The Smiley-Face Witches

by George Traikovich

  It was the rhyme they used to jump rope to when they were girls, but what could…“No,” Penelope pleaded, “You’ll kill us both!”

  “They’ll kill us anyhow,” Lucy insisted, “and it might work.”

  “It might work,” wasn’t the endorsement Penelope wanted, but it was the best her sister could offer.

  Lucy waited until they were almost across then turned and stopped, sending a tremor rippling through the bridge.

  Tasha threw her arms out at her sides to balance herself. “What are ya doing?”

  Lucy started jumping, only a few inches off the deck at first, but higher and higher as she gained confidence. “Not last night but the night before, twenty-four robbers came knocking at my door…”

  Tasha reached out to grab hold of Jack, but the whiplashing bridge threw him off balance, too.

  Penelope timed her jump to her sister’s cadence and joined in. “Not last night but the night before, twenty-four robbers came knocking at my door…”

  The bridge’s undulation increased in wavelength and amplitude, giving Penelope and Lucy the break they needed. They synced their movements to the bridge’s rhythm, and surfed the wave to the other side of the ravine.

  Tasha fired and missed, spraying bark and pinecones across the frozen ground instead. She underestimated the gun’s kick, strong enough to send her crashing into the icy creek below.

  “Run!” Penelope shouted, “Run like ya never run before!”

  Tasha climbed out of the shallow brook in time to watch the sisters bound through the pines like cats, moving through the knotted obstacle course with agility she didn’t think possible.

  “A little help…”

  She looked up to see Jack’s bare legs dangling above her. He’d fallen halfway through, getting stuck between the bridge’s loose slats and ripping his pants almost all the way off. She grabbed hold of his ankles and pulled him the rest of the way through.

  He pulled his mask off, giving Tasha a good look at him for the first time. Balding and bespectacled, his was an anonymous face devoid of any distinguishable characteristics. Not just another face in the crowd, but every face in the crowd.

  “Ya know what I think happened,” Jack mused, “I think that all that time I spent cracking their backs and their necks and the rest of their joints, and what not, loosened them up. Made them limber and more flexible.”

  His explanation wasn’t much solace. “What’d ya do before this?”

  “I was a chiropractor,” he said.

  “Didn’t know that,” Tasha muttered.

  “Probably helped ease their arthritic pain,” he said.

  “Probably…”

  “Gave them agility they didn’t otherwise possess…”

  “Yeah…”

  Jack’s bemused grin widened. “In other words, the torture that we came up with was in fact, the very thing that enabled their escape. Ironic, huh?”

  Tasha nodded. “Yeah, ironic.”

  “But that’s Chiropractry for ya,” he said in a reflective moment. “The stories that I could tell you. The miracles that I’ve worked with these hands…”

  “Nancy won’t like this,” Tasha said. The old broad wouldn’t raise hell in a street fight, but she was the boss for a reason.

  But who said she had to know what happened? There was only one other witness and Tasha could fix that. She turned to Jack. “You alright?”

  “Me?”

  “They roughed you up pretty good back there, with all their flipping and geriatric acrobatics,” she reminded him.

  Jack rubbed at his neck. “Got a bit of a headache. Have to check if my guild plan covers…”

  She put her hands on his, and when she felt him relax, eased them up to his shoulders. “Maybe the chiropractor could use an…adjustment.”

  He paused to make sure the signal he was getting was the same one she was sending. They were both cold and wet and hypothermia was minutes away. Maybe delirium was setting in.

  She walked her fingers up the slope of his neck and worked her digits into his pale flesh. “You’ve got nice, big hands for a woman,” he said, “Bet you could palm a basketball.”

  It wasn’t much of a compliment, but she wasn’t looking for one. She put one hand under his chin and the other on top of his head.

  “You’ve done this before,” he joked.

  “Once or twice,” she said, and buried her knife into his back.

  CHAPTER 11

  Lucy ran until she could run no more, clearing a swathe through the frosted foliage until her lungs seized and she collapsed to her knees.

  Penelope stopped when she did, just as spent as her sister. She looked back toward the direction they’d come from, but didn’t see anybody. ‘Think we lost ‘em?”

