David Ohle - The Old Reactor

Moldenke asked if there were any medical facilities on the grounds.

“A few of the kids know first aid,” the Sister said. “Most of the wounds we have in here are not life-threatening. They usually survive.”

Salmonella scowled at Moldenke.

“Sorry, girl…I’ll try to find your father.”

As Moldenke backed away from the gate, he saw Salmonella kick the Sister in the shin. In turn, the Sister slapped Salmonella with the back of her hand and pulled her up the path by the hair.

A comic book has nearly killed Brainerd Franklin, who didn’t read but ate it. The laughter wasn’t responsible for the damage, but part of the metal binding was. Wire staples found in the valuable jelly’s stomach and intestinal tract were cause of his nearly fatal bleeding. A gardener had seen him floating in his swimming pool and munching on the comic only hours before his collapse.

Moldenke went down to the Free People’s Bar, the only bitters bar operating on the west side. He found Udo there, who had been drinking bitters most of the afternoon.

“Where’s my daughter, Moldenke? I want her back.”

“She’s in the Home. I left her there about a month ago.”

“Tell me you didn’t diddle her?”

“No, I took care of her. That’s all.”

“If I ever find out you did diddled her, I’ll have your nuts for breakfast.”

“It didn’t happen.”

“You understand why I wonder. She’s mature for her age. Most of these freeborn girls are like that. They mate pretty young.”

“If I mate at all, it will be with an older female. I couldn’t attract anyone else. Look at me.”

Udo had a quick look at Moldenke head to toe. “I’ll take your word for it until I hear different. I guess I’ll go over to the Home and get her.”

“Whatever you want, Udo.”

The next morning, with his courage up, Udo drove his motor to the curb in front of the Home. The sun ogled. Asphalt in the drive bubbled as he walked toward the mudstone entry gate where a Sister stood watch. Her blue uniform shimmered in the sunlight. She was eating a green apple.

“Good afternoon to you, Sister. I’ve come to get Salmonella. She was brought in by a man named Moldenke, oh, a few weeks ago. He’s usually in uniform, wears boots. Has a scruffy little beard, rotten teeth. Sometimes smells bad.”

The Sister ventured up to the heavy wooden doors that led onto the commons and opened them with a thrust of her shoulder. Udo saw the lush greenery inside: the orchard, the fields, and gardens. He saw the pig pens and chicken coops, the goat herd, the milking shed, all the things needed to sustain a body living the simple life. It was almost a shame, he thought, to take her out. Shaking his head and wishing the best for his daughter, he got into his motor and returned to the bar for another shot of bitters.

Salmonella, meanwhile, was busy squeezing apples with a press and selling the juice to other free youth by the cup.

“Your father is here to get you,” the Sister said.

Salmonella stopped pressing for a moment. “I’m going to have an apple orchard of my own someday. Look, I’ve saved some seeds.” She showed the Sister a little cloth sack full of apple seeds.

“That’s nice, Salmonella.” The Sister smiled as best she could. “Your father, he’s waiting for you.”

“He’s not a fit father.”

“Shall I tell him you’d rather stay here?”

“No, I’ll give him one more chance.”

The Sister looked at all the thirsty, anxious young people waiting in line for apple juice and stepped back. “I’ll tell him you’ll be along in a few minutes.”

After two bitters, Udo thought that though the commons looked lush and the children were free of supervision, it didn’t mean that Salmonella was better off there than on the outside, with a father. Not the father he had been, but the father he promised himself he would be. And all that freedom of will could mold her into something unmanageable altogether. Now his mind was changed.

Stiffened with bitters, Udo drove back to the Home in time to see the Sister escort Salmonella toward the entry gate. “Look, there he is. Your father,” she said.

Udo tugged on the pull-crank that operated the side door of the motor and the Sister ushered Salmonella up the steps.

“Thank you, Sister,” Udo said.

Salmonella sat just behind him. She was angry enough that he could feel her heat on the back of his neck. “I might kill you someday, Daddy, if you don’t treat me better.”

“I’m going to be nice to you from now on. You’re my daughter.”

“Where’s my mother?”

“I’ve already told you a hundred times. They sent her back to Bunkerville. I haven’t seen her since the day after the day you were born.”

Salmonella shook her head and pointed a finger. “I don’t believe you.”

Udo made a fist. “Go back to your nook.”

Salmonella had no wish to be slapped again. She went to her nook and lay on the cot.

Udo set the finder for Bunkerville and the motor responded with a sudden lurch, then entered the flow of vehicles on Arden Boulevard. In the rearview he saw the Sister waving.

Bunkerville radio last night issued a warning to free Altobelloans that anyone swimming in the Old Reactor pond risks exposure to radio poison, possibly a fatal dose. The report noted further that jellyheads — who have been swimming and bathing in the pond for a hundred years, long before the liberation — never exhibit signs of poisoning. It seems that over time jellies living near the Old Reactor have developed a resistance to the fatal malady.

Scientist Zanzetti and his assistants returned from Altobello with vials of the suspect water for study. In a public statement today the scientist said, “Even if you’ve been deformed, stay out of that water. It’s heavy and it’s dangerous. One swim, two swims, maybe three, and you’d be all right. More than that and death will follow as sure as I’m standing here on these two feet.”

Unfortunately for many, the radio signal from Bunkerville, weakened by a little-understood effect of the full moon, never reached Altobello. The severely and moderately deformed continued swimming daily. In the dull, routine atmosphere that freedom brought them, along with shame of deformation, swimming was one of their greatest pleasures. They gladly took the risk.

After ten or more explosive angry-bowel incidents, Moldenke decided to have his uniform boiled. Getting a new one was a long, bureaucratic process that could take a year or more. Cleaning and sanitizing the pants, socks, and boots wasn’t all that troublesome. He would take them to Myron’s Boiling Service. Myron was an old Bunkerville friend who had once said to Moldenke, “Did you know that boiling a shoe for thirteen minutes will kill all fungi?” Myron claimed he could boil anything. The only problem was that his boilery was way out on Steaming Springs Road, not far from the Old Reactor. There were no streetcar tracks running out that far. It would be another long walk.

By the time Moldenke got to Steaming Springs Road, hoping all the while that Myron would still be open, his ankles ached terribly, yet he had a half mile to go. He could see the dome of the Old Reactor. The night was bright and there were moon shadows all around him. The dome’s pitted surface could have been mistaken for the moon itself.

Myron’s boiling business depended on the periodic, if random, cooling and boiling of the Springs. They were as likely to boil at night as any other time winter or summer. If they were boiling now, Myron would not be closed. He would be there with bitters in the cabinet, a fire in the stove, and Juleps to smoke.

As Moldenke walked on, the shadows playing in and out of the crepe myrtles than lined the road gave him the willies. A jellyhead gone critical could be lurking among them, planning to rush at him with a can of deformant. He thought the best strategy was to look straight ahead, to walk tall and purposefully, showing that he had a clear destination in mind. If a predator were stalking him, Moldenke didn’t want to give the impression he was lost or disabled or otherwise vulnerable.