Later that night, long after the television has been shut off and everyone has gone to bed, Rosie draws another picture in her room. In this one, a single figure stands knee-deep in the waters of a lake. Trees line the banks and ripples radiate out around this person’s knees. It’s a woman, with white-blonde hair and wearing a black coat. Rosie ponders it after she finishes, unsure what to make of it. Then it hits her, the figure in her drawing looks just like Henry’s mom. Why would Mrs. Silverwood going swimming come to mind? What does that mean?
Rosie frowns. She stacks up her drawings at the foot of her bed and crawls under her covers. Tomorrow she will flip over all of tonight’s drawings and draw on the backs of the sheets, in order to save paper.
Across the street, notes and photographs of Rosie’s activities this evening will be transmitted to the Council and placed in the archives, as is the standard procedure with every Guild member in the tracking system.
Daniel Brush looks up just in time to see a hand shoot forward, grab the front of his shirt and shove him backwards into a bookshelf. His broom clatters to the floor.
His visitor is very large, and clothed in dark robes. Daniel can’t make out many details; the dirty windows only let in weak early evening light. He really must wash those sometime soon. Perhaps he will do that next, after he’s removed the top layer of dust from everything in the store. And, after he has escaped his assailant.
“I’m looking for a book,” the figure says.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Daniel offers lamely. His shirt collar is pulled tight around his neck.
The visitor lets go of its grip on Daniel and straightens a bit. It must be seven feet tall. It turns and takes in the disorganized mess.
“Looks like you have some work to do here,” the visitor says.
“Thanks, I knew that,” Daniel says, straightening his shirt. “The owner kind of left suddenly.”
“So, you’re not the owner?” It runs a bony finger across the dusty cover of a book on the table, revealing a streak of colored leather under the dust.
“Nope. But feel free to look around.” Since you’re going to anyway, Daniel adds silently.
The visitor turns away and moves down the first aisle. For such a big, mangy-looking thing, it seems to move gracefully, almost flowing amongst the shelves and stacks. “It had better be here; he said it would be here… ” it mutters as it goes.
Daniel picks up his broom and does a feeble impression of sweeping while keeping a close watch on his customer. He vaguely remembers a person with the same dark, disheveled appearance visiting the store when he was much younger, a large individual dressed in dark robes and sporting a bad attitude. Daniel remembers how agitated his uncle was at the time of the visit, but Daniel was a kid so nobody took the time to explain anything to him. Daniel resolves that if he ever has kids, he will explain more to them about what’s going on so they’ll have the knowledge to deal with moments like this one.
Daniel’s musings are interrupted by a loud, “Mrrrrrowrrrrrrr,” sound from the back of the store. He leans the broom against the front counter and tiptoes to the end of the aisle, leaning forward and peering toward the back of the store.
“Now kitty, just move for a minute,” the visitor says.
“Rrrrrrrrrrr,” comes the deep, threatening reply.
From his spot at the end of the aisle, all Daniel can make out are the outline of his visitor, and the unmistakable silhouette of a cat. Then something odd happens. A horrible noise comes from someone, or maybe both of them, and it seems that the two shadows deform into blobs waving tentacle-like arms. The dark shapes merge as the two lock in battle, sending books tumbling onto the floor. Great. More mess to clean up.
Whatever this altercation is about, Daniel isn’t going to have the store made even more difficult to organize than it already is. So he takes a deep breath, and walks into the aisle to confront… whatever is going on in the store.
The sun has reached a low angle and Daniel has to squint in the glare coming from the tiny window at the back of the store. The two shapes separate, and by the time Daniel’s eyes adjust, his visitor is standing across from the cat calmly as if nothing has happened. The cat has settled back down atop a stack of books.
“Can you move your cat?” the visitor asks.
Daniel didn’t know he had a cat.
“Um, okay,” Daniel says. He shuffles down the aisle, the cat watching him closely with almond-shaped eyes. Where did the cat come from? Do all bookstores have cats? Is this a rule?
