The Last American - Chapter Three
Occupying part of the library’s second floor - though technically a separate facility - the Basque Museum could be accessed by a single emergency door on the second floor, or an inconspicuous staircase on the first. The latter led down to what used to be a coffee shop right across the lobby from Jeannie’s Grove - formerly the Rotunda. The Museum had its own vestibular entrance on the north side, buried in a deep recess between the brick façade of a stairwell and the tip of a crescent-shaped bay of offices. The convex arrangement of windows permitted Goodson to see outside in a wide arc to make sure it was generally clear before going out. Pinched between the library and the Student Union just north of it, terraced planters overgrown with large junipers, sumacs, and grassy shrubs shielded his comings and goings. Goodson used only the Museum doors to enter or exit the building, every other door having been braced with heavy furniture and reinforced by steel drums filled with dirt. All clear? “Hard to tell. Visibility’s shit.”
A scissor-lift barricaded the outer pair of doors. Using an on-board panel, he moved the lift to allow him to drive his maintenance cart out, currently weatherproofed with a removable plastic enclosure. After a particularly close bolt issued a cloudburst of hail, Goodson became aware of a ringing sound, at first thinking one of the close-by man-traps had been triggered. “Goddamnit! Now!?” He let out a low growl of irritation. The slapping of rain against vegetation and the crackling of hail against concrete diffused the ringing, making it hard to pinpoint. He turned his head slowly from side to side to get a fix on the sound’s source. That is not a trap. “Then what the hell is it?” It sounds like the bumpers on a pinball machine. “I was thinking more a metal-pipe-xylophone,” he said, walking down the stairs between the terraced planters.
At the bottom of the stairs, he realized the sound came from multiple locations - above him where there were no traps. He went through his memories of what the building looked like in the day and realized there were a bunch of metal overhangs providing shade to the windows of the Student Union. Their slats rung from countless collisions with tiny balls of ice. “Fucking bizarre, man. I’ve never heard that before.” Hail is uncommon; and we usually stay inside during a storm. “True… Okay. Crisis averted.”
Relieved that he wouldn’t have to waste any time dealing with an intruder, or yet another randomly-sprung trap, he walked back to the museum entrance to retrieve the detachable wireless control from the scissor-lift allowing him to block the doors again after leaving. Other than lightning, the remote’s LED indicators provided the only light. The tiny lights burned inky trails into the corner of one eye’s vision as they swayed in his hand while he walked. That is irritating. “What’s wrong?” I can feel the imbalance of light. It is uncomfortable. “Agreed.”
Goodson got into the cart, driving slowly down the handicap ramp to avoid hitting the rails. He made his way through the parking lot and onto Evans Ave. With lights off, flashes of electric blue divided the greater periods of blindness. The whine of the motor and the crunch of the wheels are louder than I remember. “It’s the enclosure, and the hail.” The darkness and the pattering of water against the windshield felt very isolating. The world feels smaller somehow. “It does,” he agreed.
Thick vines covered the sidewalks and railings of the Evans bridge over I-80. The random angles of light and competing shadows gave the vines a pulsing, crawling effect. Through a few breaks in the foliage, he could see the abandoned vehicles on the interstate and the darkness of the tunnel under the drugstore between Virginia and Center Streets. A purely aesthetic frame made of large tubes on the roof of the drugstore resembled the mast of a crane laid on its side. How long ago did we live there? Goodson ignored the question. “Stay focused. I can’t see shit.”
Making a left turn onto E. Sixth St., he hit a sunken manhole cover which shook the whole cart and startled the hell out of him. It sent a momentary pulse of anxiety up his spine as the loose stack of thylakoils tumbled onto the floor next to him. The feeling disappeared almost as soon as it arrived, but left residual tension in his neck, jaw, and all around the edges of his ears. Maybe you should slow down. “Maybe you’re right. I feel impatient.” Are the TKs alright? Goodson stopped the cart then reached down to pick up the thylakoils, building an image in his mind with his fingertips as he felt for damage. “They feel fine,” he confirmed.
At the intersection of E. Sixth and S. Wells, he came across a solitary dummy staring up at the sky. “Awwwww. Look at that. He’s enjoying the rain.” Lit by lightning from random directions, the dummy transitioned from silhouette to having details. It also swayed a little so, when illuminated, its position shifted ever-so-slightly. That is the stuff of nightmares. “Seriously Twilight Zone.” Goodson smiled to himself, driving in a circle around the toyfull before plowing into it from behind. It gave out the gooey crunch only possible through a solid object colliding with a fleshy one at modest speed. “Sor-ry!” he called out disingenuously. Stop wasting power. “Yes sir, Captain Buzzkill.”
