The Smiley-Face Witches

by George Traikovich

  “She texted me,” Spider said.

  “Who texted ya?”

  “Lazy-Eye Susan,” Spider said, “she’s got some stuff she needs help carrying.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Don’t know,” Spider said.

  “Why we hiding here instead of waiting on her porch?” Grady asked. “Thought we lost the Botkins.”

  “We did,” Spider said.

  “Then what?”

  “Might be somebody else trying to grab her,” Spider said.

  “Like those Acolyte chicks?”

  “Maybe,” Spider said. “Kinda weird she didn’t know what they were up to.”

  A passing truck sent them ducking beneath the hedgeline. Parked cars lining the street made convenient hiding places for anybody that was…

  “What was that?” Spider asked.

  Grady shoved another handful of chips into his mouth. “I’m hungry…”

  “Did ya run out of celery?”

  Grady gobbled another handful out of spite. “Dude, it only sounds loud because you’re close.”

  Spider wiped the crumbs from his face. “First…say it, don’t spray it…second, you shouldn’t bring anything crunchy to a stakeout. That’s just common sense.”

  Grady tucked the foil bag into his coat pocket. “This ain’t a stakeout. Anyway, what’d you bring?”

  “Just finished a sandwich.”

  “What kind?” Grady asked.

  Spider tossed him the empty wrapper.

  “Dude, garlic bologna not only keeps kosher vampires away but the ladies, too.”

  “I like it,” Spider said.

  “What else ya got in your backpack?”

  “Soup,” Spider said.

  “Dude, a bowl of soup? Ya serious?”

  Spider waved his thermos at him. “In here, dummy.”

  Grady snorted. “I’ve heard ya slurp soup at lunch. Ya sound like a toilet flushing.”

  Another car sputtering down the street forced them below the hedgeline again.

  “Hey. Hey…Check out Fat and the Furious,” Spider said.

  The delivery boy parked the tricked-out Toyota on the street but kept the engine running.

  Grady licked his lips. “Think that guy will sell me a slice?”

  “You ain’t blowing our cover for a slice of pie,” Spider said.

  “Maybe I can swipe a slice while he ain’t looking.”

  “What if he catches ya and starts swinging?” Spider asked.

  “Dude, he’s got sausage fingers and if he tried to hit me, at least a knuckle sandwich would taste good.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Like sausage,” Spider said, “because of his sausage fingers. And also like the blood from your mouth, from when he slugs ya…The blood would be the sauce.”

  “Got it,” Grady said.

  The doughy delivery boy made it back to his car before Grady could make a move, so Spider offered him his thermos as a consolation prize. “Here…have some...”

  “Shut-up,” Grady said, “somebody’s coming.”

  Another car turned the corner at the end of the quiet street, the passing beams freezing them like raccoons caught raiding a garbage can.

  “Wonder if that’s the same cab that passed me earlier?” Spider said.

  Since it was the same kind of yellow cab he saw every day, he wasn’t sure. He watched the hack creep down the street before pulling to a stop in front of the Victorian.

  “Wait…is that her?” Grady asked.

  Lazy-Eye Susan climbed out of the taxi and paid the cabbie. She grabbed her shopping bags from the backseat and casually strolled up the flagstone walkway to her front porch.

  “Let’s roll,” Spider said.

  Grady turned toward his bike but one of the parked vehicles flashed their headlights and he scurried back to the hedges.

  “Who’s that?” Spider asked.

  “Don’t know, but they’re just hangin’,” Grady said. “Looks like that van that…”

  Spider sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Grady said. “Wait…Smells like…Gas.”

  ***

  “Did ya hear that?” Clementine asked.

  Newton shot her a quizzical glance. “Hear what?”

  She peeked through the gaps in the Windmill’s shutters but didn’t see anything. “Sounded like sirens.”

  “Chill,” Newton said.

  “Grady and Spider shoulda been back by now,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”

  Newton took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Sleeping inside the Windmill was almost as bad as not sleeping at all, and the Spartan accommodations were taking a toll. “Guess this must be what Drew feels like all the…”

  “They totally shoulda been back by now.”

