Jericho: A Novel

by Alex Gordon

  She’s struggling to not succumb. Lauren took hold of the girl’s hand and squeezed it, and fielded another angry look from Fernanda. But this time the witch added pain to the mix, broken glass scrapings that made Lauren feel as though someone ran a knife between skin and muscle and peeled peeled peeled.

  “Your father doesn’t know the meaning of love. I learned that too late.” Fernanda drew a small square in the air. “He knows power, and control, and cruelty.” Her eyes glistened. “I sense your pain, angel. I know what you suffer because I suffered it as well. But there is a life beyond yours. An amazing life filled with magic and beauty.” She glanced at Lauren. “Yes, and power, too. Your new friend can tell you of the power.” With that, she twitched her hand.

  Lauren caught herself to keep from stumbling as the pain ceased, like a bulb switching off. Then, a few seconds later, it flared, held her in its fiery grip for a few more tripping heartbeats before dying once again. She met Fernanda’s eye, saw both the smile and the warning it contained. That this was only a taste. That she could subject Lauren to tortures that were so much worse.

  “I don’t want to die, Mom.” Nyssa gave Lauren’s hand a light shake, then released it, as if she knew that any show of affection between them angered her mother.

  “It doesn’t hurt.” Fernanda eyed Lauren sidelong. “Ask your friend. She died once, and yet here she is. It is an interlude only, like walking through a door. And after that, we can be together forever.” She pointed to Rickard. “I passed all his tests. And you are my daughter, so you will, too.”

  “If I go with you, what happens to Lauren?” Nyssa crossed her arms, injected her native stubbornness into her voice. “You’d let her go, right?”

  Lauren heard footsteps coming up from behind, and turned to find Rickard standing behind her, clipboard in hand.

  When their eyes met, he smiled.

  “Of course she can leave.” Fernanda made a shooing motion in Lauren’s direction. “She can do what she wants in the world that has your father in it. But you and I will have a different world, an unimaginable world, filled with wonder.”

  “Did you learn about that world from Grandfather?” Nyssa’s breathing had turned rapid, shallow. “People are dying, Mom. Disappearing. It’s not a good world.”

  “But I came here first and I’m your mother. I made it safe for you.” Fernanda held out her hand. “Leave her. Come to me.”

  Nyssa stared at her mother for a few long moments. Then she turned to Lauren. “What do we do?”

  “Run.” Lauren swung the scalpel at Rickard as he tried to grab her, slashed through his lab coat sleeve and whatever lay beneath. Silvery fluid that stank like the fungus sprayed from the wound, and he howled, the sound echoing down the corridors.

  Lauren ran behind Nyssa, scalpel at the ready in case Rickard followed. She looked back and found Fernanda chasing them instead.

  No, “chasing” was the wrong word. She didn’t run, no. She didn’t have to. She walked, lips moving in silent spellcast, her eyes fixed on Lauren.

  Lauren braced. It didn’t help. The pain hit like barbed fire under her skin and she staggered, then dropped to one knee.

  “No. You can’t do that now.” Nyssa grabbed Lauren under her arm and dragged her to her feet, then pulled her along.

  “It’s your mother. She can make me hurt, and I can’t block it.” Lauren pushed the girl down the corridor. “Run. Look for an exit. There had to be more than one way out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving you.” Nyssa stopped in the middle of the corridor nexus, where the stairway should have been. “What happened to the steps? Did they move them?”

  Lauren passed her hand through the air around the spot where the stairs should have been. “They’re still here. We just can’t see them.”

  “They can do that?” Nyssa looked past Lauren. “We need to run. Now.”

  “You’re being silly, Nyssa.” Fernanda’s rich laugh followed them.

  Lauren looked back to find Fernanda only a few strides behind. Rickard shambled beside her, cradling his arm, the front of his lab coat smeared with stinking gray slime.

  “Come on.” Nyssa grabbed Lauren by her shirt and dragged her down the corridor they had explored before, past the menu board and toward the examination room.

  “We’ll be trapped in there.” Lauren tried to stop Nyssa from entering the room, but another wave of pain washed through her. Stars flashed and faded before her eyes, and every step rattled along her spine and sent muscles cramping.

