Lies of the Prophet

by Ike Hamill

  Lynne shook her head and refused to reply; refused to grant the voice the legitimacy of an answer.

  “Miss Benson!” the voice insisted.

  “Stratford,” Lynne said.

  “What?” asked the voice. Tiny fingers appeared first. They came into focus at the bottom of the screen as the child pressed against it from the outside. Next, a little nose and eyes materialized out of the gloom. Lynne sat straight up, but couldn’t retreat any farther without leaving her bed. The idea of a little hands under her bed kept her planted on the edge. Her brave cat held its ground. Its tail stood straight up, its fur puffed out, and its growling quieted as the cat regarded its foe.

  “My name is Stratford,” said Lynne.

  “You were,” the boy paused. At least Lynne thought it was a boy—she had too little information to establish a definitive opinion. “You were born Benson. You haven’t married.”

  “Benson’s my dad’s last name, I changed to Stratford when he left,” said Lynne.

  “Oh,” said the child. His nose was pressed against the screen. He looked away from the window for a second and then looked back. “We’ve come to warn you,” said the child.

  Sometime during the exchange about her last name, Lynne’s fear had mostly dissipated. This kid wasn’t nearly as creepy as Donna, and his confusion erased his capability for intimidation. “I think I should warn you,” said Lynne. “It’s way too late for a kid like you to be running around in the dark. Why don’t you get back home before you get in trouble with your mother.”

  “I killed my earth-mother and ate her heart,” said the boy. He bared his teeth. In the gloom outside the window, his white teeth were all she could see until he closed his mouth again. Once he had, his eyes seemed to beseech her, almost begging her to be frightened.

  “I doubt that,” said Lynne. In case he was trying to bluff, she figured it was safest to appear aggressive.

  “Well don’t mess with Donna again,” said the boy. “Or you’ll find out. The flower can be crushed before it blooms. That’s when it’s most fragile.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Lynne. “And you can tell Donna that she’d better not mess with me again.”

  The boy sneered through the window. He turned his head to the side again, like he was having another conversation, and then looked back to Lynne, this time more determined. He removed his hands from the screen and pointed one finger at her. It was the only thing left to see when he pulled his face away. The first thing Lynne felt was an uncomfortable heat in her chest, almost like heartburn, but higher. The warmth charged upwards, through her esophagus until the back of her mouth and sinuses felt like they were filled with fire. She couldn’t breathe. Her hands went up to her neck automatically. The boy’s finger stayed poised in the window, dimpling the screen.

  Lynne gagged. The cat opened its mouth and began howling at the finger. The cat turned around to regard Lynne, who tore at her throat, trying to take in one good breath.

  “Lynne? Is that the cat again?” her female roommate, Carrie, banged on her door. Lynne couldn’t reply—all the air was gone from her lungs—and she couldn’t seem to pull in another breath. The cat meow-yow-yowed to punctuate its unhappy howl. “Lynne? Lynne?” banged Carrie.

  Lynne’s hands flailed at her own face, but her legs wouldn’t work. If she hadn’t slipped off the edge of the bed, she would have passed out right there, legs folded, mouth and lungs uncooperative. But she did slip, and when she hit the ground in a heap, Carrie burst through the door.

  “Lynne?” asked Carrie. “What is it? Come here.”

  Carrie knew what to do. She as a nurse, and had plenty of CPR experience. She stretched out Lynne’s body, checking her airway and started artificial respiration. The cat glanced back once more, saw Carrie working on Lynne, and then pounced. It hooked two sharp claws through the screen and into the tiny finger of the peeping kid.

  “Ow!” the boy cried. He pulled back on his finger but the paw and screen came with it. The cat’s perfect strike had speared the boy’s fingertip and only tearing the flesh would extract it.

  “What the fuck?” Carrie whispered, exhaling slowly. She looked up at the screen where the cat’s paw extended below the open pane. The screen rattled with the boy trying to pull his finger away intact. Lynne began to respond immediately. She coughed and gagged, pulling her knees up towards her chest.