  “Relax!” he snapped.

  Clementine gave him a second to cool down. “What’s up your butt?”

  “Sorry, just tired,” he said. “Did ya hit ‘em up?”

  She waved her phone at him. “If they answered don’t ya think I woulda…”

  Spotlights shot like lasers through the gaps in the slats before she finished her sentence.

  “Cops!” Clementine said. Police helicopters weren’t unfamiliar in that neighborhood, but neither of them had ever been this close to one.

  Clementine took cover behind the stacked lumber. “Sure snuck up on us awful quiet. Oh my God, they’re landing!”

  There was only one way out of the Windmill, and even if there was another, they wouldn’t get far running from a chopper full of cops. Besides, if they’d called back-up, they were already surrounded.

  “What do we do?” she asked.

  ***

  Clementine followed Newton out of the Windmill with her hands up. The spotlights were at ground level and aimed right at them. And though she couldn’t see anything, she recognized the voice calling out to her from the light.

  “Ahoy mateys!”

  Her eyes adjusted to the glare and she realized what she thought was a police chopper, wasn’t. She lowered her arms. “The Moonclipper…”

  The last time she’d faced down the crescent moon she was dodging rocket fire from its side-mounted pods. Staring into the silver face’s unblinking eyes made it tempting to think the airship was back to finish the job.

  Susan posed next to the battered craft’s hatch and tipped her three-corner hat. “Normally I don’t pick-up hitchhikers, but I thought that I’d make an exception just this once.”

  Grady followed Spider out of the Moonclipper’s hatch. Their presence beside her explained what she meant by hitchhikers, but little else.

  “What are ya dressed up for?” Newton asked.

  Susan glanced back at the skull and crossbones she’d hoisted up the airship’s antenna. “Wore this to a Halloween party a few years back. The knee boots and velvet frock coat go with the Jolly Roger.”

  Newton waited for Clementine to explain this was part of the plan he’d slept through, but she was just as confused as he was.

  “What is goin’ on?” Clementine asked.

  Susan patted the Moonclipper’s battered bow. She’d grown attached to the unorthodox craft despite the sculpted face’s uncomfortable familiarity. “They had this sitting in the middle of the village near the monastery. Took some fast talking and some doing but they patched up the holes and had me on my way.”

  “What happened to you guys?” Clementine asked, “Why ya got soot all over ya?”

  Grady pulled his cell phone out and hit play. “Take a look at this.”

  Clementine watched the video run all the way through. “Play it again.”

  She watched Susan’s house contract for a split-second—then balloon with surreal elasticity before detonating. The shockwave shattered windows up and down the block, triggering car alarms and driving dogs howling mad.

  “Your house blew up?” Clementine said.

  “Lit up the whole freaking block,” Grady said.


  “That was the plan?” Clementine asked.

  “Weren’t my plan. That were somebody else’s notion entirely,” Susan said.

  Clementine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Somebody tried to kill you?”

  Grady fast forwarded the footage. “Not just anybody…Who’s that look like to you?”

  Clementine recognized Pink-Braids running from the scene despite the shaky camera. “Acolytes.”

  “Afraid so,” Susan said. “But I had a hunch something were up and I was ready for ‘em.”

  “We can use this,” Newton said, “The story will be all over the news…Anybody looking for ya will think your dead and lay-off us.”

  Susan gave him a wink and checked her watch. “Time’s a wasting. We gotta get movin’ if we’re gonna catch up with Drew.”

  Clementine gestured toward the Moonclipper. “In that?”

  “Tracking him from the air is the best way I know how,” Susan said.

  They hurried back inside to grab their gear, all but Clementine, who hung back.

  Susan tried soothing her trepidation. “I know. The face looks an awful lot like Frost. But ya get used to it after a while.”

  The resemblance to their old Vice-Principal was uncanny and unsettling, but Clementine fixated on something else. “What happened to your eye?”

  Susan stroked her eyepatch. “Left it behind kinda like a souvenir. An old trick my fourth husband showed me.”

