by Sean Platt
She wasn’t unique. She wasn’t original.
She was pathetic, a waste, of no use to IT at all.
And as IT thought, a smile spread onto Steven’s face.
The horse woman might not be of any use, but surely there were plenty of files from people who would be. The Church’s Confessions had recorded some of the worst of the worst. Marina told Steven about some of them, people with the blackest baggage: cheaters, criminals, sexual deviants, and predators — people IT could worm ITS way into, then stay close, nested until needed. IT could find people closer, easier to stay connected to. Easier to control.
Everyone wanted power, longed for it even if they didn’t realize it, and IT was now in a position to give it away. IT would find these people and give them positions in the Church of Original Design.
Then IT would no longer need Marina at all.
Fourteen
Paola Olson
Paola sat in the back of her first-period class, barely staying awake while Mr. White droned on for three million years about world history that no one cared about. Paola often wondered what the people in her class, or her teachers who claimed to know so much, would think if she told them about her experiences on the other world. It would probably be hilarious; no one would believe her, and she’d be in a world of crap.
Sullivan had come to their house and warned them to keep quiet — for their own good. Paola wasn’t sure what he meant, but her mother seemed to get it, and told Paola that this was more important than any secret ever. “If you tell anyone, people will come and take us away, forever. We’ll never see each other again.”
Paola kept the secrets to herself. It was hard, throttling her longing to scream it. It was hard pretending she didn’t know something so special, and harder pretending that her dad wasn’t dead; having people think he was a jerk who abandoned his family — rather than a hero who gave his life to save them — was torture.
As Mr. White rambled, with half the class pretending to pay attention, Paola felt like someone was staring at her. She turned, surprised to see Harry on her left. She met his eyes, and he quickly looked away, pretending to study Mr. White instead.
She felt a warm flush, followed by butterflies.
Oh my God, is he checking me out?
Harry was one of the cool kids, a skateboarder with a long, blond wall draping his tanned face. He had cute dimples and a killer, confident smile. Paola had spoken to Harry twice so far this school year, both times he seemed bored.
She turned her eyes down to her desk, waiting to look back up, then dared a glance.
Holy crap, he is looking at me!
She looked back down, her heart pounding, fighting the urge to giggle. Paola hated how she laughed when nervous, at least around boys. She wished she could be confident like Brianna Collins, her most popular friend; Brianna had a way of turning any boy into a quivering mass of silly stupid.
Paola sat through class intensely aware of her every movement. She tried to be cool, tried not to look at him, tried not to giggle, tried not to bite her nails, tried to just be normal. But it was impossible when the cutest guy in your grade was staring at you.
Why is he looking at me?
She casually brushed her fingers over her face, just to make sure it wasn’t a giant, new zit or stray booger that had grabbed his attention. That would make sense. Guys like Harry didn’t like drab brunettes like Paola, they liked pretty, blonde cheerleaders with big, perky boobs.
She watched the clock, eager for the bathroom where she could check her face, then find her best friend, Tracy Lin, and tell her the news.
The bell sang. Paola reached beneath her desk, grabbed her books and stood. She was in such a rush to get out of the class that the moment she stepped from her desk, she dropped her books — right in front of Harry.
No!
She bent down, quickly, eager to grab her books, but bumped her head hard into Harry’s on her way.
If Paola could melt she would have.
Instead, she was forced to awkwardly stare as Harry held up a hand, and said, “I got it,” then gathered her books, and returned them to her, smiling.
I’m such a dork!
“Thank you,” she said, smiling back, then turning her gaze to her shuffling feet.
“You’re shy,” he said. “That’s cute.”
Harry was very forward; that made Paola want to run and vomit.
This conversation is NOT happening!
“Thanks,” she said.
Thanks? I just thanked him for saying I’m shy and that’s cute? I’m so stupid!
“I mean, for the books,” Paola said, even though she had already thanked him for that.
I’ve got to get out of here before I say something worse. I’m stupid and frozen.
Harry spoke before Paola could thaw. “Did you do something different with your hair?” His head was cocked sideways like he was trying to figure it out. He looked Paola up and down. Her flaws felt like they were growing. She crossed her arms over her chest, which had seemed bigger this morning, though she couldn’t tell if it was monthly bloating or a growth spurt … or a supernatural spurt from healing Mom!
“No,” she said, surprised that Harry had noticed anything different about her at all. Before today, she could have come to class bald, and he wouldn’t have seen the shine on her head. “I mean, maybe a few weeks ago, I don’t remember.”
“Looks good on you,” he said, smiling like a dream.
“Um, yours, too.”
You did NOT just compliment him on his hair! You idiot!
“Thanks,” he said. “OK, see ya around, eh?”
“OK,” Paola said. She turned and fled, barely keeping herself from a run.
By third period, Paola had been asked by five people if she had grown, or changed something about herself. Terri Pantorelli asked if she “got new tits?”
