The Tesla Gate (27 page)

I jumped with surprise causing me to launch into another fit of coughing. He sheepishly extended his arm toward me, offering me a large glass of ice water. I took it gratefully and rinsed and gargled profusely before I took a drink. I handed the glass back to him feeling much better, albeit I still felt like a vacuum cleaner that had just been perfunctorily rinsed out.

“Thank you,” I said, and then repeated his statement. “It's happening all over the world?”

He nodded.

“Yes, just heard it on the sound box upstairs. Something called the United Nations has mandated all spirits be rounded up for our own safety and for the continued order of society,” he said like someone reciting a limerick they had just memorized. I couldn't believe he had never heard of the United Nations in his 100-year existence, but I guess he had been some place secluded. I wish I had never heard of the UN.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Frederick. Frederick Sax.”

“Pleased to meet you, Frederick,” I said as I shook his hand. It's amazing what you can get used to. The frigid touch of an Impal almost seemed normal to me now.

“Thanks for the water,” I said, and turned and walked to the window. I was partially tingling with excitement and partly with fear in anticipation of what I would see outside.

We were in the basement of a building on a city street. Numerous vehicles sped past behind several pairs of feet belonging to bustling pedestrians. I jumped back from the window in surprise as a skateboard passed precariously close to the glass.

A moment later, a large shadow blocked the sunlight and I stepped up on a pile of bricks for a better look. A large city bus had pulled up at the bus stop just to my left. An elderly couple and a couple of teenagers with their underwear hanging out of their pants got on. I was about to turn away when a familiar face caught my eye.

A large rectangular panel that ran for over half the length of the bus had an advertisement pasted on it, an advertisement that gave me a strong feeling of nostalgia while at the same time made me sick. Johnny Carson, not as I remembered him on The Tonight Show, but what I thought was a slightly haggard-looking Impal version of him, stared at me pleadingly from the yellow background of the advertisement. This incidentally was the same shade of yellow of the clouds hovering in the sky since the phenomenon started. His hands were open in supplication, like he was terribly desperate to relay his point. The caption read:
Help your loved ones and ancestors find peace and dignity, call 800-555-7789 for assistance.

“Peace and dignity, indeed!” I spat. I hoped my favorite boyhood comedian had not done this willfully. For all anyone knew he had an iron rod shoved in his back or iron shackles around his feet when the picture was taken. Maybe he was begging them to let him go, not begging America to turn in Impals. That thought sent a chill up my spine.

As the bus thankfully pulled away, taking the despicable ad with it, I strained my neck and looked as far as I could to the right. A familiar sight caught my eye. Over a small building down the street, I could see the Washington Monument towering in the sky with all its majesty. It had a surreal quality as it was backdropped by the weird lavender sky and a couple of yellow cotton ball clouds. Based on my past experiences travelling to the nation's capital, I estimated we were only about a ten-minute walk from the Smithsonian or, more exactly, the Air and Space Museum.

My first impulse was to wake Seth and tell him the news, never mind I had no idea how I would get him there without being spotted. But that thought was dashed as Abraham Lincoln came down some wooden stairs directly across from me. He was followed by a strange man. In the light, I could not tell if the man was an Impal or not. The former president had a somber expression on his face.

CHAPTER 29

Playmate

“Monsters exist, but they are too few in numbers
to be truly dangerous. More dangerous are…the functionaries
ready to believe and act without asking questions.” 

—Primo Levi

Lincoln spotted me by the window and walked over and patted me on the shoulder.

“How are you, Tommy?” he asked, his voice sounding surprisingly tired.

“Okay,” I said, stifling another urge to erupt into a coughing fit.

“I'm sorry,” he said, apologetic. “I didn't realize the dirt and dust would travel that far, I should have given you more time to get down the tunnel.”

The mention of the tunnel caused me to make a furtive glance around the room for evidence of the opening. To my surprise, I saw no such evidence. Lincoln evidently saw the question in my eyes.

“The tunnel is not here, it is across the street,” Lincoln said as he stood aside and beckoned the man behind him to come forward. “Thomas, this is Riggs Guffey. He owns this townhouse. We are in his basement.”

Riggs Guffey extended his hand and I grasped it and shook. There was little doubt that this man was an Impal, my hand was frigid. The odd thing was that he didn't seem to have the same silvery sheen as the other Impals. Of course the lighting in this cellar was not ideal but Mr. Guffey almost seemed, well … I think normal is a relative term. Mr. Guffey looked like me. He looked like a flesher.

“Why don't you …?” I began but did not know how to finish.

Mr. Guffey raised one eyebrow, causing his bald head to wrinkle precariously. He put his hands on his narrow, blue jeaned hips and cocked his head to one side. He looked to be in his late 50s or early 60s, about my size and build. He wore a very hip Atari t-shirt over stooped shoulders and a sunken chest.

“Why don't I look like an Impal?” he finished for me.

I nodded my head stupidly, a few vestigial particles of dirt slid into my eyes, causing me to blink stupidly as well.

“Well, first of all, I am a recent convert, so to speak. What is the government calling us … RDIs?”

He shrugged, then continued.

