Villain

by Michael Grant

  Then Drake struck a lighter and held it to a candle. Then a second and a third. The revealed interior was nothing, a thousandth the size of the great cavern at the Ranch. It was a space more vertical than horizontal, narrow at the opening and at the far end, shaped like an envelope that bulges in the middle. The roof of the cave was invisible, a darkness that called to mind tall Gothic cathedrals. The floor was perhaps twenty feet at its widest, four times that deep, with tumbled rocks leading to solid stone at the end. In daytime a faint light might filter in, but it was night when they arrived, and the only source of illumination was the candles.

  Peaks wished there were fewer candles, for what they illuminated was a nightmare. Drake had used railroad spikes to crucify three people. Three bodies hung from the stone walls, the fat rusted steel spikes driven through their wrists. They’d had no support for their feet, so they would have hung with all their weight from the bones of their wrists. One was a male in a state of advanced decomposition, stripped naked, flesh little more than beef jerky, face like a drum skin stretched over a scream.

  The other two were women, one almost as decomposed as the male. The other was . . . fresher, for lack of a better word. Despite being in a cave in the middle of nowhere, the flies had found her, and maggots grew fat and white in her eye sockets.

  “Jesus Christ,” Peaks whispered.

  Drake nodded. “Yeah, the Romans had some skills at making death take a long, long time.”

  “You murdered them!”

  Drake laughed. “Nah, I just nailed them up there. Had a little fun with them, sure, but it’s hunger that killed them. You want to give them water from time to time, otherwise it’s too quick. Thirst will kill you in anywhere from three days to a week. But hunger? Hell, that can take up to four or five weeks. Longer if you give them the occasional bat or coyote turd to eat.”

  His cruel lips smiled. “That bitch there, the redhead? She took thirty-four days. Screaming, begging, crying. Like my own personal sound system.”

  Peaks felt sick. He had known what Drake was. He had seen pictures of people, mostly women, flayed by the Whip Hand. He’d heard or read all the stories from the FAYZ survivors. He’d even seen the movie based on Ellison’s book. But pictures and stories and movies still did not prepare him for the reality. For one thing, only reality smelled.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  In his arrogance, Peaks had always imagined using Drake as a convenient tool, as if the sick bastard was a screwdriver he could just pull out as needed. He’d also thought he could use and control Dekka Talent.

  Note to self, he thought wryly, don’t assume that young equals weak or compliant.

  Still, he reassured himself, Dragon was within him, and if Drake tried anything . . . and yet, for all that, Peaks was scared all the way down to his liver.

  “Speaking of starving to death, do you have any food?” Peaks asked, trying to sound unimpressed.

  Drake nodded. “A little. I don’t need to eat, but I sometimes like the taste. And Brittany Pig likes to chew on a cracker sometimes. Can’t swallow, of course.” He whipped off his T-shirt, revealing a tight, lean body with six-pack abs and the bulge of a girl’s face rising like a hideous wart on his upper chest.

  Long ago Drake had become fused to Brittany. Brittany had once, many years earlier, been one of Sam and Edilio’s “soldiers,” a moral, religious, decent girl who been driven hopelessly mad. The metal wires of her broken braces still protruded from the mouth that liked to chew and then spit out the occasional cracker or cookie.

  It was testimony to the horror of the cave, candlelight flickering off bleached bone and tattered skin, that Peaks barely bothered to notice Drake’s . . . companion.

  Drake whipped his python arm through the air and snatched a box of Ritz crackers and tossed it to Peaks. “You can have these, but feed one to Brittany Pig.”

  And Tom Peaks—once one of the most secretly powerful people in the country—realized he lacked the strength of will to refuse. Gingerly he fed a Ritz to the wire-jutting mouth and watched with morbid fascination as she chewed and let the results dribble down Drake’s belly.

  “So now what, mastermind?” Drake asked. “You promised me Astrid. I’ve got room for her on my wall.”

  “There’s security on Ellison and Temple, and it’ll be doubled or tripled now,” Peaks said through his cracker crumbs. “But a month from now?” He shrugged. “It’s all coming apart now, Drake. Civilization is cracking and crumbling. Law and order won’t be sustainable.”

