Bad Parts

by Brandon McNulty

  “It’s done,” she said. “Let’s hurry.”

  The plan was to gather in the church parking lot. When Karl and Ashlee arrived, Father McKagan offered to drive them in the parish van. That worked for Karl. He parked his truck outside the rectory and climbed aboard. The backseat was sunken, and the air smelled dusty, stale. Once he and Ashlee were buckled in, he yelled up to the old priest.

  “Step on it!”

  “Aren’t we waiting on three others?” Father McKagan asked.

  “They’ll catch up,” Karl said. “No time to wait. Candace said she’s got people guarding the creek. We gotta reason with them.”

  “Will they be a problem?” Father asked.

  “They’ll back down,” Ashlee said, reaching into her pocket and flashing the envelope of Candace’s marked bills. “We’ll convince them.”

  Someone ran into the parking lot, waving her arms. A younger girl. Karl recognized the hostess from Narducci’s. “What’s Berke Toyama doing here?” he demanded.

  “I texted her,” Ashlee said.

  “She trading?”

  “No.” Ashlee slid open the side door. “But if we’re gonna convince those guards, we gotta show it’s not just us Hudsons who want out.”

  After Berke climbed in, they motored across town to the banquet hall’s half-filled lot. They zipped past parked cars and stopped at the foot of the hill leading into the woods. Snow had obscured the trail.

  “Ready? Let’s move.”

  Karl led the way until Berke and Ashlee overtook him. Father McKagan, who hefted a gym bag full of towels, lagged behind. Before long, Karl was trudging through the snow, winded. Not only was his neck wound bothering him, but he hadn’t eaten anything since last night.

  “Dad, you okay?”

  “I’m good,” he said, panting. “Worry about Father McKagan. He’s the slow one.”

  When they reached the upper level of the woods, Karl’s ears caught the laughing flow of the creek. Snare was cheering them on, it seemed.

  To his surprise, nobody stood watch outside the thicket. Karl wondered if Candace had been bluffing about the guards, but upon checking the trail, he noticed footprints. Recent ones. Three different sets, no less.

  Berke stopped at the pine wall and lifted her earmuffs. She listened, then hopped in place. Turning back, she said, “Something splashed.”

  The group debated, whispering among themselves. Ashlee wanted to charge in. Berke didn’t. Father kept asking if the guards were armed.

  “I’ll go check,” Karl said. He had to. If the guards had orders to shoot, he couldn’t risk Ashlee or the others getting hurt. Wouldn’t be able to live with himself. “If it’s safe, I’ll holler. If not, take cover.”

  “Like hell I will.” Ashlee produced, of all things, a hunting knife. “If they fuck with you, they’re done.”

  “Don’t hurt nobody.” Karl held up a finger. “Anyone dies, we’ll have to trade even more parts.”

  With a deep breath, he pushed through the trees. Needles scratched his face. One caught the edge of his eye. He flinched, and the branches rustled. With his left hand Karl shielded his face. With his right, he palmed his pistol grip.

  Butterflies soared up his throat. He recognized this feeling from thirty-two years ago at the warehouse, when he’d walked on his own God-given knees for the last time. This time, however, would be different. It had to be. Nobody got that unlucky twice.

  He drew his pistol.

  Pointed it forward.

  Then stopped.

  He couldn’t arrive with a drawn weapon. If the others were armed, they might panic and shoot. And frankly, he was so riled up, he might empty his own clip toward anything that moved.

  Holstering the weapon, he continued onward.

  Ahead, light bled through gaps between the branches. Getting close. Careful not to expose himself, he shifted for a peek into the clearing. He expected to find three rifles pointed in his direction but saw none. Saw nothing at all. Just the empty clearing and the ring of pines surrounding it.

  Trembling, he called out, announcing his presence. When nobody responded, he entered the clearing. His foot landed funny in the snow. He looked down and spotted footprints, scattered like dance steps.

  “Hello?” Karl yelled. “Who’s there?”