“Well, anyway, I became this way just a few days ago. Talk about an out-of-body experience, oye!”

I didn't know whether to smile or not at his dry attempt at humor, but when I saw his smirky grin, I managed one of my own.

“I'm still upstairs, if you get my drift. Three days … it's a good thing us Impals can't smell too good, oye!”

He was still half-smirking and half-grinning, but all I could manage was something between a smile and a grimace. I couldn't help but think of Miss Chenowith passing away in her home. What if I had not been there to call it in? Well, that was stupid, she and Shasta would not have been taken away if I had not called it in. Part of me wanted to blame Mollie for turning them in. She probably had, considering recent events. But, even after her treachery; I don't think I can convince myself of that 100-percent. There was still too much room for doubt, and I wasn't going to be going back and asking our devious ex-host to confirm or deny. Not that I would believe anything she had to say.

Mr. Guffey had at least been smart enough not to let anyone know of his demise. But still, none of that explained why he looks different from other Impals.

“Back to your question. Why don't I look like an Impal?” he said as he stuck his hand in his pocket. I thought this was an odd gesture in itself because I had never seen an Impal put anything in his pocket, Seth included.

He withdrew his hand and held out a tightly-closed fist to me. I indulged him and stuck my hand out under his, palm up. I felt three metallic objects drop into my hand. Before my brain could register what they were, Mr. Guffey had begun to emanate the same ethereal glow as the other Impals in the room. I looked with dumb incredulity at what rested in my palm: three Duracell AA batteries.

“Does that help?” he said with a satisfied smile.

I stared at the batteries like they were some strange alien artifact.

“Batteries?” was all I could manage. “How?”

“Dunno,” he said, “just figured it out by pure happenstance. I hadn't tried the TV since this whole thing started, didn't know it was out. I went to the drawer in the kitchen to get a fresh set of AAs for my remote and happened to notice the change on my hand. I looked in the hallway mirror, and wouldn't you know it? I looked normal again.”

“How?” I blurted.

“Like I said, I don't know. I'm an accountant, not a scientist. Isn't it enough to know that it does work? A quick trip down to Walgreens,” he said jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “and we can get all of us out of here inconspicuously.” He glanced at Lincoln and frowned. “Well, the ones who aren't famous and have a little more modern attire, anyhow.”

The dad side of me leapt for joy at the prospect of getting Seth out and about, not to mention taking him to the Air and Space Museum, or possibly even having a normal life—whatever normal may be now. The protective parent side of me called for caution. Could a battery be harmful to Seth? I had no answer for that question, but Mr. Guffey seemed to return to a “normal” Impal when he handed me the batteries.

I smiled and handed the batteries back.

“Incredible,” I said.

“Indeed,” Mr. Guffey said as he placed the batteries back in his pocket. The glow immediately faded like someone turning back a dimmer switch. A moment later he could have passed for just another one of the thousands of fleshers bustling about outside.

“Mr. Guffey spotted us last night when we came out of the tunnel in the basement across the street,” Lincoln said.

“Saw the creepy glow coming through the basement windows,” Mr. Guffey added. “Knew something was up and knew it had something to do with Impals.”

“I'm glad he did,” Lincoln said, stoic. “It's only a matter of time before the military finds out where the other end is. I don't think Mollie even knew that, thank God,” he said, shaking his head dejectedly.

I wondered about Mollie's motives, not to mention her morality. Maybe it was just senility, but that concern was secondary to the point of where we were and what we would do next. What had happened, happened, and there was nothing we could do to change it.

Mr. Guffey came across the street last night with as many batteries as he could carry and led each and every Impal to the safety of his own basement. He then helped Lincoln and a couple of other battery-laden men carry me across.

“We only saw one cop,” Mr. Guffey cackled, and then rotated his hand back and forth like a beauty contestant waving at admirers, “and he waved at me!”

I did appreciate Mr. Guffey's dry sense of humor, however morbid it tended to be. I guess if you didn't have a sense of humor in times like this, one could go completely insane. I wondered if insanity made any discrimination between Impals and fleshers. I thought it probably didn't, but I didn't care to test that hypothesis. My thoughts floated back to Jackson. I tried to push the image out of my head of the poor dog lying helplessly under tons of dirt, restrained for eternity with his iron collar. I think insanity would be a foregone conclusion in that scenario, whether man or beast, flesher or Impal.

“No, he was captured by the military,” I told myself. He was probably doing tricks on some military base as we speak. I wasn't sure I believed that, but that was the story I was telling Seth. It was the only thing I could think of that wouldn't be too upsetting and yet not insult his intelligence. He is a smart kid.

The military did show up later that afternoon at the abandoned townhouse across the street. After at least 30 minutes of searching the basement and upstairs, they fanned out and began combing every alley and drainage ditch in a wide radius. I watched from the corner window of the cellar with Mr. Guffey as he nervously clutched a half-dozen AAAs he robbed from his ceiling fan remote. A fiery block of ice slid into my gut as I caught a glimpse of General Garrison pacing furiously up the street.

My heart leapt into my throat when we heard a loud knocking at the front door. This was accompanied by a muffled shout.

