Mercury Retrograde

by Laura Bickle

  Somebody had to come. They just had to.

  He waited for what seemed like forever until he saw headlights in the distance. He straightened, brushed futilely at the filth on his jacket, and stuck out his thumb like he knew what the hell he was doing.

  The headlights came closer, washing over him. He closed his eyes.

  Pleasestoppleasestopplease. . .

  An engine ground to a halt, and he opened his eyes. A tractor trailer slowed beside him, the passenger’s side window rolled down. By the dim green light of the instrument panel, Cal could make out a flannel-­encrusted dude with a goatee.

  “This is a long way from anywhere, kid,” the trucker said. “Where you headed?”

  “I’m trying to get to Temperance. My motorbike ran out of gas, and I got no way to get there.”

  The trucker paused to light a cigarette. The ember danced like a firefly. “I’m going that way. Get in.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Please don’t let this guy be a perv. Cal cringed inwardly. But he opened the door and scrambled up the running board to get inside. The cab smelled like cheeseburgers and corn chips. A glow-­in-­the-­dark figurine of a plastic alien danced from the rearview mirror.

  Cal slammed the door, scooted as close to the window as he could, and wrapped his hands around his stomach to stifle the gurgling. He didn’t want the guy to think he was gonna shit in his truck. That would be epically bad.

  The driver put the truck in gear, and the semi growled down the road. The cigarette bobbed in the dark, but the driver didn’t say a word. His right hand reached toward Cal.

  Cal squealed and clawed at the door handle. The truck had to be going at least forty, if he jumped . . .

  “Relax, kid.” The trucker reached down to the littered floorboards and lifted a bag of potato chips. “Have some.”

  Cal gingerly accepted the crinkling yellow bag, and the trucker’s hand returned to the steering wheel. Cal’s shaking fingers wormed inside, and he lifted a chip to his mouth. It tasted stale, but the salt soothed his swollen tongue. “Thanks.”

  The truck driver looked at him sidelong. “Temperance. Small town. Is your dealer in Temperance?”

  Ah, shit. Well, maybe it was best if the guy thought Cal was going through some hellish withdrawal. That would be the most benign explanation, anyway. “Something like that.”

  “Mmm-­hmm.” The driver didn’t sound especially inclined to make it any of his business.

  Cal glanced out the window, at the miles flashing by. His pale face was reflected back at him in the glass, superimposed over the dark landscape . . .

  . . . and mercury leaked out his nose.

  He rubbed at his nose with his sleeve, smearing it away. He glanced back at the trucker.

  The dude was watching him.

  Shit.

  Sweating, Cal turned back to the window. Silver beads of liquid began to spring out on his forehead. He wiped them away with his shaking hand, but he could feel the metal squirming under his skin. The mercury licked up over his eyes, covering the whites and the irises. He could see through it, as if he were looking through tinted sunglasses, and he gasped.

  “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

  The truck swerved. Cal twisted around to see the trucker pulling a gun out from under the driver’s seat. The driver shoved a pistol against Cal’s nose, and Cal shrank back up against the door of the truck, holding his hands up.

  “Be cool, man, be cool!” he squeaked.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” the trucker shouted at him, while the cold metal slipped from Cal’s nose to his upper lip.

  The rig swerved into the left lane. Headlights shone in the bug-­smeared windshield before them. A tinny horn sounded. The car in the left lane ran off into the ditch without making contact.

  “Don’t do that, man!” Cal rasped. A tear leaked out from his eye. In fascination, he watched as the mercury reached out, spiraling around the barrel of the gun.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  “One of who? What?”

  “Them! One of the Greys!”

  Cal’s eyes flickered to the alien figurine bouncing against the windshield. Oh, fuck . . . this guy was a true believer. “Oh, shit. No, man I’m from Earth, I swear. I come in peace!”

  The trucker pulled the trigger.

  Cal shrieked, expecting his brains to blow out all over the seat. But the mercury had wrapped itself around the gun, absorbing the concussive impact with a belch-­like bubble and a sound like a blown tire.

