Mushrooms (Insanity Book 8)

by Cameron Jace

  “That’s because you didn’t go back in time,” she says. “You just went to another dimension.”

  “Dimension?”

  “You see every second we live exists and never vanishes,” she continues. “It sticks to the universe in a certain time and space. But we’re just incapable of bringing it back. Another version of us, still lives it day after day. Sometimes the versions, the Ages, collapse, and one of the characters or events don’t go through.”

  “Listen,” I exhale. “I don’t care about this complicated stuff. I only care about who you are. Did you say you lived in a world beyond the glass in Wonderland?”

  “I did.”

  “Why did you cross over?”

  “It’s a long story. What you need to know is that I’ve seen the end of all of this on the other side.”

  “You did?”

  She nods with confidence. “It could be another version of course, but I know a few things.”

  “Enough things to make you wait for us here?”

  “Enough to let me watch your moves, the Queen’s moves, and all that happened the last few months, and yes, to know you’ll be coming here.”

  “Then what’s going to happen next?” Constance has her hands on her waist.

  “I can’t tell you, or I will die,” she addresses me, not Constance. “But I can still help with guiding you.”

  “Who. Are. You.?” I say.

  “The Red Queen.”

  “The Red Queen is dead,” Constance says.

  “That’s a common misunderstanding,” she argues. “People think the Red Queen is the Queen of Hearts as well. Lewis knows this, but I know he can’t talk now.”

  “Then explain,” I demand.

  “Lewis wrote about the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland. Then he wrote about me, the Red Queen in Through the Looking Glass. The Queen of Hearts is evil. I am good. You know nothing about my story yet.”

  61

  A Phone Booth in London.

  The barwoman the Pillar had talked to earlier stood in the phone booth, tapping her feet. She could not believe the Pillar gave her a million pounds. The cheque didn’t bounce. The bank she collected the money from seemed ready for the end of the world. The Pillar’s had left her their phone number, and they welcomed her.

  A limousine came and picked her up. The chauffeur was mousy-looking but polite and friendly. He drove her to an underground fortress. Those people were ready for the end of the world. She wondered if the Pillar opened the bank, but she dared not ask.

  She met with the welcoming staff, congratulating her on the million pounds. They treated her not just like a lottery winner, but like a woman who was going to save the world.

  “You’ll be doing something special,” the sleepy clerk behind the desk told her. “You deserve more than this.”

  “Why?” she said.

  “If Mr. Pillar chose you then he must know why. It’s a noble job.”

  She let out a distressed chuckle. “Didn’t know that taking the money I didn’t work for was noble.”

  The sleepy man smiled and signed the cheque, “Please take it, Mrs…” he read her name on the paper. “Mother Bird?”

  “Don’t laugh at my name,” she said, taking the cheque. “My mother named me Mother.”

  He nodded. “I hope the Bird family is proud now.”

  “With all this money, I can open a bar on Mars.”

  The sleepy man shook his head, “I’d have bigger plans if I were you.”

  “The world is ending anyway,” she tucked the cheek in.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” he said. “The phone call you’ll make will save the world.”

  “About that,” she leaned forward on the desk. “What do you people do? Drugs?”

  The man on the desk laughed, “Smart woman.”

  “So drugs still make money after the world ends?”

  “I didn’t say we deal in drugs. I just found it funny.”

  “Then what? What kind of phone call is worth a million pounds?”

  The man smiled and stood up, about to fall again from the need to sleep. He shook her hand, handing her another piece of paper. “Here you will find the phone number you have to call.”

  She read the number. A local one in London. Why wouldn’t they make the call themselves? “What’s that?” She pointed at the paper.

  “Ah, that’s the time you have to make the number.”

  “That’s not exactly a time,” she looked suspiciously at him.

  “Right,” the man said. “Whenever this ‘event’ in the paper happens, you have to call the number.”

  “This event?” she laughed. “This is nonsense. What’s written on the paper will never happen. Stuff like that will never happen in this life.”

  “If Mr. Pillar says it will, then it will.”

  She let out a sigh and tucked the paper in. “Can’t complain about a million pounds in my suitcase, I guess.”

  “It won’t be long,” the sleepy man explained. “This event should happen in a few hours.”

  “I suppose I have to stick by the phone booth then.”

  “Just for a few hours, Mrs. Bird. It’s an easy job.”

  “And what should I say when I follow the instructions and call this number?”

  “Say what’s written on the note I gave you. It’s crucial that you say this exactly.”

  She stopped herself from rolling her eyes and offending anyone in the bank. The words on the note were nonsensical as hell. She could not imagine this nonsense was ever going to save the world. “Tell me, Mister.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this shit for real? I mean this isn’t some show with a candid camera. You will not end up taking this money from me and making me look like a fool on some cable TV?”

  “It’s not a show. It’s real life. As nonsensical as real life gets.”

  “All right,” she nodded and shook his hand. “Nice doing nonsensical business with you, Mr—?”

  “Dormouse,” he gave her half a smile before dosing off a little. “I used to be an Inspector. You may have read about my murder by Mr. Pillar in the news.”