  Drake tilted his head, genuinely interested. Crumbling civilization sounded like just the thing for him.

  “We thought we could contain this, but we can’t,” Peaks said.

  Drake’s whip snapped again, and from the darkness emerged a warm can of beer, which Peaks drank gratefully.

  “Tell me,” Drake said. “Give me your play-by-play.”

  Peaks considered. “Well, look at it this way. The Perdido Beach Anomaly, the FAYZ, was a massive blow to everything humans thought they knew. And the more we learned, the worse it got. What happened inside that dome was impossible under the laws of physics. Which means the laws of physics are either bullshit, or they are like computer code and can be hacked, or”—he shrugged—“or everything is an illusion.”

  Drake nodded. “We’re their TV.”

  “The Dark Watchers?”

  “Whatever,” Drake said. “Brittany Pig says they’re gods, right, Piggie?”

  The mouth on his chest gnashed and a whispery voice, speaking in gasps, said, “Gods of hell, not heaven.”

  “See? She’s fun to talk to.”

  I’m going mad, Peaks thought. I’m going absolutely insane. I’m in a cave decorated with crucifixion victims, chatting with a serial killer who feeds crackers to the girl who lives on his chest.

  “So,” Drake pushed, “what happens if civilization crashes and burns?”

  Peaks shrugged. “Then we’re back to evolution, survival of the best adapted, the most fit. People who adapt survive; those who don’t, don’t.”

  Drake had lit a collection of twigs and now had a small fire going. Peaks watched the smoke rise. There was another opening to the cave, that was clear, something that acted as a chimney.

  “What is it you want, Drake?” Peaks asked.

  “Me? Just my usual fun.”

  “That?” Peaks nodded toward the hanging bodies.

  “And more. See, thing is, Tom, I can’t be killed. Everyone’s tried. But somehow I just keep coming back. It’s kinda weird until you get used to it. Like when Brianna chopped me up and scattered pieces everywhere. I reassembled. Then Sammy boy burned me to ashes. But there was a chunk of me left from Brianna’s work, and that’s all it took.” He shook his head as if remembering better times. “I didn’t have, you know, thoughts or anything. But when that last piece of me started to grow, well, pretty soon, bam, I was back to being me. Me and Brittany Pig. So, see, I’m not worried about adapting or evolving or even surviving.”

  “So, you won’t be going to college,” Peaks said, deadpan.

  Drake showed wolfish teeth. “I’m a simple boy with simple needs.”

  “Torture. Rape. Murder.”

  “Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. You know that guy, that rich tech guy who disappeared a couple years ago? That’s him.” He nodded at the crucified man. “Day one he offered me a million dollars. The next day he offered to give me a billion dollars.” Drake smiled, enjoying memories. “What are you after, Peaks?”

  Tom Peaks thought it over. He’d been a respected and powerful man. He’d had a family, a career, things he liked and cared about and enjoyed. But that was all gone now.

  “Survival,” Peaks said. My God, he thought, is that really it? Is that what it’s come down to? From running HSTF-66 to praying for mere survival at any cost . . . in just a week?

  Drake laughed. “You aren’t me, Peaks. I can’t be killed, but you can be. Sooner or later they’ll get you.”
>
  Peaks wanted to argue, but something inside him was crumbling like a stale cookie. He felt sick, sick down to his soul. He had lost his family . . . his career . . . his meaning in life. He had shocking power as Dragon, but he knew what assets the government had, and he knew Drake was right. They would find him and they would kill him.

  “You don’t even know how to process this, do you?” Drake mocked. On his chest, Brittany formed a leering, metallic grin. “You’d have lasted about six weeks in the FAYZ. Caine Soren would have had you licking his shoes for a hunk of boiled rat. You think you’re all bad-ass with your Godzilla thing, but you barely survived Dekka and Shade Darby. Be glad ol’ Sammy doesn’t still have his powers. Wimp.”

  That insult caused a flare-up of pride, and Peaks almost said something. Almost. The truth was, he was scared. Scared of the future, scared of what he’d done. Scared to death of Drake. He now truly understood Dekka’s extreme reaction when he’d first told her Drake was alive.

