Wax

by Gina Damico

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s Principal Lincoln.”

  She watched, horror-stricken, as Anita calmly lifted the principal’s body into a limp, upright position, then let go​—​but he didn’t fall. The thick substance coating his skin was hardening fast, keeping him in a standing position. With an expressionless face, she continued to pose him, putting one arm on his hip and the other over his eyes, as if he were looking into the distance.

  Potion, Poppy thought, her mind racing. That’s the “data” they’re collecting from Paraffiners. But instead of dipping their fingers, they’re drowning their whole bodies! Mrs. Goodwin took Principal Lincoln’s place in the tank, and tomorrow she’ll end up just like him!

  Meanwhile, Preston emerged with a sculpted wax replica of Mrs. Goodwin, placing it next to the altar. Anita paused in her preparations to say something to Preston​—​Poppy couldn’t hear what it was, but she heard Preston’s reply.

  “There’s only the one today.”

  Anita blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “We didn’t get the girl.”

  “What?”

  “I thought she went up to the roof, but when I got up there, I didn’t see her. I don’t know what happened.”

  Angrily, Anita walked away from the stiffened form of Principal Lincoln and, gripping the Hollow of Mrs. Goodwin by the back of the neck, leaned in to kiss it.

  What the heck is she doing? Poppy thought​—​but realized the answer just as quick. Because as their lips parted, the sculpture came to life, Anita’s flame-soul safely transferred into the Hollow body.

  The newly awakened Wax Mrs. Goodwin joined in on the Preston bashing, using the same tone as Anita. “This is ridiculous.”

  “And on release week too,” Anita added.

  “What’s the big deal?” Preston asked. “So we only release one candle tomorrow.”

  “It’s not Uni Scentennial, Preston. It’s Bi Scentennial.”

  “. . . Oh! Is that why we called it that?”

  “For shit’s sake. Yes. Am I the only one with brains in this operation?”

  She stalked to the door labeled ACROSS, pulled it open, and nodded at her recent creation. Wax Mrs. Goodwin nodded back, then disappeared through the door with a sympathetic eye roll.

  “I have brains,” Preston muttered as Anita returned to him. “I’m the one who formulated Potion. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “It might have, if it hadn’t taken you a goddamned century to finish. All those useless test subjects over the years, roaming the woods, falling off cliffs, too dimwitted and unpredictable to pass as human.”

  “Some worked in the factory,” Preston pointed out. “Hollow slave labor has saved us a lot of money.”

  “Apparently not enough to get Potion made any faster! And still it ended up being a rush job, getting the gutbag replicas sculpted, getting everything into place in time to release for this goddamn bicentennial.”

  They made their way to Principal Lincoln’s stiff body and, together, lifted it. “We didn’t have to do it now. I know,” he said, withering under her glare. “I know it’s the PR opportunity of a lifetime, but . . . we could have waited.”

  “For another hundred years?” Her eyes flashed, fire behind them. “No. This is our chance. I am sick of hinging my immortality on fits and starts, one backup Hollow at a time. Once we’ve got an entire town’s worth of insurance policies under our control, then we can reassess our marketing plan.” She scowled. “What I wouldn’t give for at least two more years of development to work out the kinks​—”

  “But I streamlined the process, just like you asked! I made the fumes fatal! They’re dead within minutes!”

  “Only the older ones,” Anita said testily. “That Bursaw kid lived well into the next morning. Which is why I specifically requested the girl today, so that we could have more data on how age affects potency. You moron.”

  “Oh,” Preston said, cowed. “I​—​oh.”

  Anita sneered at her partner in disgust as they maneuvered Principal Lincoln into the elevator, pushed the button, and disappeared behind the doors.

  Poppy waited a full five minutes before moving. Not that she could have done much in that time​—​her head was reeling from what she’d witnessed.

  Principal Lincoln was dead.

  He’d been used to make that day’s BiScentennial candle.

  Tomorrow’s BiScentennial candle would be made with Mrs. Goodwin, who had been pushed into a tank of poisonous Potion.

  A wax replacement of her had been animated with Anita Chandler’s flame, then sent out into the world.

