Bad Parts

by Brandon McNulty

  With a deep breath, she mentally braced herself.

  Then pulled her arm free.

  And felt nothing.

  No pain.

  No fucking pain!

  Laughing, she opened her eyes. Tears flushed from their sockets. Her right hand trembled with excitement as she wiped the tears, trying to clear her vision.

  She was still rubbing her eyes when something struck her as odd. She tried wiggling the fingers on her left hand but couldn’t. Her thumb wasn’t responding either. Then she noticed the weight of her arm felt strange—floaty.

  Heart racing, she lifted the cast.

  She couldn’t believe it.

  No. Impossible.

  She wiped her eyes again to be sure, but nothing changed.

  Her cast contained only darkness.

  The pain was gone. So was her hand.

  18

  Screaming, Ash twisted away from the creek and ripped her cast off like a loose glove. At first she didn’t comprehend what she saw. Her forearm ended at the wrist—no hand, fingers, nothing. Just a rounded bulge covered in seamless skin. Reluctantly she reached toward it. Her fingertips brushed the smooth surface. The flesh tingled as if touched by a stranger.

  She squirmed as her gorge rose.

  “Ashlee, what’s wrong?” Dad burst through the thicket, slowing when he saw her. “Good God…”

  She looked at him, her eyes pleading, as if he could somehow help her.

  Kneeling beside her, he rubbed the empty wrist. “It’s like when Mr. Simmons left the zone. Except that was his foot.”

  “Wh-what’re you talking about?” Her thoughts ricocheted wildly. “Dad, what the hell just happened?”

  “This,” he said, brushing her unbroken skin, “is how it looks when someone trades a limb and leaves the zone.”

  “But I didn’t leave! I didn’t even get anything!” A sense of betrayal took over. She lunged toward the creek and screamed at the surface, “Give me back my hand, you bitch! I swear, if you don’t, I’ll dam this creek dry! You’ll be nothing!”

  The waters bubbled, trembling like a bully facing an unprecedented threat. She asked Dad to close his eyes. When he did, her ideal reflection shimmered, complete with a left hand.

  “You stole my hand!” She shook her empty wrist over the water. “This wasn’t our deal. Do you honestly expect my help after this?”

  The creek flowed on.

  Ash hung her head. She couldn’t believe she’d let herself get duped. She shut her eyes, which moments ago had been leaking tears of triumph. Now they stung with powerlessness. Much as she hated to accept it, Snare had her by the ass.

  “Look,” she said, swallowing her pride. “We need each other, right? I feel like you’re too smart to rob me upfront. Please tell me you did this for a reason—a good one.”

  Vapor tickled her lips, barely grazing her tongue, and only for a second. Long enough for one word.

  “Pain.”

  “What do you mean, pain?” Ash asked. But it soon made sense to her. Now that the initial shock was wearing off, she realized that in a twisted way Snare had done her a favor. By removing her hand, Snare had eliminated the pain that would otherwise hassle her while she rounded up the five prospective Traders.

  But the loss of her hand didn’t exactly comfort her. The hand was gone, with nothing to show for it. She’d rather have her hand—unbearable throbbing included—than nothing at all.

  “Can I have it back?” she asked. “I don’t care what shape it’s in.”

  When the creek didn’t respond, Ash wondered if Snare needed her busted hand for some legitimate reason, maybe as a blueprint for the finished product. Demon, ghost, whatever—there was no telling how powerful Snare was, but chances were she couldn’t easily create an extra hand. If Snare’s creative process was anything like Ash’s songwriting, it could take time.

  That led to her final question.

  “My hand… Will it be ready soon?”

  For the longest time, the creek trickled silently.

  19

  Karl buckled himself into his truck and watched Ashlee climb one-handed into the passenger’s seat. It mortified him, seeing her like this. Busted dreams were bad enough. Now, unless Snare honored her end of the deal, Ashlee would never be able to tie her bootlaces, let alone play her music.

  “We’ll make this happen,” he said, patting her knee. “We will.”

