Fire Will Fall

  "Why not?"

  "He wants to strike a group of engineers on convention," I say, copying and pasting. "Aeronautical engineers. Aero companies make weapons for military use as well as the planes which transport them."

  "So, their thought this time is to do damage to a weapons manufacturer," he says. "What are we expecting? Aero executives to croak in their hotel beds and turn into puddles of bone and large intestine before their wives and kids even realize they're dead?"

  I ignore his sarcasm and consider the logic. "Perhaps this is one of those conventions for executives only, and the families will not be struck."

  Tyler cannot endure the wait. "How difficult can this be to trace? How many aerospace engineering companies are there that create arms and are having a convention?"

  "I have only begun to check on that. But it appears that of American companies inventing parts as well as, say, missiles, there are well over five hundred. Most participate in an annual convention."

  The translation appears on the screen, however tattered from lack of synonymous terms. I create what I perceive to be proper English where there is none, and he reads behind me.

  OmarLoggi: I have studied the weapons made by this aero firm and am just about ready to give a go-ahead. We could take out all their executives and throw the peons remaining into a tailspin. They will have to shut down. They will feel they have been visited by the devil himself when the coroner arrives to declare as dead the piles of bones and cartilage and seepage.

  VaporStrike: May I be so quick as to tell the others, then, "Fire will fall in Colony Two"?

  OmarLoggi: Don't be hasty. I have reservations.

  VaporStrike: We cannot strike this firm at its offices, because of its security. The convention facility is perfect. With your new vinegar, the victims only have to indulge once.

  Tyler looks down at his arms, which he is compulsive enough never to scratch or pick at. "We should consider ourselves lucky. He's probably been working with tularemia for about thirty years. He's probably just now ironing out all the kinks. What if we'd been struck by that strain?"

  Americans love to ask "What if?" Instead of answering, I create more text.

  VaporStrike: The troops are in place.

  OmarLoggi: Tell them to calm down. We have to be extremely careful.

  VaporStrike: It is not as risky as you are thinking. They will look for us to strike in Britain, Spain ... Ethiopia.

  Tyler steps backward, saying, "Whoa. Guess it's an American hit. But we already knew that, eh?"

  "Say where, you devils," I mutter at the screen. At times I have felt my muttering has brought me luck.

  VaporStrike: Speak to me of your reservation.

  OmarLoggi: It is bad luck to keep striking the young.

  "Jeezus." Tyler shudders. "I suppose 'keep striking' is a reference to almost killing four teenagers last time."

  ShadowStrike obviously kept up with the news concerning their almost-successes. Yet it is upsetting to hear them make reference directly to the Trinity Four, whom we helped save. I try to wait patiently for more chatter to appear.

  VaporStrike: You are referencing the fact that there is an amusement park directly across the street from the target.

  Tyler points to this line on the screen, chuckles evilly, and says, "Bingo."

  I can barely enjoy the fact that we just cut our search down to one-tenth of what it would have been. Tyler always manages to state horrific things more easily than I do, and I had to listen to him thinking aloud.

  "It's one thing to imagine full-grown adults melting like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. It's another thing to think of it happening to kids. What, do they come off the slide at the water park and simply start to smoke like—"

  "Will you please show more respect?" I ask patiently.

  "It's gross. I can't help it."

  Omar: The industrialized world will find your choice most offensive, my friend. We have to think of how we could be viewed—if we want further backing and further political support from others.

  VaporStrike: As we will never trumpet our success like some organizations do, how will anyone prove, or even be aware, that it was us?

  Omar: Our major backers will know, although I have just spoken with Chancellor. He is like-minded to you.

  "Who is Chancellor?" I ask, banking the code name in the front of my mind. It is new to us. My fingers itch to send this to Hodji.

  "Obviously someone holding the purse strings," Tyler says.

  VaporStrike: They are all like-minded to us. We would not change critical plans if we were endangering puppies, would we?

  Omar: Your meaning?

  VaporStrike: These are the children of dogs.

