Dominant Species Volume One -- Natural Selection (Dominant Species Series) (24 page)

Aw, Jeez,
she
thought
. Go away.

She
turned and walked casually back toward her hole. She was almost there when she
felt Tom’s presence close to her back, his usual approach angle. Just a step or
two from the opening, she felt his tough, dry knuckles tap her arm.

“Wanna
see sumpun’?” he asked.

Mary
turned around with one eyebrow raised.
If
you flash me I’ll cut it off,
she thought.

“What?”
she said.

He produced the phone from
his pocket and handed it to her in fast motion, then crossed his arms and waited
with a self-satisfied smile on his face, like a kid who’d found a dollar.

“That’s a cellular phone,”
he said.

Mary held the phone for a
moment then opened it. “Cellular phone. Where did you . . . uh . . . where did
you get this?”

“Dump.”

She took a closer look at
the phone. Her mind began to race. “Are the . . . uh . . . the whatchamacallits
. . . the batteries charged.”

“Yeah.” He pointed to the
power button with his finger close to it. “You push that one right there . . .”
Mary pushed his hand away. “. . . and you’ll see it’s got a battery.”

“I can work it,” she said.
It was an old model and nothing fancy. It had a retractable antenna. She
pulled out the antenna and pressed the power button. The phone chimed a note.
She read the “Ready” message and grinned, but lost it when she watched the
signal strength indicator jump up just one notch then go to zero.
No signal.

She turned the power off
immediately to conserve it.

Her mind went into high
gear. No obstructions. Just what?
 
. . .
a hundred miles of space then ten miles or so of air.

“How high are we? Never
mind. I want this. I’m claiming it. We might be able to make it work.”

Tom had been pleased Mary
was so interested in his toy, but he frowned when she said that. He hadn’t
planned on giving it up forever.

“Can I have it back
later?”

“Oh, sure . . .” she said
absently.

What the
hell was it,
she thought, trying to remember from one of her electronics classes.
Radio signals. Signal strength. Aperture. What was it about
aperture? The bigger the aperture the better the reception that was it.
Reception aperture was relative
—
no fixed. I can’t remember. A three watt radio signal was always
three watts of total energy. A sphere of energy—that was it. The radio signal
went out like a sphere of infinite dimension like an expanding balloon. The
bigger the reception aperture, the antenna, and the farther you could be from
the source and still get an acceptable signal. That’s why satellite dishes
worked—they had big apertures. The bigger the balloon, the thinner its skin.
The same for a radio signal. You just spread the three watts thinner the
farther the receptor was from the transmission. But the signal didn’t have to
expand in all directions like a balloon. That’s the key. The transmission could
be focused, directed, so less of the signal energy was wasted behind you or to
the sides. Focus the signal and you didn’t have to increase the aperture on the
other end. Focus the signal and you could send it longer distances.

“Go find
me some aluminum foil,” she said.

“Tin
foil?”

“Yeah.
Tin foil, I mean. I’ve seen some in the dump. In fact Ned has some. He used to
make those . . . um . . . origami like crap with it. Go see if he has some
left.”

That was
it,
she thought.
I can
focus the signal and send it down to the cellular system and simultaneously
increase the reception aperture for the signal coming from the ground with an
aluminum foil dish with this wire antenna in the center or attached somehow.
The distance should be nothing, especially through space and a little air. If
this thing we’re in is transparent to radio like I think it is, we can call the
fucking Pentagon.

“Well,
go!” she said. “He’s got a whole damned roll of it!”

Tom
marched off in the direction of Ned’s chamber. He had no idea why she wanted
tin foil, but he was glad to do it.

“Hey,
wait a minute,” she said.

Tom
turned around in mid-step. She looked at the dumb bastard standing there,
waiting like a stray dog. “Thanks,” she said. “This is important.”

She wasn’t
sure it could save their lives, but the idea of being able to touch the Earth,
to talk to it, filled her with a flush of hope. They might actually be able to
call down and tell someone what was happening here—if they could get anybody to
believe it. And all because of Tom. He’d given the phone over with a smile.

“I mean
it,” she said.

“I don’t
mind so much,” Tom said.

Under his musk-scented exterior, he’s a child,
Mary
thought.

She
looked at his silly grin; and in spite of herself, her heart went out to him in
a gush of sympathy.

“Hey,”
she said, and before she knew it, she’d stepped up and wrapped her arms around
him in a big hug. What she felt wasn’t the street-hardened drifter she thought
she’d feel, but a skinny kid in need of a bath.

He still had
the smile on his face when he walked briskly past Gilbert on his way to Ned’s.
Gilbert stood there with his mouth drawn tight. When Tom walked by and smiled
close to his face, Gilbert held his hand up like a mild priest to halt him.

“What are
you going to do with that?” Gilbert asked, nodding in Mary’s direction.

Tom was
on a mission with no time to talk, but he couldn’t resist telling it. “Mary
thinks we can call Earth with that, that’s what.”

Living on
the streets, on life’s outer fringes, had honed some of Tom’s perceptions to a
sharp edge, and one was the ability to sense whether or not another man was
capable of causing you physical harm. Gilbert had spent his life avoiding rough
stuff with the diligence most men avoid stepping in shit. When Gilbert
violently grabbed his arm to stop him, Tom almost laughed out loud.

“Let go,
buster,” Tom said. “I mean it.”

“What do
you mean
call Earth?”

Tom shook
loose with a quick snap of his sinewy arm and Gilbert’s hand, getting no
further direction from him, hung delicately in the air like a mannequin’s.

