by Landon Wark
The commune idea was amended to include neo-new agers.
At about that time a little buzz surged up at the local Sheriff's office. Information was collected. Phone calls were made, but nothing came out to the public. The rumours continued.
And then one night, after the week of the flashing lights, cars driving on the highway into town passed by a huge, outdated station wagon pulling out from the trail up to the house. Inside the observers swore they saw a group of people in black robes and hoods. Although the sky was clear and the stars clearly visible, they also reported hearing a clap of thunder as the car finally completed the turn. All of them pressed down harder on the accelerator, hoping to make it home before whatever trouble the hippie/new ager/satanists were bringing into town with them.
Jonah stood in the hospital room, nervously scraping his dry tongue over the back of his front teeth. His body was on edge, but his mind was curiously calm. Calm might have been the wrong word. Contented was a little closer. The past week had been a rush, but within its flow he had managed to find something. Among the fourteen hour meetings with the others, with Clayton James mapping out a diagram on a white board of oblong ovals and squiggling lines and Jenny Hernandez trying to get the phonemes written in a way that was parsible for the others, he had unexpectedly found... What was it? Friendship? Maybe not. A sense of camaraderie.
He straightened the blanket covered cube on the bed. A small smirk came to his face as he thought of Carmen Carruthers pointing out that the entire week could have been called a montage. He knew for a fact that she had spent a nonzero amount of time coming up with a song to set it to.
The only sticking point had been Ezra and Paul. Though the former had kept quiet, certain that they were at least trying to help his niece and saving his criticism for when he could see the results. He had largely pushed Paul's objections to the side, getting lost in the work instead. There were times when the former reverend would take long walks out in the woods, trying to come to terms with exactly what they were trying to do.
At least, that's what Jonah thought of his constitutionals.
A shuffling in the hallway announced the return of Sandy Jenkins from wherever she had escaped to, still tying her dressing gown tightly around her ample waist, Jonah McAllister was standing in the middle of her room like a gaunt, pasty ghost. Startled, she felt the lightheadedness return and she had to put a hand on the doorframe to keep herself steady.
"The others are in the car outside," he said, placing his hand on a box that was seated on her bed.
"Jesus Christ," she breathed.
"Oh, uh, are you okay?"
"What the hell are you doing here, Jonah? I'm getting out of here in a couple of days."
"I think it's better if you stay here for a while longer. We can afford it."
"What else are they going to do for me, other than print off diet sheets and shove them at me? And either way I'm gonna get sidelined for a while—"
"I found what I was looking for, Sandy," he interrupted. "I brushed the dust off of the Rosetta Stone. I started assigning spots on the periodic table. Instead of fumbling around in the dark we can make systematic progress."
"That's great."
Jonah uncovered the cube that sat upon the bed. Inside the wire meshing was a lining of woodshavings, pushed into piles in places, a single layer in others. As Sany looked into its depths two of the piles moved and small patches of black fur appeared. Two mice burrowed around in the shavings. For what purpose, only their tiny mouse brains could say for certain. At first Sandy could see no difference between them, but as their bodies emerged into the dim light of the room the disparity in their body types became obvious. The closer mouse was large, with pudges of fat protruding from its sides, bulging out as it plodded along. The other slipped stealthily through the shavings, it's sleek body clawing rambunctiously on the wires of the cage.
"Are you sure you should have live mice in a hospital?" she asked.
"They started life virtually identical," Jonah said with the air of a science fair competitor seeking a judges approval. "The others and I, we converted some of the mitochondria in the white adipose—"
"So you're bringing in your science projects into the hospital to show me?"
"I think," he said, in a way that an observer would think was almost to himself, "that we can do something similar with a human subject."
"I-what are you saying?"
He tapped his thumb against the cage and the mice squeaked. "You know what I’m saying, Sandy. Don't make me say it out loud."
"You want to mess with my white aphid—"
"Adipose—Essentially it would be over hauling your metabolism. Weight loss in the mouse occurred over a couple of days."
"Okay, no. That's gonna be a hard pass from me. I'll just stick with the various badly photocopied diets that every person who comes in here wants to bring me. You know, the ones that never work."
Jonah kicked the bed leg. He wasn't a great judge of sarcasm in the first place, but he sensed none in her sentence. "Fair enough. But..."
"I appreciate the effort, but there's nothing you're going to say to me that's gonna make me want to be your crazy ass magical test subject."
"I just don't want you to be offended," he said. "This isn't about... I mean, what you said about us still losing even when we have this power. It's not just about medical stuff. I promised you that you could be the woman on the novel cover and—"
"That was never about the way I look, Jonah."
"I know. It's more about challenging fate. It's about not losing just because of the way you were born. I think... I think if anything came out of this whole thing, that would be what I'd want. That you can do, or be what you want. That anything is possible."
Sandy bit her tongue. "Fuck."
"You helped me out when I needed it. I just wanted to prove it to you first."
