by Russ Linton
Sweat trickles down my face. This can’t be rushed. One rung at a time. Slow, steady, to keep from falling. The freakish cries follow and intensify with each rung. At the top, I flop onto the floor and lie in a pool of sweat.
The hammocks sway gently, flanking the wrought-iron bed that was never part of the book. Of course, neither was the bookcase carved into the tree trunk, or the stucco walls. At least Charlotte isn’t here this time, but I have the feeling it won’t be long before she shows up. She brought me here, for a reason.
I stand and walk toward the bed and reach out to feel the cold, slick bars. The frame resembles a cage, vertical metal rods feeding into an arced crossbar. Chips and dents cover the unpainted surface.
The mattress has a blue striped pattern on the fabric, splotched with stains. Each bar of the headboard has been crudely bent into a half heart with a parallel bar forming the matching half. The shaping looks crude. Maybe done by hand.
Standing at the headboard, I can see into the hammock with the largest form. Dad’s lying there, eyes closed, his normally furrowed face relaxed and peaceful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him asleep. Emily’s in the next one.
Far from peaceful, her jaw is tight and eyebrows gathered. I reach out to touch her hand. She’s at the most risk here.
“Emily. Snap out of it.”
She twitches and lets out a soft moan.
“Such a clever boy.” Droning of bees, the creak of the hammock, it all tickles my ears, but this voice never lands there. “You found your own way home.”
I don’t turn. “We need to talk,” I say.
Charlotte’s next to the bed, never having crossed the space between the entrance and here. Her hand touches my shoulder and she pushes me away from Emily’s hammock and onto the bed with an effortless motion that I can’t resist any more than fighting Dad’s brute strength. “So impatient. I have to finish with them before we can be a family.”
“I don’t think what you’re doing is right.”
She quirks her head at an alien angle and her eyes, a sliver of sunrise behind cloudy quartz, narrow. “Right?”
“Hurting people.” I try to scoot away from her, propelled by the intense gaze, but she matches every move. I look away as I reach the far side.
She leans forward, searching my face with a flat expression. I freeze as the hardened tip of her breast brushes my arm. Her eyes, her naked form; with nowhere safe to look, I stare at the open hole in the wall.
“What you did to my mom was wrong.”
“Multiple targets inbound. Weapon systems offline.” Drake’s frantic voice shatters the air, but Charlotte seems oblivious.
“Mother? I did nothing wrong. I made a place for her. Here.” Anger surges in her reply but her face stays placid. “She’s right here.”
“No, she’s my mother. Why? Why would you do that?”
“She’s safer.”
“She’s dead!”
“Death?” A tear drops from a glowing eye, but her face remains distant. She lowers herself and brushes her lips against my cheek, whispering, “There is no death here.”
Her skin is smooth and warm, and she’s so close, I can almost hide the image of her radiant flesh wrapped around dark bone. She seems human again.
“Targets identified. Crimson Mask. Hurricane. Female civilian.” The audio feed in the helmet cuts through my subconscious loud and clear.
Charlotte continues talking as she creeps closer. “I made this place for you. I found Father, brought him here, for you.”
“What?”
“You wanted him to yourself. You were jealous of normal lives. You wanted a family.”
“You’re not making sense. I don’t want any of this.”
“Yes, you always did.” Charlotte shifts, raises on her elbows, and I turn again to stare at the opening as a knotted finger traces my cheek and settles in a heated point on my forehead. “Make a family with me, Spencer.”
Woah. This, I did not anticipate. Anything I try to say comes out as an incomprehensible grunt and I claw my way off the bed, striking the wooden floor. The buzzing beneath intensifies and the vibration of the bees radiates through my palms.
Charlotte scurries forward and hangs over the edge of the bed, her shoulder blades pointed sharply against her skin and her forearms bent at an odd angle. “Mother was ready to give everything to protect you. Father, he was the same, but he had forgotten who you were and strayed from his family. But now, I’ll keep him here with us forever.”
