The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-Volume Three

by Jonathan Strahan

  The garden shed had been there when they moved into the new house. The small house, was how Sal and Macey spoke of it, as it was actually a lot older than the old house, older and smaller, and with neighbors tucked in all around. The people who had lived here before had kept a square patch of lawn and planted irises and other things Sal didn't know between the grass and the weathered wooden fence. Sal's mother had said how nice it would be to have flowers and a "manageable" yard, but Sal noticed she never came out back, and the garden tools and lawn furniture all lurked in the back of the shed collecting spiders. Inside was dark and smelled like mold, but Sal lingered a moment, the Weirdo's trash unacknowledged by her foot. She could almost imagine setting up the lawn chairs inside, hanging the hammock from corner to corner, using one of those collapsible lanterns like they used to have for camping. A tiny house beside the small one. Except Macey could never come in. Sal picked up the trash bag and took it outside.

  Look for fur, Macey had said. And bones, and bloody rags, and burnt candles, especially black ones. And incense and chalk.

  What Sal shook out onto the shaggy grass was rinsed-out milk cartons, clean dog food cans and cottage cheese containers, and a week's worth of newspapers. The creepiest item was a toilet paper roll that she nudged back into the plastic bag with her toe. She didn't know what to feel about this lack of discovery, but Macey would be disappointed. Or rather, Macey would write another mystery into her log, and then come up with some other assignment for Sal, something a little bit harder, a little bit scarier. She always used to win the contest of dares, back when Sal could dare her to do anything. As Sal shuffled the Weirdo's trash back into its bag, she had to admit to herself that, sooner or later, she was going over the fence into the Weirdo's back yard. She was tempted to get it over with, but that would deprive Macey of her share in the adventure. Sal had to comb the grass with her fingers before she found the yellow twist tie, and then she didn't know what to do with the Weirdo's trash. After a moment's thought, she tossed the bag back in the garden shed and went into the kitchen to wash her hands. Next week she could put the bag in their can for the garbage men to haul away.

  Macey was on the IV again when Sal went up after dinner. The drip always made Macey cold, so she had a fluffy blanket wrapped around her arm, a pink one sewn with butterflies that didn't quite match the rainbow sheets. Their mom was convinced that bright colors would keep Macey's spirits up, and even Macey was too kind to tell her she'd rather have something cool and calm, like sand or stone. Against the gaudy stripes, Macey's face was a dry yellowy white, with patches of red in the hollows of her cheeks. She gave Sal a cross look.

  "It's too dark to look at the evidence now."

  "I already looked." Sal was not surprised when her sister looked more cross, not less.

  "Why didn't you say so? What did you find?"

  Sal told her, as accurately as she could remember.

  Macey rocked her head on the pillow. "You must have missed something. Did the newspapers have any bits cut out of them?"

  Sal hadn't thought to look. She hesitated, then decided on a simple, "No."

  Macey made an old lady tsk of annoyance. "He's too smart for that. I should have known." She looked out the window, where dusk was fattening into dark.

  A light showed through the curtained window of one of the Weirdo's back rooms. His kitchen, Sal guessed. All the houses in this neighborhood were variations on the one they lived in. She sat waiting for her instructions on the end of Macey's bed, and it was a while before she realized Macey was asleep. She went on sitting, listening to her sister breathe. Somewhere close, a cat softly meowed.

  Saturday mornings Sal would carry the TV into Macey's room and they'd watch cartoons together, like when they were kids and they'd sneak downstairs while their mom and dad slept in and muffle their laughter in sofa cushions. Not that she had to sneak to do it now. Sometimes their dad would even move the TV for them before heading off to a weekend consultation. But this Saturday the morning nurse told her Macey'd had a bad night and needed peace and quiet, which would drive Macey up the wall unless she was really bad, but you couldn't argue about things like that with the nurse. So Sal wrestled one of the lawn chairs out of the garden shed and set it up in a patch of sunlight by the back fence where she could keep an eye on the alley, at least, and pretend to be doing her homework and getting a suntan at the same time. Macey could look down from her bedroom window and know Sal was on the job.

