Lost in Wonderland

by Nicky Peacock

  Looking at my face, Rabbit smiles. “Ding, ding, ding we have a winner.”

  I down the drink, safe in the knowledge that my system was trained to handle it. Yeah, I’d feel a bit of an effect later, but it wouldn’t knock me out by a long shot, not like it would a normal girl of my size.

  I fake a wobble as I hop off my barstool. Rabbit leans over and kisses my cheek. “Catch yer on the flip side, jailbait,” she says, slipping a mini Taser into my cleavage. It’s about the size of a lipstick but packs a charge that can stun a gorilla. Cheshire once told me that an older operative used to keep one in his back pants pocket, and after being walloped from behind it had malfunctioned and almost killed him. I can never tell whether Cheshire is joking, but to be safe, I go to retrieve it from my cleavage, then realize there’s nowhere else to hide it and reluctantly drop it back in.

  Rabbit watches my indecision, then winks at me. I grunt at her and stare as she weaves her way out of the club, giving me space to do my job. I touch my left forearm for a moment, stroking the bump where the chip nestles beneath my skin. I then fake a stumble toward the restrooms. I don’t know who it is yet, but I know he’s watching me…

  I open the girls’ restroom door and am immediately accosted by the acidic stench of vomit; great. I pick an open stall and lock myself in. Putting down the toilet lid, I gingerly perch on top of it. I’m going to be abducted. Someone is going to pull me from the crowd, like a lion taking down a zebra. My next destination will be somewhere strange and dangerous and I have no control over this. Breathe. I do, however, have years of training of how to deal with sickos. I take a deep breath. I can do this. This is my job and it’s to help keep the innocent safe. I’m doing this, Alice. I take a deeper breath. Feeling along my forearm, I pinch my chip, squeezing it to the surface of my skin. The pain eases my thoughts.

  Slowly, I get up and leave the stall. Alone in the bathroom, I wash my hands and run the soapy water over my face and eyes. This gives the illusion that the drug is working on me. I fiddle with my forearm one last time, then stagger out through the door, back into the club. Those eyes are on me again.

  Chapter Twenty

  Shilo

  “I told her not to go out on her own. That it would get her if she did.” The new patient uncrosses, then re-crosses, his legs.

  Shilo stares from the sofa of the hospital’s crowded living room. Mr. Custard perches on the arm of a nearby chair, his yellow frock coat floating over its end.

  “I told her. I told her the stories.” The man continues talking, although now it’s only Shilo listening.

  “He’s mad. We should go back to your room. You need to get some sleep before your review,” says Mr. Custard.

  “What stories?” Shilo asks, edging forward toward the mumbling stranger.

  The man looks up, briefly making eye contact. “No one believes the stories till it’s too late.”

  “Don’t make conversation, Shilo. You could be free this time tomorrow.” Mr. Custard jumps off the chair and stands between Shilo and the man.

  Shilo leans to look around and Mr. Custard attempts a strange wiggle dance to continually block his view.

  “Tell me the story,” Shilo asks as he gets up and walks through Mr. Custard to sit cross-legged on the floor at the stranger’s feet.

  It’s only now that Shilo can really take in the appearance of this new patient. He’s painfully thin, bones jutting out from under his skin as if his skeleton is trying to escape. Bloodshot eyes and three huge red streaks mark his face. He smells like piss and medicine, although that’s the usual scent of the hospital, so Shilo doesn’t hold that against him.

  “Please, tell me,” Shilo urges as he gently tugs at the bottom of the man’s pajamas.

  He doesn’t look down. Instead he stares out the nearest window. “Her name was Casey, and she was only ten years old. Her mother had died the year before and I was so careful with her, perhaps too careful. I started to keep her in, when she should have been out playing with the other kids. I told her the stories, though, the one that my grandma told me, about…” the man pauses, then looks down at Shilo, “…the Kushtaka.”

