Eleven Twenty-Three (43 page)

“Yeah, um, Hajime told me that you knew,”
Mitsuko says. “I fully realize how much you must hate me right now,
Tara…and maybe you always have…but Layne and I are through. He’ll
tell you the same thing. It’s been over for some time. We both
regret what happened last summer, I’m sure. It’s in the past and
it’s not important to what we’re trying to accomplish
now
.
We’re both through with that, and basically…and basically I just
want to be in on what you guys are doing. That’s all.”

“How do we know this isn’t some kind of
trick?” Julie asks. “How do we know you’re not scheming something
right now as we speak, Mitsuko?”

“What do I have to scheme, you guys? What
could I possibly be planning? Everybody’s dead. There’s no reason
to dick you guys over at this point. Jesus, I mean…why do you
hate
me so much?”

“Well, Mitsuko,” Tara says flatly, “you did
have sex with my boyfriend, repeatedly. Not to mention you’ve acted
like a cooze toward me since the first time we met. How’s that? Do
you need more?”

“Look, I’m sorry that I’ve always been kind
of a bitch, but…well…I guess I was just hoping we could put our
differences aside on this one and get the hell out of here.
Together.”

“And then what?” Julie says, but isn’t
looking at Mitsuko when she does so.

“Are you asking Mitsuko or everyone?” I ask,
confused.

“Everyone.”

“Layne wants to go back,” Tara says. “Back to
Suzhou.”

All three of these harpies turn toward me
simultaneously and offer looks of incredulity. Apparently, no one
expects me to make it back, and consider any notion on my part of
restoring order and returning to the way things were last week as
utterly naive and stupid.

“It’s not like they’re going to be looking
for us in the airport,” I argue uselessly. “I doubt our escape will
ever be recorded. We’ll simply be shrugged off.”

“What about you and Julie?” Mitsuko asks the
others, and I realize that in some circles, the shrug already came
and went.

“I’ve got family out west,” Julie says. “I
figured I might stay with the couple here and just part ways once
we got to California.”

“That’s your plan?” Tara says, having had no
idea.

“Tentatively.”

“And what about you, Tara?” Mitsuko says,
looking her in the face now. “Are you going back with Layne?”

“That’s a good question,” I mumble from the
kitchen.

Tara does not answer for a long time.
Finally, she looks at me and says, “Let’s just deal with what we do
after the escape
after
the escape, okay?”

“What about you, Mitsuko? What are your plans
should we actually pull this off?”

“Once we leave town, I’ll go my separate way,
if that’s what you guys want. I’ll be fine. I’ll contact my parents
and get them to help me. Maybe even somehow manage to save Hajime
still. Who knows?”

“Have you told Hajime about this?” I say,
full of regret every time I think about my best friend over there
on Golding Street.

“No, and I’m not
going to
tell him,
either. He’s made his decision and I’m trying to make mine. If I’m
ever going to help him again, it will be from the outside. But I’ve
got to worry about helping myself right now, and I can’t do that
without you guys. So please…what’s the verdict?”

There is a prolonged, uncomfortable moment of
reflection. Julie offers me an almost unnoticeable shake of the
head and jutting of the eyebrows that communicate her disapproval
of this addendum to our plot. I shrug helplessly and wait for Tara.
Tara buries her face in her lap and takes a deep breath. Then she
takes another one.

“Okay, Layne,” she finally says, exhaling.
“Let’s go over the plan again.”

11:16:34 AM

With just under seven minutes left before the
change, I move behind each of the three chairs, checking the knots
I tied carefully. I jerk on the phone cords and test the elasticity
of the neckties I’ve used to bind their hands. Tara and Julie keep
their gaze diverted away from me, silently assuring themselves that
this will work, that things will be okay. The newest member of our
group is not so sure.

