Chapter 7

            Graham crossed the cafeteria and went into a quiet storage room.  He flipped the switch by the door and florescent lights hummed to life overhead.  He walked through racks of supplies to a huge walk-in refrigerator. 

Every time Graham opened the enormous, vault-like door, he thought about what it would be like to be locked in the fridge.  The door could be opened from the inside as well as from the outside, but what if the mechanism malfunctioned?  What if someone blocked the door?  The walls were thick; no one would hear his pleas for help.  He imagined clawing at the door till his fingernails broke, and then the bloody pounding and screaming.  Then he envisioned the next few hours, the shock, the resignation, the shivering, and, eventually, the dying – alone, caged, suffocated, and bitterly cold.

Instead of closing the door behind him, or even leaving it slightly ajar, Graham, as was his habit, took a large box of lettuce and propped the door wide open with it.  He knew it was unnecessary, but sometimes little precautions can preserve a person’s sanity.

            He went to the back shelves of the walk-in and grabbed a six-pack of beer.  It was a luxury that most did not have.  But his superiors weren’t stupid; they knew that sending Graham a few case of beer every couple of months (and letting him operate his corn whiskey still in the basement) was a small price to pay to keep him at his post.  At this point, he would be impossible to replace.  Plus, he thought, they must understand.

Should he grab two sixers?  No.  He knew not to trust journalists.  They had taught him that much in media training.  Peggy Lee might be trying to lull him into a false sense of security.  Better to take just one out there for now.  If he wanted to, he could always come and get another.

            So he signed out a single six-pack and went to rejoin his guests.

            ##

            “There you are,” Peggy Lee said, as Graham approached.  “I hope you don’t mind that we started without you.  It smelled so good.”  Ian glanced up from his giant mound of pasta, but then quickly returned to slurping up mouthfuls of saucy spaghetti and grated parmesan. 

            Graham set down the six-pack, picked up the church key that hung on a string attached to the side of the table, and cracked open three beers.  Ian glugged down about a third of his before turning back to his spaghetti.  The guy had one hell of an appetite . . . and few manners. 

            During dinner, Graham explained some of the technological aspects of the facilities to Peggy Lee and Ian.  Ian returned to the chow line for seconds, and then they each had another beer.  When Ian had finally finished, he excused himself for the night.  Graham called over a soldier to escort him to his room.

            “Ian may be tired,” Peggy Lee said, “but I’m just getting my second wind.  Graham, do you want to stay up with me for a little longer?  I promise to let you go at a reasonable hour.”

            “Sure.”  Graham could not think of anything he would like better.  “But I think we will need more fuel.  I’ll grab us a few more beers.”  He started walking towards the storage room before Peggy Lee called him back to the table. 

            “Would you mind, Colonel Snow, if I came along.  I love to see the back rooms and the unpolished underbellies of big operations like this.  Plus, I don’t want to be left behind to sit here all alone.”

            There it was again, that “Colonel Snow.”  Was she mocking him?  Flirting?  It had been too long since Graham had any type of intimate conversation with a woman.  He felt totally lost.  Was she being sweet to him so that he would let her look behind closed doors?  Was she looking for wasteful practices or evidence of ineptitude so that she could write a scathing hit piece about the operations?  Or was it possible that she could be interested in him?  Or at least interested in what he had to say about all this?  He had no idea.

            “How inconsiderate of me not to invite you in the first place,” Graham replied.  “Please come along.  I guarantee that we won’t find anything too thrilling – after all, it’s just a storage room – but I’d love the company.”

Chapter 6

“So tell me, Colonel Snow,” Peggy Lee asked as the elevator began to descend, “how long have you been stationed here?” 

Her inflection on the word “Colonel” made Graham think that she might be teasing him again.  Hadn’t they agreed on first names?  Shake it off, he told himself.  He was the Colonel in charge of the facilities after all.  She was just showing him some respect. 

“Graham?” she said politely.