After third period, she waited in the girl’s bathroom until the bell rang for class. Paola wanted a few minutes of alone time with the mirror, to see if she could see the same thing that others had.
Paola leaned close, staring at her reflection and searching for change. She thought she looked different, but it was hard to see small changes when you stared at yourself every day. She wasn’t sure if she was seeing real changes or just subtle shifts provided by her imagination.
Though Paola felt different, she couldn’t be sure that she was. She stared with no expression, then lost her frozen face to a smile as she thought of a way to test her hypothesis.
Paola snuck out of school and caught a bus before lunch. Fortunately, nobody on the bus seemed to notice that she was skipping school as she rode three miles to the nearest hospital.
She had never been to the local hospital, and had no idea where to go once there. She entered through the large doors which read Emergency in large, red capitals, then stepped into a giant lobby filled with at least 20 people. Patients were lined at the front counter, checking in.
Paola didn’t want to check in, so she took a seat as far from the counter as she could, trying to blend in with a woman and a young boy, around 5. He had a red face and tired eyes, leaning against his mother and staring blankly toward the reception desk.
She wondered what was wrong with him, and if he made a good candidate to experiment with. If she was going to age, Paola didn’t want to find someone so injured that she risked aging a lot, so a sick person might be perfect, but at the same time she didn’t want to risk harming someone else, especially a child.
Paola looked around the waiting room, searching for the right person.
She saw a man who was as yellow as a pepper and a woman who looked nearly green. Everyone else in the waiting room was a varying shade of pale or miserable. There were no clear clues for Paola to follow, no way to know what waiting patients were suffering from, or what her risks might be if she tried to “heal” them.
She felt stupid, and for a short moment wanted to go. Then, after ruling out everyone in the waiting room, Pa
ola felt her mother’s determination, dug her heels into her decision, and decided to get up and wander the hallways, maybe find someone who fit the bill better. Several sets of doors led to different parts of the hospital. Paola studied them to determine which she could easily slip through without drawing attention. She wasn’t sure how much trouble she could get into sneaking around a hospital, but figured it had to be quite a lot — certainly enough to make her mother furious.
She watched as a pair of women was called through the busiest set of doors, and went to try those.
Her legs were shaky as she made her way toward the doors, feeling like every eye was stuck to her skin, and that at any second a hand would fall on her shoulder — a nurse or doctor demanding to know what she was doing.
As Paola reached the doors a man yelled from behind her, “How much longer do we have to sit here? My boy is hurt, bad!”
From the front desk, “Sir, please sit down, we’ll see you as soon as we can.”
Paola looked toward the desk and saw the man, but not his boy. She scanned the room until she saw what she hadn’t before: in the corner, sitting by himself, a boy of 7 or so, crying, wrapping his leg with a blood-soaked towel.
“This is bullshit,” the man said, “I want to speak to someone in charge.”
The woman at reception, a large woman who probably didn’t take much from anyone, tried telling him to sit, but the man refused. Suddenly, a security guard stepped around the counter and began speaking to him. Paola strained to hear their exchange.
The father continued to yell, and Paola watched the boy, sitting in obvious anguish.
She approached.
He looked up at her, eyes red and still crying.
“Are you hurt badly?” Paola asked, feeling like it was maybe a dumb question, considering the evidence.
The boy nodded, sniffling.
Paola looked back to make sure the kid’s dad wasn’t looking. He was still arguing, with both the receptionist and the security guard, his voice growing louder. Paola hoped he didn’t get himself into trouble.
“Can I see it?” she asked.
The boy nodded, and unwrapped his towel to a horrible break; bone jutted from the front of his leg, right beneath his knee.
Paola winced, feeling his pain twist into her guts as if she had suffered the injury herself.
“Oh, God” she cried out, unable to hide her shock at the boy’s horror. She was surprised the kid wasn’t screaming his throat raw — his injury reminded her of some of the worst she had seen … over there.
Paola looked back, saw the father still arguing. She didn’t have long before someone noticed her, or the dad returned to his seat.
She met the boy’s eyes, “Do you want to feel better?” she asked. Paola wasn’t sure if it was hope or instinct, but she knew she could help him.
The boy flinched as Paola’s hands hovered near his gaping wound.
“I’m not going to touch you,” she whispered, her palms inches above the white bone bulging through his bloody flesh.
Warmth spread through her body, and her eyes instinctively closed. As a dizziness stirred inside her, Paola felt like a swaying boat rocking back and forth in stormy seas. She fought to stay steady, afraid she would accidentally brush against the boy’s injury.
“Hey, what are you doing?” the dad yelled from behind her.
Paola heard him running toward them as she fought her dizziness, refusing to open her eyes or turn around until she felt like she was done healing the boy.
Her heart pounded like a jackhammer as panic filled her like blood.
“What the … ?” the man cried out.
She opened her eyes, turned to see him, frozen and staring wide-eyed at his son.
Paola turned, slowly, her heart in her throat, and looked down to see what the boy’s father was startled by.
