Joe sneered at Megan saying, “You deserve the pain. You are a wretched, horrible person.” He gave her a half-hearted kick, trying to rouse her a bit. When she did not move or open her eyes Joe squatted by her, leaning down to admire his handiwork.
“Everything you built I am about to take away. Claim it for my own. You won’t get your glory after all.”
Megan tried to roll away from him. He grasped her arm and held her in place. “There is no getting away from me.”
Joe stood and went to a closet where Madam kept several Shakies—for home protection, she had said. Which one to use, he asked himself smiling. Ah, this one. Her personal weapon, the one that looked as if someone had gone crazy on it with a Bedazzler.
He went back to where she writhed in blood and vomit on the carpet. Pointing the Shaky at her, Joe said, “There is no surviving a Shaky. Isn’t that what you always say when you boast about inventing this devious—and I’ll give this to you—and ingenious weapon? Isn’t that what you always said, my darling dear?”
His finger went to the trigger, and he centered the weapon on her torso. Shaky beads to the brain meant a quick death; in the chest or abdomen, it took a bit longer; but in the thighs… That took a while for the beads to work their way to all parts of the body. And the pain of that would build and build, and Madam/Megan would be aware until the very end.
An unidentifiable sound from the kitchen stopped him from pulling the trigger.
Chandler stepped from the truck, went to BD, and gave him a quick pat on the chest. They were in this together; that was clear to her now. Whatever happened next, they’d get through it together. They would accomplish this together. Not exactly what she’d pictured, but as long as he gave her the kill shot, she’d allow him to follow her.
Repeating the words “kill shot” over and over in her head, Chandler looked at the group from The Hills. They had huddled together, discussing what to do next. Madam’s house loomed a few blocks away. She walked over to them, feeling the smoky dawn breeze waft past her as if it was frightened by her.
“I’ve been in the house,” Chandler said remembering her brief time spent in Madam’s kitchen. She spoke loudly, making everyone stop talking to stare at her. All except BD. “My friend knows her son well.” She pointed to BD and looked to him to back her up. BD nodded to the group. “There’s a back door into the kitchen. We should enter there and spread out.”
Chandler liked the way her voice sounded, as if she knew stuff, and she did; but she also sounded as if she could get it done, too.
Chandler felt a tingle of terror begin in her toes. That terror would paralyze her if she let it, but Chandler wouldn’t let terror win today.
Today, she would overcome her fear. Because she had to do this thing to prove herself to herself, to hush the mouths that spoke of her as if a frail thing, a small, unimportant thing. She wasn’t frail, and she’d show everyone how important she was.
“The guards are gone,” said a woman from their group, as she walked up to rejoin them. She nodded to Chandler and added, “She’s right.”
“I’ll take point,” BD said. “I know the way.” While BD spoke, his eyes stayed glued to Chandler’s. She nodded at him, grateful for his undeserved devotion to a woman he hardly knew.
BD’s scalp prickled, almost like an itch. He snuck a scratch in while leading the group down the paths to Madam’s house. The itch happened when he was tense, when his brain worked overtime and extended itself farther than it should. In moments, they’d reach the house, and BD mentally crossed his fingers that whoever had left the house last by the backdoor didn’t bother to lock it. He didn’t know how to pick a lock and didn’t want to make noise breaking the door down.
The sun touched the horizon, not yet visible but brightening the sky. In the direction of Nutri-Corp City, he could see many columns of smoke rising. The upcoming dawn breeze brought the smell of smoke to him, and his nostrils flared. He hoped that meant they were winning.
He remembered The Hills people’s strategy: set fires as they rolled through the city, causing panic and making the elite flee into the streets where they were easy targets. The Hills people believed if they set enough fires, caused enough mass destruction, Madam would never be able to rebuild. From the smell in the air, it was working.
Nostrils flaring again, BD knew he wasn’t detecting the smell of a few fires. It was the smell of an inferno.
And in the background, the low ululating hymn of people, many people, screaming.
