Agents of Dreamland(10)

It’s nice while it lasts, all four or five seconds, and then he pops the latch, tugs at the handle, and slides the door open. The noise from the corridor pours in, washing over and through him, like the rumbling, discordant notes of the bullbitch hangover he’s got coming. The man—whose name is Jack Dunaway—nods once, smiles, and there’s a glimmer in his small, dark eyes as he steps into the compartment. The Signalman fakes a smile in return, then shuts the door behind him and locks it again.

Jack Dunaway takes a seat. He’s fifteen years younger than the Signalman, and he looks it. He was recruited out of MIT, towards the end of George W’s administration.

“Got on in Flagstaff,” he says.

“Well, I didn’t imagine you parachuted onto the roof like Roger f*cking Moore,” replies the Signalman, and he follows the man’s gaze to the briefcase.

“That’s it?” asks Dunaway.

“Yeah, that’s it. You think I’d be headed back empty-handed?”

“Fuck, you never know, right? Tell me, was she as bad as people say?”

“Bad? I think I’d want to have a few more colorful adjectives at my disposal before I tried my hand at describing her. What the f*ck are you doing here, Jack? What is it couldn’t wait a few more hours until I’m back in Los Angeles?”

The man glances out the window. “A shame they stuck you on this side of the train. From the other side, you can see the San Francisco Peaks. It’s what’s left of a prehistoric volcano. Did you know that?”

“I’ve had enough scenery to last me awhile,” he says, and takes a sip of whisky, making a point of not offering Dunaway a drink. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Jack’s eyes dart from the southern view to the Signalman, then back to the window and the desert rushing past on the other side of the tinted glass.

“I’m afraid you’re not going back to L.A. You’re getting off at Williams Junction. We have you flying out of Clark at six seventeen this evening.”

The Signalman wants to punch Dunaway in the face.

“I don’t fly,” he says.

“They need you at Groom Lake.”

“Fuck Groom Lake. I don’t f*cking fly, you know I don’t f*cking fly, and besides, Dispatch said I could stand down after running courier to Winslow. Send Vance.”

“We’re sending you,” says Jack Dunaway. He doesn’t sound annoyed or impatient; he just sounds bored.

“Fuck that. Send Vance.”

“Well, that would have been my first choice, but Vance is benched for the duration. Maybe longer.”

“What the hell for?”

“You got a lot of anger in you, you know that? A guy your age, that’s not so good for the ticker. All that anger and all the hooch.”

“Groom Lake is Vance’s neck of the woods,” says the Signalman, letting the observation about his temperament slide. It’s not like it isn’t true.

Dunaway glances at the bottle of J&B, then takes one of the disposable plastic cups from the sink and helps himself. He squints at the sunlight through the window.

“She came up red last night. She’s already in quarantine in Atlanta. Anyway, Albany doesn’t want Vance, they want you, and you’ll be on that plane.”

But the Signalman doesn’t hear that last part. He doesn’t make it past She came up red last night. Suddenly there’s an icy knot in his bowels that no amount of whisky’s ever gonna burn away. He stares at Dunaway, and Dunaway stares back at him.

“How’s that even possible? She went through decon. We were all clean.”

Dunaway shakes his head, sort of shrugs, almost smiles. “Man, you take the cake, you know that? After all these years, you’re still out here bothering with why and how. I don’t f*cking know how it happened. She came up positive. That’s what they told me, so that’s what I know. How about you stop busting my balls?” He screws the cap back on the bottle and offers it to the Signalman.

You smug little shit, he thinks. When’s the last time you so much as got your hands dirty? The Signalman empties his cup, then refills it halfway. He sets the bottle on the floor by the briefcase, safely out of Dunaway’s reach.

“Anyone else?” he asks.

“Anyone else what?” Dunaway wants to know.

“Is Vance the only positive so far?”

“From the team, yeah. As far as I know. That’s all they’ve told me.”

“So nothing from California? No bad news from Bombay Beach?”

“Dude, if you’d bother to check in more often, you might be a little more up on current events. As far as I know, no cases in the hot zone. Of course, we both know that means next to zilch, what with the epidemiologists still stuck trying to suss out exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“We know what we’re dealing with,” says the Signalman, wanting a cigarette so badly, his hands are shaking.

Dunaway does that almost-laughing thing again. “Right, well, you’re just going to have to excuse me for not drinking Standish’s purple Kool-Aid. If you want to, go right on ahead, but I’m waiting for something a little more scientific than a madman’s gibberish about extraterrestrial mildew from Planet X.”

The Signalman takes out his half-empty pack of Camels, opens it, then puts it away again. Look at the bright side, right? With Williams Junction coming up fast, at least he can grab a goddamn smoke or five before they shove him onto the plane to Nevada.