Subtopian Fifteen

feet, takes an uncertain step forward, blinks quickly. Brilliant bursts of white light dance in the air.

“You leave me no choice,” Kröken says. He snaps his fingers and two hulking men in white uniforms appear from behind a curtain, thick jaws with barely a trace of blond stubble on their dimpled chins, deep-set expressionless eyes.

“Back off,” S. says. He shuffles toward a set of white double doors.

Kröken holds a syringe in his left hand. “Mr. Scruffy-Pants,” he says, “why don’t you lie down? We’ll talk about this.”

S. looks back as he runs for the doors. “Get away from me and call off your goons.” S. reaches the doors, pushes the handle. No give. Nothing. S. turns.

The goons approach.

“Locked,” Kröken says. “Now how about something to help you sleep?”

S.’s looks up to the ceiling, then down at the floor. He leans against the wall. His hand grazes something smooth and metallic. A handle? A square blue hatch marked Incinerator?

“Not wise,” Kröken says. He pinches the syringe between his fingers, turning it in small circles. “A conflagration. You’ll be incinerated. Your ashes will fall from the sky.”

S. pulls the hatch open and stares down into the black tube. No trace of heat, no faint fiery glow. And before S. can process his actions, he’s sliding down the tube, faster and faster through the darkness. His screams reverberate around him. And then he’s on the ground, somersaulting through pillowy mounds of gray ash. It coats his skin. Great tears roll down his cheeks. And what is this place? A room? A furnace? Four cinderblock walls, an iron door with a square glass window, piles of ash and the metallic skeletons of recliners, couches, and love seats. Coughing, S. limps toward the door, looking back once at the great metal tube, expecting the goons to slide out.

The heavy door creeks open. S. moves down a narrow cement hallway toward a faint emerald glow. His tailbone’s sore. His left eye throbs. After a few minutes of walking, he stops, rubs his eyes. What does he see? A mirage? A hallucination? Can it be real, this illuminated exit sign above a metal door? S. is giddy. He’s never felt such joy. He runs for the door, pushes it open and enters the night. The air, heavy with desert scents, is like a furnace. The concrete burns under his feet. But S. doesn’t care. He’s free.

The black macadam of the empty parking lot stretches out before him. S. blinks, stares down at the crumpled hospital gown streaked with ash, dances on his heels. Out there beyond the empty parking lot is the city’s dim glow. His apartment is there, his fish, maybe. Thirty miles of asphalt to home. It will take an iron will to walk that distance, but S. is up for the challenge. He steps off the curb. Suddenly the door opens.

Hedda stands there, as fresh as the first time S. saw her, not a stain on her khakis, not a blond hair out of place. She tips her head up and stares at the enormous Furniture Land sign fixed to the building. Her face is bathed in a pale yellow light. “I’ve always loved that color,” she says, fingering the walkie-talkie on her hip. “It reminds me of summer. It comforts me.”

S. doesn’t look up. “You said I was your favorite.”

The walk-talkie crackles and then a voice squawks, “Hedda. Ibuprofen. Spasm.” Hedda 17