  They headed home. Trent, Lauren, and Jake were out food shopping, so Karl and Ashlee had the place to themselves. He suggested lunch. She showed no interest in eating until he pulled some cold pizza from the fridge. She ate slowly, hiding her half-empty cast beneath the table. After a few bites, she paused, staring into space.

  “It’s really gone,” she whispered, on the verge of tears. He wanted to hug her, to hold her, but was afraid she’d scream if he so much as brushed her cheek. “My hand… I can’t feel anything. No pain, no sensation, nothing.”

  “It’ll be okay. We’ll collect those parts.”

  “Where do we start?” Her chair squeaked as she pulled herself closer to the table. “You know anybody?”

  Being a town cop with two ears, Karl knew plenty about the locals. He grabbed a napkin and jotted down names. Then he pulled his Trader list from his wallet. He put checkmarks next to people with family members who might need parts. When he finished, he slid both lists across the table.

  “Hopefully we can talk your brother into the leg,” he said, watching her skim the names. “For kidneys, you can try the priest at St. Raphael’s. That should be easy. The lower jaw might be tough, though. Can’t think of anybody who needs one.”

  “We could always drive up to Scranton and start a bar fight.”

  “God, no. Last thing we need is total strangers involved.”

  “What about the ribcage and skin?”

  “Ribcage, I got a guy in mind.”

  “Skin oughta be easy,” she said, patting her tattooed neck. “Tats are technically scars, so that’s damaged skin. Some of my older ones are kinda embarrassing anyway.”

  “They all are if you ask me.”

  “Here we go.” She rolled her eyes. “Unless you got somebody in mind, I’ll trade for a fresh canvas.”

  He frowned. He had some scars of his own. “Know what? Hold off on that.”

  “Wow. Who are you? Years ago you wanted to erase my tats with sandpaper.”

  “Much as I’d like them gone, hold off.”

  “Why, know somebody with skin cancer? Melanoma?”

  “Something like that,” he said.

  Once they finalized their list, they decided to shoot across town and visit Candace. The sight of her house made Ash nostalgic for the summer when Candace had first placed a guitar in her hands. She’d spent months on the porch swing, rocking back and forth, while Candace taught her everything from scales to power chords. Music became a lifelong love. Now she marched up the sidewalk and noticed a new swing on the porch, a nicer one with a striped canopy. It put a crimp in her nostalgia trip. Her empty wrist ached.

  Before they could ring the bell, the front door opened. Candace’s son Mick greeted them, along with the nose-clogging stench of his Axe body spray. A tired smile formed inside his corn-colored beard.

  “Morning, Mick,” Dad said, shaking his hand. “Say, where’s your mother?”

  “Yo, Ma!” Mick shouted. “Ash and Karl are here.”

  They stepped into the high-ceilinged foyer.

  Candace thumped along the second-floor hallway and leaned over the banister. “What now?”

  “Nothing much,” Ash said, voice hollow. As she looked up, the blinding glint from a chandelier forced her to squint. “We’re wondering if you know anybody with a busted jaw.”

  “Not this again.”

  “Well, do you?”

  “Get out. We’re done talking about Snare. I don’t trust that thing.”

  “Ma?” Mick scrunched his nose. “What’s going on?”

  “Mickey, this d
oesn’t concern you. It’s Trader stuff.”

  “Actually, it does concern you,” Ash said, turning to Mick. “Your mom can finally leave town and watch your games in person.”

  “Enough!” Candace spoke through gritted teeth. “It’s not happening.”

  “Candace, hear us out,” Dad said.

  “I’m not putting my Traders at risk.” She looked at Ash. “Sorry, but you’ll have to rehab your hand.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “No. Really. I can’t.” Ash removed her cast. She tucked it beneath her armpit so she could pull the sleeve back.

  When the empty stump poked into view, Candace gasped as though Ash had pulled a gun on her. “What the hell happened?”

  “Snare and I made a deal.”

  “At the creek? Impossible. The cameras are on.”

  “I turned them off.” Dad stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with Ash. He looked up at Candace. “Wanted to help Ashlee.”

  “Goddammit, Karl!” Candace slapped the banister. The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged foyer. “I trusted you with that passcode. Now I have to change it. And you, Ash—I warned you. But instead of listening you went up there and got robbed.”