  She was working on another senseless problem about the farmer who didn't know how big any of his fields were (she imagined a city guy with romantic notions about getting back to the land, and neighbors that laughed at him behind his back) when she heard the unmistakable scuffling and whispers of kids trying to be sneaky. She dropped her pencil in the crack of her textbook and leaned over the arm of her canvas-slung chair to press her face against a crack in the fence.

  Three boys, probably about ten years old: too tall to be little, but still children to Sal's thirteen-year-old eye. They wore T-shirts and premature shorts and were elbowing each other into some daring deed. They stood outside the Weirdo's tall fence, and Sal felt a hollow open up inside her chest even before the tallest boy shrugged off the other two and with a gesture commanded a hand stirrup for his foot. The next tallest boy lofted him to the top of the fence . . . there was a thump-scuffle-scrape . . . and then he was over and out of sight. Like the boys in the alley, Sal waited, breathless, for whatever would come next. The boy might have fallen down a hole for all the noise he made.

  Her ribs hurt where the arm of the chair dug into her side. Her neck and shoulder creaked. She tried to shift position without losing her line of sight and the chair almost tipped, and she caught herself with her fingertips on the fence, and wondered if Macey was awake and watching, or if Macey was too sick to care.

  Then sudden furious meowing, loose rattle of chicken wire, thumps and scrapes, and a bundle fell from the top of the fence—only half in Sal's view but from the caterwaul she deduced it was a cat wrapped in the tall boy's shirt. The two boys in the alley scrabbled to keep the animal contained, while the tall boy appeared, shirtless, scratched, and triumphant, at the top of the fence. He swung a leg over and posed for a second before hopping down.

  The hollow in Sal's chest swelled until her breath came short. The cat was meowing, more frantic than angry, now. The boys were laughing. She dropped her books to the grass, got up, and fumbled open the gate.

  "Hey!"

  The boys, in the act of departing, froze.

  "Let go of that cat." Even Sal could hear how lame that sounded.

  The shirtless boy looked her over and sneered. "Make us," he said.

  The other two, prisoning the bundled cat between them, looked unsure but excited at the possibilities.

  Sal swallowed, and thought of Macey maybe watching. She took two fast steps forward and gave the boy a shove. He wasn't much shorter than she was, and was all wiry boy muscle under the scratched skin. He shoved back and kicked her hard in the shin. Then it was all stupid and confused, kicking and clutching, and someone's fist in the back of her shirt, until, in the midst of scuffing feet and angry breathing, came the unmistakable grate of a key turned in a lock.

  The fight stopped so suddenly Sal found herself leaning for balance against her adversary. He shrugged her off, and they stood, staring, the four of them, while the Weirdo's gate creaked partway open on rusted hinges.

  The smallest boy dropped the shirt-wrapped cat and bolted.

  The cat bolted, too, between the Weirdo's feet and the fence post, back into his yard.

  Then the other boys were running, too, whooping insults to cover their retreat, and Sal was left standing in the alley with the Weirdo peering at her through the cracked-open gate. He had small pale defenseless eyes blinking in the shadow of his gray thatch of hair. One huge white hand shook with palsy on the side of the fence. As it registered with Sal that he was as frightened as she was, she heard the mewing of fearful kittens.r />
  She gulped a "Sorry" at him and scurried back into her yard, slamming the gate behind her.

  Macey was furious. Furious, though only someone who knew her as well as Sal did would be able to tell. Her hands lay as if abandoned on the covers, and her voice was a thin warble, as if she lacked the strength to control its ups and downs. But she had indeed been awake and watching, and she thought Sal had done everything wrong.

  "Those boys could have been allies. Why'd you fight?"

  "I don't think they were going to take the cat home and feed her cream," Sal said.

  "It wasn't even a good fight. You fought like a girl."

  Sal shrugged. Her legs were black with bruises, and she was rather proud of the swelling of her lower lip.