  “We can break through the ceiling tiles and find a vent to crawl through.” Nyssa pushed Lauren into the room, then slammed the door shut and dragged the metal table in front of it.

  “That only happens in the movies.” Lauren fell to the floor, pushed herself against the wall so she could sit up. We’re screwed if we stay here. She tried to work into a crouch so that she could stand, but her muscles seized and she slumped back down.

  Nyssa pushed everything movable in front of the door—the rolling cart, a couple of smaller chairs. “I’m going to tell Dad, if we ever get out of here. That she brought me here. That we slept here.” Then she hurried to Lauren, sat on the floor, and scooted next to her. “Do you think something happened to me when we did that? Is that what got into my head?”

  “I don’t know.” Lauren strained for any sound of Fernanda’s approach, tried to prepare for what she knew to be coming. Take the worst flu ever, and quadruple it. Then double it. And just when she reached the point where she could bear it no longer, Fernanda would push her until she passed out. And where will I wake up? Assuming she did. I’m just extra baggage. Something for Rickard to test.

  It’s sad, when they fail.

  “What is that noise?” Nyssa got up and walked to the window. “It’s like buzzing.” She pressed close to the window so she could see down the corridor. “Oh. Oh no.” She backpedaled, stumbled, and fell, then dug her heels into the floor and pushed backward until she rammed against the wall next to Lauren.

  Lauren listened. A buzzing sound, yes, but with weird harmonics, the rise and fall of crowd noise.

  Then she saw the shadows. They began as a darkening of the corridor walls, the ceiling. Then they streamed out into the air, the flies of the forest, tumbled clouds of black and gray that swirled into tighter shapes that took form and mass and grew arms and legs. Crawled along the walls and ceiling and across the window, their clawlike hands scratching against the glass, squeaks like marker on whiteboard.

  Faces—they pressed them against the window. Noseless. Jagged-tooth mouths round as octopus suckers. Bulging black eyes. Rugose bodies of dark green, skin like moss that flaked and smeared the glass.

  “Can you see them?” Nyssa covered her face with her hands, stared at the window through her fingers. “Please tell me you see them, too.”

  “I see them, too.” Lauren hugged the girl close, rocked her like a baby as she trembled.

  “‘We are the forest. We are the darkness that hides. We are the children of the howl and the cry. The makers of fear. Spawn of shadow and the longing for hell.’” Nyssa’s voice came rushed and hoarse. “Grandfather wrote that. He told me and Mom that we would foster the children. He said we were special, and that someday the world would be ours. How can I remember that now? I forgot it for so long but now it’s like it’s burned into my brain. Like this place made me remember. I told him that I didn’t want that world, but he said I’d change my mind.” She shook her head. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  Lauren watched the creatures continue to mill, like bees crawling through their hive or flies massing on a corpse. “Those are the forest people, like the figures in the garden.”

  “They’re the children. They’re my children.”

  “They’re nobody’s children.”

  The buzzing lowered, the creatures stilled. Then some of them moved apart, leaving an open space. A shift of light and dark, and Fernanda appeared. She pressed close to the glass, hands on either side o
f her face, like a child staring at sweets through the candy store window.

  Her eyes met Lauren’s, and she smiled.

  Nyssa buried her face in Lauren’s shoulder. “We’re going to die.”

  “Like hell we are.” Lauren forced herself to move, pushed through every shuddering wave, every cramp. She worked her hand into her pack, dug out the wooden block. Squeezed it, massaged it, felt where it had been, how it had been used. Sensed the remnants of the person who had been strapped into the vinyl-covered chair and subjected to who the hell knew what while a hallway full of Elliott Rickards watched through the glass and took notes on their clipboards.

  “All the pain you felt,” she said to the shade of whoever had suffered and probably died with that piece of wood clenched in their mouth, “let me give it back.” She slipped the block between her teeth, fitted them into the impressions that poor bastard had left behind, and willed the wood to release its memory. Tasted nothing but the dusty dryness, felt nothing but the polished smoothness.

