Rise of the Poison Moon

by MaryJanice Davidson

  She thought of Jennifer Scales yet again . . . that girl had beat on Skip once or twice herself, hadn’t she? What did that say about her—or him?

  Probably me, she thought glumly. I’m the sick one.

  “So,” Skip began. He paused, spat a tooth, then tried again. “Ready to kiss and make up?”

  “Shut up.” She sighed.

  “We could just kiss.”

  “Skip.”

  “Because I’m ready to let bygones be bygones.” He patted his mouth with his sleeve. “Also, I would like very much to stop bleeding from the mouth.”

  She grinned; she couldn’t help it.

  “You want—”

  Something whizzed past her face like a giant mosquito and slammed into his left foot. As Skip screamed, she recognized the feathered markings immediately. So did he.

  “Eddie, you shit! Come out and fight like—”

  “Sit still,” she ordered, seizing his ankle and trying to keep him from running after the archer. “I’ll fix it.”

  “I don’t want you to fix it—I want his eyes out of his skull!”

  Aw, she thought, hiding how much this amused her. That’s so romantic.

  Skip jerked his foot away and snapped his fingers. Out of the grass popped twenty beetle- sized shapes, each thinner than paper and waving dozens of antennae.

  “Find him! I want to know where’s he’s hiding!”

  “Skip, they never—look, hold your foot still, and I can—you have to get this arrow out.” I had to say that aloud, Andi thought. I actually had to tell him that out loud. Because he’s way more concerned with getting even than alleviating his own pain. Also, she realized glumly as she watched the band of two-dimensional insectoids leap through the high prairie like dolphins, he has made yet more creatures bristling with phallic doodads.

  So, she considered, rubbing her bloody palms on her thighs, megacool? Or megacrazy?

  “Fuck the arrow,” Skip snarled, which was about what Andi expected. “Eddie’s getting ready to fire again while you’re dicking around with my foot!”

  “ ‘Dicking’? I’m trying to help you. And Eddie Blacktooth has never fired more than a single shot, which, if you’d put your angst into park, you’d remember.”

  “Yeah, he’s never hit with a shot before, either. Dammit, leave it alone.”

  Why am I bothering? “I can help.”

  “Right after Eddie’s dead.”

  “Skip, he’s got a head start the length of two football fields. Your little bug patrol isn’t going to catch him. If you give me five minutes, I can pull the arrow, staunch the wound, and—”

  “I’ll get it out myself.” In an instant, Skip had morphed into a massive fisher spider. His bloodied boot morphed into a slim tarsus at the end of a long, spindly leg with beige and gray bands. The arrow lost its purchase and slipped free. Skip hissed through his mandibles.

  I’m not scared, not exactly, she thought, eyeing the frightening new shape. And I’m not turned on. Not exactly.

  “You going to try and run after him now?” She already knew the answer.

  “I guess you’re right—I’ll never catch up. Coward knows how to run.”

  “Funny who’s calling whom a coward.”

  The giant arachnid spun and faced her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s a beaststalker, Skip. Maybe you’re familiar with the term? Killing ugly things your size is what he’s trained to do.”

  Skip made a sound. A snort. Or a sneer. A sigh, maybe? Hard to read his expression in that shape. “As if that wimp could do any such thing.”

  “Yeah, you keep telling me he’s a wimp, that you kicked his ass last year in a parking garage, blah blah blah. I never met that Eddie Blacktooth, Skip—but I’ve met this one. Do you have any idea how hard it is to put an arrow so close to us, every time, from two hundred yards or more? You’re lucky he hasn’t decided to split your heart open. Maybe there’s a little wind each time, or maybe he’s toying with you. Either way, I get why you wouldn’t get any closer to him than you have to.”

  “He’s the one who’d better keep his distance.”

  “Hmm. Well.” She coughed. “He is the one with the compound bow.”

  He began kicking up tufts of grass and hollering through his mandibles at an enemy he could not catch, and Andi could only squint at the far tree line. She was pretty sure Eddie was gone, but with the shot taken downwind and so far away, who could be sure?

