Read Epitaph Road Online

Authors: David Patneaude

Epitaph Road (28 page)

“I'm already involved,” she said. “I'm not bailing now. We're partners in this.”

“There's a difference between us,” I said. “You've got a shining future. Mine's not so shining.”

“That could change.”

“Maybe. But if not, whether I end up as a second-class citizen or a third-class nobody isn't a huge deal. Not in the big picture. Not when there's a chance to put a hole in PAC's story and a dent in its reputation.”

“I have a good feeling, Kelly — we're not going to get caught. Suspected, maybe — most likely — but not caught.”

“I have the same feeling — mostly — but I can't help worrying about you, the partner with everything at stake. As for me, screw it. I'd be happy catching fish with my dad.”

“Too late for worrying.” She took out the pilfered e-spond. We began brainstorming. Not far away, a pipe belched fire into the sky.
Grandfather,
I told myself.

We talked and wrote and revised. We knew what we wanted to say, but we didn't know exactly how to say it and how much emphasis and space to give to each item. And we wanted one message we could use in both the mailing to the kids and on the website. So it took some time.

When we'd run out of ideas and cuts and changes, Tia read me what we had.

YOU'RE A SKEPTIC.

IF YOU'VE HEARD CERTAIN THINGS — CONJECTURE, CONSPIRACY THEORIES, WILD-EYED ACCUSATIONS — OVER THE YEARS, YOU'VE MOSTLY SNICKERED AT THEM AND HURRIED BACK TO THE COMFORTS OF WHAT PASSES FOR REALITY. BUT MAYBE ONE RUMOR — THAT DIE-HARD, FAR-FETCHED, ALTERNATE-UNIVERSE ONE ABOUT THE ORIGIN OF ELISHA'S BEAR, ABOUT SOMEONE PURPOSEFULLY UNLEASHING IT — HAUNTS YOU. MAYBE YOU'RE SKEPTICAL INSTEAD ABOUT THE SO-CALLED TRUTH YOU'VE BEEN SPOON-FED FROM AN EARLY AGE — THE IDEA THAT THE BEAR JUST SHOWED UP ON ITS OWN AND TARGETED ONLY MALES.

YOU SHOULD BE.

That was the introduction — the part we hoped would get people's attention.

Tia read on. We tinkered with things a little more, trying to make the information evenhanded and as much like a story as possible. We included a lot of the bad stuff men had been responsible for — wars, terrorism, mass deaths, slavery, human and environmental exploitation — and we wrote about Rebecca Mack's personal experience with abuse and justice. And we documented the history of Brighter Day and Elisha's Bear and its recurrences, including what had just happened at Afterlight.

We didn't mention the Foothills Project and its lab or the smothering of the second bear. We didn't want to inspire more fanatics. Or draw sure attention to ourselves.

Finally, we agreed — it was about as good as it was going to get. I took out the paper Anderson had given me and read everything off while Tia tapped away. In a moment we were into the student database. Simple and mostly sweat-free. She scrolled down a bit and stopped. It looked like a zillion names. She directed our e-script to the
MAIL
space and chose
SEND ALL
.

We didn't send it. Not yet. We pulled up another template and followed Anderson's directions again, this time for creating the website. It was quick and easy, even with our nerves on edge.

“Junkyarddog.bites,” Tia said when we'd pasted in our message and we were all but finished. “It looks good to see it live.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Even on that little screen.” It was destined for bigger ones.

“Ready?” she said, and I nodded. She took my hand and we let our fingers hover over the e-spond for a few seconds while I thought about the two of us detonating explosions in a far-off forest, not long ago. I recalled sitting in Anderson's classroom — not long before that — and watching the video of San Francisco disintegrating. I wondered what kind of damage this little blast would do. Then I watched Tia tap the
LAUNCH
icon.

An instant later, a word flashed in the middle of the display:
AIRBORNE
.

It was done. The wide world had something new to chew on.

Now for our smaller world. Tia shifted back to the
MAIL
screen. “Your turn, Kelly,” she murmured.

I didn't hesitate. With her fingertips resting on my forearm, I touched the
SEND ALL
icon. A green arrow zipped across the top of the screen. Our message was gone. In a moment the first kids would read it. Then later, tens of thousands more.

I imagined the fallout. I pictured Rebecca Mack and my mother, squirming.

Tia and I shared a hug.

Above us, a flame, nearly invisible in the sunlight, watched over us.

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