“You’ll get used to it,” Mike said. “The scar, I mean. It gets easier.”
“You should write fortune cookies.”
He laughed without smiling.
She stretched and stood, cracked her neck. “Why are we up so early?”
“I asked him the same thing,” Foster said from behind Mike. “Shouldn’t we be getting as much sleep as possible, considering tonight’s events?”
Curtis groaned in response. He held an arm over his eyes and muttered that this was bullshit. Shawna couldn’t agree more.
“It’s not safe to stay in one place,” Mike said. “We have to keep moving. They’re on to us.”
“How can you be sure?” Foster grabbed his glasses, placed them crookedly on his nose. “I don’t suppose we can stop to get these adjusted on our way to the apocalypse?”
Mike ignored him and nodded toward the box of guns in the corner of the storage unit. There were three less than there’d been last night. “I put them in the RV,” he said. “We have to get moving. Her management team seems to grow by the day but they’re not the only ones we need to worry about. It’s the fans too. The critters. They follow her every move, worship her like a god. And if you haven’t noticed, she has more fans than we can count. So, until she’s bleeding on the ground, we assume everyone is out to get us.”
“Sounds like high school to me.” Shawna finally got up. Her head hurt and she craved a cup of coffee.
The wind howled against the storage unit’s paper-thin walls. She didn’t like the lack of windows, didn’t like not knowing what was on the other side.
“Come on.” Mike grabbed the remaining weapons box. “Grab the door for me, will you?”
Shawna lifted the latch.
From the way Foster’s face contorted, she had a feeling she wasn’t the only one terrified of the outside world. It seemed safer to stay here and wait for help.
There’s no help. You’re the help.
She closed her eyes as the breeze invaded the interior. She expected to hear shouts and screams but there was barely any noise at all. Nothing but distant ocean waves and traffic. When she looked again, she saw the RV and not much else.
Until she stepped outside and spotted the stage across town. A crowd was already forming and it was barely nine o’clock. Less than twelve hours until show time.
Curtis was last to leave the unit. He stood beside her, nodded toward the stage. “How many people you think are gonna show up?”
She shrugged. “A lot, I guess.”
“And they’ll all be her fans, right?”
“I wouldn’t go to a show if I wasn’t a fan. Would you?”
He turned his Red Sox cap around so the brim shielded his eyes from the sun. “They’re with her to the death, right? Officer Rambo said so himself.”
“Yeah? What’s your point?”
He lowered his cap to hide his eyes. “My point is we’re gonna have a shit ton of raving lunatics that are mad as hell when we kill their queen in front of their eyes.”
She hadn’t thought about that until now. Mike hadn’t mentioned an escape plan and she didn’t feel like asking. Didn’t feel like telling Curtis everything would be okay. Instead, she kept quiet and stepped into the RV.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PROMISING AN HISTORIC EVENT
IT WAS THE HEALTHIEST BREAKFAST Esmeralda had ever eaten. She resisted the urge for microwave burritos and cinnamon buns. Even managed to turn down the strudel with extra frosting. Instead, she settled on oatmeal and a grapefruit well past its prime. Grocery shopping had sunk to the bottom of her to-do list as of late.
The meal was as tasteless as it was unfulfilling but she did not suffer indigestion or heartburn. She even felt less winded when she stepped outside for her mail. The town was quiet. Too quiet. She lived three blocks from the city center. The donut shop around the corner normally drew a crowd this early and taxis loved to cut through her street to bypass tourist traffic. But there was nothing aside from a crow chewing something on the sidewalk. Something that was large and decaying and, she could’ve sworn, in the shape of a small human.
She went back inside and locked the door, checking the mail. A notice from the city reminding her of tonight’s concert, as if she could’ve forgotten. An advertisement for Angie’s Ye Olde Magic Shoppe. Her water bill.
It was not from the city of Salem, nor the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The official seal in the upper left-hand corner had been replaced with a small symbol that looked very much like Angie’s trademark.
She’s taking over the town, one business at a time. Next it will be city hall, if she hasn’t already. Salem is only the beginning.
She was expected at work by ten. Work being the stage. She’d been assigned ticket duty along with some of the other Robes, then on to security once the concert began. Leaving town in broad daylight was no longer an option because she was certain they were watching her. Last night, through her window, she’d spotted several of them pacing the street. Observing her house.
She threw the mail away, water bill included, and stepped into her spare room. The boxes were in disarray, several of them looking ready to topple over. Before bed, she’d searched for some supplies. She could have found them easily downtown but she didn’t like the idea of leaving her apartment after sundown.
On the floor lay a candle, a large metal bowl, a taper, a jar of salt, and knot of sage. She lit the latter first, walking through her apartment and watching the small flame dwindle. The smoke drew patterns in the air. Most people liked the herb’s smell. Took comfort in it. Not Esmeralda. Sage meant you had a problem to solve, a curse to reverse.
