Monsters: The Ashes Trilogy

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “But …” Cindi slicked her lips. “She’s a grown-up.”

  “So? Remember what Tom said, about the monster inside and killing because it feels good? I watched Weller do that, kill this one Chucky really slow. Suffocated him in the snow and smiled. It was spooky. It wasn’t only killing. What Weller did was murder. And now Mellie wants thermite, flamethrowers, claymores. But how does that help us? We blow up a bunch of people, rescue those other kids—and then what?”

  “Well,” she began, and stopped. “I don’t know. I never stopped to think.”

  “Right. The adults do all the thinking. But what if we want something different?”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m wondering,” Luke said, “if the Chuckies and Rule are our only enemies.”

  36

  “So?” Mellie glowered. “Is he as bad as he looks?”

  “Worse.” Reaching for two enameled mugs, Weller winced against the sudden grab in his right shoulder. Damn thing got stiff if he didn’t remember to keep moving the joint.

  “I thought you said you could handle the cuts.”

  “Oh yeah.” Weller wasn’t anywhere close to a medic, but any soldier, even an old, broken-down wreck like him, knew battlefield medicine. “Tom’s strong, he’s young. He ought to heal. Damn lucky they weren’t bites.”

  “He’s lucky he’s alive.” Mellie wasn’t a tall woman or even especially beefy, but solid as a brick and pugnacious, with a fondness for big guns like that chromed .44 Mag cannon riding high in a cross-draw on her left hip. “What the hell was he thinking? Was he trying to get himself killed?”

  “I don’t think he understands what he was after, Mellie.” One look at Tom in those blood-soaked camo over-whites—one good long gander at those wicked slashes—and his first impulse had been to knock some sense into the boy’s skull. “We just need to give Tom time and some space to get through this.”

  “Space? He’s been in that tower for over a week.”

  “Cut the boy a little slack, Mellie, all right?” Weller shook a packet down before ripping it open and dumping the contents into a mug. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?” In the Coleman’s flat light, her gray eyes were stones and her lips were purple. “Because I’m starting to wonder, Weller. No one is indispensable, not even Tom.”

  “Jesus Christ on a crutch, I hope you’re listening to yourself.” Exasperated, he turned, propping his butt against the kitchen counter. “Tom is actually the one person in this camp who is. Think about Luke and Cindi, what they’re willing to do for him. I guarantee not one kid would take a bullet for you or me.”

  “Tom is only useful so long as he remains an asset, Weller, not a liability. The last thing we need is for him to decide that this girl is alive and it’s his mission to track her down.”

  Weller had to work to keep the chagrin from making its way to his face. This was precisely what Tom thought and wanted: There was the ski pole, Weller. There’s the Glock. Tell me how I can ignore that. If those Chuckies got her out, if there’s even a chance she’s alive …

  “Why don’t you focus on the fact that he’s out of that damn tower, and he came back.” Although that, Weller thought, was more a matter of luck than anything else. If that Chucky hadn’t shown her face, he wasn’t sure Tom would’ve returned. He could picture the boy taking off, looking for some sign of where those Chuckies had taken Alex—which, he thought, wasn’t necessarily as crazy as it sounded. What Tom said about that entire fiasco on the ridge the night they blew the mine and the way those Chuckies just kept coming … made a lot of sense, damn it. “Right now, he wants to talk, so I’ll listen.”

  “Yeah, and I bet you’re just so very understanding.” Her eyes suddenly slitted. “Did you promise to help him look for her?”

  It was a little disconcerting that she’d jumped to that conclusion so easily. “Not exactly.”

  “Oh, for God—” She huffed. “What did you say?”

  “That when we’re done with Rule, if there’s some sign, a direction … I’ll help him.”

  Mellie’s mouth unhinged. “She’s dead, Weller. He’s basing this on a ski pole and a gun that’s not even hers.”