“Oh, yes, yes, right.  Ah . . . I came in 2072.  I have been here nearly two decades.  That's kind of hard to believe.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, when I first arrived, I was like all the first-timers . . . basically in shock.  The mold-covered streets, the perpetual grayness – it’s hard to imagine anyone living here for very long.  After two days, I was ready to go back to the ‘real world,’ the safe zone, and see the sun again . . . breathe fresh air.

“The thing that struck me most was the isolation.  Of course, we’ve got videophones, holophones, email, everything, but nothing can replace the feeling of walking down a street full of strangers or stopping by a restaurant for a momentary chat with a waiter and a beer.  And we’re not just isolated from the rest of humanity, but also from the natural environment – what is left of it.  Some soldiers say that being sealed inside for weeks at a time is like living in a coffin.  But we have no option.”

“So just how big of a risk is it, living here?”

“When I first started, we lacked sophisticated air filtration and decontamination systems.  It was a very risky place to be stationed.  Soldiers died here – not all the time, but enough to make it scary.”  Graham momentarily thought of Mirosevich in the infirmary, but pushed the thought out of his mind.  “For months I worried that one of the seals on my office window was going to fail, and I would end up coughing up chunks of my lungs until I could not breathe, drowning to death in my own blood.  Fatal pulmonary hemorrhaging – gruesome, I know.  So I made some changes along the way.  But the deadly mold is always there, just on the other side of the glass.  It is still risky, but like I said, we have no choice in the matter.”

Peggy Lee glanced at Ian.  Graham thought he noticed something flash across her face, a communication with her hologramographer.  Instantaneously, however, it was gone, like the shadow of an airplane as it passes in front of the sun.  Perhaps she was just nervous about becoming infected by the mold.  Graham was about to reassure Peggy Lee, but just then the elevator stopped at the third floor and the door opened.

“This way,” Graham said, stepping out of the elevator and into a large, cold lobby with floor-to-ceiling windows darkened by the coming night and the ever-swirling, leaden fog just outside.

“So why did you stay?” Peggy Lee inquired as she, Graham, and Ian walked down a narrow hallway toward a distant, orange glow emanating from the mess hall.  The smell of sautéed garlic permeated the air. 

“After my second trip out to the boilers, I was called up to Director General’s office.  At that time, the facilities were being run by a heavily-decorated colonel.  He epitomized the grizzled war veteran.  He wanted to know how I was doing.  As we talked that day, he said something that stuck in my mind.  It’s weird how just a few words can change your life.” 

Peggy Lee smiled in agreement. 

“Anyway, the old colonel looked me in the eye and said, ‘Private, if this Country, the great U.S. of A., were a human body, then the water production facilities would be its heart, pumping blood into the arteries of our society.  We here are responsible for the lives of millions of Americans.  We must keep this heart pumping until some scientist somewhere figures out a fix to this climate mess we’ve gotten ourselves into.’

“At that moment in my life, it sounded like a calling.  His words resonated deeply within me.  They still do.  It’s a big responsibility, but also a privilege.”

Graham had given the same response to similar questions for years.  He used to believe it wholeheartedly. 

“I see,” Peggy Lee responded.  Her eyes met Graham’s for a moment as they approached the mess hall.  Her face reflected the orange light from the doorway and glowed for a second as if she were sitting by a fire.  Graham felt nauseous and swallowed hard . . . he had never seen anybody look quite so beautiful. 

“I want to learn more about you, Graham . . . much more,” she said as they entered the mess hall.  “I’m hoping to introduce the piece with a sense of the man behind the facilities – and then shift to the remarkable technology of this place.”

On the walls of the mess hall, large video-windows simulated a stunning sunset, bathing the long wooden tables and empty chairs in warmth.  The lighting was meant to give the fogged-in soldiers a circadian moment of closure to help regulate their sleep patterns.  The image varied day-to-day, and it changed throughout the year to replicate seasons.  That evening, it was early summer in the dining hall. 

“Sure,” Graham said.  “But first, food.  We have spaghetti in a mushroom marinara tonight.  The mushrooms are grown here on site.  The basement here is perfect for growing all sorts of fungi.  We eat so many mushrooms that I sometimes think I’m going to turn into one.  The tomatoes just came in from the vertical farms down South.  Everything is fresh tonight, in your honor.”

