by Stacey Jay
“They had a couple of scooters down there,” Cane says. “They’re small, but you and I can ride one, and Marcy can take the other.”
“Okay. Sure . . . okay.” But what I mean is No. Not sure. Not okay.
A pair of scooters versus a speeding police car with a crazy man behind the wheel. We’ll never get to the cave in time. Even if we figure out where the hell we’re going while zipping around in the dark with no compass and nothing but our guts to keep us going in the right direction, we’ll be too late. But if I insist on taking the truck, Cane’s and Marcy’s lives will be in danger. I’m pretty sure the fairies are after me, and I can’t guarantee the safety of anyone in my company.
There’s only one answer.
I wait until Cane and Marcy step into the stairwell before running as quickly and quietly as I can down the hall in the other direction. I’m halfway back to the garage—leaping over Billy’s fallen form like a spastic gazelle—when Cane calls my name.
I land and look back—long enough for him to hopefully see how much I wish this could go differently—and then sprint for the exit. I hear his footsteps pounding down the hall behind me. He’s fast, but after his Tasering, it seems I’m faster. I keep my head start.
By the time he makes the jump over Billy, I’m already at the door leading into the garage, hurling it open and slamming and locking it behind me. I jab a few buttons, and finally find the one that lifts the garage door. As it slides open, I run for the truck. I’ve got no way to close the door after I drive out, but hopefully the fairies will follow me across the bridge and leave Cane and Marcy alone. Surely Cane will have the sense not to come after me, even if he finds a way to bust the dead bolt.
I turn the keys still dangling in the ignition and slam down the gas, zooming out the door into the fairy swarm as the clouds break and a merciless summer rain begins to fall.
Rain batters the windshield, so hard and fast the wipers can’t hope to keep up. When I hit the bridge going sixty—as fast as I dare given the sudden lack of visibility—I can barely see the road two feet in front of me.
The good news is that the fairies are following me, moving away from the FCC building in a swirling, undulating mass. The better news is that they don’t seem to care for the rain. As I zip down the bridge, lightning flashes and Fey sputter and fall to the ground on both sides of the truck without any help from my mind powers.
Thank the wrath of Zeus.
I don’t want to use the only weapon at my disposal unless I absolutely have to. I don’t know what I’ll encounter at the cave, but I’m sure supernatural mojo will prove helpful and I don’t know how much I have left. I seem to have recovered a certain degree of power after the worst of my hangover passed this morning, but I can’t afford to risk burning out before I reach Hitch.
Hitch. What an idiot. Guess I’m an idiot, too, but I’m doing this to keep Cane and Marcy safe. There’s no sense in all of us getting killed. Maybe Hitch is thinking the same thing, but that doesn’t explain why he left Cane and me to the mercy of what he had to assume were deadly criminals. He’s never met Marcy, and even if he had, she and her partner were certainly acting like threats to our well-being.
“Not a nice person,” I say out loud, testing the words. “Maybe he’s just not a nice person.” I punch the gas, sending the Land Rover leaping forward, hurtling off the end of the bridge, landing on the gravel road with a wet crunch and a whirl of dirt.
New Hitch is a lot different than the old Hitch—I realized that the day he arrived in Donaldsonville—but deep down I thought the basic components were the same. Hitch may be an arrogant bastard at times, but at his core he’s always been a lover and protector of humanity. He worked tirelessly at the hospital, driven by the need to heal, not score a paycheck or social status or follow in Daddy’s footsteps like some of the other residents. He risked his life after Katrina, going out in a borrowed iron suit and pulling people from the wreckage, helping the immune teams get to hundreds before they were infected by the fairies swarming through the hurricane-damaged gates.
The old Hitch would never have so easily defended one life over another. Being caught between saving his wife and child and hurting other people would have ripped him apart.
But now . . . maybe that’s not the case. Maybe he’s decided other people don’t matter as much as his people. Just like my parents and their wealthy neighbors, who erected their own iron gate around our Garden District neighborhood in the days after the emergence. They hired steelworkers to build the barrier and bribed armed guards with safety for their families if they promised to keep everyone else out.
When the refugees started crowding in from downtown, the gunmen were told either to shoot the people trying to break through the gate or be kicked outside themselves to join the defenseless. My father and his buddies walked our iron-protected roof with shotguns and cold mint juleps, watching as people were shot or bitten. They refused to let anyone in. Even though there was room for more people, room for a hundred in our house alone.
I wanted to say something, to beg my parents to stop the insanity, but I didn’t. I was too messed up. Caroline’s body was in the deep freeze in the garage, waiting for the world to settle down enough for us to bury her. I was sixteen and I’d killed my sister. Her death was my fault and my parents weren’t speaking to me and the guilt was eating me alive and all I could do when the guns started firing was huddle in the back of my closet and cry. I felt helpless to do more.
Maybe Hitch feels helpless, too, but does that matter? Can I ever respect him again after—
A fairy smacks into my windshield and explodes in a burst of green. Within a few moments, the glass begins to smoke. The rain and the wipers take care of the corrosive blood before it can bore a hole, but it has the necessary effect on my focus.
I don’t have the luxury of dwelling on whether Hitch is “nice” or “not nice,” or whether I can respect him again. I need to drive and find a way to get rid of the fairies before I reach the first location. If the lab is at station one, I won’t be able to sneak in behind Hitch and help clear the building if I’m being following by acid-spewing fairies.
“You’re worse than the Slake,” I mutter beneath my breath, wishing I could understand what the freaks are hissing at me as they bounce off the windshield and spiral through the air to land in the swamp below. If Tucker was telling the truth about the location of the Big Man’s compound—and I can’t imagine why he’d lie, about that, at least—then Grandpa Slake is full of shit, but I’ve learned a lot from him.