Even though they were parallel, Sixth eventually bore south to merge with Fourth. On the northeast corner of that intersection, he passed the military surplus store where he had found tons of interesting goodies, including many of the sleeping bags he had hidden, clothes he wore, containers he used to store food, and some tools.
He drove down Fourth under the U.S. 395 overpass, avoiding a loose group of dummies that had already broke from the river in precipitous confusion.
Stop!
“Jesus! What!?” Just before Galletti, he slammed on his brakes. “Son of a bitch! You startled me.” I apologize. More importantly... look. On his right, a row of derelict forklifts and boom lifts and telehandlers lined the side of a building. “This place wasn’t in the yellow book.” He had been down this road before but had forgotten about this particular business. “Awesome!” he shouted out loud, surprising even himself. Inside-voice… “So you can shout at me, but I can’t yell?” No one else can hear me. “Think you’re pretty fucking clever with that shit, don’t you?” At times.
He pulled into the lot. A few dummies milled around between all the heavy machines. He got out next to the store’s overhead door and began feverishly wiping away muddy sludge from the bottom of it; when he found the gap between it and the ground, he attacked it with his crowbar. If it does not open within a few minutes, we will have to abandon the idea and come back later. “I’m well-aware of that.” Flat end first! And be quick! “I know… how to use… a fucking… crowbar,” he grunted haltingly as he worked. He jammed the flat end of the crowbar underneath the door and put his weight on it. When he had an inch, he jammed the bar a little further in and pulled up. When there was enough space, he put the hooked end in and pulled out. A grinding pop was followed by the muted ringing of a piece of floor latch flying through the air behind the door and hitting the concrete floor. Next, he began prying at the vertical track. In no time at all, enough rollers had been popped out or broken off to allow Goodson to pull away a corner of the door.
In the absence of light, he listened for growls. Toyfulls are coming. He grabbed his toolkit and slinked under the door.
Turning on his flashlight, he looked around. It looks like a repair shop. “What gave it away - the giant hydraulic lift dominating the room, or the wall full of tools and replacement parts?” You are really an ass sometimes. “Cry me a river, pal.” He did a quick sweep to make sure the place was clear. Except for a couple doors, workbenches ran the entire length of both sides of the cavity. Various machine parts lay everywile, some still piled, others having been light enough to be moved around by ancient floodwaters. Sagging cardboard boxes filled the spaces underneath the benches. Plastic bottles or metal cans filled each box. As he dug through them, the brittle cardboard disintegrated. Reminds me of graham cracker. Goodson thought back to the boxes of cookies he had found vacuum-sealed in an old freezer. “Man, those were good! Hard to believe they were still edible.” Goodson sighed. “Wish I could find some more.” You could learn to make them. "Excellent idea, sir!"
Against a far wall, a cage filled with propane canisters caught his attention. Excited, Goodson ran over to investigate, almost tripping over a metal tube on the floor. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself. He knocked each can with his knuckle, sighing in disappointment. All empty? “Of course.”
Dotting the workbenches, various repair manual and parts catalogues lay caked with mud. He tried turning the pages of a few books but they were ruined. He grabbed a few unopened tubes of grease before heading into the office portion of the building.
The office was nothing special: a parts and service counter in front of a few aisles of small parts. He browsed the aisles, grabbing two full boxes of rings and seals, as well as fuses, electrical relays, and some coils of wire preserved by the mud. “Paydirt!” he said, almost laughing. In a box on a lower shelf, he found a sealed 4x6 leaf chain next to kits with various anchors and pins.
After he had everything he thought might be useful in beefing-up one of the university’s forklifts, he threw it all in a plastic tote by the garage door. Good. Now all we need is a rail clamp. “Yup.”
Lightning struck somewhere close, rattling the windows, startling him. “Fuck!” That was really close by! “Oh… shit.” The flash revealed that a large herd of dummies had accumulated outside. The wind changed direction and a burst of rain that usually followed a strike began pouring in through a broken window in the lobby.