  “How ya mean?” Clementine asked.

  “Lets the insurance company know you’re really and truly dead when ya file a claim. Not that I’d do that kinda thing, mind you.”

  “Ya think they bought it?” Clementine asked.

  “They might,” Susan said, “For a little while, anyhow. But they’ll be sifting through the ashes and when they don’t find nothing, they’ll turn the heat up even hotter.”

  “Ya never did say how ya knew they’d try blowing ya up in the first place?” Clementine said.

  Susan pulled back her coat to show Clementine the paper doll tucked into her pocket. “A little birdie flew into my window and told me.”

  ***

  Mickey-D’s mom pushed the door open wide enough to fit her head in, curlers and all. She took a drag from her cigarette, the corners of her blistered lips drooping in disgust. “What a mess.”

  Between the centerfolds tacked to the wall, and the White Castle wrappers littering the floor, she wondered why child protective services hadn’t already shown up. Then she remembered—the social worker wasn’t coming until the next Tuesday.

  “Turn that music off and turn them damn lights out, too,” she ordered, and shut the door behind her.

  He climbed out of bed to do what she asked but caught his reflection in the mirror and lingered. He tugged at his baby fat, pulling it taught and imagining how he’d look when it was gone. He checked the Church’s bag on his dresser. “Three…four…Still five left.”

  Mickey-D wasn’t sure what was in the candy bars and he didn’t care. Selling to the jocks kept him safe and selling to everybody else put money in his pocket. And if one out of ten customers having a seizure like Mr. Peck was the price…“Gotta get paid somehow…”

  But it was more than that. He craved the weightless feeling EZ8 gave him when he ingested his own product, the drunken remembering of memories he’d made and those he’d made up, all happening all at the same time, all happening right then.

  He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up, but the driver outside their apartment was parked, his headlights beaming directly into his room.

  Mickey-D got up to draw the blinds, but stopped before he got to the window. They lived opposite Dino’s Carry-Out and traffic was heavy all the way up to closing around eleven, but something wasn’t right.

  “Can’t be a car parked outside, ‘cause I’m three-stories up.”

  The light bloomed, flaring bright enough to make him turn away. He took a step back, and then another, tripping over his books and landing on his back. “What the…”

  The silver face appeared outside his window like the worst part of a storybook nightmare, craggy features carved out of the darkness by the flickering pink glow of the carry-out’s neon sign.

  “Thou art not dreaming,” the Face boomed with a baritone deep enough to shake the plaster from the ceiling.

  His mom pounded on the wall. “Turn that damn hippety-hop down!”

  He tried screaming for help, but the words stuck in his throat. He tried to move, to get away, but his arms and legs went limp. He worried his condition was one of EZ8’s side effects but decided it was nothing short of sheer terror.

  “Mickey-D, the hour of thy judgment has arrived,” the Face announced.

  “Y-y-y-ou God?”

  The Face didn’t answer right away. Instead, Mickey-D heard a multitude of voices going back and forth. He clamped his hands to the side of his head, trying to drown them out, but they only got louder.

  “Yes, this is thy Lord…”

  “How do I know?” he whimpered.

  “You’re real name is Kevin…”

  While everyone knew him as Mickey-D, not everyone knew his real name was Kevin. “What do ya want from…”

  “Thou shalt not hang out with the Acolytes,” the Face said, “and thou shalt not meet them in front of the Holiday Lanes bowling alley…”

  It was God. Mickey-D fell to his knees. “What do ya want of me, Oh Lord?”

  “Leaveth those kids alone,” the Face said.

  “What kids?”

  “You knoweth what kids,” the Face snapped. “The kids thou hast been selling EZ8 to…like JD Parker and those other jerks.”

  How did he know? God knew everything, that’s how. But even in the face of the all-mighty, he pushed his luck. “How I know I ain’t dreaming or something like…”

  The Face answered his challenge with a surge of crackling blue current dancing through his window.

  Mickey-D grabbed his pillow, beating the fire out before the smoke detector kicked in. He was already in trouble for coming home late and didn’t want to add to his problems by having company after curfew—supernatural or otherwise.

