by Stacey Jay
Screeches become squeals of pain and the hands glued to the glass fall away.
Plop. Plop, plop, plop-plop-popalop-plop.
Dozens hit the dirt and the shoving comes to an abrupt stop as the fairies still left alive flee into the bayou. Still, for a moment, it seems my reprieve has come too late. The Rover teeters on two wheels—caught between upright and up and over—while my heart leaps in my throat and my thoughts jerk from the fairies back to the vehicle just in time.
Down! Down!
The truck slams back to the ground with enough force to send me bouncing into the ceiling. My head hits with a crack and my teeth knock together and I taste blood, but it tastes amazing because I’m alive and whole and then my hands are on the wheel and my foot is on the accelerator and I’m peeling down the gravel road so fast that by the time I get up the guts to look in the rearview mirror, I can’t see anything but my own dust.
But I’d be able to see the fairy glow through the haze. If they were following me, I’d know about it. I’m safe. For now.
As safe as any person can be whose nightmares are coming true.
The bridge over the muddy Mississippi is the first smooth stretch of road. I hit the graying pavement and the rattle inside the truck becomes a high-pitched whine that threatens to kick my migraine into skull-shattering territory.
I know fairies can’t follow me onto a bridge made entirely of iron, but I don’t pull over. I grit my teeth and ignore the pain like I’ve ignored every terror-filled thought that’s raced through my mind since I left the turn in the road past Donaldsonville. I can’t think about how close I came to dying. I have to focus and get the information Hitch needs.
Then I can start stressing about an army of fairies out to kill me and the insanity of dreaming something that came true and the throat-clutching fear that grips me every time I think about having to drive back the way I came.
I’ll have to. There’s no other way back to D’Ville. The only other bridge close by was blown up three years ago. The self-declared cotton baron of Louisiana—an immune man who took over several plantations and the historic mansions on them after their owners died in the fairy emergence—destroyed it to get a leg up on his competition. Now, the only way to get cotton out of this part of Louisiana is via the river dock on Baron von Greedy’s property.
“Greed, greed, and more greed,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes as the dock’s main building comes into view.
The structure crouches in the shadow of a long vacant petrochemical plant and has a charming view of the barbed-wire fence the FCC installed on both sides of the river last year in hopes of deterring pirate attacks on the barges. But if you ignore the post-apocalyptic scenery, the facility is downright swanky. It’s about four thousand square feet, a three-story iron building with glass walls that sparkle in the sun. It’s big enough for half the town of Donaldsonville to live in, but houses only two men. I know the dudes who man the dock work long hours—punching in the commands for the robots who do all the loading and unloading of the ships that pass through—but do they deserve this kind of luxury? Simply because they won the immunity lottery?
It doesn’t seem right. But if the government didn’t pay the immune well, most of us would quit working for Uncle Sam and find someone willing to pay a better wage. There are independently owned companies doing business in the Delta, too, and they always need immune employees, especially ones who are qualified to do more than not get infected.
My premed degree has earned me cushy job offers from several private research facilities. I’ve turned them all down. I’m too lazy for the long hours, and the salaries were scandalous. I didn’t see how anything I’d be doing would be worth millions of dollars per year. Most people don’t have that problem. I’m definitely in the minority when it comes to feeling bad about scarfing down more than my fair share simply because I can get away with it.
It’s too easy to get away with it these days. With so many people dead and 95 percent of the fairy-infested states living in mortal fear, the immune can get away with murder.
Maybe even literally, in this case.
I wonder if the dock workers know that their black-market dealings led to at least one person’s death. I wonder if they would care if they did. After all, isn’t one life an acceptable price to pay when it comes to getting rich and living large?
“One life.” My foot eases off the gas and inspiration strikes like a Zeus-hurled lightning bolt to my brain.
Hitch’s friend wasn’t some random murder. He was killed because he knew too much. He was a threat that had to be eliminated for the safety of whatever shady business is going down in the cave, a threat serious enough for the high-ranking FBI traitor in charge to risk exposure to take him out.