  Lucy’s rapid breathing fogged the air, slowing as her adrenaline dissipated. “Hain’t sure. But we zagzigged…that should throw ‘em off for a while, anyhow.”

  “Don’t hear no dogs or nothing,” Penelope said.

  “We gotta get outta here,” Lucy said. She’d broken a sweat and neither of them had anything more than a silken gown to protect them against the Midwestern winter night.

  Penelope studied the surrounding forest for a clue to their location. “Nothing but trees in every direction except one.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We gotta go back,” Penelope said.

  “Are ya crazy?” Lucy asked. “Just pick any direction but the one we just came from!”

  Penelope helped her to her feet. “They was through with us.”

  “And thank heavens they was,” Lucy said.

  “They was through with us,” Penelope repeated, “Which means they either found big sister or…”

  “They got rid of her the same way they was gonna get rid of us,” Lucy said.

  “Family honor demands satisfaction in either case,” Penelope said.

  Lucy knew she was right. “What do we do?”

  “If’n they got her, we bust her loose,” Penelope said.

  “And if’n they done worse?”

  Penelope wrapped her knuckles into a fist. “Then we avenge her.”

  “Ya saw them school buses,” Lucy said. “They won’t be hangin’ ‘round the farmhouse too much longer.”

  Penelope’s mouth eased into a devilish grin. “Won’t nobody know who’s who on board them buses with them masks on.”

  “Thinkin’ of hitching a ride?” Lucy asked.

  Penelope gave her a sly wink. “Ya read my mind.”

  ***

  They crawled out of the ruins on to a dusty, unpaved street. Ancient clapboard buildings stood on either side of them, neglected and forgotten, the names on the signs rubbed away by wind and sand.

  “Looks like some kinda wild west ghost town,” Drew said.

  “That’s because that’s what it is…was…whatever,” Doctor Jagger said. “Used to be some kinda tourist attraction. That pile of matchsticks we just crawled out of used to be the saloon. The top level anyway.”

  The blast leveled the saloon and the adjacent buildings, though the other side of the street remained curiously intact.

  “The town,” he said, “What’s it called?”

  Jagger pointed to a barely legible sign marking the city limits. “Silverwood, New Mexico. Population, you and me.”

  “And me,” Deneese reminded her.

  The ghost town sat in a shallow valley surrounded by rugged foothills on three sides, the main drag bisecting the town into equal halves, the only way in or out.

  “No cars or trucks,” Drew said, “How’d ya get here?”

  “They fly us in and out by chopper,” Jagger said.

  “How many people work here?” he asked.

  “We work in small teams to maintain security,” Jagger said. “Most of the staff’s on Christmas break,”

  Drew pulled his cell phone out but couldn’t get a signal. “Where the soldiers at?”

  “Mercenaries,” Ja
gger said, “there’s a difference.”

  “Soldiers…mercenaries…Why ain’t any of ‘em crawling all over the place?” Drew asked.

  “Give ‘em time,” Jagger said, but the mercenaries weren’t her only concern. She stared longingly at the setting sun disappearing over the range. Night wasn’t too far off, and temperatures in the scrublands dropped below freezing in the winter.

  Drew sifted through the ruins, searching for survivors. He didn’t think there was much chance to find anyone in the smoldering debris, but knew he had to try. “Over here.”

  Jagger limped toward him. “What’d ya find?”

  “Think this is what hit us,” Drew said.

  She stepped daintily through the debris toward the impact crater. The smoldering hole stretched almost twenty feet across, though shallower than she expected.

  “Musta skipped in,” Drew said, “like a stone on a pond.”

  “Unless it just…drove in,” Jagger said.

  The machine’s unorthodox configuration justified their confusion. A broken fork held a single wheel in place mid-chassis, protected by overlapping steel plates cradling the pilot’s open canopy. Something like a rudder rose from the tail section, though they didn’t see any wings attached to the fuselage. Smaller than a car, but bigger than a motorcycle, it defied easy categorization.

  He’d never seen anything like it before. “What do ya think it is?”

