Read Online The Only Words That Are Worth Remembering by Jeffrey Rotter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeffrey Rotter
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wouldnât be a minute. Somewhere behind that pile of rubble a generator roared to life. Klieg lights revealed a neat rectangular pit carved into the concrete. Nguyen lifted the orange polybarrier and we crawled out to the edge of the hole. I lay on my belly looking down into a terrible darkness. It was only by my internal sense of doom that I gauged its depth. If Nguyen had tucked away a surprise at the bottom, it couldnât be good.
Faron took a less gloomy view. The minute he saw the pit, all the spite went out of him. He seized hold of my shoulders and rolled me onto my back, looked down on me, tears welling up as if he might weep into my eyes. His future was down there, his reckless future, and he hoped his only brother might share his enthusiasm. I do not know why people want so badly to make me bolder than I am.
We proceeded down to the foot of a bowed ladder where we stood atop a scaffold. As our footsteps shook the rigging, a fine spray of sand fell over our heads. I had at that time in life witnessed but one burial. It was a Jesus Lover from the peach orchards, and the last act before they stuffed his hole with calaheechee clay was to toss a handful of dust on the box. I remember how it hissed against the plywood, how the sound stuck inside me. I tried for days to dig the grit from my ears.
When Nguyen connected a pair of extension cords, we saw just how far down his excavation went. Pop steadied me, and I focused my senses on the emetic slurp of a sump pump as we continued down. Terry Nguyen would not lead us this early into danger, I thought. He drives a Darling Vanster, I thought. He knows what he is doing.
We squeezed through a network of PVC pipes and dropped a few feet to the diamond-plate steel floor. Nguyen handed out flashlights, and I saw that we stood in a hallway broad enough for a pickup. In one direction the hall ended abruptly at a wall of auto-shop shelving.
Nguyen led us the other way, to a garage door where a Pop-sized hole had been cut in the steel. He told us to take care over the debris, mostly scrap metal and fast-food clamshells, until we saw the pickup truck this hall was wide enough to hold. It was an ancient GMC so pristine it could have sat on a showroom floor. Faron ran a hand appreciatively over the hood.
The girl, Sylvia, mounted the tailgate and disappeared under a pile of white fabric. âGet down from there,â her father shouted, or tried to. Something about the shape of the hall baffled any loud sounds.
Sylvia stood up. Her head and pretty neck were concealed inside a bulbous white helmet. I recognized it from the mural back in Launch Control, the stout man on the quarter moon.
âTake that shit off,â Bill demanded. His anger sounded as if it were trapped in a bubble. She double-birdied her father, and that was clear enough. âLittle bitch,â he said. Mae hissed something I couldnât make out. The Reades were more complicated than we were, less like a family than a conspiracy.
Several yards on we reached a thick steel door. It had obviously taken some effort to penetrate, for the ceiling was scored black and a burning smell still hung in the air. Whatever strange civilization had constructed this bunker, they wanted to keep it safe from savages with axes.
On the other side of the door we entered a long tunnel hung with Tyvek. Nguyen turned over a generator and the fabric glowed white. Pale blue jumpsuits were piled up in a canvas bin. Terry said get dressed. Me and Faron stretched cotton booties over our flipper-flops, but my brother refused to wear a hairnet. He was no woman. Sylvia barked out a laugh so doggy, it made her even more beautiful to me. Umma asked Terry were we prepping for surgery.
Mae Reade spat. âNever seen a clean room before?â Her contempt for my mother was audible enough, and I hoped Umma might lay her out.
At the end of the tunnel the room opened up, big as the scramble floor at Airplane Food. âHere,
Faron took a less gloomy view. The minute he saw the pit, all the spite went out of him. He seized hold of my shoulders and rolled me onto my back, looked down on me, tears welling up as if he might weep into my eyes. His future was down there, his reckless future, and he hoped his only brother might share his enthusiasm. I do not know why people want so badly to make me bolder than I am.
We proceeded down to the foot of a bowed ladder where we stood atop a scaffold. As our footsteps shook the rigging, a fine spray of sand fell over our heads. I had at that time in life witnessed but one burial. It was a Jesus Lover from the peach orchards, and the last act before they stuffed his hole with calaheechee clay was to toss a handful of dust on the box. I remember how it hissed against the plywood, how the sound stuck inside me. I tried for days to dig the grit from my ears.
When Nguyen connected a pair of extension cords, we saw just how far down his excavation went. Pop steadied me, and I focused my senses on the emetic slurp of a sump pump as we continued down. Terry Nguyen would not lead us this early into danger, I thought. He drives a Darling Vanster, I thought. He knows what he is doing.
We squeezed through a network of PVC pipes and dropped a few feet to the diamond-plate steel floor. Nguyen handed out flashlights, and I saw that we stood in a hallway broad enough for a pickup. In one direction the hall ended abruptly at a wall of auto-shop shelving.
Nguyen led us the other way, to a garage door where a Pop-sized hole had been cut in the steel. He told us to take care over the debris, mostly scrap metal and fast-food clamshells, until we saw the pickup truck this hall was wide enough to hold. It was an ancient GMC so pristine it could have sat on a showroom floor. Faron ran a hand appreciatively over the hood.
The girl, Sylvia, mounted the tailgate and disappeared under a pile of white fabric. âGet down from there,â her father shouted, or tried to. Something about the shape of the hall baffled any loud sounds.
Sylvia stood up. Her head and pretty neck were concealed inside a bulbous white helmet. I recognized it from the mural back in Launch Control, the stout man on the quarter moon.
âTake that shit off,â Bill demanded. His anger sounded as if it were trapped in a bubble. She double-birdied her father, and that was clear enough. âLittle bitch,â he said. Mae hissed something I couldnât make out. The Reades were more complicated than we were, less like a family than a conspiracy.
Several yards on we reached a thick steel door. It had obviously taken some effort to penetrate, for the ceiling was scored black and a burning smell still hung in the air. Whatever strange civilization had constructed this bunker, they wanted to keep it safe from savages with axes.
On the other side of the door we entered a long tunnel hung with Tyvek. Nguyen turned over a generator and the fabric glowed white. Pale blue jumpsuits were piled up in a canvas bin. Terry said get dressed. Me and Faron stretched cotton booties over our flipper-flops, but my brother refused to wear a hairnet. He was no woman. Sylvia barked out a laugh so doggy, it made her even more beautiful to me. Umma asked Terry were we prepping for surgery.
Mae Reade spat. âNever seen a clean room before?â Her contempt for my mother was audible enough, and I hoped Umma might lay her out.
At the end of the tunnel the room opened up, big as the scramble floor at Airplane Food. âHere,
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