Someone left the TV on, and a news broadcast
from the world at large shows a live feed taken via helicopter more
than two miles from what they’re calling the “smallpox epicenter”
of Lilly’s End. Separated by a numbing distance, the news crew
succeeds in capturing shots of several crooked lines of smoke
rising into the atmosphere from the disease-ridden town. Through a
telephoto lens, the camera focuses on three Japanese doctors, made
anonymous behind surgical masks. They’re met in silence by a
European businessman in a black suit and crimson tie, his face also
obscured by a mask. The anchor, obviously unimpressed by the lack
of developments, mentions that all residents not infected by the
virus have been evacuated to an undisclosed facility for
observation and further testing. Meanwhile, the town of Lilly’s End
has deteriorated from a population just over a thousand to less
than four hundred in under seven days. To make matters worse,
infected citizens continue to make attempts at escaping and
spreading the virus to the outside world. Several of the would-be
escapees have affiliations with terrorist cells in the Middle East.
Strict military force has been employed to keep the infected
quarantined and the rest of America safe.

Crews continue to administer treatment to
victims of the smallpox strain, but the mood is glum down in
Florida this morning. The mortality rate of what’s now being
referred to as
Variola mille
is 99.72 percent (only one
resident is known to have contracted the virus and survived over
twenty-four hours), making it one of the deadliest scourges in all
recorded human history.

Am I that fraction of a percent?

“I thought there were more people here than
just a thousand,” Julie says, focusing on the television in an
effort to forget the restraints. “I thought it was much higher than
that, especially during winter.”

“It is,” I say. “I mean, it was, anyway.
They’re downplaying the casualties. Slicing off the crusts and
wrapping things up. By tomorrow there will be no more witnesses to
dispute any of their absurd figures.”

On the screen, the flash of a black screen
and a message:

Everyone plays a role now.

Two minutes later, I observe the three girls
from the recliner while inhaling nervously on a cigarette. I try to
avoid eye contact with Mitsuko, who fidgets with discomfort each
time I acknowledge her presence.

“Why don’t either of you have a major problem
with this arrangement?” Mitsuko asks her companions, trying to turn
her head toward them.

“Well hopefully, this will be the last eleven
twenty-three we ever have to go through,” Julie says. “If we’re
still in Lilly’s End twelve hours from now, I hope it kills
us.”

“I’m not talking about the outbreak that’s
about to happen, Julie. What makes me nervous is the fact that both
of you are allowing Layne to restrain you and leave you defenseless
if he turns.”

“Believe me, I know what you’re saying,” Tara
says, inspecting her chair and the makeshift ropes wrapped around
her. “But for whatever reason, Layne hasn’t turned even once since
the first night when he attached the briefcase to his wrist. This
plan worked yesterday when I went under, which leads me to believe
that it will work today, too.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Mitsuko declares. “I
don’t like it one god damned bit.”

“Do you want to be a part of this or not,
Mitsuko?” I ask coldly. “It’s your decision. Let me know now.”

She sucks in air through gritted teeth and
glares at me.

“I didn’t survive all through this, bury my
husband’s memory away, and swallow my pride by coming here just to
end up dying like
this
.”

“Tara, I’m going to untie her. I change my
mind, Mitsuko. Get the fuck out of here.”

I begin undoing her knots but she shakes her
head. Inside her, something is lost, ignored into
non-existence.

“Okay, okay. My death wouldn’t quite qualify
as a tragedy anyway, I guess. So what the hell. Layne, check the
knots again and let’s get this over with.”

Three minutes pass, and like clockwork
(because in a way, it is), the pains begin. Stomachs cramp. Heads
swoon and syncopate. The world spins. The earth flies out of orbit
and everything becomes tilted, sideways, and then overturned
completely. The three restrained girls try to breathe calmly, but
succeed only in vomiting on themselves and getting trapped in
violent fits of foul-smelling dry heaves.

I press the briefcase into my lap, clenching
it against my stomach with both hands as if it were the lone life
preserver in the aftermath of the torpedoed Indianapolis.

Lost somewhere amid the wrenching pain in my
gut and the spinning planet, the tiny evil voice: Mitsuko and her
husband only live on the second floor of their building. Their
balcony overlooks a grassy courtyard.

And from the television, more psychorama:

In the long run, the answer to every
American’s question is death.

Three minutes after that, it’s started again.
Started for the last time.

