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

I knew the scar hadn’t come from a firework accident. And his shame over its origin opened a window of pity inside me. That changed, however, as he continued to talk.

“You must have a lotta birds here,” he said. He added his phone to the pile. “Plenty of birds to pick off.” He mimed shooting a rifle, recoiled with the kickback.

The men in line loosened up, chattered and laughed. Randy fired again.

“I see you’re planning on being a problem,” I told him. All the pity I felt fled from me, replaced by genuine fear. It occurred to me that I had no idea what he was capable of—what any of them were capable of—and the weight of this realization coiled inside me.

“Just taking in the view I was promised.” He holstered his imaginary gun, patted my shoulder as he passed me, then took his place with the others. I flinched in disgust. Randy had some of Dyson’s father in him. They both wanted people to fear them. Dyson’s father achieved this through silence and dismissal. This instinct in Randy, however, seemed slapstick and fragile, an impulsive performance made all the more threatening because it might fall apart.

The man after him couldn’t have been any more different. Gently squinting, he stepped off the bus in a blue button-down shirt tucked in his chinos. His face was equal parts kindness and sulk. His cheeks were covered in freckles, like Blake’s face. I fought an urge to lovingly slap my hands on his cheeks—and fought even harder against the deeper, vengeful urge to clench my hands around his neck. He had the sugary prettiness of a youth pastor or high school teacher, the kind of beauty intensified by relative scarcity and surrender. I knew then I would love him—that I could love him. I always knew from the start.

“Peter Minston,” he said, at the foot of the steps, then apologized. Peter was the Momma’s Boy. The outlier, according to Dyson, the man who wouldn’t benefit from our teaching. Dyson described him as “already a very good man.” There were no redder flags.

“Sorry for what?” I asked him.

“Thank you, I meant.” He shuffled to join the others.

Soon all the men stood slumped shoulder to shoulder. Their faces were paunchy and meatish, harboring wispy beards. They resembled a row of plucked chickens left to rot in the sun. A few men let out meek, childish burps; farts escaped irregularly.

Even after reading the dossier, I spent the last few days assuming their presence would clear up my remaining questions, would make their decisions appear obvious, but in person, they baffled me even more. People without hope require direction, according to Dyson. But this wasn’t what hopelessness looked like. I had seen hopelessness before, in messages from my clients: the women put into panics by ads, the women desperate to look completely unlike themselves, the women who sought admiration and love by amending their faces with hundreds of toxic creams and solutions: The Nuclear Options, I’d called them. These men didn’t know desperation. They knew inconvenience, annoyance, frustration. They were not hopeless, and perhaps they didn’t need to be. Even more than direction, hopelessness required convincing.

Dyson descended the steps. He wore light blue jeans with a black turtleneck, plus a pair of round wire-rimmed reading glasses. The outfit—the costume—was my idea. No cult leader led in a vacuum. You needed to meet the needs of the culture, and the era of Jim Jones and L. Ron had ended. We were living in the aftermath of Jobs and Wozniak, of Zuckerberg, Jack. Now our leaders were innovators, disruptors, and self-styled geniuses. The part had to be played.

“Welcome,” said Dyson. “To the life you’ve always desired and needed. Welcome to your future. Welcome to hope. Welcome to unconditional love. Welcome to The Atmosphere.”

When no one reacted, I wildly clapped until the men followed my lead.

Dyson told the men to hold their applause. He paced along the side of the bus, hands clasped at his back. “The world, as we have discussed, is ill. It is terminal. On its deathbed. Very few people acknowledge this sickness. They’d rather pretend their lives are peachy and bright than accept that something is wrong. Even fewer people do something about it.” He pointed at the men. “But not you. You twelve men refuse to sit back and watch as the world devolves. In a world of alienation and pain you men have chosen to build a community no one wants you to build. I admire the effort you put in by coming here. You’re all brave motherfuckers.”

Eleven of the men pumped their fists, hollered, stomped their feet in the dirt.

Peter clapped politely.

“You’ve all already completed the most difficult part—committing to a change. You have committed, but now you must act. You must work with us and work with yourselves if you want to find your place in the world. Because things aren’t gonna get better from dreaming and wanting. Things will stay exactly the same if you don’t put in the work. I bet some of you are thinking, That sounds easy, Dyson. We know this, Dyson. After all, you came here to work.”

“Hell, yeah!” Randy shouted.

I gave him a throat-cut gesture.

“Let me warn you now, though: Some of you will want to quit as soon as we start. You’ll want to run back to your draining, familiar lives because, compared to The Atmosphere, those lives will seem freer and easier. And it’s true. Those lives are easier—albeit empty of meaning and purpose. So know this: if you want an easier, empty life you’re welcome to leave whenever you like.” He pointed to the driveway. “There’s the way out. Use it at your convenience. Because there’s only one person keeping you here. It’s not me and it’s not Sasha.” He cracked a premeditated smile, then pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and buried it into one of the bus’s back tires. The air wheezed free.