The Occupation of Emerald City: The Worker (10 page)

“Shit,” I say with a quick breath. I blink hard. “I thought
that was them. I … thought they were going to take us back.”

Joshua squeezes my shoulder. “Do you feel that?”

Vibration. I had mistaken it for pins and needles in my feet,
but now it grows stronger and manages to reach my kneecaps. A giant black
Humvee emerges from the direction the masked men had come from, following the
faded yellow center line of the street. The gunner on top squeezes off a
handful of shots from the massive mounted machine gun and the sound resonates
in my chest.

The Humvee disappears behind the hotel. More shots ring out
like firecrackers, growing softer.

“Come on,” I say. “I don’t want to be out here any longer
than we have to.”

I follow my familiar route back to my condo, which is still
in one piece, sitting on the corner of L Street. My car is indeed sitting next
to the curb on my block, hardly the worse for wear but not unexpectedly layered
with a number of fresh scratches along the side facing the street. Other cars
along the street look unwashed and ready to take root, as if the entire
neighborhood had committed a mass exodus that would be safer to travel by foot.
Several chunks of concrete have been ripped out of the street in places
creating gaping potholes, but I can’t remember if it was like that before or
not.

“It’s not gonna run well,” Joshua says, following me to the
driver’s side while I inspect the inside. “The gasoline’s too old.”

“So now
you’re
the
pessimist,” I mutter, checking the rear window. In the backseat, I can see my
black baseball cap with the power plant’s name in red letters above the bill
and a McDonald’s bag crumpled on the floor. “You know, I remember at the plant
there was corrosion in one of the condensers, and everyone knew about it. I
waited three months for someone to fix it, but no one cared. So finally I came
in on my day off and got it done.”

“You’re a wonderful human being,” he says.

“My point is I hate taking charge, but I’ll do it if I have
to. I’m sorry about your girlfriend.” He takes a deep breath, nodding. I motion
toward the condo. “I’ve got a couple gas cans in the basement,” I say. “I can
get us fresh gas. How’s that for optimism?”

“It’s a start,” he says, shoulders hunched, head down. Still
thinking about that woman. His only connection to this new world.

I walk up the three stairs to the condo’s front door and
punch in my personal code: 1025, my birth date. The door doesn’t open.

I look around the patio. The door is made entirely of glass,
but the only thing around is the large metal mailbox built into the brick of
the building. I wait and hope for him to make a suggestion. After a moment of
silence, I tell him to wait here and run around back, to the large green dumpster
in the empty alley. It’s overflowing and white plastic bags are piled up on the
two nearest parking spaces. Most of the bags are ripped open. I root through
the topmost garbage, grabbing a thick taco sauce bottle.

When Joshua sees what I have, he laughs. “It’s crafty, I must
admit.”

I throw the bottle as hard as I can at the window, closing my
eyes before it makes contact and missing what sounds like an impressive crash.
When I open my eyes again, I see that a very jagged, triangular portion of the
door’s glass is missing near the left side.

“I was expecting the entire thing to shatter,” I say.

“That only happens in movies.”

I carefully reach my hand through the opening and open the
door from the inside.

“One-oh-seven,” I say absently, following the hall. The
building smells like vanilla incense. Every second light bulb is missing, and
the ones still working are dim. The hallway hasn’t been dusted or vacuumed in a
long time—the red carpeting that had been almost new a year ago already
looks ten years worn, and long dark scrape marks line the white walls. I can
remember one dark line had been etched in when I tried to move my easy chair
into my condo without help, scraping the base along the wall. The rest of the
marks are new.

I walk past the door to my room and Joshua diligently follows
without question. We walk down into the dark basement, lit only by the thin
horizontal windows up near the ceiling on the opposite end of the building.
Storage locker number 7. All of the storage lockers are simple rooms
partitioned with thin slices of wood, slightly larger in width than each flimsy
door whose hinges are attached a little too high on the frame, leaving a small
space between the bottom and the dusty concrete floor.

