The Loudness Page 15

  “No, I mean, they took control of the dam earlier this afternoon thinking they could open the spillway and flood the city, but . . .” Guv smiles, unable to contain his amusement at just how wrong the Government’s plan is. “. . . opening the spillway won’t flood the city, just the wetlands out by the ol’ airport. In a few years, the river might think about changin’ course, but we’ve been planning on that all along. There’s nothing left to flood out there if that happens.”

  I shake my head in laughing disbelief, along with everyone else in the room. I should’ve picked up on it earlier, when Grammy first showed me the pictures—Dad certainly spent long enough explaining the dam to me—but all I could think of was the nightmare of the Tragedies, of Mouse in the backseat of a black jeep and my parents under arrest in the City . . . political prisoners. It’s no wonder we don’t want to depend on them anymore—they didn’t help after the Tragedies, and they didn’t even get this right.

  “Long and short of it,” Guv says, “is that old river systems like this one, they won’t just do what you want ’em to. They may be in control of the dam right now, but they got no idea what exactly it is they’re controlling.”

  Grammy cuts in, steely voiced but smiling toothily. “Which is gonna be the key to getting those lying federales out of our business once and for all. They had a chance to sign the Charter, to have us on their side, and they decided they wanted to destroy the Zone instead. To keep my daughter, to keep Pete and Sue Stalton’s daughter, barely a teenager, rotting in some rat-infested prison until the day they die.”

  Mrs. Stalton punctuates Grammy’s speech with a bone-chilling wail, and I gasp along with the rest of the room, hoping, praying that Grammy’s exaggerating to make her point. I’d literally worried myself sick, but until now had only envisioned Mouse and my parents in, like, a locked hospital waiting room. Reading magazines, bored, with an armed guard outside of the door. I hadn’t let myself even begin to think about the . . . d-word.

  Meanwhile, Grammy reaches into her voluminous purse and pulls out a handful of glossy eight by ten photos, the government’s projections of the permanently flooded Zone. Red-faced, tendons standing out from her wiry neck, she waves them. “We tried to do for ourselves what they refused to do. We gave them a chance. And now they’re trying to terrorize us; they’re trying to erase us completely.”

  She catches her breath, letting this sink in. Conor and Scott stand behind her uncomfortably, looking younger than usual. I can’t catch Conor’s eye, but I manage to get Scott’s attention and mouth, “Freckles?” Nudging Conor, he holds up a finger, like there’s more he wants to tell me—but when Grammy starts talking again, he just shrugs, then nods reassuringly. “For a minute there I thought they were going to get away with it, too. But this”—Grammy gestures to the hallway, everyone standing stock still—“this is just growing pains.” I flash back to the first time she’d mentioned growing pains; the inchworm circling down her gleaming kitchen sink.

  “What d’you suggest we do, then, Mrs. Long?” Mr. Moonie asks with his trademark drawl, casually breaking what had grown into a very taut silence. “They’re still patrolling in those . . . jeeps,” he spits it out reluctantly, as if the concept of a jeep was just as bad as the people driving them. “Taking people. Taking kids.” The parents in the room all instinctively wrap their arms around their children. Mrs. Wallace looks manically at Conor, who’s still staring down at his shoes.

  “They can’t scare us with a flood, we know they can’t do that.” Grammy looks at Guv for verification, and he nods first to her and then, authoritatively, to the crowd. “But we can let them think they’ve scared us away, at least until they’ve gone back up north. We’ll hunker down in our houses, we’ll hide out in the Grey, we’ll sneak over to the Other Side.”

  The thought of the Other Side is cold comfort when people are dying . . . but my stomach growls at the thought of a biscuit from Food Eats. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

  “We’ll let them think they’ve won, that we’ve cleared out. And when they’re gone, we’ll regroup. We’ll fortify, we’ll arm ourselves, and we’ll secede. We’ll commit the treason those bastards are accusing us of.” Grammy’s face shakes indignantly, her eyes staring through the Library into a vengeful future.

  “All right then, Mrs. Long,” Mr. Moonie says with finality, tucking his chin into his neck. “Just so long as everyone has a plan.” He faces the crowd—the Green Zone—and shakes his head. “You don’t have to go home. Fact, sounds like you probably shouldn’t . . . butcha sure as heck can’t stay here.”