  Outside the boy pulled hard and his finger popped away from the screen. The cat swiped a few more times, but the boy was gone. It pulled its paw back and licked the claws.

  “Oh,” Lynne said. She pushed up and braced herself. A round of coughs nearly made her swoon. Color came back to her face quickly and she was nodding and pushing away Carrie’s help in no time. “Thank you,” she said to Carrie. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

  “Were you choking?” asked Carrie. “Did you swallow something wrong?”

  “I have no idea,” said Lynne. “It’s all a blur.”

  “Good thing that stupid cat was making all that noise,” said Carrie. “I came over here to tell you to do something about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lynne. “He’s not adjusted. The phone—can you hand me that phone?”

  Lynne pushed herself across the floor until she could lean back against the bed and dialed. Carrie sat down on the trunk near the door—“Who are you calling? Do you want a ride to the hospital?”

  “Work,” said Lynne.

  “My god, girl. I know I said you should get a real job, but this goes beyond dedication,” said Carrie.

  “It’s hard to explain,” said Lynne, putting the phone to her ear. “I have to report this. Can you um… give me a moment?”

  “Sure,” said Carrie, flattening her mouth to a thin line. She pulled the door shut behind her.

  On the phone, an efficient set of menus brought Lynne to an operator. She gave her name and employee number and then described the situation. The man listened to Lynne’s details and asked some brief follow-up questions before giving her instruction.

  “We’re going to send out several associates to your location,” said the operator. “They won’t make contact, but they’ll make sure you’re safe until morning. I’ve made a note in your file—after your assignments tomorrow you’ll be interviewed for the full details of the encounter.”

  “How will I recognize the associates?” Lynne asked.

  “If they’re doing their job well,” he said, “you won’t. They will be completely undetectable.”

  “Oh,” said Lynne. The operator wrapped up the call quickly and Lynne hung up the phone still sitting on the floor. She got up and closed and locked both windows. Carrie had left, so Lynne locked the bedroom door as well. The cat had moved to the middle of the bed, and regarded Lynne through half-closed eyes.

  Chapter 4

  Graveyards

  JENKO TOOK A SHORTCUT through a neighborhood, and headed out of town.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked.

  “Awesome,” said Lynne. She meant it. After the scare and near-death experience, and after the Veyermin Group had sent over secret agents to watch over her, she’d had a deep, perfect sleep. “You?”

  “Not bad,” said Jenko.

  Lynne stroked the cat on her lap. She’d settled on calling it Harold, but the name still hadn’t penetrated and stuck. She’d held back the story about the short visitor when she’d first gotten in the car. She didn’t want to seem too jumpy or frightened around Jenko, but now was the perfect opportunity—he was asking.

  “Actually, I had a visitor,” she began and told him the story quickly, hoping to sound nonchalant. It began with the cat waking her up and ended with her retiring once safe.

  “You bought that?” asked Jenko. “Did you actually see anyone to show up and watch over you? Shit, I probably shouldn’t say anything to ruin your belief. Paranoia will kill, you know?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Lynne, defensive about her report.

  “T
hey say that to everyone,” Jenko explained. “‘We’re gonna send out special agents,’ they say. ‘You won’t see them, or else they’re not doing their job.’”

  “They said something just like that,” said Lynne. “How did you know?”

  “They say that to everyone,” he said. “It’s their first solution. They’d be fools to send someone out anyway. Sounds like you just had a powerless little troublemaker.”

  “No, he was more than that,” said Lynne.

  “Did he come in the house?” asked Jenko.

  “No.”

  “Did he bring any weapons?”

  “Not that I… No, I don’t think so.”

  “So he was just here to insult and threaten you? Was that it?” asked Jenko.

  “No, in fact that wasn’t it,” she said. “Before he left he made me choke. I would have died except my housemate is a nurse and she performed CPR.”

  “You were fine,” Jenko dismissed. “That little guy wouldn’t have been able to do anything. They don’t have any real power except maybe suggestion. As long as you know they can’t hurt you, nothing bad is going to happen.”

  Lynne looked out her window at the passing houses.

