by Jami Gray
“It’s not as bad as you think.”
Since Ricochet wasn’t known for his reassurance, his comment caught me by surprise. Megan and I both looked at him, me in disbelief, Megan with the beginnings of hope.
He shook his head as he came up to Megan’s side and pointed ahead. “See that over there?”
Not about to get left behind, I moved to Megan’s other side and saw what Ricochet was pointing out. It was a jarring scene of normalcy—a picturesque oasis amid the bleak landscape, as if a section of a large park had been cut out and clumsily pasted into a worst-case scenario. The bright colors of the insert faded at the border into the bleak surroundings. In the midst of the scene, a wood-and-metal park bench sat under the shade of old-growth trees, and a weathered notebook fluttered in an isolated breeze. A carpet of green, like something found during the first days of spring, lay underneath, while a mix of tall sunflowers, daisies, and marigolds encircled it. There were splashes of other flowers in the mix. The ground rose and fell in ragged hills and dips as if the path had been torn up at some point but now nature was reclaiming her domain.
Pretty it might be, but it was so out of place that it left me uneasy. As Megan and Ricochet moved closer to that weird spot, I kept pace, scanning for hidden threats. Ricochet stopped by one of the strange rock-infused grass bumps and dropped to his heels, his hands barely skimming the surface. “I’d say this was broken at one time, but now…”
“It’s healing,” Megan finished then winced. “Not completely, obviously, since it’s scarred, but still…”
“It’s just going to take time,” Ricochet added, his attention focused on our surroundings.
“Time is something we don’t have.” Megan’s voice had gained a sharp edge.
Without leaving his crouch, Ricochet stopped petting the bump and shot her a hard look. “If you go barging through here without taking care, any chance you had of recovering your memories will be shot to hell. You do understand that, right?”
Her eyes narrowed, and her chin lifted, clear signs of her emerging temper, so I waded in. “This is purely a reconnaissance mission, understood? We’re here to gain information or identify the trigger so we know what we’re dealing with.” I split my glare between them. “We are not going to turn this into more of a war zone than it already is.”
Unsurprisingly, Megan retreated first. “Fine, but later—”
“No,” Ricochet said, cutting her off. “You are not coming back until you know what you’re doing.”
She folded her arms, her blue eyes narrowing. “It’s my mind, Ricochet.”
Since time was a wasting, and as Megan had said, we didn’t have it to waste, I put my foot down. “And you won’t be doing anything alone until he clears you.”
She opened her mouth and shut it again. “Whatever.” Her capitulation came out as less than gracious, but I accepted it. The rebellious lines on her face faded to a small frown as she sighed and brushed her fingers over one of the heavy sunflower heads. “I remember this.” Her fingers dropped away, and she rubbed them on her jeans. “But…”
When she trailed off, that sense of knowing hit me. I needed her to keep talking because something important was here. “But what?” I did my best to keep my urgency buried.
“I got a message from Keelie that she wanted to meet me before I flew out.” Megan turned back to the bench, her frown deepening as she moved closer. She picked up the notebook and held it to her stomach, staring off into the distance, her tone distracted. “I was worried.”
I followed along, wanting to be at her side just in case. Out of the corner of my eye Ricochet stilled with a suddenness that was all too familiar. It was the same alert he used on the battlefield when an unseen threat was on approach. Despite his unspoken warning, I kept my voice even and soft, not wanting to spook Megan. “What were you worried about?”
“Keelie. If she really needed something, she wouldn’t text—she’d call.”
Behind her, Ricochet straightened, but more concerned with Megan, I didn’t glance over. Instead, I focused on Megan because there was a curious tension in the air that left me on edge.
Caught up in whatever she was seeing, Megan kept talking. “I got to the park, and she wasn’t there. I had to get back and finish packing, so I went to call her.” One hand rose as if it held a phone and got halfway to her ear before it stilled. She sucked in a hard breath, the notebook falling from her hands.
