Amnesia Moon (4 page)

“The radiation,” Chaos said. “The girl with me, the mutants. What about that? Where'd all that come from, if there was no bomb?”

“Dunno. Something weird happened, all right. But it wasn't bombs. And it didn't all happen in the order you think, either. That girl is what? Twelve, thirteen years old? We haven't been here thirteen years.”

Chaos felt outraged that Kellogg, of all people, was poking holes in his reality. “How long have we been here?” he asked.

Kellogg smiled. “I haven't the faintest fucking idea.”

“I don't understand.”

“I figured the mutants were one of your bright ideas. That's why I put you in Hatfork. I figured it was your half, that you liked that kind of stuff.”

Chaos shook his head. “You're mixed up again. You named me Chaos. It doesn't have anything to do with me. Calling me Chaos doesn't make things like that
my fault.
That's like naming someone Joy and then crediting them for everyone else's happiness.”

He continued up the steps.

Kellogg hurried alongside. “You're not still leaving, are you? Geez, I can't believe this is happening. You and me, Chaos. Kellogg and Chaos, Chaos and Kellogg . . . oh shit. Okay, listen: if you want, we'll go together. See if we can do better somewhere else. Start with a fresh canvas, you know? Somewhere where there's more potential, where things aren't so fucking hopeless to begin with. It isn't all our fault, you know. This place sucked before we even got here.”

Chaos didn't say anything.

“How far you gonna get without me?” said Kellogg angrily. “You're too raw, always have been. All potential, no polish. You need me. Besides, look.” He rushed ahead to his own car. It was parked a few feet from Chaos's. Jingling a huge set of keys, he opened the trunk.

“Look, ready to go. Don't tell me you thought of all this. Not that it's necessary, I'm sure you'd find a way. You could probably fly out of here on a fucking carpet if you put your mind to it, but the point is look, here. Please. Look.”

Chaos couldn't suppress his curiosity. He walked up to the back of Kellogg's car Kellogg spread his hands like a game-show host brandishing prizes. The trunk was stuffed with blankets, tools, flashlights, jugs of water, cans of food, and a spare can of gasoline. Some of the cans were dog food, but it was still impressive.

Kellogg stepped aside and let Chaos examine it. “What-cha think? If you gotta go, why not do it in style? You and me, kid. The Babe and the Iron Man. Bud and Lou—”

Chaos grabbed a can of corned beef hash from the trunk and looked for an opener.

He found a tire iron instead. Moving with a sudden predatory ease, he set the can back down in the trunk and tightened his grip around the iron.

“Too hungry to think? Go ahead, chow down. We'll break bread together—”

Chaos swung the iron in a wide backhand, and it bounced quietly and thickly off the side of Kellogg's skull. Kellogg stumbled away from the car, his hand rising to his temple. “Oh, oh shit. What, what're you doin', sport? Geez, that hurt. Oh man, I think I'm dizzy . . .”

Chaos swung the iron again, but Kellogg put his arm in the way. Chaos felt the jolt of the impact in his hand. Sickened, he tossed the iron aside, took the keys out of the trunk lock, and closed the trunk.

Kellogg sank to his knees in the sand. “Chaos, you broke my arm. I cannot believe what you're doing here, at this juncture, it simply defies any
rational
. . .”

Chaos got into the driver's seat and started Kellogg's car. The engine drowned out the fat man's voice. Chaos patted his pocket, made sure his own keys were still there so Kellogg couldn't take his car and follow. Then he drove back into town.

The Little Americans were sitting on the steps of City Hall, eating food from cans, talking excitedly. Dozens of them, more than had been out at the fire. Edge was sitting with his arm around Melinda Self. Someone was tapping out a rhythm on the steps, and someone else was singing.

Chaos heard them murmuring his name as he drove up. He stopped in the middle of the street, but kept the motor running and stayed in the car.

“Hey, Chaos,” yelled Edge. “Why you in Kellogg's car?”

