by Sean Platt
This sudden, unexpected horror made everything worse. Mary tried not to let her fear or tears show; Paola was already scared. No reason to decay the girl’s already fragile state. Mary said she’d make some calls. She’d call Sullivan, maybe try to find Luca, or something, to see what they should do.
Paola suggested they call Boricio. “He’ll know what to do.”
Mary laughed at first, but as she watched Paola sleeping beside her and considered her scant options, Boricio started making sense.
So, with Paola snoring in her bed, Mary crept back downstairs and called him for advice.
“Don’t you dare take her to a doctor, or those pill-pushing butchers’ll throw her in a lab quicker than you can flush your civil rights down the shitter,” Boricio said. “And don’t tell Sullivan either. Least not yet.”
“Then what the hell do I do?” she had asked. “I’m scared.”
Boricio, as usual, was unflappable, telling Mary to relax, just bring Paola there; they’d “figure shit out.”
Mary was never the type to lean on a man for support. She never asked, nor expected, much from Ryan, especially during their separation. The closest she had ever come to needing someone’s help, male or female, was Desmond, but when she needed him most, even he was unable to save her or Paola from the freaks at The Prophet’s compound. She was murdered, then saved only because Luca and Boricio intervened and saved them.
So calling Boricio, a murdering psychopath who had made Mary’s skin crawl from the moment she met him, was difficult. But he’d proven himself in the heat of battle. And besides, Luca had also fixed something inside him, changing Boricio, changing him into something that sort of resembled an almost nice guy; a nice guy who seemed to care deeply about her daughter.
Mary had called Boricio a few months back when the cops could do nothing about the sexual predator who had been creeping on Paola. Boricio was pissed, practically begging Mary to let him at the fucker.
Mary was shocked by how protective Boricio had been of her baby girl. It was touching, a feeling she never thought she’d associate with a man like him. She had to beg Boricio not to do anything. She wanted to handle things the “right way,” without any risk of getting him in trouble. Mary was glad that she told Boricio to stay out of it, because a week or so later, the pervert was murdered. The cops had come to her house, asking questions. Fortunately, she had an alibi.
She asked Boricio about it that night, right after the cops left, wondering out loud if he had come to Colorado and paid the man a visit.
“You didn’t even tell me his name. How would I have done that? If I had,” Boricio laughed, “I sure as hell wouldn’t bury my pride. I’d declare it to the cops, say yes siree, it was me with a yee-haw, now where do I go to collect my medal and vanilla milkshake?”
Mary laughed, though a small part of her wondered if Boricio was lying. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I won’t tell anyone if you did do something. Hell, I won’t tell Rose, will buy you a milkshake, and might give you a medal.”
“I had nothing to do with it, Mary, I swear,” Boricio said. “But from what you said about the guy, it sounds like he probably made himself a thicket of enemies. You said he did time in prison? You know guys in prison don’t like kiddy diddlers, right? They probably put a hit on him or something the minute he was cut from the bars; what I would’a done.”
It was because of that honesty and dedication to her and Paola that Mary had called Boricio rather than Sullivan. While Sullivan had the scientists at Black Island at his disposal, Mary couldn’t be certain they wouldn’t want to shove Paola in some cell and study her for the next 20 years.
So, she went with her gut, which Mary always trusted more than logic, and knew Boricio was the right man to confide in. She wasn’t sure if he could actually help, but simply speaking to him, someone with the confidence of 10 men, if not 10 times that, made her feel immediately better.
Boricio invited them to “hurry their asses,” and “get the fuck out to ‘Fornia,’” since they were staying an extra few days. Mary was sure seeing Boricio would help Paola, and maybe, she hoped, he could help her find Luca.
They hadn’t heard from the boy since before their return. Mary wasn’t even sure he’d made it back, or what he would look like if he did since he was an old man the last time she’d seen him and could even be dead by now two years after that. She’d asked Sullivan about Luca, but he said he couldn’t tell her anything — state secrets and all that.