To date, scientific observations of the Fey have shown them to be nonverbal, antisocial creatures incapable of complex thought. But what if that’s a smoke screen? What if the little bastards are way smarter than we’ve given them credit for? What if they’ve been hiding in plain sight, using the fact that we underestimate them to their advantage, secretly planning some kind of fairy uprising?
If so, what humans don’t understand about them would be the fairies’ biggest strength. They wouldn’t tip their hand unless they had a very good reason, a serious threat that had to be eliminated.
Like, say, an immune woman with the ability to take them out with a thought.
Holy shit. I’ve been so busy trying not to think, I’ve missed the single most important aspect of what went down on the road.
The fairies lost. I beat them, with a highly effective, nontoxic weapon that might be able to succeed where chemical companies have failed. So far, the only pesticides capable of killing the Fey are deadly to everything else—humans, animals, even plants and trees. The Fey are crazy hard to kill, damned near indestructible.
But maybe they’re not. And maybe they know it.
And maybe they’re willing to risk revealing their true intelligence in the name of eliminating a person who could maybe—just maybe—take care of the Delta’s fairy problem once and for all.
Holy crapping shit crap.
Could I? Could I really? The fairies by the truck looked dead when they fell, but even if they weren’t, they were definitely incapacitated. I could have gathered them up in an iron box while they were passed out. I could go out into the bayou and keep stunning and gathering until they’re gone. All of them. Until every adult is captured or killed and every egg sac collected. Until, someday, it might finally be safe for people to walk outside the iron gates again.
Hope hits me in the gut, so fierce it’s painful.
We’ve all spent so many years thinking there’s no going back, that we have to live with the constant undercurrent of terror because there’s nothing that can be done. But maybe there is, maybe—
“Stop the truck!” An amplified voice shouts. I look up to see a man with a megaphone. And a mean-looking rifle. “I’ll shoot!”
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that—by the time I spot him—I’m almost on top of him. I slam on the brakes, but I don’t know if it’s going to make a difference. He might still decide to shoot me. I can read the temptation in the twitchy eye peering down the barrel of his gun.
Jin-Sang, my boss at FCC headquarters in Baton Rogue, is a douche canoe. He’s also a religious fanatic, a control freak, a tight-ass teetotaler, suffers from a severe case of OCD, a superiority complex, and misuses the English language in a fashion that should be criminal in someone who thinks he’s so much better than everyone else.
In addition to his many faults, he’s also responsible for my monthlong suspension from work, despite the fact that Stephanie—Hitch’s fiancée and the FBI agent in charge of my review—recommended I be reinstated with a warning.
To put it mildly, Jin-Sang and I are not best buddies. In fact, I think I could come to hate Jin-Sang if I had the energy to walk around hating people I don’t see every day. So to say that I’m surprised to hear him reaming t
he dock agent who held the gun on me via speakerphone is an understatement.
“This is unacceptable! Agent Lee is a valuable association of our team. Disrespect her further, and there will be the supreme high price for your payment. Supreme!” There’s enough heat in his tone to make the agent slumping behind the desk flinch.
A little.
Ferret Face, as I’ve dubbed him—because his pointy nose, rodent teeth, and shaggy brown hair are ferretlike, and because he didn’t bother telling me his name before shoving me through an oversized garage and into his second-floor office with the business end of his rifle—isn’t super responsive to stimuli. Judging from the glassy eyes and slightly slurred speech when he demanded I call my boss and prove I’m FCC, I’m guessing he’s stoned.
Which is really comforting in someone who’s pointing a gun at your forehead.
“He’s still got the gun, Jin-Sang.” I try to sound as bored as Ferret Face looks. I’ve met his type before. With a man like him, apathy is power.
“Down your weapon quick time! Super quick time!” Jin-Sang’s English is deteriorating rapidly. It’s as if he actually cares whether or not I get killed.
Aw.
