The Prey (11 page)

Something quick I have to do,
my father would say whenever we were here in the daytime. And I’d watch him move quickly from one office suite to the next, turning on the deskscreens, riffling through files, occasionally scribbling a few hurried notes into his notebook. Watching his stooped back, his nervousness as he turned on the deskscreens, I knew he was up to something illegal. The kind of illegal that, if he were caught, would lead directly and swiftly to the execution squad.

But on this day, my father did not sneak into any of the office suites or ask me to wait by the reception desk. We walked across the elevator lobby and up a stairwell. The walls hovered in on us, darkness again draping around me, and I was not prepared for the sudden wide open space that greeted me after my father opened the top door. I felt flung into the skies.

My father’s body moved with an excited charge now, an uncharacteristic eagerness about his walk as he led me toward the edge. I could see the office suites directly below us, through the glass ceiling upon which I trod.

“Daddy?”

“Okay, stop here.” We were only ten feet from the edge, close enough for me to view the street far below. “Close your eyes.”

“Daddy?”

“Just close your eyes.” His footsteps led away from me.

I closed my eyes. It was my father, and there was no fear in me. A minute later, I heard his approaching footsteps.

“Okay, open your eyes now.”

I did. In his arms was a large, winged contraption, covered in sleek, metallic panels. My father’s eyes were shining bright, watching my reaction. “What is it?” I asked.

“A plane. Remember I told you what a plane was?”

I stared at it, puzzled.

“The thing that flies in the sky? Remember?” He was disappointed.

“But it’s not flying right now. Is it dead?” I asked.

“No, silly. It’s remote controlled,” he said, showing the control he held in his hand, a square panel with long antennae. “Here, hold the plane high above your head. No, put your hands here, on the wings. That’s right, now hoist it up high. No matter what, don’t let go. Ready?”

“Ready.”

And he flicked a switch on his control. Immediately, the plane started to thrum in my fingers, resuscitated and alive, a winged bat struggling to wriggle free. “You should see your face,” he said, scratching his wrist with two free fingers.

“Do I let it go?”

“No, hold on to it. When I say
now,
give it as mighty a heave as you can. Diagonal, up into the sky, hard as you can, okay?”

“Okay.”

Calmly, he waited, until the vibrating thrum soon began to fatigue my arms. Just as I was about to put my arms down, he said, “Get ready!”

And I felt the wind pick up from behind, lifting the bangs of my hair, then filling my shirt like a balloon. My father waited. Then the wind gusted, flapping my clothes, threatening to rip the plane out of my hands.

“Now!” my father shouted, and I threw the plane up into the skies. The plane flew out, wobbly, the wings madly keening. I thought it would fumble and fall for sure. But instead it steadied and sailed.

“Whoa! Daddy, it’s flying!”

He nodded back at me, his fingers making minute adjustments on the knobs. His lips quivered faintly, unconsciously. I stared at him. It was the closest I ever saw him smile.

The plane rose high in the sky, oscillating wider and wider. My father placed the control in my hands. I almost dropped it, not with surprise but fear. He wrapped his hands around mine.

“Push this button,” my father said.

“What does it do?”

“Puts the plane on autopilot.”

We watched as the plane grew smaller and smaller in the distance, twinkling like a star in the sunlit sky.

“Where is it going, Daddy?”

He pointed. “There.”

“The eastern mountains?”

He nodded. And then he spoke words that frightened me. “Don’t forget this moment.”

“Okay,” I said.

But he wasn’t satisfied. “Don’t ever forget where the plane is going. I want you to remember this, okay?”

“Okay.” I looked up at him. “Where is it going?”

There was a silence so protracted I thought he hadn’t heard me. But then he whispered a word so softly I don’t think I was meant to hear. “Home.”

For a moment, it appeared he was going to say something more. Not just another word or sentence, but a whole torrent of thoughts uncontrollably spilling out. A fear clutched my heart. Because for all my curiosity, I found myself not wanting to know, not wanting to hear the stench of confessions too long unspoken, of secrets too carefully guarded.
I don’t want this,
I thought to myself,
I don’t want this at all
.

But my father closed his eyes, and when he opened them, eyelids flying upward, resolve had settled in them.