  The driver sawed the wheel back. The tires screamed, and the cab of the truck tipped up on two wheels. He dropped the gun to struggle with the wheel, but it was too late. The back end of the trailer came around, and they were sideways in the road, sparks showering against the pavement and metal shrieking.

  Cal pitched forward against the windshield, then lashed back like a rag doll as the truck jackknifed and skidded across the road. The cab landed in the ditch with a force so great that the roof wrinkled like aluminum foil. Steel and glass howled.

  Cal whimpered against the floorboards. He clawed his way up through the debris of old newspapers and spilled potato chips, peering at the driver’s side. The trucker slumped over the wheel. His hands dangled motionless, but Cal couldn’t see his face.

  Cal clambered up to the seat. A huge spider-­shaped crack spread across the windshield right across from him, roughly where Cal’s head had hit. Cal touched his forehead. His fingertips brushed what felt like the cold chrome of a car bumper, not warm flesh.

  “Damn it,” he cried. He reached to open the passenger door, but it was wedged against the side of the drainage ditch, wouldn’t open more than a ­couple of inches. Cal worked the crank of the window, succeeding in getting it partway down. He wriggled his lanky frame through and out onto the bank.

  He lurched forward into the safety of the weeds before he turned back. The truck had folded in on itself on the road, and he smelled gasoline.

  Pain lanced through his stomach, and he doubled over, spitting a string of mercury out on the ground.

  He squinted ahead, seeing light. The truck’s headlights illuminated an arrow-­shaped road sign: TEMPERANCE 3 MILES.

  Maybe the crazy guy had gotten him close enough.

  He limped off into the darkness.

  Darkness was split by a low growling.

  Petra bolted upright in a tangle of blankets. Moonlight filtered through the blinds of the Airstream trailer she called home, striping her futon bed and the linoleum floor in streaks of black and white.

  A shadow crossed the floor. Sig. He’d climbed off the futon and stood before the door. The dim light outlined the fur raised on his back. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, exposing white teeth.

  “Sig . . . what is it?”

  Sig continued to growl, eyes fixed on the door. Petra heard nothing, but that didn’t mean that nothing was out there.

  She didn’t have much worth stealing. Her 1978 Bronco was parked out in the gravel in front of the trailer, all buttoned up for the night. Somebody would have to be out of their mind to try to boost that ride. Her geology picks, GPS, and other tools were in a duffel bag inside the trailer. Aside from the gold pendant her father had given her, and the Venificus Locus, they were the most valuable things she owned. She kept some cash stuffed behind the paneling of the walls, but that would be hard to find.

  Under a blue tarp near the door was her latest project—­the one thing she couldn’t hide well or lock up. At one of the reservation swap meets she’d gone to with Maria, she’d picked up a motorcycle frame and an accompanying heap of parts on a whim. She’d cleaned the rust off of the WWII-­era BMW R75 frame and had just begun tinkering with the ignition plate and draining rainwater out of the odometer to see if it could be salvaged. The sidecar was a rust-­eaten disaster and wou
ld likely need to be reconstructed entirely from scratch, but she liked the idea of seeing if Sig would take to a sidecar. The restoration would likely take her years of cobbling together bits and pieces. She hadn’t ridden since college, but it felt like she needed something to do at home to take her mind off things. The pile of rusted junk was probably also a prime target for thieves looking to make a quick buck.

  She reached under the futon for her gun belt and drew one of the antique pistols from the beat-­up leather. She climbed out of bed, padding across the floor in bare feet. Her toes curled, feeling unprotected against the floor, but she felt secure enough to answer a threat at the door in the sweatpants and T-­shirt she slept in.

  His head low to the ground, Sig crept closer to the door, stalking in slow motion.

  A shadow crossed the window of the screen door. Someone was there.

  The shadow knocked. In the silence of night, the sudden sound made her jump.

  Her grip slick on the pearl grips of the gun, Petra crept to the door.

  The knock sounded again, harder and faster. Sig barked, snarling like a dog ten times his size.