“MrrrRrwrrrrmmmmmrrrr,” the cat says.
“Hi kitty,” Daniel says. He reaches forward to pick it up, but the cat will not be relocated. He lifts up on the cat’s body, but it digs its claws into the heavy volume beneath it so the whole thing, cat and book, lift up together. It’s as if this particular book comes with a built-in cat. Daniel puts them both back down, steps back and puts his hand up to his chin.
“I don’t think the cat wants to move, right now,” Daniel says.
The giant visitor glowers down at its furry adversary. On closer inspection, Daniel can see that this—person—has the face of a rather sickly vampire. Sunken grey skin, nasty black robes.
The visitor turns, abruptly, and heads toward the front door. As it whisks away down the aisle, it mutters, “I’ll be back, cat.”
Daniel watches his customer leave. The bell tinkles on the door. He turns back around to get a better look at the cat that he didn’t know he had.
“So, what was that?” Daniel says to the cat. “You, mister cat, have an attitude problem.”
The cat looks at him with minimal interest. It’s a beefy animal, orange with a little bit of white striping and a round, resolute face. Its tail flicks.
“What is that book you’re so attached to, anyway?” Daniel leans forward and puts out his hand. The cat hisses.
“Cool it, I’m not gonna take it, I just want to see… ”
The cat hisses again and lashes out with its claws, just missing Daniel’s face as he takes evasive action. However, he does manage a brief glimpse of the book’s spine. On it are printed heavy gold letters: REGRETS.
“Fine,” Daniel says as he returns to the front of the store to sweep some more. Aren’t bookstore cats supposed to be mellow and sleep all day in the window while customers tell them how adorable they are?
Daniel picks up his broom and resumes the task of cleaning up the bookstore. The cat stays put atop its book.
RECORDING
Hi dad, it’s Helen again.
You know how I said, when we move the dreams stop for a while? Or I guess I should say, the recurring visits, since I’ve now learned that they aren’t dreams at all. I figure it’s because people have to find me again. Get the word out—you know, ‘that Silverwood girl with the healing blood is living on Second Street now.’ Something like that.
Well now I’m having actual sleeping dreams, and they are—shall we say—different.
In these dreams I’m walking on a lonely road out in the middle of nowhere, no trees or anything. And then there’s this old farmhouse. Really old—falling apart at the seams old. I turn off the road and I walk up a dirt path to the front door. There’s a weird gurgling sound all around me, like I’m in a big fishbowl.
When I go to open the door, the knob comes off in my hand. And then the knob floats away. I’m not kidding. There’s still that gurgling sound in my ears. The house has a big porch that wraps all the way around, and I run along it and look in each window.
Inside every room I see a Tromindox, but I can’t get into the house to save them. I pull on the windows, but they won’t open. The Tromindox don’t seem to know I’m there. I try pounding on the window, but I can’t make any sound. I can’t even hit the glass hard enough to make an impact. It’s like I’m stuck in slow motion. I can still hear the gurgling.
The next thing that happens, it’s like I get pulled away. I feel like someone is grabbing the back of my shirt and pulling m
e out off the porch and into the air. I flail and kick my legs but I just get farther and farther away from the farmhouse. I watch it get smaller as I lift up into the air. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. Pretty soon the house is tiny. And then, I wake up.
It reminds me of those dreams kids have, where they are in school but they can’t find their locker or books or class and they are in their pajamas in the middle of the hall. One of my teachers told me those are anxiety dreams. Maybe this is one of those—an anxiety dream.
I wonder if my dreams will change again when we get to Brokeneck. I suppose now that the Tromindox who still have people inside can just visit me during waking hours… I mean, I’m old enough to handle it, healing them, and I don’t need to be asleep any more.
Mom, on the other hand, she’s still getting assignments. We’ll be in some hotel, in the middle of nowhere, and she’ll receive a message and go out. She says she has to, to pay the bills so we can buy food. Nobody’s going to do that for us, she says. We have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.