  Poppy had only narrowly escaped the same fate herself.

  And Blake was definitely dead.

  Every muscle in her body clenched. Only three short days ago she hadn’t cared one iota about Blake Bursaw’s well-being. On the contrary​—​she’d hated his guts. She’d wished him dead more times than she could count. This was what she’d always wanted: for him to suffer, to leave her alone once and for all, to be banished from the face of the earth.

  So why did she feel like her insides were turning to bile?

  “Poppy?”

  She whirled around to face Dud . . . but Dud was not there.

  Her heart rate began to spike. “Dud? Where are you?”

  “Up here!”

  She followed his echoing reply to the door marked OUT, the one Preston had gone into and apparently forgotten to close. Inside was another tunnel, this one sloping upward into darkness. “Dud?”

  “Yup!”

  “Should I join you?”

  “Double yup!”

  Owing to the sharp incline, it felt like climbing up a playground slide; Poppy had to grip the walls as best she could to keep from slipping. When she reached the top, she stepped out into a wide-open space​—​one that was a lot brighter and more sterile than the one they had come from.

  Poppy had performed at Radio City Music Hall. She knew how big the theater was, knew how expansive and cavernous the space seemed from her tiny spot onstage. And though she knew for a fact that the size of this storage tank was merely a fraction of that legendary landmark . . .

  It felt just as big.

  The space of Tank #2 yawned open​—​up and up and out and around, balconies upon ledges that rose to the reaches of the ceiling, with a catwalk stretching across the top. The lightning-made hole in the roof allowed for a column of light to stream down from above. But what occupied those spaces weren’t applauding patrons of the arts, nor disgrace-hungry reality show spectators.

  Words failed her. She tried to shape her mouth into a speaking position, but it wasn’t working. It remained slack, numb, as she struggled to come to grips with what sat on the never-ending mezzanines spiraling around the interior of the steel coliseum.

  Every single citizen of Paraffin, rendered in wax.

  Sculpted to perfection.

  And ready to invade.

  18

  Retreat

  “I THINK,” POPPY WHISPERED, BACKING UP AND PULLING DUD with her as she gaped at the scores of figures, “we should leave. Quietly. And calmly.”

  They didn’t quite pull it off, flailing down the slope of the slippery tunnel like a pair of clumsy penguins, Poppy’s head whirling uncontrollably. Not just you, Blake had said of the Poppy sculpture he’d stolen. He must have seen everything​—​and hadn’t even needed to unlawfully break into Tank #2, with that gaping hole in the roof. No wonder he’d been so spooked, so worried about his family, so hesitant to say anything. It sounded crazy because it was crazy.

  But the Chandlers had silenced him anyway.

  “This way!” Dud said once they were back in the cathedral, pointing at BETWEEN​—​the tunnel to Madame Grosholtz’s studio.

  “Hang on.” Poppy stared at the ACROSS door, which Wax Mrs. Goodwin had left open to reveal yet another tunnel. “This door was locked last time I was here. Let’s find out where it goes.” She plunged through
the opening, pulled Dud in, and closed the door behind them just to be safe.

  The tunnel was identical to the others​—​except for its scent. “What’s that smell?” Dud asked, using Poppy’s phone as a flashlight.

  The acrid odor made Poppy’s nausea worse. Why was she feeling this way? Why was she taking Blake’s demise so hard?

  Because by wishing him dead, I killed him.

  She knew that wasn’t true. She knew it was irrational thinking.

  Because he’s the same age as me, and it’s upsetting when kids die.

  Warmer.

  Because I tried to save him, but not hard enough.

  Bingo.

  “I think it’s the lake,” Poppy said, snapping her focus back to the smell. There was no time for guilt​—​not now, anyway. “We must be walking directly beneath it.”

  Which meant, according to the mental map she drew as they walked, that they were crossing from the factory toward the center of town, and that the tunnel should end right about . . .

  “Whoa,” Poppy whispered as they climbed a small staircase back up into the world.

  “Where are we?” Dud asked.