“Hmm…” he said thoughtfully. You thinking what I am thinking? “You are what I’m thinking, idiot.” Goodson looked around. He dragged an old leather couch over, then collected every piece of wooden or foam furniture he could find, piling all of it by the unbroken windows. He grabbed every piece of dry cardboard available and crumpled up every loose piece of dry paper from a recycle bin full of old receipts and sales orders. That is quite the pile. What about the… “You know I’m uncomfortable with the idea of burning books.” Goodson, the fire will spread anyway; I guarantee you these books exist in other service shops. These are all illegible or destroyed. He found the idea distasteful but couldn’t deny its merit. Scowling involuntarily, he threw as many as he felt would burn into the pile. Finally, he squeezed out some grease into a few rags before throwing a couple of them and some aerosol cans into the pile. He kept one rag and backed up. He pulled out a book of matches, struck one, and lit the rag. Tossing the rag into the pile, a fire whooshed to life and began smoking terribly. That cannot be healthy. We need to get out of here. “Don’t gotta tell me twice!”
Through the windows, he saw toyfulls staring hypnotically at the fire, trying to grasp it through the glass. The lamination started to bubble and pop, as if it was a sideways surface of boiling tar.
He grabbed the tote filled with parts and poked his head out of the roll-up door to check the area. All the dummies clustered by the glass which crackled from the heat, sounding like tiny gunshots. The aerosol cans popped like fireworks. He crawled out and pulled the tote through.
As Goodson drove off slowly, the rioting dummies scratched and bit at each other, vying for a position closer to the light. Rain getting heavier, he felt it was safe to turn on his lights. He wove through a loose forest of toyfulls as he turned the corner onto Galetti, coming to a stop at the railroad tracks just south of the intersection. The mounting bolts of the bench seat creaked as he leaned forward to turn off the lights and rest his elbows on the steering wheel. The whole cart rocked in gusts of wind; the flexible windshield rippled. He stared through it at the hundred-or-so unfinished columns of Pinion Station not a thousand-feet distant. Lightning flashed everywhere; like the dummy earlier, the columns appeared to sway in the inconsistent light. Collapsed scaffolding surrounded a few of them, from far away resembling piles of needles. From where he sat, the blasted gap in the Red Line was plainly visible. Beneath the gap - he remembered - large bits of a red passenger car lay torn open, resembling an exploded soda can.
Not counting the Gold Line that ran the entire length of the McCarran loop, of the three Star Lines - more elevated light rails meant to integrate Reno, Sparks, and Verdi with a massive logistics hub to the east - only the Red Line had been completed. It ran from Stead all the way to the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Complex in Clark City. In the old cartoonish projections of what the lines would have looked like when they were finished, each pearl, T-shaped column bore a unique engraving of mountain and desert landscapes mixed with indigenous flora and fauna while the two rail platforms above shone with reflective trim in the color of their name. Luster long-since gone, the cracked and peeling paint that survived in the wind-shadow of each pillar created what looked like bark beetle tracks, mostly hiding the weathered reliefs. Many of the spans between pillars had been used for artillery practice from the regiment atop Rattlesnake Mountain to the south. Twice a season, typically, more artillery practice would blow apart another span or column or buildings downtown. On rare occasions, the University itself was targeted.
Lost in thought, Goodson stared at the silhouetted monoliths towering over derelict earthmovers - themselves faded-yellow peaks among muddy foothills of mangled cars, brick, rock, and wavy blankets of driftwood. “What else do you suppose is buried out there that can’t be seen - dreams, aspirations, systems of belief, ways of life?” What are you talking about? “It just makes me wonder why they focused so much on consumption for the sake of consumption. I guess it makes sense from a self-preservation-becomes-selfishness-becomes-greed perspective. But it’s unsustainable: growth for the sake of growth is equivalent to cancer.” I am still having trouble following you. “They lost touch with reality. They ignored real danger in favor of imagined problems.” How do you mean? “Many things can-not be reasoned with. You can’t negotiate with a flood or an earthquake. You can’t have a religious debate with an asteroid or a super nova. Diseases couldn't care less about politics. You have to put up walls, build missiles, or get the hell out of there. There are threats out there - real threats - and they’re all the more dangerous that they’re driven by mindless, indiscriminate forces of nature. They can only be dealt with by force; reason and rationale won't solve every problem, or even most of them.” Their things and their ways gave them comfort. “Comfort? At what cost?” Goodson scoffed. “From everything I’ve read, most of ‘em had no way of accepting realistic levels of stress. Instead of facing physical, dialectic, or existential conflict, they engineered ways of making themselves ignorant to them. It was more convenient. When you’re in danger, you pay attention. It keeps your mind sharp. You focus on what might do you harm and go over possible actions and outcomes. But there’s a line you can cross where you think you’re safe and you stop paying attention, which creates potential hazards.” So… when in danger, you are safe; and when safe, you are actually in danger? “Exactly.” Goodson, there are dummies everywhere. We are in danger. Can we finish, get the hell out of here, and wax philosophy later? “You’re right.” He slapped himself lightly. “Focus, Goodson.”