  “Look, Mellie, he’s not so far gone he doesn’t see it’s nuts, a long shot at best. But you weren’t up on that rise. You’re not carrying what he is. The last thing he needs is us rubbing his nose in it, or you interfering, lecturing …”

  “I will do whatever I think—”

  “Shut the hell up,” he rapped. “Mellie, I need you to listen good and hard. Tom is a soldier. He’s smart, he’s strong. He’s braver and more loyal than almost anyone I’ve ever known—”

  “And insane to go up there alone—”

  “Because he still has a heart to break,” Weller grated. “For God’s sake, Mellie, think for a damned second. Tom’s not eating; he’s barely slept. He’s grieving. Now, there’s that Glock, and he’s grabbed hold of this little bubble of hope, but it’s a fragile thing, and so is his soul, and I am not going to be the one to crush either. I know he has to let go eventually. He does, too, I think. But people let go in their own way at their own time. He’s not ready yet, but he will be. This fight was a good thing, all in all.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Nothing like a little near-death to make you reevaluate the merits of living,” Weller said, but didn’t smile. “That boy nearly got his head handed to him today, and that scared the hell out of him. Now, he’s talking and that’s good. But it can go either way. Push him too hard and he’ll bottle himself right back up. That’s what Tom does: handles things on his own.”

  “Like going to the lake by himself.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She was tiring him out. “Can we get past this already? And give the kid some credit: other boys’d crawl into their bags and never come out after a fight like this.”

  “My God.” Her eyes sharpened. “You admire him. What is he, the boy you always wanted to be but weren’t? Or is it more? Don’t tell me you care about him. For heaven’s sake … he’s a tool, Weller.”

  “Anyone can tell you, you got to take good care of your tools, you want them to work.”

  “Don’t give me any of your folksy cowboy bullshit.” She let go of a humorless grunt. “So when the sudden conversion?”

  On the rise. When I heard her call and him answer and near about kill himself to get to her. Then I realized just what I’d done and that nothing, not even revenge, is worth this. If ever anyone needed to let go of the past … But he doubted it would be wise to share any of this with Mellie, who had her own allegiances and none of them to him. Showing her his back, Weller tore open a second packet of instant. The aroma of strong coffee hit him the way it always did, something so fine and good it hurt to think there would come a time when this simple pleasure would also vanish. No one would be importing coffee beans or manufacturing instant for years, maybe decades. “I’m only saying I understand where he’s coming from. I also think it’s in our best interest to get at what’s bothering him about that Chucky. I’m just not sold that he’s told us everything.”

  “Oh?” He practically heard her eyebrows arch. “What do you think he’s leaving out?”

  “I don’t think it’s conscious,” he said, tipping the pack of instant so the granules came in a slow stream. “Just a hunch. I think he knows something but can’t put his finger on it. Understand what I’m saying? Like seeing someone in a crowd you could swear you’ve met but you can’t remember their name or even how you know them. Anyway, I figure, sit with him awhile, don’t push, let him calm down … whatever’s bothering him will find its way out.” With a little help, that is. But Mellie didn’t need to know that. “Best thing for him now is some rest; then get him back out there with the kids. They’ll anchor him better than anything.”

  “Uh-huh.” Pause. “I wonder how well you and Tom will get along once we get to Rule.”

  His heart skipped a beat. Easy. Don’t let he
r goad you. He tried relaxing the angry jut of his jaw. “Yeah, what’s the word on that anyway? How much longer we going to sit here?”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  He stirred, watching as the liquid quickened and grew dark. “Just asking.”

  Another pause. “We’re supposed to wait.”

  He turned a look. “For what?”

  She favored him with a wintery smile. “Well, let me see. You’re a little banged up, Tom is a mess, and only a few of these children can actually fight. I agree that with Tom back, it’s best to put his time to good use. Instead of running all over creation looking for a girl who’s dead, a few bombs, some flamethrowers—they’d be nice.”

  “But that’s not why we’re waiting,” he said. “He has plenty of firepower to spare. That’s where we got the C4 in the first place. So what’s the holdup?”

  “What do you care? Frankly, I’d think you’d be relieved. Every second we delay is one more when Tom never knows just how much you’ve lied.”

  Despite himself, he felt a jab of fear. “I don’t recall you being all that honest yourself.”

  “True, but you and Tom being blood brothers all of a sudden … have you ever considered that it might be better all around if Tom never makes it?”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Don’t you even think it.”

