Lost Time (6 page)

Chapter 9

Shannon: Ghost Busters

I
use needle-nose pliers to strip the dry, cracked rubber seal off the edge of the mask and then drop the snaky-looking strand of polymer into the recycle bin. “Ew.” Just like my favorite actor Indiana Jones, I hate snakes, but they always seem to find me.

I stare at the black, curly thing and cringe.

Come on, Shaz, it’s not even alive. If you plan to be a bush pilot, you can’t be acting like a lolo D-2 every time you see something unexpected.

I bend over and fish the thing back out of the large barre
l—
using the plier
s—
and set it on the workbench. Then I take out my lab notebook and write “Kirk-Hudson Rebreather Mask Analysis” at the top of a new page and add:

1) Removed strip of disintegrating sealant from inside edge of mask; material: elastic polymer, composition unknown.

Maybe I can get Madders to help me analyze it, see if there’s something special in the rubbe
r—
just like he always says, “Identify the problem, engineer a fix, and Bob’s your uncle.” I say the last bit out loud, letting my voice push back the ghosts that lurk in this dark, windowless warehouse.

It’s stormy Outside today, and all the weird noises and vibrations are giving me the creeps.

There’s nothing to fear except fear itself.

Madders says this space used to be completely filled with barrels, boxes, and huge sacks of food, everything from brown rice to canned peaches, but it’s nearly empty now. Mom says I had a peach when I was little, but I don’t remember it.

I bet they have some at C-Bay. They have everything there.

These days, we get most of our supplies from scavenger parties sent Outside, so there’s not much need for long-term storage anymore. On top of that, everything has to be sent through the irradiation chambe
r—
everything except humans, of cours
e.
There’s no way to be certain there aren’t air pockets inside the boxes and stuff, and that takes a lot of time and effort. Some folks think decontaminating every last bottle, can, and box is a waste of resources, but Mom says you can never be too careful.

Speaking of decontamination, poor Mr. C had a rough time of it after I found him Outside. He had the virus in the air inside his lungs, and people were afraid that if we brought him inside, he’d kill all of us. But Mom came up with this idea to fill the airlock with xenon gas, and Madders rigged up a portable ultraviolet lamp to kill any stray viruses. In less than a minute Mr. C cleared the sensors.

Anyway, Madders keeps replacement items for the biodome in here, along with his airplane parts, and he’s been letting me use his workshop for my final project.

But it is kind of spooky being alone in sector four.

Just as I set the pencil down, there’s a loud groan from the biodome structure. I can feel the vibrations through my feet, and I let out a startled cry. The noise continues for a few seconds and then subsides. I stand there frozen, listening for the alarm, but it doesn’t go off.

Probably just the wind, Shaz. Don’t be a scaredy-kitten.

Still, I turn and run my gaze across the biodome wall, looking for a bulge or fissure. I stare at a section that is all twisted and roughly patched, but everything looks fine. Mom claims the repair was just a hasty bit of last-minute construction, but Madders says someone set a bomb off next to the bubble. Someone from Outside. It was right after the Bub was sealed, and the explosion ripped a hole in the dome. Lots of Originals were killed before they managed to get the wall in sector four resealed.

I shut my eyes and hold my breath. In my head I can hear those poor people screaming as they try to escape, the virus turning their flesh and bones into sludge just like in the final scene from
Raiders
.

Ick.

Mom says I watch too many movies, and maybe she’s right. But this part of the biodome still gives me the heebie-jeebies.

“Nothing shocks me. I’m a scientist.” I recite the line in my best Indiana Jones voice, wishing I had a dog to keep me company just like he did.

Maybe someday?

∞

When I’m almost finished cleaning up, I hear the hinges on the warehouse door groan.

“Hey, Shenanigans!” Madders says, his gravelly voice is full of warmth. “How’s the investigation coming along? Did you get the mask problem sorted?” He ambles over to the workbench and picks me up in a bear hug, his gray whiskers tickling my ear. “How’s my favorite scientist, engineer, and future bush pilot?”

“Great now that you’re back!” I say and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “How much do you remember about making these masks?” I hold up the cracked rubber snake. “I was hoping you’d have some idea what this was made from?”

“Hmm.” He puts on his reading glasses and takes a closer look. “Where’d you get it?”

“From around the inside edge of the mask. I pulled it off to get a look at what was underneath, but now I’m thinking that maybe the polymer seal is the problem.”

Madders is one of the oldest people in the bubble, and one of the smartest. Mom says he was probably brought in because he could fix and fly planes, but I think it’s because he’s a genius.

