The Two That Remained Read online

  “As with you,” Peter said and diverted his bottle’s trajectory, avoiding Ryan’s friendly action as if it were a torpedo sent to crack his crystal submarine.

  Ryan smirked and shifted his gaze from the slender executive director with his dark hair and dark eyes ringed in dark glasses, wearing a charcoal grey designer suit with black lapels, slender black tie and starched pink shirt, to that of his beautiful wife, Lillian. She was as amazing as Peter’s demeanor screamed of douchery. To punctuate this revelation, Peter removed a clove cigarette from a silver case in his jacket pocket and lit it with a hotel match. Ryan could have sworn he saw a no smoking sign on the door of the ballroom.

  Lillian wore a long black dress with sequins that followed the wonderful curves of her body, accentuated her hips, and made her ass into a tasteful, after dinner cocktail party spectacle. Her milky shoulders were bare but for a twist of shimmery chocolate, and around her neck hung a small medallion on a silver chain set with fake diamonds. The two glasses of champagne she’d chugged to settle her nerves when they’d first arrived had made her smoky eyes appear lazy in that sultry sort of way Ryan adored. And perhaps, since Emily was at her grandmother’s house for the night, they’d have all the opportunity needed to soil their fancy clothes after this was done, fucking like they hadn’t since meeting his second year at Stanford.

  “I hear you’re in computer science,” Peter said, taking a drag of his clove cigarette. Ryan was trying to figure out if this flamboyant man’s attitude was related to his sexuality, or was he just dramatic. “My sister works in the field as well. She’s recently taken the EVP position at MacroSolutions. Her teams are working on so many projects, too many to name, but their baby is a new OS, compatible with a wide variety of processor architecture including Google’s new quantum chip. Mark my words, it will put Apple OS, Windows, and Linux to shame in both the consumer and corporate markets.”

  “That sounds fascinating,” Ryan supplied, “and like, quite the challenge.”

  Lillian leaned in, raising a hand. “Ryan has been working on a similar concept ever since university. It’s what his dissertation was about.”

  “It’s not exactly like that,” he corrected. “It’s not an OS.”

  “Well, maybe not.”

  Ryan sighed. “It’s a Linux-based server that utilizes its client systems’ downtime to solve large scale mathematical problems over a network of smaller computers, and smartphones, without the need of merely having supercomputers like the Cray. Each system will solve smaller parts of a larger problem, much like how people used to mine for Bitcoins or other virtual currency, but instead, the currency here is a wealth of scientific knowledge.”

  He raised his hands, that old excitement filling him. His beer nearly ran into Peter’s arm. This part always made him smile.

  “Think of all the missed processor time spread out among computers not being used this very minute in America alone. Two dozen petaflops of data a day at least. And phones, just sitting around while people work or sleep? Come on. We might as well make use of it. Think of what we could do. We could plot interplanetary courses, work to solve the Higgs Boson, break the human genome or create a general A.I. free to the world. It would be a real game changer. A gift to the world.”

  Lillian beamed as Ryan spoke but Peter looked bored. He sipped from his straw and kept up a fake smile.

  “Ah, client-server distributed parallel computing. I wasn’t aware they accepted dissertations over such antiquated concepts. This has been a field of research since the seventies. My sister’s team has a similar system already in place, called Singularity.”

  “But does it reduce power consumption as well?” Lillian cut in. “Ryan is using a simple base number system to encode the data and reduce loads. This is certainly important with mobiles.”

  “It does, and by fifty percent, using a reduced instruction set. They’re getting better,” Peter replied. “It’s part of our systems at UBL, yes, and why we are able to analyze so much data with such a humble staff. Singularity makes it all possible. Our clusters are distributed all the way from this fair city to Singapore.”

  Ryan tipped back his beer, neck slipping on the nervous sweat collecting on his fingertips.

  “Well then, super.” Ryan searched for another topic now that he felt intellectually emasculated in front of his double master micro-biologist wife. He decided to stick it to Peter. “What do you do here? I can see that Lillian’s checks clear well-enough, and I appreciate the gesture, but her lips have been sealed.”

