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

wrong,” I muttered, preparing to explain myself to Dyson. I hid my phone in my pocket—for all he knew, it was still at the foot of a tree—and opened the door.

“Hello, Stacy.” Art Flemings was sprawled over the couch, his boots crossed on the armrest. Mud flaked the floor underneath them. Barney, that traitor, lay in his lap oozing a lathery purr.

I stepped into the kitchen and washed my trembling hands at the sink, feigning indifference. “It’s illegal to break into houses,” I said.

“The rules are different when you’re an officer of the law.”

“You’re a firefighter.”

“Let’s not waste time on semantics.”

Dyson flung open the door. “Where’s my itty-bitty kitty?” He squatted and Barney ran to his hands. He scooped the cat up, took in the scene. “Am I interrupting something?”

“I’m the one interrupting,” said Art. “I let myself in while Stacy was out.”

Dyson gave me a where were you? look. Barney leaped free of his arms. He smiled at Art. “Well, tell us the good news,” he said. “For what do we owe the invasion?”

“You’re so sensitive with your boundaries.” Art walked to the sink and filled a glass of water, remained at my side as he glugged it down. “I’m afraid there’s no good news. None from me. I’m here on official Johnsonburg business. Dyson. Stacy. I’m shutting you down.”

“Shutting what down?” asked Dyson.

“Don’t think for a second I like what I’m doing. Look at my hands.” He straightened his arms in front of his chest. “You can’t see the binds, but I assure you they’re tied. Tight as my granddaddy’s anus.”

I coughed in disgust.

“With all that’s happening across the country Johnsonburg can’t let unlicensed men congregate without supervision and permits.”

“I assure you our men are supervised,” Dyson said.

“But are they vetted? Have they been tested? These hordes aren’t just rescuing kittens anymore, okay. No more carrying grammies to doctor appointments. They’re throwing axes at taxis and stuffing firecrackers through mail slots. One of ’em drove a truck through the front of a pharmacy, I heard. Just think of all the repairs. Across the country, over six hundred million dollars in damages—and that’s only this month. Every four hours a new one’s bubbling up. Did you hear about the one down in Arkansas? Seven men scrubbed a pedestrian bridge—real good deed, I bet you’re thinking—until they curled over the railing, straight to their deaths. Three men in a Walmart turned handguns on themselves. Don’t think it’s some problem for the other side of the country. Last week—not even ten miles away, over in Willoughby—a horde formed in a hardware store and you know what they did? In a store stocked with hammers and saws and nail guns and chisels? It buckles me even to think about it. The horror of it.”

I gripped the counter so tightly my nails dug into the wood. “No need to tell us,” I said.

He said, “I’ll tell you what happened. These seven men pluck crowbars off the shelves and march into Home Renovations, where the families are shopping, the mothers and kids and effeminate dads, the ones who can’t protect themselves and their families, and these men step right up to the wall of paint cans, slapping crowbars into their palms—and they pry off every one of those lids and start slopping paint over all the moms and kids and effeminate dads. Red paint.”

“Just paint?” I asked, disappointed.

“Terrible, right? Imagine that for a minute. You’re some little kid there with your mama begging her to buy you a pop or a candy bar, something they keep at the register, when all of a sudden your face is totally lacquered, sticky and dripping, and when you claw the paint out of your eyes you see seven spittle-faced lunks pouring a full can of paint on your mama. Red. Paint,” he repeated. “The lunks start lumbering toward you to get you again and you run for your life, slipping over the paint on the floor, splatting onto your stomach. You’re terrified. The men dump another can on your mama. Even if you escape, even if nobody’s hurt, you’re haunted for the rest of your life and it wasn’t even that bad. You’re lucky you didn’t get one of those bad hordes. One of the hordes that strangles puppies or topples trees in your yard. Imagine that. Those spittle-faced lunks sawing the maple your granddaddy planted.”

“Tell us what you need from us,” I said.

“I need you to tell me how many men you have in this camp—what is it you call yourselves again?”

“We don’t have a name,” Dyson said.

“Because I’ve been hearing that a castration cult is somewhere around here.”

“Twelve men,” I said. “We have twelve men total.”

“Including you?” Art asked Dyson.

“Thirteen,” he said.

“Just over the limit,” he said.

“You’re harassing us,” I said. “You broke into our house.”

“Your cat let me in.”

“Don’t you need a warrant?” asked Dyson.

“In a state of emergency all I need is a list of your men. It’s the law now: Any collection of men numbering higher than twelve must be vetted for P.H.I.: Prior Hording Involvement. This isn’t me trying to piss on your party. As of today, it’s federal law. Passed in emergency session.”

Dyson and I nodded along like Of course, I remember.

Art said, “This isn’t just about you. We’re checking all collections of men: basketball teams and football teams and barbecue joints and any number of dens and god knows how many boards of directors and the legislatures in over thirty-two American states—not just the ones run by Republicans, mind you. No one is above the law. Not with the crisis we’re facing. I’ll need to run your men through our database to check the P.H.I. status of the men in your club.”

I blanched at the thought of giving up Peter—not so much Peter, but the release our sex had been bringing me. “What if we do?” I asked.

“Then I do what the law does. I take ’em away. For your safety. And the safety of the fine people of