  “And stop doing that other thing!” the Face commanded.

  “What other thing?” Mickey-D asked.

  “You knoweth what other thing,” the Face said.

  Mickey-D’s eyes darted toward the centerfolds of their own accord. His face reddened, but the fire started up again and diverted his attention. He squelched the flames but by the time he turned back around the light faded, leaving the room cool and blue.

  “Lord? Where’d ya go?” he asked, but God didn’t answer. He waited a few more seconds before mustering his courage and crept toward the window.

  “Remember I knoweth where thou goest to school,” the Face said, before turning and lifting into the night sky.

  Mickey-D watched the silver crescent disappear behind a bank of gray clouds. He had so many questions and might never get another chance to ask them. “God? Come back, God!”

  His mom pounded another warning against the wall. “If you don’t shut-up and get to bed, you’re gonna see God in person soon enough!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Lazy-Eye Susan eased the yoke back, taking the Moonclipper up to cruising altitude, which in their case equaled five thousand feet. “Low enough to miss commercial traffic, but high enough to avoid eyewitness identification,” she explained.

  Clementine kicked back in the navigator’s chair. “Guess Mickey-D won’t be messing with nobody for a while. Did ya see the look on his face? Awesome.”

  “I reckon I owed y’all that after what ya told me about them gals pushin’ that chocolate,” Susan said.

  Newton balanced himself against the cockpit’s bulkhead, trying not to get airsick. “Guess we shoulda said something earlier.”

  “Guess I can understand why ya didn’t,” Susan admitted. “Can’t blame ya for not being sure ‘bout where my loyalties lie
after so much time done passed.”

  “But why’d the Acolytes put EZ8 in the candy bars in the first place?” Newton asked. “What do they get out of it?”

  “Their way of spreading the gospel,” Susan said.

  Newton swayed back and forth, trying not to get sick. “What do ya mean?”

  “EZ8 was one of the…sacraments Gulliver passed out at parties,” Susan said.

  Her nonchalant admission surprised him. “EZ8? You took it?”

  “It was the Sixties,” Susan said. “Though I didn’t know ‘til just a few years ago he made it outta Enzyme Seven.”

  “What’s the difference?” Newton asked.

  “You can make wine from grapes, but ya need wine to make brandy,” Susan explained. “Enzyme Seven is the wine…”

  “And EZ8 is the brandy,” Clementine said. “Why’d you take it? Did he make ya?”

  “Gulliver weren’t no sorcerer, and his words weren’t no spells,” Susan explained. “Hain’t nothing he coulda done or said that woulda made me do something I didn’t wanna do.”

  “What’s it like?” Newton asked. “EZ8, I mean?”

  “Different folks have different reactions,” Susan said.

  “What’d it do to you?” Clementine asked.

  Susan didn’t answer right away, taking her time to choose the right words. “Lets me see things other folks can’t see, hear things they can’t…”

  “Is EZ8 what lets ya work your…spells?” Newton asked.

  “The way ya say spell makes it sound like a dirty word,” Susan complained. “But a spell hain’t no different than a program.”

  Newton couldn’t let her statement go unchallenged. “A program is a set of instructions written to let the CPU execute a specific action inside a computer…”

  Susan glanced askance at him from the corner of her eye. “And what’s a spell but a set of instructions written to let a brain execute a specific action within reality?”

  Newton couldn’t argue her analogy. “Go back to EZ8.”

  “In the right dosage, and under the right conditions, EZ8 awakens the third eye,” Susan said.

  “And in the wrong dosage, and the wrong conditions?” Newton asked.

  “Insanity, at best,” Susan said, “coma or death at worst.”

  “What’s the third eye?” Clementine asked.

  “Most folks calls it the pineal gland,” Susan said.

  Clementine had never heard the term before. “What’s a pineal...”

  “It’s a part inside your brain,” Newton said, “helps regulate sleep.”

  Clementine’s massaged her temples. “Do I have one?”

  “Everybody has one,” Newton said, “but it just regulates sleep.”