  Shilo feels a freezing shiver climb through his body, as if someone had laid a cold, wet blanket around his shoulders. “The Kushtaka,” Shilo repeats.

  The man nods. “You know of these stories?”

  “Yes. It took my mother. Did it take Casey?”

  “Yes. One day, I left the door open and she went out. I found her shoe in the woods. It was bloody and torn.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “No, but it saw me.” He touches his face where the three red marks are. “It definitely saw me, and they say that when the Kushtaka gets a taste for your blood, it won’t stop till it eats you.”

  “I’m going to find it,” Shilo says as he uncrosses his legs and gets up with renewed courage. “I have to protect my sister. It tasted her blood. I can’t let her go again.”

  The man moves his gaze back to the window. “You won’t have to find it. It’ll come here looking for me.”

  Shilo follows the man’s gaze to the hospital gardens.

  “Shilo!” Mr. Custard yells from the doorway as a nurse walks through him. She pauses as she does, then heads toward the patients.

  “Come on now, you should be in your room,” she says, offering her hand to Shilo. He takes it and they walk out, leaving the new patient to mindlessly stare out the window.

  Mr. Custard follows behind them.

  “You were talking to Doug,” she states.

  “Yes, he lost his daughter, Casey,” Shilo adds.

  The nurse stops walking. “What?” Her hand darts to her pocket but comes back empty.

  “What’s wrong?” Shilo asks.

  With a deep breath, she says, “What did he say to you?”

  “Oh, that his daughter, Casey, went missing in the woods.”

  “No, she didn’t.” She positions Shilo so he is directly in front of her. “Doug kidnapped a little girl called Casey. She certainly wasn’t his daughter. He killed her, then buried her in the woods outside his house.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t say it, Shilo. Don’t say its name,” Mr. Custard warns.

  “The Kushtaka took her. He clawed Doug’s face.” Shilo steps back from the nurse.

  “No, Shilo. She scratched his face when he attacked her. He’s here because he is insane. That’s why everyone is here, remember?”

  He finds himself nodding without even thinking about it; so many years in the hospital, more years inside than out in the real world.

  “I think I should speak with your doctor,” the nurse says with a forced smile.

  “But what about the Kushtaka?” Shilo asks.

  “It’s not real, honey. There is danger in the world, but you can’t blame it all on a bogey monster.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mouse

  I giggle and play the part of a drugged girl. I sway to the incessant beat of the shitty songs they play and fall into people while stumbling toward the door. The eyes get closer and closer until they are in front of me, paired with a grin. He says something that I neither hear nor care to take in. An arm snakes around my waist and pulls me toward a back door rather than past the gladiator-looking doorman. I’m kind of relieved that the muscle head isn’t in on this, as he’d be a bitch to take down and I was in my new shoes.

  I’m maneuvered into an alley outside, where a small but expensive car lurks. I quickly touch my forearm, my fingertips tracing the line of my chip. I could just do it here. Get it over with quick. I’m over ninety percent certain that I have the right guy, but if his head is to roll, then I have to be one hundred percent. That’s the Wonderland way. So I allow him to place me in his passenger seat and start to drive. At least I’m not in the trunk this time.

  The drug is starting to dance around my senses now. Although I have a resistance to most drugs, I have a slender build and they do still have an effect on me. It’s not u
npleasant, so I watch through fluttering eyelids at the urban scenery sliding by my window as we drive to my abductor’s lair. He touches my leg a couple of times, but I let it go. I’m waiting for the one hundred percent. When the car finally stops I risk opening my eyes completely. We haven’t pulled up to just any house. We’ve pulled up to college frat house. Our reports were wrong. There isn’t just one unsub. There is just the one delivery guy. He strolls around the side of the parked car, picks me up, and carries me to the door. He rings. I now know what it’s like to be a pizza. I swear to never order takeout again. The inside of the house is quiet, so he rings again. No answer. He struggles to keep hold of me as he bends to retrieve a key hidden under one of those fake rock things. This time the movement of his arm knocks off one of my Dior shoes. It lands on the grass and I stifle a curse word.