I kneel down and slide my finger under the door, very slowly
and carefully pulling out my spare key. Being in this building, inhaling its
scent … it’s all bringing things back. I remember why I hid my key down here: I
didn’t want to give it to a neighbor for safekeeping. I didn’t trust my
neighbors. I didn’t want to talk to them.

“Crafty,” Joshua mutters. “Again. You’re a regular pack rat.”

I stand up and dust off my jeans. “I figured the last place a
person would look for it was under the door.” I open the door and flip on the
light switch. Inside are two large red empty gasoline containers sitting on the
ground and an old easy chair, the one I had lugged from place to place before
finally giving in and buying a new recliner. It still looks comfortable,
although the blue fabric has collected a fair amount of gray dust. It used to
belong to my grandfather, who’d only used it for two years before he died. His
heavy weight permanently weighed down the cushion by a half inch.

I always assumed I would use it again. I always assumed I
would move out of this condo into a house. I would meet someone, somehow, and I
wouldn’t be alone anymore.

I hand both of the gas cans to Joshua.

“Why do you have two gas cans?” he asks.

“I got one when I bought my car. Then I got another one just
to be safe.” I laugh. “Then both of them ended up down here.”

“Maybe you’re not crafty,” Joshua says with a smile. “Maybe
you’re just a little screwy in the head.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But the key’s still here and my condo is
still in one piece. That’s the closest thing we’ve had to
luck
so far.”

I follow Joshua back upstairs. At the door to the condo, I
slip in the key with some apprehension, sure it couldn’t possibly fit. When it
does, I find myself hesitating even more to turn it. I finally do, unlocking
the doorknob. I turn the knob, but the door won’t open.

The deadbolt on the other side is locked.

I’m about to try again harder when the door suddenly opens,
pulling me in before I can let go of the knob. A short old man with brown skin and
a graying beard steps back to get out of my way. He’s smiling at first like
he’s expecting company, but his smile fades when he doesn’t recognize me. I
sure as hell don’t recognize him.

“Who are you?” the man asks. He looks Muslim. He’s wearing a
loose-fitting white shirt and white pants. And shoes. My shoes. From my closet.

“Who am I?” I say, incredulous. I shove my foot against the
door, feeling him pushing from the other side. The old bastard is actually
trying to close the door on me. “This is my goddamn condo! Who are you?”

“Your condo?” he says. His face whitens and he gives the door
another push. “That’s impossible.”

“Why?” I ask, pressing harder to fully open the door. It
bounces against the coat rack on the other side of the wall, pressing against
the coats.
My
coats. I’m not going
insane. I’m not. This is some kind of trick. “Who are you?”

“I just …”

I look into the living room. My living room—I’m sure of
it now, because everything looks exactly as I left it. This man could have just
as easily been squatting here for a few minutes before I showed up. There’s
even a stench of rotting food coming from the direction of the kitchen,
probably the red grapes I’d purchased months ago, sickly shriveled and stinking
like rotten wine. Throw in a few dried-up carrots and a plate of stale baked
potatoes and, yeah, that would definitely explain the scent bouquet.

“Who are you?” I ask again, pushing him away from the
doorway. Joshua follows me in and gently closes the door.

The man backs up a step. The room is cool and I can almost
feel the body heat radiating from his pores. “They told me you wouldn’t … be
back.”

“Who?” I ask. “What are you talking about? Tell me who you
fucking are!”

“I live here,” the man says.

I grab him with both hands by the collar of his shirt. “Then
why are all of my fucking books sitting on the bookshelf? Why is my couch
sitting in front of my TV? Why is my … why is my wristwatch sitting on the
goddamn end table!”

Just as I left it. I’m sure of it. This can’t be a trick.

“They said you wouldn’t be back,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I
never touched anything, not even the food. I just slept on the couch. It never
felt right, living here.”

“Then why were you?” I ask, clutching his shirt tighter.

“They gave it to me. This section of the city … it belongs to
the Muslims now. The Christians are all moved out.”

“I’m not a Christian!” I shout. I can’t control myself. I
pull the man closer to me. His head bounces on his neck like a rubber doll. His
forehead is glistening with sweat. “Did you turn me in? Did you turn me over to
the Coalition, you son of a bitch!”