  Poppy looked around the small storage space, a crack of light in the wall illuminating a stack of rakes and several bags of potting soil. But the most telltale sign of their location was the pounding of feet on the ceiling above them, along with a deafening blast of music.

  “I think we’re under the gazebo,” Poppy said.

  She approached the crack in the wall and gave it a gentle push. It noiselessly swung open, depositing them in the town square. It seemed that the parade had ended; everyone was now gathered on Main Street, chatting and eating food from street vendors and dancing to the jammin’ tunes of the Sugar Maple Leaf Rag Band, the most unfortunately named jazz combo in New England.

  And luckily, everyone was having too much fun to notice the two bedraggled, lake-scented kids stumbling out of the bottom of the gazebo. She pushed the door shut, its edges blending seamlessly with the ornamental design on the base, making it virtually invisible from the outside.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God,” Poppy said with great weight in her voice, in stark contrast to the Boogie Woogies boogie-woogieing around her. “That’s it. That’s it!” Her hands were spinning wildly, a nice visual representation of what was happening inside her brain. “The Chandlers must light the Hollows down there in the cathedral, then send their newly sentient clones through this tunnel and up and out and​—” Her gaze wandered to the masses of people. “And into a massive crowd of everyone in town . . . where they can blend in instantly . . .” Her excitement slowly transformed into dread. “So the rest of them could be . . . anyone at all. ”

  Dud tried to look concerned, but his attention wandered to the mounted police unit. “I want to pet the monsters!” he cried, bolting for the horses.

  Poppy, too dazed to stop him, simply watched him go and assessed the damage that she’d failed to control. We are screwed, she chanted in her head. We are so, so screwed.

  “There you are,” an unkind voice said behind her.

  Poppy turned around. There was Jill, hand on hip and scowl on face.

  “Jill!” Everything that had gone down between them earlier that morning dissipated the instant Poppy saw her best friend, pulling her into a fierce hug before Jill could object. “I am so glad to see you.”

  Jill looked as though she had a few more choice words for Poppy but couldn’t decide whether she should unleash them, given Poppy’s instant bestowal of forgiveness. “Are you okay? Are​—​have you been crying?”

  “Hellooo, everyone!” a woman’s voice trilled.

  The music had stopped. Wax Miss Bea, with Wax Big Bob standing behind her, was now at the microphone, smiling plastically as she thanked everyone for being part of such a wonderful day, for making Paraffin the wonderful town that it is . . .

  “For being helpless lambs to the slaughter,” Poppy whispered under her breath. “For falling blind to the crimes and atrocities being committed under their noses​—”

  “Pops, we’re in public,” Jill said. “Try and dial back the insanity a smidge.”

  Poppy exhaled. “Jill, I know you’ve had a hard time believing me up until now, but trust me: there is some really weird, really messed-up stuff going on in this town. And I really have proof this time.”

  The crowd burst into a raucous round of applause at whatever lies the Bursaws had spewed forth. “And now,” Wax Miss Bea added, “for the final event of the day​—​the raffle drawing! Colt, would you like to do the honors?”

  Colt Lamberty, radiant smile in place and microphone in hand, bounded up the gazebo steps in a pair of blindingly polished, expensive-looking shoes. He beamed out over the crowd. “Good afternoon, Paraffin!”

  Paraffin responded with hoots and whistles.

  “What a beautiful crowd. Gary, get on up here and get a shot of this beautiful crowd.”

  Colt’s long-suffering cameraman obeyed his cruel master and joined Colt onstage, sweeping the lens of the camera over the townspeople. “Stunning,” Colt said. “Just stunning. Now! Who’s ready for the big raffle drawing?”

  More hoots. More hollers.

  “Councilman Bursaw, the entries please!”

  Wax Big Bob wheeled out the raffle drum, a large gold cylinder into which the citizens of Paraffin had stuffed their hopes and dreams. The crowd oohed.

  “I can’t take this,” said Poppy, the sickness rising again. “Look at them​—​happy, careless, no idea that their demise is imminent and that their elected officials have been transformed into diabolical wax pod people! We have to tell them! We have to!”