  “What do you want?” she shouted, loud enough to be heard beyond the door.

  A thin voice seeped around the cracked weather stripping: “Petra. It’s me, Cal.”

  Cautiously, she sidled up to the door. She pushed the blinds apart with the gun barrel. The silhouette of a gawky teenage boy dressed in black stood on her step, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  Petra swallowed a lump in her throat. “Are you alone?”

  That was the key question. She felt somewhere in her gut that Cal could be a decent kid, but shit had gone pear-­shaped when he got in with the wrong crowd. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been deceived into luring her to Stroud’s Garden for a bloodletting. She trusted him about as far as she could throw him.

  “I’m alone. Unarmed, too. Please . . . I need your help.”

  At her feet, Sig gave a feral yip.

  “You wanna tell me why I shouldn’t call the cops? They’re still looking for you.”

  “Please. I got nobody else.” He sounded plaintive, like a lost emo puppy.

  Against her better judgment, she unlatched the door. She stood back, aiming the gun before her.

  “Come in. Hands up.”

  Cal nudged the door open and stepped inside. In a flash, Sig had backed him against a wall in a flurry of fangs and fur.

  “What do you want?” She fumbled behind her for the light switch, keeping her gun trained on Cal.

  The light clicked on, and she gasped.

  Beneath a shock of black hair, Cal’s eyes were silver, silver like coins on a dead man’s eyes. Liquid metal tears oozed from them, dribbling down his chin.

  “Oh, shit,” she breathed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MERCURY RISING

  “What happened to you?”

  Petra held the gun before her in a quavering grip. She hadn’t seen anything like this . . . not since Stroud’s Alchemical Garden, when Stroud had been holding himself together with duct tape, chewing gum, and a whole lot of sorcery.

  “I’m not sure.” Cal shifted unsteadily from foot to foot. He took a step toward Petra, and Sig snapped at him. He backed up against the wall.

  “Where’s Stroud?” she demanded. It was impossible to believe that he didn’t have something to do with this. She believed him dead when his house blew up, but . . .

  “I don’t know. I swear. I was digging around in the ruins after the Garden burned down, and saw this . . .” He turned over his hand and opened it. The skin of his palm rippled with grey shadows underneath. “It grabbed me. It wouldn’t let me go.”

  “The mercury,” she breathed.

  “Yeah. Yeah . . . and it hurts.” Silver tears spilled from his eyes. “You gotta help me.”

  “Jesus, Cal.” She holstered the gun.

  Cal slumped against the wall, his eyes flickering closed. Petra caught him before he fell.

  “We gotta get you to a hospital.”

  His eyes opened. “No! No hospital.”

  “You’re sick, Cal. You’ve got heavy metal poisoning and God only knows what else.” She grabbed his wrist for a pulse, and it thundered under her fingers. “Your heart can’t take this.”

  “No.” He shook his head as Petra lowered him to a chair. “Stroud could handle it. It didn’t kill him. You gotta find a way . . .”

  Petra retreated to the back of a trailer for a bra, a beat-­up military jacket, and a pair of boots. She snatched her keys, wallet, and cell phone from the kitchen counter.

  “No. Stroud was magic. He might have known what he was doing, but he clearly didn’t share that with you. I’m driving you to the ER.”

  Cal tried to climb to his feet. “I’m not going.”

  And he fell to the linoleum like a ton of bricks.

  “Cal!”

  Petra hovered over him. His pulse still thudded strongly. She pried his eyelid up, and the mercury cataract had retracted. Maybe that was good. Maybe bad. But figuring out which was beyond her pay grade.

  She ran outside to unlock her rust-­colored Ford Bronco. She popped the passenger’s side door and had to fight Sig out of the passenger’s seat.

  “You can’t come,” she insisted. She reached forward for his collar and dragged him out.

