Unwind (Unwind Dystology 1)

37 Emby and the Admiral

Emby has no idea of all the gears turning in the Graveyard— or even that he's one of them. His world is contained within the square panels of his comic books and the well-defined borders of a pinball machine. Staying within those borders has been a successful defense against the injustice and cruelty of life outside of them.

He does not question the oddness of the trio that just left for Alaska; it's not his business. He does not sense the tension in Connor; Connor can take care of himself. He does not spend time wondering about Roland; he just stays out of Roland's way.

But keeping his head down does not keep him in the safe zone. Emby is, in fact, the central bumper on the pinball board, and every single ball in play is about to rebound off of him.

* * *

The Admiral has called for him.

Emby now stands nervously at the entrance to what was once the mobile command center for a president of the United States. There are two other men here. They are in white shirts and dark ties. The black sedan that waits at the bottom of the stairs must be theirs. The Admiral sits at his desk. Emby tries to decide whether he should enter, or turn around and run away. But the Admiral sees him, and his gaze freezes Emby's feet in place.

"You wanted me, sir?"

"Yes. Have a seat, Zachary."

He forces his feet to move toward the chair across from the Admiral. "Emby," he says. "Everyone just calls me Emby."

"Is that your choice, or theirs?" asks the Admiral.

"Well . . . theirs, mostly—but I got used to it."

"Never let anyone else name you," says the Admiral. He leafs through a file with Emby's picture clipped to the cover. It's a full file, and Emby can't imagine how there could be enough interesting things in his life to fill a file that thick. "You may not realize this, but you're a very special boy," says the Admiral.

Emby can only look down at his shoelaces, which are, as always, moments away from coming untied. "Is that why I'm here, sir? Because I'm special?"

"Yes, Zachary. And because of it, you're going to be leaving us today."

Emby looks up. "What?"

"There's someone who wants to meet you. In fact, it's someone who has been looking for you for a very long time."

"Really?"

"These men will take you there."

"Who is it?" Emby has a longstanding fantasy that one of his parents is actually still alive. If not his mother, then his father. He has always dreamed that his father was actually a spy—that his death all those years ago was just the official story, and he's been off in the untamed corners of the world fighting evil, like a real-life comic-book hero.

"It's no one you know," says the Admiral, dashing Emby's hopes. "She's a good woman, though. Actually, she's my ex-wife."

"I ... I don't understand."

"It will be clear to you soon enough. Don't worry."

Which, to Emby, is an open invitation to worry without end. It makes him start to hyperventilate, which makes his bronchial tubes begin to constrict. He starts to wheeze. The Admiral looks at him with concern.

"Are you all right?"

"Asthma," Emby says between wheezes. He pulls out an inhaler from his pocket and takes a puff.

"Yes," says the Admiral. "My son had asthma—he responded very well to Xolair." He looks up at one of the men behind Emby. "Please make sure you get some Xolair for that lung."

"Yes, Admiral Dunfee."

It takes a moment for this to bounce around on the pegs and pins in Emby's mind before hitting his mental flippers.

"Dunfee? Your last name is Dunfee"?"