Authors: Ronald Klueh
Chapter Thirty-One
Surling paced in front of the table where Reedan sat. He remembered telling someone several months after Al’s death that he never realized life could get so fucked up so quickly. And here it was again, ratcheted up several more notches.
What could they do? At best, they’d have one more shot at an escape attempt. Nothing compared to the chance Reedan fucked up or the chance they’d have had with Drafton.
“We’ve got to make plans.” Surling said. “They’re coming for me in a few hours.”
“Maybe Applenu will let you go. He sounded sincere.”
Jesus, they feel up his wife, probably rape her, and show him videos and pictures of it, and he wants to trust them. “Sure, Applenu comes on like one of our friendly scientific colleagues. For non-scientific chores, he’s got Beecher. He sends him to talk to your wife, and he sends him to pay us off and send us on our way.”
“If they turned you loose, would you go to the police?”
“I don’t know what I’d do, and they don’t either.”
Surling turned to pace some more. Tired, so tired. Maybe age had run him down at last. He trudged back to the table and sat down. “We can’t let assholes like that gain control of these weapons. I was involved with two atomic bombs that blew thousands of people away. There was a reason then, but I sure don’t want to be involved with another. When you were building bombs at Oak Ridge, didn’t you ever worry that they’d be used to kill innocent people?”
“I never saw a bomb or bomb-grade uranium. I just developed computer programs.”
“You just did your job, collected your check, and didn’t even think about it. Those are some of the reasons Drafton gave for going to work for Applenu. That’s what we did on the Manhattan Project. Whatever happens, we helped make those bombs. When they go off, we’ll be partly responsible…unless we do everything we can to stop them.”
“But what if we fail? They’ll…”
“It’s the same either way.”
- - - - -
Applenu answered the loud knock on the door to his apartment expecting to find Markum or Maxwell with his dinner. On most nights they brought dinner from a local restaurant.
Instead of Markum or Maxwell, a younger bloke with a shaved head and a full black beard stood there holding a large bag from Appleby’s. “Your takeout meal is here, old chap.”
“Steve? Uh…Derek?”
“The name’s George Atkinson,” he said, stepping into the room and sticking out his hand. He roared into a laugh as he slammed the door behind him and grabbed Applenu in a bear hug. “I’ve got a couple bottles of red in here along with steaks. Sorry I couldn’t bring some broads to really make it like old times.”
- - - - -
In the semi-darkness, Curt and Surling sat on chairs on either side of the door waiting, like early morning arrivals at the ticket counter for a major sporting event. A dim, green glow permeated the room, the light emitted from the open refrigerator, just enough light to distract whoever opened the door. Or so they hoped.
The refrigerator motor droned away.
Curt hefted his weapon, an empty green wine bottle. Could he live with it if he killed a man one on one? In Surling’s argument to get him here, he reminded Curt of the pictures and video—as if he could forget. From the moment Applenu dropped the photos on the table and turned the laptop for him and Surling to see, his mind wouldn’t release the image of Beecher’s hand on Lori’s breast and the agony on her face. What else did they do to her? When Beecher killed the video, his arrogant smirk hinted that the rest of the video held still more hideous scenes.
On the other side of the door frame, Surling twisted the cap off of a half-empty catsup bottle, studied it, and twisted it back on. “Deep down, I figured my philandering might kill me,” he said, his voice stripped of its professorial tone, a quiet rumble to keep from being heard by their guard, who at night set up a cot in the hall just beyond the door. “I figured some guy would catch me in bed with his wife and shoot me.” He forced a laugh. “Another way I visualized going out was a heart attack while on top of some young thing.” His face clouded. “I forgot to tell you I turned eighty-five a couple weeks ago. I remembered yesterday.”
“So why do you do it?” Curt asked, chasing the numbing thoughts of Beecher and Lori from his mind and tuning his ear for the key in the lock. Death, he thought, something he hadn’t figured into his career calculations, except for the stray thought on the highway after a close call. If they guessed right, his own death was scheduled for the next few days. Should things go wrong tonight, they’d accelerate the schedule. Maybe doing something beat sitting around and thinking about Beecher and Lori, Drafton and AIDS.
Like a motor at idle, Surling’s leg jiggled away, seemingly disconnected from his rigidly stiff upper body. “When Al…you know…when he did that, I flipped out. I wanted to strike out.”