But if Luca had made it back, perhaps he could heal Paola again, or at least help her manage whatever it was she was doing, since they seemed to suffer from a similar affliction.
Mary looked at her speedometer, saw she was going 15 over the speed limit and lightened her pace, checking the rearview to make sure no cops were flashing lights behind her.
She was good. She looked over at Paola, eyes moving fast beneath her lids. Mary wondered if she still dreamed the dreams of children, of if her daughter was now consigned to the nightmares that came once childhood fled without looking back.
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 — Boricio Wolfe
“Well, don’t you look like Colorado’s been your sugar daddy!” Boricio said, whistling as he looked Mary over, head to toe.
He stepped back from the hotel room door. Mary glanced over to Rose, then back at Boricio. “You have no manners, Boricio Wolfe. Your girlfriend is standing right there!”
Boricio turned to Rose, winked, then looked back at Mary. “That she is, and thanks for reminding me, not that I needed the memo, but it’s not like you can ever be told the sun is shining too many times. And you don’t have to worry about Rose seeing me admiring another good-looking woman — she knows I’m not blind and is damned appreciative I’m not. My eyes work well enough to know when my lady’s in need of a smile.”
Mary and Rose laughed together, then Paola, who shouldn’t have looked like a woman at all but certainly did, stepped through the doorway and smiled at Boricio.
“Well, Paola Olson!” Boricio cried out, unable to hide his stupid grin. “That can’t really be you!”
Paola stepped inside their room behind her mom, tentative.
Boricio yelled, “None of that timid shit, you come over here and give Boricio a hug!”
Paola smiled, almost as if she couldn’t help it, then eased by her mom — standing like a statue in the way — and fell into Boricio’s welcome.
“Well, grins and tits, Sister, how in the long hallways of hell are you doing?”
“You mean besides getting a full scholarship to the Luca School of Premature Aging?” Paola tried to smile but couldn’t quite make it. “I guess I’m fine.”
“Aw, that ain’t nothing.” Boricio waved his hand. “We’ve seen crap that didn’t make a dingle berry of sense and escaped odds smaller than the drip off a dick tip. This is shit to be flushed, Sister, Boricio gives you his scout’s honor your little Freaky Friday’s just temporary.”
Boricio winked. Mary took a turn smiling like she couldn’t help it. Paola smiled wider. Rose looked at the three of them curiously, like someone only partly in on the joke.
Boricio had told Rose everything about what had happened on the other world, except for all the stuff about him being a serial killer, and of course the miscellany and whatnot that went with it. He held nothing for later, except for the dirtiest details she never needed to hear. There was a part of Boricio that wanted to say it out loud since keeping anything from Rose was like crushing a flower in his pocket. But there were some things a good woman wouldn’t understand, or be too open-minded about, and murder was one, if not the biggest.
Fortunately, Rose was open minded about all the rest, and willing to believe in a way that wasn’t quite natural. Boricio loved his Morning Rose, and didn’t for one curly cock-hair of a minute think he could live beside someone for the rest of his life, however long that might turn out to be, without being straight as a level about all the beer-battered bullshit that had gone down o
n some other fuck of an implausible world. He was grateful for her ear, even though at first she thought he was fucking with her. But Boricio was convincing, even when speaking about aliens and magical boys who could jump in your head n’ fix you up. Rose might have kept on thinking he was yanking her chain like he yanked on her nozzles, but then they drove to North Carolina and met Mary and Paola, the Rory and Lorelei of his little adventure, and stayed with them for a long week of impossible stories. Every one of ‘em matched, down to the dirtiest details that went missing from the yarns. Rose moved from incredulous to awestruck.
“It’s so good to see you,” Rose said as she hugged Mary, then Paola, before leading them both toward the sofa and grabbing a pair of thousand-dollar water bottles from the mini-fridge. They all got to talking straight off, and it wasn’t too long before Rose got to doing what Boricio worried she would, but had given a goddamn and a half to hoping she wouldn’t.