“Charlotte, please, this isn’t real! None of this!”
“It’s more real than you know.” She’s perched on the bed, a hungry spider, staring down with glittering eyes.
“Targeting data insufficient. Crimson Mask and Hurricane engaged at close quarters. Specify target.” Drake sounds manic.
“No! Make them stop!” I call out.
Charlotte absently traces a stain on the mattress with her finger, “I can’t let them have my vessel, Spencer. I’m not done with her yet.”
Emily’s hammock twitches as she struggles within.
“What do you want?” I ask, not expecting an answer that makes any sense.
“I need to punish those that hurt us. Then we can be together.”
“But you’re hurting me! All of this. I never asked for any of this, but if it’s what you want, let them go. Let them all go and I’ll stay here with you.”
She’s visibly confused. As she continues to try and understand or maybe weigh my offer, the buzzing grows stronger. She snarls and her eyes expand across her face, each lens from the center until they fan out across her cheeks. Her body contorts and her limbs twist at inverted angles.
I can hear voices, shouts. Hurricane’s banter and chest-thumping “pop” as he speeds around the echoing cavern. Eric’s fearful cry rises above the rest, “Here they come! It’s working! They’re following the signal! Oh, shit… it’s working! Spencer, gonna lock them down when they get here!”
The real world is breaking through.
Dad’s form thrashes in his hammock. Emily moans. The buzzing peaks. They’re all trying to escape this place. Dad, Emily, the bees. The treehouse sways and the rattle of the iron rails on the bed joins the frantic hum. A loose rod clatters to the floor and rolls out of reach.
“Target terminated.” I can practically see the sadistic smile drawn across Drake’s tiny mouth as the words sound.
A piercing wail erupts from Emily’s hammock.
“Please stop this. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“As soon as we’re done,” her eyes glow, “as soon as they pay.”
Charlotte’s dangling over me and more bug eyes continue to sprout in clusters around the first two. Fangs peel back from her mouth. My eyes go to the iron rod lying out of reach on the floor. Emily, tear-streaked and hair matted, wrestles out of her hammock. Her slender fingers with dirt-stained nails wrap around the bar. Charlotte quirks her head, following my gaze and watches as the iron rod smashes into her skull.
“Get…”
I roll away from the bed. A sickening wet thud echoes as the rod connects a second time and Charlotte slides off the bed.
“Out…”
Emily’s face is drained of color and pure madness fills her eyes as the bar cracks again somewhere along Charlotte’s spine.
“Of my…”
Charlotte’s head bounces on the wooden floor and the bees wail in fury.
“HEAD!”
Emily stands panting over the limp, naked form, the bar poised for another swing. Floorboards pop and strain as the swarm beneath rages. She turns, letting the slick metal rod clatter to the ground. Her shoulders slump as she walks toward me with a blank expression. “We have to go. Get you out.”
I shake my head and she grabs a fistful of my shirt, hauling me to my feet. She drags me toward the exit, which is now a blinding white hole. My eyes go back to Charlotte and I see her head twitch, her arm raise.
“No, Emily. That didn’t work. It can’
t work. Not here.”
Emily stops. As if she understands, she turns to face Charlotte and a whimper of resignation escapes her lips. “What is she? Where are we?”
“A mental snow globe inside a completely mental bitch,” I whisper. I scramble to my feet and put a hand on Emily’s arm. “I tried talking, but I’ve got another idea.”
Charlotte’s pale form rises. She snakes her spine in a crooked stretch and utters a repetitive clicking sound. She turns to face us, her insect eyes blazing with rage.
Emily moves to stand between us, clenching her fists. She’s exhausted. Slow. Off-balance.
It makes it easy to push her out the treehouse door. With a gasp of surprise, she tumbles into the light and disappears. Whatever happens to her, it can’t be worse than what’s about to happen here. Charlotte eyes me again with the hungry-spider look.
“She can’t escape me. She deserves to be punished. Poetic if he does it, no?” Charlotte hisses in a deadly whisper.