  He tried to understand where the footprints led. The thicket ahead seemed a likely destination, but the prints didn’t extend past the middle of the clearing. Nor did they head south, away from the creek. Which meant…

  Karl spun around and faced the entry thicket. He readied his gun, swiping left to right, watching for movement. Wind shook the trees. If Candace’s people were concealed, Ashlee and the others might be at gunpoint.

  “Ashlee!”

  “What, Dad?” She sounded calm.

  “Nothing.” He settled. “Watch yourself.”

  “Anybody in there?”

  “Just me, darling.” But somebody had to be waiting. Had to be near. Footprints didn’t lie, and there was no set of returning prints on the trail. If they weren’t in the clearing, they had to be hiding in the thicket. The only other hiding spot was the creek. But nobody could hide there. Not unless—

  He hurried toward the bend. Pale sunlight glimmered on the water. Splashes sounded.

  When he reached the creek bank, Karl gasped.

  He couldn’t believe it. Below the surface lay Elaine Richards from the Downhill Diner, along with two other Traders. All three were motionless beneath the water, their eyes open, staring upward. Staring at a world they no longer belonged to.

  Karl dropped to his knees in disbelief. “No… No!”

  Ashlee burst through the thicket. “Dad!”

  “Stay back!”

  The creek splashed again. He jumped back as he watched three circular openings form along the surface, right above the bodies’ heads. He heard three separate gasps. They were breathing.

  They were alive.

  53

  Trent parked his Subaru beside the Werner house and cleared his throat. Rosita leaned against the passenger window with all the energy of a grocery bag. No anger, no hostility, nothing. He’d have felt better if she resisted—attacked him, even. At least if she tried mauling him, he could tell himself she was a psycho who deserved to go blind.

  But of course she didn’t deserve that.

  Now that they’d arrived, he didn’t know what to say. An apology wouldn’t mean shit. Nor would an explanation. He said the only thing that made sense.

  “You’re home.”

  He hobbled out and opened the door for her. After some urging, she left the car. Trent guided her up the snowy sidewalk. It reminded him of guiding Jake and left a funny feeling in his stomach.

  Using her keys, he opened the front door. They entered. It was cold, dark, and silent inside. The air smelled faintly of roasted turkey. When he handed her the keys, she dropped them. They rattled to the floor. She didn’t seem to care. He texted Bill Werner on her phone and set it on a nearby ottoman.

  “Your husband knows you’re home.”

  Rosita didn’t reply. She hiccupped.

  “Rosita? You wanna sit down?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay then. I’m heading out.”

  “Kitchen.”

  “Kitchen? All right.”

  Taking her elbow, he escorted her.

  In the kitchen she stretched her hand out, feeling in front of her. She slapped the counter and guided herself toward the fridge. When her fingernails scraped the steel sink rim, she stopped. Pressing both hands to the counter, she reached toward an unplugged toaster. She touched the toaster, then bumped an upright paper towel roll and a fruit basket. The only thing left at the end of the counter was a rack of knives.

  She withdrew a shining blade and faced him. Though she had no eyes, she stared directly at him, her hand white-knuckling the knife grip.

  “Shit, wait!” Trent hopped backward on his good foot. “My son—he’s blind. I had to do it. I’m sorr
y, but I had to!” He stumbled against the kitchen island behind him and turned, noticing a metal letter opener on the tiled surface. He stretched out for it, and his bad leg seized, dropping him across the surface.

  “Rosita, don’t come closer. Otherwise, this’ll get ugly.” Even in his own ears, his voice lacked conviction.

  She stepped forward. She touched her thumb to the blade’s tip.

  “Look, I’m sorry!” he said, panting. He reached for the letter opener and knocked it to the floor. Shit. Unless he could figure out a way to defend himself with a used napkin, he was smoked. “Rosita. Please. Don’t kill me.”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  “You won’t?” He feared she was making some twisted joke. “For real?”

  “You’re not the one who blinded me.”

  Trent swallowed hard. “You mean…Ash.”

  “Not her either,” she said. “My husband’s the one. Years ago he caught me in the back of the restaurant with one of our food suppliers. Christopher was his name. Handsome young man. Loved to flatter me. We got caught while I was unzipping his jeans. My husband later said he didn’t like the look in my eyes. That’s why he poured bleach over them.”

