The Girl Clay

by Amy Cross

  Turning to him, I see that he's got that same grin I remember from all those years ago, as if I somehow amuse him.

  “Your things,” he adds, holding his hand out to reveal the coins that were taken when I was arrested, along with the whalebone lighter. “I took the liberty of removing them from the police storeroom. I'm kind like that.”

  Snatching the items, I slip them back into my pocket.

  “I didn't know you were a smoker,” he says after a moment. “That's new.”

  “I'm not.”

  “Then why -”

  “Sentimental value.”

  He lets out a snort of derision.

  “You wouldn't understand,” I mutter darkly, turning to him.

  “If you're wondering why someone built a police station out in the middle of nowhere,” he continues, using a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he surveys the scene all around us, “the answer is depressingly simple. There are three towns nearby and they each put money into the budget, and then no-one could agree which town should get the actual station. So they compromised and put it here, at an intersection that's exactly five miles from each town. Typical human bureaucracy, really. It's a good job they keep arguing about all these petty little things, otherwise they might actually get something done.”

  “What do you want?” I ask. “Why haven't you killed me yet?”

  “I don't want to kill you,” he replies with a faint smile. “I can't kill you. Do you know how fascinating that makes you to a god like me?” Stopping in front of me, he puts his hands on my shoulders. “I want to take you apart, yes... Piece by piece, to see how you work, but...”

  After gently pulling on my arms, as if he's thinking about twisting them off, he takes hold of my ears and twists them gently before letting go.

  “That can wait,” he adds. “It's taken me ten years to catch up to you, Clay. You're very good at running and you so assiduously kept close to open doors. Bravo, girl, bravo. I didn't think you had it in you, although I must admit that I didn't pursue you quite as doggedly as I might have done. I even started burning ghosts around you as a kind of signal so you'd know I was near. Call me foolish, but that little touch entertained me.”

  “I never asked for any of this,” I tell him.

  “I know. It was all rather thrust upon you, wasn't it? Still, old Jacob Kenseth was right all those years ago, there is something special about you.”

  “No,” I reply firmly, “there's not.”

  “You can't deny it. From the moment you were born, Clay, there's been something extra in the mix of your soul. It certainly didn't come from your parents. I looked into them and, well, they were horribly normal and boring, apart from your mother's obvious mental problems.” Another pause. “I've come to the conclusion that there has been some kind of accident, Clay. You've somehow slipped a groove in the fabric of reality and there have been certain consequences. I think it might be my fault, but I'm not sure how.”

  “I don't want to be special,” I tell him, turning to look into the darkened police station, most of which has been reduced to rubble. “How many people did you kill to get to me?”

  “Last night? Fifteen or so, plus a few in the cells.”

  “And they'd all be alive if it wasn't for me, wouldn't they? If they hadn't brought me here, you'd have never come either.”

  “You didn't ask them to arrest you.”

  “I warned them.

  “And they didn't believe you. They thought you were mad. They shut all their doors, thinking they were being kept safe, when in reality they were just making it easier for me. Tell me, do you feel any kind of affinity for them? Most people are so boring, so insulated against the higher levels of reality and consciousness... Don't they seem like ants to you? I know we had this conversation once before, but I was wondering if you'd changed your mind at all?”

  Spotting a bloodied arm jutting out from under some of the rubble, I shiver at the thought that more people have died because of me.

  “They're not ants,” I say finally, turning back to Attaroth. “They're people, with lives and families -”

  “Pointless lives and boring families.”

  “You can't just dismiss people like that.”

  “Death should be an end,” he replies, making his way along the path until he reaches the side of the dirt road. “Everything dies eventually. Even I will one day cease to exist, although I imagine that moment won't come for quite a while.” He glances back at me. “You, though, seem to defy the odds. Tell me, Clay, what's it like when you die and then wake up again? Are you aware of anything in-between?”

  I shake my head.

  “So it's just like... someone turns you off and then on again?”

  “We've had this discussion before,” I remind him.

  “So we have, I just...” He pauses, and once again he seems to be studying me, as if I genuinely confound his expectations and beliefs. “You're the only thing on this whole miserable planet that makes no sense to me,” he adds finally. “You, Clay, are a miracle.”

  “I don't want to be a miracle,” I say darkly.

  “Tough. If I killed you right now, what would happen? Would you stay dead this time, or would you simply wake up again somewhere else? I think we both know the answer. And then I'd have to track you down all over again, which would take time, and time isn't on our side anymore... I finally reeled you in for a reason.”

  “You haven't got hold of me,” I say firmly.

  “You know what I mean,” he replies with a smile. “I think we need to move to the next phase of our relationship -”

  “We don't have a relationship.”

  He sighs. “You're not the scared little girl you were when we first met,” he says finally. “I can use you now, I can talk to you like an adult. For one thing, you're not still screaming for your mother.”

  A shiver passes through my body. I chose long ago not to think about that woman, not after everything she did to me, and I know Attaroth thinks she's my weak point.