  A few nervous laughs pepper the crowd, but nobody moves. Mr. Moonie looks over us and then pointedly at Grammy, to whom he says, “Seriously, now, y’all have got to go,” before he shuffles back into his study, closing the door definitively behind him. I can’t say I blame him—the only thing he’d ever asked for was peace and quiet to do his work, and now this. With Moonie gone, the room has erupted into pandemonium, everyone talking loudly, over talking, shouting, trying to figure out where to go next.

  “Hey,” Mr. Malgré yells over the din. “Hey, hey, hey!” The room reluctantly quiets down. “Y’all heard Mrs. Long, here. We got to get gone.” A murmur of assent, followed by a few unhappy grumblings that I can’t quite make out from my perch by the stairs. “I’ll tell you where,” Mr. Malgré says, positioning his wide red face right up against a nervous-looking man, one of the unhappy grumblers who had dared to speak up against him. “We’re gonna get out into that night while we still can.”

  “What about . . . fighting back?” someone shouts from the depths of the crowd.

  Mr. Malgré steps back from the man, who quickly disappears into the safety of the crowd, and answers only by looking disappointedly around the room and biting his cheek. Still primed from her recent rally cries, Grammy raises her voice once again to fill the silence.

  “We’ll fight back, and we’ll win,” she says, looking determined. “But look around you. We’re not exactly battle-ready.” She nods toward all the parents with their children, to Mrs. Wallace in her dirty wedding dress, to the soggy latecomers. “We’re gonna need to regroup, to get some outside help. Right now. Literally, right now.” She pokes the air imperiously for emphasis. “We need to scatter. It might be days, it might be weeks, but we’ll meet back here when those black cars are gone.” She laughs grimly. “Whether Moonie wants us to or not.”

  Again, a few nervous laughs. “Oh,” says Mrs. Wallace, gathering the long lace train of her dress in her hands as if to leave. “And where exactly are you going again, Milly?”

  Wincing, Grammy touches her upper arm, where I saw the bruise, and then quickly drops her hands to her sides. “I’m not hiding out at home, that’s for sure,” she says steelily. “I’ll head to the Other Side, lie low for a few days. We checked it out on our way back from the dam, and it looks like it’s deep enough in the Grey that federales won’t bother looking for signs of life there; if we’re smart and stay indoors, we should be fine. I hear they have some good eats, too,” she adds with a half-smile.

  I know it shouldn’t, because she’s always made it her business to know everything, but it surprises me to hear Grammy mention the Other Side. I’d been thinking of it as secret, like the attic before it. But I guess everything’s thrown open now: the attic, the Other Side, even the Green. I slump against the wall and sigh, remembering Mom’s cool, soft hands feeling my forehead for a fever; her suggesting that Dad and I ride over to the Other Side for something “new.”

  We found something new, all right, I think, watching everyone separate into twos and threes, in anxious discussion. If Mom and Dad were here . . . But I can’t think like that. I try to plan my next move, too, while Grammy visits each of the groups, making note of their plans and offering sober, whispered advice. Of course I’ll go to the Other Side, too, and warn Tom and Rachel and the rest of them. That is, if they don’t already know about the federales . . .

  I walk through the Libra
ry, looking for someone to talk to about what happens next, after the black jeeps leave, but everyone’s preoccupied. Conor’s finally reunited with Mrs. Wallace, who’s holding his head to hers like he might slip away at any minute, and he seems to have let down his guard and is holding her back. Mary and Alice are with their respective parents, who I don’t recognize, not even Alice’s parents, who can’t actually live right next door to me—I’m sure I’ve never seen them before. Grammy’s busy advising everybody but me. The only people who look like they want to talk are the Staltons, who’re making a desperate beeline toward me.

  Panicking, I duck into Mr. Moonie’s office, trying to look as if I’d been heading there to begin with, and slam the door behind me, shrinking at the sound, but happy to have made my getaway. Moonie looks up from the book he’d already lost himself in, steepling his fingers and arching his brow.