  “Don’t know,” Jagger said. “Looks almost like some kinda bug or a hornet or something.”

  “Over here!” Deneese said. “Think I found the driver or the pilot or whatever.”

  Analog dials and gears embedded into the ribbed outer shell suggested a deep-sea diving suit, though the hoses leading to the air tank meant it was self-contained.

  Drew checked for a parachute but didn’t see one. “No footprints. Musta been thrown from the crash.”

  He followed the furrow plowed down Main Street to a second crater at the other end of town. “There’s another one.”

  The second craft was identical to the first, though remained intact after the crash despite sticking in the ground like a dart.

  “Musta been a mid-air collision,” Drew said.

  “Guess it could be some new kind of Air Force plane or something,” Jagger said.

  “Why would the feds come after ya?” Deneese asked.

  “Like I told ya, the Enzyme Seven research is valuable,” Jagger said, “Could be anybody.”

  Drew was sure whoever hit them would check to make sure the job was finished. If he was right, they didn’t have much time. He slid down into the crater. “Looks like the other pilot’s pinned underneath.”

  “Is he dead?” Jagger asked.

  Drew’s eyes shifted from the pilot’s mangled body back to her. “Naw, I think maybe he crawled underneath the wreck to keep warm while he took a nap.”

  Deneese laughed, Jagger didn’t.

  He dragged the pilot’s body out from beneath, surprised by how light it felt.

  “Careful,” Jagger warned, “He mighta been some kinda kamikaze.”

  Her implication gave him pause to continue. “What do ya mean?”

  “What if that stinger-thingy he was riding was meant for a one-way trip?” Jagger said, “Might go off at any time.”

  Stinger was as good a description of the vehicle as any, though he didn’t buy the rest of her theory.

  “Got no choice,” Drew said. “Gotta get outta here before they come back to finish the job. This is the only ride we got.”

  He grabbed the vehicle by the handlebars. The monocycle’s weight shifted toward his center of gravity, adjusting its weight to counterbalance his. Whatever it was made of didn’t feel like metal, though it didn’t feel like plastic either.

  Drew grabbed the handlebars and cranked the throttle. The Stinger lit up, neon strips hugging the machine’s curved contours glowing green, contrasted by red navigation lights strobing across the tail.

  Drew pushed the Stinger up and out of the crater. He checked for a kickstand, but the landing gear extended when the monocycle passed forty five degrees vertical, parking itself. But once the machine was out of the crater, he hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” Deneese said.

  He flashed a queasy smile. “I don’t have my license.”

  She didn’t know if he was joking or not. “I don’t think anybody’s gonna be pulling us over way out here.”

  “I mean…I can’t drive,” Drew said. “I ain’t never rode a motorcycle or drove a car or nothing.”

  “Don’t ya got a learner’s permit or something?” Deneese asked.

  “I live in the city,” he said. “I take the bus or the train.”

  Jagger held her broken glasses up, disqualifying herself. “You’re the only one that can do this Easyrider.”

  He didn’t know who Easyrider was but he climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine buzzed to life with a carnivorous roar as soon as his foot touched the pedal.

  Deneese took a giant step back, Jagger took two.

  “It’s okay,” he said, and held out his hand.

  Deneese didn’t hesitate. She climbed aboard, straddling the frame and wrapping her arms around his waist.

  Jagger crossed her arms. “Guess that particular model only comes as a two-seater.”

  He looked past her to the swirling dust cloud rising at the far end of Main Street. “Think those mercenaries you was waiting on are here.”

  The convoy broke formation, seven or eight matte black Humvees charging toward them. The vehicles slowed but didn’t stop, deploying the soldiers around the ghost town’s perimeter before circling back to insure there was no way in or out.

  “We gotta jet!” Drew said.

  Jagger wasn’t convinced. “Take it easy, maybe I can explain all this.”

  Her argument would have been more persuasive if the Blue Berets weren’t already aiming their guns at them from across the street.

  Captain Bell stepped out from the lead Humvee and raised a megaphone to his mouth. “How’s this…Oh, I see…ATTENTION… YOU ARE TRESPASSING ON PRIVATE PROPERTY…”

  “There’s no need to shoot if we surrender.” Jagger said.

