by Cameron Jace
“Hey, found anything?” the older brother asked.
“Not money,” the younger said, soot all over his face. He wore sneakers of different sizes and colors. One belonged to a woman the other to a man. Both dead of course. “But I found this arm.”
“Stop that you disgusting pig,” the older brother said.
“What? It’s funny,” the younger waves the dead arm in the air, blood dripping from it. “It’s still warm,” he teased.
“So?”
“Warm means it belonged to a man who had money,” the younger brother joked. “Let’s find him and his wallet.”
“You’re sick.”
“You’re sick too. You’re just pretending you’re not because you’re playing the role of being an older brother.”
“Enough, smarts,” the old brother said. “Come here. I found a hand.”
“A dead hand?”
The younger laughed. “Yes, but intact,” he pointed at a hand sticking out of a pile of bodies.
“The hand is holding a wallet,” the younger brother said. “Did he want to bribe someone to save him before he died?”
“Looks like it,” the older brother ginned. “It could be a woman too. She’s wearing gloves.”
“So what’s stopping you. Get the wallet.”
The older brother tipped over the pile of bodies to reach for it.
“You’re slow, old brother,” the younger said, embarking the pile of flesh. “Let me help you.”
“I can do it,” the older insisted.
The two of them met near the hand, competing to reach it.
Then something happened.
The hand moved.
“Wow,” the younger said. “Back from the dead.”
Both of them watched a man rising from under the bodies and standing up on his feet. He seems so nonchalant about coming back from the dead.
“Congratulations,” the younger brother said to the man. “You made it out alive.”
“You should give us ten percent of the wallet,” the older said. “We found it.”
The man seemed puzzled as if he was asking, ‘found it, really?’
“We found it in your hand,” the younger joked.
“Don’t you kids have school?” the man asked.
The two brothers looked at each other and laughed.
“School?” the younger said. “This is the end of the world, dude. Where are you from? The future?”
“No,” the man said, rubbing the dust off his clothes. “I’m from Wonderland.”
The two brothers resided in a sudden silence.
“Are you one of the … what was their name?” The older tried to remember.
“Inklings?” The man asked.
“Yes, that’s the name,” the older said.
The younger followed, “You don’t look like a terrorist.”
“Oh trust me,” the man replies. “I am worse. Now give me all of your money
” He pulled out a gun.
The brothers were shocked. They’d never been robbed before.
“Dude,” the younger said to the man. “You’re the coolest dude I’ve ever met. Are you robbing us?”
“My limousine is out of order, and my chauffeur went home.”
The brothers were stunned. With open mouths, they emptied their pockets and gave him all they had looted that day.
“Good,” he stuffed the money in his pocket. “Keep the arm, though. You can slap yourself with it all day long.”
The man trudges over the bodies and walks off.
“Hey,” the younger said. “Do you have a name?”
The man stopped and seemed to think about it.
“You don’t remember your name?”
“I do. The point is that I have two names,” the man said. “One I am. One I am not.”
“A puzzle?” The older asked with a dropped jaw.
“A madness.” The man said, then rubbed his chin thinking. “You boys didn’t happen to have seen my hookah, did you?”
Ice-Cream Truck
I watch Constance throttle back so hard she hits the truck’s edge. A shriek escapes Fabiola, but her attempt to kill Tom with her own hands fails when Tom points his guns at the March. Apparently, the lunatic director of the asylum has lost his mind.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s calm down.” I am talking to the Reds and Tom. This could easily turn into a massacre. “Tom?” I say.
“You made me shoot her,” he says, sweating now. He is looking at his gun as if he had never shot anyone before, as if he was only bluffing and a bullet came out accidentally. “I didn’t want to shoot her, but I did. Will you come down now?”
“I will Tom, just calm down.” I, the former patient of the asylum, am trying to tame the supposedly sane director or this situation will turn into a bloodbath. Of course, I haven’t had the time to digest that Constance may be dead.
“Then come over here and surrender your Verbal Sword,” he growls, sweating even more.
It’s a Vorpal Sword, but I don’t care to correct him.
“Listen, Tom,” I say, handing the sword to the Reds — I can recall it anytime I want to later, just like I had done in the warehouse. “I will only come with you, if you allow me to save Constance.”
“Can she be saved?” he wonders.
“I don’t know—” my words are cut off by Lewis.
“I can save her,” he says.
“How so?” I ask, the same question Tom asked a breath later.
“We’re bonded,” he says. “Through the picture of the past.”
For a moment I wonder if he knows about my telepathy with Constance. I thought me and her were bonded.
“Then go save her,” Tom waves his gun in her direction. “And you, Alice, go the other way, surrender yourself to the Reds.”
I comply slowly, hands up in the air. At a certain angle, I am sure I can kick Tom in the legs and take his gun, but I can’t risk another bullet in the March Hare’s chest or something. Is it not weird that the March hasn’t awoken in all this noise? Is he drugged or something?
The thought brings a sudden noise to my ear. I lower one hand to cup my ear. The Reds point their guns at me.