I played chess against him onc
e—
bad idea.

He’s also the only Original who treats me like an adult, and if my dad were alive, I think he’d be just like Madder
s—
at least I hope he would be.

“So you think maybe the seal is ba
d—
and not the filter?” he asks, still examining the snake.

“At least on this mask. I’ve been testing it with vapors from all the chemicals you
keep—”
His bushy eyebrows rise but he doesn’t interrupt me.
“—and
nothing noxious is getting through. So my first hypothesis is that the seal around the edge failed, letting microscopic amounts of the virus in.”

“Sweet Fanny Adams,” he says, his eyes getting big. “Shannon, that’s brilliant. No one has touched these masks in year
s—not
since we ran out of replacement
s—
and I remember being surprised that the new filters didn’t seen to work for very long, and that would explain everything.” He rubs his whiskers with one hand, thinking for a minute. “Give me a day to dig up my old notes, okay?”

“Ranger that. Thanks for all your help, Madders.”

“My pleasure, Shannon. And nice work identifying the problem. You’re a fine scientist.”

I smile so wide it makes my face hurt.

We give each other a thumbs-up and say our mantra together: “Identify the problem, engineer a fix, and Bob’s your uncle!”

“Exactly.” He gives me a warm smile. “You know this could end up saving a lot of lives if the biodome has to do an emergency evacuation.”

We hear the wind Outside gust up, and the whole biodome shudders. A worried look crosses his fac
e—
and Madders isn’t afraid of anything.

My throat gets tight. “Do you think we might have to leave?”

“No, no, of course not.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “But like your mother says, it never hurts to be prepared. If it’s okay with you, I want to tell the Kirks about your discovery.”

I nod, proud that he thinks it’s important enough to let Mr. Kirk know.

“But,” he adds, “I think you should call it quits for today. Your mother mentioned something about math homework.”

I try not to frown. “Okay. But I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Looking forward to it already,” he says, helping me hang the last few tools on their proper pegs. “Any news on Mr. Miracle?” he asks. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to stop by and introduce myself.”

“Mom thinks there might be microscopic machines in his body, and that’s what kept him alive Outside. Dr. Kirk wants Mom to send blood samples to C-Bay...” I stop and stare at him. “Hey, if you get to take the samples out, can I come with you? Give me a chance to fly in a real single-engine fixed-wing?”

“Not much chance of your mother approving that,” he says, “but we can always ask. Now off you go. And don’t tell her about using all those flammable chemicals, okay? She’ll have me hung, drawn and quartered if she finds out I let you near them.”

I jog across the empty warehouse and then open the heavy door. “Of course I won’t. I’m not a bimbo, Madders. Toodles!”

It’s getting dark Outside as I hurry across the park. Mom’s going to be mad that I’m late, but I don’t care. Nothing she can say is going to ruin my good mood.

I break into a run, leaping over bushes and setting all the D-2 swings in motion. I know what’s wrong with the KRMs, and when I figure out how to fix them, I might just win a Noble
Prize.

And then Mom will
have
to be proud of me.

Chapter 10

Lani: The Quick and the Dead

I
’m sorting through the newly-arrived boxes of prescription meds, the note lying open on my desk, when Shannon comes bounding through the front door. “Hi Mom. Madders is back!”

I cringe as she slams the door, knowing it can’t possibly affect the integrity of the biodome, but still wishing she would be more careful. “Hi, baby. Yes, I know. As you can see, he already stopped by. Please don’t slam the door.”

“Sorry, Mom.” She takes a look at the boxes covering the floor of our small living area. “Wow. They did good, huh?”

“Yes,” I say, still thinking about the note. “Better than anyone could have imagined. Have you finished your homework?”

“Not yet,” she says. “But I will. Did Madders say where they found all this loot?”

“Mr. Kirk had a hunch about a hospital inside a decommissioned missile silo, and he turned out to be right. Dulce Base was packed with food and medicine, including prescription drugs. Madders ended up flying a centrifuge to Salt Lake and then ferrying medical supplies to Las Vegas and San Francisco.”

“So that’s what took him so long to get back.” She comes over to see what I’m doing. “I have some good news.”

I turn the note face down, still uncertain what I’m going to do about its contents. “Oh yeah? How’s the final project coming along?”

“Great. Madders thinks I might be right about the polymer leaking. He’s going to show me how to make new sealant tomorrow, so I can test it out.”