  Omar: I see.

  VaporStrike: I am not completely inhuman. I am not saying to intentionally strike many men's offspring. I am saying let's not alter our course for what we realize is certainly not a tragic loss, even if much of the world is deceived into thinking it is.

  I note their exits and try not to absorb their philosophies into my brain. It will only give me a useless asthma attack. I focus on how happy I am to see that we have more to puzzle over. We can eliminate many convention centers as the potential hit site by focusing on those that are in close proximity to an amusement park. I ask Tyler the best way to do this. It seems there is no easy method. He will download lists of amusement parks and we will begin the daunting task of comparing their addresses to those of nearby convention centers and engineering firms using them as hosts. I perceive it may be a long and boring day.

  TEN

  SCOTT EBERMAN

  SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002

  10:15 A.M.

  DINING ROOM

  CORA'S SLUSHY NEVER ARRIVED. Not like her. When I came out of the shower, swallowing razorblades, I could hear Alan overhead with what sounded like Mike Tiger. I thought as I got dressed of going up and starting my nagging saga for a job. But they were moving furniture or something. And I couldn't talk very well. So I put it off.

  Owen had started taking the stairs down slowly. I caught up to him, laying a hand on his neck. Clammy.

  "That new elevator is calling my name, bro," he said. "Got rust in my hip joints again. And I didn't get any sleep. I kept having that dream from hell."

  We had decided last night that the elevator would be used only if we broke a leg. We didn't have any exercise programs due to the blood thinners we were taking, which in our case could turn a serious bruise into a fatality. We all hoped to swim in Great Bay over the summer, but that was a month away at least. The best exercise we might get some days was walking up and down these stairs.

  I nudged him to continue his tale, but with hesitation. He had a few recurring doozies in the nightmare department. They all had to do with fires.

  "I'm running down an avenue in some huge city, and all the skyscrapers are on fire. These explosions keep going off. They're bombs. They're, like ... bright orange."

  "Maybe you're having a dream about fireworks and are just missing the point," I joked.

  "Not funny. And I think it's New York. Because as I'm running, the streets come together in points. Times Square ... Herald Square ... I thought once I got out here, I'd quit having that stupid nightmare. I had it, like, ten times at St. Ann's. I wake up still smelling smoke. Do I smell like smoke to you?"

  I let my eyebrows rise and drop, but I didn't bother sticking my nose up to him. "It's the antiretroviral. Throws off your sense of smell."

  He stuck his nose to the crook of his elbow and sniffed anyway. After a couple of blinks and a silence that seemed pregnant with eerie suggestions, he just started his one-step-at-a-time descent again.

  "We're all dreaming weird stuff," I pointed out. "Even Rain, Miss Zero Imagination."

  He said nothing. It really bothered me. We were at an impasse lately. We used silence to bridge gaps where we couldn't agree on a subject. He believed in things I simply couldn't visualize—religious stuff, like an end to this world.

  "Owe
n. If you're thinking some major, huge apocalypse is coming and you're dreaming about the shit, that's only a metaphor for what you've already been through. It's like a guy who's been hit by a car thinking he could get hit by a train. Normal thought. But not realistic."

  He reached the bottom and rested his back with his hands on his knees. It reminded me of football, of when he hit the sideline after a long stint on the field. He would stand like this and huff every time. Only now, there was no equipment. He was basically skin and bones and a thin layer of muscle. He could still perspire, though. He wiped sweat off his forehead, then smelled the palm of his hand this time.

  "Smoke," he said. "Honest to god—"

  "Go wash your hands," I said with all the patience I could muster. "Don't be a dork. Your religious fire-and-brimstone philosophy is backing up into your meds."

  "My what?" He straightened and scratched his head. Breaking fevers bring out all sorts of stuff, and his scalp itched so badly at times that he'd buzzed his hair. You could see little scratches and blotches of heat rash under his blond nubs. "I don't even know what a 'brimstone' is, okay? What is it, like, the clay stuff the Egyptians smeared around to make their walls? All I know is what I dream and what I smell. Don't pick on me."

