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The Trans Am bumbled over the cracked, crumbling pavement that stretched between the abandoned stores. Party Poison had once seen a photograph of a town in the pre-war days. He imagined that this town would have looked similar: bright neon signs against the sky, stores that bustled with people, rows of traffic with headlights glittering like a string of diamonds. But now the sidewalks were empty, the broken windows covered with sheets and wooden boards.
The sky was growing dark, with streaky clouds at the horizon. A few neutrals walked down the road. They stopped walking and looked at him as he drove past. Poison avoided their eye. He drove past an open garage, a stack of apartments lit from within, and a grocery store with people clustered around the entrance. Poison felt detached from the scene, as if he were a ghost moving invisibly through their world.
He wearily rubbed his eyes, then glanced at the time on the radio. 9:42 P.M. He was thinking of heading back to a town he had crossed earlier when he spotted a MOTEL sign. It blazed red against the dark sky, the O and L burnt out. Lights glowed inside the office and coffee shop. He parked in front of the coffee shop and sat silently in the car for a few moments. Then he switched off the engine, stashed his transmitter in the glove compartment, and headed inside.
A small television crackled on a shelf behind the counter. A thin blonde woman in an apron stood in front of the grill, frying what looked like meatloaf in a pan. “It’s just scrapple tonight,” she said. “The grocery store butchered a pig yesterday. What they couldn’t sell, they gave to us.”
“That’s fine,” Poison said, taking a seat at the counter. He watched the TV set as he waited. A Battery City soap opera played on the blurry screen. The world outside the coffee shop windows was black, as if the shop were the only refuge for miles. Scrapple crackled in the pan.
Finally, the woman plated the scrapple and placed it in front of him. He handed her two carbons, which she tucked in her apron pocket. “We don’t get many Killjoys around here,” she said. “I’ve been following the food shortage on the radio. It sounds like you’ve been having a rough time of it.”
Poison nodded and rubbed his face with his hands. “Someone ran off with our livestock,” he said. “They snuck up on the farm that was holding them and just drove off in the middle of the night. We never found out who did it.”
“Well, that’s horrible,” she said. She poured a glass of water from a jug. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I will. Thank you.”
As Poison started to eat, his stomach began to growl. The mush of grease, cornmeal, and pork scraps melted together in his mouth, like a crude version of the meatloaf his mother had made back in the city. He scraped up the scraps and trimmings and gulped cool, clear water from the glass, which she refilled twice.
“Want a second helping?” she said.
“Yes,” Poison said. “Please.” But when she dropped a second slice on the plate, he thought of his friends back home. For the past week, they had survived on rice, stale bread, and shriveled vegetables. And he was eating hot pork scraps like one of the rich merchants. Poison put a hand to his mouth and looked away.
“Don’t worry about the price,” she said. “I won’t charge you extra. I know you Killjoys don’t get a lot to eat.”
Poison tried to smile and thank her. But his appetite had diminished, his insides burning with guilt.
After dinner, he headed to the office. The office was decorated with wood paneling and floral carpet that looked like it hadn’t been changed since the 60s. “How long are you staying?” said the girl behind the desk. An empty vending machine stood in the corner. Poison noticed that there was no Better Living logo on the side.
“Just for tonight,” he said. “Three carbons?”
“Yup. What it says on the sign.” While he opened his wallet, she said “Are you headed somewhere? I saw you driving around when I left to get groceries.”
“I’m just going for a drive,” Poison said. “I shouldn’t have left, to be honest. The guys--my friends, I mean--we’ve had a shitty week. Someone ran off with our livestock, and some asshole blocked the airwaves for three days, so we couldn’t find work. They’ve been busting their asses all week, and I just left. I just took off and left them.”
Poison stopped and rubbed a hand across his face. He had felt the sudden urge to confess to someone, as if that would absolve him of his guilt. The girl didn’t respond. She took the carbons, then handed him a key from the hooks behind the desk. Poison turned, feeling her eyes on his back as he started for his room.
Once inside, he dropped his bag on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he thought of calling his brother back at the diner. Then he remembered that his transmitter was still in the glove compartment. The thought of trudging back outside, making the call, and dealing with the anger and interrogation that would follow made his muscles ache with weariness. He kicked off his boots and lay down on the bed, the springs creaking under his weight.
The mattress was soft against his back. The blanket bunched around him like a nest. He closed his eyes and took deep, slow breaths, his chest rising and falling like a wave, until his breathing started to even out. The worries that had rattled his mind seemed to slide away, leaving him quiet and still. The motel room was silent. The outside world fell away. The room seemed to be its own universe, isolated from the stress outside its doors. He could remain there indefinitely as long as he stayed on the bed, breathing in and out, sinking into the soft mattress...
Someone pounded on the door. Poison jerked to a sitting position, his heart racing. Had one of the guys found him? Was it Kobra Kid? Jet Star? He got up and stumbled to the door, his brain foggy with sleep. A hundred apologies raced through his head as he fumbled with the key; a hundred explanations, a hundred guilty pleas.