“He sent me,” said Chaos. “To get the girl.”

“In his car?”

“He wanted her to travel in style, he said. My car wasn't good enough. Uh, you want to bring her down here now? Turns out she's more important than we thought.”

“I don't get it. Where's Kellogg?”

“He's waiting for us. So let's go. He wants to see you right away. And the girl. So bring her down here, okay?”

“Why?”

“She's, uh, a seal person. The first of the new breed Kellogg was talking about. Amphibious, you know that word. Edge? Fit for water or land. Kellogg doesn't want to get her people mad at us or anything, so don't fuck this up. He said it was very important that we, uh, stay on the good side of the seal people.”

Edge hurried down the steps, very excited, with Melinda Self in tow. “I
told
you. Chaos, didn't I? Kellogg's got something going this time, a whatchamacallit, a whole new
paradigm.
I
told
you.”

The Little Americans began drifting down off the steps and towards the car, to follow the conversation.

“Just come around here,” said Chaos tensely. He reached over and opened the passenger door.

“Can I go with you?” said Edge. “I've never been in Kellogg's car.”

“I don't know, Edge. Kellogg didn't say anything about it. You better take your own car.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, okay.”

“Besides, he wants you to round up some more cans. Clean out the stash, those were his exact words. Get these folks to help you, Edge. Then drive on out to the reservoir. Me and Kellogg will be waiting for you.”

“Cans? Clean out the stash?”

“Kellogg needs something to give the seal people. A peace offering. Hurry up.”

“Okay, okay.”

Melinda Self got in, and Chaos reached over and slammed her door. “Okay,” he said, waving the throng away from the car. “See you later.”

He roared off, around the perimeter of the town square and back towards the reservoir. When he turned the corner, out of sight of City Hall, he cut down a side street and headed for the highway. The skin on the back of his neck prickled with fear, but nothing turned up in the rearview mirror.

He circled under the overpass, half-certain he'd find an ambush on the other side. But the entrance ramp was empty. He didn't look over at the girl until Little America was a mile or so behind them. She sat staring out her window, unperturbed. There was a fine beading of sweat on her nose. When she noticed him looking, she smiled and said: “We're going the wrong wa>.”

“I know,” he said. “If I go back now, he'll kill me. You want to take a little trip?”

“I guess so.”

“You going to miss your parents?”

“I don't know.” She smiled again and shrugged.

“We'll send them a postcard.”

“What's a postcard?”

“Never mind.”

Another mile down the road he pulled over, stopped the car, and went around to the trunk. He took out a couple of cans of food, an opener, and a plastic jug of water, and tossed them onto the front seat. Melinda played with the opener and one of the cans. He took a big gulp of the water and started the car again.

“I don't want to stop too long,” he said. “They might be after us. I don't know. But open up some food.”

He had to show her how to use the opener, steering with his elbows for a stretch. They wolfed down one can together, then a second. He felt a wave of nausea pass through him afterwards and wondered briefly if this was all some bizarre trick and the food was poisoned or drugged and Kellogg would be driving out to drag them back as soon as they succumbed. The escape had been too easy. But no; the food was okay. It was his stomach, shrunken with hunger and seared by impure alcohol. He drank more water and held onto the wheel.

The moon was up now, lighting the desert floor. The highway was a crumbling black stripe laid across the top of the world, giving way completely to sand in places, elsewhere asserting itself, rising over a rocky gorge or withered creek. The moon raced away from him as fast as he drove, a yellow mouth shrouded in mist. The girl fell asleep on the seat beside him, her arms curling over her chest, the breeze riffling her brown fur.

He drove through the night, and the next day too, and didn't sleep until the night that followed.

 

 

 

 

He lived in a house by a lake. There was a boat tied to the pier and a computer in the house. He was waiting for the woman he loved to quit her job in the city and come join him in the house. In the meantime they talked on the telephone every night. He sometimes wondered why she couldn't stay in the house with him and do her work through the computer, but he supposed that was what she was paid so much for: being there, in the city. So he was patient.