When his group reached the back fence of Madam’s house, one by one they climbed over. Staying low to the ground, eyes on the security cameras that infested the home and property, they crept to the back door. There, the group of five hunkered close to the ground, waiting for BD and Chandler to indicate what to do next.
BD’s hand went to the doorknob of the backdoor and, to his relief, it turned. He opened the door an inch or two and smiled at Chandler as he listened. Silence, but weighted silence, almost an unnatural quiet. Was a team of Nutri-Corp officers waiting, quiet and mute, to ambush them once they were inside? As BD debated internally what to do, he heard a pitiful moan and the muffled sound of harsh words.
BD squinted as if that would allow him to understand the voice, a man’s voice. The man was not yelling but speaking loudly, with a hint of cruelty.
Chandler paled when she heard it, and BD’s head itched again. He ignored the itch. It was now or never. He stood, inched the back door open, and motioned for everyone to follow.
Leo hadn’t wanted to come to the United States. His parents forced him there when he was fourteen. He had been happy in Sonora. They had a ranch, el ranchito grande, with cows and horses. But, his father hated ranch life. He hated the cows. He hated the dust, the smell of hay. Not a day went by where his father didn’t curse the ranch that Leo loved. Leo’s father hated everything Leo loved.
His father dragged his family to the US, where his father loved the highways and the traffic. He loved working in a factory where there was no smell of cattle. His father loved having a big TV, going to stores, laughing when he grilled meat and telling everyone that was the only way he wanted to be around a cow.
Leo hated it all. The traffic. The people. The cold feeling America gave him. Sonora was warm, the sun danced in Sonora while in America it stayed hidden behind smog. Leo never dared tell his father how much he missed Mexico or that Sonora was where he belonged. Sonora was where his heart was.
Once, Leo had dared to tell his mother how much he hated America. He asked her to please send him back to Mexico. He would live with his grandparents. He would call her every Sunday. He’d go to mass. He’d do whatever his tios told him to.
In response, Leo’s mother gave him a look of shared grief, as if they had both experienced a death at the exact same time. She hated America too but would not say this out loud. She wouldn’t share that secret with her son, even though the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.
Instead, she told him that his grandparents sold all their land and now lived in a small apartment in the city. Too small for him to live in with them. He knew that wasn’t true, but he would not contradict her. He did nothing but nod at his mother. He stood, embraced her, kissed her forehead, and went to his room. He didn’t bother to cry. He was stuck in America for now, but Leo was determined he wouldn’t be stuck forever.
Eventually, you’ll be a man, he told himself. When he was a man, he’d go back to his homeland, and living in America would be forgotten, like bad memories. But time passed quickly, and before Leo could formulate a plan to return to Mexico, he was out of high school. He was working in the same factory with his father. He felt struck by lightning. Where had the time gone? How had this happened to him?
Soon, Leo had a girlfriend who pushed him to go college. Factory work all day, community college at night. If and when Leo had time to think, he didn’t think about Mexico and his love for his home country. His girlfriend became his wife. Children came. Then Y
UM happened and Nutri-Corp. Sonora was a lost dream, and now every day was survival.
Now, Leo stood watching his apartment complex burn to the ground. Gunfire littered the street, along with the noise of screaming. Any moment now, one of the people with the yellow bands would shoot him or stab him. He’d seen that happen. Some of them had Shakies. Maybe someone would fill him up with those beads, beads that tore people to pieces.
The smoke from the fire stung Leo’s eyes. He coughed, his throat burned, and tears streamed down his face. He knew he should move away from the fires, but if he did, the yellow armband people might not see him. Leo wanted to be seen. He wanted this over with.
Looking at the carnage around him, Leo could not believe he hadn’t been shot yet. What were they waiting for?
“Hey, pendejo! Take this!”
That voice. He knew that annoying voice. Turning around, Leo saw Micah, dressed like Rambo with one of those checkered scarves around his head, two guns on his hips, and one in his hand. Micah handed Leo a yellow armband.
