Agency, the White House are all saying this is psychological. Is there any evidence to support this?”
“The evidence is by process of elimination. It’s not a physical illness. It’s not some second secret supervirus the terrorists planted. That rumor is completely without merit. Given the symptoms, it’s clearly psychological.”
I stopped at a light. A girl whizzed by on a red Huffy bike. She reminded me of Kayleigh. Kayleigh had insisted on a red bike; she hadn’t wanted a girly color.
“There are rumors that there is an advanced form of the disorder…”
I turned the volume way up, leaned forward.
“…victims report not only losing control of their voices, but of their bodies. Do you have any information on this? Can you confirm these cases?”
“We have encountered a few of these cases. It appears to be an advanced form of the same disorder.”
“Bullshit,” I growled. The feds were probably afraid people would panic if they knew what it really was. They had to know by now.
On second thought, the feds were probably right to keep it quiet. Let people get used to the voices first.
Summer was waiting on her front steps. She hopped up when she saw my car.
“Have you seen WSB News?”
“No, what?”
“They’ve got footage of a full-on possession, and proof it’s not this post-traumatic stress thing. The woman’s hands are trembling like mad, she’s got the zombie voice, and she answers detailed questions only the dead person would know—How tall was your first wife? What was your grandmother’s first name? They checked the answers and all of them were right.” Summer shook her head. “The whole thing is about to blow. They can’t pass this off by saying we’re all crazy or traumatized any longer.”
Summer stared out the passenger window, watching pedestrians hurry by, hunched in the cold.
“My guess is they’ll insist it’s a mental illness to the bitter end,” I said. “I just can’t picture the president on national TV, saying ‘The dead have taken over half a million souls in Atlanta. We’re doing everything we can to save them.’”
“I see your point,” Summer said. She opened her window a crack, sending a burst of cool air through the car. I turned the heat down, in case she was too warm. “I was awake most of the night wondering what happens if they can’t save us. And we can’t save ourselves.”
I only nodded; I wondered that myself, and I didn’t have any answers. Grandpa’s gleeful prediction played between my ears.
Until, what? No more Finn?
“I’ve always been comfortable with not knowing what happens when we die,” Summer said. “Maybe there was something, maybe nothing. I was a true agnostic—I liked believing that anything was possible and I wouldn’t know the answer until I died.” Her head drooped. “Now I know the answer, and I can barely breathe I’m so scared. You actually
I sighed deeply. “I try not to think about it. When I do it’s like the ground has given way and I’m falling into a bottomless pit.”
“What do you think is happening over there? Have you thought any more about it?”
I grunted a laugh. “All I do is think about it. I don’t know, maybe it’s hell, and the people who rescue dogs from the pound and recycle go to a different place.”
Summer burst out laughing. “Shit, I need to adopt a pet in a hurry.”
We stopped at a light; an old man, his spine curled so deeply he had to crane his neck to see, hobbled past the Avalon’s bumper. His hands were trembling. It was not the tremor of the aged, but the blurry vibration of the possessed.
I gestured through the windshield. “That’s what it looks like.”
“What?”
“That old man. Look at his hands. He’s got a hitcher.” That’s what people were calling them; it seemed to have started on the support group website.
She watched, transfixed. “I keep trying to imagine what it would feel like, but I can’t.”
The old man stepped onto the curb; the light turned green.
“No, you really can’t.” Again, I struggled to wrap my mind around the contradiction: Summer’s tormentor was Lorena.
I spotted another, about two blocks further on, a blocky young guy in a charcoal suit. He looked all wrong in a suit. This was a flip-flop and shorts guy, a beer in a Styrofoam holder guy. I didn’t bother pointing him out to Summer, though she may have noticed him on her own.
“Can I ask you something?” Summer said.
“Sure.” As I spoke a spasm laced down my back, like a rope being pulled under my skin. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
I pulled the car toward the curb as the rippling spread, followed by tingling. I tried to warn Summer, but couldn’t get it out.
Grandpa finished pulling the car over. “This is where you get out, Missy.”
“What?” Summer asked, confused.
“You heard me.”
She looked at my hands, quavering, clinging to the steering wheel. “Here? I don’t even know where I am.”
Grandpa looked up at the street sign. “You’re on Forsythe Street. Now get out.”
Summer got out. Grandpa lifted a hand in farewell as he drove off. He glanced at my watch, though the Avalon had a clock two feet from his nose and the watch bounced as if it was on the end of a spring. “Let’s see if we get more than forty-seven minutes this time.”
He turned right at the light. “We’re gonna have a little talk, you and me. But not just yet.” He drove around the block, headed back up Forsythe. Even before we pulled up in front of the Cypress Street Pint and Plate I’d guessed where we were going.
When I was a kid Grandpa would often volunteer to drive me somewhere—to buy school supplies or whatever—then take a detour through the Pint and Plate. I didn’t mind because he always bought me a Coke, and he was unusually nice to me on those detours. “Don’t tell Grandma, now,” he’d say as he boosted a drink to his mouth, chasing each swig with a long, satisfied “Aaaaah.” He always knew the bartender, was warmer, more animated than he ever was at home. In the course of twenty minutes he’d down three whiskeys, then we’d be off. If someone asked what took us so long Grandpa would say I’d had trouble deciding, or the store had been out of what we were looking for and we had to go somewhere else. If no one was watching he’d wink at me when he said this, and after a while I’d watch for the wink. The wink was like a vitamin I was deficient in, and I drank it in.
If Grandpa knew the bald, unshaven man who was tending bar that day he didn’t let on. All he said was, “Whiskey, neat.” The bartender started at the sound of his voice, but set a cocktail napkin down, then the drink on top. He quickly retreated down the bar.
Inside I cringed as he let out that first long raspy “Aaaaaah” and set the shivering glass back on the napkin. The plan was for me to return to Deadland, to explore further and see what I could learn, but I was curious about the “little talk” Grandpa had promised. Besides, I didn’t relish going back to Deadland. It was scary.
The bartender was staring at Grandpa’s hands. Grandpa folded his arms, pinning the hands under his elbows. “Let me ask you something. Which is right: The yolk of an egg
The bartender peered at the ceiling. “Is white.”
Now I knew Grandpa didn’t know this bartender. Every bartender who’d ever tipped a bottle for Grandpa knew this one.
“You’re not so bright,” Grandpa said humorlessly. “The yolk of an egg is yellow.”
The bartender smiled nervously, nodded. “Got me.”
Grandpa set his empty glass down. “Hit me again. See if you can’t get a little more in the glass this time. You’re charging me for a whole drink, aren’t you?”
The bartender’s face grew stony. If he’d been dealing with a normal customer he looked like the sort who wouldn’t take any crap. Instead he poured noticeably more into the glass, then turned and walked to the farthest
