I settled down next to Emily. “Thanks,” I said. “Don’t mention it,” she said, laughing. I’d always thought of her as just another famous nobody, but her stock had suddenly shot up in my book. Now that I was seeing her up close, I realized she was totally cute. Beautiful skin, beautiful hair, perfect makeup. Wonder how she did that? “We’re off!” shouted Fuyuki Moto, and the car lurched forward. “Where are we going?” I wondered aloud. “First stop, Chofu Station,” said Gucci. Chofu Station? Right smack into the middle of Armageddon? “Don’t worry,” Gucci reassured me. “They’ve moved on, and the middle school kids have all died or run away.” You’re kidding? “No, really.” Then Fuyuki Moto spoke up. “The road’s a little bumpy up ahead. Hang on, everybody!” What? DOKKON! DOKKON! A terrible jolt went through the car and its load of celebrities, as though we had run over something. We inched forward and then DOKKON! DOKKON! all over again. What was that? “Middler, I’m afraid. But don’t worry! They’re sturdy little fuckers.” Not that sturdy, I thought, not enough to survive that! “See,” said Fuyuki Moto, pointing out the back window. “Looks okay to me.” I turned around in time to see a kid about my age struggling to get back to his feet. When he was standing again, I could see it was a boy wearing a school uniform. He bent down to brush off his pants—and he was apparently unhurt. Fuyuki was right, middlers are tough. Super tough. DOKKON! DOKKON!…DOKKON! DOKKON! DOKKON! We raced off toward the station, plowing over kid after kid like so many bumps in the road. I leaned forward, poking my head between Gucci and Moto, and peered out through the windshield. The highway ran straight to the station, with bumps lined up as far as the eye could see. Most looked like middle school road kill from Armageddon, though there might have been a few adults mixed in. I kept an eye out for my brother, but it was kind of hard to make out faces. Then I saw a bus coming from the other direction, running over the bodies in the street just like we were. Were middle school kids bus-resistant? I somehow doubted it, but who knows. As the bus passed us, I scanned the faces of the passengers, hoping to find my brother. But no such luck. A moment later, we pulled into the roundabout in front of the station. It was completely quiet, no middle school kids or anyone else scattered on the ground. Nothing at all to mark the passing of Armageddon. Just Chofu Station, same as it always was—except with nobody going in or out or any sign of station staff. They must all still be hiding. I climbed out of the car, but nobody else followed me. Gucci rolled down the window on the passenger side. “You should head on down to City Hall in Shinjuku,” he said. “Everybody’s going to be there.” City Hall? Had somebody suddenly called a town meeting? And what, I asked, looking back at Gucci, was he going to do? “Daddy’s going to look for Governor Ishihara,” he said. The governor? Sorry about losing him. “Not your fault, Aiko,” Gucci said. “But are you going to be okay on your own?” Not really, I thought, but I didn’t see what good it would do to tell him that. “Should I just show up at City Hall and tell them I’m from Chofu?” “Sounds like a plan,” Gucci answered. “The folks in charge will tell you where to go.” Okay, got it, thanks. “Take care of yourself,” I said, and Gucci gave me one last well-tanned smile. “Don’t fret, sweetie. Looks like Armageddon won’t last much longer. See you, then,” he said. See you. And with that, the big black car stuffed with Gucci and Moto and Emily Henmi and the entire cast of Your Hit Parade made a quick circuit around the rotary and disappeared down the road.
What time was it? I checked my phone: still just five-thirty. Wonder what time the meeting would start? Anyway, might as well go buy a ticket. I went down into the undercroft that led to the ticket machines. A man was coming toward me in the narrow passage, but there was no one else around. Tense. With just the two of us in the whole place, I could hardly pass by without looking at him. It made me terribly nervous. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Keep your head down, just walk by, don’t look up. But as we were passing, he said, “Excuse me.” “Yes?” I said, looking up. What a truly gross guy! Shaggy hair, pale, geeky face, pink shirt tucked into geeky pants—and somehow strangely, geekily familiar? Where had I seen him before? No idea. Maybe I was just imagining it. Then I realized he looked just like Bondo Oki, another TV star, or what passes for one on the late-night network offerings.
“Is this the way to City Hall?” he asked.
“You’re headed in the right direction,” I said, “but you have to get back on the train. You’re only in Chofu.” Shit! We were going the same way. Oh well. It was a little lonely around here. The pink-shirted fellow just thanked me and turned to go, as though he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Whatever. Who wanted to hang out with a geek, especially a gender-ambiguous one? The guy was pudgy, maybe even busty, with a little gold ring on “his” left hand. Maybe the guy was a girl? Or gay? Whatever. Gross.
As soon as I got up to the platform, a train pulled into the station, and there were actually some people on it. What a relief. Armageddon refugees? The train was one of those long-distance jobs, not the normal commuter version, with pairs of seats facing each other. I made my