  "Sorry," I muttered glibly. He could be totally defensive. If you're going to believe in an apocalypse, you have to be.

  "I miss Mom. I need a Mom hug." He sighed. Mom listened to everything Owen ever had to say and never laughed at him. I felt unequipped, totally, to stand in for her.

  But I reached my arms around him for what turned out to be a no-good hug. I was uptight, and not because he was a sweaty mess from walking downstairs while doing battle with the Q3 in his hip joints. Nothing bodily grosses me out. It's because I had this fuckin' thought: What if I smell smoke? Before I could think, I was holding my breath while I tried to hug him like Mom used to. I even laid this big kiss on his cheek like he used to get from her. But he swung away, looking about as gratified as a kid who's craving ice cream and gets a mouthful of lima beans.

  Cora was standing at the head of the table when we entered the dining room, and the reason she never brought me my slushy stood beside her. The guy was tall, had a couple of inches on me at six-one.

  "This is Mr. Calloway, whom I was telling you about," she said as we walked in, then turned to Owen. "He's with the historical society. He's going to refresh me on black-and-white photo development in a minute."

  "Henry. Please." The man put out his hand to shake, and when I threw back my hands and pointed to my neck, he understood nicely enough. "Perhaps we should practice Far Eastern traditions around here, to avoid contagion." He bowed at us, which made Owen grin distractedly.

  "You and I have already met," Henry said to him, picking up a file folder off the table. "I was at your last Thanksgiving Day football game."

  "Trinity versus Mainland? Really?" Owen sank down in a chair I pulled out for him and shook out a sore leg. Football. That would get him thinking normally for a while.

  "Yes. I saw your first interception and didn't think anything could top that."

  My brother actually laughed. His second interception was more dramatic—at least it looked that way from the sidelines. He got some height that came out of nowhere. In the Atlantic City Press photo, Jim Grimes, Mainland's running back, was all but eating Owen's ass when he intercepted.

  "Did I meet you that day?" Owen asked in confusion.

  "Not exactly." He opened the file and handed my brother a fairly big photo. I looked. Owen's number 72 took up the whole frame as he was run into the sidelines. Obviously, Henry had shot the photo a split second before getting smacked in the face by him and the Mainland player.

  Owen smiled big. It was a nice move, bringing that picture. "Are you ... all right?"

  "Fine, fine. I was a track star in college. Despite that I'm turning thirty soon, I can still be fast when I'm about to be creamed."

  "Wow. May I have this?"

  "Absolutely."

  I meandered into the kitchen to find Marg. I pointed at my throat as she was getting ready to turn on the blender full of oranges and ice cubes. She had our charts on clipboards on the walls already, and I looked at them while she blended. On top was the monthly calendar, obviously sent by St. Ann's. There was a green X for every headache. My brother's had twice as many as the rest of us—nothing new to me but ominous to look at. I grabbed a wet paper towel for Owen's sweaty hands. Marg put a glass in my grip and spun me toward the door, or away from the charts is probably more accurate.

  Owen sat staring at a muffin in front of him, but he and Henry were talking about the game still as he let me wipe down his palms and fingers.

  "You got sisters and brothers in Mainland?" Owen asked.

  "No. My family's from Massachusetts. But I'd just started a new job and two of my bosses had kids at Mainland. So I went with them."

  I debated over whether to do battle with a muffin myself and decided against it, sending more slushy down my throat. It felt good.

  "Where do you work?" Owen asked.

  "Astor College. While I'm working on my doctorate in Philly, I'm on a genetic research team here and teach two classes. Photography is just a hobby."

  I had the glass to my mouth and almost spit back into it. Cora looked at me and dropped her eyes quickly. Astor College was where one of the terrorists who poisoned Trinity Falls's water had been a visiting professor. Omar Loggi had snowed the college with false credentials, and his buddies tried to recruit students to be in ShadowStrike.