  “Someone has to.” She spread her hands, which were blunt and weathered, like the rest of her. “Once Tom discovers the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if he can’t decide between throwing you to the Chuckies or killing you very, very slowly.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

  “Sure. That’s your call … until it’s not. As for when we go”—she hunched a shoulder, then let it fall—“I do what I’m told. He wants us to wait.”

  Wait for what? That was the question. To be honest, the idea of going back to Rule wasn’t all that appealing, because Mellie was right. Weller had told a lot of lies to a lot of people. He’d thought that bringing down Peter, who really was to blame, then destroying the mine and killing all of Rule’s precious little Chuckies would ease the old grief that just wouldn’t let go. Or make the face of sweet dead Mandy finally fade. Yet he had done much worse, not only lying but turning in Kincaid, a friend, so that little pissant Aidan could do his devil’s work as Kincaid screamed and screamed, sacrificing himself to buy Chris time to get clear. And for what? If the cold hadn’t taken Chris, the Chuckies would’ve. Nathan, too, and the girl, Lena.

  And now here’s Tom, self-destructing in front of my eyes, and this is on me, too.

  “So.” He looked away from his thoughts to find her steady gray gaze. “Can you control him?” she said.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, not at all sure, and not liking that one bit either. He reached into the box to rummage for sugar. “Last thing we need is a martyr.”

  Because his back was turned, he missed her expression.

  He would live to regret that.

  37

  “Look, unless you have a better idea, keeping him locked up ought to be fine. I mean, he’s not a ghost or a zombie or Lazarus.” Jayden ran a hand through his light brown mop. “The dogs gave him a pass, so we know he isn’t turning. You need to take a breath, Hannah. This kid being alive isn’t a miracle any more than Ellie’s a superhero.”

  “She dragged a boy easily twice her body weight.” Hannah sipped anise tea, rolling the steaming drink around her tongue, enjoying the light aroma of sweet licorice. The fact that the drink was still hot, almost a half hour after brewing, was nearly as wonderful. Equipped with its own woodstove, this second-story bedroom was toasty warm, and spacious, with its own sitting area. It was also the only room that could be locked from the outside, unusual in an Amish home. Sometimes Hannah wondered if the previous owners had been forced to keep a lunatic relative under lock and key, like Mr. Rochester squirreling away crazy Bertha.

  Now, if we can keep Ellie from camping out in the hall. Reluctant to let Chris out of her sight, the little girl had argued for moving into the sickroom. Thank goodness for Eli: Ellie, he’s not a pet.

  “You know that death house,” she said. “There’s no way she could’ve gotten Chris to the ramp, much less hoisted him across the saddle. She doesn’t have the strength.”

  “Which doesn’t make it a miracle. In an emergency, more adrenaline means increased blood flow to muscles and, therefore, more strength. You know the science as well as I do.”

  “Granted, but science doesn’t explain it all. And what about the crows? Ravens and crows and sparrows are psychopomps.” She’d lugged up books from her collection downstairs and now tapped a text from a sophomore seminar: Encyclopedia of Myth, Magic, and Mysticism. “Guides to help the soul reach the afterlife.”

  “And bring a soul to a newborn.” Jayden shrugged. “I read the same entry. Angels performed the same function. You saying that crows brought this kid’s soul back?”

  Or were drawn there to take it away. She stared into her mug. “I don’t know what I mean. There are just too many questions for which I have no answers.”

  “Which, I repeat, does not make any of this a miracle.” Jayden eyed her askance. “I know you and Isaac do the hexes and charms, but you don’t still believe all that, do you? I mean, you went to college.”

  Oh, she could tell him a couple stories. Amish pow-wow and folk magic paled compared to the weird rituals she’d seen from some kids at school who decided they were Wiccans. “But all sympathetic magic has some basis in fact. The brain’s wired to seek the mystical, so …”

  “Just because we’re hardwired to want to believe doesn’t make it true.”

  She could easily point out that there must be some evolutionary advantage to belief or out-of-body experiences. Hard science was a language Jayden would understand. He demurred to Isaac and Hannah about the hex signs, the Brauche bags, and charms because he saw no harm. Besides, she was the botanist and Isaac’s apprentice, with just enough physiology and biology under her belt to understand which folk remedies might actually be helpful.