I balled my hands into fists as I fought the urge to touch her, not wanting to interrupt while she was reliving her memory. “Megan?”
“She fell.” Concern and worry colored her face as she stared at something only she could see.
“Who fell?”
“The blonde. She and her boyfriend were horsing around, and she fell.” Megan went to move as if to go help the fallen woman, but I stepped in front of her, my hands going to her hips to hold her in place. Megan’s hands went to my chest to push me out of the way. She blinked, her eyes going from vague to focused. “Move, Bishop.”
“Wait.” The scene around us changed, and suddenly, I was standing in front of Megan on a sunny day in a park near the base. I could still see Ricochet and the marred scenario but now it was overlaid with Megan’s memory. People and dogs went in and out of focus as they moved around us, disappearing altogether when they hit the edge of scarred memories. I let Megan go, and the busy park disappeared. I grabbed her hand, and it was back. Lacing our fingers together, I moved to her side as a blurry figure with dark hair rushed over to a young blond woman sitting on the ground and held her ankle. A brown-haired man crouched next to her.
Megan took a step and jerked to a stop, her attention on the blurry dark-haired figure with the couple. Her head tilted. “That’s me.”
“I kind of figured.”
She shot me a look but tugged me forward. As we drew closer, I studied the faces of the woman and her companion. Their features would clear for the briefest of moments then blur again. The strange phenomenon had no discernible pattern, which made it difficult to get a clear identification, but something about the blonde and her boyfriend made me think I’d seen them before.
Megan was talking. “I went over to help. She’d managed to twist her ankle, so her boyfriend and I were going to get her over to the bench.” The blurry figure went to one side, the male to the other, and together, they got the woman to her feet, her arms going around their waists. Megan and I watched the trio stagger to the bench. Next to me, Megan was rubbing a spot on her waist, just above her left hip. The memory scene faded into blurs, the three figures merging into one indistinct blob. “Did we call emergency?” Her question wasn’t directed at me. “I can’t remember.” She looked up at me. “Why can’t I remember?”
I stilled her hand at her hip, the pieces falling into place. “Because this is where you were taken.” I brushed my thumb over the spot she’d been rubbing. “I’m betting they managed to inject you with something just strong enough to keep you disoriented but mobile. Less likely to attract attention helping a woozy friend out of the park than slinging an unconscious body over your shoulder.”
Despite the strangeness of our current circumstances, Megan proved she had no trouble connecting the dots. “That text wasn’t from Keelie.”
Definitely not, but maybe Rabbit can track it back to its originator. Before I could answer, a low warning whistle from Ricochet cut through the air. We turned to find him staring out over the dismal scene at a bank of fast-moving fog.
“That doesn’t look good.” I grabbed Megan’s hand and got to Ricochet’s side. “What is that?”
“Not sure,” Ricochet said, his pose of coiled readiness betraying his apprehension. “But something tells me we need to be careful and fast.”
“Not sure the two are mutually inclusive,” Megan muttered.
I shot her a tight-lipped grin. “Trust me, it can be done.”
Her hand tightened on mine, but she offered a game smile. “Okay, then.”
L
ooking over her head, I asked Ricochet, “How do you want to do this?”
Instead of answering me, he looked at Megan. “When you look at that, what does your gut tell you?”
Following his indication, she studied the weird fog. A hard shudder shook her, but her chin lifted, revealing the hint of fear in her eyes. “To run like hell.”
Her blunt response left my lips twitching. I hadn’t expected humor here, of all places.
Undeterred, Ricochet pressed, “After that?”
“We need to get to the other side.”
“Then lead the way.”
Those slight shoulders straightened, and Megan began moving again.
It was hard to determine the passage of time as Megan scrambled around and over the scarred landscape. She managed to keep us free of the leading edge of the fog, which had changed to a patchy mist, but everything else was fair game. At first I kept a keen eye on her, but after the fourth time I nailed my knee on some half-buried object, I shifted my attention to the perils lining our path.
