South Village Page 9

  He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look up. Channeling his frustration into the work. Okay then. I step outside and pass Aesop, who’s standing on the porch, hands on his hips, staring off into the distance. His eyes glassy and vacant.

  “I’m going to make sure my bunk is in order. Then we’ll start?”

  He doesn’t respond. He’s staring at a point beyond the trees, at where the world blurs together.

  “Aesop?”

  He looks at me. “What?”

  “Meet at the kitchen in a bit?”

  He nods.

  I walk to the tree line, climb onto the wooden boardwalk, head toward the bus, pass over a plank that says: My blood type is Be Positive.

  Fucking hippies.

  The inside of the bus doesn’t look like it was touched. It’s easy enough to pass over, maybe even to miss entirely.

  I sit down on my cot, put my head in my hands. Take a minute. Breathe deep. Now that I’ve stopped moving the wave has time to catch up. Before it can hit me I open up my flask and drain it. That helps a little.

  The downside of that is I am now whiskey-less, and this is a big problem for me. I’ve got some stashed at the kitchen and that’ll help me get through tonight, but that means I need to make a trip off-campus tomorrow. Which means I need to talk someone into giving me a ride.

  There are a lot of things I need to do. Like figure out what a book cipher is. I get the gist. It’s a code you crack with a book. It’s the finer details I’m not too sure about.

  Normally I’d sit on the computer for a little while, but after dinner the computer is off limits—with the power rationing, the lights get priority. Computer sucks up too much juice. And anyway, that bug or whatever the feds planted could have been a decoy. Something they knew we’d find, lull us into a false sense of security, but really there’s some programming on the computer that’s tracking how it’s used. It makes me nervous about my instant-message conversation with Bombay, too. Whether they were able to find it after the fact.

  I take a knee next to my duffel and dig out my phone, very thankful that I took a picture of the cipher. I wasn’t even sure why I was doing it. Just felt like a good idea at the time.

  The phone won’t turn on. Battery is probably dead. I shove it along with my charger into my pocket, and figure on skimming a little power out of the main dome. Won’t need much.

  As I push through the door to leave I ask myself, “What are you doing?”

  The way the words spring from my mouth, unexpected but fully formed, leaves me standing there for a minute, confused. Holding the door. Wondering whether I should answer. Ultimately, I decide not to.

  After I plug in my phone, we get to work. We give Zorg the night off from cooking. Aesop and I have to move quick to get dinner ready and we don’t want to eat as late as we did last night. Training someone is going to slow us down.

  The time margin is slim so we settle on a big garden salad with oil and vinegar—about as simple as you can get—and a macaroni salad with a tofu dressing. Simple, good, and easily assembled from the flotsam floating around in the chest fridge. We’ve got some fresh loaves of bread, too, which we can pair with cashew butter and sea salt. Boom. Dinner. I hope nobody was expecting warm food. Or is counting their carbs.

  I load some silken tofu and dill and agave and vinegar and salt into the blender, and turn to check on Aesop. He’s got his hands on the counter, staring out the window. I turn the blender on and the mechanical roar of it fills the kitchen. Aesop leaps, nearly off his feet. He turns, wild-eyed, looking around like he’s trying assess a threat. His eyes settle on me and he closes them.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Fine.” He opens his eyes, goes back to work.

  “You’re lying.”

  “You’re talkative all of a sudden?”

  The way he says it is acidic. Not usually his style. I’m about to say something in return when Tibo sticks his head through the door.

  “I’d like to get started,” he says.

  I dump the dressing into the big bowl of cooked macaroni, give it a couple of turns, and wrap some plastic over it. Aesop exits and I take that as an opportunity to grab my stash bottle of whiskey and take a little swig. I’d have preferred a big swig but it’s running down. I exit the kitchen in the cooling night air, and everyone is nervously standing around the campfire, which is catching and coming to life.