Leo let out a short whistle and replied, “Me a pendejo? You look like a pendejo, pinchi Rambo.”
Micah ignored the jab and continued, “Your wife and children are safe.” Micah smiled at Leo. “I have a car, a place to live, and... Well, shit, let’s go. I’ll tell you later.” Micah headed away.
Leo put on the yellow armband, shaking his head, guessing it wasn’t over yet. He stepped over several dead bodies and followed Micah. This place wasn’t for him anyway.
Jen kept imagining a clock, a big one, like a grandfather clock. The second hand ticked every second. Not the soft tick-tock of clock hands but like the pops of a Shaky. The tick-tocks filled her head, her whole body vibrating with them, as if she had been shot with a Shaky. The tick-tocks sped up, the second hand spinning faster and faster. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands over her ears.
Concentrating, Jen pushed the clock from her mind. She dusted herself off from her breakdown in the streets, came to grips with what she had done. Well, hadn’t done. And she was still in denial about what she truly wanted to do.
In life, a person should do what is right for the world and her family. Hadn’t Jen always done that for her sisters, for Danny? She couldn’t change that now.
Jen went through some of the cars left behind when The Hills population charged Nutri-Corp City. She needed supplies for her trip back to the Gardener camp. A few people remained, those who couldn’t or wouldn’t fight, guarding what was left behind, but with so few of them, Jen easily acquired a backpack, bottled water, MREs, and a couple of knives. She’d have preferred a gun, even a Shaky, but something was better than nothing. Most importantly, in the final car she looted, Jen scored car keys hidden behind a raised sun visor.
Headlights off, she drove away from the city center, whispering curses as she went, crossing fingers that no one saw her, especially her, steal a car and leave. She didn’t want anyone to tell Lola what she’d done, when Lola came back. When Lola returned, the first thing she’d do is look for her sister.
Losing a sister was like losing a leg, an arm, a hand. To lose each other was like losing a chunk of soul. Never to be repaired again. Never to be whole. Again, her whole body trembled at that realization. Jen stopped the car to strategize congratulating herself that she had in fact achieved stealing the car. She reassured herself that no one saw her. She was free and clear for now. For now.
A deep breath and Jen drove forward. There was no going back now. She had to swim, no sinking. Swimming forward.
When all this was over, she’d hold Danny in her arms, smooth his hair, let him know she was there for him. She’d ask Lola to forgive her when the time came. She’d talk Suzy into believing that Lola told her to run away from the battle because she needed them safe. Jen would lie.
She would lie to everyone about everything.
She was older now. Not a kid. Lying was part of adulthood. Lying was part of life. Selling lying to herself left a foul taste in her mouth, and Jen spat out the window. She thought she was better than that. Better than a liar. Well, Jen thought, stopping a block away from Mrs. Ortiz’s house, you’re not.
Jen stood on the sidewalk outside the house and inhaled the air. It smelled not of wet woods like the Gardener camp or dust and gravel like Old Town or sterile like Nutri-Corp City. Jen thought she smelled lavender.
Surprised by the memory of her favorite smell, Jen saw the clock return to her thoughts, felt the tick-tock pop shake her again. The smell drifted nearer and landed on her like a butterfly. It slipped up her nose, into her lungs then into her blood, and soothed her. Closing her eyes, Jen pictured a purple bottle, saw her Mami rubbing lavender-scented lotion all over Suzy as a baby. Every night, Jen would sit and watch her mother’s loving care for the baby, smelling the scent of lavender. After Jen showered, she’d always sneak into Suzy’s room, steal the bottle of lavender-scented baby lotion, and cover herself with it.
Jen opened her eyes. The scent of lavender faded, replaced by the sounds of music. Jen could almost see the smell of lavender and musical notes dance from Mrs. Ortiz’s windows, waft down the street, only to go around the block and come right back.
The music was classical. Not a thundering classical music but soft and relaxing. She heard Suzy’s laugh, then a laugh from Mrs. Ortiz. They laughed together, their laughter chasing the lavender scent and music notes down the street.