  Lillian stiffened at this.

  “Exciting things.” Peter dropped his spent clove and snuffed it out with a pair of five hundred dollar loafers on the hotel carpet. “Things that dazzle the mind and make the human condition all the better. Some might say we are making God obsolete, but I would reply we are merely making us equals.”

  “And that means? Hmm?” The beer was going to Ryan’s head. This was his sixth, trapped in the dangers of an open bar.

  Peter sipped on his skinny straw. He set the beer down on a passing tray and laughed. “It means that we have a unanimous interest in making sure that the human race flourishes in all facets of existence, from crop yields in light of overpopulation, to bio-fuels and global warming, to the adjustment of human evolution where we will no longer use medications and still live healthy lives. We’re building a better human, and keeping man safe from things that laymen cannot comprehend.”

  “Laymen? I’m sorry, where did you get your PHD again? The University of…?”

  “Ryan, honey,” Lillian put a hand on his chest. “We do very important work here.”

  “Then tell me a little about your last grant proposal. What was your hook?”

  “Grant?” Peter tossed his head back and roared. “We don’t require grants to stay in business, Mr. Sharpe.”

  Ryan wasn’t exactly sure what that meant.

  “I just thought,” Ryan lowered his head and shrugged, “if you were working on something really exciting, and not so antiquated, you might feel like talking about it. We’re all intellectuals, why hold back? I’m no corporate spy.”

  “But you are an ex-assistant professor.” Peter’s emphasized ‘assistant,’ accentuating the s like a venomous snake. “How does the old saying go? Loose lips sink ships?” He patted Ryan on the shoulder twice and grinned. “All you need to know is that your wife is in a very desirable position within my company. So enjoy your time at home with your child, it’s not like you’ll get another chance. Life moves far too fast for any of us, and I intend to change that.”

  “Yes, it does,” Lillian agreed and took Ryan arm in arm, a sleepy grin on her face. “He’s the best dad too.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, you two, but I must mingle with others.” Peter patted Ryan on the shoulder once more and sauntered off. “Ben, how are you this evening?”

  Ryan whispered to his wife, “And you work for that dick?”

  “Ryan, come on.”

  “Come on what? He’s a grade A, USDA cow dick. If Lawrence had been my bro-date, he’d have agreed.”

  “No, you just—you have to get to know him. He has good reasons for being like this.”

  “Like a dick in his ass?”

  Peter’s eyes roamed across the ballroom from where he was at the end of the buffet and fell on Lillian’s dress, his gaze filled with a lascivious fire. His hand oozed its way around a gorgeous blonde’s backside as he drew her into him. He chuckled with several other suits. Ryan was so confused.

  “He does not have a dick in his ass. The man’s straight as an arrow.” Lillian made a motion with her hand like a swimming fish. “Believe me, I know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, baby. Nothing at all.”

  Ryan fumed for a moment, letting the noise of the party shroud his emotions in frustration and anger.

  Lillian whispered in his ear. “What do you say we Uber our way home and do a little math with our bodies?”

>   “Hmm? Like what?”

  “You can divide my legs, add your wonderfully specialized tool, and then we can lay around hoping we don’t multiply.”

  He grinned and felt his member press against his rented suit pants. “You know math isn’t my strong suit. I got straight B’s in pre-grad.”

  “Okay then, code monkey, I promise there won’t be any errors. And if there just happen to be a few, we’ll keep at it ‘til we debug every single one.”

  Chapter 14

  It turned out Mr. Jones’s mothball-ridden orthopedic bed was far more comfortable than sleeping on the grimy floor. Ryan and Emily got some much-needed rest as their wounds burned and sore muscles throbbed. He wished there had been electricity so they could have adjusted the bed to a better angle, but they passed out without an issue. Before taking his final resting place in the EZ-chair of the den, Mr. Jones had lowered the grade of the mechanical bed nearly level.