  With that, Jill yanked her out of the crowd, all the way down to the edge of the lake.

  “What are you doing?” Poppy said, pulling out of Jill’s grip. “They have a right to know! How can you​—”

  “Well, well, well!” The Giddy Committee appeared, now changed out of their Bavarian frocks and back into their civilian clothes​—​except for Connor, who was still wearing his cape. “Look, everyone,” he said, glaring at Poppy. “It’s Benedict Arnold von Trapp.”

  Jesus snorted. “Weak, bro.”

  “I think that I, Connor Galpert, speak for all of us when I say that when our fearless leader abandons us, we have the right to know why.”

  Poppy looked at Jill, who shrugged. “They have a point.”

  Poppy swallowed. “Um​—” She swept her gaze around the circle, meeting five pairs of betrayed, inquisitive eyes.

  “Let me guess,” said Banks. “It has something to do with that pile of insanity you heaped upon us yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but​—”

  Louisa grasped Poppy’s fluffy collar in her hands and pulled her close. “We brought the hills to life with the sound of music for you,” she spat with venom. “You owe us an explanation!”

  And of course, Dud chose that moment to barrel into her circle of friends and yell, “Poppy, my finger fell off!”

  He held out his hand. Where once his thumb resided was a cleanly shorn stub, a flat beige surface​—​that was noticeably not spurting blood.

  Poppy gaped. “It fell off?”

  “Yes! Well, no. I was petting one of the police monsters, and he ate it.”

  “You mean a horse? A horse ate your finger?”

  “Yep!”

  Those same five pairs of eyes switched from being miffed to being baffled, horrified, and about to cause a panic.

  “Okay,” Poppy said carefully, not wanting to spark the powder keg of hysteria. “Nobody freak out. Let’s all sit down and talk about this.”

  The Giddy Committee sat down on the grass in a circle, staring at Dud. Dud sat next to Poppy, staring at the spot where his thumb used to be.

  “To start, this is Dud,” Poppy told the group. Dud waved. “He is made of wax. As you can see.”

  “And he’s​—​what, on our team?” said Louisa. “I thought the wax people were the bad guys
!”

  “I assure you, Dud is harmless.”

  “So are beluga whales. That doesn’t mean you should adopt one and welcome it into your home.”

  “Dud is not the problem here,” Poppy told them. “The problem is that all that stuff I told you yesterday is true. The wax imposters, the lighting of the Hollows​—​it all checks out.” She described what she’d seen in the storage tank. “They’ve stockpiled Hollows of everyone. Every single citizen in Paraffin!”

  Louisa rolled her eyes. “One wonders where they find the time.”

  “They’ve got plenty of time. They don’t sleep! Why do you think the factory runs so many market research tests? Almost everyone in town has gone to one of those sessions, answered exhaustive questionnaires about themselves, had their speech patterns and mannerisms filmed, all in the name of market research​—​when in fact, the Chandlers have been studying how to act once they inhabit them. They took plenty of photos of us for Madame Grosholtz to sculpt from. Now they’re kidnapping townspeople, two at a time. Every day, two new Chandler clones released out into the town. Every day, two new evil wax-pod-people doppelgangers out there, disguised as our fellow citizens. We have to stop them!”

  “You keep using the word ‘we,’” Louisa said. “Why is that?”

  “Because we are the only ones who know about this. And we can’t tip anyone else off, because everyone else is a suspect. Smitty is one of them! And so is Principal Lincoln! I saw them stiffening the real Principal Lincoln’s body, and who knows what they did with it​—” She tried to make herself stop yelling and speak more calmly. “We are essentially responsible for saving Paraffin. Why is that so hard to understand?”

  Louisa gave Banks a disbelieving look. “Is she listening to herself?”

  “Look,” Poppy said, “if you don’t want to help, fine. Dud and I can tackle it on our own. I just thought​—” And here she adopted a mock-innocent face. “I thought that, you know, who better to help identify imposters acting like other people than actors themselves?” She let out a plaintive breath. “But if you guys don’t think you can do it, then . . . forget it.”

  The Giddy Committee was insulted.