Atmosphere (23 page)

Jaimie escaped into the moon-lit night, the cool air drying her sweat, sending bumpy chills from her scalp to her susceptible toes. Her head spun crazily, the night's horrifying events still so fresh in her mind, creating a surreal cloud of consciousness around her like a nightmare too difficult to shake away upon waking.

She slowly and gently paced along the sidewalk, careful not to teeter from her dizziness, or step on anything that might injure her feet. People brushed by her, their floating bodies mere shadows of their true bodily existence, her mind unable to spell out their absolute reality. She felt like a ghost trapped in the lucid world, seemingly unable to distinguish the environment around her from those landscapes in her nightmares.

Jaimie was in shock.

She followed her instincts as they blindly led her through the downtown streets, past the diner where she ate burgers and fries with her friends from time to time, past the tavern where the bartender would set her up with a free beer every now and then, even though she wasn't old enough to drink. Past an alley where a police cruiser sat guarding the adjacent sidewalk, the entrance blocked off with yellow police line tape.

She turned the corner of 4th Street and peered at the brick-faced apartment building across the street, about a quarter the way up the block.

Home.

B
obby Lindsay crawled maddeningly through the narrow tunnel, knees and fists caked with dirt and mud, bald head scraping along the roots escaping the low-lying passage. It smelled of shit and bugs and all things gone to rot down here, but the odors phased him in the least, as he possessed only one desire: to press on, to let nothing stop him from standing in front of the Giver once again.
  

Although the tunnel held no light, he could still see quite well. This keen ability, which he greedily accepted, gave him the strength and desire to continue, and he followed the long winding tunnel to what he felt would be his ultimate destiny, his very purpose.

He slowed for a brief moment to peered at the device around his ankle, the green light—once aglow—now gone, replaced by a blinking red light, warning him that he'd be pretty much fucked if one of those Outsiders got a hold of him. He knew quite well that it would be best not to let that happen again. The Giver forbade it.

The air was cold down here, and he shivered, wearing only jeans and a sweatshirt (both black of course; the Giver wouldn't have it any other way). Without ample pockets, he had no choice but to keep a close grip on the Atmosphere, never once weakening his hold as he crawled along the passage. He continued at a feverish pace for a short while, then stopped, selfish desire suddenly consuming him.

He wished to relish in the pulse of the Atmosphere.

The glorious Atmosphere, the wonderful object with the smooth ebony skin, with the six perfectly proportioned tubular extremities. He handled it ever so carefully, as to not disgrace it by getting it too dirty. In his efforts not to tarnish its surface, another memory instantly returned, as if his thoughts had pressured a bubble filled with engrams to burst inside his mind and spill its contents. The Atmosphere, it
had
been dirty once before, he remembered. In the grasp of his sister Carrie. So clearly now he could remember standing at the threshold of his bathroom frozen with awe as the Atmosphere carried on with the filling process. He remembered finally retrieving it from Carrie's dead grasp, cleansing it of all the staining impurities in the tub, then cleaning the entire bathroom, the whole time telling himself that what had just happened with Carrie and the Atmosphere was a preordained event, that the Giver had wanted her to supply, and that he, Bobby Lindsay, would be adored in the eyes of the Giver for being there to make it happen.

But things hadn't turned out that way.

Bobby remembered wanting so badly to bring the Atmosphere to the Giver at that moment, to show him what he had done. But he thought otherwise, and suddenly found himself fighting the demands of the Giver, instead seeking further opportunities to harvest additional Suppliers. In his hasty efforts to do so, the Giver had forsaken him of his memories a short time thereafter, and he instantly found himself lost like a young boy in the mall without his mother, standing in the bathroom with his dead mutilated sister spread-eagled on the floor, blood at his feet, and a strange object in his grasp. Frightened, he stuffed his sister into the suitcase and hid her from the world.

No, he did not murder her. The Atmosphere did. Which was all good and fine, as long as he would be able to retain his memories and continue on with his duty as Harbinger.

Bobby heard a sound far ahead in the tunnel, approaching rapidly, a familiar engine-like hum growing louder and louder. He held the Atmosphere close, waiting in silence as the deep drone grew. The dirt walls around him began to resonate, above, below, and on all sides. He pulled his legs in and sat squat, head touching the dirt wall above, rubbing his left elbow against the blinking bracelet on his ankle. He peered ahead, searching for a presence, fearful that the sound might be coming from the Outsiders—that they may have found him.

But the growing tone materialized from ahead, not from behind. If the Outsiders had followed him, they would have approached from behind.

He felt his blood begin to race and he smiled, knowing that this couldn't be the approach of the Outsiders. It was the Giver, coming for him, just as it did weeks ago in his room, when it first asked him to harvest.

Looking again, he heard a pulse—
the
pulse—making itself present in the background of the turbine-like resonation.

Then he saw the Giver.

U
nable to coerce the strength to dig through her knapsack and search out the keys, Jaimie rang the buzzer at the entrance of her building. She rang and rang, incessantly, but the electronic hails went unanswered, and she reluctantly squirmed out from the knapsack's binds and blindly rifled through her belongings until the keys jingled past her grasp. She fished them out, her distress causing her body to shake as much as the keys in her hand. The dozen or so keys all looked the same through her tears, and she was unable to immediately pinpoint an accurate target into the lock.

Finally, one slipped in and she entered the building.

She approached the elevator and entered, pressing the button for the fourth floor. The doors shut and she rode up in silence, leaning against the rear wall, the elevator providing her a smooth, short, uninterrupted ride. The doors opened. Wiping her flowing tears with her sleeve, she moved down the hall to apartment 4F, her home. She battled with the keys again, not as long this time, finding the right one on the third try. She opened the door and staggered inside, making it to the center of the living room. She stood there for a moment, confused, then the world went grey around her.