  “I don’t read the news. So you’re supposed to be dead, but you’re not?”

  “I was chasing Mr. Pillar, and he shot me. It was a marshmallow bullet. He then told me about his mission in life, and I was infatuated. Since then I work for him, secretly of course.”

  “Did he give you a million pounds too?”

  “No, a perfect bed with a seven-inch mattress and extra fluffy pillows,” Dormouse said. “Just what I need.”

  Now, Mr. Bird stood in the phone booth, waiting for that absurd event to happen so she could make that phone call. Tapping her feet again, she resisted calling that number sooner. What was the hell this all about?

  62

  The Kew Garden

  “So let’s get done with all of the chitchats,” Constance offers, and she is right. My head is spinning, and I don’t exactly know what we are doing here.

  “Exactly,” I back her up. “The March has to see the mushrooms so he can remember.”

  “Do you want to see the mushrooms, March?” the Red Queen asks him.

  Still clinging to her like his new perfect mother, he sniffs and nods.

  “Frabjous,” she says, pulling out large keys and pointing at a golden door behind her.

  Closer, it turns out the door isn’t gold, but the sunshine behind is, or whatever that brilliant light shining through.

  “The mushrooms inside imitate such colors sometimes,” the Red Queen explains then gently pats the March Hare. “Ready?”

  “I want to remember where the Six Keys are.”

  “It’s time, March,” I pat him gently.

  The Red Queen is about to insert the key as she stops and gazes at Lewis. “I think it’d be a better idea if Jack takes Lewis away from here.”

  “Lewis?” I say. “Why?

  Lewis looks troubled. I don’t know what’s happening to him since we�
�ve arrived. He looks away and says nothing.

  “Can you handle it, Lewis?” the Red Queen asks him.

  Lewis is about to stutter something, but I cut in, “Handle what?”

  “I suppose you don’t understand his pain, do you?” she tells me.

  I blink, saying nothing. The answer does occur to me all of a sudden but better hear it from her.

  “It’s his addiction to mushrooms,” she addresses me. “You see, this garden has the most authentic plants in the world. Unfortunately, some of them are rare drugs. That’s why we have our police guarding us. The men on the hill,” she says.“Lewis is still an addict, Alice. He’s never recovered, at least not in the presence of the rare mushrooms.”

  Poor Lewis. Spontaneously my eyes dart toward Fabiola. Didn’t she take the mushrooms as well?

  “Don’t look at Fabiola,” the Red Queen. “She isn’t an addict anymore. She is only messed up from inside out.”

  Fabiola purses her lips. No need to comment now, as we have more significant issues to work on.

  “Why not addicted?” I feel sorry asking the Red Queen about Fabiola in her presence.

  My words upset Fabiola a little. She is not upset with me. But with a memory. I feel like is resisting a tear to leave her eyes.

  The Red Queen answers on the White Queen’s behalf. “Fabiola is still an addict, but she is strong. She has substituted her addiction with the addiction for blood. Why do you think she hid in the Vatican? In hopes of toning down the urgencies through a spiritual calling.”

  “I’m sorry,” I pay my respect to Fabiola. I’ve always liked her. “It must have been horrible.”

  “What’s more horrible,” the Red Queen says. “Is those she lost in the process,” her eyes and Fabiola’s meet. “Especially that one person who offered to help her the most.”

  63

  Past: Wonderland

  The rain poured heavily as the Pillar dug the grave. He had a cigarette puckered between his lips as he did. It’s been a long process. He hated it. But digging graves was a dirty job, and someone had to do it.

  He kicked the corpse and let it roll down the hole, which mockingly called the Rabbit Hole, a perfect name for a grave in Wonderland.

  The corpse slumped down with a thud onto the mud. Lightning struck in the sky.

  “No need for your special effects,” the Pillar smirked at the sky above. “He is just dead, and he will never be back, finally.”

  He stretched his back and lit his cigarette against the stubborn rain. A little fiery flicker against the pissing sky above. He inhaled deeply. Staring at the corpse, he realized things had gone too far.

  Fabiola’s name on his tongue was both bitter and sweet. Tonight’s event was going to change the future forever.

  “Time to bury this grave shut,” he mumbled and let the rain kill his cigarette.

  He picked up a shovel, and instead of dirt or mud, he used something else to shut bury the corpse.

  “Let’s make this fun,” the Pillar said.

  He started burying the corpse with teacups after teacups. A perfect grave for a perfect crime, for a stupid man who thought that killing the Pillar was an easy task.

  64

  BBC REPORT

  WORLD WAR III is now official.

  Countries from all over the world announced their willingness for participating in a world war. Though most events occur in Britain, other countries took sides. Some with, some against, the Inklings.

  It’s important to now that the Inklings have also disappeared. This didn’t stop people from taking sides. Every neighborhood in Britain has either allies to the gambit or enemies. The killing in the streets is simply because of people taking a side. Of course, some of the killings is pure vandalism or marauders wrecking havoc.

