Flash Point (5 page)

Five

S
ATURDAY

THE SCREENING ROOM
held eight black leather chairs, each deep and wide, arranged in two staggered rows. Small tables between the chairs held drinks. The screen, ten feet wide and seven feet high, shone blackly in the reflection from recessed lighting. Dark red cloth covered the windowless walls.

At ten a.m. on Saturday, six people settled into the seats. James Taunton, front and center, reached down to pick a tiny piece of lint off the carpet, an action rightly perceived by the two people on either side of him as a reproach, even though of course they had nothing to do with the cleaning staff. But this was their event, their TV show, their room for the next two hours on this sunny Saturday. If a meteor hit Taunton Life Network in the next two hours, they were responsible.

“Sir,” Myra Townsend said on Taunton’s right, “you understand that it’s very rough. We only shot the final participant last night.”

“Of course he does,” said Alex Everett, on Taunton’s left. “How many screenings do you estimate you’ve been to, sir?”

Taunton didn’t answer. He held out the piece of lint to Myra, who took it. In the far seat, tech genius Mark Meyer blinked and tried to stay awake; he was
never
up at this hour of the morning. Also, his hands felt naked without a tablet in them. But it was only a few hours and then he could go back to bed. The two underlings seated behind the four said nothing, and would not have dreamed of doing so.

“Roll it,” Myra said. The screen brightened.

Music started low, gradually becoming more audible: rap set to keyboards performing atonal music. The rap words were indistinguishable and stayed so, but the strange music sounded both energizing and slightly menacing. Two teenage actors, preternaturally beautiful, materialized as if floating in black space, although it was clear that their trendy boots stood on firm, unseen ground. Neither smiled.

The boy growled at the audience, “You think you’re a good judge of character? Yeah, you do. Well—here’s your chance to prove it.”

“What you’re going to see,” the girl said, “might shock you sometimes. This isn’t just one more sorry reality show. The people you will see don’t know they’re being filmed—they
never
know for sure. We put them in unexpected situations—but not to see how they react.”

“To see how
you
react,” the boy said. “Can you predict what each of them will do? You predict right, and you can win big.”

“Really big,” the girl said. “Every week we’re giving away five million dollars—just for being a good judge of human nature. Are you?”

Now pictures with names flashed behind the actors: huge close-up shots of Amy, Rafe, Violet, Lynn, Waverly, Cai, and Tommy. Each face held for three secnds; the whole loop repeated while the girl spoke again. For the first time, she smiled, a smile with a hint of nasty relish. “Seven people. We show you each of them encountering an . . .
interesting
situation, different every week. Then we list five responses they might have made.”

Film of a short brunette, provocatively dressed in short shorts and a crop top, buying an ice cream, leaving the store with it. The film disappeared, replaced by a wall of glowing letters:

LYNN:

1. Ate the ice cream!
   
2. Dropped it in the gutter!
   
3. Offered it to a crying child!
   
4. Gave it to her dog!
   
5. Threw it at a cop!
   

“No, nothing that lame,” the boy said scornfully. “This isn’t Sunday school. We’re not interested in do-gooding—we’re interested in your ability to judge people.” The screen resumed its montage of the seven teens. “You’ll get to know Lynn and the others, none of whom is an actor. You’ll see them react week after week to situations they don’t anticipate or understand—because some of the things that we’ll arrange to happen to them aren’t filmed at all. They’ll never know which events are part of the show, which aren’t, and which are just their widely diverse lives. They’ll never see the cameras, and we’ve got cameras everywhere. Then you text us your vote on what
you
think they’ll do in situations far edgier than buying ice cream.”

“Each week,” the girl said, “seven participants, five possible responses, seventy-eight thousand one hundred twenty-five chances to get it completely right. Way better odds than the lottery! And if you’re one of those that get it right within the first two hours after the show ends, you split five million dollars with the other winners.”

The photos on the wall cycled faster and faster, until one face blurred into the next. The music rose to deafening levels, eerie and menacing. The title came up in scarlet:

WHO KNOWS PEOPLE, BABY—YOU?

