Rather than answering, Mick marched through the high-ceilinged foyer. They passed through the living room, where Traders were scattered across the couches and floor. Many were sobbing and wailing. A rancid stench, like steaming dogshit, blasted Trent’s nose. In the kitchen, the smell intensified.
A middle-aged couple whimpered beside the kitchen island. Candace stood on the opposite side, frowning down at something.
Trent realized a teenager lay stretched out on the island. A dead boy. A very dead boy. Lantern light colored his chest an eerie blue. His shirt had been cut open. Lumps and mounds jutted across his abdomen. Trent watched, horrified, as Candace took scissors to the waistband of the boy’s jeans. They were fashionably ripped jeans, the kind kids wore to camouflage their preppy suburban identity.
Dead before college, Trent thought. Jesus.
Before he could ask what had happened, Candace split the pant leg to the hem. The outer flap of denim fell away, revealing the leg in full.
Trent gasped. He recognized the leg below the knee. The structural damage. The disfigurement—the same damage he’d endured for ten years.
“Trent!” Candace snapped. “Look what you’ve done! You and that sister of yours.”
“Me? I never met this kid. How’d this happen?”
“It happened at dinner,” the boy’s mother said. “We were eating, and he…he—”
“Fell off his chair,” the father finished. “Then he…looked like this. Everyone did.”
“Everyone?”
“Our whole family.” He clutched the boy’s disfigured hand. “They have the sick parts we all traded.”
Trent wasn’t sure whether to puke, scream, or laugh.
“Everyone in town is like this!” Candace jabbed the scissors at Trent. “I hope that new leg was worth it, Trent. Know what? You should go show everyone in the living room. Do a fucking Irish jig and lighten the mood.”
“Ma, enough,” Mick said, prying the scissors from her. “Trent said he heard something that might help. Let’s talk in the other room.”
They entered the den. Here, away from the crowd of mourners, the air hung cold and damp. The dead boy’s stench faded, but Trent still sensed it coating his skin, burrowing through his pores, rocking his stomach like a sinking boat.
Mick set the filled jugs on the coffee table. Next to the couch was a minifridge. Among the beer cans inside were two water bottles. Mick twisted their caps off and emptied them over the carpet.
“Mickey, what the hell are you doing?” Candace spat. “My floor is not a drinking glass.”
Ignoring her, Mick set the empty water bottles on the coffee table. He filled each bottle halfway with creek water. Then he capped both before tossing one to Trent and then Candace.
“Both of you will drink these later.” He winced as he reached down to rub his knee again. “Keep them handy.”
Trent eyed the liquid. “We have to drink this shit?”
“If you two want your sons back, you need to do everything I say.”
Trent felt himself shrink.
“Mickey, have you gone crackers?” Candace furrowed her brow. “Why would I want my son back? You’re right here.”
“Your son isn’t here.” Mick stood tall. “He won’t return until you finish.”
“What?” Candace tugged at his blue PSU jacket. “Mickey?”
“Not Mickey. Not Mick. Not anymore.” Mick pushed her away. He then tapped his temple. “I may look like your son, but remember who this brain belongs to.”
Her mouth opened, then shut. With a motherly sob, she said, “No… No! You can’t be. You’re my son. Not Snare. Not anybody else. You can’t—”
Mick snatched her by the hair and flung her against the wall. The loud thud was followed by shattering glass as a photo frame ricocheted from the wall. When Candace hit the floor, the containers on the coffee table jumped, splashing their contents. Trent squeezed his water bottle so hard the cap popped off.
“Would your son do that to you?” Mick asked Candace.
Candace looked up from the floor, eyes wounded.
“When we return to the living room,” Mick said, ignoring her, “we’ll pour this water for the Traders to drink.”
“What’ll happen to them?” Trent asked in a small voice.
Mick set a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “Save your concern for Jake. Once the Traders finish drinking, we’ll visit him at the creek.”
Trent wobbled as if his leg had been crushed all over again. He didn’t trust Mick—rather, Snare—but he was afraid to argue. Doing so could endanger Jake. Then again, Jake may have already drowned.