He opened the door, then stopped. The girl from the front desk stood in the doorway.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m just letting everyone know. I think the clouds are blocking the TV signal. You can check later, but it might be off all night.”
“Oh,” Poison said. “Yeah. That’s fine. Thank you.”
He closed the door behind her, then shuffled back to the bed. Poison lay back down and closed his eyes again. But restless thoughts crowded his mind, like ants swarming on a piece of food. After a while, he got up and changed into his sleeping clothes. He was about to turn off the light when he noticed something on the bedside table.
Poison sat down on the bed. A clunky, old-fashioned telephone sat on the table. Not a sleek city tablet but a thick phone with a curly cord, tucked into a plastic cradle. Something stirred inside him. He reached for the phone. Perhaps after all these years, the connection was still intact. Could he dial a number and find a voice on the other end? A stranger, an outsider, someone that could get them out of this nightmare?
Poison studied the phone, trying to remember which end he held to his ear. Both ends were speckled with tiny holes. After a moment, he slowly held the phone to his ear. When nothing happened, he turned it over and tried the other end. But there was no sound. The phone was dead.
Wordlessly, he tucked the phone back in its cradle. Then he turned off the light near the door and fumbled back to the bed in the dark. The motel was so quiet that he could hear insects screeching through the walls. He climbed under the covers and closed his eyes, blanketed in the darkness.
---
Bright squares of sunlight cast through the windows, glinting off the counter and the steel grill. In the daylight, Poison could see the rust on the grill and the boiling water pot. He took a sip of coffee, then winced. It was watery and bitter. Near the ceiling were framed black-and-white photos of people he didn’t recognize. The coffee shop itself was visible in the background, its shelves stocked with goods. What had happened to those people? Had they survived the wars?
Once he’d drained his cup, Poison fiddled with the mug. His eyes fell on the transmitter that sat on the counter in front of him. He cleared his throat. He cradled his face in his hand and drummed his fingers on the counter. The transmitter seemed to watch him like an unblinking eye. When he could stave it off no longer, he switched it on, steadied himself, then turned it to his brother’s frequency.
“Hey,” he said. “Kobra? It’s me.”
There was a moment of silence. Then a rush of static as Kobra sucked in his breath. “Oh my God,” he said. “Oh, thank God, man. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Poison said quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m up in White Rock.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
Poison rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I drove up there,” he said, burning with guilt.
“Why? What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” he said. “I just, uh...I’m sorry, Kid. I had to get away for a while.”
“You had to get away?” Kobra said.
“Yeah. I know it was shitty, I should have called you guys, I just--I’m sorry, kiddo. I had to get out of there.”
There was a pause. Poison tensed, waiting for Kobra to raise his voice. He drummed his fingers on the countertop again.
“Hey,” Kobra said finally. “Are you okay, man?”
Poison’s shoulders sank with relief. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“You traveled around for a while? Got it out of your system?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“All right. Just--leave a note next time, man. Jesus.”
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Poison said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Kobra said. “Just get back as soon as you can. I think we all need to talk.”
They said their goodbyes, then ended the call. Poison sat at the counter for a few minutes. Then he grabbed his bag and stepped outside, blinking in the blinding sunlight.
The woman behind the desk looked up when he entered the grocery store. Her eyes widened as if she had never seen anything like him. Poison pretended not to notice as he scanned the price board above the desk. The walls were decorated with shelves, road signs, and license plates, with a dingy freezer humming in the corner.
“Do you have any preserved meat?” Poison said.
“Nope.” She jerked her thumb toward the freezer. “All we got is raw. Don’t get a lot of preserved meat out here.”
“What about canned meat?”
“Look and see,” she said.
Poison walked over to the shelves near the door. He picked up the cans and turned them around in his hands. Chunky fruit and vegetables swished around inside.
“I don’t see any meat,” Poison said.
She took a swig from her water bottle. “Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
He sighed to himself and placed the can back on the shelf. Poison wandered around the shop, checking the shelves, peering in barrels, turning the racks as if meat would suddenly materialize. When he neared the back door, he heard a scratching and fluttering outside. Poison looked through the screen at the fenced-in area in the back. Then he turned back to the woman.
“How much?” he said.
“Five carbons,” she said. “I’m hands-off, by the way. If you want one, you’ll have to grab it yourself.”
Ten minutes later, Poison walked to the Trans Am with a chicken struggling under his arm. It clucked and flapped its wings as he tossed it in the backseat. Poison slammed the door shut, then jumped into the driver’s seat. As he turned on the engine, the chicken jumped and fluttered around behind him, ruffling its feathers.
“Hang on tight back there,” he said. “Are you ready? Yeah? Okay. Let’s go.”
The sunlight glinted off the Trans Am’s hood as he pulled out onto the highway. He cruised through the rows of buildings until he hit the desert highway, the town shrinking behind him in the rearview mirror, and great stretches of desert on either side of the road.