  The White House announced previous collaborations with the late Queen of England. A meeting that had taken place a few months ago discussed the possibilities of such a war. The White House fully supports Black Chess, the name the Queen of England had given to the collective governments fighting terrorism all over the world.

  On the other hand, Wikileaks produced contradicting documents about Black Chess being what they called Wonderlanders, a different race from us, which lived in Lewis Carroll Wonderland — because guess what, Wonderland is real.

  Though absurd, a New York Times pointed at the factuality of the Wikileaks papers. The unusual events happening in England the last few weeks suggest a mystery that needs solving: are we living alone on this planet, or do we sHare it with other races from other realms?

  The Washington Post published an article about two children witnessing the man called Pillar da Killa, alive and kicking near a bar in downtown London. The investigation hasn’t confirmed the incident yet.

  A blog post by an underground revolutionist exposed the fabricated events about the disappearance of the Inspector Dormouse who’s been after Pillar da Kill a few weeks ago. The blog post explains that the man buried in Dormouse’s grave is one of the officers who’d died in a bank robbery a few weeks earlier. Meaning Dormouse was never really killed by the Pillar.

  It’s also a common public question: who saved the Inklings in the river near the Asylum. How does this terrorist group own a ‘mute’ helicopter that helped them escape?

  Side news: with all that’s going on in Britain, an incredible number of Lewis Carroll’s books Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass have been purchased the last few days. The books had recently been named the second most sold book — never out of print — after the Bible. Now it’s number one. (Sorry Jesus)

  Why purchase endless numbers of these books in paperback — in an age where ebooks would suffice — is still a mystery to everyone.

  The BBC will back in the 6 O’Clock new — and maybe not.

  65

  The Kew Garden

  “I will know where the Keys are when I see the mushrooms,” the March Hare reminds himself over and over again before the Red Queen opens the door.

  “Do you need time to rest first?” I ask him.

  “No, Alice,” he says. “I want to know.”

  “We all want to,” Constance says.

  “I hope this is the right thing to do,” he turns to ask Lewis, but Lewis is fading into Jack’s arms. “Poor Lewis.”

  “I am sure he will better when you know the Keys’ location,” I tell him.

  “Shouldn’t he be taken away,” the March points at Lewis.

  “I-I-“ Lewis does his best to stretch out a feeble hand. “W-want to-to-to know.”

  “Come on, child,” the Red Queen says. “It’s time.”

  The March nods his permission to open the door.

  The Red Queen does. As she parts the two-sided door, a great light shines through. I feel like there is a treasure inside, glowing in gold.

  When she fully open the doors, the light is too strong to look into. We shield our eyes but still try to peak through.

  The mushrooms are slightly dancing as if welcoming the March whose smile is like a child finding Santa Claus.

  “I guess he’s not a stranger to these mushrooms,” Constance says.

  The more the March advances, the more the light pales out. It takes me a moment to realize the light is being sucked into his body. The March is turning into a transparent current of other lights. So transparent I can see the light bulb inside his head.

  Whatever the Keys are for, it’s clear to me know: a catalyst event is about to happen in the world.

  We follow him inside.

  66

  Outside the Kew Garden

  The men on the hill didn’t move an inch. They still had their guns ready, watching the great light catching up toward the grey skies.

  “Hey, douchbags!” a voice came from down the hill, near the bus.

  The men looked to see Tom Truckle wave at them. “Get ready.”

  “Says who?” one of the men asked.

  “Says yo momma!” Tom snorts. He’d unbound himself and wa
s massaging his hands. He wanted to laugh at the stupidity of the Inklings. The worst thing about good people that they never kill the bad guys and always give them a second chance. Just like evert silly Hollywood movie he’d ever watched. Why didn’t you just shoot the bad guy and rid us of another half an hour of movie time?

  “You better not make fun of us,” one of the men said. “Or I will come down and bind you to the seat inside the bus again.”

  “Yeah?” Tom mocks him. “I guess you don’t know who I am.”

  The men laughed. “Oh, we know,” they looked at each other. “We could kill you and drink you in a Mock Turtle soup.”

  “Is that right?” Tom shook his head. “I guess you don’t know who you are working for then.”

  “We work for the Red Queen.”

  “Not anymore, girls,” he laughed as the men fell dead on their knees, one by one.

  Tom could hear the faints sound of silent guns. He waited until all men died, a couple stumbled down the hill. Then watched the Reds taking place, waiting for the March to know the whereabouts of the Keys.

  For now, he patted the chubby kid named Humpty for untying him. It’s amazing what some kids would do for a candy bar.

  67

  The Mushrooms in the Kew Garden

  The March walks among the mushrooms like a leader king among his troops. It’s mind-boggling how the mushrooms, in all sizes, bend over in his direction as if he were sunlight itself.

  “Is this magic?” I say in owe, mouth agape, staring at the wonder.

  “Shouldn’t he remember already?” Constance scoffs.

  “Maybe it takes time,” Fabiola says.

  “I think he is remembering,” the Red Queen says. “He only isn’t talking, not yet.”