I asked mom, what if I went out with her on her assignments, and tried to heal the monsters before she killed them off—just in case. Maybe on occasion there’s still a person inside. Let’s just say the conversation didn’t go very well. I guess I had that coming. But then she said, the ones she hunts, they’re too far gone. She says she can tell, they have a particular signature that she can read. I can’t heal them, can’t get anyone out of there any more. The only thing left to do is dissolve them. She says at that point, my blood just turns them to dust.
Now that’s strange, the notion that my blood would turn someone to dust. I thought it was supposed to heal people. So is it true that if someone is too far gone, completely Tromindox, that my blood destroys them? I just can’t help thinking, what if there is someone in there? Even just a tiny bit of them? Can they look out through the Tromindox eyes and see my mom? Can they see me?
If you were here, I could ask you these questions. Instead, I’ll just try to get some actual sleep.
END RECORDING
She has not had anything to eat for over a month. Her feet drag along the ground, her head hangs downward in despair. She must use all of her remaining energy to maintain even a somewhat human shape now, so when she gets a chance she slinks behind a dumpster and allows herself to shift back into an exhausted heap of Tromindox claws and tentacles.
The huge, rolling doors on the loading docks sit silent and shut tight, cold and grey and uninterested. She surveys the landscape. Warehouses, trucks, paper blowing around, anything living locked safely behind those rectangular doors. She slides down to the ground in the shadow of a heap of garbage, feeling like garbage herself.
Why did she let the others talk her into coming to this awful time and place. “There will be lots of prey,” they said. Everywhere you look, prey. An all you can eat buffet.
Well, it’s not that simple. Things here in the future move far too fast. They have vehicles that run you down no matter which way you turn. They have flashing lights that make no sense. Everyone here seems to be in a hurry.
She was already starving when she got here, far from her full strength. But keeping up with all these people, zooming around in these vehicles and jabbering into devices they hold up to their heads, exhausts her. She should have used some time to learn their ways. But she’s had no time, and nothing to eat. Starvation turns time into the enemy.
Maybe the others sent her here just to get her out of the way, to get rid of her.
She hears a clicking sound in the distance. It sounds like the footsteps of someone wearing dress shoes. She leans forward and peeks around the dumpster. The shoes belong to a beefy man, in a suit, mobile phone clamped to his head. Maybe he is an executive, leaving the office late after a long day. He strides toward the only car left on the street, a sleek black sedan. Can she get to the car before he does?
The wide street offers no cover, so she must rely on stealth and timing. She pulls herself together and assumes the form of a hunched old homeless woman in black robes. This form is not too difficult, since she’s stooping over a lot these days anyway.
She steers clear of the streetlights, pressing up against the wall and moving alongside him on her side as he walks along across the street. She keeps back just far enough to stay out of his vision. Her quarry barks into his phone, and continues barking as he tucks it under his ample chin to fumble through his pockets for his car keys.
When he finally locates the keys in his pants pocket and reaches for the car door, he drops his phone onto the asphalt. Letting out a few curse words, he bends down with some effort to retrieve it.
When he stands back up, that’s when she shoots the venom straight into his sizeable abdomen.
He stares at her in disbelief, his beady eyes bugging out of his face. He is the CEO of a multinational corporation. He just closed a huge deal. He is not a victim.
He tries to pull away from her, but the barbs on her tentacle hold him in place. His legs go numb and he sinks to his knees, but his look is one of defiance, not fear. Does this thing know who I am?
The venom begins to dissolve his body, and at long last she can feel new energy pouring into her. She reels him in, but he continues to struggle. In her weakened state, she cannot break him down all at once. The tug of war continues for an hour or more, there under the streetlight next to the shiny black sedan. A big personality like this one will not go quietly. He is used to winning.
Once she takes in enough fuel to sustain herself, she begins feeding off the mind of this enormous ego. Her head spins with business deals, spreadsheets, first-class flights, fancy shoes and shiny cars.