No, Trent thought. Gotta believe he’s okay and that I can save him. There has to be a way.
“First tell me what we’re doing,” Trent demanded. “Then I’ll help.”
Mick glared at him for an ugly, endless moment. Trent, standing a foot shorter than Mick, felt like a nail ready to be hammered through the floor. He considered apologizing but knew he had to hold his ground.
The moment passed. Mick leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“I’m getting my parts back,” he said. “Be thankful that you and Jake can survive without what you traded.”
70
Ash could never have imagined the first task for her new hand would be draping a blanket over Cheeto’s disfigured body. This can’t be real. Any second now she expected to wake, preferably in a bed somewhere with Cheeto. Alive Cheeto. Grinning Cheeto. Her bandmate, her friend, her something more. She would take him in her arms and describe the wicked nightmare she’d had, one where some trippy fog swept in and mutilated him. Only a stupid nightmare. Nothing more.
Yet here she was, kneeling in the middle of a snowy highway and covering him with a cheap blanket. The same blanket they’d slept under last night. Once it was in place, she and Dad carried him over to the Subaru. They set him in the trunk beside Lauren. The stench was sickening, yet Ash couldn’t turn away.
She remembered the first time she saw Cheeto. Two years ago, she’d been barhopping after a Boston gig and somehow ended up in the North End. The door to a hole-in-the-wall pub was open, and she got an earful of the thrown-together screamo band playing inside. Musically, they were shit, but the moment she heard Cheeto’s voice, she knew. It was like McCartney finding Lennon.
Before the show ended, she fired her then-vocalist and had a whiskey sent over to Cheeto. When they met, he mistook her for a groupie, and she wanted to kick his nuts across the pub. She wisely kept her foot on the ground, however, and they talked till closing time. His voice sounded like success. Sounded like a future.
Now they had no future. She had her hand, but she didn’t have him. Never again would he call her Ashes or tell her to grow a heart or sneak up behind her for one of his surprise hugs.
Her throat stiffened. She fought back tears before she fell over him, sobbing.
“Sorry, darling,” Dad said. She’d forgotten he was there. She forgot the entire world existed, but it slowly, painfully returned as Dad rubbed gentle circles along her back.
Despite the stench, she kissed Cheeto’s forehead. A tear splashed his cheek and rolled along his nose, settling at the edge of his ruined eye. Using two fingers, she closed an eyelid. It resisted shutting, a cruel reminder that he could still be alive if she’d done things differently.
“Everything,” she said, sniffling. “Everything I did brought us to this…this disaster.”
“We all messed up,” Dad said.
“Nobody more than me.”
“Tell you something. Right before sunset I traded my skin. Didn’t need to, but I did. It’s something that’s been eating at me for ages. See, when I traded my knees way back when, the man I saw reflected in the water had lighter skin. I always… Well, the sight stuck with me for thirty years.”
“Dad…” She turned to him. “When I was younger, I kept a list of everything I hated about you. Being black wasn’t on it.”
“Yeah, well…” He cleared his
throat. “What I’m saying is we all screwed up. Snare tricked us, made us act like fools. We all brought this monster to life, so we all shoulder the blame. Not just you.”
The wind howled.
With a grunt, he rubbed his wounded knee. “If you need another minute here, that’s fine, but we should get moving. Storm’s picking up, and this car doesn’t look built for blizzards. We gotta hurry back to the other Traders. Especially Trent and Jake.”
“Yeah.” She stared at Cheeto’s open eye. The damage matched Jake’s scars, which meant her nephew was still alive. “Jake got his eyes back. He shouldn’t have to see any of this.”
She reached up and shut the trunk.
71
“Listen up, everybody,” Mick said, setting two stacks of red Solo cups on the bar. “Snare’s coming after us, but there’s a way to protect ourselves.”
The Traders in the cramped, stuffy living room turned to face him. Devastated as they were, they perked at the nasal sound of his voice. It quieted their sobs and lifted their wrinkled chins. His tone exuded confidence, something nobody else possessed right now.
