Ford tried to make sense of his father’s impassioned outpouring. Was it possible that Joe actually knew what he was talking about? Could you be crazy and still sound that coherent, that lucid, that sensible? Probably, Ford suspected, but one thing at least was clear: this was never going to be over for Joe Brody until he got the answers he was looking for.
Ford shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering what he was considering.
“You got another one of those suits?” he asked.
SEVEN
The trip took longer than Ford liked. It was late afternoon by the time they drew near an eerily deserted coastline. Miles of sagging perimeter fence extended into the choppy waters of a forgotten inlet. Posted signs, many of them showing obvious signs of age and weathering, warned repeatedly of fatal radiation levels. The official notices were in Japanese, but triangular metal signs also bore the international symbol for radiation: an ominous black trefoil against a yellow background. Ford recognized the view from some of the photos back at his father’s apartment. They had reached the perimeter of the quarantine zone. Somewhere beyond those fences were the contaminated remains of his childhood.
It didn’t feel like much of a homecoming.
A gruff smuggler, who had declined to volunteer his name, piloted a small skiff toward the fence. An outboard motor chugged quietly as it propelled the boat through the water. Ford contemplated the daunting warning signs even as Joe rescued their radiation suits from his duffel bag. Apparently he had purchased them on-line—” from a reputable dealer,” Joe had insisted.
Ford shook his head in disbelief. He was starting to wonder which of them was most crazy.
The skiff motored toward a stretch of fence that had sagged beneath the surface of the water, allowing the boat to pass over it unobstructed. The ruins of the abandoned city rose in the distance, visible in the early morning sunlight. No lights shone from the deserted skyline. Seagulls, braving the lingering radiation, perched along wooden pylons like avian sentinels. Ford wondered how secure the “Q-Zone” was if gulls could fly in and out — and a possibly deranged engineer and his idiot son could sneak ashore so easily.
The two men changed into the radiation suits. Ford would have preferred the armored bomb suit he wore on duty; the stiff green radiation suit struck him as worryingly flimsy by comparison. A dosimeter badge was affixed to his sleeve, but this did little to reassure him. Lord knows a suit like this had not saved his mom so many years ago.
The skiff pulled up to a rotting dock that was missing several timbers. Ford and Joe stepped cautiously onto the dock. The muffled tinkle of broken wind chimes, coming from a nearby shack, penetrated Ford’s bulky helmet. He guessed a breeze was blowing, although he couldn’t feel it through the suit’s heavy layers. The used helmet had a musty smell to it.
Joe leaned over to hand the smuggler a wad of yen. The man accepted the currency and, wasting no time, immediately turned the skiff around and put off for less perilous waters. Second thoughts assailed Ford as he watched the boat cruise away, leaving them behind. He resisted a sudden urge to call the boat back until it finally vanished from view. Ford and Joe traded looks through the transparent masks of their helmets.
They were committed now. In theory, the boat would not return until it received their call.
It was a long hike up from the coast, made slower by the heavy suits, which forced them to pause for breaks every half-mile or so. Ford was decades younger than his father, and accustomed to working in full body armor, but even he was exhausted and covered in sweat by the time they arrived at the outskirts of the city. The sun had begun to sink toward the horizon.
One hour, in and out, my ass, Ford thought.
Janjira was nothing like he remembered. Evacuated fifteen years ago, and cut off from the outside world ever since, the once-bustling community had become a ghost town overnight. Abandoned cars and trucks rusted in the empty streets. Weeds sprouted from the pavement, while moss and vines shrouded entire buildings. Mannequins sporting fashions from the late 90s kept silent vigil from shop windows. Newsstands displayed headlines that were over a decade out of date; apparently there was some concern about Y2K. A theater marquee advertised The Blair Witch Project.
Ford spied no evidence of vandalism or looting. Everything had been left exactly how it had been the day the reactor melted down, so that only time and decay had overrun the city. Ford found himself hoping they wouldn’t have to pass by his old school. His memories of Miss Okada’s classroom were fraught enough. He didn’t need to see it in ruins.
He figured they had the deserted streets to themselves, until a pack of wild dogs startled the men by padding around a corner. The canines looked mangy and malnourished, their coats dirty and matted, but they seemed to be surviving the Zone’s deadly radiation levels. Ford’s brow furrowed in confusion as he pulled his dad into a nearby alley to avoid crossing paths with the pack. Minutes passed before Ford’s heart stopped racing.
They took a detour around the dogs, then paused to catch their breaths. Ford tried to orient himself, but the rusty street signs, all in Japanese, were of little help. He didn’t recognize this neighborhood at all. No surprise, he thought, given that he’d been only nine years old the last time he’d lived in this city. He hoped his father’s memories were more reliable.
“Okay, which way?” He glanced around for Joe, who seemed to have wandered off. “Dad?”
A freeway overpass crossed the road before them. Joe paused in the shadow of the concrete supports and extracted a Geiger counter from his pack. Activating the device, he checked the gauge.
Nothing.
Joe smirked behind his faceplate. He tapped the gauge just to make sure it wasn’t stuck, but needle still didn’t budge. Next he consulted the radiation badge on his forearm. Sure enough, it was still green. Just as he’d expected.
He reached for his helmet.
Ford watched in horror as his father whipped off his protective helmet. Before he could do anything to stop him, Joe tossed the headpiece aside and sucked in a deep breath of the supposedly contaminated air.
“Dad!” he cried out. “What are you doing?”
A horrible thought flashed through Ford’s mind. Had Joe come all this way just to kill himself near where Mom had died?
But Joe didn’t look particularly suicidal. Instead a look of vindication transfigured his gaunt, careworn face. He pointed triumphantly at the telltale green radiation badge on his arm.
“It’s clean, Ford! I knew it!” Joe darted forward and showed Ford the readings on his Geiger counter. This was the most excited that Ford had seen his father in years. “The radiation in this place should be lethal… but there’s nothing. It’s gone. Something’s absorbing it.”