“I said
she thinks she can call Earth with the damned phone, you egghead.”

“That’s
not a good idea.” Gilbert swallowed with his mouth open so hard he showed his
teeth.

“Why’s
at?” Tom asked.

Gilbert
just stared.

“You
crazy damn dummy,” Tom said and turned away from him.

“I said
no!” Gilbert said.

“Nobody
much gives a poop what you think now, do they?” Tom said and turned his back on
him a second time.

The
little knife had a blade on it no longer than a little girl’s finger, but being
quite ignorant about what could kill and what would merely infuriate, he
stabbed Tom Moon in the back of the neck with the sharp little blade with a
fast little downward stab. Tom spun so fast he tore the knife from Gilbert’s
pansy-like grip leaving it stuck in his wiry neck. When Tom reached up and
gently touched the handle, he knew instantly it was the little sissy’s knife
Gilbert carried.

Tom had
been stabbed and cut before—three times to be exact and all three times the
knives had been big enough to kill. Those attacks had toughened him to the idea
of cuts and knives long before he’d ever been subjected to the ordeal the
aliens had put him through. By comparison to all that, the little knife stuck
in his neck was almost funny except it stung a bit. He took hold of the plastic
handle and tugged it out. He felt the blood follow in a little warm stream down
under his shirt. He held the knife up under Gilbert’s nose with two fingers.

“I’d ‘a
cut your ears off with this here knife, you sonofa- bitch.”

Gilbert’s
rage had flashed then vanished when the blade struck and he could only stare at
the ghost and wonder why Tom wasn’t dead.
He’s
dead, but his evil holds him up like a frame,
he thought
sluggishly.

Tom set
his mouth so tight, his whole face scrunched up and he inched the knife closer
to Gilbert’s nose.

“You
think I ain’t been cut enough already. You think I can’t take a cuttin’ from
you, too. Looky here.” He tore open his shirt so Gilbert could see the map of
scars across his wiry torso. He pointed to a big wide one among the hair-like
scars on his abdomen. “See ‘at ‘un?” He turned around, lifted his shirt and his
fingers found the shiny, raised evidence of another attack above his right
kidney. “See ‘at ‘un?” The rounded tips of his nail-chewed fingers worked the
scar briefly. He pulled up his left sleeve and showed Gilbert the long, ragged
scar on his forearm and he rubbed along it with his dry, nubby forefinger.
“Nother’n, too.” He turned around, bent his head and felt at the new little
hole he knew was in his neck. “I know it’s there somewhere. Is ‘at it? Aw,
shit, you can’t even see
yours,”
he said with a snort.

He wiped
the round, bloody tips of his fingers on his shirt front then craned his neck out
at Gilbert. “If I ever even get the feelin’ you’re gonna do somethin’ like ‘at
agin, I’ll kill you like a inseck.” He pitched the little knife down at
Gilbert’s feet. “Don’t cut yourself with that,” he said.

Standing
just forty or so feet away, Mary had seen the whole exchange and wondered with
all her might why Gilbert would do such a thing. What puzzled her even more was
why Tom had left Gilbert standing there with his Bible, alive.

*
 
*
 
*

Linda
Purdy awoke in a muddy pool of remorse.

Maybe I dreamt it,
she thought
. Maybe I really didn’t do it.

She was
facing the window and felt the morning’s cool air and dull light on her face
like gray paste. She heard the deep cooing of a pigeon, and even that was too
loud. The room was spinning exactly, precisely, like a merry-go-round, and she
could feel the centrifugal force pulling her off the bed.

Oh, God.
No. I did it. How could I? Oh, God.

She
pulled the bedclothes tighter and turned just enough to see George Greenbaum’s
head. What she saw was an empty pillow.

Thank
God, he’s gone.

She slid
her hand slowly and cautiously over into that side of the bed just to be sure
she wasn’t mistaken.

The
memories were vague. She remembered laughter and Southern Comfort and her bare legs
up in the air. She remembered George’s face somewhere between them.

Fucking
Southern Comfort. Fucking on Southern Comfort. Oh, God.

The
thought of its taste made the room reel and spin even more.

Never was
there a liquor so sweet at midnight and so vile at dawn. His idea,
she thought.
All his fault. I hope he’s as sick as I am.

She
brought one leg out from the under the bedclothes and felt the air caress it
like a wet rag. She drew it back in and curled up against the onslaught of
spinning room, beach air and cooing pigeon.

I can’t
do it,
she thought.
I want
to die now.

She
closed her eyes and felt the lids slap violently together. By not moving, she
could stabilize the room somewhat. She lay there for another hour like that.

When she
finally managed to get up, the room’s cold air brushed over her skin like stiff
branches. Stumbling to the bathroom, she had to hold her arms out to maintain
balance. Breathing loudly through her nose, she propped herself up on the sink
and ventured a look in the mirror. She expected to see the female counterpart
of Dorian Gray’s portrait, but all she saw was an ashen and disheveled version
of Linda Purdy. It puzzled her that she was in her bra and panties. The thought
that some men, especially George Greenbaum, might like it that way rose up in
her like a gag reflex. Visions of him groping her, fucking her, in her bra and
panties, pushed her, right back down into that muddy puddle like a bully.

Oh, God.

She sat
in the middle of the tub and let the warm water pound on her until it ran cold.
The shower seemed to refresh her a little. At least the room stopped spinning.

She was
thirsty. She was
so
thirsty.

On the
way to the kitchen she looked at the sofa and had to blink to make sure she was
seeing it. There was George Greenbaum, sleeping in his clothes on the sofa.