Going Gray (18 page)

At Mr. Halcomb’s request, her father mapped where the storm drain was, and what service tunnels he’d traveled. A notepad on the table, and a pencil perched in his fingers, he drew long lazy lines, but struggled to steady his trembling hand.
Dehydration
, he’d said, but she thought it must have been more than that.
How many hours had he slept?
And as he drew the lines, connecting them, labeling them, he assured everyone that none of the map was to scale. But nobody objected—nobody would. Even in his exhausted state, she could see how folks revered him. He often spoke fast and used words that she did not recognize, and she knew she wasn’t the only one.
Geek talk
, her mother called it. Sometimes she’d throw in
Chipmunk
too, on account of how fast he spoke.
Chipmunk Geek Talk.
And her mother often joked that he was an engineer first and a human second
.

From their home, along the highway, and some of the other roads, he showed the service tunnels he’d followed.
Some of the tunnels open up to the outside too
, he’d said.
Large culverts,
connecting under some of the intersecting roads so that the rain water has somewhere to go.

“The culverts are tricky,” he explained. “They’re exposed to the outside, but below ground level, so you’re safe from the clouds.”

“How are you safe?” someone asked.

“Clouds won’t dip below ground level… most barely make it to the ground.”

“That explains the air in the service tunnels,” Mr. Halcomb added.

Emily tapped her finger to the table, nearing the area on the paper where she’d expected to see a service tunnel leading to the beach. But that area of the paper stayed blank. Her father had never gone further than the mall. His map was incomplete—and she was certain it lead to the ocean and the machine.

The folks that had gathered to listen to her father dispersed, taking what they’d learned and disappeared back into the surrounding mall—the only thing missing were the shopping bags. Otherwise, the view in front of her could have been from any weekend. Mr. Halcomb motioned to Peter, asking for some help. A chill rushed over her back where she’d been leaning against his chest.

And as she watched Peter join Mr. Halcomb, she caught her father following him too. She bit at her lip, and her heart paced nervously.

“Emily?” was all her father said, but it was enough. She pulled on her shirt, and sat down across from him, shrugging with a bit of uncertainty. “Just be careful. Understand?”

“I am, Daddy,” she answered.

“With everything going on—” he started to say, and motioned around him. “—I don’t want to see you get hurt.” She nodded, deciding to stifle what she really wanted to say. Sometimes the truth is best left unsaid.

“They’re gathering soon,” she told him, trying to change the subject. “You should join the meeting… maybe help some of the others understand what is going on.” Her father’s eyes widened with alarm. He sat Justin back up, rubbing his son’s back and kissed his forehead like he’d always done when ready to leave them.

“Justin, how about we play some later?” he asked, but Justin quickly harped a stern
no
, grabbing his father’s arm in a full hug. “Grown-ups have a meeting, and you don’t want to be bored, do you?” Justin’s boyish blue eyes glanced to where his friends were playing. He shook his head, and was off a moment later.

“You met Mr. Halcomb, he kind of runs things. Ms. Parks is helping, too. I guess we’re all helping,” she added, wanting to share what Peter had shared with her when she’d first woken up.

“What do you mean by helping them understand?” he asked. And at once, she recognized his tone. She shrugged, unknowingly, and shook her head, saying nothing. “It wouldn’t help if anyone knew where I worked. They’re going to want answers that I can’t give them.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she answered. Her tone was sharp, and she suddenly felt hurt and emotional. “I heard you and Mom talking, and I know better than to say anything. I just thought you could help.”

“Em, listen to me, listen
good
,” he said, his expression bleak. He glanced to Justin and then back. “It’s very important that nobody knows about where I was working.” For a moment, she let the silence fall between them, but could feel the tension like a static charge.

“I understand—”, she finally began, but the uncomfortable moment had become something more: disappointment. Her eyes were damp, but she was stronger and held back. Her father did know something, and they were all in danger for it. “Just thought you’d be able to help is all.”

“Oh Em, I’m sorry. Please,” he said, leaning over to hold her. “It’s just best that nobody ask about the machine or the ocean and what is going on.”

“We think the service tunnel might go to the beach… to the machine,” she said, hoping to tap her father’s curiosity. It was manipulative, but she’d seen her mother do the same. Emily turned the hand-drawn map around and motioned with her finger past the mall toward the edge of the paper. “That’s the ocean, right?”

Her father gazed at the map, cradling the table and the lip of the paper map. He stared for what seemed a long time, and then beyond her the way he sometimes did, looking at nothing in particular. He was thinking.

“If that service tunnel reaches the ocean—” he started, and abruptly stopped, but his lips continued moving until he was nodding. “Yes! If that tunnel exits to the beach—where I think it does—then we can reach the machine.”

“We?” she asked, wondering if he wanted her to come with him.

He shook his head right away. “We—as in just me, and maybe one more. I’ll need the extra hands to help. Your friend, Peter, looks strong enough.”

At the mention of Peter’s name, a new kind of concern leapt up inside her. She scowled, regretting that she’d ever mentioned the tunnel.

“Well, maybe he’d be more helpful here?” she suggested.

“Or… I might need someone older, more mechanical and experienced and all. Maybe Mr. Halcomb?”

“Yeah. I think he’s mechanical,” she blurted without having any idea at all what he meant. She added, “Definitely older.”

Her father placed his hand on top of hers, covering the ocean and the service tunnel. “Don’t worry, Em. I understand.” A smile ticked the corner of his mouth, but then disappeared. “But don’t mention any of this. Not until we know more. People are hurting, and when they’re hurt, they’re going to react.”

“But why… what is going on?” she asked, unable to stave the curiosity. After all, if there was any chance of stopping what happened, then maybe someone in the group could help him. Her father sat back, shaking his head. “Maybe someone here can help you stop it?”

