by J. C. Nelson
Grace looked at me, a look of wild terror on her face for just a moment. The fear dissolved, replaced by determination like I’d seen in that briefing room back in Seattle. “You can’t just run away. You might want to read the sit-reps. Co-orgs are showing up everywhere, and that just happens to include your little hometown. If nothing else, stay and defend your aunt and uncle.”
Everywhere? How could that be? The Re-Animus were careful, moving with patience to effect changes over hundreds of years, according to my dad.
Grace rose from the table. “Look, you think they showed up because of you. But what if they just came on their own?” She looked over to Rory. “I’m sorry, but you think a barrel of rock salt would have stopped all of them?”
She walked over to me. “If you want everyone to think you are brave, why not be brave? Pick a spot and defend it, like your father would have.”
Cold fury raced down me. How dare she use him as a goad? “You have no idea what you are talking about. Dad would have sniffed the wind and followed the Re-Animus home, killing it in its primary host. I’m not him, and I’m done trying to be.”
“Fine.” She picked up the Deliverator from the table and removed the magazine, which she stuck in her bag. “As of this morning, I’m the only field operative in this area. You can run off if you want. I’ll stick around and take care of whatever comes next.”
What? What had gotten into her? Was it some form of temporary insanity? I grabbed the Deliverator, wrenching it from her hand with ease. “You won’t last five minutes against anything but the most basic co-org. Shamblers are one thing. You can wait for them to lean up against a door and shoot them through it. You think for a moment you’d win against one with the Re-Animus still in it?”
She reached around me, grasping at my hands. “No, but that won’t stop me from trying. Whatever comes, I’ll be waiting. Give me my gun back.”
Money. It had to be about the money. I held the gun behind my back. “This is stupid. Did the director put this in your head? You can’t make money if you are dead. Your daughter will miss spending time with you more than she’ll ever enjoy the BSI insurance payment.”
She stepped backward like I’d struck her.
Now I handed over her gun, handle first. “The director doesn’t have any qualms about ordering people to do things that will get some of them killed. Or asking them. Tell me you won’t do anything stupid.”
She shook her head, the anger deflating her. “I already did.” She tromped out into the night, leaving me alone in a crowded kitchen.
Rory put one hand on my shoulder, his grip nearly crushing my shoulder. “You’re going after her, right?”
I shook my head. “I’ll get my stuff and move on. I can sleep in the truck bed.”
“You’re a damned idiot, Big B. And your friend there is going to get herself killed first time you aren’t around and she picks a fight with something that bullets don’t touch.” He went to the fridge and came back with a beer.
The mud on my only pair of spare clothes had dried to a crust. I put my head down on the table and willed myself to forget. Just like every morning in every hotel after every operation. “Why did Dad do this to me? Why is this my responsibility?”
Rory snorted and slammed down the bottle. “You’re the closest thing to a brother I have, but you’re a double-damned idiot. The old man is dead. You got a problem with who you are, pick a fight with God.”
He looked out the window at the darkness. “Dad doesn’t work the fields anymore. Arthritis, and all. But I’d do it even if he weren’t here to watch me. I’d do it if I didn’t get paid, cause it’s in my veins. What you do, it’s in yours, too.”
He went back to the fridge and pulled out another bottle, but I shook my head. “I’m driving.”
“Away?”
“Out to the Big 8. It’s where Grace is staying.”
Rory grinned like we were back in tenth grade, swapping date stories. “Now that’s the Brynner I know.”
The deluge had left everything covered in frost after sunset. It was so quiet I could hear the crunch of desert hares moving in the moonlight. It would be so easy to stick the keys in the truck and drive until I ran out of gas.
But I couldn’t do that. Not while Grace even joked about playing a role I’d spent a lifetime training for and still sucked at. The rain would have washed away the salt outside her door.
I started up the truck and left the second-closest place to home on earth. I couldn’t let Grace try to take on a Re-Animus, any more than I could just stand by and watch a civilian get killed. She could still leave this life. I couldn’t.