She bit down harder on her tongue, stopping only when it became painful.
"You're a real asshole sometimes. You know that?"
"I'm sorry. There's nothing cynical about it."
"Christ."
Sandy shuffled over to the chair at the side of the room, just across from the bed. What he was saying was a far cry from watching quarters divide or making little fires here and there. He wouldn't sugar coat the whole thing, would he? All that stuff about the Rosetta Stone? Was it a lie? An embellishment? Because, for a moment she felt the warm comfort of rationalization. She could trust him. But, the process? Could she trust the process? Crazy fucking magic gene therapy? She had to take a moment to remind herself that Carmen was shooting the stuff directly into her veins. But it was different when you could see behind the curtain, when you knew how the sausage was being made.
That was how they got you, according to Carmen. They promised you the world and then left you with the bill.
Sandy dared to try making eye contact with Jonah McAllister, making his hang dog expression.
Is this someone you can hang the world on? she asked herself.
"Christ," she exhaled. "You can't expect me to do this—" The powerful bite of temptation forced her to hedge. "Without seeing it work on the mice."
"Oh, yeah." His face seemed to light up. "There's another pair down in the car with the others."
Sandy shook her head as he stumbled around her legs on his way out of the room.
Don't do this, Sandy. You can live a long and... decent life. Do not double down.
And one night the staff of the hospital were roused by what sounded to them like loud and droning chants coming from one of the closed rooms on the upper level.
Some of the nurses on the floor went through the shift with their usual stoicism. Rich ladies inviting in bonkers faith healers was nothing new. It was a little odd that despite there not being any locks allowed on the doors they were unable to gain access to the room to see what was going on. With no audible screams or other signs of distress they opted to leave the practical matters to the next shift and the goss
iping to the less experienced staff who spent a good deal of their evening trying to guess at the exact goings on within the closed room.
What was known was that the very next day the woman in the room, with barely subdued anxiety in her voice, requested new batteries of tests. When all of these came back the same as before the anxiety quelled and she became almost manic. At first she seemed determined to leave the hospital. The staff was semi-enthusiastic about the prospect. She had already overstayed her observation period and the occasional interruption of hospital operations by rumour inducing chanting sessions was an inconvenience. But her money was good. The health insurance that her benefactors had acquired despite her condition being the definition of pre-existing paid for most ancillary things and that same benefactor came up with out of pocket funds for anything else. In the midst of budget cuts it was difficult to let the golden goose just walk off.
Just as doctors were about to sign the release forms she decided on a longer stay. A shrug and a rubber stamp later and the room was assigned for an additional three days.
The next surprise was that despite her inactivity, the patient was improving. This was explained as some kind of placebo effect and the staff continued on with their monitoring duties.
Paul Kwon paced along the boards making up the floor of his room. His legs were little more than springs, taut with nervous energy. Whenever he came even close to sitting down they would propel him back into a walk. He ran his fingers through the thinning hair along the sides of his temples and bit down on his lip. The sin that weighed down on him was none other than the sin of pride.
His idea of God was not so Old Testament that he thought that a bolt of lightning was on its way to strike him dead, but he did believe that God was jealous and took pains to ensure the punishment of those who would intrude on his domain.
Perhaps Clayton James was right and God was retreating from numerous domains these days.
He considered himself a reasonably forward thinking man, but at the same time, years of keeping pace alongside the anti-abortion, anti-gay, anti-liberal churches in the South had chipped out large chunks. There were some decisions that were not up to mortal minds. Only the greatest of minds should decide when a life should end, or what courses it should take. And that brought him to what had happened with Sandy Jenkins.
In fact, he remembered very little of it, mostly being out of breath and a flash or two of seeing Ezra Mansfield's red face across this niece's body. He was a little in the dark about the results as well. There was nothing really to be said about the results. The person he had known looked the same before and after, but having seen the changes in the mice had evoked ideas in the depths of his mind. He had gone along with the human experiment before fully plumbing the idea, consoling himself afterwards by thinking that it was just a medical treatment, the same as any other, but that was being gradually eroded by various talking points he had been exposed to over the years.
If they could completely change a woman's body, metabolism as Jonah McAllister had explained it, then what could they not do? Transform a man into an animal, like something out of a story book. Create life from nothing? If that was not intruding on the realm of God then what was?
He had been pulled in with promises of miracles, and instead he had found blasphemy. Making some money here and there? Money was mundane and he doubted the creator of the universe cared much for it. That had made them closer to God. But, how close to God could one become without being blasphemous?
He tried leaning against the dresser along the wall, but that proved to be too much like sitting for his anxious legs and he was once again on the move.
And what was worse was this new attitude coming from their architect. Anything is possible. That was the message that he wanted to carry out into the world. The fervour with which he seemed to be taking to this new direction sent a chill down Paul's spine. Miracles were supposed to be rare by definition. Putting them in the hands of every man, woman and child...
Paul ran his fingers along his temples again.