  Then the block warmed and grew damp and she tasted saliva and coffee, the coffee that they had drugged and then came the vomit though he had tried to hold back, so ashamed, the pain the hurt and then the metal taste of blood and the salty sting of tears—

  —rattling through her teeth and along her jaw like the dentist’s needle jammed too deep. Down her neck and into her chest, where it formed a white-hot ball that wound tighter and tighter then pushed out through her hands, her eyes and ears and nose and mouth every part of her back arching as she cried out and gave voice to the last scream of a dying mind.

  “LAUREN!”

  Shaking shaking shaking.

  “Lauren!”

  Lauren opened her eyes.

  “They’re gone. They’re gone. You have to get up. We have to go.” Nyssa grabbed her under the arms and sat her up. “You—I don’t know what you did. You screamed and it was like you had a seizure and out in the hall it all went swirly black and blew apart, like they all went to pieces.” She dug into Lauren’s pack, pulled out a wad of tissues, and pressed them to Lauren’s face. “We have to go now.”

  Lauren told hold of the tissues. She tasted blood, her nose felt stuffed full of cotton, and every bone and muscle ached. “Go.”

  “Yeah, we have to.” Nyssa pulled Lauren to her feet and pushed her into the exam chair. Then she rushed around the room, grabbing objects and flinging them at the window. The trash can. A surgical tray.

  Finally, she hefted the metal table and slammed it repeatedly against the glass. One hairline crack formed. Another.

  Lauren wondered if she could manipulate dark space, push through the window and drag Nyssa after her. But the atmosphere of the room was a tumult, her thoughts, a jumble. “Aim for the lower corner.” She pulled the tissues away from her face and stared at the blood. Tossed the wadded mess aside, stood, and shuffled to Nyssa’s side. “Use it like a pick-ax.” She took hold of the other end of the table, and helped the girl bash the point of the leg at the window again and again.

  No luck, at first—the pane was thick, shatter-resistant. Lauren felt the blood trickle from her nose, fought the urge to vomit as nausea gripped her with a cold, clammy hand. Heard Nyssa’s panicked whimpers.

  Then, at last, chips of glass sprayed. Tiny ones first. Then a hand-sized shard broke away and clattered to the floor outside.

  “That’s enough.” Nyssa dropped her end of the table and snaked her arm through the jagged hole, wincing as sharp edges scraped her skin. “I can’t—yes I can—I’ve got it.”

  Lauren pushed the table aside and staggered to the door, waited until she heard the knob turn. Then she wedged her fingers into the narrow gap between the panel and the jamb while Nyssa pushed just enough. Felt her fingernails bend and snap as she pried and levered and finally pulled the door open.

  “Now.” Nyssa took Lauren’s hand and dragged her into the corridor.

  Lauren tried to put one foot in front of the other. Stumbled once, then again.

  “The stairs are back.” Nyssa ran up to the top of the flight and pushed up the hatch. “Come on.” She scrambled through the opening to the floor above, then lay on her stomach and held out her hand.

  Lauren mounted the steps, then struggled to keep her footing as Nyssa pulled her through. But as she fought to stay upright, she sensed something else in the air. She sniffed. “Do you smell something?”

  “I don’t know how you can smell anything.” Nyssa touched Lauren’s face, and winced. “We have to go now.” She took hold of Lauren’s hand, and together they walked out the door.

  Then they stopped, and stared at the darkness that surrounded them. Stagnant air that stank of ponds on summer days, damp cellar corners, and left a thin sheen of oil behind as it drifted over skin.

  Nyssa coughed, covered her nose with her hand. “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know.” Lauren squinted into the murk, caught sight of shapes moving toward them. “We need to go back inside.”

  “I am not going back in there.”

  “We have to.” Lauren dragged Nyssa back into the building and pulled the door closed just as several somethings bumped against it. Faces pressed against the windows, then seemed to melt against the glass, mouths drawn out in perpetual screams.

  Then came sounds from overhead, the rapid patter of small, running feet.

  “They’re on the roof.” Lauren backed into the center of the room.

