In the basement, everything looked normal except for a ceiling-mounted strobe light that overwhelmed the cheery machines, with their beeping sounds and flashing LED panels. The machines seemed so sad and pointless. Here they were, standing at the ready to minister to the desires of humans, but they had no idea. They didn’t have a clue. Dad pulled out some change. Newly minted quarters shone foolishly in his palm. He inserted them carefully into the slot. Was this the last machine we’d ever use? The last money? Two granola bars dropped, and we began munching them as I studied the inventory. In all of the machines, a certain product was missing.
“Find a clue?” Dad asked. He had to bite and chew with his back teeth.
“They’ve been here,” I said. “They’re in this prison. But where to look?”
Dad said, “We’re looking for a young man, right?”
I nodded.
“You said his parents are out of the picture. So he’s pretty much been on his own in the world, as you and I often were in our respective upbringings. We know such a person cares little for material things. He’s not interested in money or conveniences. He’s learned to be self-sufficient, and perhaps even feels at home in times of trouble. He’s not seeking security, as most people think of it.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Well, what does this person want?”
“He wants connection,” I said. “To be close to other people.”
“Enter this young woman. Enter Trudy. These two — are they, you know, are they a thing?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “Probable.”
“I know probable,” Dad said.
“You say that like we should be checking all the cots and mattresses,” I told him. “You’re forgetting about Trudy. Her four years of high school were spent in four different countries. Her father is a Louisiana Creole. Her mother’s half Japanese and half Korean — figure that one out. We may never understand where Trudy’s coming from, but the term papers she writes are about connecting to a history that predates modern ideas of culture, that comes long before the labels people place on her now. So — she’s not just after a roll in the hay, Dad.”
“Don’t get defensive,” Dad said. “I’m just saying if those two are alive they’re together, and they’re here. This place makes too much sense. It used to be a college. It’s in the center of town. The radio tower’s here. It’s the only place that isn’t littered with bodies.”
We finished the granola bars in silence. Our snowshoes melted puddles on the floor. I stared into the vending machines. Little galleries of delights, were they any different from the emporia of Rome or the bazaars of Baghdad? One of the machines sold only sundries, like razors and sewing kits. Here, for a mere dollar, you could buy a packet of fancy cologne or a little box of dog treats — artificially flavored to taste like meat, shaped to simulate bones — for the lapdog you brought along to your white-collar prison.
“One thing we know for sure,” Dad said, “they think they’re the last people on earth. What do people do for fun in this prison?”
“Watch movies,” I told him.
The theater, when we entered it, looked like something out of Hitchcock. A tight, vertebral staircase spiraled up to the projectionist’s booth, and in the lobby was a little sitting area furnished with the props of old Parkton College plays. A Victorian settee and a Greek daybed framed a Louis XIV coffee table. These were separated from the snack bar by a Japanese screen, as if Tokugawa, Marie-Antoinette, and Pletheus held salons here to discuss Orson Welles.
Crossing the lobby, we heard Cary Grant’s staccato voice, followed by Ingrid Bergman, breathless and deceptive. The film was Hitchcock’s Notorious.
We parted the curtain, and sitting alone in a field of seats were Trudy and Eggers, feet up on the next row. Above them on the screen was Hitchcock’s South America, a place filled with exiles, inhospitable terrain, and long-hidden love.
Even in the dark, you could tell Eggers was wearing the kind of parka they’d sport down the runways of Paris. It was cut from a flashy silver material, and the thing was covered with zippers that were bordered by strips of highly reflective yellow.
Dad whispered, “What does she see in him?”
“What is his secret?” I whispered back.
We walked down the aisle and stood on the runner at the end of their row. They were only six seats from us, but they were totally wrapped up in the movie. This is the point where I was supposed to say some cool John Wayne line or something, but I couldn’t think of anything. I just watched the two of them. It was the scene where Cary Grant realizes that Ingrid Bergman has been poisoned, and when Grant races up the staircase to her, Eggers and Trudy held their breath. Their fingers were interlaced, and, looking at their profiles — Trudy’s strong cheekbones and almond eyes, Eggers’ sharp jaw and sweeping brow — I had to give the couple their due.
“Great jacket,” Dad said to Eggers. “You looking for a job on an aircraft carrier?”
They turned. Trudy called, “Dr. Hannah!”
Eggers was the one who leapt from his seat to embrace me first.
“We thought you were dead,” he said. “We thought everybody was dead.”
Trudy rushed me, arms wide. Her eyes were wet from the movie. “We went by your house and your office. Jesus, have you seen campus? Have you seen what’s happened?”
“How?” Eggers asked. “How did you make it? How is this possible?”
I lifted a hand to halt them. If they said one more word, if they held on to me a second longer, I was going to break down and cry. “Listen,” I said. “In due time. Things will come clear in due time. Right now, we have to find Farley. If he’s alive, then Yulia’s alive.”
“What?” Eggers asked. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not finished,” I said. “This next part is very important: I need to know whether or not you saw Vadim eat the popcorn.”
Eggers shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember it.”
“The popcorn,” Trudy said. “Of course. Keno’s corn. We all ate it.”
“Trudy,” I said, “did you see him?”
“No,” she said, still shaking her head. “Cooking the corn must’ve somehow killed the disease. It must’ve inoculated us.”
I turned to Eggers. I grabbed him by the sleeve of his fancy imported jacket. “Tell me this,” I said. “And by God answer me straight, boy: can you or can you not fly a helicopter?”
“No,” he said.
“Okay,” I told them. “We improvise. Come on, we’ve got dogs waiting by the woodshop.”
“Waiting for what?” Trudy asked.
“To take us to Farley,” I said. “I think I know where Farley is.”
* * *
We parked our sled teams next to the lake. Though the dogs were tired, they were restless in their lanyards, wearily eyeing lake ice that growled and moaned. The lake had risen ten feet at least, submerging the boat ramp, leaving floating docks pinned underwater by their tethers. Without circulating water, the lake was colder, more ice-choked. Slabs of white busted up at odd angles, rising jagged and treacherous. As these sheets abutted and broke, new pieces bobbed up and froze like tombstones, welded in place with scars of clear water.
The four of us stood there, Eggers, Trudy, Dad, and I.
We raised our mittens to scan the ice. All the fishing shacks had been crushed and pulled under. Only stray boards and occasional bits of hardware shone against the white.
Trudy was the one who spotted Farley, a fuzzy speck far out on the lake.
“Ahoy,” I yelled.