Afterward, she filled the bowl halfway with water and set first the taper, then the candle, down. Next she filled the water with a generous amount of salt and lit the candle. This was the part that always gave her trouble. You had to concentrate on your desired outcome but concentrating had never been one of Esmeralda’s strong suits. Her mind would wander, as it often did, to worst-case scenarios. Instead of imagining a positive outcome, she’d picture a nightmare made real.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, tried to block everything out. The faucet trickled. The steady drip helped her concentration. Eventually she was able to enter a sort of trance. Her desired outcome was simple: undo what Angie had set in motion. Though Esmeralda had not lost her mind yet, like so many others, she knew it was only a matter of time. It was Angie’s music, but more specifically, her voice. It did something to you. Changed you in ways she didn’t want to imagine. If she focused hard enough, she could feel herself going mad. The song was always there, in the background, even when it wasn’t playing.
So she willed her inner stereo to turn down its volume.
For a moment, it worked. But the moment passed quickly.
The phantom boom box cranked to eleven. The song played from unseen speakers. She hated to admit it but the song wasn’t all that bad. She’d never paid it enough notice. The lyrics were simple, sure, but only at surface level. Listen closely enough and there was some hidden message to be found.
Forever with You.
She nodded. Yes. She was forever with Angie and Angie was forever with her. They formed a bond that could never be broken. Esmeralda had given her the tools to conjure whatever it was she’d conjured. She had, it would seem, created a monster.
She’d asked the girl if the spell worked a few days after Angie bought the supplies, when she’d visited the shop.
“So,” she’d said, beaming, “did you evoke your little imaginary friend?”
“She’s not imaginary. She’s real. That’s why I wanted to evoke her.”
“Oh yeah? What’s her name then?”
“Ethel.” This said too quickly to be rehearsed. Too quickly to be improvised.
“Sounds like an old grandmother to me. Who names their kid Ethel? Yuck.”
The girl’s face turned from cute to hideous in less than a second. “Shawna said the same thing. Didn’t belie
ve me until we found Ethel and brought her back.”
“Back from where?” She shivered, which seemed improbable. The air conditioner had recently shit the bed and it was mid-August.
Angie shrugged, her anger lessening some. “From wherever you go when you die but have unfinished business. That’s where she was. She says it’s dark and cold and in the background there are all these screams, like everyone else is begging to be brought back too. And if you scream loud enough, Ethel says, someone will hear you. Like I did.”
Esmeralda gulped and frowned at a sour burp. She’d been forty pounds lighter then but her indigestion had still left much to desire. They made small talk for a few more minutes but she stopped listening after a while. Mostly because she was too scared to focus.
Now, ten years later, she thought of how good a leader Angie would make. It would be much easier to give in. Lie back and let the beautiful music work its magic.
She frowned. Beautiful? She hated that damn song and everything it stood for. And she did not live in a monarchy. She forced her thoughts elsewhere, toward her desired outcome: a world without Angie Everstein.
She opened her eyes.
The clock in the kitchen read nine-thirty. She couldn’t be late.
Magic would not help her today. It may have calmed her, increased her focus, but she needed to take matters into her own hands. She left the candle burning.
They listened to news radio for most of the afternoon. Foster tried shutting it off several times but Mike insisted on leaving it. He was on driving duty, got to choose their soundtrack for the duration of their trip. The stories turned from dire to worse.
“A local boy hanged himself after setting his family on fire.”
“A group of four retirees traveling on a cruise stabbed several passengers with forks, one of whom suffered fatal injuries.”
“Nancy Perkins, fifty-four, gouged her own eyes out last evening after waking from a nap.”
Shawna caught Mike wince at this last one.
It was not only the stories that worried her but the newscasters reporting them.
“Thanks, Sheila. Our faithful Queen Angie would like to remind you of her homecoming concert in Salem, Massachusetts tonight. She promises a historic event that will change the face of mankind. If you’re in the area, or even if you aren’t, please do attend. Those who opt out will be punished. The event is all ages.”
Curtis finally shut it off late afternoon, Mike’s protests be damned. “Had enough of that shit.”
“About time,” Foster said. He’d been typing something on his laptop for most of the day. “Can we have some peace and quiet for a little while?”
Mike grunted.
Shawna thought of the murders, connected dots she wished did not connect. “There’s no pattern anymore.”
“Come again?” Curtis said. His eyes were tired and bloodshot. Earlier he’d smuggled a bottle of vodka on board and managed to take three shots before Mike confiscated it.
“The killings. Before, they were farther away, got closer to Salem. We were the epicenter. Now they’re happening everywhere. Near and far. People are getting killed on fucking cruise ships. You can kiss your patterns goodbye.”
Foster nodded, typed something quickly as if taking notes.
“She’s right,” Mike said. “The signal may affect everyone at different times but it’s starting to change people at a faster rate.”
Curtis rubbed his eyes and swore under his breath. Then above his breath. “Shit, man. What if it doesn’t work? What if all this is for not?”
“What do you mean?” Shawna said, even though she’d had the same thought countless times.
“I mean what if we kill the queen and it doesn’t make any difference? What if we’re still infected somehow? Like a virus or something. It’s already in us, just waiting to incubate or whatever the hell it does. Maybe it won’t matter if we kill the source. If you get rid of patient zero, it doesn’t get rid of the disease. Right, doc?”