James Taunton shifted in his chair.

“Of course,” Myra said, “Mark can tweak any of the tech you think needs it. Anything.”

A film started of Amy spotting the holographic dog in the tree. It ran through, followed by the return of the music as a list appeared on the screen:

AMY:

1. Walked away from the dog!
   
2. Called authorities to get the dog down!
   
3. Brought other people to get the dog down!
   
4. Climbed the tree to get the dog!
   
5. Made the dog jump in order to catch it!
   

Film rolled of each of the other six encountering a treed dog. Mark Meyer leaned forward to study his tech. Each film ended with a close-up of the unwitting teen’s startled face after the dog vanished, followed by the list of options. The whole list and all the names, identified by small head shots, stayed on the screen while the music pulsed and, presumably, watchers phoned in their predictions.

“No,” James Taunton said in his deep, oddly musical voice. “No.”

Myra and Alex looked at each other. Alex spoke first. “What is—”

“This show is supposed to be edgy,” Taunton said. “
Edgy
. And you give me a dog in a tree? Why not the opportunity to help an old lady across the street? No.”

Myra said, “We thought that for a first, introductory show we could start simple and then escalate to—”

“No. What else do you have?”

“Right now there isn’t—”

“We’re done here.” Taunton rose, elegant in his suit of Italian wool. Immediately a flunky in the second row of seats leaped to turn on the lights.

“Mr. Taunton, we can—”

Alex cut Myra off. “We can show you the audition footage in the alley. It’s far edgier.”

Mark looked up sharply. Myra said, “But it isn’t even—OK, yes. Jackie, roll it!”

Taunton sat down again. Another drink was deposited soundlessly at his elbow. Jackie, clearly terrified, jumped to the computer and fumbled among files. Random shots came up: Waverly answering questions, Violet dancing, Tommy talking slowly, without sound. Finally Jackie found the right file.

When the film, unedited and too long and occasionally jerky, without lists or music, ended, Taunton said, “Yes.”

Myra said eagerly, “It can be—”

“Give me more like that. Exciting. Dangerous. Rough footage by Monday morning.”

Mark said, “But my tech with the dog was so—”

Myra put a hand on his arm and squeezed hard. “You’ll get more tech scenarios, Mark. By Monday, sir, certainly.”

Taunton left. Alex motioned Jackie and the other minion to leave with him. When the two producers and the tech head were left alone, Alex said to Myra, “Well, do you think you kissed his ass enough?”

“Shut up, Alex. We’re still in, which is all that counts. What do we do for the next scenario?”

Mark looked up from his tablet, which he’d pulled out of his pocket the moment Taunton left. “We move up scenario number five, of course. To tomorrow.”

Alex frowned. “I don’t know if everything for that can be assembled on such short notice, and—”

“Bullshit,” Mark said. “You can do it if you have to. And my guys are ready.”

“Mark,” Alex said with exaggerated and condescending patience, “you seem to think your piece is all that matters. The tech is interesting, sure, but let me tell you yet again, since you seem to have forgotten it, that the heart of this thing is—”

“We can do it,” Myra said. “And I think Mark is right. We should. Then if we edit all night, we can show Taunton something on Monday.”

“Aren’t you going to be a little busy on Monday, Myra?” Alex said. “Think again. That’s the day the kids all report for ‘work.’” His fingers made little quotes in the air.

“Alex, don’t you ever get tired of throwing up roadblocks?” Mark said.

“Mark’s right, Alex,” said Myra. “We can do it if we have to. And we have to. Taunton needs to see something spectacular. We’ve got forty-eight hours to pull this together.”

“Shazam,” Mark said.

Six

S
ATURDAY

AMY WAS HAVING
a suspiciously good Saturday morning.

Gran felt much better; she even got out of bed and sat at their tiny table for breakfast. Kaylie woke early enough to join them for breakfast, a rarity. Kaylie folded up the sleep sofa without being asked. Amy had turned up the thermostat and made a big pot of coffee. If you didn’t look at the peeling walls and exposed overhead pipes, it was almost like old times.