“Don’t bust a nut.” Ferret Face tips back in his chair, summoning a groan from the springs as he leans the rifle against the bookcases behind him. “Sorry.”
His expression couldn’t be more flagrantly unapologetic. So much for finding a desperate, horny man willing to spill secrets in hopes of scoring with the first woman he’s seen in weeks. I’ll just have to hope the other guy shows up soon, and is in more of a welcoming mood.
“Sorry is inadequate,” Jin-Sang says. “You threatened Ms. Lee with a loaded weapon.”
“I never chambered a round.” FF yawns, showcasing a mouth full of yellow teeth. No wonder this guy is okay with living almost alone in the middle of nowhere. He’s repulsive.
“That is not significant.” Jin-Sang’s volume begins to build. “What is significant is that your tone is unacceptable and your mouth is in bad, bad shape.” If he only knew. “I am your superior. You do not speak at me with words like nuts and—”
I lean over and grab the receiver, muting Jin-Sang as the speaker cuts off. “Hey, Jin. It’s me,” I say. “You’re off speakerphone. I’m fine. Thanks for the positive ID.”
“What are you doing, Annabelle?” he snaps. “The road out to the docks is dangerous.”
“I live for danger.”
“This is not the time for jokes.” I can hear his V-shaped frown. “There are criminals on that road. Highwaymen who kidnap women and children.”
“They’d bring me back,” I say. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
Jin-Sang sighs, but doesn’t rush to agree with me, which makes me feel sort of bad. I’m not in the mood to give him shit right now, but old habits die hard, and I can tell my lousy attitude is winning me a point or two with Ferret Face.
Or maybe half a point. With the zombie eyes it’s hard to tell.
“I wanted to take a look around,” I say. “I’m thinking of applying for a transfer.”
“A transfer,” Jin repeats, like I’ve said I’m thinking about sprouting tusks and going to live with the wild boar.
His obvious lack of faith in my transferable potential makes the smart-ass come easier. “Yeah. I think I’m tired of scooping poop. But maybe I’ve just forgotten what worthwhile work it is. You know, since I’ve been suspended from my life’s calling for nearly a month and all.”
“Your suspension was necessary.” He’s starting to sound tired and cranky. Either the fear for my life has passed, or he’s remembering why he shouldn’t care if I get shot at close range. “The rules are the rules.”
“Maybe I like the rules for dock workers better.”
“Annabelle, this is not good to hear.” His response blows my mind. I thought he’d be thrilled to get me out of his hair. “We’ll discuss this when you return to work.”
“Why don’t we discuss it now?” I push. “Ferret Face thinks I’d make a great coworker. Don’t you Ferret Face?” I smile, a sarcastic twist of my lips that makes something in FF’s eyes come to life for the first time.
“Sure,” he smirks back. “Break up the sausagefest around here.”
Sausagefest, indeed. Maybe he’s not beyond the reach of feminine wiles.
“See.” I lean over and steal a piece of candy from his desk. “The Ferret is on board.”
“What are you talking at?” Jin-Sang asks.
“I think it’s pretty clear. I’m talking at a transfer to—”
“No. No, no, no. I can’t have discussions on this. I have instructions.”
What? I stop unwrapping my stolen butterscotch. “What kind of instructions?”
He pauses before stating, “My advisor told me not to have talks until you return to work.”
My feigned cool slips. “What?”
He sighs. “He sent paperwork on you last week.”
“What kind of paperwork?”
His sigh becomes a grunt. “I can’t tell you.”
“What the hell, Jin?” I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this. What have I done? I’ve been a good little suspended agent. At least until I agreed to help with an illegal investigation. But there’s no way the people at Keesler knew about that last week. I didn’t even know about that last week. “This is total—”
“I can’t tell you that you will be drug tested on your first day back at work,” Jin says in a quiet voice that is, nevertheless, quite effective in shutting me up. “I also cannot tell you that the drug tests will continue every other week for the next six months. And I most certainly cannot tell you that testing positive could result in you being taken into military custody and held in isolation at Keesler’s Biloxi base, pending a second internal review of your conduct.”