  And how, she wondered, do I feel about that, exactly? Do I wish he were still taking shots? Do I wish he’d stop toying with Skip?

  She looked down at the arrow. It was good that Skip could take care of that by himself. Andi’s healing would have required sorcery, and sorceries cost the caster—usually in years of life. The man who had cast the dome over Winoka, Edmund Slider, had slipped into death after exerting too much power.

  If this was to be only the first of many times Skip would be injured, Andi would have to give up some years.

  Her years. Time she would never, ever get back.

  For Skip.

  Maybe Eddie knows that, she told herself. Maybe he’ll try to whittle us to death—Skip with arrows, and me with my own sorcery. It’d be like him. It’d be . . . polite.

  She still could not bring herself to hate the boy. Or his girlfriend, Jennifer Scales.

  Skip shifted back into the form of an angry, brown- haired boy with a limp. “This whole thing is going to crap.”

  “What is?”

  “This!” Skip flung his arms wide, emphasizing his disgust with (a) the dome, (b) the universe, (c) the weather, (d) the beaststalkers, and/or (e) her. “This . . . whole . . . thing! Edmund Slider did an amazing sorcery, this supercool event, he made it happen, and for what? Huh? Andi?”

  “I’m sitting forty inches away, I can hear you perfectly,” she snapped. “And I know. I know! Edmund made this noble sacrifice, killed himself, for peace.”

  “Yeah, he—um, no.”

  “What?”

  “No, Andi. He sacrificed himself to help us all—to destroy the town!”

  “I don’t think ‘help’ means what you think it means.”

  “Geez, did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Why do you trap something under glass? To help it?”

  “Um, I don’t . . .”

  “No. You trap it under glass to suffocate it. To watch it die slowly. To show it what it gets when it screws with you.”

  She tried not to let her skin crawl away. “So great. The town’s dying slowly. They’ve lost power, and there’s no way they have the fuel and food to get through a second winter. So what’s your problem?”

  Skip actually spun around in a small circle, looking not unlike a Hopi Indian about to embark on a snake dance. “It’s taking too long!”

  “Taking too long?” She knew she sounded like an idiot parrot. Trouble was, this time she honestly had no idea what his malfunction was.

  “At some point,” Skip frothed, “you want to lift the glass and crush what you’ve trapped.”

  “Charming. So how do you plan to lift the bowl?”

  “You and I don’t have to. We’re not going to go in. We’re going to ship in the crushing.”

  The thin beetles he had sent after Eddie returned and crawled up his leg and body, to settle and chirp on his shoulder. Andi had rarely seen anything so gorgeous and repellent at the same time.

  She motioned to them. “Looks like they didn’t find Eddie after all.”

  “Screw Eddie. We’ll make more and destroy Winoka.”

  “Destroy what with who now?”

  “Destroy Winoka. With these creatures. It’s perfect, Andi! It’s so us. We’ve worked together to make them. I create them, you bring them into the world.”

  She snorted. “You mean, you draw them, and I sing to make them all poofy and three-dimensional . . .”

  “Don’t mock what we do. We’re gods, Andi.”r />
  She blinked and said nothing.

  “Right!” he added, as if she’d agreed, or required more information. “We’re gods, and we can make an army. An entire army programmed to do whatever we want. They’ll spy for us, fight for us, die for us.”

  “Like Hannah Montana fans.”

  He frowned.

  “What?” she asked. “I’ve been in this world long enough to learn about Hannah Montana.”

  “We’ll program these armies to make an impact.”

  “What kind of impact?”

  “Take things out. City hall, school, people—”

  “People?” It’s got to be a joke. Or perhaps testosterone poisoning. Maybe when the entire world is a sizzling cinder in space, he’ll be content.

  “Yeah! Kill enough of them, and they’ll start fighting each other.”

  “They’re already fighting.”

  “Not much. Not anymore.”