Conversation was scarce. Megan was focused on following a trail only she could see, I was worried about staying clear of the mist and keeping her in sight without tripping, and Ricochet kept to his standard practice of not speaking. The deeper we got inside this warped landscape, the more the oddities all but screamed that we were nowhere near anything normal. Some buildings were chewed down by fire and pitted with artillery impacts. Others stood tall and were razed by graffiti. Rusted car skeletons with flowers and weeds growing wherever they could sat right next to vehicles that wouldn’t be out of place on the roads of the real world. And if that wasn’t weird enough, vegetation fought with sand dunes to claim the vestiges of civilization. There was no logic to any of it. The only common theme was the presence of scarred pathways—some of them overgrown bumps and others barren ditches—left by Megan’s mental wounds.
By the time we made our way through a maze of fragmented streets—they reminded me of England—lined with abandoned shop fronts with a hint of the fantastical, the ominous fog bank was holding its vigil on the horizon, neither advancing nor retreating but just hovering there. The odd behavior didn’t end there. Tendrils of white trailed us at a distance. Strangely, the fog seemed as reluctant to touch us as we were to touch it. Even stranger were the low-lying wisps behind Megan, keeping the barest of distance. When she skirted a burnt-out car and jerked to avoid a sharp edge, the mist mimicked her move like a well-trained dog. I looked down to see if that behavior held true for the stuff following me. Apprehension flared when I found no signs of the mist. In fact, it was only visible around Megan.
Ricochet was about to move past me, but I held him back by grabbing his upper arm. “Hold on,” I said under my breath.
He stilled at my side and raised a brow in silent question.
“Look.” I lifted my chin in Megan’s direction. “Why is it only following her?”
“I don’t know.” Ricochet kept his voice equally low as he watched the odd behavior. “But something tells me we need to find out.”
Hearing the uneasiness in Ricochet’s tone didn’t help. Maybe it would be best to call Megan back and get the hell out of here. Before I could do that, she stopped in front of a store with an unreadable sign hanging haphazardly above it. Cracks spiderwebbed through the dark display window, slashing through every available inch. With one strong wind, that glass would fall like rain. The foreboding facade did nothing to discourage Megan, who reached for the door, twisted the knob, and shoved. The warped wood scraped against the floor, triggering a plume of dust.
As she disappeared inside, I lurched forward with a sharp, “Megan!”
Only her coughing answered.
I sped up, Ricochet at my side, and we hit the entrance seconds behind her. Relieved to find she hadn’t gotten far, I paused just inside what appeared to be a bookstore. A familiar one, in fact. Back in the real world in downtown San Diego, the store hosted readings and impromptu indie music performances. Unvarnished wooden beams held the mostly intact ceiling above the narrow bookcases that took up every inch of the linoleum floor. Walls that had been black and covered in local art the last time I visited were now a murky brown-gray, and what artwork remained hung askew, some of it torn, others coated with dust. Walking under the metal chandelier, a shiver of unease snaked down my spine. This was so surreal. I crossed the dirt-encrusted floors to the stuffed shelves, where dust lay in a thin gritty layer.
“Holy shit,” I muttered.
“You can say that again,” Ricochet responded in a low voice. Ahead of us, Megan moved slowly through the narrow openings. “Go with her. I’ll stay here and keep an eye out.”
Leaving him to it, I moved up behind Megan, who was dragging her fingers along the books’ spines, leaving a clear trail in the dust. Her pet mist hovered close to the floor and circled her legs. Although she seemed caught in her thoughts, I asked, “What are we doing here?”
She shot me a look over her shoulder, her expression a little lost. “I don’t know, but Ricochet said to follow my gut.”
I raised a brow as I looked around. “To a bookstore?”
Her smile was tiny and her shrug a little jerky, but she said, “It’s my favorite one.” She moved farther down the aisle, leaving me to follow. We were halfway down the row when she stopped and looked to her right.
