by Sean Platt
Thirty-One
Paola Olson
There was something … off … about the man Steven.
Paola felt something rising inside her, both as he stood in the doorway, and after he left. It lingered in the room like a rotting stench.
She turned from her mom to Marina, then to Rose, none of who seemed to notice anything odd about the man. Paola didn’t want to be the only one to say anything, so she didn’t. She turned back to Marina and nodded as she settled her back into the fabric and waited for the doors of the machine to close.
As the doors sealed and Paola felt the silence start to grow heavy, a small panic swelled inside her.
Calm down, calm down. It’ll be fine.
Paola decided to count down from 100, just like she’d been doing since she was a small child, exactly like her mom had taught her. She didn’t want to be scared like a child. She wanted to find a confidence befitting her new body, rather than the mind that was still so comparatively young.
Am I thinking older?
100 … 99 … 98 … 97 … 96 … 95 … 94 …
The Capacitor whirred, the air feeling as if it were somehow sparking to life with an energy. She thought of a microwave and hoped the machine wasn’t about to cook her.
Don’t be silly. It’s completely safe. Rose used it, and she’s fine.
Paola’s body rattled, harder than she expected, and banged her back against the machine, shaking her from the inside out: throat humming, hair feeling on fire, tips of her toes feeling like ice; shocks of trauma coiled her ankles and legs, pounding Paola’s body with a crackle so sharp she couldn’t tell whether it was filled with hellish heat or arctic freeze.
Crackles snapped and sputtered up Paola’s body until they sizzled at her shoulders.
Something’s wrong!
I’ve gotta get out!
She wanted to scream but couldn’t. The darkness inside the tube went suddenly bright, filling Paola’s eyes with more stars than the sky, pinpricking ebony around her. Black got blacker, bright got brighter, and the machine’s whir turned into something like a scream.
Paola wanted to meet it with a bellow of her own, but still nothing bled from her mouth but a horrible mocking hush. She tried to reach her hands up to bang on the tube, but her hands disobeyed Paola as surely as her mouth.
Surely they knew she was trying to cry out, they had to know she was dying. Paola expected the doors to fly open but they didn’t. She pictured herself collapsing into her mother’s wide, parted arms, but her coffin stayed sealed.
Instead, time turned to tundra, and Paola felt a familiar darkness slither inside her.
The same Blanket of darkness that had claimed to itself as her father before claiming her mind outside the Drury. The same darkness that had nested itself inside her, refusing to leave until Luca — a boy she didn’t yet know — pulled her from the horror.
The Blanket was back.
This time, the undiluted blackness oozed from the pores of a horrible shape that hovered before her, shifting between the dripping darkness and the man who had been standing in Marina’s doorway, just before the machine’s doors sealed Paola inside.
“What are you doing here?” The Blanket demanded.
Its voice was dark, heinous, horrible, not quite a voice, more like a rasp of thunder echoing through the tube, caroming against metal walls with a menacing reverb. Paola didn’t know if she was inside the machine or her mind, but wherever she was, The Blanket had followed to swallow her everywhere.
The world changed, and The Blanket dragged her back to where she’d been before, into the endless hallway past the Drury’s kitchen and out onto the neverending road and flattened landscape, over the small gray hills at the front to the larger ones in back, toward what might have been forever, tugging her to the charcoal mountains under churning clouds of cruelty.
The thunder repeated, “Why are you here?” Its voice echoed in ripples around her.
Paola tried to fight, but felt helpless.
Why won’t the doors open?
Like before, The Blanket draped her face and threatened to eat her until Paola’s memories were molecules belonging to it. Like before, Paola knew death was seconds away.
The Blanket hovered above her, eyes red and lips curled into a snarl. Its skin started to shift as if a thousand bugs were crawling beneath it, changing its face, first to a bald Boricio, then into The Prophet, and finally, into John, Paola’s old neighbor.
With endless nothingness around her, Paola tried to run, but just as sound wouldn’t come from her mouth, motion wouldn’t propel her legs.
Finally, she felt lava in her throat; the heat seemed to make words.
“What do you want from me?” she cried out through déjà vu.
The Blanket laughed, chortles like flame licked Paola’s skin. She cried out for Luca, knowing he was her only hope.
If she couldn’t find him, all would be lost.
Not just her body and sanity …
… but mind and body for all of the world.
A horrible vision, worse than The Blanket, swung like a curtain in front of her eyes, displaying the plague as it spread like butter across the Earth’s bread, swallowing all as it soured the landscape and turned everything into an endless sea of bleakers — just as it had before, on the world that could no longer breathe. And then the vision was gone, replaced by the broken landscape ahead.
Paola cried louder for Luca.
The world flickered, and The Blanket began to flap against a cold wind which pushed it farther above her, threatening to take it away into the swirling clouds, which were alive with crashing blue lightning.
Paola felt its anger as it tried to overcome the wind and reclaim its hold.
A royal blue crackle of sparks surrounded her body, dancing to the machine’s whir which she could hear even if it was naked to her eyes.
And then she saw it, a light ahead — a bright whiteness at the end of a long endless brick path ahead of her.
