snorted. "He'll whup the dancing out of you, I'll say that."
"Whup some of the fat might help too," Bobby muttered.
Green-O bumped into him accidentally-on-purpose, mid-dance. "You should be filming this shit," he said. "I'm going for the record."
"Record for being the biggest dick in Frayser?"
"I have the biggest dick," Green-O grinned. "Care to see?"
Zane looked at Bobby and Bobby nodded, and that was all the communication they needed. They stepped in together and tackled Green-O, crunching their shoulders into his hips and lifting him up.
Green-O squealed as he rose into the air. "What the-? I'm dancing here."
"Dance on, sugar plum fairy," Zane grunted. Green-O really was a fat little bastard. "Dance all the way down the beer aisle to the cash register."
They lurched out across the asphalt lot with him squashed between them, still dancing. To make matters worse he started to sing too: the Supremes'
Stop! In the Name of Love
. He played their backs as drums and hit his falsetto so hard they had to put him down in the middle of the dark lot and stop to laugh.
"You fat little bastard," Zane laughed.
"I'm in no shape to go in there," Green-O mewled. "Bobby, you go Bobby, please Bobby."
Bobby looked at this ridiculous, hilarious version of Green-O. He couldn't know then that in just an hour's time Green-O would be shot in the gut, Zane would be dead and Bobby would be left panting in the midst of bloody Orandelles with his future falling apart.
All he knew was that these were his friends. Green-O squashed his face up for another falsetto, looking a little like an aged Diana Ross. Such a tempting target. Bobby pulled his hand back then slapped Green-O's face so hard it sounded like a pistol shot. Zane erupted in laughter. Green-O yelled, "Son of a bitch!"
"Do you want beer or not?"
"You shit, of course I want beer!" Green-O stopped his song and dance to rub his cheek, then looked at his hand as if there might be blood there. Zane laughed harder.
"That was a good one," Zane managed between gasps. "Oh, Lord save me, that was a good one, Bobby."
"A goddamn case full of beer," Green-O bitched as tears welled in his eyes and the welt mark of Bobby's hand rose on his cheek. "Beer and shots and a bandage, you bastard."
"I'll go get the beer then," Bobby said.
* * *
He roused with a head full of methadone fog. Dreams still trailed at the edges of his vision and a phantom Green-O danced round the room.
"The beer's this way," Green-O sang, and started up a set of silvery stairs.
Robert rubbed his eyes and took in the dark space. It didn't look like the 7-11.
"Wait for me," he said in a dry croak.
Green-O didn't wait and neither did Zane or any of the others, instead they filed up the stairs in a neat, single line, silent but for a raspy, synchronized breathing. There was something odd about the way they moved, an uneven gait like they were halfway drunk, and their eyes seemed to be glowing like flashlights, illuminating the dark basement.
Reality punctured through, and Robert blinked as the scene before him resolved. Dark bodies lumbered up from their positions on the floor around him and started up the stairs. There were dozens of them lying everywhere, filling his floor from wall to wall, curled around his trophy shelf, lying everywhere like a human carpet.
Zombies. Zombies in his room.
Panic hit, but hit softly through the fog. It looked like they were leaving. He tried to pick out his mother's form but couldn't. It was too dark, with only faint light filtering in from above, and they all looked the same; shuffling in the darkness.
He tried to piece together what must have happened. They'd battered their way in, charged over to him, then laid down on the floor. It didn't make sense.
Quietly he stretched for the clock on one of his nightstands: 9:42pm. He'd been out for over twelve hours, mercifully short given how much methadone he'd taken. That was twelve hours during which they could have feasted on him, and hadn't.
Instead they were leaving, and he watched them go wordlessly. Soon the last of them trudged up the stairs and along the hall overhead, leaving a total silence behind: no hum of the air-con running, no low buzz of the computer's fan, no drone of traffic in the street above; just silence.
It was surreal.
He let out a shaky breath and pulled the covers back to study his body.
His guts weren't hanging out in a ropey waterfall. His legs hadn't been bitten off at the knee. There wasn't a spot of blood anywhere; they hadn't even touched him. The demon was gone and the zombies were gone.
"Mom?" he tried, but she was gone, too.
He leaned over and looked for his cell phone on the cement floor. It was underneath the bed, skittered out of reach, leaving him one choice.
Get out of bed.
He peeled the covers all the way back and surveyed his legs, dressed in their sad little cartoon socks. Seeing them didn't hurt like it did before, but still it hurt. They were thin, pale and weak.
He guided them nervelessly off the bed, gripped the bed-frame, took a deep breath and slithered off the edge. For a moment his grip faltered and he almost fell, his weak muscles trembling with the weight, but he managed to guide his weight into an untidy slump. Sweat popped up on his forehead. He was on the floor.
It was cold, that was the main thing. Cold cement, and hard.