  Aesop walks toward the fire as the group slowly forms into a circle, people reaching out their hands, clasping the hands of their neighbors. I step off to the side, to my usual spot on the picnic table, propping my feet on the bench, and begin my futile attempt to swat away the no-see-ums.

  Once everyone is assembled, Tibo nods and bows his head. When he raises it, it seems like he still hasn’t found the words he’s looking for. He opens his mouth and Katie clears her throat.

  Tibo rolls his eyes. “Trigger warnings… I don’t know. We’re going to talk about what happened here at camp today. So, I guess, totalitarianism. Overzealous government outreach?” He pauses. “What happened here at camp today. I don’t know what happened. None of us do. There’s a lot to process. And I fear we’re losing our grip on what this place is, and what makes it special. So instead of going off the rails here, I’d like to propose a return to normalcy. So, if everyone could share what they’re thankful for, I think that would be a great start.”

  “Are you fucking kidding?” Marx asks.

  Here we go.

  “The government stormed in here, took us prisoner, questioned us, and then left us in the middle of nowhere,” he says. “No warrant, no nothing. And your response to that is to shrug your shoulders and propose we pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “I never said that we should…”

  Marx lets go of the people on either side of him and steps forward into the circle. “That’s exactly what you’re proposing. What kind of normalcy can we return to? This is all very much not normal.”

  Some people in the circle nod in agreement. I can understand why. He’s not exactly wrong. I expected Tibo’s response would be a little more direct, a little less dismissive.

  Tibo steps forward. The two of them are standing on either side of the fire, the flames raging between them, painting them both in red and orange. Tibo looks agitated and he never looks agitated. He usually looks down and away from Marx but now he’s looking him square in the eye. Most of the circle takes a step or two back, hands unclasping and falling to sides. I don’t like the direction this is going so I get off the picnic table, move a little closer.

  Marx breaks eye contact with Tibo and walks around the fire.

  Not threatening. Orating.

  “Those men who came here today had no right,” Marx says, pointing into the distance. “Their search and confinement of us was illegal. I wish I could tell you that we do not live in a fascist state. That this isn’t Nazi Germany. It’s not Putin’s Russia or Kim Jong-un’s North Korea. But the truth is, we do live in a fascist state. This is the new face of America. This isn’t a democratic nation. It’s an oligarchy. And it’s our own fault. Every single one of us here today. We let it happen. When we surrender, we condone it.”

  As he speaks, he stops in front of people, scanning their faces. Gauging their reactions? Smiling at some folks, passing by others.

  Looking for disciples, maybe?

  “Marx, this isn’t the time,” Tibo says. “It’s definitely not the place.”

  “When is the time?” he asks, spinning around. “When are you going to stop with this lazy leadership? You’re nothing but an enabler. It’s like you’re on their side.”

  “This isn’t what we do here, Marx. You want to go pick a fight, go pick a fight. Do it away from here. Don’t bring violence to our doorstep.”

  Marx shakes his head. “Violence showed up uninvited. Don’t be such a damn coward.”

  Tibo steps forward and says something to Marx, low enough I can’t make it out, but the way Marx tenses up, I know what’s co
ming. He reaches his arm back, twisting his body to swing, but Tibo doesn’t wait. He throws himself into Marx’s midsection. The two of them topple over, barely missing the fire, crashing to the ground, and everyone is so shocked at the display of violence they stand there frozen.

  Me and Gideon and Aesop all make it to the scrum at the same time.

  Gideon puts his hands up and says, “Guys, guys,” thinking that’s going to calm the fight. I look at Aesop and point to Tibo, and Aesop gets it, grabs Tibo behind the arms and pulls him away. Marx sees the opening and reaches his fist back, to slam it into Tibo’s gut. I lock my arm into his and yank him away. He spins and falls into me. I grab him by the shirt and throw him at a picnic table, climb on top of him, press my body into his.

  I raise my arm, ready to drive my fist into his jaw.

  See if maybe I can break it. I bet I can.

