Astounding! (20 page)

“I need a Laundromat,” Carter said, peering into his suitcase. He had only one more day’s worth of clean clothes. “Or at least some soap so I can wash my stuff in the sink.”

“We can walk to Target to buy some.”

“Okay. Let’s see if the sleeping beauties next door are up yet. Maybe they’d like us to grab some breakfast while we’re out.”

Carter walked to the door and raised his fist. But before he could knock, John gasped, and at the same time all the hairs on the back of Carter’s neck stood up. Carter whirled around to face the room. John stood rigid near the bed, staring at a spot near the curtain-covered window. Carter saw nothing there except ugly green carpet.

But no, something else
was
there.

Carter could feel it, the way you could feel the moisture of a cold fog settle on your skin. But this sensation was
in
his skin—in his nerves. It buzzed and thrummed painfully, reminding him of a dentist drilling his teeth.

“John!” he yelled. Or wanted to yell. But his throat was tight, so all that came out was a strangled sort of growl.

Still, John turned to look at him, his face stricken. “Carter,” he whispered. He didn’t have to say the rest, because Carter knew. John’s ride had arrived.

“Tell them no! Tell them you want to stay.”

John clearly held no hope that his pleas would be granted, but he nodded slightly. Then he turned his attention back to that spot near the window. Carter saw something there—a slight waver of the air, like a road mirage on an August day.

When Carter glanced back at John, an odd blankness had occupied John’s eyes. It was disturbing. His body still stood, still breathed, but it displayed a certain lifelessness, as if it were a very detailed doll. But Carter barely had a chance to be upset about that, because the emptying of John’s body wasn’t the strangest thing happening.

No, the strangest thing was that John was conversing with his people. And Carter understood them.

Not completely. It was like eavesdropping on a neighboring table in a crowded café, or listening to a radio station that wasn’t quite tuned in. And of course Carter didn’t
hear
anything, nor did he see anything but John’s stiff body. But still, the conversation played across Carter’s consciousness, and he understood the gist of it. The entity that called itself John wanted to remain on this planet. The other entities—they each had a unique electronic signature rather than a name—insisted he return home. John’s packet of data, which Carter found very beautiful, insisted that Earth was home now. The other beings reminded him that he was sent to accomplish a mission, and that they expected him to share the information he’d gleaned. He said he’d be happy to share, but he wished to do so here and now, and then the others could leave him.

And that was the point when the newcomers became aware of Carter’s existence.

He felt their scrutiny, cold and sharp, but he didn’t cower.
Listen to him
, he told them—or at least he pulsed bits of energy that carried this meaning their way.
He wants to stay.

They flashed emotions in response. Anger. Confusion. Fear. They were strange emotions, however, two-dimensional and flimsy. Only a pale shadow of the jagged passions surging through Carter’s body. He understood now what John had told him days earlier—while flying was glorious, so was walking. Touching.
Feeling
.

Carter had never before felt so thankful to be alive and human. Even the emotions he’d been experiencing until recently—disappointment, grief, panic—were preferable to the shallow waves John’s people experienced.

More quick discussion followed, during which the newcomers demanded to know who and what Carter was. When John tried to explain, everyone—including Carter—received brief memory flashes of John and Carter soaring together. Carter understood the meaning, and despite everything his heart felt a little lighter. John loved him. That’s what he’d just informed his people.

John’s people, however, were not pleased. They might have even been a little shocked. And it very soon became clear that no matter what arguments John presented to them, they were going to take him away.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered in good old spoken English. He’d turned his head to look at Carter, and now John’s eyes were full of life. And of tears.

Carter struggled to maintain composure. “I’m only sorry you’re leaving. I sure as hell don’t regret anything else.”

“Thank Keith and Freddy for me. Please.”

“Of course.” Carter’s vision was blurry and his cheeks were wet, which meant he must be crying too. And he couldn’t move closer to John, even though he wanted to, and he didn’t know whether it was the aliens that paralyzed him or his own traitorous body. But he kept his voice steady. “You’re an amazing man, John. I’m so glad you sent me your stories. Keep on writing them.”