Jen turned and headed back to the car.
Sitting in the car, hands grasping the wheel, she whispered, “Sorry...sorry...sorry,” hoping her words would catch up with the scent, music, and laughter to reach Suzy.
Suzy liked the music Olga played. Mrs. Ortiz’s name was Olga, and she told Suzy it was okay to call her that.
Licking her lips, Suzy took another bite of pancake. She’d never had pancakes before or syrup. Pancake syrup Suzy decided was made by fairies in a magical forest of yumminess.
Wiggling her toes, Suzy liked the feel of carpet. It was soft on the bottom of her feet. She’d grown up walking barefoot in the woods, and walking on carpet felt like skipping around clouds.
Chewing, Suzy decided she didn’t mind being clean in Olga’s house. It felt okay to be clean here. Being clean fit with Olga’s house. Suzy looked around the dining room. It felt safe here, like her nest in the library in Old Town.
Olga was making tea now, tea she had told Suzy that was made from flowers. The tea smelled good and made Suzy feel happy, but she didn’t know why. Olga made Suzy happy, and she didn’t know why either.
Humming along with the music that was playing, Olga walked by Suzy. Olga wore a large hat and held something she had called a watering can. Suzy giggled at the silly hat and watched Olga go outside to her garden. Olga had told Suzy her plants like to drink water early in the morning while listening to music. Suzy liked the way Olga talked about the plants in her house and garden as if they were people.
Suzy thought about going out to the garden and sticking her clean toes into the soggy dirt, but she didn’t. She looked down at the carpet under her feet. She couldn’t do that to Olga.
Instead, she took her plate to the sink and started washing it. A vague memory popped up: She was little, very little, watching Lola wash dishes at a sink in a house where they all lived. That sink had running water like this house.
Suzy ran the plate through the water over and over. The plate was clean, but Suzy loved to watch the water coming out of the faucet. Water also came out of the faucet in the bathroom, and it was warm if you wanted it to be. When she bathed in Olga’s house, it was private, no rushing in case someone barged in. The Gardener camp only had outside showers, and you had to heat the water or freeze your butt off.
The Gardener camp also didn’t have pancakes.
Suzy dried the dish, feeling a pang of intense guilt for liking Olga’s house. She felt even guiltier for the super-secret pretend game she’d played. Suzy pretended Olga was her mom, and that this is where she’d always lived.
; She’d never lived in the Gardener camp, with no pancakes, or carpet, or warm bubble baths. She lived in this house, with music, a mom, and...
Frowning, Suzy put the plate away. She had to stop playing that game. Her sisters loved her. Her sisters took care of her. The Gardener camp kept them safe and she...
Olga came back into the house, giving Suzy a soft pat on the head while handing her a strawberry with a wink. Olga’s cat Poncho rubbed himself against Suzy’s legs, purring.
Suzy smiled at Olga pushing the thoughts of her sisters aside. For now she told herself, only for a little bit, she’d keep pretending Olga was her mom.
For a little bit...only a little.
Suzy tasted strawberries for the first time and laughed.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kill the Wife Party
Madam lay on her living room carpet, a remnant of a human being. She felt herself slipping down that proverbial rabbit’s hole towards death.
Sir had beaten her. Not to death, not yet, but Death was coming for her. It loomed behind the recliner, its rotting shroud swirling about it, the edge of its scythe peeking out.
In this moment, Madam knew she should let Megan take over. Megan, the person would think of her children before dying. Megan would plead to the heavens for forgiveness. Madam wouldn’t, couldn’t. Megan would smile at the thought of Danny’s curls and the chubby feet Dolly had as a baby.
But Megan had no domain in Madam anymore. Madam had wrung her out like a dirty bath towel. Now, only Madam existed, curled on the floor smeared in her own puke. Yet, Madam did think of her children. She thought Danny useless for not helping his mother build her empire and Dolly...
Madam remembered Dolly’s toddler years and the day she started Dolly on YUM, then the consequences after.
Garden : A Dystopian Horror Novel Page 28