The Stranger (24 page)

Thirty-six

“Hey, Michaela, come and take a look at what I’ve found.”

Stifling a yawn, she walked into the kitchen, her eyes still sleepy. “Some fine vintage wines, I hope . . . pardon me.” She yawned again. “Thanks for breakfast, by the way. Breakfast in bed has to be a first since God knows how long.” She pushed back her hair. “What have you got there, Greg?”

“Popcorn.”

“Popcorn? Thought of everything, didn’t they?”

“See? It’s the kind you cook in a pan.” I put the pan on the stove and began to tear open the foil wrapper to expose a block of golden corn fused together by butter. “Great stuff, this. When I was ten I nearly lost an eye making it. A piece of corn shot from the pan and hit me. Red-hot it was, too. I had to sit for an hour with a wet sponge pressed to my eye.”

Michaela laughed, bemused. “But popcorn at this time of the morning, Greg?”

“We’re on vacation, aren’t we? C’mon, break some rules. Let’s make popcorn and watch a movie.”

“Are you sure you aren’t crazy?”

I grinned and yattered away in a lighthearted way. But there was method to my madness. “Look at this, Michaela.” I showed her that the pan had a glass lid. “Now we can see the corn popping before our very eyes.”

She grinned. “You are mad, Valdiva. Now I’m going back to bed.”

“You can’t miss this. Marvel at how these little seeds become puffs of snowy white corn. Be amazed at how a block the size of a cigarette carton grows miraculously to fill the pan.”

“You’re nuts. I’m going back to sleep.”

“You’ll miss the popcorn!”

“Well, my loss.”

“Wonderful popcorn.”

“I don’t even like popcorn.”

“Of course you do. Everyone loves popcorn.”

“There are always pieces of corn that don’t get popped and you wind up cracking a tooth on it.”

“Michaela, my love—”

“You been drinking, Greg?”

“You lay on the couch, my darling. I’ll pop one piece through your red-rose lips one delicious morsel at a time.”

Her grin faded. “Greg, you’re starting to make me nervous.”

“Help me make popcorn, my love.”

“No, really . . . stop this, Greg.”

“I’ll stop on one condition?”

“What’s that?” She looked uneasy.

“Help me make the popcorn.”

“Greg—”

She looked ready to storm out of the kitchen. Could I blame her? I was acting weird.

“Michaela, listen, it used to be a big thing at home. Saturday evenings Mom would put up her feet after working all day. Chelle—that’s my sister—and I would wash up the supper things, then make popcorn together. It was a . . . a ritual, I guess you’d call it. We made the popcorn year in, year out. I must have made hundreds of pansful. . . . Of course, I was always so curious to see the corn popping I’d take a little peak into the pan and
bang!
Hot corn would come flying out like machine-gun bullets.”

“Your mom must have loved popcorn.”

“As a matter of fact she didn’t. She always complained that there’d be an unpopped piece of corn that would chip a tooth.” I smiled. “But it was our ritual.”

“So making the stuff was the best part of it.”

“Absolutely.”

She gave a good-natured sigh. “OK, then. Let’s make popcorn.” She dug me in the ribs with her finger. “But no more weird stuff, right?”

“Right.”

“OK, start cooking.”

“Come close . . . closer, right up close to me.”

“Greg, I warned you.”

“You want to see the corn pop, don’t you?”

“No funny stuff, OK?”

I turned up the heat, then dropped the block of buttered corn into the pan.

“Don’t forget the lid, Greg. I’ve got two eyes and I want to keep it that way.”

She did stand close to me, but she kept shooting me looks that said loud and clear that she was suspicious of me. Maybe wondering what I’d do next. “See, the butter’s starting to melt.”

“Thrilling.”

“It’s bubbling now.”

“Exciting.”

“Are you humoring me, Michaela Ford?”

“I am, Valdiva. I could be in bed sleeping instead of watching—”

“Whoa, I think we have lift off. No . . . false alarm.”

“You have been drinking.”

“Hear it, hissing? Should be any second now that we . . . No. It needs to be hotter. I’ll give it more gas.” The first piece of corn popped. Through the glass I saw fluffy white erupt from the shell of the corn. “Don’t miss any of this, Michaela.”

“Greg?”

I put my arm around her waist and pulled her close to me so she could look into the pan through the glass lid.

