As you walk down the left tunnel, the voice comes one more time, faint and fading, “Kyle…” You break out into a jog, the lights in the tunnel passing over your head in a blur. You look back, to see if anything is following you, it feels like something is following you, the tunnel curves to the left, you slow to a walk, still checking behind you. On the blind curve, you trip on a bundle of rags and fall face-first on the floor.

Your hands and shirt are wet. You look up to see the open end of pipe coming out of the wall, a thin stream of foul-smelling water running out of it. Behind you, the bundle of rags moans.You sit up and turn around.

“I’m not a bundle of rags,” he says and stands, a ruddy-face man, unkempt, his hair greasy. He belches, tries to scratch his back and groans.

“I used to be an advisor to the President,’’ he says. “And I wrestled professionally under the name The Atomic Hobo.”

“Who are you?” you ask.

“I ended up living down here because of the media. I hate the media.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“Because you have to ask the question after I answer it, otherwise, why did I answer it? I’m not going to answer a question you don’t ask.”

“Wait, what’s happening? Why are you answering my questions before I ask them?”

“Yes, I know it’s confusing,” he says and belches again.

“I’m confused,” you say, backing away. “I don’t have anything to drink.”

“Do you have anything to drink? No wait, don’t run away.”

You scramble to your feet and run away.

—–

The Atomic Hobo doesn’t follow you, although you continue to check. The tunnel curves to the right and then the left; you find no more doors or intersections. If the ketchup map is correct, you are close.

You notice the temperature dropping, your wet shirt now cold and clinging against your chest, your arms covered in gooseflesh, soon you begin to see your breath. And then, at the end of the last frigid hundred yards, the end of the tunnel and the ladder leading upward.

Each rung up is colder than the last and you worry near the top about your hand freezing to the metal. You spin the wheel at the top and open the hatch. A small blot of snow falls on your face as you climb out into a long room.

Snow-covered trees line the walls, flakes fall from the ceiling, at the end of the room, she is waiting for you in a long white dress. You stand there shivering in your t-shirt and jeans, the heavy gun down the back of your pants cold.

She begins to walk to you, unsmiling, squinting, beautiful and distant. You begin to walk toward her as well if for nothing else to warm up.

“Heelo,” she says softly, flakes of snow in her hair, her eyelashes.

You blush. “Hello,” you say.

“If you are look-king for huzband, he is not here. He does not come here,” she says.

“I am looking for the mail-in ballots, the ones the deep state are going to use to steal the election,” you say. The blood in your extremities feels thick, sluggish.

“There is no deep state,” she says softly. “There are no ballots.” She reaches toward you with bluish fingers and takes off her husband’s hat, his hair coming away as well.

“Do you know why he has given you thees things?”

“He said they know their way around in the tunnels.”

She laughs like icicles breaking off the eaves of a roof.

“They know nothink,” she says, stirring the hair in the hat with a finger. “They tell him deep state foil his plans. They tell him press sektary is sexual for him. They tell him keep me here so I stay young. Return them. They deserve one another.”

She hands the hat and hair to you and leans in close. She kisses your lips lightly and they go numb. She pulls back and smiles, using a fingernail to draw an affectionate line of frostbite down your cheek.

“Go, Kyle,” she says. “Go.”

You walk past her toward the door, the thin line of dead flesh on your cheek burning. You reach it, tap the knob to check the temperature. You open the door and look back at her. You see that all the trees are bleeding.

“I don’t care,” she calls. “Do you?”

You barely close the door behind you before the two Secret Service agents grab you.

“What is this place?” you scream.

“This is the White House,” the tall one says before punching you in the kidneys so hard you pass out from the pain.

—–

You wake up in a cell. You wake up, think maybe it was all a dream.

“Kyle, Kyle, Kyle,” The President says, “I had such high hopes for you.”

You roll over on your cot and look at him. He is standing alone, hunched, his head still shaking.

“Such high hopes, didn’t we?” he says, speaking to the hat perched on one raised fist and the hair sitting on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“Sorry’s not good enough, Kyle. Sorry’s not going to cut it. I ask you to find the missing ballots and what do you do? You don’t find the ballots. Where are the ballots, Kyle? Where are the ballots?”

“I don’t know, sir,” you say, sitting up. The pain runs up and down you like dull lightning.

“You don’t know? Would you listen to this? He says he don’t know. And such terrible grammar. Just shameful.”

“I said I was sorry,” you say.

“Well, I guess that makes everything OK, then. No, you’re going back to prison, Kyle. Prison. You failed me, Kyle. You failed America. You know why? Because I am America.”

He waves over the Secret Service agents.

“Go on. Take him. No happy ending, Kyle. Bye-bye, bye-bye.”

 

THE END

 

 

 

 

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