Graham ushered the two over to the line.  “Grab a tray and help yourself.  Nothing fancy here.  We are the military after all.  I will meet you at that table . . . my usual spot,” Graham said, gesturing over to a table in the corner of the cafeteria.  “Beer for all?”

He could not wait for that first sip. 

“Please,” said Peggy Lee.

“Yeah,” Ian said as he reached for a tray.

Chapter 5

The group left Graham’s office and walked down the bare hallway.  Florescent lights flickered overhead.  He looked for something interesting to point out, but could find nothing.  As they entered the elevator lobby, Graham turned to the soldier who had shown Peggy Lee and Ian to his office and said, “I’ll take it from here.”

“Yes, sir.”  The young soldier promptly turned and disappeared down a side hallway, leaving Graham alone with his guests.

Graham pressed the “down” button and then stood facing the doors, waiting for them to open.  In the mirrored reflection, he could make out both Peggy Lee and Ian, flanking him.  On Graham’s right, Ian stared straight ahead.  He looked distracted, possibly daydreaming.  But no, it was not daydreaming.  Graham noticed the intensity of Ian’s gaze.  His brow was slightly furrowed.  There was something on his mind.  Was he calculating?  Worrying some numbers or a complicated problem?

Graham looked at Ian’s thick, hairy arms.  He fit the role of a hologramographer.  He was a very large guy, tall and broad.  He could easily handle heavy equipment.  And he seemed to be a man of few words.  Perhaps he was always sizing up camera angles and lighting, cogitating on the best shots.  A long, heavy ponytail ran down his back.  He had a tattoo of a spider on his neck and a bearded, taut face.  Graham guessed he was the giant in high school that all the coaches tried to talk into playing sports.  At around 6’6’’, he towered over Graham.

On Graham’s left was the lovely Peggy Lee.  She was tapping one of her feet ever-so-slightly to a rhythm only she could hear.  Her head bounced almost imperceptibly with the internal beat.  Graham could not hear her humming, but he could almost feel her energy pulsating against his shoulder.  She was like a jack-in-the-box, waiting to be released.  She filled the lobby with energy, even though they were simply standing in front of the elevator doors.  Her eyes were fixed on the unlit down arrow, waiting for the light and the ding and to get going.

And then, there was Graham, standing in the middle.  For the most part, he was an average-looking guy – always had been and always would be.  He was medium height with a medium build . . . fit, but not muscular.  He had unremarkable brown eyes, a kind, unassuming smile, and was balding.  A pink hue colored his cheeks and nose, a side effect from his nightly white lightning indulgence.  He had been called handsome a few times when he was younger, but mostly by his mother.  He figured that didn’t really count. 

Only one component of Graham’s appearance truly stood out from the ordinary.  He had a subtle, but nonetheless noticeable scar that ran from the corner of his eye, over his cheek bone, and down his cheek as though a single, thick, red tear drop had stained his face.  He rubbed it when he got nervous or felt boxed-in, a tic the child psychologists had said was normal – even healthy – considering its origin.

He looked hard at himself in the elevator doors for just a moment – something he generally avoided doing.  His uniform was pressed and his shoes polished.  He was not fastidious about his dress, but he was no slob.  He looked moderately presentable, but, as he had noticed recently, faint black circles hung under his eyes.  Also, he was slouching.  And somewhere along the line, his forehead had developed two pronounced, horizontal wrinkles.  Even though he had just turned forty, his reflection in the mirror made him feel much older.

He averted his eyes, straightened his posture, and joined Peggy Lee in staring at the unlit down arrow.  He felt scrunched in.  He had thought that the doors would open immediately.  Now, they had been standing in silence for about a minute, awkwardly waiting. 

Damn elevator.  Graham’s neck flushed.  His cheeks grew hot. 

Ding.  Finally.

Peggy Lee entered first, followed by Graham and Ian. 

Graham pressed floor three and momentarily stroked his red scar.