  This much was true, Andi had to concede. Best they could tell, an uneasy cease- fire had formed. Dragons and those town residents who could stand them—led by Dr. Elizabeth Georges-Scales—clustered near the hospital, while those most hostile to the newcomers kept close to city hall. A good deal of the town didn’t care who was what or where, as long as everyone left them alone.

  But not everyone did. And now, Skip wanted to add to their troubles.

  “Edmund wouldn’t have wanted them to die,” came a third voice from behind.

  They turned and saw Tavia Saltin, Skip’s aunt. Andi self-consciously smoothed out the front of her jeans and tried to unmess her hair.

  Skip got to his feet. “Aunt Tavia, listen. Mr. Slider put that barrier up for a reason. He’s given us an opportunity! We should take it.”

  Tavia was a frail, middle-aged woman with wisps of dark hair and broad teeth that flashed easily, but she was not smiling now. “His last act was an effort to buy you time, so that you could come to your full powers. Out of respect for his wishes and what I believe your own father would want for you, I’ve let you set your pace. I’ve gone along with living out of abandoned houses and restaurants on the edge of town, so you could indulge your visions in peace and quiet. But these fantasies of yours are getting riskier. We have been scraping out an existence on the edge of a dying town for over a year, and all you have done is sketch creatures in the sand, play with your girlfriend . . . and now, this daydream about burying a town that would die on its own if you walked away and left it alone. Focus on improving yourself, Skip, not on tearing down others.”

  “Aunt—”

  “Don’t interrupt me. I’m losing patience. Our kind is on the verge of extinction, and it’s time you paid attention. I’ve suggested before that we bring in my remaining brothers and sisters, so you can learn from—”

  “I’m not interested in any more relatives!” Skip’s tone was so vehement, Andi scrambled away from him. “No more Saltins, no more Wilsons! If they’re not ditching me, they’re slapping me around or getting themselves killed! You’re all useless—I’m not looking for any more like you. You want to find your pathetic siblings, go right ahead. Andi and I will stay here and get this done ourselves.”

  Andi stared at Tavia as Tavia stared at Skip. She wasn’t sure what she wanted the older woman to do. Leave them alone? Take Andi with her? Help them kill Winoka?

  After a few moments, it was too late to ask. Tavia turned without another word and left.

  CHAPTER 2

  Susan

  “Welcome to another edition of Under Big Blue, with Susan Elmsmith. I’m Susan Elmsmith. It’s Day 300, and we’re—well, we’re still under the dome. We’re broadcasting from the parking lot of Winoka Hospital, a beacon of hope for this troubled town. The, er, hospital, not the parking lot.

  “This is the place where the wounded come for healing and comfort, where medical professionals work tirelessly to keep the spark of life . . . um, sparking . . . and where Death fears to tread!”

  “Good heavens, Susan—”

  “We have a special guest today, to celebrate our three hundredth day of survival. Dr. Elizabeth Georges-Scales, M.D., leader of the town—”

  “Susan.” The emerald-eyed, blonde woman seemed embarrassed. “I’m not the leader of the town. I’m the head of surgery for this hospital.”

  “If you say so. Your job has become more difficult this past year, hasn’t it?”

  “It has. While the violence of last winter and spring has died down, we are running out of medical supplies . . . and everything else.”

  “Can’t we reuse some things?”

  “Replenishment is possible in some cases—we began recycling certain resources and growing some simple medicinal herbs once it became clear the dome would be with us for a while.

  “And we are figuring out ways to keep our building’s generators going with biomass—wood, animal carcasses, that sort of thing. However, most of modern medicine is too sophisticated—pharmaceuticals, plastics, and so on. Our second winter is coming. The only thing that penetrates this dome is weather. We need the outside world to be thinking about this problem and helping us forge a solution.”

  “And how do we know they aren’t already working hard on this problem, Dr. Georges-Scales?”

  “Because we have received virtually no transmissions from the outside world. In fact, from what we can see ourselves through the few media outlets who carry excerpts of your reports, there is no evidence anyone is paying attention to our town at all.”

  “Could you elaborate on that, Dr. Georges-Scales?”