  “Oh,” I say, not quite sure what to say. “Everyone looks like they’re leaving soon?” I don’t know why I made it into a question, but Moonie smiles encouragingly and the rolls beneath his chin smile, too, so I carry on. “I’m going to the Other Side, looks like we’re gonna stay there until it all . . . blows over.”

  Creaking, Moonie stands and throws open the drapes. I flinch toward the floor in anticipation of a hundred lurking federale eyes, angrily hovering helicopters; waiting handcuffs and government restraints. But it’s really storming now, rain beating down against the glass in broad sheets that hide us from the outside world almost as effectively as the heavy velvet drapes. Incongruously, Moonie intones: “The sunlight falls, low-ruddy from the west, / Upon their heads. Last week they might have died / And now they stretch their limbs in tired content.”

  “You’re coming too, right?” I ask, nervous from the open drapes. And from Moonie’s poetry.

  “That’s Sigfried again,” Moonie says distractedly. “Ziggy. The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still.”

  “What?” I ask, recoiling.

  “The name of the poem. The same one from earlier. I looked it up while everyone was . . .” He waves his hands dismissively and pulls the drapes closed, hiding the rain. “I won’t be accompanying you to the Other Side, Mr. Long,” Moonie says, gesturing toward his cluttered desk. “Too many loose ends to tie up around here. Especially now.”

  Of course, I think. Mr. Moonie’s whole life’s work has been trying to solve History, like it’s one enormous, sprawling jigsaw puzzle without corners or sides. Everything that’s happened up until this very moment, these crazy last few days, is now officially another piece for him to place. Me, standing in his dark, mildewy office, making plans for the future . . . I’m history to him, too. Like Mom, the mayor, and our centuries-dead relative, the former governor.

  I roll my shoulders and shake my arms, getting rid of the phantom cobwebs I suddenly feel sticking to my wet and dirty skin. “But what if they look here?” I ask, agitated at his lack of concern. “The federales?”

  Moonie laughs dryly and then coughs, chest rattling like the panes in the windows. “Nobody’s gonna bother an old man, an academic,” he says, wiping the moist corners of his mouth with a faded red pocket square. “And I don’t have anything they want . . . unless they’re lookin’ for book t’read.”

  “I saw ’em, Mr. Moonie,” I say, not laughing. “They’re dangerous.”

  Moonie arches a brow and purses his lips, holding back a smile. “In that case,” he says, unscrewing the tarnished brass top of his cane and pulling out a thin sword, like a fencing saber. “They can have at it!” He waves the sword theatrically, cutting the heavy air with an awkward flourish, and then re-sheathes it, turning it back into a walking cane.

  For a moment I’m at a loss for words. I point at the cane and hesitantly say, “I never knew . . .”

  “That’s the point, Henry,” he says, affecting an air of mystery and puffing out his chest. “Not knowing. That’s exactly the point.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “School’s out, Henry,” Moonie says, tapping his cane decisively on the floor and sitting back down to his work. “Not that this was ever much of a School, of course. But I’d like to think you learned something here.”

  “Sure I did, Mr. Moonie,” I say, nodding in affirmation, more confused than ever.

  “Good luck then, son. Surprise the hell out of ’em.” With that, Moonie turns back to his book. I start to say goodbye, and Mr. Moonie waves without looking up, so I open the door as if to leave.

  “One more thing, Henry,” Moonie says, nose still in his book. I wait in the doorway, hoping for clarification or guidance; some words of wisdom to get me through the next few hours at the very least. “Do tell your gramama that she’s gonna need to pick somewhere else to hold her meetings next time.”

  I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Okay Mr. Moonie,” I say. “Bye, then.” I look back over my shoulder before I close the door behind me; he’s already scribbling madly in his leather-bound journal, making notes and marking dates. I push the heavy oak door closed, leaving Moonie to his dusty histories, and walk into the emptying main hall, which is still buzzing with activity. Up until I’d closed the door, I felt fine—upset, but in control. Walking out of Moonie’s study into the tumult of the Library, I rub my eyes with my fists, wishing I could push them hard enough to reset everything I’m seeing, to make all of this go away.