What the . . . ?
Who knew Jin had it in him to make sense for so many consecutive sentences?
Who knew that the FCC could become so completely whacked?
This is nuts. I’ve never heard of anything like this. The FCC doesn’t drug test their employees or pull them into military custody for a little drug use. After the emergence, Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi was fortified with iron and redesigned to make room for the families previously living off base. Most military operations were moved to the National Guard base in Gulfport, where immune air force personnel work with the FCC to supervise the camp for the infected. The Keesler camp keeps everyone plenty busy. They don’t go looking for FCC ops to arrest. Only the worst of the worst end up in solitary in a Biloxi prison cell. It’s like I was thinking on the bridge—immune people can practically get away with murder. I know I messed up when I tied up that Breeze addict and left her in the bayou in August, but the FBI found her a few days later. She’s fine, I’ve been reviewed by a respected member of the New Orleans FBI, and all the hand-slapping should be behind me.
But it isn’t behind me, and this is a lot more serious than a slap on the hand. I don’t do any recreational drugs that would show up in a test, but what about the injections? Will they show? Will my cure become my curse when I’m forced to pee in a cup in a few days? If so, how will I explain what I’m on without breaking the promises I’ve made to the Big Man? Even locked up in a military installation, I won’t feel safe. If I break my word, he will find me and kill me. I know that. I know it.
“This is not fair,” I whisper.
In another rare display of compassion, Jin-Sang says, “It will be all right.” He must think this is bullshit, too, or he wouldn’t be giving me the heads-up. “Don’t hurry to come in on Wednesday. Take as much time as you need to make sure you’re clean.”
“Of course I’m clean.” I try to muster up some righteous indignation, but I don’t sound very convincing.
Ferret Face smirks another knowing smirk.
“Good.” Jin-Sang doesn’t sound convinced, either. “Then you will do what the people are asking for some weeks, show
everyone this is unnecessary precautions, and I will petition to discontinue the testing.”
“Okay,” I grumble.
“And then you will move on to your future. Hopefully, that will be here with us.”
“You really want me back?” I ask, no longer able to keep my surprise at this lovefest concealed.
“My cousin’s maternity leave ends in three weeks,” Jin says. “She is very excited to show all the baby pictures. She would be sad to learn I let one of her field agents leave the office without protest.”
“Oh . . . well . . .” I’ve missed Min-Hee; I want to see the baby pictures. I never wanted a stupid transfer, but now I might have no choice. I have to find out if that shot is going to screw me.
I add another burning question to my list of things to drill Tucker about and tell Jin-Sang, “Thanks. For . . . yeah. See you soon.”
I hang up the phone to find an eager-looking Ferret Face leaning across the desk with a handful of tea bags. “Tea time? Do you have any scones?”
He grins, the nicest grin I’ve seen from him so far. “This ain’t just any tea. It’s caterpillar fungus from Tibet. They only make a hundred pounds of this shit a year.”
“Caterpillar fungus. Yummy.” The deadpan delivery works its magic on FF, who graces me with a grunt-laugh.
“It tastes like ass flakes. But it works. Haven’t had a positive piss test in six months. We got a fresh shipment in about an hour ago. I bagged it up myself.” He motions for me to hold out my hand and tips the tea bags into my palm. There are five. “Let a bag sit in boiling hot water for ten minutes and then chug it as fast as you can. You’ll pee clean for at least six weeks.”
“Wow. This is generous.”
His expression takes on an ugly edge. “Fuck yeah. I’m on your side. I mean who the fuck do these people think they are? I’ve worked for the FCC for four years and never had a goddamned drug test, and now, all of a sudden there are dickweeds in iron suits out here every few weeks making me piss in a cup? That’s bullshit.” He emphasizes the point by kicking his desk hard enough to make the phone rattle. “I do my job fine when I’m high. Shit, I do it better.”