“That’s wonderful, baby.” I go back to counting bottles, marking each one with a unique number and then recording it in my logbook. I’m on the third or fourth batch of morphine when I realize that I’ve just written the same serial number on all the bottles.

You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later.

“Which means the filters are probably all fine,” Shannon says.

“Good to hear.” I take the bottles back out and start again.

“And the leprechauns won’t need new shoes until next year.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mom, you’re not even listening to me.”

I set everything down, stand up, and put my arms around my most precious possession. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m afraid Madders brought back some bad news about Mr. C, and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

“What is it, Mom? Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes, of course.” I try to smile. “I’m afraid everyone in his family is dead.”

“And he didn’t know that already?” she asks, her eyebrows furrowed.

“No. All these years he’s been hoping they were still alive.”

“Oh.” She scrunches up her nose. “And you’re afraid that if he finds out they’re dead, he might not want to get better?”

I exhale, knowing exactly how he’s going to feel. “Yes.”

“But you have to tell him, Mom. Anything else would be dishonest.”

“I know, baby. But I might wait until he’s stronger. Think what a terrible blow it would be to find out everyone you love is dead.” I tuck an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. “He’ll feel like he has nothing to live for.”

“Oh, Mom, you’re always expecting things to go to pudding. Mr. C has you and me to take care of him. We’ll make sure he has plenty of love!” She gives me another hug. “You should just tell him. You know you won’t be able to sleep until you do.”

I nod, knowing she’s right about the not sleeping part. “I’ll think about it. You get started on your homework, and I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Sure thing, Mom. Is it okay if I go over to Mindy’s after I finish? Mrs. Miller said I could stay over.”

“Yes.” I grab the note and my sweater. “But finish your homework first.”

“Gotcha. Good luck with Mr. C.” She moves a box off the couch, plops down, and hauls a heavy book out of her backpack. “You know, Mom, maybe you should marry him.”

“Shannon!”

“I know you fancy him. And Lucy says you’d be good for each other. Even if you’re too old to make babies, you could still fall in love.”

I stare at her, too stunned to speak.

“So maybe it’s not so terrible that his family is dead,” she says, “because now he has us.”

“Shannon Malia Kai. I can’t believe those words just came out of your mouth!”

“It’s the truth, Mom, and you know it.”

“Homework, young lady. Now.” She nods, and I walk out the front door, pulling it hard into the old frame. “
Ka puka,
what am I going to do with her?”

And what am I going to do with him?

∞

The main lobby of the clinic looks like Christmas morning.

Boxes marked with
CLINIC
are stacked everywhere, and half the people in the biodom
e seem to be here. Lucy is directing
the sorting of everything from baby diapers to bottles of Pepto-Bismol, as everyone munches on an industrial-sized bag of what I can only imagine are very stale potato chips. Diego is sitting in a wheelchair with a small can of grape juice in one hand and a clipboard in the other, his splint-covered legs propped up on boxes.

“Doc!” he says when he sees me. “It’s a party! Glad you could join us.”

Someone pushes in behind me carrying another box, and I scuttle out of the way. “How did all this get here?” I say to no one in particular.

Lucy hands me a grape juice. “Madders managed to get three semis up and running in Albuquerque. Seems they found the trucks inside an airplane hangar, and Becky says they were all in pristine conditio
n—
one of ’em already loaded up with sealed drums of diesel. All three trucks made it back this evening, and they ain’t even finished unloading the first one.”

“Wow.” I set the unopened juice down on the desk.

“But don’t worry, doc,” Lucy adds. “Every bottle, bag, and box has been going through quarantine, just like you specified.”

“Take it easy on the potato chips,” I call out. “The oil is probably rancid!”

I notice a box labeled
Kentucky’s Finest
and take a quick peek inside. It’s a case of bourbon with one bottle already missing. The last time we had that much hard liquor, it turned folks into a mob of self-righteous idiots. I wonder how many more boxes of bad judgment are being unloaded from those trucks?

“Okay, everybody,” I say, “we’re calling it a night. After nearly two decades in storage, this stuff can wait till tomorrow to be sorted.”

Lucy looks relieved. “You heard the doc,” she says and starts shooing people out. “Off you go. Thanks for the help.”

“Becky?” I ask when it’s back down to just the three of us.

“I sent her home to get some rest. She said the interstate was still drivable, but there was the occasional bathtub-sized pothole, so they had to take it pretty slow. She’d been driving one of those trucks for the last twenty-four hours, and I reckon she deserved it.”