  “Jacob Kenseth was a madman,” he continues, “and almost everything he said was completely wrong. Almost everything. Like a stopped clock, however, he managed to be right twice a day. He was correct when he said that I could help you speak to your mother again, Clay -”

  “No thanks.”

  “Are you sure? Her voice is out there in the void, I thought perhaps a little family reunion might -”

  “No.”

  “You don't want to thank her for everything she did for you?”

  “Is this why you chased after me for ten years?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. “You just wanted to piss me off?”

  “Killing you,” he continues, “would be such a waste, even if it was possible. Maybe one day, when I understand what you really are, I might decide to look for a way, but for now I think I might as well use you. I still need a disciple, you know, one who's actually reliable and smart. Tell me, do you pay very much attention to the stars?”

  “I try not to.”

  “You're going to walk away,” he replies, pointing one way along the road. “You're going to walk and walk and walk until you reach a town called Silverglade, about thirty miles that way.”

  “No,” I tell him, “I'm not.”

  “Yes you are, and I'll tell you why.” He pauses for a moment. “Two reasons. First, because I tell you that's what you're going to do, and second... because if you deviate from the road at all, if you disobey my orders, you'll bring great misery to anyone you encounter. There might even be another train incident if you really piss me off. So you're going to walk to Silverglade, and then you'll wait there until you understand why I want you to be there, and then you'll understand your next task. That's been the whole point of this chase, Clay. I gave up trying to kill you long ago. I wanted you here, now, so that I could use you.”

  “I don't like being used.”

  “Tough. This is the situation you're facing now.”

  “And if I refuse?”

&
nbsp; “Untold misery to anyone and everyone you ever encounter again. You'll be the root of all sorrow, Clay, spreading out to inflict suffering on every poor soul who has the misfortune to come anywhere near you.”

  “I'm not too far from that now,” I point out.

  “Don't be so melodramatic. It's unbecoming.”

  Making my way over to join him, I look along the road for a moment. There's nothing to see except an expanse of tarmac stretching to the horizon, lined on either side by huge fields and the occasional tree.

  “Silverglade,” I mutter finally. “Never heard of it. What's so important about the place?”

  “You'll find out when you get there,” he replies.

  “And I really have no choice?”

  “None whatsoever. Unless you'd rather retire to a desolate cave and try to hide from all of humanity? And even if you take the hermit option, I'll be sure to guide plenty of people your way, and they'll all die at your door.”

  “I'm starting to think this would be easier if you just killed me instead,” I tell him.

  “And I already told you, I can't.”

  I turn to him.

  “There's something about you, Clay,” he continues, “and I don't understand it fully. Do you know how that makes me feel? I understand everything in the cosmos. I understand the different planes of reality, I understand the links between the eight worlds and the chasm in the void that stretches further. I understand the role of the immortal wolf in the defeat of the darkness, I understand the origin of the Counts of Thaxos, and I understand where Myrtle Poppinjay left her pajamas when she woke up after her birthday in the great Library.” He pauses for a moment. “But I don't understand you, Rebecca Clay Layton, and that's why I can't stop thinking about you. Tell me, are you scared?”

  I shake my head.

  “Maybe that was the wrong question,” he continues. “Are you... scarred?”

  “Are you tired of being so vague and annoying?” I ask.

  “You almost fascinate me.”

  “I'm almost flattered,” I reply, feeling a shiver pass through my body.

  “You should be. Don't worry, though. I won't be walking with you. You'll make the journey alone and I'll be in touch when the time is right. I'm sorry, Clay, but I do have other things to do with my time. Lately, for example, I've been appearing regularly to an Indian holy man, offering him very precise but completely false prophecies about the near-future. The poor man believes in me terribly, but he's getting so confused.”

  “And when I get to Silverglade,” I continue, looking along the road for a moment, “what do I do then? Are you coming with me? Am I going to -”

  Turning back to him, I find that he's gone. I look around, but there's no sign of him anywhere, and finally I realize that as far as he's concerned, I know everything that's necessary. Looking down at my tattered old shoes, I can't help wondering if they're going to survive a thirty-mile walk, and I've already got blisters developing on top of other blisters. Still, I have no doubt that Attaroth will go through with his threat if I don't do what I'm told. Of all the things I feared he might do to me when he finally caught me, making me travel to a small town in the middle of nowhere was definitely not one of them.

  Figuring I might as well get started, and trying to ignore the gnawing hunger in my belly, I start walking. Over the years, I've learned that when there's nothing else to do, walking beats sitting still.

  Ten years ago

  “Line four, please. Line four. Code orange.”

  Making my way along the corridor, I try to ignore the chaos all around me. Doctors and nurses are running from room to room, trying to deal with all the injured soldiers who were brought here from the compound. Every so often I get a glimpse into one of the rooms and I see the damage that Mr. Kenseth's booby-traps caused: men with arms missing, with parts of their faces burned to the bone, even one man who looks to have been almost torn in half across the waist. They're all bleeding too fast for anyone to clean up the mess, which means blood is pooling in the rooms and spreading toward the doors, in some cases even running out into the corridor. When I step in the blood, however, I don't cause any splashes. It's almost as if I'm not here at all.