  For a moment, there’s a flash of genuine fear in his eyes. I’m about to bring my fist down when I feel the lapping of the wave at my feet, threatening to engulf me, pull me under. I loosen my grip and he sees this moment of weakness, but before he can exploit it Tibo’s voice reverberates through the clearing.

  “Enough!”

  Again, everyone freezes. I drop my hand and Marx jumps up, pushes me away so that there’s a little distance between us. His stare is like a drill, boring into my skin. I return it in kind.

  Seems we’re on a path now, him and I.

  Tibo speaks up again, says, “Everyone, that’s enough. Temperatures are running high right now. We can schedule an assembly to discuss this as a group. Right now, let’s call a pass on this.” He looks at me and Aesop. “Can you set out dinner?”

  We stand there for a moment. Clothes bunched up, hair tousled. Teetering on the border of something bad. I’m ready to step over the line. Not that I want to, but it’s a gravity thing. Aesop looks frightened, which is a little surprising. Then I look down at his hands and see they’re clenched so tight they’re white and shaking.

  “Can you do that,” Tibo asks, except it’s not a question.

  I exhale. Pat Aesop on the shoulder. He jerks out of whatever daze he’s in and follows me to the kitchen.

  Not a whole lot of talking goes on during dinner. People split into small groups, little islands spread across the picnic benches, heads down. I sit on a bench and chew my macaroni salad and when I’m done take out my copy of The Monkey Wrench Gang and flip through it. I can’t concentrate enough on the words to actually read it. I’m curious to see if there are any notes or scribbles in the margins, but it doesn’t look like it.

  The book is about a bunch of environmentalists sabotaging construction sites, so between this and the Soldiers of Gaia, I’m beginning to sense a theme.

  I watch Marx, too. He’s talking to people. Hushed tones, mindful of who’s around him. I keep a running tally in my head of who he talks to.

  Tibo sits down next to me with a plate of food and pokes at the salad, separating the various components into piles on the plate. He eats the carrots first.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “Welcome. What did you say to him?”

  “That if he kept it up I’d make him leave.”

  I nod my head. “So, what, you figure Marx is fomenting rebellion now?”

  “‘Fomenting’. That’s a good word. SAT word.”

  “I’m not just a pretty face.”

  Tibo eats a little more and puts the plate down on the table next to him. “Marx is a dangerous asshole and I need you right now.”

  “I’m out of here in less than two weeks. Leaving on a jet plane.”

  “I don’t care what you do in two weeks. I need you right now.”

  I laugh a little bit at that.

  “What so funny?” he asks.

  “The John McClane Paradox of Bullshit. Why does the same stuff keep happening to the same guy?”

  “I don’t get that reference.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Die Hard.”

  “Never saw it.”

  “I don’t know why we’re friends,” I tell him.

  Tibo picks his plate back up. Eats his radishes, then the sliced bell peppers. Katashi walks by with his plate, a big pile of macaroni salad on it. He looks at me and smiles and says, “Arigato.” I nod at him and he wanders off.

  “So what’s this thing with the deed?” I ask Tibo.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The deed. The land. Aesop told me about the dispute. Pete was leading the charge and he ends up dead.”

  “And you think I killed him?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You thought it.”

  “Look, man, I know you didn’t kill anyone. Takes a certain type to kill a person. You’re not it. So, tell me what the story is.”

  Tibo sighs, puts the plate down, stretches his arms up over his head. “This is the problem when you encourage people to be part of a community. Sooner or later, the inmates want to run the asylum.”

  “Community and power structures sound like opposite things,” I tell him.

  “It can’t just be a free for all,” he says. “Someone needs to be in charge.”

  “So why not do what they ask. Give communism a try.”

  Tibo folds his hands and leans forward. “Communism always sounds better than it works. There needs to be a hand steering the ship. And I don’t care if it’s selfish, it was my money that bought this place. I want what everyone else wants. For this place to be sustainable and separate. I don’t have some nefarious plan to build hotels here. I’m not exploiting anything.”