  But along with the sneers, he sensed that Drake was looking for leadership. Drake had no plan, never would have any plan, beyond his next murder.

  “We need the same thing they need if they are to survive. We need chaos. Without chaos, the government will eventually prevail. This has to become a fight of all against the government.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow. Brittany slavered.

  “Without a complete breakdown of civilization,” Peaks said, “we will all be hunted down, one by one.”

  “Uh-huh,” Drake agreed. “I’ll bet you could use a drink with a bit more kick.” He whipped his tentacle out and came back with half a bottle of vodka. “Here you go. Liquid courage.”

  Peaks twisted off the cap and took a long drink. Then he said, “I need to know everything you know about the Dark Watchers. What do they want? And more importantly, will they help?”

  “They don’t help. They just watch. Sometimes they get impatient; sometimes they laugh. Sometimes you can kind of tell they don’t want you to do something. But they don’t interfere. See . . .” He leaned forward, casting house-of-horror shadows on his face. “This whole thing, the rock, the FAYZ, all this? It’s a TV series, Tom. They’re just waiting to see how it all comes out.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Do You Feel My Pain? How About Now?

  “MALIK, HOW . . . ARE you okay?” Shade asked.

  It had not been hard to get Malik away from the hospital. Everyone in or near the hospital, from the parking lot attendant to the armed guards oustide Malik’s room to the chief of medicine had been literally knocked to the ground by a blast of crippling agony.

  Shade drove. Cruz sat in the back behind Malik, who rode shotgun. The wave of projected pain had ceased, and Malik was Malik again.

  Mostly.

  In sidelong glances, Shade saw the subtle differences. Malik was not quite Malik, he was a version of Malik, a reconstruction of Malik from his own memory, a Malik morph. A scar was gone from his lip. His shoulders were wider. His face was sleeker. He was a very realistic avatar of Malik.

  Shade knew Cruz’s view was even more disturbing. Seated behind Malik, she saw the back of his head and neck, areas Malik had not seen every day of his life and therefore did not picture, so that back there his hair was less detailed, like a blurry photograph or cheap animation.

  Shade understood: When Cruz was in morph she could pass as anyone whose picture she had seen, or who she had met in real life. But the front, the part cameras saw, was invariably more detailed than the back. Sometimes, if she had only a front picture, the back was so vague as to be empty space, so that she could easily appear to be a flawless Morgan Freeman, but with nothing from the ears back.

  It was Malik’s clothing that was the least convincing part. It looked too clean and too crisp. Like paper rather than fabric. And his loopy, curly, poodle hair, one of many things Shade had loved about him, now had the too-sharp look of black ribbon.

  “I’m . . . different,” Malik said. “I’m . . . I don’t feel the pain, but I know it’s there. It’s like it’s on the other side of frosted glass. I . . .” He seemed to drift away for a moment. Too long a moment.

  Shade sought Cruz’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They were heading northeast, away from the Pacific, away from Los Angeles, with no destination in mind but not here.

  Malik spoke again, and his voice was smaller somehow, as if it came from a distance. “This is a morph, isn’t it?” He tapped his arm and rubbed the skin.

  Shade felt her insides turn to lead. She wanted to weep. Wanted to end her life, to escape the weight of guilt that crushed her, that she knew would go on crushing her, that would never leave her alone.

  “Yes, Bunny,” Shade said. Long ago that had been her affectionate name for him, back when they had been close.

  Malik nodded. “I’m afraid I’m a bit confused.”

  Shade nodded, but could not speak. She brushed as unobtrusively as she could at tears.

  Cruz saw this and spoke up. “Malik, you were burned. Badly. Very badly, my friend.” Then she added a word weighted with sadness. “Fatally.”

  “But . . . ,” Malik said. Then he was silent again, working it through, seeing the terrible truth of it. “If I de-morph, I’ll die. I’ll die in terrible pain, won’t I? Shade?” Panic put a sharp edge on his words.

  Shade gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers were white. “Yes, Malik,” Shade whispered.