“Remember where this plane is going, okay?” he said.

It did not seem remarkable to me that day, the direction of the plane. As if my father had only willy-nilly chosen that heading, or allowed the random wind to determine the plane’s course. But later, years later, I realized it must have been deliberate. Any other heading, and the plane would have eventually crashed in the endless desert. But only eastward would the plane have found a different end: into the green of mountain meadows, the blue of glacial lakes, the white of that mountain’s snow suffused with the red glow of dawn’s light.

17

… D
IM VOICES, THEN
silence. A coarse blanket placed gently over my shivering, freezing body, which I grab with burning hands. I fade out …

… I surface out of a gray heat, a sheen of sweat soaking into my clothes. Even in my feverish state, I sense the passage of time: the heft of nights and days gone by, the rise and fall of moons and suns. On my burning forehead, a cold compress is daubed once, twice, sizzling on contact. Soft voices murmur out of the darkness before subsiding into silence. A cool hand slides into mine, refreshing and lovely, like smooth marble. I grip it tightly as I descend back into the fevered pit of heat and cold …

Hours—days?—later, I’m able to open my eyes. The room—flattened into a two-dimensional canvas—ripples like a wind-gusted flag. A face looms toward me. It is Ashley June, her skin sick and pale. But the color of her hair is off. Then the face morphs into the contours of Sissy’s face. Her brown eyes peer with concern into mine. The room tilts and I clamp my eyelids down. From next to me comes the soft sound of water gently splashing. A wet towel is pressed against my burning forehead. The world careens into black …

… My eyes crack open, crusty with residue. A day, a night has passed since they last opened. And almost immediately, I start to collapse into the dark chamber again. But not before I see Sissy, staring out the window unaware of my awakening, her face awash in moonlight and taut with tension. And fear. Something is wrong. I slip away …

*   *   *

I awaken. It feels like a rebirth: for the first time in days my mind is lucid, my body reclaimed though weak. I touch my forehead. It is cool and dry. The fever has broken. I breathe in, feel the rattle of phlegm lodged in my windpipes.

Sunlight sprinkles through the sheer curtains. I’m in a small room, wood paneled and made more spacious by a large alcove. Sitting in a leather armchair, fast asleep, is Sissy. Her mouth is parted, the blanket rising and falling ever so slightly.

I struggle to sit up, my strength whittled away.

“Easy does it, nice and slow,” Sissy says at my side in a blink, her hand under my head as she lowers me back down.

“How long?” I caw. My voice, rough and raspy, does not sound like my own.

“You’ve been out three days. You were touch and go for the first two days, burning up. Honestly, we didn’t think you’d pull through. Here, drink some.” She holds a bowl to my lips. “The fever broke last night.”

“I got it.” But the bowl weighs a ton, and I almost spill it. Sissy cups my hands with her own, steadies the bowl. I take a few gulps, then lean back into the pillow. A wave of warmth courses through my body.

Sissy looks exhausted, her hair a frazzled mess, a few strands pressed into her cheek as if stenciled in. Large bags under her eyes, with tension roped taut across her face. There’s something wrong.

“Is it morning or afternoon?” I ask.

The question catches her. “I dunno. I’ve lost track,” she says, and peers out the window. “Looks like afternoon.” She studies the windows on the other side of the room. “Yeah, that side’s west, so it’s afternoon.”

“Where is everyone? The boys?”

“Out and about.”

“Are they okay?”

She nods. “And then some. They’ve really taken to this place.” She attempts a smile, but her lips are lined with tension. “They’re loving it here. They couldn’t be happier.”

“So this really is it, then? The Land of Milk and Honey?”

She nods, falls quiet.

“Sissy, what’s wrong?”

“No, nothing. It’s great. Fruit and sunshine. The Promised Land.” But she is no longer looking me in the eye.

“Just tell me,” I urge her gently.

She bites her lower lip, shifts in her chair. In a hushed voice, she says, “There’s something off about this place.”

I sit up. “What do you mean?” Phlegm gets caught in my chest, and I start hacking away. She slides next to me and lightly pounds my back. “Sissy, tell me.”

She shakes her head. “You need to rest.”

I grip her hand. “Just tell me.”