  “Look, I’m not just saying that to make you feel stupid,” said Jenko. “You’re turning out to be a semi-okay partner. I’m getting too jaded to break in a new partner every week or two. If there was real danger, I’d let you know. Hell, I’m the first one to turn tail if there’s actually something to be worried about. Not gonna risk my neck for the job at this stage of the game. Just take it easy.”

  Lynne looked down at her cat and felt silly for having brought him, but also glad she had. He made her feel safe in a way that Jenko’s words didn’t.

  “Hey, Lynne, come on,” said Jenko. “This job is not that bad. You won’t have stuff following you home very often, and if it does, you can count on me to warn you of any danger.”

  She’d found a place behind Harold’s ear where, when scratched, he would turn his head and close his eyes with delight. Lynne focused on that place now, and tried to think of a way to change the subject—“Where are we going today?” she asked.

  “La Isla de los Muertos,” said Jenko.

  “Where?”

  “Island of the dead,” he said. “The locals just call it Sappie’s Hill. The Kennebec takes a major split and half goes one way and half the other. Right in the middle there’s a big hill. Back in the eighteenth century some numbnuts decided it would be the best place to start burying people, so now the whole island is pretty much cemeteries.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked Lynne.

  “It’s the best real estate—big views of rolling hills, nice access to the river. Who would think that’s the best place to put all your dead people? Besides, how did they get them out there before the bridge was built?”

  “Boats?”

  “You know, it’s the same damn thing in Augusta. There’s one big hill in town that overlooks the whole city. Perfect property for some big high-dollar estates. What’s up there? A graveyard and a tiny little airport. Our founding fathers had no respect for a good view,” said Jenko.

  “Why are we going to a graveyard anyway? Aren’t we looking for people who haven’t been interred yet?” asked Lynne.

  “We’re here for the Tubers,” said Jenko.

  “What’s a Tuber?”

  “You haven’t seen those guys?” asked Jenko. Lynne shook her head. “You must have heard about them. They’ve revived the old ancient Greek thing. The Greeks used to believe that the spirits of the dead would linger around their tombs after they were put in there. To help them out, they’d insert a tube down into the grave and supply the dead guys with milk and honey and wine and stuff. I guess a bunch of people decided that if the Greeks used to do it, it must make sense. They’ve been doing it for months. I’m surprised you haven’t read about it. They’re camped out at all the graveyards.”

  “I try to stay away from that kind of story,” said Lynne. “Too creepy.”

  “Nice choice of profession,” said Jenko. “I mean this job isn’t as hard as breaking rocks, but it’s all about the creepy. Here it comes, on the left.” He pointed through a gap in the trees where they could see the river tracking alongside the road.

  The scene was beautiful. Lynne thought she’d never seen a more peaceful setting. Just past the placid river, a thin band of scrub lined the bank and then opened up into a grassy meadow that swept up to the top of the big hill. On the ridge line a few giant maple trees stood amongst some white buildings, but aside from those the hill was bare. The lush grass was dotted with white stones, too regular to be natural. Lynne guessed that those were headstones.

  “Pretty,” said Lynne.

  The road turned away from the river and they drove the next few minutes without a decent look at their destination. A sweeping turn brought the road directly to the island and they crossed a green bridge with peeling paint. As the car climbed the hill, Lynne understood Jenko’s earlier rant. The view was breathtaking. To the west she figured one could see all the way to Mount Washington, and the east revealed rolling hills sweeping down towards the coast.

  “They make them use green tents,” said Jenko. He pointed. “But aside from that, they pretty much have free run of the place.”

  Lynne wasn’t offended by the Tubers. They seemed to be keeping to themselves, and she didn’t even notice them until Jenko crossed the bridge and got pretty close. The green tents were a good match for the grass, and blended in well. “Do people complain?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” said Jenko. “People whose relatives have been in the ground for years would come here and visit, probably just for the solitude. Used to be pretty dead around here—pardon the pun. Every now and then you’d get picnickers who’d want to come hang out, but most people understand why that’s in bad taste. But the Tubers, they want to come set up shop for weeks at a time, just to be sure.”