  The intelligence on this operation had been sadly neglected; Mom and Dad are going to hit the roof when they find out.

  I’m carried through the house and into a large room that has mirrors all around it; I’m guessing they’re two-way mirrors. There’s a new mattress in the middle of the room. It’s still sheathed in its plastic wrapping. I’m dropped on top of it. I suppress a gasp. Unconscious girls don’t get winded.

  I can’t tell how many people are in the house and how many of them are compliant with these abductions or even if it’s the same guy every time. I can only judge the one who is now pawing at my legs to angle me onto the mattress. The drug has now completely left my system. I’m fully alert and calculating my plan while playing possum. I close my eyes tighter as I hear him move about the room. The rustle of his belt hitting the floor is like an alarm bell, but I’ve been trained to ignore these human reactions. He grips my ankles and pulls me down to him so he looms above me. He doesn’t smell bad. In fact he’s wearing quite a nice aftershave. He licks my cheek, his tongue scratching my skin like a lazy cat. I bring up my knee and pound it into his groin. I then pull out the mini Taser from my cleavage and stun him with it.

  My attacker is now sobbing, rolling around in what looks like piss and smells like shit. I stride over to him and straddle his chest. I pinch his nose till he opens his mouth. Then I shove in my Taser, stand up, and kick his jaw. The weapon continues to electrify him and he jitters about at its assault. I guess Cheshire had been right—with enough force it malfunctions. I make a note to tell him later. I straighten myself up and leave the room. The house is quiet. Had there been anyone watching?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Shilo

  The strained air conditioner buzzes like a dying fly behind the three doctors. Shilo sways slightly in the seat opposite them, glancing nervously around the room.

  “Stop it, Shilo,” whispers Mr. Custard, “you look insane.”

  “But there are bees in here,” Shilo whispers back.

  “It’s the air conditioner. It just needs a service. Now look them all in the eye and act normal, just like we talked about.”

  With an uncomfortable expression, Shilo looks each of the visiting doctors in the eye. He bounces his stare from one to another in a systematic motion.

  “Not like that!” Mr. Custard yells, making Shilo jump.

  “So, Shilo…” One of the doctors rustles the papers in front of him. “Do you still see your little yellow friend?”

  “Little?” Mr. Custard flips the bird to the doctors.

  “You mean Mr. Custard?” asks Shilo.

  “Yes, unless there are other yellow friends you have yet to tell us about?” The doctor to the right raises an eyebrow.

  “No, there’s just the one yellow one.” Shilo tries to laugh but the breath needed lodges in his throat, making him violently cough.

  All the doctors write something down.

  “Crap, this is not going well,” says Mr. Custard as he calmly strolls over to read the doctors’ notes.

  “You didn’t answer the first question, Shilo,” prompts the doctor to the left.

  “Say no, Shilo,” Mr. Custard says, shaking his head.

  “No.”

  “So no more Mr. Custard? Where did he go?” the doctor in the middle asks.

  “They’re testing you, Shilo. Tell them I never existed.”

  “That would be a lie,” Shilo whispers.

  “What would be a lie?” one of the doctors asks.

  Shilo is staring behind the doctors now; he’s looking straight at Mr. Custard.

  “He’s behind us, isn’t he, Shilo?” they ask.

  With renewed effort, Shilo looks them all in the eye, one after the other. “Yes, he is,” he says.