She hesitates. “It’s hard to put my finger on it. Nothing really big, just a bunch of small things.”

“The boys have noticed it, too? Epap?”

A stab of frustration lights her eyes. “There’s too much food, too many fun distractions here. I brought it up with Epap yesterday and he didn’t have the faintest. Told me to knock it off, to stop being paranoid. To relax and enjoy this place. But I can’t. Something’s off-kilter.”

Just then, the sound of footsteps approach from outside the door. The door bangs open. A tall man, slightly hunched as if embarrassed by his height, stumbles in. Sissy stiffens.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps at her. “This is not good. This is
not
good!”

“What’s the matter?” I say.

The man’s eyes swing toward me. “You’re awake!” he says, swaying.

“I am.”

He blinks long and hard. “I’m Elder Northrumpton. I’ve been taking care of you.” His voice is slurred, his eyes bloodshot. Even from the bed, I can smell fumes of alcohol pouring out of his mouth. He stumbles over to the windows, fumbles with the latch. Leaning out, he belts out a yodel, his hands cupped to the sides of his mouth. Even his yodel is slurred. Then he turns back around.

“Please get ready,” he says to me. “Supper is in a few minutes. A group of girls will escort you over to the banquet hall shortly.” He points to a cupboard. “A set of warm clothes, fitted for you. I’ll give you some privacy to change. But hurry.”

“He should stay in bed,” Sissy says. “He’s weak. Surely we can bring food to him.”

The elder’s eyebrows knot together with irritation. “He is to dine with the rest of us in the banquet hall,” he answers. “Grand Elder Krugman will be most pleased to see Gene up and about. Most pleased at the quality of care I’ve given him.” His licks his lips. His attention shifts to Sissy. “And what are you doing in this room? You’re not supposed to be here.”

Sissy tenses but doesn’t say anything.

“Let’s go. Now.” He walks out of the room, leaving the door open. No sound of footsteps accompany his exit. He’s stopped right outside the door, waiting in the hallway for Sissy to follow.

Sissy leans over to me, her eyes sharp. “Listen, you have to know something,” she whispers quickly.

“What?”

“It’s about your fa—” She gazes at the door. “—about the Scientist.”

And at those words, the air in the room is sucked out. I remember now: Krugman’s fat lips opening, the noxious odor of his breath in my nose, his words in my ears:
He died. In a tragic … incident
.

My father. Dead.

Again. The second time in my life I must grieve him, miss him, feel abandoned by him. Feel the emptiness in the world left by him.

It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

Sissy’s hand slides into mine; the soft touch is familiar. I now realize it was her hand that held mine over the past few nights and days, a cool salve on my burning skin. It was she who nursed me back to health.

“What is it? What about him?” I say.

A floorboard in the hallway creaks; the elder suddenly reappears in the doorway. “Now!” he barks. Sissy stands to leave, but I grip her hand. I need to know.

She pauses, seeing my earnestness, then grabs the damp cloth and makes a show of dabbing my brow one last time. As she does, she bends over until her lips are right against my ear.

“It was a suicide,” she whispers. “They said he hung himself in that log cabin.”

What?

“I’m really sorry,” she whispers.

A loud creak as the elder starts moving toward us. “Let’s talk later,” Sissy says quickly, squeezing my hand as she leaves. Their footsteps thump away on the floorboards. I am left alone in a plunging silence.

Suicide doesn’t make sense. My father valued life. He instilled in me from an early age its very sanctity. During the hellish existence we lived in the metropolis, he refused the easier path that death offered; instead, he daily fought to survive yet another day.
Living
was dogma to him. And if he fought to stay alive in that wretched metropolis for so many years, why would he so soon commit suicide
here
, in the Promised Land?

A chorus of girls’ voices suddenly ambles through the windows, interrupting my thoughts.

The wind chimes are clinking

The sunshine off the spoons glinting

Tell us all, tell us one

Time to eat, a supper sublime.

Their voices warble in a seamless blend. I pull the curtains back from the window and they’re right there. In two rows of ten, making a semicircle, facing me. Serenading me. Their faces, scrubbed and sparkling, as if gleaned straight from the crisp mountain air. They gaze up at me on the second floor with earnest smiles.