Luca!
She ran toward it, along the long, winding path that stretched into infinity, toward what had to be the boy — it was so, so wonderfully bright — as The Blanket surrendered its chase, thrashing in anger behind her, venting Its rage at having been bested, doing all it could to keep her frightened, though she knew it was only for show: churning clouds and raining acid, the barbed grass swaying from both sides, each blade reminding her it could bite.
The Blanket no longer had shape, losing ITS form to the white.
Then, The Blanket got blacker and meaner, determined not to lose.
The blue sparks lost some of their blue as IT tried to curl inside Paola’s nostrils and seep into her eyes, bleeding into the girl’s pores like backward sweat.
“Luca” was a wisp from her lips as the white fought to keep Paola alive.
Thirty-Two
Luca Harding
Luca wasn’t sure where he was, or how he got there, but the sky was ugly and black. He was somewhere in the woods, naked in a stream, washing blood from his body.
Whatever had taken his mind from him, and turned him into a killer, felt like it was gone, leaving Luca alone to deal with an aftermath of fear, guilt, and confusion.
“What have I done?”
Luca whispered over and over to no one, scrubbing so much blood from his skin. He vaguely remembered what he had done: killed them all — Johnny, Trevor, Gus, and Kiyor. It was their blood staining his body. But it was as if he had seen the murders from the eyes of another, watched as it happened, rather than making it happen himself. He heard their screams in his ears, but it was as if the screams were TV, rather than Luca making the show.
Like someone else was playing Transformers, and he was the toy.
What happened after that, Luca couldn’t remember. But it seemed late outside, and his parents were probably worried sick. And there was no forest by his house. The only forest Luca had ever seen was the one where they went to for camping in the San Gabriel Mountain
s every summer. He had to get home and tell Mom and Dad everything; maybe they would understand what he didn’t. Luca’s parents loved him, and if anyone could make this somehow better, it was them, and maybe Anna.
Luca finished washing blood from his clothes, then put them back on, soaking wet, before starting to walk, hoping to leave the forest he never should have been in, so he could find a familiar landmark that might help him find his way home.
He walked for a long time, as icy wind bit his skin, through his soaking clothes and freezing scalp until he finally stepped out of the woods and into his neighborhood as trees disappeared behind him.
Most of the houses still had light inside their windows, so Luca didn’t think it was too late in the night. That meant his parents should still be up. He was in so much trouble already for whatever had happened — he would probably lose all of his Transformers and Legos, plus TV for the rest of his life — that being up past his bedtime couldn’t make it worse.
What if they don’t know it was an accident, and I go to jail forever?
Luca stuck to the shadows, avoiding streetlights and alternating between sidewalk and road. He wished he was invisible. He didn’t think that anyone had seen what he’d done, but people would probably know he was guilty of something as soon as they saw him. Luca was never good at hiding stuff he wasn’t supposed to hide.
His legs were achy, and he shivered nonstop, teeth chattering by the time he finally found his block. As Luca rounded the curve, and saw his home six houses away, he froze on a crack in the sidewalk, staring at the glow of flashing red and blue lights illuminating the street and windows of the houses and cars on the bend.
He slowly approached, peering past the lights as his heart pounded, almost as fast as his chattering teeth. There were police cars, at least three that he could see, outside his house.
They’re looking for me! They know I did it.
Luca’s family was so close, and yet never felt so far.
There was no way he could go home. The police would grab him, take him away, and throw him in jail. Probably forever. Then he would never see his family again. Luca slunk back into the shadows, safe in the dark under overhanging trees, watching his house, and searching for any sign of his family.
But they were all inside, with the police.
Suddenly, a light went on behind Luca, and a woman’s voice, one of his neighbors, though he wasn’t sure who, said, “Luca?”
Instead of turning, he ran as fast as he could.
Luca wasn’t sure how far he’d run, or how far he kept walking after his legs were too achy to race. He was cold, in pain, and felt like he might die if he didn’t find a warm place to rest.
Luca had no idea where he was walking, only that he had to put distance between himself and the police who were probably definitely looking for him. He wasn’t sure about his next step. Maybe he could find his way back home tomorrow, and the police would be gone.
That seemed like a good idea.
But for now, he had to keep walking.
Luca was in another neighborhood where he’d never been, many miles from his own. Most of the lights were now off, meaning it was late, way way past bedtime. Luca wasn’t sure what he was looking for, exactly, maybe a tree house or an unlocked car to crawl inside. Both could mean danger, though a tree house seemed better for the night than a car. Problem was, Luca saw no tree houses.
How come no one has tree houses in this neighborhood? Connor and JT both have one on my street.
Every minute Luca walked seemed like the one when he might finally collapse. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on, but every movement felt like his ankles were stuck in sludge, and he had to push his body forward with a backpack that was filled with his grandfather’s old metal cars, while wearing heavy wet blankets.
Luca began to look longingly at some of the larger lawns, thinking how comfortable it would be to lie down and sprawl on top of them. He imagined the feeling of cool grass against his body as he did. Luca never would’ve thought of grass as comfortable, like his bed — it was usually pretty itchy — but at the moment, even the smaller lawns looked like his parents’ King sized bed.