“Maybe,” he answered, and gazed past her again. And again, she didn’t think he was looking at anything at all—just thinking:
chipmunk thinking
. “The service tunnel. Let’s find out if it does lead to the ocean first, and then see if we can figure out if it is near the machine too.”

XIV

MERRY-GO-ROUND

“Would you like to join us?”
Mr. Halcomb’s voice cut in. “That is if you are up for the discussion. If not, that is certainly understandable.”

“No… not at all. Yes,” her father answered, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin and standing. “Was just sharing service tunnel stories with Emily… talking about the rats.” Mr. Halcomb peeked over, nodded politely, and then turned back to her father.

“Couldn’t help but overhear a mention of the ocean.” he said. “Do you think it’s possible to get to the ocean from here?” As if they’d never discussed it, her father acted like he was considering the questions, but then shook his head.

“I never got past the Food-Mart,” he answered. “And then the mall, of course. But, we might want to explore the other passages. You know, map them all.” He went on like that for a few minutes, telling more of his story. And while he talked, his nose flared at times, making her feel uncomfortable. She couldn’t help but wonder how much of what he said was the truth and how much was a lie. Just how many lies were hidden in his words? She’d probably never know.

The mall groaned then. Subtle at first, and then stretching like a waking giant. Emily braced herself against the table when a rattle shook her. She waited for the mall to tip over as it had before, but the heaving stayed subtle: the low gravelly sounds interrupted by the occasional shatter of glass and something distant collapsing, crashing to the tiled floor.

The shaking went on for a minute longer, and Emily lightened her grip on the table. The small quake trailed off like a yawn, vibrating through her feet before crawling back from wherever it came. The quakes came and went like a restless sleep, turning and kicking and rolling over. A shiver of dust clouded the air, and her father lifted his hand to catch some of the large pieces; they looked like confetti and fell like paper snowflakes.

Smaller than the last, yet the heaviest of the shaking was enough to stop them, freeze them. And for one moment, the entire mall was completely still of any activity. The mall looked like a photograph dressing the opening page of a newspaper or the cover of a magazine—snapped in the moments before something horrific happened.

Emily checked the skylights above them. She studied the gray eyes, expecting to find a few cracks, or even worse, some hanging glass.

“They look okay,” her father said. “Still holding. The danger will be the falling glass.”

“Don’t think that was another explosion,” Mr. Halcomb stated. His tone was flat, tired. “Maybe the last few were, but that one was different. Felt different.” Mr. Halcomb had already forgotten about the ocean conversation. But others were going to ask. It was just a matter of time.

“No. Not an explosion,” her father added. “The last one was probably the Food-Mart… or part of the Food-Mart. Could be that more of it fell in?”

Mr. Halcomb gave him a short nod, agreeing.

Emily considered this, and thought of the Food-Mart’s glass front and the furthest part of the ceiling that had dipped first like a hanging tree limb. She didn’t understand the engineering like her father did, but it still pained her to think about it. The only remaining side might have finally collapsed, closing off the entrance for good.

“If we’re going to salvage anything else from there, we’ll have to wear the scuba gear,” she offered.

“Scuba gear?” her father asked, giving her a curious look.

She smiled, unsure of the idea herself. “Scuba gear. Peter’s idea.”

From behind a row of the makeshift beds, Ms. Parks appeared. She’d been running. Her cheeks were flush, and she was panting, trying to catch her breath. She waved to them, motioning for them to come to her.

“Now what do you suppose that’s about?” Mr. Halcomb asked, concerned.

“Fen, maybe.” Emily guessed. “Or maybe something else happened with that last shake?”

Ms. Parks was still out of breath by the time they’d reached her. The waddle below her chin quivered as she gasped for air. She leaned a hand on Mr. Halcomb’s shoulder, resting. His round frame dipped, taking on her weight, and he furrowed his brow, uncomfortable.

“What is it?” he asked.

“There’s something…” she started, and choked back a rattle of spit in her mouth. “There’s something going on outside. I didn’t want to scream it out, thinking it’d be safer if fewer ears heard me.”

Emily’s first thoughts were the sun. How glorious would that be? But her second thoughts were the dead. What would the world look like with the fog lifted?

“How do you know?” her father asked.

“Carousel,” she answered. “The merry-go-round. Behind it—the windows—go, and you’ll see.”

Their mall was the only mall in that part of the country to have its own, full-size, carnival carousel. Not a replica or a re-creation, but a genuine turn-of-the-century merry-go-round. In fact, to the best of her knowledge, theirs might be the only mall in the country that had a merry-go-round. Purchased and then donated by one of the town’s richest men, it was said to have been a favorite of his while growing up. And before he moved on, he wanted the children of their town to enjoy it.

Emily remembered the news stories and how the construction of the mall had been delayed because of the merry-go-round. And she remembered fondly, the broadcast and the field reporter. An early Saturday, her morning cartoons interrupted on the tube—that is what they called it back then—the reporter stood at the face of the mall’s construction sight. Soggy mud had stolen his shoes, and his tan jacket had been no match for the rain. With straight black hair pasted against his head, his eyes had disappeared behind large puddles. He wiped the rain from his round eyeglasses, blinking into the camera, squinting until he’d put the huge frames back on to see.

For that one morning, live on their local television station, Emily and her father and mother watched as they brought the merry-go-round inside the mall’s shell, piece by piece. The rest of the mall was built then, and the grandest of openings featured the much-publicized merry-go-round.

She was fascinated by her first ride on the merry-go-round, realizing that the carousel’s horse that she was hugging had actually been on television just a few months earlier. But now, considering how many things have changed with YouTube and Facebook, she felt the sentiment was a little childish, maybe even a bit stupid.