  “Henry!” A familiar, high-pitched voice caws as a hand catches my arm. I look up. It’s a small woman with a glowing, hopeful face and the whitest smile I’ve ever seen. I almost don’t recognize her without her white coat and clipboard . . . and when I do recognize her, I inadvertently flinch.

  “I was hoping I’d see you,” she says, rooting around in her purse. “How’s the heart? Still feeling faint?”

  “H-hi Dr. Singh,” I stutter, not knowing where exactly to start. I touch my chest, self-consciously feeling for the flimsy aluminum wrap and remembering that I’d lost it earlier. “I’d been wearing . . . foil, to keep it safe, but it . . .” Dr. Singh is nodding seriously, still rooting around in her bag.

  “It fell off.”

  Dr. Singh smiles sweetly. “Good thinking,” she says. “There’s really no telling how non . . . anatomical organs are going to react to these kinds of anomalies.” She gestures vaguely to the room. “The best you can really do is monitor and react.”

  “That’s, um . . .”

  “I know,” she says, still smiling. “Not very reassuring. But I can promise you, whatever’s happening with your . . .” She pauses, rustling through a deep crevice in her purse.

  “My non-anatomical heart,” I prompt.

  “Right, whatever’s happening with your heart, it’s better than having no heart at all, right?” She smiles triumphantly, finally extracting a thermometer. My gag reflex starts up just seeing it, and it gets immediately worse when she carefully unravels a long black strand of hair from its casing.

  Dr. Singh sees me pulling a face and wipes the thermometer on her shirt. “Not quite up to Hospital standard, but then”—She gestures vaguely for the second time—“we’re in the wild now. Anything goes, right?” I shiver. “Now, let’s see how you’re doing.” Without thinking, I open my mouth, and in an instant the thermometer is wedged painfully into the soft underside of my tongue. “No moving then, keep it in there,” Dr. Singh admonishes. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your fondness for theater.” She pushes the thermometer into my tongue again to make sure it’s secure, then grabs my wrist and quickly checks my pulse.

  “What I’ve been wanting to tell you, Henry,” she says, surveying the room, “is that I do think, given your symptoms, that it’s probably a good idea for you to get away from here for a while. Take a vacation, go to the beach or something.” Dr. Singh laughs at this. She has a lovely, musical laugh that makes me want to join in, but this feeling quickly evaporates when she drops my hand and adjusts the thermometer again, poking it sharply back into my tongue’s soft tissue.

  “You can’t change the ticker, is the
thinking,” she says while I wince, choking down an urge to spit out the cold thermometer. “At least not yet, not here. But you can change its context.”

  “Mgoim do da obber sibe,” I say, wondering if that’s going to be far enough away.

  “Oh, don’t talk, sweetheart, or I’ll have to leave it in for another minute.” She taps her watch, checking the time, and stares at it for a long stretch. “That should be good.” She takes the thermometer out of my mouth and holds it up to the light. “Ninety-eight point six, and pulse is completely normal. You’re fine.”

  “But what about the fainting?” I ask. “How far away should I go for that to stop?”

  Dr. Singh wipes the thermometer on her shirt and tosses it back into her purse. “Between you and me,” she says, frowning for the first time since I’ve seen her. “I’d get as far away from this place as possible.” Someone opens the back door to leave, giving a burst of cold wind the run of the hallway. I shiver, holding my bare arms to little effect. “I would,” she says matter-of-factly, “if it wasn’t for the Hospital.”

  I thank Dr. Singh, giving her a quick, tight hug, and silently forgiving her for all the pain she’s inflicted on me over the course of the past thirteen years. Just as I pull away, someone pinches my arm.

  “There you are!” Grammy chirps, strangely upbeat. “Dr. Singh, good to see you.”

  “You too, Mrs. Long,” answers Dr. Singh, her voice steely. “Your speech . . . was very interesting.” Grammy inclines her head in thanks, and Dr. Singh sharply adds: “Please remember that our Hospital has a limited number of beds.”

  A look passes between Dr. Singh and Grammy that worries me more than anything I’ve seen today. It’s not hatred or aggression, but a cool, almost clinical, understanding of the shape of things to come. I take a jagged breath, consumed with a sudden fear for my parents, and for Mouse, as the bloody reality of fighting for the Zone sinks in.