  “I wasn’t robbed,” Ash said, trying to convince both herself and Candace. “Snare took my hand so I wouldn’t be in pain. Once we trade—”

  “The trades stop here,” Candace said, her tone final. “If you think anyone’s trading after that creek swallowed your hand, think again.” She looked at Dad. “And Karl, don’t ever go behind my back again. Remember what we did to the last person who betrayed me? That’ll be you, but twice as bad.”

  “Whoa, whoa.” He held up his hands as if shielding himself. “Can’t we talk this over?”

  “We just did,” Candace said. “Now both of you, scram.”

  Instead, Ash marched across the foyer, toward the staircase behind Candace’s polished grand piano. She climbed the carpeted steps two at a time, growing lightheaded as she neared the top.

  Candace cleared her throat in the same mucus-hacking way she’d done when Ash acted up as a child. To this day, it rattled Ash, made her feel like a criminal.

  “Go home. Now.”

  Ash fought the temptation to turn back and instead held up her smooth stump. “You expect me to live with this?”

  “I expect you to find closure and move on.”

  “You’re the one who needs to move on, Candace. I’m trying to tell you—this is our chance to free everyone.”

  “More likely, you’ll get everyone killed.”

  “We can save what’s left of their lives.”

  “My decision’s final.”

  “Who made it your decision? What about the other Traders? Don’t they get a say?”

  “Stop pretending you care about them. It’s always been about you, Ash. Always. I’m not letting you throw my Traders around like money at the horse track.”

  “At least give them a choice.”

  “Choice?” Candace smirked. “Here’s a choice: either walk downstairs or roll down. Go on, make your selection.”

  “Ashlee, please,” Dad called.

  Meeting Candace’s eyes, Ash said, “The Traders deserve to hear this offer. They should have a say. You said it’s all about me? Wrong. It’s all about you. You just want to keep playing queen in your cozy little kingdom.”

  Candace folded her thick arms. Though the chandelier gleamed nearby, it did nothing to brighten her hard gray face. “This is about protecting lives.” She lowered her voice, speaking through gritted teeth. “Fifteen years ago my husband was murdered for his traded part. You remember that, don’t you?”

  A lump formed in Ash’s throat. She nodded.

  “Good. Then you know why I take this shit seriously. Why I do what I do. Because fifteen years ago I got robbed of the greatest man I’ve ever known. And I won’t…” Candace looked away, her eyes glossy. She took a breath. “I won’t let anyone else be at risk.”

  “They’ll always be at risk.” Ash steeled herself, clutching the banister. “I bet if you asked John MacReady, he’d tell you to take Snare’s offer.”

  Candace narrowed her eyes. “I don’t appreciate you using his death as a debate tactic.”

  “I’m just saying. You can’t protect everyone. Nobody can.” Again, Ash fought the urge to retreat downstairs. “All I’m asking is that you give the Traders a say.”

  “I speak for them. And the answer is no.”

  “At least tell them about the offer.”

  Candace glared back, but Ash matched her, eye for eye.

  “If you don’t,” Ash said, squeezing the wooden banister till it creaked, “I will.”

  20

  When they returned home, Ash headed straight for the fridge. Holy fuck, do I need a drink. When she was growing up, only one person on earth terrified her, and that was Candace. Even now, as a grown woman, Ash felt small in her presence. Imposing as Candace was, what truly worried Ash was the woman’s conviction. Candace showed no sign of wavering. With Snare’s deadline looming, Ash needed Candace to wise up fast.

  In the fridge Ash found nothing harder than club soda. Dad going sober turned out to be good for him but bad for her. She checked the stove clock. She’d have to wait another hour before Narducci’s opened for lunch at noon. For now, she could start recruiting Traders and mellow out with a six-pack afterwards.

  Five parts, she thought. Jaw, ribs, leg, kidneys, skin.

  It seemed easy enough, but she had to be careful. Telling the wrong person could expose Traders. And if that happened, Candace would push harder against her.