Goodson looked at the charge meter. “Jesus! I’m already down to 38%? This is some bullshit.” Do not worry. We have enough juice.
Just past the tracks, the sliding gate to the NDOT facility had been rammed some time ago, lying in a mess of metal tubes and chain link fencing. Driving between dummies and buildings, he found most of the vehicles to be organized according to type. First were white pickups and vans, then flatbed trailers, then skid steers and other light construction equipment. On the far end of some backhoes, flood waters had disrupted a pile of variously-sized bucket and shovel attachments for snowplows.
Driving around a building nestled in the back, he found larger construction equipment - bulldozers, cranes, wheel-loaders, excavators, and dump trucks. It was too tight to drive through, so he parked alongside the large tires of a wheel-loader. He got out and climbed onto the loader, sneaking around on the tops of equipment. In the deepest corner of the lot, covered in brittle, pocked tarps, he finally found what he was looking for. Among neat piles of crane pulleys and miscellaneous attachments, he found two large rail tongs.
Heavy rains had worked their way through the fabric tiles of his camo-suit and he was starting to get wet. His fingers ached from the cold, making it hard to grip the clamps. Goodson grabbed one, preparing all his muscles to lift it. The clamp was so light he accidentally jumped, nearly throwing the clamp over his head as he did a back flop. “Fuck’s sake,” he croaked. In the dark, I thought they were metal. “Me too,” he said, marveling at how light they were for their size. “I guess they’re made of... carbon fiber or something.”
When he was done loading both into the bed of the cart, he sat for a moment in the enclosure, shivering, forcing hot air into his greasy fists. “They taste and smell like metal though.” The TKs being a little over 30% charged, Goodson elected to switch them out with full ones before driving off. Motor seems alright. “Yeah… really not much of an additional load.”
The rain fell so heavily now that Goodson had a lot of trouble seeing, even in the lightning. He turned on the headlights again. His eyes having adjusted to the dark, the light reflected back against the rain in a blinding fog. He couldn’t go any faster than five-miles-an-hour. Toyfulls appeared out of the dark every half-second, and he fought to maintain control of the cart as he did his best to snake his way between them. There must be hundreds all up and down Galletti. Shallow flash floods washed over the road, pushing the cart around. “This is all I fucking need.” It is probably a good thing if we do not go any faster. “Don’t want to get mobbed either. They’re attracted to the light.”
He turned left back onto Fourth. A momentary lull in the deluge and a bright bolt overhead revealed a thick forest of dummies. Gauge is already down to 88%. They must not have been entirely full. "Or they’re just old and shitty.” He figured it was best to maintain speed instead of using the energy for braking and turning. He plowed ahead, striking the occasional dummy without humor. At the moment he found no enjoyment in hurting them; he found only distress in being slowed down by the collisions.
He cruised in as straight a line as possible. The charge gauge steadily fell. Under the freeway it was at 67%. At Sutro, 41%. “Come on… come on!” he yelled at the cart, glancing at the meter every other second. Why is it draining so quickly? “I don’t know!” He turned right onto Sutro and headed under I-80. The "low-power" light came on and started buzzing around Eighth St. “What the fuck! Doesn’t a buzzer use electricity!? Why warn about a drain when the warning causes one!? Fucking retarded!”
The concentration of dummies decreased the further he got from the river, but there were still a lot of them all over the place.
He made it to Eleventh St, turning left into the Livestock Event Center complex, and parking underneath an overhang behind one of the rodeo bleachers.
“3%. There’re too many dummies around to replace the TKs.” You will need more anyway. “Yeah. Gotta hoof it.” Goodson grabbed the flashlight from the tool kit, abandoned the cart, and started jogging. The canvas locks of his camo-suit bounced with every step, slapping together the way a wet mop sounds when it hits a floor. In the distance he heard the horn of the train that brought in more Processed. “Great… timing… assholes,” he said as he ran. “Couldn’t wait... for a… more ominous… time?”
He ran west toward Sadleir Way, then ran down the middle of it, dodging a few toyfulls. Trees punched through the broken asphalt. He ran through Taylor Park, through the basketball court and playground toward Bartlett St. He could hear the thrumming of the train’s fans just over the rushing white noise of water falling everywhere.