Lucy takes the clipboard from Diego, and we walk back toward the desk. “What’s up, doc? You look like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” she says, keeping her voice low.

“Bad news from Salt Lake.” I motion with my head toward Diego. “No survivors.”

“Damn. Not what the man needs right now. You gonna tell him tonight?”

I shrug, wishing it wasn’t up to me to decide.

“Want me to stay?”

I shake my head. “I’ll sleep in the empty room, keep an eye on things until Becky comes in.”

“Hey,” Diego says, struggling to get his legs off the boxes. “What are you two whispering about? From the look on your faces, someone just died.”

I cringe just as he glances up.

“Christ, I didn’t mean that literally.” He rubs the back of his neck with his good hand, not looking at us, and I realize why he’s having so much trouble with his legs: He’s cradling a bottle of whiskey between his thighs.

“So what happened?” he finally asks. “Please tell me no one died.”

“Not unless you manage to drown yourself in that bourbon,” Lucy says and hurries over to help him. “Doc, will you give me a hand getting him settled for the night?”

The two of us manage to get him to the bathroom and then into bed without incident.

“G’night, Mr. C,” Lucy says as she fluffs his pillow and then places it back beneath his head.

“Thanks, Luce. You’re the best.”

“You ain’t so bad yourself.” She pats him on the arm. “You want me to lock up, doc? What with all the medical supplies stacked out there, I mean?”

“No need. Given that we’ve been cooped up in this fishbowl for going on nineteen years, I suspect if anything’s missing, we’ll know where to look.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll check in with you first thing in the morning.” She gives me a worried glance and then leaves.

I stand there next to Diego, gripping his bottle of bourbon like it’s the only thing holding up the blade of a guillotine.

“So what’s the bad news you’re trying so hard to hide?” he asks. “Lucy said everyone made it back from the foraging party, and that they found some sort of treasure trove of medical devices and prescription drugs.”

“Yes, it’s very good news, better than I could have hoped for. I’m just sorry they didn’t make it back in time to save you some pain and suffering.”

“Thanks.” He narrows one eye. “Everything okay with Shannon?”

I nod and glance down at my hands.

“Just tell me, Lani.”

“I have s-something for you. Madders b-brought it back from Salt Lake this afternoon.” I take the envelope out of my pocket and hold it out to him. “I’m sorry it’s not better news.”

He stares at my outstretched hand. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” His voice is devoid of emotion, and I glance at the bottle to see how much whiskey he’s had.

Probably not enough.

When I don’t answer, he looks up at me, his jaw set. “Isabel is dead.”

“Yes,” I say, “I’m sorry. She didn’t make it to a biodome in time.”

He nods, his face a mask. “Read it to me?”

I set the bottle down on his nightstand and then carefully unfold the note. “Diego Nadales,” I say, reading back the name he wrote weeks ago.

“Not me,” he says, his voice tight. “Her. Tell me what happened to Isabel.”

I check the birthday he has listed for himself and then do the math. He should be close to sixty. “If this is you, why don’t you look a day over forty?” I ask, holding the paper out like it can’t possibly be correct. “Explain to me how that’s possible?”

“Bad luck.”

“Diego, when I sent this letter off to Salt Lake, I thought these people were your parents. Are you trying to tell me that
you
are sixty-year-old Diego Nadales?”

“Please,” he says. “Just read it. I want to know how she died.”

I swallow and go back to the note. “Isabel Sanborn,” I say. “Married name Kirkland (or possibly Nadales).” She and the man listed here are the same age. “So, she’s your wife?”

“My fiancée. Go on, please.”

Someone in Salt Lake has written Isabel’s death notice in a loose, loopy cursive:

Fifty-one possible matches (plus or minus six months from date of birth). No survivors.

“Not even one?”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

He rubs his face with his hand. “And me? How did I die?”

I stare at him for a sec, uncertain what he mean
s—
and then I read off the girly handwriting next to his name:

No match (plus or minus one year from date of birth). Status unknown.

I look up at him. “Of course, you didn’t die, Diego, because you’re right here.”

He turns away from me. “But I don’t deserve to be.”

“You’re wrong about that.” I tuck the note back into the envelope and set it underneath the bottle of liquor.

“You should have let me die.”

“Please don’t say that, Diego.” I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shakes it off. “I know you don’t believe me, but I know exactly what you’re feeling.” I walk over to the door and switch off the light. “And it will get better, if you give it time.”

“You didn’t kill the one person you were trying to save.”

If only that were true.

As I shut the door, I hear his first sob, and my heart starts breaking all over again.