The bone was gone, and the boy’s bright-pink flesh looked like new skin over a healed wound.
Oh, my God, I did it!
“How … how the hell?” the man said, stunned, stammering on his words.
“She fixed it, Daddy!” the boy said, pointing at Paola.
She found her feet, then ran, as if there were bleakers behind her.
Fifteen
Mary Olson
Mary stared at the tree on her monitor, wondering if it should be burnt orange rather than leafy green. She was adding finishing touches to her latest line of greeting cards — the best of her life, and also the easiest. Her new stuff was admittedly darker, and had been since her return to work, but Mary’s clients — mostly museum gift shops and high-end boutiques — had never loved her art more. She referred to this latest batch of drawings, her most abstract by far, as Screaming Trees. They were composed of smudges of color, smeared in bursts above rigid trunks. Mary stared at the tree some more; the more she stared, the less she liked green.
She selected the trees’ green layer on the Cintiq and began to go over the color in orange. It was immediately better, though now she would have to adjust other layers with light and shadow effects to harmonize the orange. The extra time would be worth it. Mary would always rather take longer and inch closer to perfect than put out something she wasn’t in love with.
She was in the middle of erasing stray marks when the phone startled her, buzzing on her desk. She picked up her cell, stomach churning at the number: Paola’s school.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Olson?”
“Yes?” Mary said, dreading whatever was coming.
“This is Mrs. Waddell from Kingswood Country Day. Is Paola home?”
“Um, no, she’s at school … isn’t she?”
“No,” said the voice. “Not since fourth period.”
Mary turned to the clock. It was well into seventh, Paola’s last class. “And you’re just now calling?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Olson, we’re short staffed and … ”
Mary cut her off, hating excuses. She didn’t spend $15,000 a year for short staffed. “Are you saying you don’t know where my daughter is?”
“No, which is why I’m calling, Mrs. Olson. Is there a chance somebody else picked her up, or maybe she left early with a friend?”
“How the hell should I know?” Mary said, looking around her living room as if something might point her toward Paola. She leaped from her chair and ran up the stairs, into Paola’s room, just to make sure she hadn’t come home and gone to bed without telling Mary, as unlikely as that seemed.
Paola wasn’t in her room.
Mary’s heart pounded faster; her breath became shallow.
Her mind flashed back to the Drury, when Paola had wandered off in the middle of the night and had been infected by The Darkness. She and Desmond had found her at death’s door. Paola probably wouldn’t have survived without Luca.
What if it’s here and has come for her again?
Mary ran her hand over her face, squeezing her cheeks and then her eyes, wondering what she should do. This wasn’t like Paola at all. Sure, she tested boundaries, but this was different. Mary couldn’t imagine her doing something so drastic without a good reason.
What if something happened to her?
What if she started to age in class, or worse?
Oh, God.
“What’s the last class she was in? Did you speak to the teacher? Did you talk to her friends?”
“Her teachers, yes,” the woman said, “but not her friends; not yet. We’ll get on that right now. Is there someone we should ask specifically?”
Mary tried thinking of Paola’s friends, but the girl hadn’t made too many since they got here. She listed the few to hit her memory, and apologized for not knowing more, feeling Mrs. Waddell’s silent judgment.
“We’ll call you back soon,” she said. “Meanwhile, you might want to call some friends, or maybe the police.”
Mary thanked Mrs. Waddell, then hung up, sitting at the edge of Paola’s bed, paralyzed with indecision. She wanted to get in her car, go out, and search for Paola
.
But what if she comes home while I’m out?
Shit.
Mary was grateful for their move to Colorado; the girls needed a clean break from their past. But it had yet to feel like home. As she grazed the phone’s side with her finger, running it from top to bottom, Mary realized she had no one to call. As she wondered if she could feel more alone, Mary heard the front door open downstairs.
She leaped up from Paola’s bed and ran toward the hallway, eager and frightened, praying that Paola was OK.
Mary froze at the top of the stairs, staring down to the front door with her eyes saucer-wide and jaw to the carpet. She dropped her phone. It fell as if in slow motion from her hand, bounced two steps, then spilled through a slat on the banister. It crashed to the floor and shattered to pieces.
Paola stared back at her mom, sobbing. Mary’s precious 13-year-old was gone: in her place, a woman she did not know.
EPILOGUE — Roman Rosetti
Manhattan, New York
1994
Roman sat in the dark, cradling a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand, and his service pistol in the other.
The phone was on the bed. He watched it … waiting.
Roman had called and left voice mail for three of the four other men in his unit — the men who had all shared that something in Alaska so many years ago. Whatever they touched had somehow enhanced their lives, all except for him.
The something had left a famine inside Roman, a deep ravine of shadow that dragged him down into its horrible depths whenever he was alone, trying to sleep, or live any sort of normal life.
It waited — a forever-present voice in the back of his mind, poisoning his thoughts, and everything he tried to touch or dared to love, filling him with an unending dread that could only be defeated through self-medication, and only for minutes at a time.
