“It’s just an idea that’s been floating around,” Gael says. “Although I’ve heard they’re getting close in Portland.”
“Even if it could work in theory,” Gebre sighs, “a seed this delicate could never take root while that is steamrolling the landscape.” He jabs a palm toward the TV hanging over the counter.
I stare at the screen and my stomach sinks. The onslaught of flashing images stings my eyes, but I can’t look away. A reminder of why we’re here. Where our road leads. What we’ll face when we get there.
There was once a nation that hated itself. It was founded on the idea that no one should need it, that each individual was his own nation and needed no alliance with neighbors, that each of the millions was separate, alone, and in competition with every other. This contradiction drove the nation insane. For the second time in its short history, the nation declared war on itself.
So to defend this nation against the people who comprised it, its government built a machine called BABL, and every communication channel but its own disappeared into static. This slowed the government’s fall. It bought a little time. And then, after years of fire and death and unimaginable mutations of reality, the government disappeared, too.
But like the impossible walking corpses that were rapidly replacing humanity, Old Gov’s channel shambled on after its death. It showered the ruins of the nation with a looping collage of stock images, fragmented clips, and foggy filler content, and people kept their TVs and radios tuned to this cultural compost because if they squinted hard enough, they could imagine the world was still turning. Even meaningless noise was preferable to silence.
This was the LOTUS Feed I grew up with: the jabbering ghost of a dead world, annoying but harmless.
Times have changed.
The ghost has become a demon, growling and spitting and fighting for possession. In between coded messages to Axiom operatives, the Feed spews dire warnings and aggressive recruitment ads, calling every able body to donate itself at the nearest branch. Zombie hordes and burning houses fade to smiling families safe behind concrete walls. Demure women clutching babies. Square-jawed men clutching guns. A surprising number of the diner’s patrons are watching this grim infomercial, but whether with interest or horror, it’s hard to tell.
I am relieved, at least, to see no recurrences of our wanted poster in the Feed. It seems Axiom has decided we’re no longer worth the airtime, no longer a threat worth worrying about.
Good.
“Lies Over Truth United States,” Gebre mutters. “How is anyone going to listen to an experimental civics lecture over all that noise?”
“They did,” Gael says, gesturing to us.
“That’s not the acronym,” Tomsen interjects.
“A joke,” Gebre says. “Who knows what it really means?”
“They listened, Gebre.”
“Old Gov never made it public,” Tomsen says, “but popular rumor is Lullaby Opiate Trauma and Urge Satisfaction.”
“Lady Ogle,” M mumbles, “Tits and Underwear…Show.”
“We listened, Gebre,” Julie says, cutting forcefully through all the cross-talk. “And there have to be more like us out there. And by the way”—she thrusts a hand out to our neighbors—“I’m Julie.”
“Hello, Julie,” Gebre says, shaking it.
“This is R, that’s Tomsen, and that’s Nora and Marcus.”
I smile. Tomsen waves. M nods. Nora stares.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Gael says. “Been a long time since we’ve heard any new names, hasn’t it, love?”
Gebre nods with a whimsical smile. “These days mostly just ‘hey you.’”
“So what brings you lot on the road?” Gael asks. “Fleeing New York, is it?”
Julie swallows the enormity of the understatement. “Um…yeah. You?”
Gael sighs. “We drove thousands of miles for a life in the big city and weren’t there a week before the hurricane hit. Not that we would’ve stayed long anyway.”
Gebre shakes his head ruefully. “The rumors made it sound so perfect.”
“Kudos to Axiom’s viral marketing department.”
“Where are you headed now?” Julie asks, her eyes filling with sudden inspiration. “If you’re going west, we could caravan!”
Gael shares a weighty look with Gebre. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“We’d slow you down. Going to be a wee bit scattered.” Gael’s eyes drop to his plate. “We’re looking for someone we lost.”
The cloud that gathers over him spreads to his husband and seems to shadow Julie as well, smothering her excitement. A reminder that people aren’t on these roads to meet new friends. A reminder that neither are we.
“Oh,” she says, sinking back into our booth. “Yeah. We lost a few too.”
A brief quaver as she rolls over the topic, like the bump of a body in the road.
“What’s your accent?” Nora blurts, staring at Gebre, and I realize how uncharacteristically quiet she’s been throughout this exchange. She watches the couple with an expression I can’t read.
“Boston,” Gebre says with a raised eyebrow. “By way of Somalia. Why?”
Nora shrugs, shakes her head, blinks several times.
There’s an awkwardly long silence. M squirms, then heaves himself out of the booth and stretches noisily, trying to bring the party to a close. And he’s right. A humming tension has crept into the air. It’s time to go.
Julie gives Gael and Gebre a deflated little wave as we all exit the booth. “Well…good luck, you guys.”
“You too, Julie,” Gael says with a sad smile.
“If you find your friend and you want to start that caravan, well…” There’s a subdued desperation in her eyes. “…keep an eye out for us?”
“Wild guess,” Gebre says, pointing out the window at the RV. “The yellow submarine is yours?”
“Her name is Barbara,” Tomsen says, a little defensively.
“Should not be hard to spot.” He smiles and flashes us all a peace sign. “Good luck, new friends. Maybe we see you in Utopia.”
We load the barrels of fryer oil onto the roof rack and stuff the RV’s fridge full of takeout boxes, then we’re rattling down the highway again. But despite the sunny start to this day, the bliss of breakfast and conversation with strangers, a heavy silence hangs over us. Everyone stares out the windows at the blur of passing hills, and I glance from face to face, trying to read their troubles. M’s I know. Nora’s I’m beginning to suspect. And Tomsen’s are too numerous to name. So I settle on Julie. I watch dark clouds pass across her face though the sky outside is blue. How many losses does she blame herself for? Has she added Sprout and my kids to her list? Did she count her mother twice? She’s convicted herself of so many crimes, maybe nothing less than saving the world will absolve her.
And then I have to wonder: if she sets the price that high for her tiny sins of omission…what could ever repay mine?
“What’s that?” Julie whispers, and for a horrifying second I wonder if I’ve been thinking aloud. But then I see it. A strange shape ahead. A twisted mass of metal slumped against the highway embankment.
A bus.
A New York City bus, its markings half-covered in faded decals…an ad for a show about sharks.
It’s the bus that took my children, and it’s lying on its side like roadkill, shattered and bent and crushed.
-
JOAN AND ALEX are not my offspring. They have none of my genetic material and I have never seen the woman who birthed them. I did not even raise them, never filled their heads with my words and ways like little Arks of the Covenant, commanding them to carry me forever. So I find it wondrous that I love them anyway. These tiny strangers who bumped into me in an airport, looked up at me and smiled. Like so much of love, this is a miracle. A small act of defiance against nature’s brutal physics.