  "And now the cat's back where it started."

  "She went back on her own," Sal pointed out.

  "You said it had kittens. It probably thought it had to protect them."

  "She was more scared of those boys. Way more scared."

  "That's just because it doesn't know, yet."

  "Know what?"

  "What's in store."

  Sal prodded her swollen lip. "We don't know what's in store, either."

  "Yes we do."

  All Macey's strength seemed to go into those three words. When she closed her glittering eyes, her hands, her whole body, seemed more abandoned than ever. Sal sat on the end of her bed and watched her closely until she was sure her breathing was regular, then dropped her chin into her palm and gazed outside. The morning sun had been swallowed by clouds. It might even rain. She looked down at her math books, still open on the grass by the tipped-over chair, and thought about going down to bring them in. There was no sign of the Weirdo.

  "You know," she said quietly, in case Macey was asleep, "he might just take them out the front door. He might just take them out and let them go."

  Silence for so long she thought Macey must be sleeping. But then her sister said, "Doesn't."

  "How do you know?"

  "Brings them in the back. Would take them out the same way."

  Sal had to concede there was a certain logic to this. Silence gathered again, while the clouds closed in a little tighter, a little darker. Sal thought of the kids at the fair, wondered how many parents had thought to bring rain gear along.

  "I have to go get my books before it rains," she said.

  Macey didn't say anything. Sal got up and went to the door. She was almost in the hall when she heard her sister's voice, thin as a thread.

  "You're just scared," Macey said. "You just don't want to find out."

  Sal bit her swollen lip and winced. Having seen those fearful, blinking eyes, those shaking hands, she found she had nothing to say. She slipped out and went downstairs to put on her shoes.

  That night she cracked her bedroom window open and listened to the rustle of the rain. It followed her in and out of sleep, the same way her parents' footsteps did as they took turns to check on Macey. Every hour. Then, starting at 1:33 by Sal's digital alarm clock, every half hour. Then, when the red numbers shone 3:41, they were both up and about. She dimly knew that she did sleep, but it seemed as if she didn't. It seemed as if she were already wide awake when she heard the ambulance grumble to a stop on the street outside, and the tinny whicker of the radio as the paramedics reported their arrival. She lay still and comfortable while the gurney came rattling up the stairs, while the hallway became full of movement, while the calm professional voices moved into Macey's room. Then she got up and opened her bedroom door. The bright light made her squint.

  She couldn't see past her parents, but from the crunch-and-rustle sound the paramedics were tucking Macey in with cold packs. They were almost ready to go. She went back in her room and traded her pajamas for sweats and running shoes. The paramedics rolled Macey out and down the hall. Sal and Macey's parents, already dressed, followed. Sal trailed after. Her dad only noticed her when he turned to close the front door.

  "Oh, sweetheart," he said sadly. "You don't have to come."

  Sal shrugged. Of course she didn't have to.

  Her mom came over and gave her a one-armed hug. "Macey's going to be all right. They just need to get the fever down. We'll call first thing and let you know when she'll be home."

  Sal didn't say anything. She couldn't. The paramedics were lifting Macey into the ambulance. One climbed in with her. The other was hurrying around to the cab when Sal's dad shut the front door, cutting off her view. The living room window filled with red and blue light, like the lights of a carnival fairway. Then the ambulance pulled away, followed by her parents' car, leaving darkness behind.

  It was still raining in the morning. Sal waited until her parents had called before she headed out the kitchen door.

  Doctor Helleran wants to keep Macey in for a few days, just to make sure . . . Mom will be home to pick up some things this afternoon . . . Dad will be home to make dinner . . . Be sure you finish your homework . . . Everything's going to be all right . . .

  The Weirdo's fence was taller than she was, but she could hook her fingers over the top, just. The rubber toes of her sneakers skidded on the damp wood, so it was by the strength of her arms that she lifted herself over. Her hands ached and stung with splinters, and she dropped quickly, more clumsily than she might have. Cement paving stones were a shock to her feet. At her right hand a cat growled, low and angry, and she started.