“At your wife?” Curt asked, wondering why they were talking like this.
“I don’t know who. All I could think of was that I let him down. His life was fucked up, like so many kids. But kill himself? He tried drugs, but I figured all kids did that, a phase they go through these days. I talked to him about it, but we just argued, like we did whenever we talked…what little we talked. His first two years at Cal Tech were disasters…after being a Merit Scholar.”
“Cal Tech’s tough.” Who cares, Curt thought. Beecher’s coming for us.
“Anyway, when he was home that summer, I tried to listen to him, instead of doing all of the talking—preaching, you’d probably call it.”
Curt nodded, wishing Surling would shut up and get ready.
“When I got to Los Alamos in 1944, everyone was older than me, most of them married with families, everyone with their PhD, sitting around talking about their science. At seventeen, I didn’t fit in. Then one day Oppenheimer himself walked into my lab and asked me to hike with him in the Jemez Mountains. He talked to me like a father to a son, like my father never did. And he listened to me. It changed my life.”
Curt nodded, listening for noise out in the hall. He wondered if he should know who Oppenheimer was.
Surling continued. “I remembered that experience with Oppie, so one day I suggested to Al that he and I go backpacking in the Sierras. I figured he’d say no, but he said yes. That’s where I fucked up,” he said, his voice rising slightly. He shook his head side-to-side. “I was finishing a textbook and had a deadline. When Al went back to school, I said we’d do it in the spring.”
Curt remembered that the only place Dad ever took him was out on the driveway when he was about five. He handed him a basketball and told him to throw it through the hoop on the garage. Curt looked at Surling and saw tears rolling down his cheeks, just like they ran down Drafton’s. “Bob, they’ll be here soon.”
“Less than a month after Al went back, we got the call…”
Curt swung his wine bottle at the air and thought about all those days on the driveway throwing the basketball through the hoop. Later, he sent Dad on trips. Dad never missed a game, and afterward he replayed it over and over. Was their relationship better than the one Surling had with his son?
Surling blew his nose. “Like I told you before, I wasn’t connecting with my wife…or my other kids, for that matter. It started out with my wife’s friend and went from there. It became a game. Like this beautiful Brigham Young graduate who’d do anything every Thursday afternoon while her graduate-student husband had a thermodynamics class. So I get enticed into bed by one more blonde and end it all in this god-forsaken place. Sometimes I think Al had the right idea. Not for himself, mind you, but for me. Just shut it down. Maybe…if I don’t get out of here…it won’t be all that bad.”
Everybody changes one way or another, Curt thought. One farming accident and Dad changed. Why? It wasn’t his accident. Curt never considered how he had been changed by the accident. He just changed his career plans—his plan for the rest of his life—and moved on.
“We’re not going to die, Bob,” Curt said. “That’s why we’re here.” A few minutes earlier he hoped Beecher wouldn’t come. Now he wished he would hurry up and get there.
“I told you about June, how I promised to make her my only woman. The one Applenu said I saw on Wednesdays and Sundays. I see her more often than that. Anyway, I’ve been thinking maybe I ought to rediscover my wife…my family…ask them to forgive me. She was good for me once.”
Surling looked at Curt, as if trying to read something on his face. “Curt, you are right to want that kid, to want to be more involved with your wife and daughter. Just don’t forget it down the road when some fucking robot project beckons at the same time your kid wants you to go to a ballgame.”
“Hey, I’ll make you the godfather, and you can keep an eye on me and the kid.” Maybe if they have a boy, Dad could make him a basketball player. He’d ask his dad to help him put up a goal in the driveway.
Surling cleared his throat. “Your work’s exciting, but your kids can bring something permanent to your life…if you’re lucky. I was excited by work on the Manhattan Project, but then doubts set in about making atomic bombs. Oppie had doubts, and they fucked him over and drove him to an early grave. I got into research for nuclear reactors—atoms for peace, Eisenhower called it. That bogged me down in paperwork and bullshit, so I went to the university. Things were good there before the whores got control. I published four books and two-hundred-some research papers. But all the time my kids were growing up without me. I missed the whole thing.”
As Curt strained to hear, he wondered if Dad had any regrets besides the accident. He thought he heard voices outside the door, meaning there was more than the usual one guard out there.