Rory said the Brynner he knew would drive out to the Big 8, no doubt to talk my way into Grace’s room. Somewhere between Greece and New Mexico, that Brynner died. Maybe I killed him. Maybe he killed himself. But he was dead, and not even a Re-Animus could bring him back.
Fourteen
GRACE
I fumed as I drove back, asking myself how exactly Brynner could blame every co-org appearance on himself. Of course the Re-Animus showed up everywhere. It probably was everywhere, just not usually everywhere all at once. The only logical explanation was that Brynner grew up in the shadow of Heinrich Carson.
Everything I’d read about him spoke of a man who did the impossible repeatedly, a man even the monsters feared. Skin made of iron, they said, bones that couldn’t be broken. I had no idea how much of it was true, but seeing the truth about Brynner made me doubt the tales of his father.
The more I thought about it, the more wrong it felt. Heinrich Carson was dead. If his legend was the measuring stick Brynner used against himself, no wonder Brynner came up short.
He knew the Re-Animus, and it knew him. The thought of its voice simultaneously repulsed and fascinated me. Intelligent. Cunning, with a memory and working intelligence. As fast as Brynner moved, he should have carved it like a turkey, but instead it danced just out of reach, constantly one step beyond the blades.
The BSI had to know about this.
And whatever it was, it was fixated on this “heart.” What could we learn from a Re-Animus in captivity? What might the tests reveal? If that heart existed, I might—just might—know a way to get one.
I arrived at the hotel, pleased that I didn’t need the GPS even once. Salt crunched underfoot as I approached the motel door.
When I swung the door open, I looked into the gaping maw of darkness and froze. The thought of something waiting just beyond the light held me in place. I could flick my hand and hit the light. Or be caught, dragged into the darkness. How did Brynner cope with this day in, day out?
I stepped backward, keeping my eyes on the motel door, opened the car, and turned on the headlights. They streamed in through the door, lighting up the sunrise painting above the bed. Nothing. I turned on the room lights and then turned off the headlights. Just for good measure, I pulled the bedspread off so I could see under the bed and opened the closet door. As a child, I lived in a constant fear of the dark. Monsters lived under my bed. Mom would come down the hall and reassure me that there were no monsters. That the BSI kept the monsters at bay.
Except the human ones, like the one that had shared my mother’s bed.
I brushed away the past like cobwebs. Paranoia seemed completely reasonable after the evening’s events. I couldn’t relax until I had the door locked, bolted, and chained.
I dialed my home BSI office, then chose the operator. “Grace Roberts, calling for Dr. Thomas. Is he available?”
After several minutes on hold, the phone picked up, and Dr. Thomas’s frail voice answered. “Ms. Roberts. My favorite field operative. How are you enjoying your assignment?”
“I talked to a Re-Animus.”
He waited long enough that I thought I probably ought to expand on it. “It’s intelligent, exhibits memory, recognition, possibly even emotion.”
“Ms. Roberts, would you kindly stop?”
That wasn’t the response I expected. After a moment, t
he line clicked. This time, Dr. Thomas’s voice echoed. “Ms. Roberts, you are on broadcast to all BSI labs. Please continue. All lab partners will direct questions through me.”
And I told them. Emphasized how the voice remained constant even after the move from one body to the next. How the smoke resembled swarming insects more than clouds of evil. How it identified my sex, my occupation, and even attempted to insult me.
And the deluge of questions that followed. Did I get a sample? No, it was trying to kill me. Did I capture it? No, it was trying to kill me. Did I have video or audio records?
No. It was trying to kill me.
The fact that a Re-Animus had been strangling me made it slip my mind. I started to say so, and the words died in my throat. Hadn’t Brynner said exactly the same thing to me? I’d been so upset over a few ruined glyphs.
Now I had bruises on my neck to teach me the difference between theory and reality.