John made an effort to smile. “Why?”

“You can be the Shakespeare for your kind.”

“I’ll live a very long time, Carter. And I will always remember you.”

“I love you, John Harper.”

John smiled so brightly he lit up the room. But no, it was more than that, because his entire body glowed like a small sun. And Carter would not look away. A tremendous force pulled at Carter’s body, like a magnet trying to extract his innermost cells, and a raging inferno roared in his ears.

BANG!

Everything went black and deathly silent.

When Carter regained his vision, John was gone.

“T
HE
HOTEL
manager is saying it’s a really bad electrical short. Might be hours before it’s fixed, and most of the lightbulbs and appliances are fried. They’ve offered to get us rooms at the Holiday Inn Express next door.” Keith sat down at the table with Freddy and Carter, grabbed Freddy’s Frappuccino, and took a long slurp.

Carter was… numb. The explosion from John’s disappearance had echoed throughout the motel, scaring everyone. Freddy had pounded on the door until Carter let his friends into the room. And then he’d been so overwhelmed at losing John, and so caught in the difficulty of finding words to describe what had happened, that none of them had noticed at first that the power was out.

But then the fire alarms had sounded and everyone evacuated the motel. Fortunately, few guests were present that day, and they’d milled around, watching the fire trucks. Carter just sat on a curb, flanked by his friends, feeling empty.

Apparently satisfied that the place wasn’t burning down, the emergency personnel left and the motel employees filed back inside. Freddy and Keith dragged Carter to the Starbucks across the street, where he sat blankly, a cooling cup of coffee in front of him. Eventually Keith went back to the motel to see what was going on. But now he was back, and he and Freddy were talking, but few of their words registered.

After a while, Freddy disappeared. He might have been gone for five minutes or five hours—Carter had no idea. But when he returned, he and Keith gently urged Carter to his feet. They led him across the street and into the Holiday Inn, up an elevator, and down a hall to a room. “This one’s yours,” Freddy said. He spoke slowly and carefully, as to a small child. “Ours is right next door.” He pointed.

When Carter looked around, he registered his ugly old suitcase against a wall. Next to it, pathetically, was a duffel bag.

Keith noticed Carter staring. “Do you want us to keep it in our room instead?”

“No.” It was the first word Carter had uttered in forever. It sounded rusty.

Freddy patted his shoulder. “Your computer and phone are in your suitcase. Is there anything you need? Anything you want?”

Nothing he could have.

After a moment Freddy tugged Carter to the bed. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll get my laptop and work at the desk. Keith’s going to run a couple of errands.”

“We were going to get laundry soap,” Carter said hollowly.

“Okay. That’s fine. Keith will get you some.”

Carter shook himself slightly and then rubbed his face hard. “You don’t have to babysit me. I’m not going to throw myself in front of a train or anything.”

“Not babysitting, Car. We’re keeping you company. It’s what friends do. If you’d really rather be alone, I’ll go next door. But you know what? Sometimes it helps to have people who care nearby. Shoulders to cry on, if you want.”

Although he was skeptical, Carter was in no mood to argue, and besides, he didn’t want to hurt Freddy’s feelings. So he grunted at Freddy, toed off his shoes, and lay down on the bed. He wasn’t tired. Drained of energy, yes, but not sleepy. But keeping himself upright seemed like too much effort, and he knew there was no effective way to distract himself. He lay on his back, hands motionless at his sides, staring at the ceiling and listening to Freddy clack at his keyboard. It was a comforting sound.

“Hey, Car?” Freddy’s hands were still.

“Hmm.”

“Yesterday when Keith and I went to the store? We picked up the latest issue of
Astounding!
I read it last night.”

Carter covered his face with his hands and didn’t say anything.