  “Shit.” Trent eyed the knife. “You sure you want to do this?”

  She frowned.

  “Rosita?”

  A wet, strangled sob burst from her throat.

  Trent checked the microwave clock. The minutes were melting away. He needed to grab Jake and head for the creek. If Rosita wanted to feel sorry for herself, she’d have to do it without an audience.

  “Listen, I gotta bounce.” He slid his good foot backward. “Anyone else you want me to call for you? Your kids? Anyone?”

  She sniffled. Shook her head.

  Both hands gripped the knife handle.

  Trent needed to leave before she turned vengeful. He pivoted on his good foot and headed for the front door. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “Rosita, don’t do anything stupid. You’ll adjust. It’ll work out. Really.”

  He didn’t believe it, but he hoped she did.

  54

  At Ash’s request, Snare released the three guards. After the creek loosened its watery hold, they sat up, gasping for air, dripping wet. None of them bothered to reach for their sunken guns. Frantically, they rushed onto dry land, peeling away soaked clothing. The first to face Ash was Elaine Richards, the craggy old waitress from the Downhill Diner. Instead of thanking Ash, the woman shouted, “That creek’s trying to kill us!”

  “Really? You look alive to me,” Ash said.

  “You’re wrong. Look at us.” Rubbing her wet arms, she shivered. “We’re gonna freeze to death. Catch pneumonia!”

  Ash faced the creek. “Snare, dry them off.”

  Water left their clothes and puddled beneath them before slipping back into the stream.

  “See? All dry.” Ash smirked while the guards studied themselves in awe. “Snare’s only trying to finish these final trades. She wants to leave as bad as we do.”

  “Everyone, put your hands up!” Candace’s voice boomed within the thicket, like déjà vu from the night before. This time, she barged in clutching a hunting rifle. The barrel located Ash. So did panic. Ash stumbled back, but Candace pursued. “Don’t move. I can either send you home or send you to the other side.”

  “W-wait!” Ash lifted a trembling hand. “What are you so afraid of?”

  “Exactly what you should be afraid of,” Candace replied. Behind her, more people spilled into the clearing. Gina Narducci gripped a prim silver pistol. Paul Ellsworth, the Downhill Diner’s owner, lugged a paint-faded shotgun. Lastly, Mick Lapinski barged in with his bare fists. “Look around, Ash. Everyone here traded something important. Many will die if Snare steals their parts.”

  “Snare’s not stealing anything.”

  The rifle inched closer. “Your empty wrist says otherwise.”

  “Candace,” Dad said, his fingers twitching above his holster. “Lower that weapon.”

  “No,” Candace said. “And you keep yours holstered.”

  “Can’t we vote on this or something?” Ash asked.

  “Vote? Oh, please. We made our choices when we traded. We knew we’d be stuck within the zone. We accepted that. It’s a small price to pay for a normal life.”

  “Normal?” Ash scoffed. “An hour ago you had my father locked in a storage shed. Then you stabbed him in the neck. And now you’re pointing a rifle at me. With people watching. What part of this is normal?”

  Candace gritted her teeth. “Nothing great comes without challenges. I don’t want to shoot you, but I also don’t want people dying from losing their organs. We Traders need to survive. We have roles to play. Bigger roles than lead guitarist in some no-name heavy metal band. We’re wives and husbands, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters.”

  Something went off like a bomb inside Ash’s skull.

  Mothers and sons.

  Candace and Mick.

  Of course.

  Ash had been focusing so hard on MacReady and his “HIP” part that she never asked herself who actually needed it. If the “HIP” meant hippocampus like Cheeto said, then MacReady was likely killed to free up Snare’s brain. According to Berke, one person here had a serious concussion recently. And if it were bad enough—or if it were the latest of several concussions—it could warrant a replacement brain.

  “You, Candace,” Ash said, locking eyes with her. “You had MacReady killed.”

  “Ridiculous.” Candace shook the rifle. “You’ll say anything.”

  “MacReady traded more than kidneys. He traded part of his brain.” Ash turned to the others and pulled the stack of bills from her pocket. “On these bills Candace wrote the initials of every Trader and the first three letters of the part they traded.”