  The doorbell rang. Probably Trent. Maybe they picked up wine while they were shopping. Ash hurried to the door. When she opened it, she stifled a gasp.

  “Yo, Ashes!”

  “Cheeto?” For a moment she was relieved to see him on the porch. Then she remembered her missing hand. She flung her arm behind her back. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Just popping in.” He lifted a bulging plastic bag with the Downhill Diner logo on it. “Grabbed us some buffalo turkey subs.”

  “How’d you know I live here?”

  “I asked at the diner. You told me Hollow Hills, and I figured, hey, small town, maybe somebody knows.” He grinned. “Yo, there’s some really friendly people around here. Even this one guy who was giving me weird looks ended up shooting the shit with me for ten minutes. He bought our album too! How cool is that?”

  “Great.” Her wrist felt emptier than ever. She needed him gone. He couldn’t see her like this. If he did, he’d freak out. Then he’d tell their bandmates, the music bloggers, and eventually the whole civilized world. “Cheets, now’s a bad time.”

  “Oh, come on!” he said, playfully shoving the door. “Don’t worry about having no makeup on. I like you natural.”

  Her cheeks burned. “Seriously, you can’t be here.”

  He made a comically sad face, then lifted the bag. “But, Miss Hudson, I brought you a spicy, high-calorie lunch.”

  “I can see that.” She forced a smile. “And I appreciate it. But now’s a bad time.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Some family shit.”

  “Oh? They home? I’m sure they’d love to meet me.”

  “Look, let’s eat later.” She went to shut the door, but he slid his foot inside. He laughed as she tried kicking the toe of his shoe. With her hand hidden behind her back, she was off balance. She stumbled, giving him an opening.

  He stepped inside.

  “Cheeto, fuck off!” Her voice rose to a shriek, and he froze. She exhaled and tried to calm herself as a chilly breeze blew in. “Look, I didn’t mean to snap. How about we eat later?”

  Cheeto frowned. The bag of subs dangled at his side. He looked her up and down, not in a sexual way, but as if he were trying to diagnose something wrong with her. He squinted for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. “Can I say something?”

  �
��What?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Me?” She fake-laughed. “I’m fine. Just lots of shit going on.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, my…”

  Hand. That’s what’s she wanted to tell him about. If she sat him down and explained things, everything would get easier. Assuming he didn’t freak out. He was never good at keeping secrets. Plus, it was humiliating. She didn’t want him seeing her like this. He’d always known her to kick ass onstage and manage the band with attitude. She didn’t want him to think of her as an amputee. Even temporarily.

  “My…one neighbor died.” It was the first thing that came to mind. “The guy babysat me when I was younger.”

  “Oh, shit,” Cheeto said, and before she could back away, he threw his arms around her and squeezed tight. She didn’t resist. She always liked his hugs, even the annoying surprise ones when he snuck up on her. They made her believe he could hold her together.

  Like right now.

  Slowly and carefully, she reached behind him and hugged back. She made sure not to let her empty cast touch him. The smell of his ocean-scented shampoo soothed her. The way her chin rested on his shoulder felt great. Felt normal.

  “I was worried about you,” he said. “Your texts sounded strange. Plus, you forgot to update our Twitter. I didn’t know what to think.”

  She snorted. “Twitter can fuck off.”

  He laughed. “That sounds like the Ashes I know.”

  “I’m okay. Really. Sorry for being a twat just now.”

  “You? A twat? Never.”

  “Pssh. Suck-up.” She carefully pulled back. “How’s Flanny?”

  “Recovering. But they don’t want him doing anything strenuous.”

  “Sounds like we’ll need to borrow a rhythm guitarist.”

  “What about me?” Cheeto said. “I can step it up.”

  “Thought you hated double duty?”

  He laughed. “Not as much as I hate letting you down.”

  His words made her scalp tingle. He could be a doofus, and he always showed up late to rehearsals and recordings, but otherwise he was a hell of a guy. If he were in any band other than her own, she’d have her tongue in his mouth right now. But bands were delicate systems. All it took was one careless hookup to upset the chemistry, the songwriting, everything. Get too close and you’ll push everyone permanently apart.