Trent wished he could muster some confidence. He didn’t know what to do. Staying the course would get most of them killed—or maybe worse. If the Traders drank the water, would it brainwash them? Torture them? Who knew? Trent wanted to stop this, but he was in no position to play rebel. According to Mick, Trent and Jake could survive as long as they agreed to surrender their traded parts. That wasn’t comforting, but it was enough.
Then again, no. It wasn’t enough. If they survived, Trent wanted more out of this deal. More than his son going blind all over again.
“For those of you who don’t know,” Mick said, glancing about the crowd, “I traded my brain to the creek the other day. In other words, I have Snare’s brain. Which is good news, because I can read her thoughts.”
The crowd gasped. Trent swallowed back bile as he listened.
“Mick!” Gina Narducci stood up in the back. “Can we bring back the dead? Please tell me we can. I’m afraid to go home. If I do and my kids are…are…” Narducci broke down, sobbing. Berke Toyama held her up, though the younger girl looked equally defeated. They all did.
“Everybody stay focused,” Mick said. “We can revive the dead, but first we got a bigger problem. Ash is coming after us. She’s working with Snare, like she has all week long. Snare gave her special powers to kill us, but we can protect ourselves. All we gotta do is drink creek water.”
“Creek water?” a Trader asked. “How’s that gonna help?”
“It’ll make us immune to Snare’s power.” Mick pulled Trent over to the bar. “My mom and Trent each have a gallon of creek water. Everyone grab a cup and drink some. A couple gulps should be enough.”
For a moment nobody moved. Then one of the older Traders, a lady with eyeshadow streaked across her cheeks, walked to the bar, grabbed a cup, and held it out to Trent.
He didn’t know the woman. He didn’t care about her. Hell, he didn’t care about anything now except Jake, but it pained him to unscrew the cap from his container. With a trembling hand, he poured till her cup was a quarter full. Before the woman drank, he locked eyes with her. He thought to signal her—to warn her—but instead he nodded, inviting her to drink.
She might’ve drunk the water anyway, but deep down he knew his encouragement had sealed the deal. Sobbing, she tilted the cup back and downed the contents.
Seconds passed.
Nothing happened.
The woman turned to the crowd. “You know, I do feel a little stronger.”
Two lines formed. Along with Candace, Trent filled cup after cup. Traders drank in earnest, eager to participate in this twisted Kool-Aid ritual. Mick passed out cups, making sure everybody got one. He insisted they would get their families back. Tears spilled down faces as the gallon jug in Trent’s grasp grew lighter.
The last person in line was Berke Toyama. Her cup shook nervously beneath the near-empty jug. About an hour ago, this girl had protected Jake while Dad got himself captured by Werner. She’d kept Jake out of harm’s way. For that reason, Trent met her eyes. He offered the slightest shake of his head. His only warning. If she caught it, maybe she could save herself.
Instead she turned and lifted the cup to her lips.
Mick gathered empty cups with the eagerness of a waiter at a Zagat-approved restaurant. An older lady kissed his cheek before he returned to the bar and stacked the used cups. He leaned between Trent and Candace and whispered to them, “We’re heading to the creek now.”
“Already?” Candace asked, her voice tight.
“Trust me—you won’t want to be here in a few minutes.”
Trent’s tongue lay numb between his teeth. His entire body iced up. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go to the creek. He could be killed on the way or he could discover Jake was already dead.
“Everybody, listen,” Mick said, facing the crowd. “I’m worried we didn’t get enough water. I’m taking my mom and Trent to the creek for a refill. Do not open the door for anyone except us, you hear me?”
“Will you three be okay out there?” a Trader asked.
“Of course.” Mick smiled. “I know how Snare thinks.”
72
Karl drove into Hollow Hills, pounding the horn and flicking his high beams, trying to draw the attention of any survivors. Ashlee sat vigilant in the passenger seat, peering out the window. He trusted their theory that the Traders had survived, but so far it wasn’t looking good. Beyond the snow-streaked windshield, the streets were foggy and empty. Nothing out there but the occasional crashed vehicle. Same story as I-81.