“I think I have a solution for you guys,” she said, without any preamble and holding too much promise in her voice. “This might sound a bit weird, in fact I’m sure it will, and I wouldn’t believe it if you told me and I hadn’t seen … or done it for myself. But after all you guys have been through … over there … you might have an easier time accepting the impossible.”
“Rose,” Boricio said, cutting her off, and hoping to steer her toward a topic that didn’t include hoodoo voodoo Hollywood juju. “Luca’s our closest thing to a sure thing, without needing 1.21 gigawatts of whatthefuck.”
Rose spun from the girls to Boricio and gave him the only look in existence that could zip him, a look no one else in the world could ever even try. The look shut Boricio up, put him in his place, and made him want her right fucking now.
“Okay, Sweetie,” he said.
Mary laughed, and was joined by Paola. Mary made a sound like a whip cracking, and so did her daughter.
Boricio said, “Yeah, laugh it up, Ladies! I’ll have you know, it ain’t about being whipped, it’s about showing respect,” then he left the living room with a series of grumbling mumbles and sat over by the mini-bar, plopping both feet up on the countertop, leaning back in his seat while Rose finished her pitch.
“It isn’t official yet, but it looks like I’ll be doing some business with these guys named the Maris Brothers, up-and-coming directors who are really big in The Church of Original Design … they’ll be making The Billfold.”
Mary and Paola shifted in their seats, uncomfortable like they should be.
“I know, I know” Rose said, responding to their dubious looks. “I thought the same thing, and yeah, I know, it sounds like I’m drinking the Kool-Aid. And you can totally think that, but I really want you to at least hear me out, I think you should. I might have just the solution for Paola, and that is why you drove all night to get here, right, for help?”
Paola said nothing.
Hesitantly, Mary said, “Go on.”
“The Church believes in something called ‘The Current;’ they think it’s a force between mind and body. They have this machine that’s supposed to repair your cells, or something, and well, I went inside the machine, it’s called The Capacitor, and there were all these blue sparks and things while I was in it. Then it stopped doing whatever it was doing, I got out and my migraines were gone.”
“Power of the mind,” Boricio said, “it’s a beautiful thing.”
Rose ignored him. “I’ve been having these really awful panic attacks. And now they’re gone, too.”
“You are what you decide to be,” Boricio muttered, leaning toward the mini-fridge to grab himself another thousand-dollar bottle. “Hell, The Church ain’t even original, they stole that ‘force’ shit from Star Wars!”
Rose rolled her eyes, and Boricio winked.
“What was it like?” Paola asked.
“It was a metal chamber, long like a bullet, with a tiny window at the top. The inside was nice, really plushy and soft.”
“Like a coffin,” Boricio offered.
“No,” Paola said. “I mean, what did it feel like … when it worked.”
“Oh,” Rose paused in thought, then after a moment said, “It was dark, until these blue lights started sparking from my body. It felt like there were a thousand bulbs lighting inside me, all at once. Then that thousand lit into something more like a million, and the machine stopped. The doors opened, and my headaches were gone. I’ve felt amazing since. Better than ever. I feel like I can see better, hear better, taste better, and best of all, really start to understand the world around me.” Almost hesitantly, she added, “I feel like my eyes have been opened.”
“I dunno,” Mary said, again shifting in her seat, this time ever so slightly away from Rose. “I’ve kinda had my fill with cults what with the compound and stuff.”
Before Rose could defend the 10-ton mountain of batshit crazy that was The Church of Original Design, Boricio said, “Ha, Rose, you’d tell the Maris Brothers, Marina Harmon, and every other citizen of Crazy Town to fuck off, too, if you had ever spent any time at the Ole Ponderosa with Brother Rei and his crazy ‘Prophet.’ Mary’s right, The Church is a cult, and the problem with cults — every single goddamned one of them — is that they’re all confusing madness with mission. The Church, like Brother Rei, is juggling juju with nuts.”
“Boricio!” Rose said, sharp enough to shut him up and get him wondering when it was bedtime.
With Boricio’s pie hole shut, Rose turned back to Mary-Kate and Ashley.