“Military, open up!”

To my surprise and relief, the soldiers gave up and went on their way after a couple of minutes of no response. I guess we hadn't reached the point yet where the military was indiscriminately kicking in doors. But I had no doubt that if they knew we were in the basement they would knock it off its hinges with no hesitation. I sat down on a nearby wooden crate, General Garrison's and Mollie's faces swimming in my head. Why? Why was he so hell bent? Did he actually believe he was doing the right thing or did he just get his kicks from doing this? Why had Mollie done this, especially to her own friend, Esther?

I remembered my psychology professor telling the class one time that men are not inherently evil, they just have misplaced values sometimes. Even some of the most heinous acts committed in the history of man, the perpetrators believed they were on the side of right. I guess some people are just born with a broken moral compass. It still pisses me off, though.

The Impals in the basement had huddled in the far corners, out of view of the windows. Some had immersed themselves in the brick wall. I'm sure the military knew that Impals are capable of passing through solid objects if they so desired and they would be difficult to find if they didn't want to be found. That is probably why the search was little more than a perfunctory inspection of the surrounding area. That, and the fact that it would be a PR disaster for the military to shake down homes and businesses just blocks from the White House.

I watched as the military vehicles started leaving one by one. The last three were large trucks with a canvas cover on the back, similar to the ones I had seen on the interstate. My heart sank as the last truck passed just a few feet from my vantage point. I saw the frightened face of Esther Baldwin peering out the open flap in the canvas, her hands bound in front of her like a common criminal.

My heart filled with rage when I saw this pitiful sight. The injustice, the brutality, not to mention the betrayal, was more than I could stand. I didn't know Esther Baldwin well at all, we had barely exchanged a few sentences in our brief acquaintance, but she was innocent. If she had been guilty of anything, it was being a long-time companion to an old woman, a woman whose moral capacity seemed to have withered over the years and now was as feeble as her arthritic hands and brittle legs. Maybe she thought she was doing the right thing, but … I just can't see how.

Strangely enough, as I watched the truck pull away, I saw a sight that made me feel a little better and at the same time caused my anger to soar. Sitting in Esther's lap, tongue lolling with excitement, was Jackson. I had told Seth earlier that morning that Jackson was gone and made up the story of him being a performing dog on the base. At least I only felt like half a liar now; the military did have him, but I had no clue as to what they were going to do with him. I could feel my ears turning red with fury when I thought of Seth's dejected little face and deluge of silvery tears when I told him the news of his friend's disappearance. My anger was cooled both literally and figuratively when I felt an ice-cold hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked into the somber face of Abraham Lincoln.

“I didn't know,” he said. “I was there a few days and I never would have guessed. It seemed too good to be true, a refuge for Impals with a kind host. I guess I let hope get in the way of common sense. I'm sorry, Tommy.”

“We would have come whether or not you were there,” I said. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He shook his head emphatically.

“People looked to me for reassurance, and I trusted her. I'm so sorry.”

I took a deep breath and looked over Lincoln's shoulder. Seth and Patrick were playing together like they didn't have a care in the world. They had found a couple of discarded brooms and were playing out the epic lightsaber battle between Anakin Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi. To my surprise, Seth had subrogated the role of Anakin to Patrick.

A child's resilience can teach us a great lesson about letting go and moving on. They do it so easily; it is a fine art that most adults have forgotten over time. It is no wonder that kids don't have high blood pressure and ulcers. I decided at that moment to put Mollie out of my head, to move on, and to focus on our time together. I would learn from our experiences, to be sure, but I wouldn't dwell on them.

I didn't respond to Lincoln's second apology but instead changed the subject completely.

“So, was this building here when you were president?” I asked.

He blinked at me like I had just asked him to describe nuclear physics.

“Well … yes, yes it was,” he said, and proceeded to tell me an anecdote about a time he and Mary Todd had lunch on a bench just outside the basement window.

The next couple of weeks were interesting and, to say the least, uncomfortable. We stayed in the basement for obvious reasons, but none so obvious as when you stuck your head out of the basement door and into the kitchen. Mr. Guffey had been dead for several days when we first arrived, and the upstairs smelled like, well … there really is no odor to compare it to, but I can honestly say it is one that is hard to forget. The odor was as horrific to the nose as I'm sure the remains of Mr. Guffey would have been to the eyes. I don't know for sure, because I never looked.

Since I was the only one who could walk around in public sans batteries, I made several trips to a number of neighborhood drugstores and convenience stores. Mr. Guffey had brought most of his wardrobe downstairs before the smell started to permeate everything, so I thankfully had a few changes of clothes. I couldn't have very well wandered about the streets with my mud-sullied clothes from the tunnel.

My mission was to collect as many different kinds or air fresheners and batteries as I could without being conspicuous. I accumulated several cans of Lysol and various other brands of smell-good products, along with enough batteries to power the space shuttle. The main thing I learned from this ordeal was the one thing that smells worse than a corpse is a Lysol, Glade, Renuzit, forest pine car freshener corpse. I know it is a disgusting thought, but that is the reality that we find ourselves faced with at the moment.