Chapter 4

Footsteps – one set distinctly high-heeled – echoed in the marble entryway as the group entered the hallway that led to Graham’s office.  He stood up and looked around.  It was a sad place – once opulent, now shabby and functional.  Despite its massive size, his office contained only four folding chairs, a line of beige file cabinets, Graham’s large, metal desk, and his cracked leather chair – all sitting on a worn oriental rug.  He had no decorations, no pictures, no knick-knacks.  One could see blank spaces on the walls where once a Hopper or an O’Keeffe hung.  A large safe sat against the far wall, half-open and empty.

With his desk cleaned off, the office looked abandoned – like no one had worked there for years.  Graham instantly regretted cleaning up.  Too late now, he concluded, as he heard the footfalls about to enter the room. 

“Well, finally we meet in person, Colonel Graham Snow,” Peggy Lee announced as she clicked her way past the escort soldier and across the large empty space.  She had just enough of a Southern accent to make every sentence seem flirtatious.

She wore a blue, men’s button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to her mid-forearm.  The top two buttons were undone, exposing her bra strap and a freckled collarbone as she leaned across Graham’s desk to shake his hand.  Her shirt was tucked neatly into a slim pair of formal women’s trousers.  She looked Graham straight in the eye. 

Graham usually identified such self-assurance with a well-to-do childhood.  People who have been rich all their lives walk into rooms like Peggy Lee just had.  They act like they own the room, including all the fixtures, the furniture, and even the people.  Graham felt like he was imposing when he entered a room – like he should state his business and then exit, so that the occupants could get back to whatever important or amusing activity he had interrupted.  Peggy Lee did not think that she was interrupting.  She knew she was the main event.

But she also had a no-nonsense, down to earth quality.  She had rolled her sleeves up – not in neat, creased folds, but actually rolled and wrinkled like working people do in mid-shift.  Her hair was pulled back and tied with a thin red ribbon.  She wore no makeup or jewelry.  There was nothing outwardly pretentious about her, despite her relative fame.  Who knows, Graham thought to himself, she may have worked hard to get where she is.  He figured she was in her early thirties, really, in her prime. 

As they shook hands, Peggy Lee touched the inside of Graham’s wrist with her index finger, almost like she was trying to take his pulse.  Was that intentional? he wondered.  How very odd – aggressive, yet intimate.  How very wonderful indeed.

He hoped that she had not felt his heart racing.

“Welcome.  On behalf of the United States military, we are pleased to have you here.  I am at your service,” Graham said, officiously.  That sounded good, he thought to himself.  He had practiced multiple times in his head and a couple of times in the mirror.  Good start, Chief.

“Thank you.”  Peggy Lee smiled and stepped back from Graham’s desk.  “May I present the best hologramographer in the solar system, Ian Patten, Jr. – that is of course if you don’t count that gorgeous hunk of an astronaut on Mars who seems to have a knack for capturing the most amazing solar showers.  That said, my man here can make a dung beetle shine like a diamond.” 

“Okay, Peggy Lee, that’s enough,” Ian said dryly, extending a thick paw towards Graham.  “Hello, Colonel Snow.”

“Please, please, call me, Graham.  We’re going to be at close quarters during the next few days, so we might as well dispose of the formalities.”

“Close quarters, eh?  Am I included in that equation?” Peggy Lee interjected.

Graham blushed.  He’d been thinking of the decontamination rooms and communal showers.  “Ma’am, you will, of course, be provided with your own facilities,” he responded stiffly.

Peggy smiled.  “Of course.  I was just teasing you.  Ice breaker, you know.”

“Yes, right – I knew that,” Graham mumbled.  Recovering slightly, he asked, “May I offer either of you a drink?” 

He certainly needed one. 

“To be honest, Graham, I’m starving,” Peggy Lee responded.  “And I believe that goes for Ian here as well.  Do you think that we could skip the drinks and head straight to dinner?  Something smelled delicious down on the lower levels.”

“Yes, of course.  Good idea,” said Graham.  “Transport from Fresno always takes longer than one expects.  You must be hungry.  Let’s head down to the mess hall, get you two some food and perhaps a few beers.  Please, follow me.”