  Henry cleared his throat awkwardly. "I know the place leaves a bad taste in your mouths. But Astor College is a huge, diverse place. It serves all kinds of people and has changed all its policies about visiting professors. It's back on the same path of excellence it's been on since 1900. Maybe I can redeem the place in your eyes."

  "Maybe." Owen shrugged, casting a glance at Cora. "Cora and I, we don't much like to think about those guys."

  Marg appeared with a surgical mask and handed it to Cora. Then Cora and Henry left for the basement, each carrying a box. I waited until they had gone downstairs and then went into the front hall. I stood looking up the stairs, listening for sounds of Alan and Mike. I knew they would become babbling idiots, talking about the weather, if I came anywhere near them. Damn, I need a job.

  I'm a gut-instinct guy. And even though my mind wasn't working clearly, I could see images—strange things I'd seen on the house tour last night—and I suddenly knew how to get closer and hear them. Instead of going up, I silently followed Cora and Henry into the darkness of the basement.

  ELEVEN

  OWEN EBERMAN

  SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002

  10:30 A.M.

  DINING ROOM

  I ATE A MUFFIN and drank my glass of orange juice after Scott drifted away, and I felt kind of relieved when his energy left the room. I love my brother for sure, but he's like a cyclone coming past you, and this was supposed to be the first peaceful morning I'd experienced in months.

  I heard this bell ding, and when I looked out the dining room door, this real-live goat was standing square in the middle of the porch, staring in through the screen door. I had to shake my head to make certain I wasn't seeing stuff. I called Marg, and she came from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

  I pointed to the goat staring in, shaking its head and making its bell go ding, ding.

  "There are two of them right now, though there used to be six," she said. "They belong to the property. There was so much to show you last night ... out of sight, out of mind. It'll become one of your jobs to feed them. I just don't want them in the house."

  I got this huge smile—barnyard animals do that to me—and I walked out there with a bran muffin. I'd heard goats will eat anything.

  He was small, the kind with the tall horns and the goatee. He kept going "Baa-AA-Baa," even after I sat down on the step. He ate pieces of muffin out of my hand but would stop after each bite, all "Baa-AA-Baa."


  "Where's your buddy?" I asked him, looking all around. No other goat was in sight.

  "Baa-AA-Baa."

  We'd had a golden retriever, Champ, who finally died a couple of years back at fourteen. I always talked to Champ about my problems and felt certain he understood, and even if he didn't, I could get a load off without being laughed at by my friends, lectured by my brother, or touched affectionately by my mom. Back then, I'd wanted my mom to quit hugging on me. These days, I realized how crazy that had been. I scratched the goat behind its smooth ears.

  "Can we talk?" I asked. "I gather you're not going to tell anyone my dark secrets."

  "Baa-AA-Baa."

  "Because everyone else would refuse to shut up about how I am some psycho-loon. I don't think it's such a gigantic sin to wish that this world would end soon."

  "Baa-AA-Baa."

  "Did you hear Scott ragging on about my fires-and-bombs dreams?"

  "Baa-AA-aa-Baa-baa.."

  "What is it with people telling me what my dreams mean and don't mean? I could see if people were telling me about their dreams."

  "Baa-AA-Baa."

  "They think that me and my dreams are inconvenient. But that is untrue, my man. I guess most people have this secret wish to die in a nice, safe, and comfortable bed. I don't get it. Whether I get blown up, beheaded on the Internet, or die in a bed, I don't really care. I'll do you one better: Since we're all going where we're going, I would rather die in a great story than a mediocre one. Apocalyptic dreams are not inconvenient. They're just a reminder that this disgusting and violent world will end, and something you could actually deal with is coming—"

  "Dude, that is morbid. You want to be beheaded on the Internet? I'm calling Dr. Hollis."

  I don't have to see Rain. I can smell her. She smells like strawberry shampoo, and she's got so much hair that you can't miss it. She was standing maybe two feet behind me in her bare, silent feet.

  "That's not what I said, and I was not talking to you," I snapped over my shoulder.