Surling didn’t notice. “When Al died, I looked at all the important things I’d been doing and realized nothing’s important.”
Curt put his finger to his lips to quiet Surling.
Surling ignored him, his voice getting louder. “It’s all a mindfuck. Eventually, everything turns out like the Manhattan Project. But your kids…you understand what I’m saying?”
“You convinced me what I did with Drafton was important,” Curt whispered, “and now you say nothing’s important.”
Surling stared momentarily into the space above Curt’s head. “Nothing matters when…”
A loud voice rumbled in the hall outside the door, and Curt waved a hand at Surling’s face and pointed to the door.
Surling’s head jerked sideways; his eyes widened.
In unison, they stood and moved their chairs to the side.
- - - - -
A key rattled in the lock.
Curt sucked in his breath and flattened his body against the wall. He rubbed two sweaty palms on his pants and grabbed the wine bottle from the floor.
On the other side of the door frame, Surling stood stiff as a corpse. He saw Curt looking and forced a smile, then flashed thumbs up. Curt returned the gesture.
The door opened. Bright light from the hall evacuated the green glow from half the room. Surling now stood behind the door and would have to work his way forward to make his attack.
“Why are the lights off?” Beecher growled. He flicked the switch. “Lights are burned out.” He stepped into the room, standing barely three feet from Curt, and stared at the refrigerator.
Maxwell hung back in the doorway and watched; only his huge stomach protruded into the room.
Next to the light switch Curt pushed his back against the wall, wishing he could tunnel inside, hoping Beecher wouldn’t look his way.
Beecher passed by him and called into the room, “You ready to go, Surling?”
Maxwell took a tentative step into the room, then another. Curt swung. Thunk: the bottle connected on Maxwell’s forehead and bounced off like an axe from an oak log.
Maxwell’s head snapped back. He grabbed at his face with both hands and staggered forward into the room, moaning as he crumpled to the floor at Curt’s feet.
Beecher whirled to face Curt. He glanced down at Maxwell, and then his right hand dived into his jacket. “What the fuck’s going on, Reedan?” He jerked his gun from his jacket.
Surling emerged from behind the door and slammed the catsup bottle against the back of Beecher’s head.
Beecher staggered toward Curt, eyes glazed. Arm shaking, he struggled to raise the gun and point it at Curt. Slowly, he collapsed to his knees. “You sons of bitches.” He toppled forward onto his hands, shaking his head and moaning.
Surling hurled the catsup bottle after the falling Beecher and stepped around him. Simultaneously, Surling and Curt tried to jam through the door. Curt stepped back.
Surling pointed to the floor, panic covering his face. “Watch out!”
Before Curt could react, he felt both of Maxwell’s arms wrapped around his left leg, squeezing like a steel trap. Curt kicked at Maxwell with his right foot, but the trap tightened. He swung the wine bottle at Maxwell’s head; it bounced off of his shoulder.
Surling stood rooted in the doorway, searching the floor for his catsup bottle.
Maxwell grabbed Curt’s left arm, still holding the leg.
Curt strained to keep his body from being sucked to the floor like a roast into a meat grinder. He jerked back again and again, trying to break Maxwell’s grip. It wouldn’t give. Everything’s over before it starts, he thought, just like the last time.
Surling stood and watched.
Beecher, still on all fours, shook his head and moaned.
“Get out of here, Bob.” Curt yelled. He swung the wine bottle at Maxwell’s head and missed. The bottle slid through his sweaty hand and shattered on the floor, glass swishing and clinking around the room. Maxwell held on, pulling and twisting Curt’s bad leg. Pain shot up into his thigh.
Surling remained frozen in the doorway, searching the floor for his bottle, occasionally staring at Beecher, now on his knees.
With his right hand, Curt pried at Maxwell’s hands; he kicked and connected with Maxwell’s leg. Maxwell grunted, but held on, working to pull himself up while trying to pull Curt down.
“Get out of here, Bob! Run!”
Surling hesitated, saw Beecher struggling to stand, and turned and disappeared out the door.
Beecher heaved himself to his feet, his gun in one hand, his other hand pressed to the back of his head. “Hold that bastard,” he yelled. He shoved Curt backward. “I’ll get that other son of a bitch.”