"Anything is possible," he whispered.
As in light no longer being divided from darkness. The sky no longer being divided from the land. It was a gruesome thought.
Was Jonah McAllister about to supplant God himself?
Paul shook his head. He didn't want to believe it. Aside from (or perhaps because of) his complete lack of social skills he liked the younger man. There was a total lack of guile that was a little disarming about him and he seemed to genuinely care about what happened to Sandy.
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
Paul exhaled, feeling the weight of too many thoughts starting to distort his mind. While the last thing he wanted to do was to leave the group, the idea that the opinions of the others were starting to clash with his own faith was bubbling up to the fore.
In an instant he grasped the knob to his room, intent on seeking out some outside advice. Ezra had expressed some of the same opinions during their occasional card games and was proving a valued advisor. He might still be awake.
Local Business
Stephanie "Vern" Vernon adjusted her vest, causing her belt to twist on her waist. Groaning she attempted the whole ordeal of getting things to sit where they were supposed to. After two days off with the grandkids this was the last thing that she wanted to be subjected to, but duty called.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the window of the store adjacent to where the cruiser was parked and grimaced. She knew her appearance was the last thing she should be worried about, but the vest set off thoughts about her blockiness that were always there when she was at home.
Alongside the driver's side Terry grasped his cold coffee from off the roof of the cruiser and downed a significant gulp. He didn't seem to have the same issues with the attire. But he was taller, squarer, and the ballistic gear was designed for a certain body type. Male, mostly. Another thing that came down on their side on the scale of existence.
But mama didn't raise no quitters, she thought.
And after twenty-two years she wasn't no quitter. Still, it would be nice to have some gear that fit right.
"Ah, shit." She heard Terry mutter and looking up she accidentally locked eyes with Bill Hernandez, half shuffling towards the two of them.
Vern quickly went back to adjusting her sidearm, but Bill still stumbled towards them in her peripheral vision. She knew he was still staying at home, but he looked like he hadn't slept or showered since the last time she had seen him. As he closed within two metres she backed against the cruiser in a vain attempt to get some distance from the smell.
"Yes, Bill?" she said as Hernandez deftly circled in front of her and stood with a kind of practised exhaustion. "What can I do for you? Aliens, was it?"
"Witches," Bill replied with weary exasperation. "I know how it sounds. I know. One of them is into drugs. You guys went out there. You didn't find anything?"
Vern pulled on the handle to the cruiser, but Terry hadn't unlocked her side yet.
"First of all, Bill, even if we found something I couldn't tell you. Second, you mean the daughter of that local judge?"
Having attended a couple of barbecues thrown by the Carrutherses for local law enforcement it was hard for Vern to see how the fresh faced young woman who had just got home from—well, some Ivy League place—was into anything. But the department's budget was under strain (whose wasn't), so they had raided the place anyway.
The girl had been up there and she did look a little harried, but they had found nothing and Vern had dismissed Bill's information as the lies of a desperate man. Still, they were going back out there. Shit, there were federal marshals going up there with them. Maybe Bill was on to something after all... Well, not about the witches to be certain, but maybe he had seen something that had broken his brain. She had seen it happen before. After car accidents mostly.
"This one!" Bill turned his phone towards her. On the screen was a grainy and hard-to-make-out photo of a dark
faced girl and what could have been some small exposed construction girders, or the support poles of a gazebo or something.
"Why do you have that, Bill?"
"Because I followed their car!"
"Christ. Don't do that, Bill."
"They've got my wife!"
"The cultists?"
"Witches!"
"All right. You have to put yourself in our place, Bill. Half of this job is just writing fiction." Vern held up a hand and began ticking off points on her fingers. "Mid-nineties; satanists. Late-nineties; aliens. Early aughts; terrorists. And..." She paused. "Hey, Terry?"
"Yeah?"
"What was around twenty-ten? Two thousand eight to twenty-twelve, maybe."
"Umm... Immigrants? Covid zombies maybe. Whoops, no that was later."
"Point is, Bill—"
"You know what?" Terry said loudly. "It was immigrant gangs, I think."
"Thanks Terry! Point is, Bill, there's always someone standing where you are, saying the same things you are with a different place holder. So you're really not helping things with all of this witch talk."
"But you're going back up there!" Bill inched closer and Vern found her hand inching towards her side arm, surprising her. Bill was agitated, but he had never seemed violent.
He seemed to realize what was happening and backed off awkwardly to twice the distance he had been from her.
"Who told you that?" she furrowed her brow and her eyes shifted involuntary to Terry who shifted nervously. "Fucking loud mouth," she muttered.
"Guy's gotta have hope," Terry's whisper volume was what a normal person would call above average.
She returned to Bill, intent on getting him to leave and at once feeling a deep pang of pity for the nearly trembling man before her. He might have taken losing a kid to cancer as well as a person possibly could and kept on going. Losing his wife to whatever was going on out in the woods must have been enough to lay him low.