Coming up behind her, I saw an old typewriter covered in the same dust as everything else, sitting on a table. It held a yellowed piece of paper with gibberish typed on it. It looked like a test page, proof that the antique actually worked. I wasn’t so sure it would now, though.
Megan reached out, her hand trembling as it brushed just above the keys, close enough to disturb the dust layer but not close enough to touch the keys. She curled her hand into a fist and took a step back, bumping into me.
I put my hands on her shoulders, steadying her. “What is it?”
She shook her head, but when she looked at me, worry pooled in the depths of her blue eyes, turning them dark. “Do you hear that?”
My stomach clenched at the hint of fear in her question. The last time she’d sounded like that had been when I pulled her out of that damn warehouse. I tightened my hold on her shoulders. “Hear what?”
She tried to move around me, her gaze searching. “That.”
Alarm raced through me because no one was here but the three of us. The small space made it difficult to hide anything, but I caught Ricochet’s attention and signaled him to clear the rest of the aisles just to be sure. He slipped away, and I turned back to Megan. “No one’s here, Megan.”
She shook her head and rubbed her temples. “Are you sure?”
Arguing with her was pointless and would send her agitation skyrocketing. With no other option left but to watch her six, I did just that. “Ricochet is clearing the rest of the shop.”
She stepped to the side, and I let her go because it was obvious she wanted her space. Only as she gained that space did I realize the unusual mist was no longer keeping its distance from her. In fact, it was now wrapped around her ankles like a living vine. That could not be good. I was about to call Ricochet over when he came around the far end of the aisle and headed toward us. He caught my eye and shook his head to let me know the shop was clear. I motioned toward the weird fog at Megan’s feet. Ricochet studied the mist, but before he could do anything more, Megan sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes widened and her face paled as she stumbled back until she was leaning against the shelves between us. Her hands went to her ears, covering them. Whatever she was hearing had to be getting worse. I went to reach for her, but Ricochet raised a hand, freezing me in place. Following his gaze, I noted that the mist was up to Megan’s knees. Rico’s eyes narrowed, his face going dark as he dropped into a crouch. He didn’t try to touch the fog, but he studied it.
Leaving him to work, I concentrated on Megan. Moving in front of her, I caught her wrists and gently but insistently tugged them down. Holding her panicked gaze, I kept my voice calm
. “You’re okay, babe.”
Her gaze clung to mine. “He’s here.” The words came out as a harsh whisper.
I didn’t need to ask who. Only one person managed to carve that much fear into her face. “He’s not. I promise.”
Her grip on my hands tightened until it was almost painful, but I kept my flinch hidden. It hurt to watch her fight back the fear, but she managed.
Ricochet rose to his feet. “Did you touch anything?”
Occupied with her private battle, Megan shook her head.
“The books on the first set of shelves when she came in,” I corrected.
“Right,” Megan muttered, then she pointed to the typewriter. “And that.”
Ricochet went to look at the books and then spent some time eyeing the dust-covered machine. He directed his next question to me. “When did the mist’s behavior change?”
It didn’t take much to follow his logic. “After the typewriter.”
Next to me, Megan shivered and looked down, her eyes widening as she stared at the strange mist. Wrapping my arm around her, I pulled her close as Ricochet did a second take on the typewriter. She looked at me and whispered, “It’s him, Bishop.”
“I believe you,” I said, and despite not hearing a damn thing, I did believe her. “But I swear to you, he’s not here.”
“Bishop’s right,” Ricochet said as he turned away from the typewriter.
“Okay.” She cleared her throat and said a little more loudly, “Then how do I get rid of this voice in my head?” She stuck out a leg and shook it, but the mist didn’t budge. “And this.”
Ricochet folded his arms as a frown creased his forehead. “The voice… can you tell what it’s saying?”
She gave a tiny shake of her head. “No, it’s too soft.”
Ricochet seemed unsurprised, but he gave me a grim look. “We need to bail.”
Megan looked between the two of us. “I thought we needed to find the trigger?”