Luca stopped in front of an old house with an overgrown lawn that looked like no one had cut it in years. The house was small, almost tiny, its windows and doors all boarded. It looked like the sort of house where something bad happened and it had to get shuttered forever. It was the kind of house kids whispered about in warning, “Don’t go there!” The kind of house that was always in scary stories at Halloween.
The front yard even had a giant tree with branches reaching like skeleton’s arms toward the moon. Yet for all its scary qualities, it had one thing which called to Luca like a lighthouse in the dark — a porch swing.
I’ll lie on the swing, and think about what to do next.
Luca slowly approached the house, listening for anything evil that might be lurking inside. He wasn’t normally afraid of stuff like ghosts or witches or other things that weren’t real, but at night, on his own, in a strange neighborhood, anything seemed possible.
He stepped onto the porch, the wooden, paint-chipped, gray steps creaking under his weight.
A shadow suddenly moved to Luca’s left.
He jumped, then realized it was only from the streetlight and wind pushing the swing.
Luca laughed at himself, then sat on the bench, chains pulling tight as he did. He pushed down hard, just to make sure the chains in the roof could support his weight.
Sitting felt great, laying down even better.
He closed his eyes, telling himself that he’d wake in the morning, then find his way home. The police would be gone, Mom and Dad would make everything better.
Luca fell asleep, almost smiling.
In Luca’s dream, he was on the side of a long road, lying down. It was daytime, and the sun seemed to take up most of the sky.
His skin was itchy-burny hot, his throat was dry and raw.
A dog appeared, carrying a bottle of water in its mouth. The dog was the same one from his earlier dream — Dog Vader. It dropped the bottle of water beside Luca, who grabbed it, unscrewed the cap, and gulped the liquid.
“Where am I?” Luca asked.
“You’re on a trek,” Dog Vader answered.
“A trek?”
“Yes, you have to find something. Something very important.”
“What?” Luca asked, swallowing the last of the water, which tasted like it was from heaven.
“The vials,” Dog Vader said.
“What vials?” Luca asked, vaguely remembering something from a dream. No, not a dream, but when Johnny had him on the ground. There had been vials in that dream or vision, or whatever it was.
Dog Vader then thought about the vials, and oddly, Luca could see what the dog was picturing in his head. They were filled with glowing, blue liquid. There were a dozen of them all floating in darkness.
“Wow, how did you do that?”
Dog Vader didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “It’s time to wake up Luca. Time to wake up and find the vials.”
“How will I know where to look?”
“Just trust your head,” Dog Vader said, then vanished.
Luca was confused.
Trust my head?
The sun seemed to turn up its heat, like Mom using the stove.
Luca realized, again, that he was dreaming, and remembered his sleeping self on the swing. He had to wake up before morning. A neighbor might see him and call the police.
Luca woke up suddenly, no longer on a swing.
Or anywhere he’d ever been or even seen before.
The sky was a forever sea of blue, and below it, unending rolling waves of bright, hot sand stretching forever in every direction.
Luca knew, with a horrible sadness inside him, that he would never see his family again. He screamed, his voice wafting into the endless empty desert.
Thirty-Three
Michael Blackmore
Mik
e reached the Madrid thoroughly exhausted early in the morning. So exhausted, he was tempted to get a room and sleep first. But he couldn’t risk losing Mary if she was already on the road.
Mike approached the front desk with flowers, saying he was leaving them for a guest, Mary Olson.
The receptionist, a pretty young woman with long, dark hair, consulted her computer and looked up, frowning. “Oh, I’m sorry, that guest checked out last night.”
“Do you know where she went?” Mike asked, hoping his desperation didn’t show.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” she said. “We don’t have that information.”
Mike looked down at the flowers, then back at the receptionist, tossing her the ball. “What should I do? I have to deliver these flowers. Boss said this was a rush job and very important to whoever wanted Mrs. Olson to get them.”
The woman looked back at her screen. “I could call the number we have on file for her, if you’d like to leave the flowers here.”
Mike sneaked a peek at the screen, saw Mary’s number, quickly remembered it like he’d done with who-knew-how-many numbers before, then smiled at the receptionist, confident she’d not seen his theft.
He looked at the flowers again, then sighed, “Well, I can’t leave them with anyone but Mary. We’ve had situations before, leaving them at hotel desks, and the guests never getting them.”
The girl looked offended, “What? Here?”
“No, no place as nice as this. But all the same, it’s policy.”
“I never heard of anything like that.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty damned stupid,” Mike said. “I’ll go back to the shop and see what the boss says. If he says I can leave them here, I’ll bring them back. Thanks so much for your help.”
Mike smiled and headed back to his car.
He sat inside and fired up Mary’s laptop, which he lifted from her house, found a Wi-Fi signal and clicked on her money app. He found her recent credit card activity and found the name of the motel she was now at. The Camelot, on PCH in Malibu. A quick Google search showed her about an hour away.