  “More lies,” Candace said, her voice hollow. “Do you ever run out?”

  Talking over her, Ash continued. “The top bill has “JMHIP” written on it. The only “JM” Trader is John MacReady. The “HIP” part can’t mean the hip bones, though, because Narducci has them.” Ash eyed the woman. “Or am I lying?”

  Narducci looked away.

  Ash faced Candace. The rifle no longer fazed her. Nothing did. She felt invincible. Just like when one of her guitar riffs pummeled a hostile crowd.

  “MacReady traded his hippocampus.”

  Candace laughed. “Hippo-what?”

  “His memory bank. I’m guessing he had Alzheimer’s.”

  “Guessing? Oh, please. You’re making this up.”

  “Hang on,” Elaine said, still on hands and knees. “Few years back, Mac was forgetting things. One time he ordered a cheese omelet three times in ten minutes.”

  Her boss frowned and lowered his shotgun.

  “This is ridiculous,” Candace said. “Mac never made such a trade. Believe me, I know the details of everyone’s trades.”

  “Exactly,” Ash said. “You knew he had the hippocampus. You needed it back because it’s part of the brain. And once the whole brain was available, you gifted it to a certain concussion-prone football player.”

  “Are you talking about Mickey?” she said, appalled. “Mickey’s healthy. He had no reason to trade.”

  Ash shrugged. “If that’s the case, prove it. Have someone drive him out of the zone. If he makes it out safe, you win. If he doesn’t—”

  Candace raised the rifle, her reddening face compressed with fury. From between her nicotine-yellow teeth came a surreal noise—part war cry, part maternal shriek. It filled the clearing as the barrel rose eye-level with Ash.

  Voices shouted.

  Bodies shuffled.

  A hand grabbed the rifle as it went off.

  55

  Everything went dark as Ash hit the dirt. Her ears rang, and for a second she thought she was at a concert, that she’d lost her footing and tumbled off the stage. Hell, maybe she looked cool doing it. Maybe the audience loved it. Maybe they were Tweeting and Instagramming about what a badass
she was.

  Another blast erupted. That shook her from her trance.

  Holy shit, she realized. Candace meant to kill me.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw chaos. Next to her, Candace and Mick wrestled over the rifle; the other Traders scattered. Dad charged toward the scuffle. The rifle went off again, firing skyward this time. The deafening report was followed by screams.

  Before Ash could find her feet, another bang pounded her eardrums.

  Then all she heard was Mick shouting.

  “It’s true!” He ripped the rifle from his mother’s hands and stuck the barrel into the mud. “It was me! I did it!”

  “Mickey, no!”

  “Shut up, Ma!” He dragged Candace to her knees. “The doctors said if I hit my head again I could be a veggie for life. I didn’t want to hurt the old man. I didn’t. But Ma—”

  Candace slapped her hand over his mouth.

  “That’s enough!” Dad said. He jumped in and cuffed Candace’s wrists behind her back.

  Trembling, Ash rose to her feet. After some deep breaths, she noticed faint sunlight coming through the trees. We don’t have long. She faced the Traders.

  “Candace sold you out. Not just MacReady—all of you.” She met their eyes. “You tell me. You want to keep following her the rest of your lives?”

  Heads shook.

  “That’s what I thought.” Ash approached Father McKagan, half-hidden in the thicket, gym bag hanging from his shoulder. “You ready? We gotta hurry.”

  “Candace,” Dad said, grabbing his phone. “What’s the new camera code?”

  Candace lay tight-lipped in the mud, still pinned beneath Mick.

  “Please, Candace.”

  “You’re not getting that code,” she snarled. “And don’t think you can hide behind a tarp again. I repositioned the cameras.”

  “Ma, come on,” Mick said. Snow was collecting in his beard. “We can’t stay in town now. Not after this.”

  “Yes we can, Mickey. We’ll work something out.”

  Ash marched over, ready to kick Candace’s skull in. They were fighting the clock. She had no time for patience or mercy. Not after that homicidal cunt nearly blew her head off.