Paul Theroux - O-Zone

That was when it struck him that they had no business here. They didn't belong in O-Zone. They really were aliens. They were bewildered, they had not adapted. They had no reliable water supply, their food was disgusting, they slept on the ground, they had a doggy smell, they wore clothes they pilfered out of the musty rooms in the ghost towns of O-Zone, they had secret ceremonies — like that burial.

They screamed at planes.

That was the oddest thing of all, though Fisher had not noticed it at first. How could he? There had only been a few planes — low-flying, radar-avoiders, very loud, possibly search planes looking for him. These aircraft made so much noise streaking past that Fisher had not heard the screaming. The second time they had kept it up until a moment after the plane passed by — the plane was gone, but in the time lapse just after the roar of jets there was a cut-off scream. It was like hearing an echo but missing the original sound that caused it.

But he had seen the aliens, the whites of their rolled-up eyes, their fingers tensed, their mouths wide open — howling at the sky. Even Echols, even Mr. B. The next second it was over and because the jet engines had drowned it all he could not ask why: it was gone, nothing had happened. It was like the dead aliens. When something was gone, so was the memory of it. And, strangely, they did not raise their voices, apart from that.

It pleased him to have proof that they did not belong here. They were truly aliens. Of course he was their prisoner— they were like members of another species. He was one of a small number of special people — now he knew just how special; and he could rely on Valda's laughter — he had always felt that laughter was a kind of submission. But this was not enough, and it hardly calmed him, because he also knew that they could kill him — just punch him down in the most brutish way. Or they could do it with more style, since he was now sharing his weapon with them. Behind all of this was a question to which he did not want to know the answer: What plans did they have for him?

They were not cannibals, but he was still afraid. He suspected that they had diseases and that they were outlaws. He learned a little of them; but they could be so vague.

"How long have you been here?" he asked Rooks.

"Since that explosives thing they tried to hang on me," Rooks said. "Making explosives. That was years ago, but they don't forget."

"Is Rooks your ID name?"

"No. My ID name — before I lost it — was Kenway."

Fisher said, "It's funny. I can't imagine someone named Kenway wanted by the police."

Then Rooks gave him that Who are you? look.

Gumbie said, "They claimed I was raping women. It wasn't rape. They wanted to and I was willing. There was absolutely no use of force. Is sex a crime? Hey, they were thanking me! But afterward they changed their minds and I was the one who suffered. That's what happens if you're willing."

"What about Gumbie — is that the name on your ID?"

Kylie said, "Don't ask me any of these questions."

Gumbie was still replying. "Truth is, I never had an ID. Where I came from, they never checked, and we just lost interest in them. I always figured I was a pretty good American until that rape thing came up. But that made me want to leave the country. I lost all respect for the Feds then."

"What you're saying is that you were wanted by the police," Fisher said. "And you're saying that O-Zone isn't America."

Mr. Blue said, "Give it a rest, Fish."

"I was just asking him about his name."

"Gumbie's my family name."

"What's your first name?"

"DeWayne."

Echols said, "Me, I abused my position."

It was a new day but he still did not know them much better, and the raw data he had only confused him more. But it was clear from what they said that the country was in a greater mess than he had ever imagined sitting in his room in Coldharbor.

It also struck him that they were telling him these things, and would probably tell him anything, because he didn't matter: he would be dead soon. That gloomy hunch made him less inquisitive.

One more day.

"Tonight you can sleep with me," Valda said.

She had dropped behind to speak to him — just a whisper. They had started their march, they would eat something farther on. They didn't have mealtimes, they only had hunger, and they did not always obey it.

Valda was smiling at him, still whispering, "If you want."

"Do you mean sleep?" he said.

She murmured something and glanced ahead of her, where the others were tramping. Some carried crates on slings, and others used two-man fitters — poles that had been hanked together and lashed like stretchers for the big boxes.

"Because I might not be tired," Fisher said.

Valda laughed again and walked on, and the next time she saw him — it was a rest stop — she said, "That's good!"

Fisher was pleased. He liked her face and her heavy breasts and her smooth hips. He wondered what she looked like naked, but he also worried that she might be strange— diseased and hairy. He was faintly repelled by the thought that she was an alien. And there was her age: Valda he had calculated to be at least twenty!

He liked to watch her body move when she was marching or preparing food, but he reminded himself to be careful: these people were notoriously unhealthy. Aliens carried viruses for which there were no known cures. Some of these viruses had actually been developed by the Feds as weapons, and had been dumped in Prohibited Areas. There might have been some truth in the rumors that these viruses had been tried out on aliens. He wished that he had hacked into more Federal data, but he had never believed it to be of any practical use; he had never imagined leaving Coldharbor, much less being on the ground in O-Zone.

Fisher grew sad at the thought that Valda was perhaps his only friend. The rest of them were skinny and silent. They ate without any pleasure and they had little interest in him. He sat apart from them, trying to eat. He managed to swallow some, but he had plenty left — what they called pole greens and the dried-out muscles of a dead animal.

Gumbie knelt next to him. "If you're not going to eat that, Fish—"

"I was planning to throw it away."

"We don't throw anything away." Gumbie gathered the scraps into his outstretched fingers. "This is for me. Yep. Yump."

Fisher said, "You eat anything."

"It's not hunger," Echols said, because Gumbie's mouth was full. "Whatever you leave behind is evidence that you passed through. We don't leave traces — no food, no footprints. That's why Rooks marches at the rear, dragging a bough to sweep away our tracks."

Fisher had seen the man doing so, but he had imagined it had something to do with the porker pretending to have a tail. Maybe they weren't completely stupid. But in the time they had been in O-Zone the technology outside had developed and left them behind with fifteen-year-old fantasies. For example, everything that Echols knew was out-of-date.

"I hate your food," Fisher said.

"When you're hungry enough you'll eat it," Mr. Blue said.

"That's a sick idea," Fisher said.

Gumbie, still chewing on the scraps he had cadged, said, "What kind of stuff do you want, Fish?"

"Jelly sandwiches," the boy said. "Guppy-Cola. Burgers. Chili. Fries. Ice cream. All kinds of tuna fish. I like that fortified one-meal drink they call 'Marvel Milk'—though it's not milk." He became lonely thinking about it. He said, "Fudge. Chocolate. Spaghetti. Grapefruit segments. Those white things known as 'fish cheeks.' Glasses of juice with condensation on the sides. I'm not supposed to eat dairy products, but I do. Honey, bananas, Sammy Syrup, and those fiber crackers they call Poker Chips." He looked up and groaned. "Chocolate-chip cookies."