“Crimson Mask engaging female target,” echoes Drake’s voice. “Male civilian has entered the crossfire. Awaiting command to engage.”
This has to stop.
“Charlotte, what does “KUBARK” mean?”
She recoils, and a dense sadness pushes through me that’s so raw, I’m nearly reduced to a quivering mass of tears. A hiss escapes her lips, “That is not here.”
“Tell me. I want to know. Did you kill my mother? Our mother?”
She rises to her feet and floats above the quaking floor, hands spread open at her sides. The light, her light, begins to burn bright. “There is no pain here. No death. That is not here!”
“Spencer, she’s fighting the lockdown! Your Dad, he’s after Em—oh God!”
“Civilian target critically wounded,” chortles Drake and tears burn my cheeks. “Multiple Augment signatures entering range.”
I pick the metal rod up off the floor and face Charlotte. “You don’t have to do this! You said it yourself, the government, your handlers, they lost you. You’re free from that prison, don’t make a new one!”
The entire room is shaking now, and large chunks of debris fall from the gash in the stucco wall. Charlotte burns a virulent pink, unaware of the world falling apart around her as she screams, “Mother! Her strength! She gave it to me and I escaped! I promised to find you! I promised to love you!”
Shaking my head, I jam the rod between two planks and shout, “Eric! Kill the connections!”
“What are you doing?” Charlotte cries.
“Don’t worry.” I stomp on the angled rod and the plank creaks. “In the book, they laughed about this later.”
Charlotte lunges forward, her face twisted in anguish. With a shout, I throw all of my weight onto the bar. She slams into me and the plank pops loose as we tumble toward the exit.
A scream issues out of the gap, high-pitched and angry. The buzz is no longer a sound but a force. It shakes the entire tree house and rattles my brain as Charlotte straddles me, her face turned back to the gash in the floor with a look of surprise. Bees explode from the gap in a glittering cloud, which rises like the tentacle of a great beast. Planks pop and strain as the swarm separates, and the solid column becomes a cloud, filling the air.
Crazy, trapped Augment hive mind, meet crazy, psychic bug queen.
Charlotte stands and I scramble toward the wall. She screams, her pink light buried by the swarm. The tree house pitches and more boards tear free. Both hammocks flop wild and empty. Tiny bees, glowing green with circuitry, issue out of the void between the floorboards.
With a final effort, I lunge toward the blinding white of what used to be the entrance to the treehouse.
Drake shrieks, “Target terminated! Target terminated!”
Chapter 53
I’m sitting on the beach again. That was one hell of a jump. Never once did I see the ground rushing up to punch me in the face or the rope ladder whipping as the tree shook. Nope. White light, beach, done. Or maybe it was extreme terror, white light, beach, done.
My clothes are completely different. The borrowed sweats have somehow morphed into poofy-thighed breeches, and the oversized polo shirt has ballooned into an airy white number with a ruffled collar. Nice, but why no powdered wig?
I scan the horizon for Emily. Further down the beach, a little girl plays in the mirrored sand. She’s young, with a full head of dark-hair, and she’s crouched in the surf trying to build a castle that keeps washing lazily away into the sea.
“Hello.”
Even though I’m lost in thought, the voice doesn’t startle me. Mom stands behind me. She’s also wearing something other than her trademark jeans and blouse—a simple blue dress with ruffled sleeves and little white ribbons around the cuffs.
“I say, dear Mother,” I attempt a terrible English accent but give up on it, “who’s the asshat that came up with this? I think your house is supposed to be on a prairie, not a beach.”
Mom laughs. “My beloved son,” she says, crossing her hands and walking primly toward me, “this wasn’t your idea?”
“Considering I look like a complete idiot, I’d say, no.” I try to itch under the tight hosiery on my calves. “But you look… good.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t do dresses. You know that.”
“I was only trying to be nice.”