  “How come you know so much about all this stuff? How do you know what it was like before The Passage and all that?” asked Lynne.

  “My mom’s buried right over there,” said Jenko.

  “Oh,” said Lynne.

  Jenko pulled into a small dirt parking lot next to a low white building. It was old, with plain, uneven clapboards and no shutters. Stacked slabs of granite served as steps up to the big black door.

  “Caretaker’s building,” Jenko explained. He popped open his car door and removed his seatbelt so he could get out. When he turned himself to the side, before Lynne had even moved for her door, her cat leapt from her lap and bolted out to the parking lot. “Well, there goes your new cat. Greener pastures, I guess.”

  “Shit,” said Lynne. “I was going to leave him in the car. What if he doesn’t come back?”

  “Cats are like that.”

  “Damn it,” Lynne muttered. She threw her door open and got to her feet. “Can’t leave him at home, and can’t take him on the road.”

  “Let’s start at the bottom of the hill over there and work our way back up,” said Jenko. He shielded the sun with his hand and surveyed the cemetery.

  “Yeah, okay,” said Lynne.

  She was still confused about their precise mission, but figured she’d catch on as they went. Jenko removed his suit jacket and tossed it on the roof of the car. He rolled his sleeves as they walked.

  “Where’s your bag?” Lynne asked.

  “Don’t think I’ll need it today,” he said. “Unless you’re bringing a shovel?”

  The newest graves were closest to the water, with the worst view. Lynne and Jenko walked down a well-worn path that cut between rows of headstones until they got to the bottom of the hill. The river smelled cool and ripe from this distance. Their first stop was a fresh plot with a modest headstone. The sod was new and the seams stood out. Lynne stepped to the foot of the grave and leaned towards the headstone to get a better look. It was shiny black with no inscription. The top of the headstone had a funnel cut into it
. The hole in the center disappeared through the headstone, underground.

  Jenko circled left so he could beat on the side of a green tent.

  “Hey, Tubers,” he yelled. “Come on out.”

  “What, dude? What?” a groggy voice called from inside dome.

  “Need to check your permit,” said Jenko. “Come on out.”

  While Jenko rousted the campers, Lynne stepped carefully around the fresh grass so she could examine the headstone. Flies buzzed around the funnel, taking turns landing on the moldy spots around the edge. The hole in the center of the stone disappeared down into blackness.

  The tent unzipped and a young man wearing cutoff sweatpants and a beard staggered out. His curly hair hung to his shoulders and looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month.

  “Jesus, dude, we’re all legal and shit. Why you hassling us?”

  Jenko snatched the yellow permit from the kid. He shadowed it with his body so he could read the details.

  “Three weeks?” Jenko asked. “What are you still doing here? You think there’s a serious chance that Zack is coming out of that hole?”

  “Doesn’t matter what you say,” said the kid. “I can be out here another seven weeks and you can’t say shit.”

  Jenko consulted the sheet to get the kid’s name—“Listen, Maddox, this permit can be revoked at any time. You have rights here just so long as the state deems that your actions are congruent with the best known guardianship of a dependent TransPassage Vital Force. So you step away for a minute, and let us do our inspection. Fifty yards now. Get!”

  “Yeah, whatever,” said the kid. “Come on babe,” he helped a young woman to her feet and the two exited the tent. “Blackshirt,” he spat at Jenko as they walked by.

  “What was that all about?” asked Lynne.

  “Who knows,” said Jenko. “Just get on with it.”

  “Get on with what? What am I supposed to do here?” asked Lynne.

  “Is this way it’s going to be every day?” asked Jenko. He tilted his head back and exhaled. “Every time something new comes up you seem to have no idea what you’re here for. Just use your ability—whatever it happens to be today—to figure out if there’s anything interesting going on here. Any Sparkle? Any Ribbons? Any crazy cats you want to adopt around here?" He made a show of looking all around—up in the air, on the other side of the tent. “See? Just do like that, but with your magic powers.”