“Yum,” Gran said, carefully setting down her cup. “Good coffee. What are you girls’ plans for the day?”

“I have a lot of homework,” Kaylie said.

Amy and Gran stared. Homework?
Kaylie?

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kaylie snapped. “I have to graduate, don’t I? Two stinking months and twelve days left.”

Amy recovered herself. If Kaylie was voluntarily doing homework, there was some ulterior motive. Carefully monitoring her tone—not too eager, not too big-sister, not too anything—she asked, “Do you want some help?”

“Yes,” Kaylie said promptly. “You can do all the math assignments.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Kayla Jane,” Gran said, leaning forward, “what’s going on? Are you in trouble at school again?”

“No. Really, I’m not. But I want to compete in All-City with the band, Friday night at the Arena. A ‘talent show’ might be lame but what the fuck, it’s publicity, and I can’t be in it unless my grades are ‘current.’ Bunch of bullshit.”

Amy had heard Kaylie’s band, Orange Decision. Amy, with her lousy ear for music, had no idea if they were good or not. They were certainly loud. But anything that got Kaylie doing homework was terrific. She said, “We can start right after I make an appointment for Gran at her old doctor’s.” Full medical benefits!

“How are you going to do that? On Mrs. Raduski’s phone? She won’t let you. And incidentally, Buddy nearly bit me when I got in last night. Fucking dog. Oh, sorry, Gran—sweet misguided canine.”

“With fucking bad genes,” Gran said, and Kaylie nearly choked on her coffee, laughing.

Definitely a good day.

“No, not on Mrs. Raduski’s phone,” Amy said. “I have just enough left from the job advance to buy three of those cheap cells with prepaid minutes. But they’re only for emergencies, Kaylie. There won’t be many minutes on any of them.”

“Good idea,” Kaylie said amiably. “I’ll stay with Gran while you go buy them. Gran, maybe you can help me with this essay I have to write for history?”

Kaylie must really want this All-City gig.

Amy bounced down the stairs and through the vestibule—no Buddy—into a warm, clear spring day. She tilted back her head to let the sunshine fall on her face. Some children tore past in a grade-school pack, chasing a soccer ball in some made-up street game of their own. One little boy flashed her a smile as rich and sweet as chocolate cake.

Mr. Fu stood sadly behind the counter of his cramped store. Amy bought three of the cheapest prepaid cells. “Still no bananas,” Mr. Fu said. At the print kiosk three blocks over, Amy printed a flimsie of the
Post-Herald
for Gran. When she returned home, a truck blazoned
CALLAHAN MOVERS
stood across the street, with men unloading furniture.

That was unusual in this neighborhood. People moved often, seeking lower rents or fleeing rent due, sometimes in the middle of the night. But they borrowed friends’ pickup trucks or they loaded what they could carry into a taxi and abandoned the rest or they rented a flat dolly and laboriously wheeled furniture ten blocks to the next temporary residence. Real movers cost money.

A woman came out of the building and directed the movers. Behind them on the sidewalk, a boy of about Amy’s age sat in a wheelchair beside a small table. On the table was a chess set. Amy crossed the street.

He didn’t notice her at first, so intent was he on replaying the game notated in a book beside the chess board. Amy, gazing at the game, recognized it instantly.

“Hey,” she said. “The Immortal Game.”

The boy’s head jerked up, startled. He wasn’t handsome but he had beautiful eyes, gray with flecks of silver. A thick blanket lay across the wheelchair, hiding his legs. His tone was cautious. “You know the Immortal Game?”

“Sure. Adolf Anderssen versus Lionel Kieseritzky, London, 1851.”

His silver-gray gaze sharpened. “You play?”

“Yes.”

“FIDE rating?”

“Was 1900. I don’t belong now.”

He didn’t ask why not. She recognized his type immediately, from countless tournaments in her pre-Collapse life: the superbright, socially challenged chess nerd. Amy felt at ease with him in a way she never did with hot guys.

He said, “Wanna play?”

“I can’t right now, but maybe I could come over later, if it’s all right with your family.”