  The huts were in two rows that faced each other across the small yard, six in each row. They had tin roofs pattering under the last of the rain, and wire fronts, and were otherwise made of plywood and boards, sturdy but not elegant. Sal was surprised at how big they were, four feet to a side and on short legs. She was also surprised at the smell of clean straw that came from the bales tucked under the Weirdo's eaves. Macey must have seen him cleaning the huts, laying new straw and bundling up the old, but she'd never mentioned it. Sal bent over to peer into the nearest hut and could just make out the angry black mask of the mother cat glaring from her corner nest. The cat gave another warning snarl.

  "It's okay," Sal whispered. "Your kittens are safe."

  From me, she added silently, creeping up the row.

  Most of the huts seemed empty, though with the heaps of straw it was hard to tell. But the fourth one on the left had an occupant that was more than willing to be seen. Beady eyes in a lone ranger mask, damp twitching nose, and delicate finger-paws hooked through the chicken wire of the door: the raccoon, small enough that Sal could have tucked him under her arm like a nerf football, chittered happily at the sight of company. She hunkered down before the hut, then registered the shaved patch on the creature's haunch, the coarse stitching, the missing foot. She bit her lip, and winced when her tooth hit the sore reminder of yesterday's tussle.

  "Poor little guy."

  The raccoon snuffled at her through three different holes. In his excitement he planted one forepaw in the plastic water dish wired to the front of the hut. With a look of disgust he shook his paw, then settled down to lick it dry, keeping a bright eye on Sal between laps of his pink tongue.

  Sal rocked back on her heels and turned her head to stare over the fence and up at the back of her own house. At the wide dark rectangle of the window to Macey's room.

  "Excuse me," said a rusty voice, "but you shouldn't be here."

  Sal rocketed to her feet. For one fleeting instant, she'd actually forgotten.

  "This is private, you see, private property."

  The Weirdo stood on his back step, the door to his house open behind him. He wore the same navy blue polyester jacket zipped up to his chin, the same gray pants baggy at the knees, the same blinking look of fright. Except this time the fear was mixed with a tenuous look of dignity. Sal felt herself start to blush.

  "I'm sorry," she said stupidly. "I was just, uh, just—" What could she possibly say? "checking to see how the cat was." She twitched her head and shoulder toward the mother cat's hut. "From yesterday? I thought those boys, uh, might have . . . " She
ran out of steam, though the blood in her ears was hot enough to boil water.

  The Weirdo's blinking slowed to a less frantic tempo. "But you aren't the defender. Are you?"

  "Well, yeah." Sal shrugged, her hands creeping into the pockets of her jeans. "I mean, I guess."

  "You could have knocked. You see, on the door."

  Sal wasn't sure if this was reproach or simply information. "Sorry," she mumbled again.

  The Weirdo, unbelievably, smiled. A funny, scrunching quirk of a smile that disappeared his eyes and didn't reveal any teeth, but a smile nevertheless. "You want to see the kittens." He stepped down from the back stair and shuffled towards her.

  Sal, indoctrinated against the man who offers to show little girls his kitten or puppy or whatever-it-might-be tucked away in the back of his van (just around the corner, the teacher won't even notice you're gone), scuttled crab-wise until her shoulder bumped the gate. The Weirdo, with his lumpy shoulders and shaking hands, lowered himself with care to kneel before the mother cat's hut, apparently blind to Sal's skittishness. Looking down at his stiff hair thatch, Sal wondered what she was doing here. Wondered, confusingly, if she wouldn't have preferred to have been run off by some harrowing Freddy-like creature, chased back over the fence and home. But instead of razor blades, his hands had only trimmed yellow nails and a tremor that she was beginning to realize wasn't fear, or at least not only fear, but some nervous disorder, or possibly even age. The big pale shaking hands reached through the hut's open front and emerged a moment later with a squeaking palmful of black and white.