  When they finally woke around mid-day, both of them were cranky as hell despite all the sleep. Ryan felt as if a train had run over him, but instead of them taking him to the hospital and declaring him dead upon arrival as was what would have been proper, the first responders had taken his corpse to a necromancer and brought him back to life for a second chance. Emily shifted between crying for no reason and wanting to explore Mr. Jones’s geriatric museum piece of a home, but Ryan wanted to get them back without any further incident. He searched through the house one more time and uncovered a quarter prescription of antibiotics, Levaquin, as well as allergy medication. He dosed both of them and hoped he’d find more in other homes.

  They stood on the front porch of Mr. Jones’s house. Ryan could see the edge of their yard at the end of the street. It looked to be a million miles away. Without a car, he didn’t see them traveling more than a few blocks with any sort of safety. In light of this, he tried Mr. Jones’s Dodge to see if it would start. The result was the same as the rest. Dead batteries. Bad hoses. Too much time left alone. Too little knowledge of automotive repair.

  To avoid being attacked by other dogs on their way home, Cerberus now out of the picture, they moved from house to house instead of heading straight down the street. Keeping a few moments of silent watch at each house, they then sprinted to the next. Ryan left the doors unlocked for the next time they came through. Emily fought with him every time they stopped, wanting to stay and play in each new place.

  By the sixth house, a few dogs were gathering on the other end of the street. By the seventh, a half dozen. By the ninth, they were forced to take a break, eat one of the MREs and hope the mutts had wandered off. Ryan still had a few bullets in the pistol, but he could do little more than scare them bad as his aim was.

  The sky was turning dark, and the house they’d taken refuge in was dim, with windows covered in thick curtains.

  Emily played in the living room of sweet ol’ Mr. and Mrs. Marinoff, whose skeletons were sitting upright on the couch holding hands before their long-dead TV. Apparently, Emily felt at ease in homes that reminded her of her grandmother’s, even if the former occupant’s skeletal remains were smiling at her. She had no context to be afraid, and Ryan was thankful for this.

  The Marinoffs were about the sweetest elderly Jewish couple Ryan had ever known. When Lillian and he had moved into the neighborhood, they’d been the first to greet them and offer unsolicited lifelong relationship advice—being that they themselves had been married nearly sixty years. They had invited Ryan and Lillian to temple, even though the young couple wasn’t Jewish, and made them salted caramel macaroons on random occasions. When they found out that a little one was on the way, Mr. Marinoff all but danced in the street, taking his wife by the hand like a teenager. This display had given Ryan and Lillian hope. It was possible to love someone for a long time and be happy, so long as communication remained open and you still had fun.

  Ryan had never been inside their house, though it was what he’d expected. It was a post-Victorian affair, with dark furniture covered in doilies that looked nice but weren’t all that comfortable. Beside every seat was a table with a lamp or stack of hardback books. Every picture frame in the well-appointed living room was painted with gold leaf, including their Ketubah, which rested atop the wooden mantle of an ornately carved fireplace.

  Ryan and Emily ate an MRE before searching the rest of the house. He found a door leading into the basement, but without any candles, he didn’t dare venture into the black. Emily moaned occasionally as she touched her bandaged shoulder, saying ‘boo boo’ whenever she did. Ryan kissed it several times to make it feel better.

  Each passing of the basement door it called to him in curious voices. He ran a finger down the ruts of the worn doorframe and left it alone.

  What Emily found the most interesting in the Marinoffs’ home, however, was that in a spare bedroom off the main hallway, Mrs. Marinoff had a massive collection of Barbie dolls. She had all the classics on a long shelf, two dozen Disney princesses, which Emily loved, as well as Cowboy Barbie, Malibu Barbie, and scariest of all, at least to Ryan, The Birds Barbie. Still, the one that drew Ryan’s attention most was a Barbie with no name dressed like a biker, in studded black leathers and a pink t-shirt, who carried a bullwhip. Ryan didn’t recall ever seeing one of those at the toy store. It seemed more at place in an adult novelty shop than Toys ‘R Us.

  “Mine, Dada! Pweese! Mine!” Emily reached for the shelf, fingers splayed. “Bahbee!”

  Ryan took a deep breath and removed the dolls from the shelf. It wasn’t as if Mrs. Marinoff would object to Emily having these even if she was still alive.

  Thunder cracked off in the distance to echo back through the city.