“It was a fucking great issue, Carter. And I’m not just saying that because it had my story. All the others, they were top-notch. Some of those authors are going somewhere.”

“Except John.” Well, John was going somewhere. Was
gone
somewhere. Unimaginably far away.

“I read his too.” Freddy paused for so long that Carter turned his head to look at him. Freddy was stroking his beard thoughtfully. “He wrote that before you guys met, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. He turned out a bunch like that. One every month.” He remembered the annoyance he used to feel when those manila envelopes arrived in his mailbox, and he was ashamed.

“Do you think if he were to write one now, it would be so… dry?”

“He’s
not
going to write one now. He doesn’t need to. And he can’t because his people don’t even have paper and pens, and he says their ways of recording data aren’t narrative.” Fuck. He was going to ignore the stinging in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. I get that. But…. Dammit. I’m no good at this. Go look in his duffel bag.”

Carter stirred only enough to stare at the ceiling again. There was a tiny dark spot near the wall. Possibly dirt, or maybe a bug, although it wasn’t moving. His apartment in Seattle often had spiders, especially in the bathroom. He didn’t especially mind them, but he did object to the roaches that made occasional appearances in his kitchen. His landlord sprayed for them—reluctantly—but they always returned eventually.

“I found it when I was packing up his stuff,” Freddy said. “It was right at the top of his bag. He wanted you to read it—it has your name on it. I hope you don’t mind that I read it too.”

“’S fine,” Carter mumbled, because it was.

“I think you should—”

“No.” The word didn’t come out sharp. Just flat and final, which was more or less how Carter felt. But he was also fairly certain that Freddy wouldn’t drop the subject—he was a stubborn bastard. So Carter lurched to his feet and crossed the floor, keeping a careful distance between himself and the duffel bag. From the plastic bag he was using for dirty laundry, he grabbed the shorts and tee from the morning’s run. They stank, but he didn’t care. He quickly shucked his jeans and button-down, then donned the dirty exercise clothes. He pulled on socks, laced on running shoes, and jammed some money into his zippered pocket. “Going running.”

“Didn’t you run already today?”

“Going again.”

“Carter, you’re—” Freddy stopped himself, then sighed. “Be careful, okay?”

Carter might have grunted a reply.

Instead of turning right toward the farms, this time he went left, past strip malls and over railroad tracks, then into endless subdivisions. The houses all looked alike. He wondered if the residents ever got confused and tried to enter the wrong home.

He ran so fast that people in cars stared at him, but his legs didn’t protest and his breathing was deep and steady. He felt as if he could run forever, until he ran out of land. But what would be the point? No matter how far he ran, he wouldn’t find what he wanted.

He came to the downtown area, which was filled with antique shops, restaurants, and tattoo parlors. It looked as if it was struggling to become upscale but not quite making it. How much would an apartment over that shoe repair shop cost? Probably far less than his place in Seattle. But what would he do with himself here?

What would he do with himself anywhere?

When he jogged back to the motel—still not tired—he made an impulsive detour to the massive liquor store across the street. A perky young sales clerk greeted him as soon as Carter entered. He must have looked quite a sight in his sweaty clothes, with his wind-blown hair, but the clerk smiled sunnily. “Can I help you find something?”

“No.” Carter could find the booze all by himself, thanks very much. The store was enormous, and the overhead lights far too bright. He ended up grabbing two bottles of Jim Beam because they were in an endcap display and were cheap. He carried them to the cash register.

“Do you have your ClubBev card with you?” the salesclerk chirped.

“No.”

“That’s okay. Just give me your phone number instead and I can—”

“I don’t belong to ClubBev and I don’t want to. Just sell me the damn bourbon.”

The poor kid flinched and blinked at him for a moment. “Um, sure. Sorry.” Looking like someone had stolen his ice cream cone, he rang up the purchase, took two twenties from Carter, and gave him change. He placed the bottles in bags, then said tentatively, “Have a nice day,” sounding somewhere between afraid and hopeful.