  She went back for Cal. She saw no sign of the leaking mercury. It was as if it had trickled back beneath his skin. Grasping him under his arms, she managed to drag him through the trailer door. His legs bounced on the steps, and his heels dragged in the dust as she hauled him to the truck and shoveled him in. Throwing his torso across the bench seat, she flung his stringy legs in after him. A seat belt was a waste of time on that pile of goth spaghetti.

  Sig paced outside the truck, growling. As she opened the driver’s side, he lunged inside, heading for the darkness of the backseat of the Bronco.

  “Sig . . . I don’t have time for this.”

  His eyes glowed in the back. He was resolved.

  She jammed the key in the ignition and cranked the engine. She flipped on the lights and peeled away down the gravel road, conscious of the gold coyote eyes boring a hole in her back. She was certain that Sig thought she was the stupidest human who had ever lived.

  “What do you want me to do? Turn a sick kid away?”

  Sig huffed.

  “This isn’t going to end well, is it?” She knew that shit was going bad, could feel it creeping up on them.

  Sig didn’t comment, just let her stew in her frustration.

  Miles whipped by in the dark, marked by faded stripes on the pavement and the gathering of clouds on the western horizon that scrubbed out the stars. She pushed the old Bronco to its limit, the engine roaring underneath the hood like a dinosaur with a head cold.

  Petra chewed her lip as she glanced down at Cal. He’d picked up something from Stroud, something awful. She rubbed her hand on the side of her jacket. Some of Stroud’s magic had sneaked up on him. She had no idea how contagious it was, but she sure as hell didn’t want to find out.

  Stroud had a freakish relationship with mercury. As an alchemist, he’d had the ability to work the element as an extension of himself. She’d seen him wear it as liquid armor, seen it deflect bullets. She’d even heard it rumored that he’d used it to choke a cop nearly to death. It was powerful magic, but Stroud had had many years to harness it. Maybe he invented it himself; maybe it was something he’d cooked up following a recipe from Lascaris. Maybe he inherited it; she’d heard that Stroud could trace his lineage back to the founder of Temperance and the local madam. However Stroud had come by it, it was bad news for Cal.

  The nearest hospital lay twenty miles away, at the county seat. This time of night, and this far out in the middle of nowhere, Petra had expected that the tiny ER would be empty, perhaps
occupied by a solitary drunk or a pregnant woman in labor.

  But the emergency room was packed. The two-­story cement building was surrounded by a nearly-­full asphalt parking lot. As Petra parked and hopped out of the Bronco, an ambulance with flashing lights screamed by. A knot of cops and civilians swarmed by the front door. Slamming the Bronco’s door on Sig, Petra threw Cal’s arm over her shoulders and dragged him toward the yellow-­painted berm.

  “Hey!” she shouted. “I need some help over here!”

  A cop and a man in scrubs rushed toward her.

  “Is this another victim?” the cop asked.

  “Victim of what?” Petra echoed, then shook her head. Clearly, these folks were having a bad night, too. “This guy’s got heavy metal poisoning. Mercury.”

  The man in green scrubs shouted through the glass doors of the ER for a stretcher.

  “How long has he been like this?” the man in scrubs asked, checking Cal’s respiration with gloved hands.

  “I don’t know. He just showed up at my doorstep. He was covered in mercury, and he passed out.” That much was true. Petra struggled with how much to explain. She opened her mouth to say more, but a gurney arrived. More ­people in scrubs flopped Cal onto it like a sack of potatoes and whisked him into the fluorescent glare of the hospital lobby.

  Petra made to follow. She glanced at the ambulance. Another stretcher was being pulled out of the back, with a blood-­smeared burly man in flannel strapped to it.

  “Incoming!” one of the paramedics yelled, pushing inside with the stretcher.

  “Busy night?” Petra mumbled to the cop beside her.

  “You have no idea.” The cop shook his head. “Crackpots, brawls, auto accidents and . . . ah, shit.”

  A news van bristling with flying saucer antennae on the roof pulled up to the curb. A man with a camera and a blond woman in a red coat holding a microphone hopped out. The woman was clearly ready for television: Her teased hair had been parted in the back and sprayed on the sides to resemble a cobra’s hood.