I’m frantically working my fingernails into
the knots I tied on Tara’s chair. Tara fidgets around incessantly,
not making the process any easier. Every time I start to untie the
cords, my girlfriend makes a sudden move and ruins my grip.

“Tara, be
still
, for Christ’s sake,” I
say, sweat running down my forehead and stinging my eyes. “I can’t
get this undone if you won’t stop moving.”

“Well hurry up!” she pants.

Mitsuko’s chair has fallen onto its side with
her still strapped in. She rhythmically slams her head into the
floor, but I quickly throw a couch cushion under her skull. Julie’s
eyes are black balls in her skull; she roars demonically while
throwing her body from side to side, trying to escape from the
chair.

Tara and I didn’t turn.

I finally get Tara free and she scrambles
over to her best friend’s seat. I reluctantly move toward Mitsuko,
who clenches her body up and stares blankly at the ceiling while
gargling the foam in her mouth.

“Just keep telling yourself that this will be
the last time we ever have to do this.”

“I hope so,” Tara says, trying to lessen the
slack Julie is making with the phone cord. “We haven’t even thought
of the ramifications of the alternative.”

Julie wriggles one of her hands free of the
restraints and reaches up behind her shoulder. Tara twists away
from her wandering grip, but Julie catches her on the second
attempt, bundling up the fabric on Tara’s shirtsleeve. I
immediately abandon the knot I was reinforcing on Mitsuko’s cord
and make a dash for my girlfriend. Just as I am within reach of
Tara’s hand, Julie wrangles her other arm free and uses it to reel
Tara onto her side on the floor.

“Layne—help—”

The moment I leave her unattended, Mitsuko
wrestles both arms from her fetters and goes to work on the knots
around her waist.

Another two minutes pass, each burst of sixty
seconds longer than the last as our situation deteriorates.

Mitsuko’s feet are still tied firmly to the
legs of the chair, and she pulls it behind her as she wrestles her
way on top of me. She reaches up under my shirt, and I am reminded
of a nightmare I once had on a long overnight flight home.

I catch a glimpse of Tara punching Julie
across the jaw. Julie spins and lands backward on the side of the
chair. Her spine pounds into the wooden legs and I wince at the
sight.

That’s when the fingernails dig into my
chest.

I cry out in pain as Mitsuko grinds deeper
and deeper into my flesh. Her evil smirk becomes an evil beam, and
she raises one arm to bring down against my face. I wriggle my left
hand free and press my fingers into Mitsuko’s neck, cutting off her
breathing and for a moment easing the pressure of her nails in my
skin.

Tara works her way behind Julie and places
her in a flimsy headlock, from which Julie immediately escapes. She
bites into Tara’s side. I see blood swell up through the fabric of
Tara’s shirt around Julie’s mouth. The whole room becomes Tara’s
desperate scream.

Mitsuko clenches her fist and she bites into
her wrist, attempting gnaw off her own hand.

I happen to glance over at the TV just in
time for more words of inspiration from the men behind this:

Wars will be fought in your name.

Three minutes go by, but I’m not sure
how.

Julie manages to lurch out of Tara’s grip
again, but instead of attacking once more, moves out of the living
room toward the kitchen. Tara hesitates before following her,
giving me a final worried look as she does so.

The monsters are trying to separate us.

I momentarily keep Mitsuko’s bitten hand
restrained behind her back, but it keeps slipping out of my grip
because of the blood and saliva. Mitsuko jerks left, then right,
and tries to whirl herself around to confront me behind her. At one
point, as if her head were no longer attached entirely to her body,
Mitsuko manages to turn almost completely around to face me. She
goes in for the bite. I punch her in the forehead and a cathartic
feeling washes over me just before my hand pulsates and goes numb
from the strike.

From the kitchen, I hear silverware hitting
the floor. Vicious incoherent rambling. Tara pleading for Julie to
stop. Glass shattering on the tile.

I swallow and tighten my grip on Mitsuko,
unsure which of these women will die in the next four minutes, but
certain one of them will. Tara is the first to come to mind.