“Up with the hands,” Tom says, fidgeting in his place now, like an angry child with a toy gun.
“My ears hurt so much,” I say.
“Seriously?” Tom says. “Try another trick. Lewis, what’s going on?”
“I can save her,” he says. “But I need space.”
“What?” Tom grimaces.
My eyes catch Jack’s eyes. He is too silent. I wonder why.
“The magic I will use needs open space, or she will die, Tom,” Lewis eyes him with intent. “You said you didn’t want to shoot her and were bluffing. Be a man and let me save her. You have Alice and the March. It’s a good deal. We all walk away happy.”
“You don’t walk away Lewis,” Tom snorted. “Why do you always think you’re so slick and important?”
“I don’t think that.”
“Yes, you do.” Tom waves the gun in the air, as if this proves his point. Then he waves it at the rest of us. “And you Fabiola, always so cool, helping people in the Vatican.”
“What’s this about?” She asks.
“And Jack,” Tom points the gun at him now. I have a brief chance to kick him, but Lewis looks my way, his eyes saying no. “You’re dead, Jack. What the hell are you doing here?”
Most of us don’t understand what’s going on, but then Fabiola seems to understand. She stares at Tom in a strange way, like a dog tilting its head and inspecting someone. It feels like she recognizes something in him. She’s seen this madness before. She has felt this confusion and utter hate for everyone in the world before, and in some wicked way, she seems to sympathize.
“Tom?” she says. Her voice is motherly and soft. True and unmasked. “I feel your pain.”
In a moment of pure weirdness, Tom’s eyes moist as he looks back at her. His hand unconsciously lowers t
he gun, but for only a knuckle of a small finger or so.
Tom seems in a haze. It’s a perfect move for me, but Lewis still grits his teeth, denying me the pleasure. I wonder if he's sure he can save Constance.
“Imagine your kids seeing you now, Tom,” Fabiola conjures her persuasion capabilities from her work in the Vatican. “They love you and don’t want to see you like this.”
Tom lowers the gun another knuckle. I hate myself for not taking this chance. Maybe Lewis is counting on Fabiola solving this without blood being spilled. So he must be sure he can save Constance? I can’t see her as his body is shadowing hers now.
Damn my ears hurt again when I think about her.
Fabiola continues her magic, “I have been in your situation before.”
This phases him off. He pulls the gun up again. “What situation? You know nothing about me.”
“I know about the pills,” she says. “I have been an addict before.”
Has she?
The moist look in Tom’s eyes returns. “I know,” he says. Never have I seen him so empathetic. “I am sorry for what happened to you.”
I have no idea what they are talking about. The pain in my ears is unsettling.
Past: Wonderland
There were times when people thought Fabiola was possessed or had gone mad. She’d leave the forest at night, walking in a haze, itching like a drug addict, and talking to herself. The mushrooms had gotten to her.
Normally, she wouldn’t have experienced so much pain, but her need to rid herself from the Pillar’s pill proposed a great conflict. Margaret’s little trick had intensified the need. The pain.
Fabiola never knew Margaret played her. The last time she went to visit her, the house was empty. She’d been told Margaret left forever.
She’d had wanted to ask the Hatter to help but was embarrassed by the situation. The pain and confusion lead her to take all wrong decisions. She was chained to the smoke of the mushrooms and needed a release.
One day, walking outside the forest, she heard someone screaming. A lanky man, who looked weak and helpless, had been captured by the Queen’s guards. They messed with him and bullied him. She’d heard them call him the Mock Turtle, and interpreted as a turtle that begged to be mocked and bullied.
“Leave him be,” she asked politely, the same way she’d been raised to be polite to everyone, even the people who hurt her.
“Look at that fine piece of a girl,” one of the guards said. “What made you leave the forest.”
“You now me?”
“Who wouldn’t. The young girl who married the Pillar,” he said. “How did he convince you to do it? Money?”
“Maybe he has a big mushroom,” the other guards giggled. “Or it’s drugs. Look at her shivering.”
“You’re an addict?” the first Red said. “That explains it. I should get into the drug-trading business and find me a fine girl like you. What’s with the tattoos?”
“Just leave him be,” Fabiola wasn’t in the mood of discussing anything. “He hasn’t done anything to you.”
“Well, he did,” the guard roared with a hiccupy laughter. “He offended us.”
“How so?” Fabiola said. “He is a peaceful man, or it looks like it.”
“He offended us by being stupid.” The other laughed, banging Tom on the head. Tom fell sideways and began crying.
“I said stop it.” Fabiola hadn’t realized yet, but the way she’d pronounced the word unsettled the bullies. A long-hidden anger inside her was about to surface.
“Listen, doll,” the guard's voice changed into a demanding warning. He pointed his sword at her. “Go your way, or we will hurt you.”
“Yeah?” She said, approaching them. It seemed spontaneous, unplanned, and irrational. But she did it. Her pain needed a release, or maybe she thought if she provokes them they’d kill her and end her misery. For three days she’d fought the urge to eat the mushroom. Three days! Planning on to make it seven, or as long as it takes to stop her addiction.