Her knapsack fell from her hand and she fainted on the carpet.

B
reaths exploding from his lungs in short, powerful bursts, staying as still as an insect avoiding the prospect of becoming prey, Bobby Lindsay watched as the scaly black thing approached him. It looked like a snake in freshly shed skin, slick and wet, its length disappearing far into the dark tunnel ahead. Although it appeared to have no head, it still seemed to possess a sense of direction, the foremost tip ending in a pinpoint that swayed and waned
   
like an eel prowling from its lair.

It stopped in front of Bobby in an upright position, swaying in a hypnotic fashion, flexing its probing end, sizing him up not much unlike a cobra would a charmer's horn. It then slowly began crawling over him, like a giant poking finger, 'feeling him out', first his legs, then his body, and soon his face, the roving appendage prodding and prodding, the pinpoint end opening up into a suction-cup formation, seemingly tasting him, leaving warm circles of moisture where it came in contact with his skin.

Bobby closed his eyes as the appendage performed its work, allowing himself to be encroached upon until it finally drew back. When he opened his eyes, the slithering appendage had latched itself onto one of the tubular spines jutting from the surface of the Atmosphere. It abruptly tore the object from his grasp, the sharp friction of the rapid action setting abrasions into his skin. He brought his pained hands to his face, bathing his wounds in his sweat, watching as the appendage swiftly whipped itself around the Atmosphere like a snake suffocating its prey. Wave-like ripples soon ran through the appendage back into the tunnel from where it came.

As quickly and as hastily as it attacked the Atmosphere, it whipped away and detached itself, like a string from a spinning top, leaving the piece whirling in the dirt at Bobby's feet, spraying up droplets of mud. Bobby leaned forward and retrieved it, his sights glued to the retreating appendage.

To the Giver.

He grabbed the Atmosphere and crawled after the appendage, its pinpoint end whipping up and down, side to side, widening the passage ever so slightly. Mud flew in a shower around Bobby, and he stayed back a bit, however careful to keep the appendage in his sights. The segmented extremity slowed as Bobby yielded, as if to allow the crawling boy to catch up, quickening its pace only when he came near. Blanketed in filth, Bobby followed and followed along each mud-slicked turn, up, down, at intersections, all the way until an end finally came into view: a blue phosphorescent light appearing in the distance like the aura of something ghostly.

The appendage slipped from the tunnel into the light, its job as follow-the-leader apparently completed. Bobby reached the end and fell six feet onto the floor of a small black room. Coated in muddy filth, he aimed his sights upwards and found himself surrounded by the blue light, a ring of it encircling him like a great halo. Within it the pulse emanated, he felt its power in his veins, and he gratefully accepted its vital offering. At his ankle, the homing device had gone dead, its lights doused.

"
Harbinger, what is your purpose?"
The electronic voice startled him, its monotonal shrill daunting. With a similar suddenness, he again perceived a strange yet familiar sensation in his head, and an answer to the query automatically came forth from his lips, the definition clear in his mind. "To seek out Suppliers."

"Harbinger, what will you do if an Outsider discovers you?"

"Kill them."

"Harbinger, what will you do if an Outsider overcomes you, or escapes?"

"Kill myself."

"Harbinger, take the unit. Seek out new Suppliers."

"Yes Giver," he answered automatically, looking down at the Atmosphere in his hand. From the corner of his eye he saw the Giver's appendage slithering back into a hole in the wall—which promptly sealed shut upon its complete withdrawal.

A light-filled door appeared opposite the hole from where he fell—which itself had mysteriously vanished, all traces of his entrance including the mud he trailed behind gone. He slowly walked through the oscillating door, the hall before him immediately dark and illustrious. He followed its path until he could go no further and reached another hole like the one he had fallen through upon his entrance. It led into a similar dirt tunnel. He crouched down and crawled through, following the passage for a lengthy amount of time until he came to an opening covered by a grate. He stopped momentarily, peering out towards a not too distant cement wall, thick cables tightly laced across its surface. He removed the grate, slid through and jumped down onto a cool soggy path with two parallel iron rails leading in both directions, left and right.

Subway.

He walked, going left, two priorities at once consuming his desires.

"Take the unit, seek out new Suppliers..."
   

"Kill the Outsider who discovered you..."
 

He thought back, quite clearly now, to the one who interfered, brought him down not too long ago and took him away from the Giver.

Ballaro.

I
n Jaimie's swoon, dreams came and went, each surrealistic episode never lasting beyond a few minutes, or so it seemed. The illusionary worlds within her head encompassed endless seas of faceless people passing by, each and every one ignoring her true existence, brushing her away with quick passes and cold shoulders. She cried and cried, her pleas unanswered, and she spun in circles at the crux of the masses, seeking just a moment's worth of stability, feeling much like an unseen spirit trapped in a world filled only with transient pedestrians on route to nowhere, their primary motivation to ignore her very existence. An unsettling feeling of
déjà vu
set in, and she tried her best to disregard it, pressing on to her destination unknown.

T
his is too easy
, Bobby thought, entering the room. It was almost as if his arrival had been expected, and welcomed. Both doors had been open, ajar, granting him access not only to the building, but the apartment where
he
lived.

Ballaro.

And now, this. A woman, lying on her back on the floor, her head tilted to one side, a small puddle of drool leaking from her slackened mouth, staining the carpet. He peered around, cautiously. Furniture. Television. The gentle ticking of a clock in another room. But nothing else. Nothing.