Bad Glass

Before I pulled away from the barricade, the soldier told me about an overgrown lane a half mile back the way I’d come, whispering directions into my ear with a cautious glance up toward the nearest camera. It was barely there—a little woodland trail, almost invisible—and I had to jolt through a quarter mile of brush before I finally reached a small alcove sheltered beneath an umbrella of branches. A dozen vehicles were already parked back there, hidden away from the main road, some covered with a thick coat of fallen leaves, others looking car-wash clean.

I parked next to a mud-splattered Jeep and got out of my car. Judging by the carpet of leaves on its hood, the Jeep had been there for quite a while. I walked a circuit around the vehicle, peering in through its windows. The passenger-side window had been left open just a crack, and there was a puddle of rainwater standing on the carpeted floorboard. The Jeep had specialty California license plates, and there was a stacked “P.P.” icon to the left of the number.

“Shit,” I muttered, shaking my head. I’d seen that icon on the news. P.P. stood for “Press Photographer.”

How much competition do I have? I wondered.

I knew I wasn’t the first. Pictures had been leaking out of the city for weeks now—strange, beautiful pictures, unlike anything I’d ever seen. But how many photographers had beaten me here? Dozens? Were there parking spots like this at every entrance—alcoves filled with Jeeps and news vans and P.P. specialty plates?

Is my chance already gone?

Overwhelmed with frustration, I hauled off and kicked the Jeep’s bumper. The vehicle rocked back and forth on its shocks, but my boot didn’t leave a mark. I considered keying the car—just scratching the shit out of every visible surface—but decided to take the high road. Instead, I hauled off and spit a huge glob of phlegm onto the middle of its windshield.

Then I got my bags ready and locked my car.

My camera, camcorder, and notebook computer were all in my backpack, each tucked away in its own carefully padded compartment. The rest of my gear was crammed into an oversized duffel; my clothing and supplies were packed so tight, they threatened to burst the bag at its seams. As soon as I hoisted it onto my shoulder, the duffel’s strap cut off circulation to my arm, and its weight had me walking like a drunken hunchback, tilted to one side.

I was already winded by the time I made it back to the barricade. As soon as I got near the cameras, I circled around to the far side of Fort Wright Road and made my way out into the field. The soldiers pretended not to watch, but I caught them shooting me furtive little looks. I stayed at least twenty feet from the road, and after about a dozen steps, I noticed a thin trail beneath my feet. Nothing like a well-blazed path—just a line of crushed grass and mud shooting back toward the road a hundred yards away—but I was certainly not the first one to make this detour.

As I drew even with the barricade, I glanced over and found the soldiers watching. As soon as he saw me turn, the one who had been on the radio glanced away—an embarrassed, self-conscious movement—but his comrade, my soldier, continued to watch. He flashed me a bittersweet smile, then swatted at an imaginary fly, waving his hand in front of his face. It was a completely innocuous gesture—anyone watching on video wouldn’t give it a second thought—but I caught the meaning. A sort of “good luck.” I returned the wave, then turned back toward the trail.

And that’s how I got into the city.

Photograph. October 17, 04:43 P.M. Taylor Stray:

Most of her body is in shadow, but not her face. It stands out like a spark of fire in a pitch-black cave. Her skin is on the dark side of Caucasian—vaguely Indian—but a narrow beam of sunlight makes it glow. She’s wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt; the cowl is pulled up, tented loosely over her head.

Her eyes are dark and alert. Black pearls in milk. Focused and strong, absolutely un-self-conscious. The camera is the last thing on this young woman’s mind. It’s barely present, the least important thing in the room.

Beams of sunlight stab down from the ceiling—out of frame—spotlighting dead leaves and litter on the linoleum floor. There’s a window on the left side of the room—a square of bright, hazy light, revealing no hint of shape or form on the other side. Nothing but glowing white fog.

She’s holding a backpack by its strap, extended out toward the camera.

She’s not smiling. The look on her face … it’s the same intensity that’s in her eyes, mirrored in lips, cheeks, and forehead. Reflected and amplified.

She’s focused on something else. Something beyond the camera, beyond the room.

Weasel found me at the edge of the business district.