The Atmospherians by Alex McElroy (reading fiction .TXT) 📗

trouble. This is a peace-seeking mission.” He had a pale, panicked face, his hair tucked under a mucked white cap. He extended his hand for a shake; the rifle remained in his left. “Art Flemings, chief of the fire crew in Johnsonburg, town comptroller, and deputy treasurer.”

I did not take his hand.

“I’m a good guy, is what I’m saying.”

“You’re on my property,” I said.

“Aggression is nobody’s friend,” he said.

“You’re holding a gun.”

“Because I’m a good guy.” He set the gun in the dirt. “That better?”

I nodded.

“Someone reported a fire out here yesterday. When people smell fire we need to inspect it. That’s the job of the law.”

“Must’ve been someone else’s fire,” I said.

“If you’re in trouble, you can tell me.” He took a step closer.

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because I took an oath.” He put his hand over his heart. “Is anyone with you?”

“Me!” Dyson jogged up from behind, shirtless, with water dripping from his basketball shorts. He put an arm around my shoulder. I wrapped one across his bare waist, instinctively looking for comfort before I drew it away. “You’re Art, right? I’m Dyson Layne. We met at the community center a few months back.”

Art cautiously shook his hand. “I’m a little fuzzy,” he said.

“We didn’t say much—I’m not sure I even gave you my name.”

I assumed the two men had never actually met—Dyson was skilled at contriving stories like this—and I liked sitting front row at a show Art didn’t know he was in.

“Can I ask what you’re doing out here?”

“Art, I love that you asked. I’d like nothing better than to tell you. Transparency is my middle name. Capital T-R-A-N-S-P-A-R-E-N-C-Y.” He patted Art on the shoulder. Art stiffened. “We’re neighbors after all. Art: my friend and I are spending some quality time in a cabin to escape metropolitan living.”

“You’re from the city?” Art said city like it was a curse word.

“We grew up in a town a lot like Johnsonburg.” He named our hometown. Art claimed to know it. “But for the last ten years, I’ve been stuck in L.A. My friend is here out of Hoboken.” Dyson inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring like parachutes. “Now we’re leaving those cities behind. We’re doing a detox.”

“Johnsonburg’s the place to do it,” said Art.

“My grandparents left me this land a few years ago,” Dyson said. “And I’m kicking myself for waiting so long to get out here.”

Art wanted to know if it was just us camping.

“You might see a few more of us around in the coming weeks. I explained it all when we met. She and I run a business.”

“That’s right,” he said, nodding vigorously. “You’re making—”

“The world safer,” I said.

“We offer a place for men to come together safely, to communicate, to enhance job skills through community-oriented training sessions.”

“Sounds like you’re making man hordes,” said Art.

“Nobody makes man hordes,” I said, with a laugh of derision. “They’re a natural phenomenon. Inexplicable. Though some social biologists claim—”

Dyson gave me a shushing look. “Just the opposite, Art. We’re keeping men out of man hordes. We’re giving them alternatives. Safety.”

“So you’re some kind of philanthropists,” Art said, unimpressed.

Dyson leaned close to him. “It’s all very lucrative. Or so we’re hoping.”

Art’s laugh weaseled free from his mouth. “You aren’t hiring, are you? My nephew’s gifted. You can’t measure his kind of intelligence with papers or tests—it’s a very hands-on kind of brilliance. He’s great at breaking things down: bleachers, stages, bounce houses, picnic tables, tents, mailboxes, windows. He’s a savant. A perfect man for parades. But parades don’t come every day. And he lacks discipline—I admit it. That’s the frustrating part. So much talent, so little drive. He needs a kick in the pants.”

“He sounds like a real thinker,” said Dyson.

“Da Vinci,” I added.

“But we don’t have time to interview anyone. Our clients get here Sunday.”

Art scratched his head. “Five days isn’t much time.”

“You’re telling me,” said Dyson.

“I should leave you to it,” Art said. “Dyson and…”

“Dyson and Stacy,” said Dyson, to protect my privacy.

“Don’t forget your gun,” I said to Art.

When Art walked out of earshot, Dyson asked what I was doing out here on my own.

“Forest bathing,” I said. Though I should have asked why he had followed me here. “To relax, like you said. To lose myself among nature. Detox. To blend in with my surroundings.”

“You’re holding your phone.”

“It’s not even on,” I said. It chimed at that moment.

“I’ve put so much work into making sure you’re happy here, that you’re safe, you’re fed, entertained. If you don’t want to be here, you shouldn’t be here.” Tears slid from his eyes.

“You’re not actually crying, are you?” For as long as I’d known him, he could cry on command, and I had to caution myself against buying into his feelings too quickly. There was a lonely stone of emotion inside him. What emerged on the surface, however, were often exaggerations, pleas for sympathy and attention—and love. I knew he was manipulating me. But knowing this seemed to make me immune to the manipulations: if I fell for it, I was choosing to fall for it. And I always chose to fall for it. I had wounded Dyson deeply when we were teenagers—he nearly died because of me—and, against my wishes, I felt responsible for his grasping loneliness and manipulative habits. Yes, he might’ve made himself cry, but the tears truly were tears, his pain authentically painful. I regretted questioning him—and regretted regretting it.

“Are you asking if I’m hurt? If I genuinely feel bad that you’d rather slip out here to stare at your phone than go swimming with me?”

“What’s the big deal about swimming?”

“If that’s what you’re asking, yes: I’m actually crying.” He marched toward the cabin.

My stomach sunk in shame. I caught up with him, apologized. I held out my phone. “I don’t even need this,” I said, ready to toss it over my shoulder. It started ringing: Cassandra Calling… Cassandra Calling…

“Is Cassandra Cassandra Hanson?” he asked. He watched me watch the phone. Make a choice, his look said.

I