  “Okay. Fine. It’s not magic,” she said. “You got a theory?”

  “I’ve got ideas. I think he”—Jayden tipped his head toward the bed and the boy under a heap of comforters—“is a combination of serendipity and really good luck. There’s a logical explanation for why he survived. We just don’t know what. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t science behind it. That’s like saying thunder’s Thor’s hammer. A much bigger problem is what to do when he wakes up.”

  “If he does.” While Chris’s color had improved in the last hour, the blush coming back to his nails and gums, he showed no signs of waking. If he really was asleep. She honestly didn’t know. In the hush, his raw, jagged breaths were very loud but normal, if you were dreaming. The rough gasps Ellie heard might not have been proper breathing at all, not in the technical sense of drawing in air. It was normal for people on the verge of death—and those teetering on the edge of a deep coma—to gasp.

  Except I saw that already; I listened to this boy die, and now he’s come back to life?

  “If?” Jayden frowned. “But I thought you said he’s dreaming.”

  “I think so, but he’s been like this for hours. Ellie said he was in REM back at the death house.” From her exam, it was clear that Chris wasn’t in any coma or other state of unconsciousness described in the books at her disposal. For all intents and purposes, Chris was deep in the sleep of the dreaming dead, a state from which he couldn’t or wouldn’t be roused. Lord knows, she’d tried: shone her tiny penlight in his eyes, pricked him with a needle, shouted, squirted icy water into his ears. Zip. “REM sleep shouldn’t last this long.”

  “But you said there are people who have breakthrough episodes of REM all the time.”

  “Those who have narcolepsy, yes. It’s the closest match.” She placed a hand on the topmost book in her stack, Standard Textbook of Clinical Neurology, Tenth Edition. The solidity of those embossed letters against
her palm was reassuring. “It’s not an illness or true sleeping sickness. It’s a disorder, like diabetes, where people are overcome with an urge to sleep.”

  “But you said narcoleptics have these really vivid hallucinations.”

  “Hypnagogic, yeah. They’re not true dreams.” She bracketed a sliver of air between two fingers. “They happen in this very narrow window between dreams and wakefulness.”

  “So how do you know he’s not on a really wild trip? Isn’t that what the mushroom was for?” Jayden flicked a finger at a hand-stitched leather diary. “Not to kill but help you dream?”

  “According to the original recipe. The encyclopedia says the Ojibwe drank the decoction in order to help the soul find its way to the Land of the Ghosts.”

  “By way of visions, right? Weird dreams? Like, they took a helluva trip?”

  “Yes, in low doses. And in higher doses, it kills you,” Hannah said, a little impatient now. What a formula using hallucinogenic mushrooms was doing in an old handwritten journal of Amish Brauche spells and pow-wow charms, she had no clue. Neither did Isaac. They both supposed the original Amish settlers had incorporated local customs. But why this decoction from this particular mushroom? While the old ways involved a fair amount of folk magic and white witchcraft—and most practitioners were Pennsylvania Dutch—as a rule, the Amish weren’t into ecstatic experiences. If she were back in Houghton, she could consult the university library, the science department’s database, maybe figure it out, but … She gave the idea an irritable mental shove. Wishing would get her nowhere. “I know all that, Jayden, but isn’t the more pressing question, why isn’t Chris dead?” And what brought him back?

  “That’s easy. The dose is weight-dependent and you had to guess. He was so weak already, he slipped away fast and you figured you’d given him enough.”

  She’d already thought of the same thing. “I accept that. But think, Jayden. It’s really cold. Why haven’t his tissues frozen? Or let’s say that, by some miracle, his core temperature didn’t drop far enough. That still leaves hands, fingers, toes, his ears. But he doesn’t have frostbite. His wounds are half healed. How did that happen?” She didn’t bother pointing out that a badly lacerated liver ought to be a death sentence all by itself. That and his collapsed lung were why she’d poisoned Chris in the first place. Letting him slip away into sleep was a final kindness.