Trying to beat the train, he ran up Bartlett and across an overgrown yard to turn a blind corner onto Jodi Dr., surprised to see the train right in front of him. He screamed, trying to change directions mid-step and slipping. He had heard wrong; he thought the train was further up the line. Two of the miniature Blooms mounted between the cars flew open and a deep electrical hum built up in an instant. As he struggled to get up, a bolt of lightning arced from one of the Blooms to him. Every nerve was alive and screaming in unbelievable pain. Without intending to, he jumped with a surprising amount of uncontrolled strength. The spotlights on the train tracked him as he sailed through the air. It took all his willpower to overcome the electrical shock, but he put out his hands to try to absorb the fall. He failed. He landed at an odd angle, hyperextending his hand backwards and snapping the radius of his right arm. The flashlight hit the ground hard; a cone of light spun round as it clattered down the street.
The Blooms did two things: they either cooked you from a distance or zapped you if you got too close. He had seen it before, watching oblivious wildlife walking in from under the Wall to gorge themselves on the piles of dead birds - usually Canadian Geese - that had flown too close to the Wall and been struck out of the sky. The unwary scavengers would get shot with lightning and head further into the city to get away from the additional burning. One more prisoner.
The train continued its pass, the flanges of its wheels calling out in ghastly metal screams against the wet rails. Every time a Bloom passed out of sight around the crumbling sound barrier behind the homes on Bartlett, another opened up and tracked him. He stumbled, delirious from the burning sensation. Everything seemed dull and far away. His vision tunneled. In slow motion he made it across Jodi Dr. and behind a derelict car. We have never been so close to the train before. He heard screaming from the people inside. In agony, he felt his right arm. Warm and sticky with blood, the bone poked out.
The metal of the car began humming and crackling as if it was building up an electrical charge. Tiny bridges of electricity arced into his skin from the rusting exposed frame. He could hardly feel anything.
His vision pulsed as he looked around. A thick broken branch lay wedged between the rim of the wheel and the curb. “You’ll… have to do.” He held the cuff of his left sleeve in his teeth to pull it over his hand. The suit being modular and held together with buttons at the torso, he stepped on the cuff and yanked off the left arm of the suit. The metal of the old car stopped humming and popping. The train is gone. Goodson crawled over to the branch. With the sleeve of the suit, he wrapped his limp hand tightly in a fist around the branch. He took a quick succession of breaths to prepare himself. Using his wrist as fulcrum and the wood as a lever, he stretched the far side of his arm. He anchored the branch in the gutter with a foot, then used his free hand to force the bone back into place. In agony and without restraint, he let out a roar before collapsing to the asphalt, cradling his arm, whimpering. It is done. Now get up.
The train’s thrumming diminished until it was indistinguishable from the storm. He felt weak. The cold and wet didn’t even matter. Get up, Goodson. “Just a minute.” His vision and hearing slowly settled, but were in no way clear. Still feeling slightly paralyzed, he awkwardly wrapped the sleeve around his broken arm. He opened the pouch of pemmican on his utility vest and stuffed a bunch in his mouth, dropping a few. Lying on his back and chewing loudly, rain pooled in his mouth; he used it to help swallow the thick mash.
He lay for another minute, breathing, feeling the cold rain against his skin. Goodson… Goodson, get up. You have to get inside. Goodson lay still. Goodson! Get! Up! “All right already. I don’t wanna to die with you screaming at me.” Reluctantly, he dragged himself up on the trunk of the dead car. The patches of rust felt like sandpaper against his skin. He limped, laughing about being injured. This is not funny. “Shut up… shut up… Just… just leave me alone.”
He could see his library beyond the Judicial College. He stuffed more pemmican into his mouth, chewing with what little strength he had. He vision getting blurry again, he felt like he was underwater. His heart raced.
On the tracks, Goodson stared down the line. Mouth full, in garbled speech he promised the train. “You... are going... to die.”
He turned and kept walking. “So… close.” He felt like a dummy, shuffling slowly towards the university. After crossing Evans, he tripped trying to lift his foot onto the curb. It took everything he had to turn to fall over onto his back, trying to remain conscious.
He laid on the sidewalk. Goodson... He could feel his eyes were open but he could see nothing. Time fragmented, each moment framed by the sensation of a thousand drops of water. A milky flood washed over him, soft as silk, carrying him away. Goodson... please. His whole body felt like liquid. Broken bits of concrete dragged into his skin. He felt like he was inside a rock tumbler. Goodson… All sounds indistinct, he thought he heard chains and crackling leaves, rusty hinges, echoes, crashing, and finally silence.