Finally, Dr. Thomas closed the questioning. “In light of the recent co-org activity, this is most interesting. We’ve heard claims from field operatives before of intelligent action. Then again, we’ve heard that virgin olive oil drives co-orgs away, and a dozen other unprovable assertions.”
He paused, and when he spoke, he spoke louder. “Ms. Roberts, on the other hand, I consider a most reliable witness. While I wish you had captured the creature for study, I value your life more than the opportunity for knowledge.”
He picked up the phone, his voice loud and clear. “Now that it’s just you and I, I want to emphasize that last point. We’ll work with the field teams to recover a Re-Animus and study it. I’ll forward you the activity analysis from the last week as well.”
“The director told me there’s activity everywhere.”
“She told you the truth. The Ministry of Security in the U.K., our partners in Canada, even the Office of Normal Funeral Conditions in China are reporting extreme co-org activity.”
Outside, squealing brakes and a wash of headlights told me I wasn’t alone at the motel.
“I’ve gottta run. Can you give the director a message for me?”
“Certainly.”
I took a deep breath, knowing I was about to make a good decision and a bad mistake. “Tell her I’m declining her generous offer. I’ll stay and finish the journals if she’ll pay for it. Heinrich Carson wrote down pretty much every thought that came into his head, and there might be other information on weapons or co-org nature in them as well.”
“Now that would truly be fascinating. I’ll relay your message, but are you aware that the BSI Analysis has a budget of our own? Your work will be funded fully, if, and only if you actually managed to uncover something useful. Be careful, Ms. Roberts. As they say, don’t get dead.” He hung up on me as Brynner’s boots crunched through the gravel.
I stood inside the door, waiting for his knock. To say what? I’m sorry I said you could kiss me? I wasn’t. What I regretted was not kissing him better, longer. It might have been a mistake, but it was one I enjoyed making.
I unlocked the door and swung it open.
Brynner crouched by the end of the concrete, brushing salt up against the wall. Mud covered him where blood didn’t, dripping from that head wound he’d gotten. He looked up at me, then away.
“I thought you were leaving,” I said.
He tossed the empty salt box in a trash can. “And I thought you had a death wish. Maybe we were both wrong.”
If Brynner’s father knew half the things about co-orgs people believe he did, I could surely find something that could be tested and applied. But only if I could decipher them, and for that, I needed help. “I’m going to work out a chronology for your dad’s journals tomorrow. I’ll pay you for your time. I don’t have much money until payday, but it’ll be easier than farmwork. I tell you an event; you tell me if it happened before or after something else.”
He arched one eyebrow. “You. Pay. Me?”
“Are you not familiar with the concept? Think of it like consulting, not for the BSI. For me.”
That actually drew a smile. “I don’t need your money, Grace Roberts, and if I recall right, you do.”
Damn him! “You may not need my money, but I need your help. The contents of that brain of yours at my command for as long as it takes to work out those journals.”
He recoiled, eyeing me with suspicion. “Why are you suddenly being nice to me? I mean, I’m used to it from women who don’t know me, but you—”
“Because . . .” My voice trailed off as I searched and failed to come up with a reason. It would be so much easier if I were one of the strange women. Someone who’d never met him. I could smile back at him and pretend like I had no responsibilities. “That was the old me. I’m turning over a new leaf, at least until I’m done with this assignment.”
Brynner dusted salt off his hands and nodded. “If I agree, you have to stick to rules: Keep out of my way if there’s a meatskin to deal with.”
“And you’ll help me? Please?” I reached out to take his hand, and he stepped away.
“I’ll think about it.” Brynner spun on his heel and walked back to the truck.
BRYNNER
Drunk women. Desperate women. Powerless women. I admit to having low standards, but those three were deal breakers. I wanted partners who wanted me, who could enjoy the experience and return the favor.
I wanted to believe what she said, but my gut said she was dangerously close to begging me for help. I’d seen more than once how begging turned to offering. While I’d turned down Grace once, I didn’t trust myself to do it a second time.