“Greg, maybe we should talk about personal bound-aries. I don’t think—”

“Whoa, here it comes. Sounds like firecrackers, doesn’t it?”

“You are nuts. And you’re making me nervous, so—”

“Wow, here it comes.” As the clatter of popping corn swelled I still kept the fascinated look on my face as I gazed through the lid, but I whispered low enough to keep my voice beneath the sound of frying corn, “Michaela, humor me. Do you get the feeling Phoenix is listening to every word we say?”

To her credit she didn’t react. She fixed her eyes on the popcorn pan. “You thought it, too?”

“And watches us.”

“I don’t see any cameras.”

“Neither do I,” I whispered, still standing with my arm ’round her while grinning like a loon at the popping corn. “But think back to the decontamination procedure. The way he told us to move from one part of the room to the other suggested he could see us. Hey, there go a whole bunch of corn. How do they expand like that?”

“Search me.”

The popping of corn came in sporadic bursts like machine gun fire. We had to synch our conversation to the clatter of exploding corn to make sure Phoenix didn’t hear us over microphones that must be concealed nearby.

As the bang of corn grew louder again I said, “When we went through decontamination Phoenix was watching us.”

“And probably juicing himself watching our reactions as we stood there, scared half to death.”

“He didn’t warn us about the disinfectant spray or the cold water shower. . . . There should be some more corn in there to pop.”

“There always is. Remember what I said about our teeth?” Once more the clatter of exploding kernels filled the kitchen. “Something isn’t right here, is it?”

“I feel like a peep show.”

“Those guys have been isolated in here for months. We might be their favorite TV show.”

“Possibly . . . You want salt on the popcorn . . . or they want something else from us.”

“Like what?”

“Who knows, but I’ll tell you something . . .” The popping paused for a second before restarting. “We’re unarmed; we depend on these bunker people for food and protection. I’m starting to feel we’re at their mercy.”

“So what do you propose?”

“Last night I found something written on a sheet of paper that could be useful.”

“Useful? How?”

The popping paused. Without the loud popping to mask my voice I reverted to chitchat. “Do you want coffee with this? Or there’s soda in the refrigerator.” I gave the pan a shake. The corn must be all but used up. Popcorn had reached the lid. “Hey, here we go again.” The bangs and pops started up, nice and loud. I whispered, “There were sets of numbers on some paper. Code numbers for the locked doors. What do you say to some late-night exploring?”

“Michaela, Greg. Good morning.”
The voice of Phoenix broke in quickly. “Did you both sleep well?”

We broke the clinch and turned to reply to that disembodied voice.

“Fine, thanks,” Michaela said pleasantly. “We helped ourselves to breakfast.”

“Of course, be our guests.” Phoenix’s velvet voice padded from the speaker. “After all, your tax dollars paid for it. Be sure to make yourself at home and enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Thanks, we will,” I said.

“Any plans?”

“We thought we’d stay home today.”

Phoenix laughed. “You might as well. It’s raining out.”

“Any sign of hornets?”

“Oh, the infected people? Yes, they’re still waiting outside the door. They won’t quit for a day or so yet.”

“Do you know what became of your previous guests, Phoenix? People like us you invited in to stay for a while?”

“They moved on. Of course we—the bunker crew, that is—don’t know where they went. Naturally we pray they found some safe haven. What’s that sound?”

“A sound?” Michaela asked the question innocently.

“Yes. It sounded like gunshots.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “It’s just popcorn.”

“Popcorn? It sounded so loud.” Phoenix paused.

I said, “The pan must be close to a mike.”

“Maybe,” Phoenix agreed. “Now don’t go burning yourselves, will you, guys?”

“We won’t.” Michaela laughed. “Why don’t you come across and join us?”

“I wish I could, Michaela. Only the rules don’t allow it.”

“Rules are made to be broken.”

“An intriguing thought. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. We’ve got a little incident happening at one our sister installations.”

“An incident, Phoenix? What kind of incident?”

But there was no reply. We stood looking at the kitchen walls for a moment, waiting for the voice of Phoenix to return.

“I guess the man’s busy,” I said. “Let’s watch some TV.”

“What are you doing, Michaela?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re sketching.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you sketching me?”

“Nothing else to sketch.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.”

“Are you ticklish?”