  The silence stretched again, each silence more damning than the one before, each one like a razor’s cut on Shade’s heart, on her belief in herself. She wanted to say that she was sorry, so terribly sorry, but those words would mean nothing to him, or to her.

  “I never saw myself the way I am now, did I?” Malik asked. “Burned, I mean.”

  “You were bandaged up,” Cruz said.

  “I feel them,” Malik said.

  Both girls knew what he meant, but Shade asked anyway, because not to would have made her seem indifferent.

  “Them?”

  Shade was not indifferent, she was destroyed inside. But she had to drive the car. And she had to figure out what to do next. So she had to understand Malik, which meant understanding what she had led him to, which meant coming face-to-face with the human cost of her own stupid, stupid, reckless decisions. And that way lay only more guilt, more self-loathing. The cold, dead-eyed shark that Cruz always said was the other half of Shade struggled to rise within her, but the weight of self-loathing was too much. Shade felt herself on the edge of a precipice, teetering beside an endless black hole.

  “The Dark Watchers,” Malik said. “I won’t ever be able to get away from them, will I?”

  “I don’t know,” Shade said.

  “What did I do back there? People were screaming. I think I did that, didn’t I? Did I hurt those people?”

  Shade again sought Cruz’s eyes in the mirror, pleading.

  Cruz said, “You have a power, Malik. I think, maybe, you can . . .” Shade heard her hesitation. She knew, and Cruz knew, that she was pronouncing a type of death sentence. “It seems like you can project pain. Shade and I felt it. It was . . . unbearable. Like being on fire. Your pain, I think. Somehow you can inflict it on people. In morph we were mostly immune, like you were talking about with frosted glass, like we knew it was there, but it didn’t quite get to us.”

  Malik’s voice was childlike in its hurt and disbelief. “You mean I hurt people?”

  “Not hurt, not injure,” Shade said quickly. “It’s just pain.”

  “Just pain? Just pain?” Malik said, and suddenly began to cry.

  Shade had never seen Malik cry. It seemed at once impossible and not at all impossible. Malik was strong, but he was a decent human being all the way down to the bone, one of life’s good guys. And now he was a good person who could cause terrible pain to others.

  “Is it still happening?” Malik asked, his voice a child’s sob.

  “No, it stopped,” Cruz assured him. “It was a few seconds, maybe a minute. It may be
something you can control. Something you can, you know . . . use.”

  Everything about this conversation was wrong, like walking through a psychic minefield.

  “Use?” Malik said. “Like torture? That’s my power? That’s my escape from death? I can bring people pain?” The childish tone was falling away, replaced by growing outrage. “I’m going to live the rest of my life with the Dark Watchers in my head? And the only thing I can do now is hurt people? That’s my life? That’s what I am now?”

  The words were on the tip of Shade’s tongue, but she would not say I’m sorry. To say it implied she thought the words meant something. As though some stupid words would lessen the enormity of what had happened.

  What had happened because of her. An apology would be a request for forgiveness, and she neither wanted nor deserved forgiveness.

  “I want to see,” Malik said. “I want to see what I really am. My real body, not this . . .” He flicked a finger against his biceps as if expecting to discover that he was insubstantial.

  “Malik, you can’t de-morph,” Cruz warned. “The pain would—”

  “Aaaaahhhhhh!” Malik cried, and to the horror of both Shade and Cruz, he was de-morphing, too-sleek flesh seeming to swirl and re-form.

  “Stop it!” Shade cried, and yanked the car onto the shoulder of the road. “Stop, stop, stop! Don’t do it!”

  But Malik’s clothing had turned to smoke, and the illusion of healthy flesh had given way to a creature of charcoal and angry red meat and bleached bone, and Malik screamed and screamed as Shade shouted, “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

  “Look at me!” Malik screamed, staring at the hideous stumps of his legs. “Look at me!”

  Cruz said, “Change back, Malik! Right now!”

  “Look at me!”

  For just a second, the harder Shade emerged long enough to snap, “Goddammit, Malik, morph! Now!”

  Her voice cut through the blinding, deafening, brain-shattering agony, and Malik began to change. Cruz watched in fascinated horror as flesh crept over his bones, eerily reversing the damage that superheated steam and liquid fire had done.