  “Unless they’re the ones that blew the joint up,” Drew said.

  “…I REPEAT, THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. VIOLATERS WILL BE PROSECUTED…”

  Drew thrust his hand out again. “Come on…we can scrunch up and squeeze you in!”

  Jagger’s gaze shifted from Drew to the Blue Berets. “No offense, but that doesn’t look safe. I’m gonna take my chances with them. Hang on to the floppies…just in case.”

  “…THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING.”

  Jagger put her hands up and marched toward the mercenaries.

  “Come on,” Deneese begged.

  Jagger made it across the street and they swarmed her. She was on the ground and cuffed before she could even open her mouth.

  “What are ya waiting for?” Deneese said. She reached past him and hit another button before he could stop her.

  The Stinger responded and the canopy closed, cocooning them inside the humming machine.

  “Get us outta here!” Deneese said.

  Drew jabbed at the buttons but nothing happened.

  The Blue Berets shoved Jagger into the back of one of the Humvees before turning their attention to the Stinger.

  “Any time!” Deneese said.

  Heavy clouds rolled in over the ghost town, faster than any storm he’d ever seen. The deep dark sky deepened even further, covering them in inky shadow almost instantly.

  “What is that?” Drew asked.

  The crystalline lens appeared at the nexus of the churning clouds, a flattened sphere eclipsing the full moon. Ambient light flickered off its brilliant facets, increasing in frequency and intensity until it burned like a midnight sun.

  Deneese grabbed the handlebars and hit the only button on the panel Drew hadn’t hit yet. “Try this one…”

>   The lens dilated, unleashing a cyclonic tunnel punching through the air toward them.

  Blue Berets tumbled past them like confetti, but inside the tunnel was eerily calm, like being in the eye of a pocket-sized hurricane.

  Shafts of black light filtered through the tunnel, connecting with the antenna beneath the Stinger’s fork. An instant later, a wide gray strip extended from the antenna to the lens, completing the circuit.

  Seeing the highway shooting up into the sky without any visible means of support numbed his senses. “What kinda bridge is…”

  “Get us outta here!” Deneese shrieked, and yanked the handlebars back herself.

  ***

  They left the ghost town in their rear view mirror, passing through the first layer of clouds in seconds. Climbing the highway or whatever it was that fast should have killed them, but Drew didn’t feel any acceleration.

  This was impossible.

  He knew no tire could spin so fast without burning up from the friction, but the tread held, the monocycle’s single wheel hugging the road despite their incredible velocity.

  This was impossible.

  Kaleidoscopic images blurred past him, gauzy snapshots of what happened and what he knew hadn’t happened yet, coming into focus for an instant before fading like phantoms. And he was part of the montage, there but not there, looking at himself from outside himself.

  This was also impossible.

  Their ascent slowed as they approached the lens, higher up and much bigger than he’d estimated. The flat horizon curved before him, and he realized the distinction between possible and impossible didn’t mean as much in the air as it did on the ground.

  “I can’t breathe!” he shouted, despite sucking in copious amounts of air, which meant the monocycle was pumping oxygen through the vents from outside or from its own supply.

  The lens rotated around its axis and the highway coiled like a slow-motion whip. He waited for the gray strip to fracture from the torque, but remembered no conventional road could reach that high into the atmosphere, anyway.

  A sense of foreboding queasiness overcame him. “I don’t like where this is…”

  The lens recoiled before he finished his sentence, snapping the road out and away from their position high above the ghost town.

  The Stinger paused for a split-second at the farthest point backward before zooming forward, following the curved highway across the far horizon.

  ***

  Seven-Fifty Five Apple Blossom Lane was an address inside the Apple Blossom Trailer Park near the Marina. The lots were tidy, manicured rectangles, doted over by the residing seniors who minded their own business. But seeing Molly’s BMW trolling through the narrow lanes in the middle of the afternoon triggered the colony’s alarms, sending wrinkled gray faces popping up over the hedges like Meerkats.