He looked around vaguely, as if he’d forgotten he had a family. The woman emerged again from the building, saying, “No, no, I told whoever I talked to on the phone that the sofa wasn’t going to fit through the doorway and would have to—oh, hello.”

“I’m Amy Kent, from across the street.” Amy held out her hand.

The woman took it, her gaze focusing suddenly as she realized that an actual girl had been talking to her nerdy son. “Hello! I’m Ann O’Malley and this is my son Paul. We’re just moving in, as you can see.” She laughed, a sound tinged with embarrassment. She didn’t want to find herself in this neighborhood, Amy thought. Well, who did? Still, she seemed nice.

“Ma,” Paul said, “she’s coming over later to play chess.”

“Oh, well . . . sure.” Amy saw her glance around at her disassembled household, scattered on the sidewalk. The kids with the soccer ball tore past in the other direction. The ball bounced off a lacquered Chinese desk. And the woman’s sweater, although old, was beautifully made. These people had had some money once, and had it no longer. Amy warmed to them.

“If it’s too much trouble, Mrs. O’Malley, Paul and I can play another day, after you have a chance to—”

“No, no, come tonight. Say, seven o’clock? Paul never finds girls—I mean, people—who can play chess with him. And call me Ann.”

“OK.” Amy smiled and moved off. But first she couldn’t resist reaching out to make the next move in the famous game that every serious chess player knew by heart: black knight to g7.

“Hey!” Paul said, somewhere between indignation and delight.

Definitely a good day!

* * *

But the next one was not.

On Sunday morning Gran awoke feverish. Her doctor’s appointment wasn’t until three. Kaylie, out late last night practicing with her band, slept past noon. Amy rushed back and forth between the bedroom and kitchen to bring Gran hot tea, aspirin, cold cloths for her forehead, food she didn’t eat. Every time Amy passed Kaylie, lying in an insensible lump, her resentment grew. It didn’t help that last evening Amy had played three games of chess with Paul and had lost two. Paul had remained monosyllabic throughout. Outside, a sullen sky spit rain.

When Kaylie finally woke, she was grumpy. “Do you have to make so much noise?”

“Do you have to be so little help?”

“Lighten up, for chrissakes.”

“You’re helping me take Gran to the doctor’s, do you hear me?” Amy said fiercely.

“I said I would, didn’t I? What the hell’s wrong with you? You cream for that crippled chess player and he push you away?”

“No!” Despite her familiarity with Kaylie’s nastiness in this sort of mood, Amy felt stung. It was true that she’d liked Paul more as the chess games went on, but it was also true that Amy had learned to be wary about boys. She knew—now, after a few bad attempts at relationships—that she got attracted too soon, too often, too indiscriminately. Her sister’s barb hurt precisely because there was some truth in it. Keith, for instance, at the restaurant. Two dates and Amy had been hooked, and then Keith had switched his interest to one of the waitresses. Even Gran had said gently to her, during her stupid heartache over Keith, “You feel too much, Amy.”

Kaylie followed up her advantage by saying scornfully as she disappeared into the bathroom, “You always have to be in
lo-oo-oo-ve
.”

Kaylie, who loved nobody. Sometimes, Amy thought, not even Gran.

But Kaylie was patient and careful as they got Gran to the bus stop, onto the bus, to the doctor’s office, which was located in a small, old-fashioned strip mall. Half the shops were boarded up and the parking lot was nearly empty. Another of the huge red graffiti sprawled across the side of a brick building:
TIMES BE TOUGH MAN
. More and more of them were appearing around the city, and every time Amy saw one she wanted to say:
Put in a comma
. Which was really not the appropriate response.

In front of the doctor’s office, three steps led up to a small concrete terrace set with big flowerpots, all of them empty and a few broken. A low roof shielded the terrace from the intermittent drizzle. Gran negotiated the steps with difficulty. The doctor took her into the back of the office, alone.

All Gran would say as she emerged, clearly in pain, was, “They took blood, ran tests. He’ll call me later in the week with the results.” She held up her new cell and tried to smile. But it was so hard for her to walk out of the building that both Amy and Kaylie had to support her. Oh, why hadn’t Amy saved enough money out of her advance to pay for a cab!

