“Okay, I guess that’ll do me,” he said, replacing the full knapsack over his tenderized back with great care. As they made for the escalators he spied on a remainder table a stack of fairly intact copies of the massive hardcover celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Playboy magazine. He’d really wanted that book but at the time couldn’t afford it. Pangs of chastity and guilt boomeranged around the inside of his noodle, laced with regrets over having divested himself of his porn and sexual trophies.
Except for Lourdes Ann Kananimanu Estores-Miss June 1982.
She’d be in there. Maybe even her whole set, to keep the lonely centerfold in his drawer company. This was almost worse than having to explain away a copy of the PDR. No guy wants to be caught procuring whacking material in the company of a female. Fresh sweat began to leak. This is ridiculous, Karl thought. Why should I care what she thinks of me? It’s only Playboy, for God’s sake. It’s not like it’s real porn. It’s pinups. Why am I justifying this to myself? This barely qualifies as a sin. It was a sin to have thrown away the bounty I had. This is just a little compensation for my loss.
With that, Karl snatched a copy of the cumbersome volume off the table. If Mona cared a jot, it didn’t register on her face. Karl’s reddened nonetheless as he reconfigured the contents of his knapsack to accommodate the large tome. Almost to spite Mona, he snagged a second copy. A gift. With Ellen expecting, surely Alan would appreciate a treasury of the finest fillies ever to walk the earth. Karl wedged it in, then-with even greater tenderness-reaffixed the laden backpack and stepped into Mona’s wake.
Whereupon the charred floor gave way.
And Mona’s face, staring at the hole through which Karl had dropped, actually registered surprise.
Karl couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel anything, other than remorse, embarrassment, and the near certainty that these were likely his final thoughts. Typical, he thought again. He could move his eyes, and aided by the beam of his headlamp could make out that he was upside down. Or at least his head was. The rest of him he couldn’t see and apparently moving his head wasn’t an option. He opened his mouth and produced a pitiable mewl, drool running into his nostril. Above him he could hear the faint creaks of Mona tiptoeing to the escalator, weighing each step, making herself as buoyant as possible.
Once on more solid ground, she raced down the long flight of metal stairs and deposited herself directly in Karl’s line of sight. Even upside down, Karl could see she was upset, and that pressed his panic button. A postfall dreaminess had temporarily quelled his mounting hysteria, but seeing Mona’s semivegetative visage register distress was profound and terrifying. She didn’t say anything, but as her eyes took in the damage, the unspoken appraisal was clearly bad news. The worst.
“Can you speak?”
Karl wasn’t sure if she said it or he did. His thoughts were jumbled. His head was the only body part he could feel, and it felt like a water balloon full to bursting. His eyes felt like the pressure behind them would soon propel them across the room. He was panting.
“Can you speak?”
It was Mona. He wasn’t saying anything. She touched his face, drying his drool and sweat with a tissue plucked from her silly cartoon knapsack. Upside down, the bag seemed so cute. Mona’s face seemed childlike. She didn’t seem cold and remote-just fragile and damaged. She’s fragile and damaged. Karl smirked-or at least thought he did; it was hard to tell, what with being numb all over.
“Can you speak?”
Karl’s vision was dimming or the battery on his headlamp was failing. Maybe a little of both. One from column A, one from column B. No soup with buffet. Karl smiled at Mona. Upside down, it’s sometimes hard to read another person’s expression. “I can’t move you,” Mona said, her voice thin.
Upside down or not, she was lovely. He pondered how he could have been so judgmental of this otherworldly waif. Mona was no demon. He was certain, finally.
“You’re too…” She faltered, searching for the right way to say what there was no right way to say. She sighed and squinted, then looked away from his body, which was twisted at the midriff, his legs pointing east, his torso west. Karl thought about the incinerated medical section. That might have come in useful right about now. Stay focused, he thought. Remain lucid. Remain. “Broken.” She’d finished her thought.
He tried to speak but each attempt choked him, his Adam’s apple straining, pressing upwards, crushing the words. The Adam’s apple. The laryngeal prominence. He remembered that from one of those atlases of the human body with the clear overlaid pages. Cross sections of the various systems. Filet of human. How many parts of his anatomy were broken, as Mona put it? All the important ones? Why was Mona immune? Karl clenched his jaw, then with great effort managed, “Wha moon?”
“Why moon?”
“Wha roo moon?” Mona shook her head, uncomprehending. “Wha roo moon?”
“Something about the moon?”
Pointless. “Ah gobba gub,” Karl strained, sputtering up fluid, which she mopped away.
“Huh?”
“Imma bag. Ah gobba gub.”
“Your bag?”
“Yuh.”
Mona opened his bag and felt around. More surprise registered-it was a banner day. With great reluctance she produced a handgun from Karl’s backpack.
“You had this the whole time?” Mona was becoming a regular chatterbox.
“Yuh.” Big Manfred wasn’t about to let his boy head off to New Sodom unarmed. Karl had left it tucked away in its case since he’d arrived in New York, but today seemed the correct occasion to bring it out. He hadn’t anticipated being its target, though.
“And what am I…”
“Shoo muh.”
“I don’t…”
“Peez.”
“Can you feel anything?”
“Nuh.”
“I’ll be back.”
Karl watched her form as it trotted to the blown-out windows, stepped over the threshold, tossed the gun away, and disappeared from view.
38
Alan heard a sharp whistle from the street followed by the squawk of the walkie-talkie that announced Mona’s return. He tore himself away from the touch-ups he’d been doing on an earlier canvas of Mona only to see the real McCoy outside, solo, not looking quite as detached as usual. Solo. Alan tore down the stairs and into 2B, so upset by her arriving stag that he didn’t even alert the others. As he dropped the rope for her readmittance Mona was just climbing onto the roof of Dabney’s van. Ellen stepped up and looked over his shoulder, giving Alan a start.
“Where’s Karl?” she asked.
“Good question.”
Mona’s explanation, monosyllabic and fragmented, managed to paint an ugly portrait of Karl splayed on the carcass of a display table, his upper story turned this way, his lower that, and leaking fluids like a hooptie. Ellen fought the urge to ask if this accident happened before or after Mona had managed to score her “morning after” pills. Timing.
“We have to get him out of there,” Alan said, affecting calm. “He can’t just be left there to die, or worse, be eaten alive. Before he fell, that whole umbrella thing was working out pretty well for you?” Mona nodded. “Right.” Alan exhaled heavily and pushed back on his chair, the front legs off the floor. He didn’t want to go out there, but duty called. He walked over to the front window and looked at the horde. “Ugh,” he said. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what?” Ellen said. “Go out there? No way. You’re not even primed at all.”