  “Okay, Emme, pick a couple out and we have to go.”

  “Blue?” she asked, pointing to one of their dresses.

  “That’s yellow.”

  “Blue?” she asked, pointing to another.

  “That’s black.”

  “Black.” She shook her head. “Blue, that blue.”

  “No, it’s pink.”

  “Peent.”

  “We need to get going.”

  “Blue?”

  “No, that’s purple.”

  “Puple?”

  “Come on, Emme. Let’s go. Grab your Barbies. Let’s go.”

  “No.” She lifted two of the dolls, one in each hand, and started to babble as if they were talking to one another and their private conversation could ward off her Daddy’s intentions.

  “Yes. It’s about to rain and we need to collect water. We need to go now.” He yanked her up by the arm. “Take the Barbies with you. They’re yours.”

  “No. I don’t wanna.” She twisted free and ran to the other side of the room, putting a bed so tall he could hardly see the top of her head between them.

  “We have to go.” He advanced on her position and she took off giggling. “Come on, let’s not do this now. Daddy is exhausted.” He felt his muscles weary with each step. He was in desperate need of a stiff drink.

  Thunder cracked again, this time in series, vibrating the collection of bone china plates propped on stands beside the Barbie shelf. For a moment, he worried they might crash.

  He hefted Emily to her feet, grabbing a hold of her good arm, and checked the backpack tether arrangement she wore.

  “Stop,” Emily whined. “Let go. Let go!” He put her back down.

  “We have to go now. That’s it. Listen to Daddy. We can come back to the Marinoffs’ another day.”

  Emily reached in vain for the Barbies that were being left behind, and in her tantrum, nearly threw away the four she’d already taken. One of them landed by her feet. She bent over and jerked Malibu Barbie up by the hair, cries becoming desperate growls, “Mine! Mine! Let go! Let go!”

  “Yes, it’s yours,” Ryan said, and a headache creeped its way into his skull. He all but dragged Emily to the front door by the backpack’s tether, her heels sliding across the front hall runner. “Stand up, please, Emme. You’re getting really heav
y.”

  “No.” She slapped at the air between them and said ‘ouch,’ having used her bad arm.

  “Yes.”

  “No!”

  “Daddy said yes! You want a spanking? This might not be my house, but these are my rules.”

  Emily pulled against the tether, Barbies under one arm, both hand gripping the line and tugging. “No, Dada. No. Stay.”

  It began to rain, the sky spitting onto the Marinoffs’ roof, water tinkling down the house’s gutters into the yard.

  Ryan popped Emily on the thigh, not hard, but hard enough that she collapsed into a heap of sobbing human remains. He averted his gaze and squeezed his burning eyes shut. He knew he should have explained this to her and been more patient, but time was short. He wasn’t sure how long it would rain and they needed water.

  “Shh, shh. You have to listen to Daddy. Things are not like they were. We need to go home. If we don’t catch water there will be nothing to drink. Besides, both of us need a bath really bad. You stinky you stinky.” He said the last words the way a Jawa might.

  “I no want.”

  “Me either, love. I no want. But this is what it is.”

  Emily stuck out her lip and stroked Malibu Barbie’s hair with absent attention. “Mama. Where Mama?”

  He swallowed and picked her up. “Come on. Just a few more houses to go.”

  As they went off into the cold drizzle, he soon felt like an overburdened packhorse with a bum leg ready to be put down. The rain spattered in sheets onto the foliage choking the broken street, pouring into his backpack. The dogs were forced to take shelter under houses and in bushes, leaving the two of them safely alone. Thunder clapped, an abnormal modulation of frequencies that twisted its earthquake roar like a flanger pitching downward. Ryan and Emily twitched and shivered.

  “This is super,” he mumbled and hurried their pace, angling his pack to cover them as best he could.

  In their sprint back to the house, the rain drenched their clothes and made Emily’s diaper swell three sizes. Once inside and protected from the cold rain, Ryan took Emily out of her wet shirt and exchanged her diaper for a dry one. He then shot outside with a loping gait, dragging the garbage cans around to the backyard, putting them out in the open.