With the heater blasting, a nervous warmth flooded him. He supposed it beat freezing to death, but it made him nauseous. If everyone in town was dead, their plans to dam the creek would turn sour.
“C’mon,” he said under his breath. “Somebody run out. Call for help. Anything.”
“You say something?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just whispering prayers.”
Then it hit him. The church. St. Raphael’s.
During a disaster, people might gather there. Karl continued down the main road and swung into the lot. Light glowed behind a stained-glass window. He stopped and beeped the horn several times, hoping that people would start funneling out like after Sunday mass. When the doors opened, a lone man exited.
Father McKagan.
Relief spilled through Karl’s veins. He flung his door open. “You’re alive!”
“I am.” Father zipped his winter jacket. “Seems my prayers were somewhat answered.”
“We need you at the creek,” Ashlee yelled from the passenger seat. “We’re gonna build a dam and bully Snare into turning everyone back to normal.”
“Bully Snare?” Father scoffed. “Not sure if you noticed, but we’re on the wrong end of the bullying. Nearly everyone’s dead.”
“Seen any other survivors?” Karl asked.
“The Traders went to Candace’s house. I told Elaine Richards I’d join them after my prayers.”
“That can wait,” Ashlee said. “Right now, we need you.”
“She’s right, Father,” Karl said. “Pray as you go.”
They drove to Candace’s. The end of the street was crammed with cars, some of them still running. The sight confirmed their theory. In spite of losing almost everybody, there were dozens of survivors who could help dam the creek.
“How you wanna do this?” Karl asked Ashlee as he parked on a neighbor’s lawn. “Folks might be upset with you. Want me to test the waters?”
Ashlee stared out the windshield. In the past few days, he’d seen her angry, frustrated, desperate, panicked, and jubilant. But he hadn’t seen her scared. Not like this. No doubt she had plenty on her mind. If they couldn’t sell the idea to the Traders, they’d have a hard time digging a spillway themselves.
Karl set a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go inside and smooth things over.”
“No.”
She stared down at her hands. At both of them. “I made this mess. It’s on me to clean it up.”
“We all made this mess,” he reminded her. She needed to remember she wasn’t alone. This wasn’t just her fight. Really, it never had been.
“Let’s go,” he said, and they climbed out.
Aside from distant car alarms, the town was silent. Snow had a funny way of quieting things. As he entered Candace’s yard, he squinted at the house. The living room window glowed orange. They must’ve lit candles. At the other end of the house, bright LED lights shone through sheer curtains. A silhouette paused in front of the window. Karl waved. The silhouette disappeared.
On the front porch he rang the bell.
Shuffling sounds were audible inside, but nobody came to the door. That worried him. If they were looking for someone to blame, Ashlee would be a prime target. He drew his gun.
“Ashlee, Father, step back.”
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
“Just a precaution.” He knew better though. The Traders might be in a state of panic. Especially after the trauma of seeing dead loved ones. Parents, siblings, children, babies—enough death could crack even the most stable mind.
He knocked.
“This is Officer Hudson. If you could—”
The door slid open on its own, just a few inches. He heard a strange gurgling inside, something like a wet hiccup.
Clutching his flashlight, he kicked the door. It flew inward before knocking into something. Karl shined the light at the floor. At someone. An arm stretched across the tiles.
Lying in wait.
Waiting to lunge.
Waiting to—
No.
Not lying in wait. Lying in agony. With a gurgled moan, the man rolled onto his back. He hugged his chest, gagging as he writhed beneath the shadows.
Karl knelt beside him. “What happened?”
“Creek…” he said, coughing. “Drank…creek water.”
“Creek water? You went to the creek?”
The man twisted away. Karl aimed his light ahead. People littered the foyer, some lying motionless on the stairs, others shuddering beneath the piano. Groans echoed through the house. The heavy odor of blood hung in the air, mixed with other foul stenches. Karl coughed into his shoulder.
Bad Parts Page 25