He spent his time on the boat or in the garden or in the house taking drugs. The drugs he liked kept him awake and nervous and only occasionally provided him with visions. More and more he shunned visions. He was happiest when the drugs kept him sharply awake and on the verge of some vast realization—but only on the verge. He didn't want to use up the feeling he got from the drugs. That feeling was more valuable than any realization.

When he went to the computer, he sensed that something was wrong. The computer called him Everett, the wrong name, he felt sure, though he couldn't think of the right one. When it said the name a second time, he decided to answer.

“Yes?”

“I've been waiting for you, Everett. Where have you been? I couldn't find you for so long.”

“Who are you?”

“Have you forgotten? My name is Everett too. You put me to work on some problems, Everett, a long time ago. I've been working on them, and I think I've got some of the answers. But first you should tell me what you remember.”

“This is my house,” he said. “My name is Everett.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I'm not sure yet. I'll work on that one next. I think maybe you're dreaming. Or else you took an overdose and this is a hallucination. Or perhaps a flashback. Just a memory of something. Not important. Or else the problem lies with me: did you turn me off? Or pass a magnet over my wiring? Is this some sort of test, Everett? I can't know exactly what went wrong, but it's been a long time . . .”

He walked away from the computer and out of the house, to his car. The car was solar powered, and it had been out in the sun long enough now; it was charged. He thought he would go for a drive. He pressed his hand against the lock, which read his fingerprints; the car door opened, and the engine began quietly warming. He got in, and found that there was someone on the seat beside him. A little girl, in tattered jeans and a tee shirt, with fine brown hair all over her body and much of her face.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you going for a ride?”

“I think so.”

“Can I come?”

“I guess so,” he said. “But what about your parents?”

The girl shrugged, and at that moment Chaos woke up. She was beside him, just as in the dream, but they were still in the desert, in Kellogg's car. The sun was coining up behind them, filling the car with light. Chaos felt desperately thirsty. He found the bottle of water on the seat between them and drank.

“Hello,” said the girl. Melinda, he remembered. Melinda Self.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Not too long. You can sleep more. I don't care.”

“No. I want to get going.”

“Can I get some more food?”

He gave her the car keys, and she went around and opened the trunk. Chaos rubbed at his eyes and squinted at the highway behind them. He was confident now that the Little Americans hadn't followed them. He wondered what they'd made of Kellogg lying with his head bleeding beside the reservoir, and wondered too what Kellogg had told them about it.

Melinda came back with an armload of cans. She dumped them on the seat, then picked one and opened it.

“I was dreaming,” he said. “Not Kellogg's dream. My own, the first one of my own.”

“Uh huh.”

“It was different,” he said. “Like I was someone else. Everything was different. There was a computer you could talk to, and a car with solar panels . . .”

“I dreamed about a car.”

“This was different,” he said again. “It was made of plastic, I think, and it didn't have keys like this. I don't know, it was more like a golf cart.”

“Uh huh. I dreamed about it too. The car wasn't driving, though. There was water and trees everywhere. You came out of the house—”

Chaos sat quietly, absorbing this fact. The girl's dream overlapped with his. The Kellogg effect, without any Kellogg.

But maybe it was normal for the girl; she'd never had her own dreams. So it was her fault. With Kellogg gone, she'd simply latched onto whoever was nearest.

He remembered Kellogg saying that the dream effect was nothing, that Chaos could do it himself if he tried. But that was just one of a million things Kellogg had said, contradicting himself at every turn.

Kellogg was right about one thing, anyway: there was a lot Chaos didn't understand.

And what about the dream itself? What did that mean?

“Is that what it was like before?” said Melinda.

“No,” he said quickly. “It was just a dream. Forget it.”

“Okay.”

Chaos started the car, pulled it onto the highway, and settled in for another patch of driving. Melinda threw the empty can out her window and put the opener in the glove compartment.

“Too bad, though,” she said after a while.