Eventually the man disappears physically, but his identity remains intact. She has the strength now to seek shelter, but this battle could still go either way. For hours or even days the fight will rage on. Sometimes her face will be her face, sometimes his. Eventually one of them will win out, but until then the two of them will lurch forward together, a weird hybrid creature roaming the streets. Most likely, she will win.
The enormous sign at the side of the road reads “Chester Motors” in neon block letters, with a smaller line underneath in script: “Best deals in the desert.”
A long row of used cars stares out at the interstate, windows stuffed with giant orange numbers and letters describing irresistible deals: Clean. Runs great. Like new. The dry wind whips around between vehicles, stirring up dust devils amongst the wheels.
“What are we looking for?” Helen asks.
“Something different from the station wagon, for sure—maybe with a little speed,” says her mom.
“A motorcycle?” Henry asks, excitedly.
“Henry, how are all three of us, plus Clarence, supposed to get around on a motorcycle?” Helen says.
“I dunno, maybe add a sidecar?” Henry looks down.
Chester, the man whose name is emblazoned on the sign, ambles out of the slant-roofed sales building, rubbing his thick hands together. He takes a sideways glance at the vintage station wagon. That thing, he could sell. That is a collector’s item. Most trades he gets are on their last legs, only good for scrap. Fine with him. Scrap sells well. But this one is in good shape, vintage. Wonder why they don’t want it any more?
“How are you ladies today? And you, sir?” Chester ruffles Henry’s hair. Oh great, one of those grown-ups who tries to make friends with kids by calling them things like ‘sir’ and ruffling their hair.
“We’re good,” Kate says. “Say, what have you got in a mobile home?”
Ah, looking to trade up. This could be lucrative. Chester takes a glance at Kate’s boots. Nice footwear indicates she’s probably good for it. Of course, all the details will come out in the background check.
“Right over here, ma’am,” Chester says. “I keep our selection by the side of the building, there. Finest motor homes around.”
“You two want to take a look, too?” Kate says to the kids.
“Nah, we’
ll hang with Clarence,” Helen says. “C’mon, puppy dog.”
Clarence unloads himself from the back seat of the station wagon and ambles over to the kids. Ah, a dog, notes Chester. Probably have to clean that thing before I can sell it. Take that out of the trade-in price.
Kate and Chester head off to look over a sorry-looking mobile home with decals peeling from the sides and clear signs of rust. The kids and dog take off in the opposite direction, into the lot. Henry stops in his tracks to admire a motorcycle, fitted with a sidecar even. Black, lots of chrome. Just like the one he drew yesterday. Why did he see a motorcycle, and draw a motorcycle, if it’s not what they’re buying? It makes no sense. There it is, right in front of him. Of course, such a thing for three people and a large dog also makes no sense. So maybe Henry was having an off day or just drawing from his own imagination for once.
“Let’s hurry, Henry. Who knows how much time we have,” Helen says, running her hand along the sides of the automobiles and peering into the windows. The lot consists of two long, sad, dusty rows of rejected automobiles. Got to find one with no stick shift, something with some power…
Then Helen sees it. Looks like a 1972 Ford Maverick. Sky blue. Two-door coupe. Nice tires. Not very big, but with the trailer gone they don’t need to tow anything, and Henry and Clarence can occupy the whole back seat. That car will have some speed.
“Keep an eye out, Henry,” Helen says, ambling over to her target. Clarence goes with her. He has opinions about cars, too, being a dog and all. This one looks pretty good to him.
Before Henry has begun to survey their situation, Helen already has the door open and has slid into the driver’s seat. She runs her hands along the steering wheel and dashboard. This engine will make some noise when she starts it. She reaches down and hacks open the anti-theft device. Clarence stands outside the door, waiting.
“Okay dog, this is the one. Get in.”
Clarence climbs across Helen’s lap and clambers over into the back seat. He sits up and looks out the rear window. His fuzzy tail wags back and forth.
Silverwood Page 13