The professor nodded. “I suppose. But we can’t assume it’s the truth. If we kill Angie, it may not stop the signal completely. She has thousands of CDs in circulation, even more digital downloads. Streaming is a whole other can of worms. But it will certainly stop her from recording more songs. And besides, if her fans see her killed on live television, it will send a message.”
“What kind of message?” Curtis’s eyes were moist now. He blamed it on allergies.
“That not all of us are glitter critters,” Mike answered for him, taking a left turn a little too fast.
They grew quiet for a time. The sun was shining less and less. She’d expected the day to crawl at a snail’s pace but it had sped by like a jet.
“What’re you working on?” Shawna said to Foster, nodding at the laptop.
“I’ve been documenting this whole thing. Maybe I’ll write a memoir someday.” He winced at the last word, probably hadn’t been thinking of the future all that much.
“You really think anyone will want to read about this? I mean, we’re all living it, aren’t we? Sounds more like a horror novel to me.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll turn my hand to fiction. That’s what I wanted to be when I was a kid. A writer. The next Stephen King.”
She ought to tell him about her own writing, her poems she’d hoped to one day publish, but then thought better of it. Because Mr. Fuller had been the one to boost her confidence, tell her the words were worth reading in the first place.
She thought of the way he’d taken joy in scarring her. The way he’d told the Robes to hold her still. The way his head had burst like an overripe melon as the bullet tore through his temple.
The RV stopped suddenly. “We’re here,” Mike said.
Here being Salem State Park, a collection of hiking trails and urban legends. Rumor had it there were plenty of witches left for dead in the park, many of which still haunted the grounds. She would’ve laughed if it didn’t seem so possible.
Is this where you died, Ethel? Is this where they hung you and burned you and buried you?
“Let’s pack up.” Mike cut the engine and started unloading the boxes. It seemed ludicrous as she watched the group strap on holsters, then fill those holsters with guns that looked better fit for a first-person shooter. By the time they finished, they were makeshift action heroes in disguise, pulling tattered robes over their bodies to conceal the weapons.
Shawna’s arsenal was much smaller. A single nine-millimeter pistol tucked into her right combat boot.
“You know how to fire these things?” Mike said.
She shrugged. “I play a lot of Call of Duty.”
He did not laugh. Instead, he walked her through the process in detail and forced her to repeat his instructions aloud, verbatim. The pistol felt cold against her skin, made walking a hassle, but there was something comforting about it too. Knowing she could at least try to defend herself should the need arise.
And it would arise, she reminded herself.
“Let’s get going.” Mike waited as they exited the RV, then locked the doors.
“How far of a walk is it?” Curtis was already out of breath. He was not obese by any means, though he didn’t exactly scream fitness either. He made his living sitting in a chair for days at a time.
“Five miles.”
“Five miles?” Curtis wound back and kicked a rock. It ricocheted off a nearby pine tree and vanished into a pile of leaves.
“It’s our best bet.” Mike started walking.
He was right. The Robes would be looking for them in and around the stage but it seemed unlikely they’d hike through the woods at sundown. You’d have to be crazy, what with all the ghost stories and tall tales.
After only a few steps, the sun stopped following them. The shadows grew into skyscrapers, covering everything like a black blanket.
She thought she heard something skitter to her left, then her right, but each time she looked, there was nothing but rust-colored foliage and anything tha
t might’ve been hiding within.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NO END IN SIGHT
FROM SOMEWHERE NEARBY: A CRASH.
Something like glass shattering, tiny shards almost musical as they fell to the floor.
Next: two voices, whispering at first, then laughing at the top of their lungs. Their footsteps frantic, like dancing. Whatever they were up to, they were excited about it.
Josh Meyers registered these details on a semi-conscious level. He wasn’t out cold exactly but much of his mind was . . . occupied. The song had gotten to him in a way he couldn’t explain. He knew he lay paralyzed on his living room floor. He also knew he was in grave danger. Yet he could not bring himself to move even an inch.
Instead, someone else moved him. He felt two pairs of hands grab his body and pull him until the surface beneath his back was no longer cold and hard. Carpeting. His bedroom, he realized. Someone had broken in and dragged him into his bedroom and now they were lifting him up and onto his comforter. The pain in his head was bad enough to register in his daze but one of the intruders lifted his neck and slid a pillow beneath it. If he could’ve opened his mouth, he would’ve thanked them.
Thanked them?
No, that wasn’t right. They—whoever they were—had invaded his private sanctuary and could be holding him hostage. He did not deserve this fate. Not after what happened at his shop. Not after his failure of a marriage. His pulse spiked. Shop and marriage. Marriage and shop. Trish and Melissa. Melissa and Trish.
He opened his eyes.
And gasped.
His body became his own again. The pain was replaced with a new sensation. One located below his belt. His erection had not gone down in the least. The two mouths working at it didn’t help matters much. Trish and Melissa caught him looking.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Trish grabbed the shaft while Melissa worked the head.
He tried sitting up but each woman set a hand on his chest and pushed him back down.
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