She walks barefoot across the sand to sit next to me. As she smoothes her dress out, I notice the lack of footprints.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Oh, nothing.” I focus on the water lapping against the sand. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Really?” She sounds unconvinced. “Well, I think something’s wrong.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re here.”
I can’t answer right away and instead, I start building a little igloo-shaped house with my palm and watch the girl as the relentless waves keep destroying hers. “Maybe I like it here.”
“You can’t stay.”
Why not? I’ve fought so long, inside and out. Every effort has dragged me to her. I know that now. My brain’s gotten drilled in a serious way by psychic bug chicks, out-of-control escape pods, and flights from angry robots. A bean ball, Ray Chapman style. At least he died after taking that pitch. Ever since this began, I’ve been drifting between reality and a dream anyway. Haunted in the world of the waking, no matter what I do.
“I’m staying. Right here. With you.”
“You can’t,” Mom says.
“Why not?”
“You know why. This is another prison, Spencer. She made it to be a home, but it’s not.” She pauses and grabs my sandy hand in both of hers. As she continues, I can tell she’s watching the little girl in the distance. “And you don’t want to surrender yourself to her.”
“This isn’t so bad. Ocean view. Treehouse full of bees.” I strain to see inland and avoid her gaze. “I wonder if Felsenheim is up there. That cave they lived in? Sounded creepy but cozy. I’d love to see it.”
Her hand brushes my cheek and sternly turns my face to hers. Such a mixture of sadness and joy, I can’t even for a second hold on to what her eyes are saying. They encompass every bit of love—the hurt and the happiness; the elation and disappointment.
“You can’t stay here.”
I know she’s right.
“I did what you said. I kept everyone from getting massacred… I think.” I fight back tears. “What if I stay for a little while?”
She shakes her head.
I start to argue but she lays on the “Mom stare”. “You need to live. Out in the real world. Whatever makes you happy.”
I want to tell her I would be happy here. But she’ll see right through the lies. We’re both aware she’s accepted a fate that she doesn’t want to share. Drifting away. An angel.
“I’ll find a way to get you out of here.”
Her expression softens and she sighs, “Fine. Try. But you can’t do that from here.”
“I’m not kidding. I�
�ll find a way.”
“I know, even if I tell you not to. But Spencer, live your own life. You’ve earned that for yourself.”
I stand and help her to her feet. I force out a breath, promising myself not to cry, ever again. “I will, Mom.”
She pats my cheek and smirks, “Now get out of here.”
“Your fancy clothes didn’t come with the ruby slippers, did they?”
“No. But we have that.” She points up the shoreline and bobbing in the surf is a small boat which wasn’t there before. Its mottled gray exterior is bright against the blue sea.
“Oh, come on.” I turn with a rapid-fire quip about a whale intestine dive suit loaded and ready to fire.
She’s gone. So is the girl.
I breathe. Again. Deeper this time. I trudge toward the craft, not looking back.
The outer hull is rough and weathered, the skin of who knows how many otters sewn together. William could tell you the exact number required. Ribbed with whalebone, that was maybe the one animal they scavenged instead of shooting, waterproofed with tree sap and a good degree of pure bullshit, the little canoe never sounded ocean-worthy.
I hop in anyway. Mostly to keep moving, away from where I saw her last, and I launch into the sea.
*
The sea wind blows with steady, regulated gasps.
Gasp, click.
Gasp, click.
Wait a minute.
“Sean.” A mechanical intake of air follows the strained and monotonous call. “Someone get Sean.”
“How are you, son?” Another familiar voice, and… fluffy clouds on the horizon? No, bushy white eyebrows and a sea breeze of tobacco. Hound leans in close.
“Where am I?”
“Whispering Pines,” Hound says. “Didn’t have a lot of other options.”
The discolored ceiling panels and cinderblock walls painted institutional green should have been a clue.
Polybius stands next to Hound. He’s a wasted figure, riddled with cybernetics, supported by a walker and dragging a forest of IVs and medical equipment. But his eyes are alert.