  “There’s no place they can get in, though, right?” Nyssa pointed. “There’s no chimney or anything. They can’t come down like Santa Claus.” She laughed, a bark of nerves and fear. “Some really fucked-up Santa.” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “If they get in, leave me. Run to them. They won’t hurt you.”

  “What will they do to you?”

  Lauren swallowed, tasted the metal of the blood that ran down the back of her throat. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  Lauren backed closer to the wall, then stopped as the sounds overhead changed from footsteps to hard pounding.

  Nyssa looked up at the ceiling. “I guess they don’t need a chimney.”

  Lauren followed her line of sight, saw the first cracks form in the boards, then radiate along the lengths like ice shattering. Dust and cobwebs fluttered down.

  Then the weakened boards creaked like trees in the wind, and bowed under the weight of whatever it was that stood on them. As the first splinters fell, Lauren extracted herself from Nyssa’s grip and turned to the wall. Pressing her hands to the rough boards, she struggled to concentrate as the banging sounded louder and louder.

  Sounds filled the space, battered the very air. Shattering glass. The crash of a broken-down door. Buzzing so loud that it rattled down her spine.

  Lauren focused on her hands, and where she wanted to go. Home . . . home . . . Gideon. Seattle. A hole in the ground. Home. Her fingers seeped through the wood to the first knuckle, then stopped as something pushed back.

  Flies settled on her neck and face, biting again and again.

  You knew this would happen one day.

  Shadows. She felt them wash over her like frigid water.

  You knew this is how it would end.

  Their gabbling whispers filled her ears, promises of pain that they yearned to keep.

  Nyssa wrapped her arms around her and screamed, a sound that shook like a cry in a gale.

  Then came silence.

  Lauren slumped forward, felt arms wrap around her, lift her, carry her. A light frisson as fingers brushed over her face.

  “You’re safe now, Mistress.”

  She pressed her face against softness, breathed in, tasted sweetness in the air, caught the barest scent of spice.

  Passed out.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lauren drifted in and out, awakened every so often by jostling and the sounds of argument.

  “—told you never to go there—”

  “—have a right to know—�
��

  A figure in scrubs peppered her with questions. How many fingers? Who’s the president? What’s your name? She mumbled answers, felt herself being undressed, examined, tucked into bed.

  Dreams. She sat on the outcropping overlooking the mountains as behind her, someone spoke. She didn’t recognize the voice. Felt she knew the speaker, yet couldn’t recall his name. The same words, over and over.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  She opened her eyes to find Gene Kaster standing over her, the collar of an emerald-green pajama shirt poking out from beneath his bathrobe.

  “What happened?” Lauren tried to sit up, then sagged back against her pillows when the room rocked. “Is this dead?”

  Kaster bent close. “What?”

  “Am I dead?” Lauren grabbed the front of the man’s robe. “Where’s Nyssa?”

  “She’s fine, she’s fine, you’re fine, everyone’s fine.” Kaster pried her fingers loose, then patted her hand and set it on her lap. “Sit. Quiet.”

  Lauren listened, heard nothing but the sigh of ventilation, the electronic tick of the nightstand clock. No screams. No howls or crash of shattered wood and glass. “This isn’t hell?”

  “Not last I checked.” Kaster pointed to the clock. “It’s just after midnight. You’ve been out like the proverbial light for about ten hours.” He took a step back, then lowered into an armchair that had been drawn up next to the bed. “We’ve been taking turns keeping an eye on you. I drew graveyard shift.”

  Lauren looked around the small room, which possessed the distinct look and smell of a hospital. “Did you evac me to Portland?”

  “No, you’re still on the mountain. This is the house clinic.”

  Lauren nodded as reality started to seep back in. Memory. “What did you do?”

  “Such a luxury, having one’s own clinic on site. Nothing is too good for the guests of the house.” Kaster reached into the pocket of his robe and removed a silver flask. “Not to mention that when one has accidentally OD’d or gotten a personal appliance inserted too deeply in the wrong orifice, it’s a relief to know that help is just an elevator’s ride away, and that the information will never be recorded in one’s official medical history.” He picked up a glass that rested on a stand by his chair, splashed some of the flask’s contents into it, then held it out to Lauren. “Age-old remedy.”