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slowly cranking down。
Trevor thought there might be tears on his face。 Or maybe it was only the rain； dripping out of his sodden hair。
He stepped forward to meet the car and whatever was inside it。
Chapter Seven
Just after dawn； Zach left his car in the parking lot of a prefab pink motel and walked out onto the dirtiest beach he had ever seen。
He'd kept on a steady northeastern course all night。 Shooting past Pensacola at two； he had intended to go straight on east to Jacksonville but had been diverted by a highway sign pointing out the turnoff to a town called Two Egg。 Zach might never set foot in Florida again； he had to see Two Egg before he left。
But the town was eerie even for rural Florida in the small hours of the morning。 The buildings on the downtown strip all seemed to have been built in the early fifties； that time of false prosperity and fake space…age optimism。 There was that look of the Plexiglas pillar and chromium arch； the kidney shape and the fashionable sign of the atom。 But now these fabulous structures were abandoned； left behind by the chill silicon void of the millennium's end。 Their aqua paint was faded and peeling； their once…wondrous swoops and starbursts and streamlined angles rusting； falling away。
The buildings seemed to sway and nod over the street as if trying to pull Zach into their sterile dream。 The street was full of trash； crumpled fast…food bags and torn newspapers drifting like aimless ghosts。 The swamp was reclaiming the town on all sides； stagnant tongues of water lapped at the sidewalks； cattails grew in every vacant lot。 Altogether； the town made Zach think of the opening helicopter landing scene of Romero's Day of the Dead as filmed on the ruined set of The Jetsons： desolation in which rotting corpses might rise； set against a backdrop as garish and sad as a forgotten cartoon。
He got out of Two Egg in a hurry。 Thirty minutes later he crossed the state line into Georgia。
Now he was on Tybee Island； according to the signs he'd been nearly too bleary…eyed to read by the time he finally hit the coast。 Just east of Savannah； Tybee was a cheap resort area frequented by redneck and middle…class family groups all summer。 The island was honeybed with seaside motels； fried seafood shacks； shell stands； and those weird； ubiquitous little Indian boutiques with their unvarying inventory of gauzy cotton clothes； incense； out…of…date rock posters； cheap jewelry； and drug paraphernalia。
This early； nearly everything was closed。 Zach paid cash for a room at the Sea Castle Motor Inn； parked his car behind the Pepto…Bismol…colored building； and walked down to the beach。
The Atlantic Ocean looked dark and murky； not quite slate； not quite green。 The foam that laced the breakers was like whipped cream squeezed out of a can； thin and unappetizing； unnatural…looking。 And the sand…a hundred times worse than the chalky whitish stuff on the Gulf … gray and wet and heavy； like silt； like sludge。 Zach nudged a heap of it with the toe of his sneaker and uncovered a broken plastic shovel； the wrapper from a Payday bar； the gritty； sticky wad of a used condom。 He kicked sand back over the whole mess and watched it fall in a dirty spray； only half hiding the trash。
He had thought the ocean would soothe his jangling nerves。 Instead the sight of it endlessly heaving and churning made him feel tight inside； lost somehow； as if this was not the place he had meant to e to at all。 He had also thought there would be other teenagers on the beach； that he would be able to blend in and look like part of some holiday crowd。 But at this early hour the beach was nearly empty； and the few people he saw were middle…aged couples or terribly young parents with herds of tiny children。 Even when he took his shirt off and let the fledgling sun beat on his pale back and shoulders； Zach felt about as inconspicuous as Sid Vicious at a Baptist covered…dish supper。
He was beginning to realize just how little he knew about life outside of New Orleans。 But that was all right： with intelligence and intuition； he could hack it。
Hacking was defined as the manipulation of any plex system； as in 〃I can't hack getting dressed tonight； so I'm going to the club in my bathrobe。〃 The plex system could be numbers on a screen or the relays and interchanges of the phone system； those were mechanical； and all you had to do was learn them。 The crucial fact many puter hackers never seemed to realize…and the reason some of them were perceived as such geeks…was that the world and all its sentient beings and their billions of stories prised the most intricate； fascinating system of all。
He pushed himself up off the gray sand and walked to the edge of the water。 The glare caught the round lenses of his glasses； made his eyes sting and tear。 Fine； he felt like crying anyway。 A breeze tainted with the odors of wet salt and crude oil caught his hair and pushed it back from his face； dried the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip。 The tears and the wind felt good together。
Zach looked up and down the beach； followed the juncture of sand and water until it merged into infinity。 South of here were the Georgia Sea Islands； where the rich language and culture of the Gullah people had dried up over the past century like so many fronds of marsh grass never woven into baskets； like so many magical roots never fashioned into protective 〃hands。〃 North was the rest of the Atlantic Seaboard； more than a thousand miles of that churning； strange…colored ocean stretching all the way up to the unimaginably toxic sands of New York and New Jersey。
Soon the beach began to get crowded； and Zach saw that he would never be able to blend in here。 The redneck dudes in their drawstring jams and scraggly little mustaches； the dudettes with their bleached…permed…frosted hair and cottage cheese asses and scary； leathery tans； the kids that were hideous little replicas of their parents in Teenage Mutant Ninja drag…all stared at Zach as if he might be something nasty that had washed up overnight and hadn't floated back out yet。 It was time to crash； time to sleep now so he could blow this boring joint by nightfall。
Back in his room at the Sea Castle； Zach stripped out of his sweaty cutoffs； laid his glasses on the nightstand； and crawled into the double bed。 The sheets were worn but clean and cool。 He nestled into the pillows； closed his eyes； felt delicious exhaustion wash over him； thought of the kid Leaf and suddenly had a raging boner that was never going to let him sleep in a million years； noway； nohow。
Zach leaned over the edge of the bed and rummaged in one of his bags； found a string of little blue plastic packets； and tore one off。 He never used rubbers for sex unless the other person insisted…and many of his lovers in New Orleans had insisted； he was known for more than his pallid good looks and mysterious wealth （which bination had convinced a certain set of French Quarter kids that Zach was a vampire and another set entirely that he was dying of AIDS and whooping it up while he still could）。 But he always used them for beating off。 Not a one had broken yet； and