  Mr. Custard slaps his forehead.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mouse

  I open the front door and retrieve my Dior pump. Steadying myself on the doorframe, I slip my lost shoe back on, then scan the dark street before me. My eyes tell me that I’m on the porch of a large house. The streets are narrow and lined with other houses, some with their lights on. But my brain is almost sweating with the prospect of wandering off into the unknown. I have no idea where I am. A tingling reluctance taps through my body and I realize too late that it’s my heartbeat. I go back into the house and take a breath. It’s best to stay in the house anyway. My first operation taught me many lessons, but the one I have always abided by since is check for other victims. I first go to the spacious kitchen, which is oddly clean. I pick out two large butcher knives. My deep breaths drag in a distinct smell of disinfectant from the air, and although I’m aware that the house around me belongs in a splatter-punk horror movie, it appears more like a sort of private hospital. It’s really quiet too, no water pipes clicking, no cowardly sickos fleeing the scene, and not even the ticking of a clock. I instantly become aware of my own breathing, how loud it is, how it fills the room around me. Echoes of my exhales bounce off the clean white walls. The knives feel heavy in my hands. It’s a good feeling, a kind of tingling extension of myself making me more weapon than girl. Most other Wonderlanders choose guns as their backup, and although through the years, and Hatter’s inexhaustible supply of money, they’ve developed smaller, more powerful versions than you see on TV, I still prefer knives, especially if they belong to the murderer. There’s something immensely satisfying when you stick one of them with his own weapon.

  I edge around the house, listening, watching, but the closest I come to another sound is the kidnapper still being electrified and sloshing around in his own juices like a sick cookery experiment. After I’ve searched the entire house I call the Suits for a cleanup and indicate that the operation is not over. Others were definitely involved; you don’t set up a rape/torture room with Peeping Tom action if you’re not expecting an audience. I know I should leave the scene—it’s what I’m trained to do—but instead I go back to the mirror room and put a finger to my kidnapper’s throat. His pulse is still there, albeit locked in a slow and unpredictable rhythm. He’ll die soon; the body can only take so much. Compared to the rest of the house, this room now smells real, a mixture of shit, piss, and blood. Smells I’m used to. I’m not saying that they can become pleasant, but there is a certain draw to the familiar. I sit crossed-legged before the man, my knives carefully laid out before me. I should have questioned him before I made him do the electric jiggle, this much I regret. But the intelligence was wrong, which rarely happens in Wonderland. In fact this is the first time it’s ever happened to me.

  The abductor shudders and groans and a piece of his tongue flops out from his mouth. He must have bitten through it. It makes a wet sound as it hits the floor. I hadn’t noticed him staring at me before, but now I can see that his eyes are wide, wild, and have crawling blood vines curling through them.

  “We’ll get your friends,” I say to him, then smile sweetly. He says nothing, I suspect because he can’t.

  I hear the front door open so get up, collect my knives, and walk toward the sound. But instead of faceless blank Suits flooding in to clear up my mess, I see a stranger in the doorway. He’s early thirties and built lik
e a football player. He is dressed all in black. Is this the man watching from the shadows, the puppet master tangled in strings? We narrow our eyes at one another…

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kushtaka

  “Hale?” she whispers as her consciousness edges her awake. She’s tied up, her arms useless and her legs incapacitated. With keen interest it watches her focus on each of her limbs only to find them secured with long, thick plastic zip ties. Around them, the cave is dark.

  “Don’t struggle.”

  The monster keeps its voice calm and low.

  “Where am I?”

  She doesn’t struggle. She does what she’s told. Instead she squints into the shadows to identify where the voice is coming from, but it knows she won’t see anything, well, nothing good.

  “Please, let me go. My name is Marion. I’m married to Geoff. Please, let me go.”

  It knows what she’s doing. It remembers from an unknown book or TV show that you should make an abductor see you as a person. Tell them your name; give them details about your life. You are then not just a plaything for their amusement. You are a real, living person. But she’s not, not to it.

  “Hello, Marion,” her abductor replies.

  It moves in the darkness and Marion jumps when a match is struck. She blinks at the flash of light. And it knows she now sees it—a mass of fur and sharp edges, the face that is more carved than natural, the smile that can’t be human, as it is lined with fat, sharp teeth.