“I understand how you feel,” she said. “Totally. And I felt the same way. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do, or that would in any way make you uncomfortable. But you did ask for help, and I truly believe this might be what you need, or that at the least it’s worth looking into.”
Mary’s eyes softened.
Rose continued, “Even though they use the word ‘church’, Original Design isn’t a religion, at least they don’t seem to be. I wouldn’t say they were a cult, either. It’s more like a self-help group, with science behind them. And yeah, of course, I can hear the words as I say them and am plenty skeptical about some, maybe even most, of it, but I’ve been in the machine and the machine works.”
Boricio said, “1.21 gigawatts,” so low only he could hear it.
Mary looked at Rose, her face painting many pictures at once; she clearly appreciated Rose, her suggestions, and her desire to help, but had been through too much horrible shit to take a crap and not look for the corn inside it, and you’d have to be blind, deaf, and drool-bucket stupid to not see that The Church was leaking crap at the seams, magic machine or no.
Mary stared for what was likely a minute, though to Boricio — waiting for alone time with Rose — it felt like a long, fucking hour.
Finally, she spoke. “I just can’t, Rose. Thank you, really, so much. But I have to listen to instinct, and mine’s saying no.”
Rose opened her mouth to respond, but Paola cut her off.
“I want to try it.”
Mary and Rose turned to Paola, both silent.
“I’m too young to look this old,” she said. “There are too many things I’ve never done: fallen in love, sang a song and posted it to YouTube, tried food I can’t even pronounce … ”
“I can help you with that last one,” Boricio offered.
Her face pained, Mary turned to Boricio, desperate. “What do you think?” She swallowed then added, “I trust you.”
And there it was, three women staring at him, all three trusting Boricio with eyes and expressions alike, odd as if his ball sack had started brewing gold bullion. Boricio wanted to say fuck that shit, and pipe bomb the entire “Church” to the old, dead world where it likely belonged, but even more than his anger at the machine, and feelings that it might be pulling his Morning Rose in for a ride, he wanted to please her, and help the Olson Twins. Besides, as low as odds might be, Boricio had been wrong before, and could be wrong again. This might be one of those rare times; he was a world from convinc
ed that the machine worked, but couldn’t argue with Rose’s improvement. Still, he saw explanations as easy: Mind over matter could accomplish near everything; Boricio knew that like he knew this his devil’s smile could push a parishioner’s panties to her ankles.
He grinned. “Why not give it a shot? At worst, nothing happens and we laugh while we piss on ‘The Church.’ You ladies go, take care of whatever you need to. In the meantime I’ll start snooping, see if I can’t locate Luca the Boy Wonder.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 4 — Steven Warner
The J.L. Harmon Estate
September 2013
Steven sat on the floor of the meditation room, naked, feeling the early-morning sun kissing his skin. One-way glass ran the length of the wall, opening out to the ocean.
As IT grew more comfortable in ITS human skin — no easy feat considering ITS contempt for the species — IT felt the connection thinning with the rest of ITSELF, The Darkness, spread among the people IT had infected.
IT had become greedy, such a human weakness, and tried spreading too quickly. In doing so IT risked losing ITS connection and control of the humans who hosted IT.
IT blamed ITSELF.
IT hadn’t expected the human hosts to resist, let alone be aware of, The Darkness inside them. IT had chosen them because they were weak, or filled with hate and easy to infiltrate. IT hadn’t realized that for some people, weakness and hate were temporary states. Once they started stitching their lives back together, some part of their brain, a part even they weren’t aware of, began fighting back. However, most humans were ill equipped for such mental and psychic warfare. They didn’t know what was inside them, or what was “wrong” with them, so their instincts to fight back when no enemy could be seen were turned into violent urges, manifesting toward others, and in some cases, themselves.
Sixteen had snapped so far, most killing others before turning their confused fury out on themselves. One had drawn way too much attention, killing more than 80 people in a massacre which was all over television. So many acts of violence in such a short amount of time benefited nobody and only weakened ITS overall power.