  “She was weird,” says a voice nearby. “Like, she had creepy eyes that seemed to be staring at us like she thought we were evil or something.”

  Looking up at the TV, I see to my surprise that the local news show is interviewing Ben and Tom, the two boys I talked to the other day when Mom took me to Rover's Ridge. There's standing in the same parking lot, with the pharmacy right behind them, and a group of people are in the background, watching the interview with expressions of intense shock on their faces.

  “She gave us nose bleeds,” Tom tells the reporter. “It's like she had witch powers or something, like she could just make us get sick just because of some powers in her head.”

  “And did she tell you anything about life at the compound? About her personal experiences?”

  “Not really,” Ben replies. “I mean, we tried to be nice to her and all, but she just threw it back in our faces. She was with her mother, and she seemed pretty crazy too. When they left, they took off across the parking lot like they were crazy. You could see it in their eyes, they were, like, brainwashed. They were zombies.”

  “She threatened us,” Tom adds. “She said she'd come back one day and kill us.”

  “Liar,” I blurt out.

  “Alright,” the reporter replies, turning to the screen as a photo of my face appears. “And if you're just joining us, in the past few minutes we've received the sad news that the little girl at the compound, who we're provisionally identifying as Rebecca Layton, has been confirmed as one of the fatalities. We're expecting a full news conference with the local police chief, as well as a representative of the S.U.I., some time in the next hour and a half, but until then this very disturbing and tragic story is continuing to unfold as more bodies are removed from the compound.”

  I feel a pulse of shock pass through my body.

  “We're going to throw it back to the studio for a moment,” the reporter continues, with a very sad look on her face, “while we try to get some more answers here at the compound.”

  As the studio crew take over, I wander along the corridor in a daze. I'm not dead, I'm alive, I'm right here, but at the same time no-one seems to have noticed me since I woke up in the emergency room. I don't even know how I got here, except I assume I was badly hurt and brought here in an ambulance. The last thing I remember is that soldier aiming his gun at me and firing, and then I felt the sensation of...

  Stopping at an intersection, I look along another corridor, but all I see is more chaos.

  “You're going to get counseling for this, Aaron,” says a voice from a nearby room. “You won't have to go through this alone. There are people who can talk to you and help you see a way forward.”

  Making my way to the door, I look inside and see two soldiers, one male and one female, sitting on a hospital bed. Neither of them look to be too badly hurt, although the male soldier has a bandage on one of his hands. The female soldier, meanwhile, has her arms around his shoulder and she seems to be trying to comfort him, and as I head over to the bed and see the male soldier's face I realize that I've seen him before: he's the one who had the gun, the one who was aiming at me and...

  He's the one who shot me in the head.

  “I keep replaying that moment,” he whispers, staring down at the floor, “over and over, like... ten times every second, just the sight of...”

  His voice trails off, and from the horrified look in his eyes it's clear that he's seeing it again: the moment he pulled the trigger.

  “You thought she was a threat,” says the female soldier, whose name badge identifies her as K. Ortiz. “You were specifically told be Kenseth that the girl was dangerous, and she had a gun, didn't she? I mean, she was a clear and direct danger to you and to everyone else in that room. What else were you supposed to do?”

 
“She was still a kid,” he replies, his voice close to tears. “There should have been another way.”

  “Listen,” Ortiz continues, “Aaron, there's going to be time to process this later, okay? There'll be time to get your head around it all and recognize that you did the right thing. If that girl lived with the cult for any period of time, you have no idea how badly she might have been brainwashed. She really might have pulled the trigger and shot you.”

  “No,” I tell her, “I wouldn't.”

  “You made the right decision at the right time,” she adds, clearly unable to hear me. “Anyone would have done the same, and anyone...” She pauses for a moment, as if she's overwhelmed with sympathy. “Anyone would now be sitting here feeling the way you do, Aaron. The important thing is that no-one blames you. The only person who's responsible for that little girl's death is the man who ran that cult, Jacob Kenseth, and the girl's mother. They're the ones who took her there and messed with her mind.”

  “I want to see her,” he replies.

  She shakes her head.

  “I want to see her,” he says again, more firmly this time, as he turns to her. “I want to see Rebecca Layton's body.”

  “I'm right here,” I tell him, reaching out and touching his knee. He doesn't respond at all, not even when I step closer and look straight up into his tear-stained face.

  “I don't think that's a good idea,” Ortiz says cautiously. “She...”

  “Her goddamn head was blown apart,” he replies. “The whole back of her skull, and the left side of her temple... There was blood and brain matter and -”

  “This isn't helping you -”

  “I want to see her.”

  “And I strongly, strongly advise against it,” she continues. “I saw her, Aaron, after you'd been led away, she... There's nothing left of her. There's no face. If you see her, it'll just add more fuel to the nightmares you're going to have. If you ever manage to sleep again, at least.”

  “I should see her,” he replies. “I owe her that.”

  “She's in heaven now,” she tells him. “She's at peace, and I'm sure she knows that you're a good man.”