He gathered his phone: the battery was down but the bright screen was a welcome comfort. He clicked through to the last calls on Skype and tried to raise Amo, but it didn't ring. He tried to get the Internet but that was gone too. The only way to reach Amo now would be to actually reach him.
The wheelchair his mother had brought from the hospital still sat in a dusty corner, tucked behind a row of plastic bags containing shoes. He looked over at the stairs and shuddered. If one descent off the bed had left him short of breath and trembling, how would he manage an ascent like that?
First the wheelchair. He crawled over to it on his elbows, dragging his legs behind. It was exhausting and hurt his elbows and his shoulders, but at least there was no demon. At the chair he pushed the bags away to study it; a worn gray bucket seat with tarnished silvery poles and gray plastic wheels with old dirt set in the treads.
He tried to climb into it, but getting his butt up into the seat was much harder than he expected.
"How do you…," he mumbled, trying to figure it out. He tried one hand on the floor and one elbow in the seat, but that just ended with his head and one shoulder in the seat-bucket. He dropped back then tried turning round and climbing in backwards, but that put too much pressure on his shoulders and he was sweating and shaking in seconds.
He wasn't strong enough. There wasn't time. He'd deal with it later.
From his cupboard he pulled down clothes, falling on him in an undignified heap. He pulled on jeans, socks and sneakers, a fresh T-shirt and hoodie, gathered some more clothes and stuffed them in an old gym bag, then crawled over to the stairs pushing the chair in front.
There was a length of twine sticking off a nail in the wall, and he unraveled, attaching one half to the chair and the other to his belt. He set himself before the stairs, spun so his back was facing them, then put his palms on the bottom step and lifted.
It wasn't dignified, but he scraped onto the first step. He rubbed sweat off his brow. It was like an arm-stand, sort of, though not nearly as impressive. He did it again, now panting, gaining a better view of the basement. The bed that had been his world for so long looked small and sad. That propelled him on.
By the top he was gasping, trembling all over and drenched in sweat. He peeled off the hoodie and lay back in the hall, looking out through the front door to the empty street. It was dark out and a light wind blew the trees across the road. A pale figure loped by at a jog, lighting its way with his eyes.
Robert laughed. It was quite ridiculous.
The wheelchair came up easily enough, reeled in step by bouncing step, until it sat in the hall beside him. He pushed it into the kitchen, where he used the table to pull himself up onto the chair's gray leather seat.
It felt a little like the moment when he'd fetch something in the fulfillment center, and the diviner would chime cheerfully.
Ta-daa!
He set his feet on the stirrup rests, tried the wheels and they rolled smoothly. It felt amazing to move with such ease. Turning circles in the narrow space, he tried not to look at his mother's seat by the kitchen table.
He couldn't help her now.
From the lower cabinets he found a can of frank and beans. The gas oven still worked, so he heated it up and ate. After that he filled two tall Diet Coke bottles with water before the faucet pressure sputtered out. In the kitchen cupboard he found a set of his old football gloves and pulled them on, fished out a flashlight then looked around the kitchen a final time.
It was strange, but there was no reason to stay.
He rolled to the doorway and looked out over the street. The first few leaves of fall lay dappled across the asphalt, like splotches of blood on dark waters. The duplexes opposite were still as sentinels, watching over him. He hadn't been above ground for a year.
He dropped off the step and the slanted path rolled him fast down to the sidewalk, where he raced halfway across the street before he could get the chair under control. That was exhilarating, and he found himself excited despite everything.
He practiced controlling the chair in the middle of the street, pushing one wheel and pulling the other. It was strange to be able to move so easily, after giving up on his body for so long, and he loved it.
He started north along Riney Avenue without looking back. Three streets over he pulled onto Frayser Boulevard, where the road shone like a silver river in the moonlight, stopping his breath. Tall sycamore trees lined its banks, swaying in the gentle wind, featureless but for their outlines against the star-studded sky. A warm breeze carried scents of city dust, green tree sap and the comforting hot-tar smell of cooling asphalt.
To the east lay Walgreens, the Hi-Lo, the Second Tennessee Bank and the Minimart Express, looming like the faces of non-player characters in the Yangtze. To the west the road stretched into darkness and the Mississippi River.
Crickets chirped from the undergrowth. He felt small and big all at once, sitting in his chair.
"Hello Mississippi!" he called experimentally, for no particular reason. The night swallowed up his voice. "Hello Tennessee!"
It felt like he'd stumbled out of his basement and into an empty Deepcraft world. He couldn't help but feel happy, despite the loss of his mother. She was dead, but in truth he'd lost her and all the world a long time ago.
Now he had to find Amo. He pushed the wheels east without looking back, passing cars parked at diagonals across the street, many with their doors hanging open like spread-eagled cicadas gone crusty in the sun. He weaved between, pumping the wheels in spite of the pain in his palms.