I rode my frustration most of the way to Aunt Emelia’s house. There, I sat in the truck, trying to figure out how exactly I’d go about this.
The day I turned eighteen, I’d walked to the highway and hitchhiked away. Never came back. That choice set a pattern that ruled the next six years of my life. I worked to find some other emergency to chase, some reason for not returning. Saying I was wrong.
I told myself I was looking for Mom.
And ignored Dad’s calls and messages until it was too late. When I looked up, Bran stood on the porch. The man who opened his home to me. Back then, I was just too angry to accept it. Now I wasn’t sure how.
I swung out of the truck and approached the stairs, painfully aware of the dried blood on my skin, the mud caking me. “If I stay here, I’m afraid I’ll put you in danger. If I leave, Grace is going to get herself killed. What do I do?”
Bran looked me up and down, grimaced. “You can’t come in here.”
Of course not.
He pointed to the side. “You get mud on Emmy’s white carpet, she’ll kill you twice. Hose off in the laundry room. She’s heating up dinner for you.”
“But the Re- Animus—I’m scared of what it might do.”
Bran came down the stairs, looking up at me to meet my gaze. “Ain’t nobody gets out of life alive. You’re scared because you finally found something to care about. Night, boy.” He walked back inside, leaving me to find my way up the back stairs.
After thirty minutes I had most of New Mexico washed off me. Aunt Emelia met me in the hallway, a plate of fried chicken in her hand. She put one hand on my arm. “You can leave anytime you want. But don’t run off.”
I slept through the night, waking only when the doorbell rang, which around here, had to be Grace. Her musical voice floated in from the kitchen, followed by my aunt’s laughter.
“Brynner? Boy, get up. Grace is here.” The smell of fried eggs drifting from the kitchen made me ravenous. I stalled as long as possible, then lumbered out into the kitchen, ready for extreme awkwardness.
Aunt Emelia sat alone with enough eggs to hatch a flock of fried chicken. “Grace ate breakfast at the diner, said she had to get to work. I figure you two have a lot to do.”
Not with her. “I’m going out to visit Mr. Parker. Three of those four meat-skins were recent burials. Clothes had no stains, flesh still firm on the bone.” I devoured eggs wh
ile I talked. “Hadn’t even started rotting proper. And the bodies weren’t anywhere near done right.”
Emelia’s face turned the same color green as the porcelain on her stove. “It’s like having your father back for breakfast.”
And I let it go.
“Aunt Emelia, would you mind giving Mr. Parker a call first? Might make the visit go a little easier.” I gave her my pleading eyes, which looked just like the “Come on up to my room” eyes minus the “inviting my aunt to my bedroom” angle.
She frowned. “You look a little gassy. Are you feeling okay? I’ll call him in a few minutes.”
“I feel fine.”
She patted me on the head like I was eight. “You bringing Grace along?”
“He’s not.” Grace stood in the kitchen doorway. She looked over to Aunt Emelia. “I’ve got a mountain of journals to lay out and then start translating, but I have some questions. Did Brynner play baseball?”
My aunt nodded. “In fourth grade and fifth grade. He still holds the record for biggest brawl in Bentonville Little League.”
I walked out, eager to be anywhere but there while my aunt recapped every second of my life, and got in the truck. I drove through the center of the town and out the other side, heading east. The freeway miles rolled way, until I took an exit and pulled down a side road.
The cemetery lay a mile down the road, but that wasn’t where I was headed. I pulled up to a small Presbyterian church. At least, that’s what I think it was originally. The old parsonage stood off to one side, along with the parking lot.
I crossed the artificial stream surrounding the church and walked up to the door. The bronze plate read “Parker’s Funeral Services.” Dad’s body was prepared here. Mom’s service was held here. I hadn’t come back for Dad’s.
I raised my hand to knock, and spun as the crunch of gravel betrayed someone’s approach.
The clear “You might have made a mistake” sound of a shotgun shell being chambered kept me from jumping at the short man who stood behind me, a nice clear shot at my belly lined up.