“Hey,” Kaylie said as they pushed through the glass door and stood at the top of the steps, “what’s all
this
?”

“Run!” a woman screamed, racing from a narrow alley between stores toward her car. “Plague!”

A siren sounded, so loud that Amy couldn’t hear whatever Kaylie screamed at her. Two more people, a boy and girl with terrified faces, ran across the parking lot. Then Amy saw them.

Rats. They poured from the alley, a dozen of them, then another dozen. Some ran jerkily, staggering; some walked normally. No, not normally—there was foam around their mouths. And blood.

“Get inside!” Gran cried. Kaylie was already tugging at the glass door behind her. It was locked. Two of the rats, perhaps attracted by the noise, stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned. Amy stared at their long, ugly snouts and flat black eyes. One drew back its lips and bared bloody fangs.

Over police sirens coming closer, Gran’s voice came clear and strong right beside Amy’s ear. “Rabies or plague or some mutation—
climb
, girls. Climb!” She raised a skinny, trembling arm to point at an iron flower trellis bare of flowers. The trellis rose from a huge stone flowerpot, now full of cigarette butts and Doritos wrappers, up to the low roof over the terrace.

Amy couldn’t think. Jumbled thoughts invaded her mind—that was the word,
invaded
, like a conquering army.
Rattus rattus
. Black Death, and a third of Europe dead in the Middle Ages. Rabies: rabid squirrels, rabid raccoons, rabid dogs—Atticus Finch in
To Kill a Mockingbird
—rabid rats. Rats could climb, but these might be too sick and the trellis was thin-runged and slippery. Winston in George Orwell’s
1984
, forced to wear a cage of rats on his head until he betrayed the revolution.
They go first for the eyes
. . . .

The rat with bared teeth had already climbed the first step, where it stood hissing at them, the most horrible sound Amy had ever heard. In the parking lot the girl had fallen and a rat leaped on top of her body. “Go!” Gran said.

Kaylie stood on the lip of the flowerpot, one foot on the trellis. She looked at Gran, obviously unable to climb, shouted, “Fuck fuck fuck!” and jumped back down again. Kaylie grabbed Gran’s purse and held it like a weapon. “Come on, you fucker, just try it! Amy! Don’t just stand there—fight!”

Into Amy’s mind came a phantom, clear and sharp as the knife Amy didn’t have:
an empty cardboard box, flaps open, so void of contents that the box didn’t even contain air
.

She said, “They’re not real.”

“What?” Kaylie screamed. “Don’t you have that pepper spray?”

“They’re not real,” Amy repeated, just as two cop cars squealed into the parking lot. The rats were like the holographic dog in a tree, and this was—

Someone somewhere above her shouted “Cut!”

The rats all vanished.

Cops heaved themselves from their squad cars. The girl on the ground got up, fastidiously brushing dirt off her jeans and sweatshirt. One of the policemen stared up at the roof, the other demanded of Gran, “What’s going on here?”

Kaylie said, “I think it’s a movie! Gran, we walked into a movie shoot!”

A man climbed down the iron trellis. “Is there a problem, officer?”

Kaylie said eagerly, “Are the cameras on the roof?”

The cop said, “You got a permit for this?”

They began to argue. The man, who looked not much older than Amy, said it was a film for his college course and he didn’t need a permit because it was a “noncommercial endeavor.” The cop, unimpressed, wanted to know just what had happened. Amy stopped listening to them.

She’d been wrong. Wrong to think that some lame student movie was actually connected to the dog that had vanished from a tree, and that both were some kind of plot against her, Amy Kent, by her new employer. Why? What would they gain? And who was she to think she was important enough for anybody to follow her around, setting up weird situations and filming them? This was just a movie—now more young people carrying camcorders spilled from an empty shop next door—and she was an idiot. The young people wore sweatshirts saying MIT and even Amy knew that the Massachusetts Institute of Technology had the nation’s most advanced robotics and optics labs. Wrong, wrong,
wrong
.