  “No one—not media, not university research, not private industry, not law enforcement, not military—has responded to our repeated requests for assistance. At all. People need to understand that there are real people in here, hurt and dying.”

  “Why don’t they respond, Dr. Georges-Scales?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps some are frightened by what this town holds. Perhaps they want us to go away. This town is not a danger to anyone. The only danger here is that people will suffer needlessly. Please, if you are listening to Susan’s transmission: reach out to us. You will be saving lives. We would be so grateful. Thank you.”

  “You’ve done your own share of lifesaving, haven’t you, Dr. Georges-Scales?”

  “Oh.” Susan held her breath and tilted her brunette locks as she watched the doctor pause at this deviation from their agreed-upon script. “Well. Yes, we have saved some lives here. The staff at Winoka Hospital is highly trained and professional. I am honored to work with them.”

  “And you lead them, against all odds.”

  “That’s a dramatic overstatement, Susan.”

  “So it contains a kernel of truth, then, Dr. Georges-Scales? Sources credit you with keeping this town together in a crisis. They point out your trademark focus and discipline. They talk of your accomplishments: you were a favorite disciple of the late Mayor Seabright, you finished med school one year early, you sing beautifully in the shower when you think no one’s listening—”

  “My husband put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  “I can’t comment on that, ma’am,” she said primly. “But sources also say you fell in love with a dashing young man who should have been your enemy. The danger thrilled you, and hurling caution to the winds, you embraced it with a surprising vigor and passion.”

  “I’m going to hurt him. Jonathan, if you’re watching this transmission . . . shame on you. You should be taking Susan’s broadcasts more seriously.”

  “Argh. Pause it, Gautierre.” Susan made a cutting motion, and her tall, black-braided boyfriend lowered the camera. “C’mon, Dr. S. I’m trying to spice it up.”

  “With mixed metaphors focused on my personal life?”

  “Folks outside the dome need to see a little hope in here. You give people hope, and even people in this town want to know more about you. I figure maybe part of the reason we’re not hearing anything is because all we have to share is depressing . . . or boring.”

 
; “You’re worried that we’re boring them.”

  Susan swallowed and managed a smile. “Not that boring is bad, mind you! Except it is, in journalism.”

  “You’d prefer a return to the daily killings, from a few months ago.”

  “Geez, Dr. Georges-Scales, no! I’m not talking about being exciting that way. I was thinking of something more fun. For example”—she motioned to Gautierre, who faithfully raised the camera again—“some of our listeners may want to learn: what is it like to love a dragon?”

  “Come again?”

  “Loving a dragon. What is that like?”

  Elizabeth stared at Susan, then the camera, then the boy holding the camera. “I . . . I don’t suppose it’s any different from loving anyone else. I’ve only had one love in my life, and that’s Jonathan Scales. He’s a wonderful man. I wouldn’t trade my life with him for anything.”

  “That’s sweet. But our viewers’ concerns may be . . . more specific. More practical.”

  The older woman shifted. “Such as?”

  “What’s the experience like?

  “The experience.”

  “Yeah. The act.”

  The doctor’s face paled. “Susan. I’m not talking about this on the Internet.”

  “Don’t think of it as the Internet. Think of it as posterity. You’ve experienced something no other woman has, yet—a physical expression of passion with a man who could literally tear you apart. Surely, you have some tidbits you could share, some advice—”

  “Susan . . . okay, first of all, I could just as easily tear him apart. And I might, if he put you up to this. Second, if you and Gautierre have questions for me, I am happy to answer them . . . in private.”

  “Arrrgh! Gautierre, cut! We’ll have to edit that out, too.”

  “Susan, maybe Dr. Georges-Scales is right . . .”

  Susan didn’t blame her boyfriend for siding with the older woman. Even though he was a lovely boy who was utterly devoted to his perky and clever girlfriend, Dr. Elizabeth Georges-Scales could intimidate the heat away from a fire. Susan bit her lip and nodded as Elizabeth walked to Gautierre, seized the camera from him, handed it to Susan, and said, “This interview is over.”