Black Mad Wheel - Josh Malerman

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go somewhere quieter to talk.”

      As if cued, the ruckus behind them rises. Larry is lifting one of the Sparklers by the waist.

      “Wonderland,” Mull suggests.

      “To talk,” Philip repeats.

      He could stop this now. Whatever this is. He could say no. I like it here. I don’t wanna go anywhere else. You can’t make us.

      “To listen,” Mull says.

       A malevolent sound, Private Tonka.

      “Give me a minute,” Philip says. “I’ll gather the Danes.”

      But even as he slides from the booth, as he crosses the bar to retrieve his friends, Philip is telling himself no, no amount of money, no amount of curiosity is enough to leave all this behind.

      And yet, the image of that tape in the military man’s pocket …

      Maybe it’s because you can’t see where it’ll lead, Philip thinks, as he plants a hand on the shoulder of Ross’s corduroy jacket. Maybe it’s because people can’t see the end that they agree to begin.

      “What’s up?” Ross asks. But Ross saw the man, too.

      “This fella wants us to go up to the studio. He’s got a reel he wants us to hear.”

      Ross hesitates.

      “He’s army.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Is there any money in it?”

      “He said it’s ‘considerable.’”

      “Is that for them to consider or for us?”

      “He said it’s a lot.”

      Ross looks to Larry, dancing down the bar.

      “Then we’ll come right back down?” he asks Philip.

      “Yep,” Philip says.

      But the two friends stare into each other’s eyes for a beat, and in that brief rhythm is the truth that they both know they won’t be right back down.

      “What is it?”

      “A sound.”

      Ross smiles. But it’s not a nice one.

      “Well, shit, Philip,” he says, sweating now. “How much trouble can one sound be?”

       5

       I wouldn’t do that if I were you …

      Fissures, cracks, clefts, canyons.

      And it’s not just in his bones.

      Philip is trying to make connections.

      It’s midday and sunlight penetrates the unit’s one window. A blond nurse, Delores, administers a shot and even this contact, needle to skin, is something.

      Philip feels frighteningly alone.

      There was Secretary Mull walking into the bar, Doug’s Den. There was the sound. There was …

      But in a way, there was nothing after the sound. As if, once Philip got out of the booth and gathered the Danes, reality eroded, the daily ticks and tacks, the hum of existence, the unheard sound of the planet spinning, all of it was replaced … with the sound.

      “Radio?”

      Delores is asking him if he wants to listen to an afternoon drama. The concept is so far from what Philip is thinking about that it almost feels like she doesn’t mean what she asks.

      He doesn’t respond.

      Instead, he’s sensing a change.

      Was it the shot? It must be. The sensation of being stuck, paralyzed, unable to bend a finger, is lessening. Pieces are being put back together, the picture the puzzle makes …

      There was Mull. There was agreeing to go listen to the sound … there was Africa …

      Yes, Philip almost feels able to turn his head, to lift his hands, to speak easily. But when he tries, he discovers he still can’t.

      And yet, things are changing.

      Connections.

       I wouldn’t do that if I were you …

      That’s a big one. The “who” in “who said that?” Philip remembers the words, even remembers the voice, but can’t place where he heard the warning.

      Was it in the desert? Was it in Detroit?

      And “wouldn’t do” what?

      “I’ll put it on,” Delores says, out of Philip’s field of view. “And you tell me if it’s too loud.”

      Philip isn’t listening to her. He’s making connections. His bones, his body, his brain …

      For the first time in his life, Philip’s identity is at stake. Maybe he’d acted too cool for his own good, before the Namib Desert, before the hoofprints in the sand. Maybe all the things that he thought meant something don’t mean anything after all. Maybe Detroit was a fantasy land, Wonderland, where he was a hero, where he was a star, where he walked the streets and nodded to some people and ignored others, too cool, the man in the band, the man in the army, the soldier musician who flirted without words, who awed the younger piano players, the young men weighing the options of war.

      How many locals joined the army because of the Danes?

      The radio is playing, two voices, back and forth. A husband and a wife? A husband and a mistress? Even this, the roles of the voices he hears, even these are suffering from some sort of identity breakdown, an erosion, who is who, who did what, who took the Danes and where did they take them?

      Who said what?

       I wouldn’t do that if I were you …

      He must have groaned, must have made a sound, because Delores is suddenly beside him, placing a hand on his forehead.

      “Are you okay?”

      But what kind of question is this?

      The unnecessary answer is no.

      He thinks of the nurse from the night before. Ellen. Was that her name? She seemed to emerge from the shadows of the unit, the shadows of his injury, his thoughts, the space between his connections.

      What else might rise from those regions?

      Has he ever been this scared before?

      Identity.

      And yet, the shot, the medicine is doing something profound. Philip knows enough about drugs to know that this isn’t like getting high. This isn’t a pill to relax you or a joint to set your thoughts aflame. This is the gradual easing of bones, muscle, and skin into preformed foam, a return …

      To what?

      To normal.

      Or a better normal. Yes, Philip thinks, seeing a window, a sliver of hope for a calmer day, a reality in which he might move again.

      Might make connections.

      “Is it always this cold in the summer?”

      Philip said that. And his voice was splintered wood.

      Because she hesitates to respond, Philip knows Delores is surprised to hear him speak.

      “Would you like me to close the window?”

      “No,” Philip says, still staring to where the wall meets the ceiling. “Just … strange weather.”

      “Well,”

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