It hurt like hell. Her mind wasn’t thinking straight anymore. It didn’t take much time to kill the two guards. In fact, in years to come, she’d never remembered how she did it. A fast, angry move. A skill she didn’t know she possessed. She swerved like ballerina warrior, snatched the sword, stabbed one guard, pulled out, stabbed the other in the same moment he was about to attack.
Two men were dead on the ground, blood seeping everywhere, a White Queen was no longer white.
“Thank you,” Tom said. “I will be forever grateful.”
She watched him leave and run away. He was thankful but also afraid of her. Hell, Fabiola was afraid of herself.
Present: The Bird Bar in London
The Pillar sat drinking tea in a bar. It wasn’t exactly a bar, but what was left of it. People had robbed it yesterday. The bartender, a woman in her fifties, had no other means for income, so she still served drinks in a semi-destroyed place. All she had to offer now was tea.
“Do you have sugar?” the Pillar asked.
The woman chuckled. “No. It’s the end of the world, remember? It’s supposed to be bitter.”
The Pillar smirked. He liked this woman, trying to make ends meet. “Normally I drink whiskey or smoke a hookah. They’re bitter too.”
“Does it help?”
“Help with what?” He burped and stretched his stiffened arms. Those 14 lives he had weren’t exactly fun. Every time he resurfaced, he felt weaker.
“Does the hookah help you forget, darling?” She said in her exquisite cockney ascent.
“It helps me remember.” He pushed the tea away.
“That’s odd.”
“It reminds of a man who used to smoke hookah on top of a mushroom.”
She began cleaning one of the glasses on the bar. “Good memories?”
“Terrible.”
“Why remember terrible things?”
“Terrible things help to keep you on your path.”
She rolled her eyes. “Philosopher much?”
“I lost my muchness long ago.”
”I don’t think you need a drink, mate. You’re already drunk.”
He said nothing, but he liked her even more. He’d always been infatuated with people who still take it easy as the world around them goes to hell.
“Do you have children?” The Pillar asked out of nowhere.
“Why do you ask?”
“Then you have,” he said. “How old?”
“Nine and twelve,” she dared his eyes, ever so protective. “Boy and girl.”
“Is that why you still work in the bar? To provide for them.”
She nodded. Said nothing. She was resisting moist eyes or an uncontrollable tear.
“It’s to raise kids in normal circumstances,” he commented, sound sincere. “Let alone the end of the world.”
“Do you have kids?” She asked.
“Never will.”
“May I ask why?”
“I am terrible, terrible man,” he said with a smile that she could not quite fathom. “I’ll give the world, terrible, terrible, kids.”
She put the glass aside, rested both hands on the table, and leaned forward. “So where is this conversation going, mister?”
The Pillar leaned closer. “Do you want to have enough money for your kids after you die?”
She shrugged. The corner of her eyes darted toward the opening of the bar, a hole in the war.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “I will give you money, an exchange for a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“A phone call.”
“Just that?” She was skeptical. She looked at him from head to chest. He looked awful. She didn’t trust him. “How much money are we talking about?”
“How much do you want?”
“A lot.”
“A million and one pounds,” he said. “Good?”
She chuckled again. “Why a million and one?”
“Why not?” he smiled. �
�A million pounds is so cliche.”
“You don’t look like a man who has this much money.”
Abruptly, the Pillar pulled out a cheque from his pocket and lay it on the table. She picked it up slowly, eyes on him most of the time, then gave herself a chance to glance at the amount. She shrieked.
“Enough to raise two kids?” the Pillar said.
“If it doesn’t bounce.” She shook her shoulders.
“I wouldn’t worry about bouncing. I’d worry if you’d find a working bank in all this mess. You could have robbed a bank yourself, but I know you’re not that kind of the woman.”
As if awoken from a daydream, she put her hands on her chubby waist and said, “What kind of joke is this, mister? What phone call do you want me to do?”
“Here is the number,” he slid a piece of paper toward her. A note. A yellow one.
Ice-Cream Truck
I am watching Tom Truckle phase out, lost in a memory or something. The reason why Lewis doesn’t want me to kick his ass still escapes me, but I am respecting it.
“I can understand your motives, helping Black Chess,” Fabiola continues telling Tom. “They must-have offered you money or something. Safety for your children in a world that’s falling apart. To be frank, none of us had ever been good to you. I understand.”
“All right,” Tom said softly, still pointing his gun. “What do you want?”
“As Lewis said, he needs clearance, space to perform magic on the little girl you just shot,” she said. “You should be grateful Lewis can save her to you’d have to put up with the guilt of killing her for the rest of your life.”
“I will let you save her,” Tom speaks to Lewis. “That doesn’t mean I am giving Alice back.”
“No need,” Fabiola says. “She’s annoying anyway.”
My eyes widen behind Tom. Isn’t it fun when you're the chosen one and have no say in such a situation? But I don’t care. All I want is Constance coming back —
What the hell? That vision and pain in my ears strike again.