  “To ride out the end of the world.”

  “C’mon. That was mostly drunken ranting.”

  “No it wasn’t. Not completely, anyway.”

  Tibo pauses, picking through his words. Wanting to choose what he says carefully. “Things aren’t going great, anywhere. The world is falling apart. People are making bad decisions, and those decisions are making things worse. Pick up any newspaper on any given day and it’s writ large. This…” He puts his hand up, gestures to the surrounding area. “This is the answer. Small, sustainable living. Rediscovering the meaning of community. Backing each other up. Making things.”

  “Nice speech.” I point into the clearing. “You ought to be making it to them.”

  He nods. “Tomorrow. The ship is listing a little. It hasn’t capsized. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can stabilize it. Right now I just want everyone to eat and relax and get a good night’s sleep.” He hops down to his feet and turns. “What kind of person does it take?”

  “What kind of what now?” I ask.

  “You said it takes a special kind of person to kill someone and I’m not that person. So, what kind of person does it take?”

  I can barely see his face, the way he’s backlit by the fire. I can’t tell how he’s looking at me.

  “A bad one,” I tell him.

  He nods, heads back into the mix of people.

  I sit for a little while and watch. People talking and laughing. Being friends. Being normal, even after what the camp went through today. It’s incredible how people can fall back into normal so quick. It makes me sad. Because there’s a part of me that knows I can’t be a part of normal.

  Because of Wilson, and what I did.

  And there it is.

  The picnic table disappears out from under me as the wave hits.

  Pushing me under. Roaring in my ears, threatening to pull me down into the dark. Filling my eyes and nose and throat. I’m tumbling, can’t tell up from down. I reach out, stumble into the dirt, then get to my feet and run to the kitchen, into the pantry, to my stash of whiskey.

  The bottle is nearly empty now. If I take one big swig now and one at bed I might be able to make it through until the morning, when I can hit someone up for a ride and get into town.

  This can work.

  I suck down a big mouthful. The act of pressing the bottle to my lips calms me too, because I know what’s next. The bliss of numbness.
I pour the rest of the bottle into my flask and jam it into my pocket. Head outside, grab a flashlight, step onto the boardwalk and follow the circle of blue-white light back to the bus. To sleep. With any luck, a deep, empty sleep.

  When I’m far enough away from camp that I can’t see the fire, I click off the light and stand there in the dark. Feel those two pairs of eyes on me. Consider turning around and confronting them, but that’s the problem: The eyes are always behind me, no matter which direction I turn.

  I click the light on and walk.

  Okay, plan for tomorrow.

  Step one, find someone with a car who can drive me to town to buy a shitload of whiskey. As much as I can manage so that I never run out again. Maybe Aesop. He has a car, and seems to have some kind of hard-on for getting me to be social.

  Step two, figure out what exactly a book cipher is. That’s going to require a visit to Sunny and Moony, which, truthfully, is not such a bad prospect. As long as the feds didn’t get into their set-up. Because I’m not touching the group computer again.

  Shit. My phone. Left it back in the kitchen. It’s plugged into an outlet on a high shelf, out of view, so probably no one’s going to find it. I consider going back for it, though, so I can play at figuring out the cipher, when there’s a shuffle behind me.

  Some giant angry bug stalking me, no doubt.

  Or else it’s the wave, sneaking back up.

  I take out the flask, to help with the walk back. As I near the end of the boardwalk, there’s a creak and a rush behind me and something slams into my back, throwing me forward.

  The flashlight and flask go flying from my hands into the brush as I slam into the ground and get a mouthful of dirt. I try to get up but someone climbs onto my back, straddling me and pressing me down, going for my pants.

  I pull myself forward but I have no leverage. Whoever it is, he’s strong.

  Something hard hits me in the back of the head. My forehead smashes into the ground. The world gets a little fuzzy and I feel something hot and wet on my face. The weight comes off and I get myself standing and I’m alone, footsteps receding in the dark.