“Please,” he says through shaky breaths. His liver-spotted
hand rests on mine. The fingers feel cold. “Please, no. This home belongs to
me. This is a Muslim neighborhood.”

“I don’t believe him,” Joshua says. “He’s lying.”

“I’m not a bad person,” the old man says. “I just needed a
place to stay and the men with guns offered this to me. It’s been so bad.”

“They paid you,” Joshua says over my shoulder. “Or they
promised you this place, knowing things would be so chaotic no one would even
notice you were here, maybe ever. You turned him in.”

“No,” the man says. “That’s not how things happened. I’m a
good person … I didn’t move in here until about a month ago …”

I grab his throat, alternately squeezing and pulling away,
squeezing and pulling away. His whiskery flesh feels flabby and loose between
my fingers. I don’t know what I’m doing or what I want to do. All I know is it
feels right to see the fear on his face when I start squeezing, to see the pain
in his eyes when I apply pressure with my thumb to his soft, spongy windpipe.

“Please,” he chokes out.

I let go. He falls to the floor, coughing.

Joshua walks over the wall on the other end of the living room,
running his fingers along it. He looks down at the heating vents, then walks
into the kitchen, opening the cupboards, the refrigerator, testing the light
switch. He walks slowly back into the living room, testing the floor with each
footfall.

He’s looking for the Catch, that’s what he’s doing. As if the
room is booby-trapped, like in the torture facility.

“I need to think,” I say, grabbing my car keys and wallet
from the table. I check my wallet and pull out two bills, probably the same
amount I had over a year ago.

“You see?” the old man says. “Nothing stolen. Nothing
changed.”

“Except my home,” I mutter. I run a hand across my bookshelf,
touching the copy of
The Bell Jar
. My
home … it doesn’t feel like my home for some reason. Maybe the old man is telling
the truth. I’ve been gone for so long. If my bank account ran out of money …
maybe someone bought it. Maybe the bank sold it. This might not be my home.

The thought frightens me.

“I had an accident,” the old man says. “I bled onto my shoes
and then I lost one. There was a firefight at the end of the street. That’s the
only reason I took your shoes. I swear it.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say, stuffing my keys in my
pockets.

“Where are you going?” Joshua asks.

“I’m filling up these gas cans so I can check my bank
account,” I say. Driving helps me think. Wrap my brain around this new place
with soldiers and men in masks and broken buildings and goddamned intruders.
Get out of this place before the vents start blowing hot air. Before the room
closes in. Before I’m strapped down again and cold water runs down my throat.

This doesn’t feel like my home anymore.

“What about him?” Joshua asks. “What about me?”

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.” I take another breath.
Everything’s moving so fast. I spot the smooth black laptop sitting on my
coffee table. “The laptop.”

Joshua glances at it. “What about it?”

“Try to sign on to the Internet,” I say. Another deep breath.
God, I could use that anti-anxiety medication just to slow everything down.
“Find that woman so at least one of us can get the hell out of this nightmare.”

Joshua walks over to the couch and sits down very carefully,
testing the cushions. He opens the laptop, his hands shaking. He scans the
wireless connections. “There’s one connection named ‘TheKillers,’ but it’s
really low.”

I smile. That was the connection I always used to sneak onto.
I imagined the guy—he probably lived in the duplex next door—as a
young punk, a hip-hop lover with colorful religious tattoos on his arms and
black t-shirts with silver caricatures of dead rappers. It actually feels good
to know he’s still around, that he somehow made it this far.

Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s been shipped out. He was a
Christian. I knew that much about him because the old man is right: this was a
Christian neighborhood.

So what happened to the Muslim neighborhoods?

“I need to use the bathroom,” the old man says.

“Does the plumbing work?” I ask.

“Sometimes,” he says. “More often than it did after the first
bombs hit.”

I follow him to the bathroom in the hallway. There’s no
window he can escape from, so I let him close the door. I listen to the stop-go
gentle stream of urine hitting the toilet water and can’t help but feel a
little pity for the old man. He’s probably clutching the edge of the sink.