“Do you bleed?”

“I bleed, but I’m going to tickle you.”

We were in the lounge area. I’d sat eating popcorn while watching a batch of sitcoms. I only just noticed that Michaela had curled herself into a big, plump arm-chair, where she worked with a pencil on some scraps of paper.

I hooked my hands like claws, then shambled across to her; my knees bowed like a gorilla’s. “Gonna get pretty lady. Gonna tickle her good and hard.”

“You do and I’ll bust your lip.” She laughed and threw a cushion at me.

“That’s don’t hurt Mungo,” I grunted. “Mungo tickle pretty lady.”

“Here, let me draw Mungo. Hold still while I sketch that big bulbous forehead of yours.”

“Like this.” I struck a pose with my arms reaching out over her monster-style.

“Yeah, like that.”

“Mungo like pretty lady?”

“Mungo very pretty.” Smiling, she worked the pencil. “I’m drawing Mungo’s big round nostrils, the big wart on his nose. His staring eyes, shaggy eyebrows; his bug-ugly yellow teeth.”

“Mungo see now.”

“Mungo can wait.”

“Mungo impatient.” I grunted like a gorilla, but oh, Jesus, keeping up this playacting was making me crazy. I wanted—hell, no—I craved to have a proper conversation about Phoenix and my suspicions, but by this time I’d convinced myself that not only were there microphones dotted about the bunker but hidden cameras, too. Those things were probably implanted in the walls, and of course the lenses would be little bigger than pinheads. To all intents and purposes they were invisible.

“Right, show me the picture or I tickle good and hard,” I told her.

“Oh, all right. Here. Sit down beside me.” She patted the cushion. I sat beside her. Then she pointed at the drawing. “I think I’ve got the lips just perfect, don’t you?” She pointed at what I took to be a drawing of a face with a long smiling mouth. Instead of lips I realized she’d run words together:
Good-Idea. The-Popcorn-Scam-Worked
. Then she pointed to the chin, which was formed by the words:
Didn’t-Hear-Us-Did-He?

“What do you think?” she asked, fixing me with her eye.

“My God, Michaela, you’ve really caught my chin, but where are my eyebrows?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“Here, give me the pencil.” Above the eyes I wrote:
Careful, he’ll be watching
. “There; eat your heart out, da Vinci.”

We sat ’round some more. All the time I felt conscious of camera lenses burning into the pair of us. I guessed that Michaela felt the same way. She continued to sketch, but she looked a little on edge. Try as I might, it was hard to concentrate on the TV. My eyes kept sliding off screen to try to find those hidden camera lenses.

“Say, people, good news!”
Phoenix spoke so abruptly that Michaela started. “Listen, I’ve been given security clearance from the highest level to show you something.”

Michaela and I looked at each other. Phoenix sounded excited.

“So, Greg, Michaela, if you could move into the lounge so you can see the TV screen . . .”

I said, “We’re already in the lounge, Phoenix.” But then, he knew that, I’d wager. He’d been sitting in his lair watching us all along.

Michaela put down the sketches. “What you got to show us, Phoenix?”

“I hope you guys are going to be as thrilled as I am about this. We’re implementing something called Reach Out. At last we’re allowed to start doing what we’ve been put here to do.”

“How does that work, Phoenix?”

“As the program title states we’re going to Reach Out to bands of survivors like yourselves to provide you with food, ammunition and medicines.”

“You mean you’re going to help us?” Michaela’s eyes were wide.

“That’s right.”

“That’s going to be a tough one, Phoenix,” I said. “You haven’t seen the mess the cities are in, or how few there are of us who survived in the outside world.”

“Oh, but there are.” The velvet voice gushed now.

“There are more than you think, Greg. Of course, this epidemic hit the country hard, but there are hundreds and hundreds of facilities like this. Most are far bigger, housing a hundred or more people.”

“You make it sound like Noah’s ark.”

“Think of it as hundreds of arks. Each with stores of food, seeds for planting new crops, fuel. There are agricultural experts as well as engineers, mechanics and scientists, ready to help rebuild.” The enthusiasm made his voice soar. “This is a new beginning. You, Michaela and Greg, can be part of it.”

“How do we fit in?” Nice and easy does it, said the cautious voice in the back of my head. Something’s brewing here. Someone’s been making plans.