But then . . . maybe these fairies have, too. Maybe the old man has been spreading tales, figuring he’d cover his bases in case the Big Man didn’t shoot me. Maybe stories of my fairy-controlling, Gentryesque evil were enough to lure this new species out of hiding.
They must have been hiding, being careful to stay off humanity’s radar. Either that, or they’re a recent arrival on the mutation scene. Considering their numbers and the variety in their age and development, however, that doesn’t seem likely. They must have been around for a while, which hopefully means that they don’t feed on human blood. If they did, surely humans would have known about them.
The realization gives me hope, but it doesn’t help as far as ditching my tail is concerned. There are hundreds—maybe thousands—fewer fairies following me than when I first left the docks, but that still leaves a thousand too many. They buzz around the truck, slamming against the windows, leaving acid streaks that would eat through the glass if the rain weren’t falling with such force.
The rain. They don’t like the rain. Which I’m guessing means they don’t like water, either? Maybe?
It seems strange for creatures that live in the bayou not to care for water, but then again, the Slake can’t swim. They lay their eggs in stagnant water and need a hot, humid climate to survive, but they can’t swim or stay submerged for more than a few seconds without suffocating. They simply can’t hold their breath that long. So maybe . . . if I wait until
I’m only a half mile or so from the cave before I drive the truck into the water . . .
“This is a really stupid idea,” I assure myself.
Even if I manage to pick the perfect place to drive off the road—one with water deep enough to cover the Land Rover and clear of maiden cane and arrowhead and other masses of floating vegetation—get out of the driver’s seat before I drown, swim far enough to emerge somewhere the fairies aren’t expecting, and reach the cave on foot without being spotted or sprayed with acid or shot by people guarding the lab, then what?
I’ll be soaking wet and poorly prepared for a stealth mission. And that’s if I’m not eaten by gators or bitten by a cottonmouth.
But what other choice do I have? I push the pedal to the floor, roaring down the road at a speed that’s unwise, praying I’ll come up with a better idea before I get to the cave.
Thirty minutes later, I weave off the main road and down a scrawny dirt trail that—from what I remember of the plans—I think is leading me in the right direction, I’m pretty certain it’s the direction Hitch took, at least, since the low-hanging branches over the road are freshly broken.
I’ve got a few hundred fewer followers than I did before, but the initial cloudburst has faded to a lighter drizzle. The acid left behind by smashed fairy bodies lingers long enough to melt glass before the rain washes it away. With the rear wiper broken, the back windshield is looking especially nasty. If the fairies get smart enough to start committing suicide in the same spot, they’ll be in the truck in a few minutes.
At this point, I can’t be more than a mile from the first lab stop. There’s a chance I’ll run into guards if I wait any longer. It’s time, as Fernando says, to shit or get off the pot.
“Okay. I can swim. I’m a strong swimmer,” I say, breath coming faster as I round a corner and a decent driving-off place comes into view. The water is plant free and there’s a hint of current and it looks deep. Really deep. My arms tremble, sweat breaks out around my hairline, and a sour taste floods my mouth.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
“You can. Just do it!” My knuckles go white on the wheel. I aim the truck off-road and push the gas to the floor.
“Stop! Stop!” The shout comes from the backseat, scaring the shit out of me.
I stomp the brake, but it’s too late. The truck zooms off the edge of the road, hanging in midair for a gut-shriveling second before nose-diving into the bayou. The impact sends my chest slamming into the steering wheel. I don’t do seat belts if someone isn’t there to make me buckle up, and staying unbuckled seemed like a good idea when I was plotting how to get out of a sinking vehicle without drowning.
But now, as my skull strikes the windshield with a dull pop and blood leaks into my eyes, I rethink the wisdom of eschewing beltage.
“What the hell, Red?” Tucker’s breath is hot on my neck. He grabs my shoulders, pulling me off the steering wheel as the truck begins to sink and water floods in through the cracks in the doors at an alarming rate.
“What the hell, you.” My words are slurred. I smack my lips. The salty-sweet taste of blood rushes through my mouth. “I bit my tongue.”
“You also busted your forehead open.” He smears into visibility, his eyes doing a weird jump-cut thing I’ve never seen them do before. “And probably killed us both,” he says, cussing as he swipes the blood from my face and smears it onto the passenger’s seat.
“That’s going to stain.”
“Who gives a shit?”
“It’s a rental.”
“Are you insane?” he shouts. “What the fuck were you—”
“Don’t yell at me!” I shout back, wincing at the pain that shouting stirs up in my skull. “I didn’t know you were back there,” I add in a softer voice. “Why are you back there?” I pull my feet from the floor. The water is up to my ankles and some stupid instinct urges me to “Stay dry!” despite the fact that my plan is to submerge myself as soon as the truck goes under.
“I followed you to the docks and snuck into the garage. I figured you’d end up at the lab sooner or later and I could help you out.” He cusses as the water creeps toward his knees. “Show me to be a Good Samaritan.”
“You’re not a Good Samaritan. You’re a spy. You’re here to make sure Hitch does what the Big Man told him to—”
“I’m not a spy.” Tucker cusses again as the unexpectedly cool swamp water rises higher, soaking the seat of his pants. “I’m trying to help you, you stubborn, crazy, redheaded—”
“We don’t have time for name-calling, you spying, lurking jerk.” I crouch in my seat and crawl over to the already soggy passenger’s side, figuring it will be easier to climb out the window without the steering wheel in the way.
“Hell, yes, there’s time,” Tucker says. “I want to get it all out. In case I don’t live to tell you how crazy you are.”
“I’m not crazy. I have a plan.” I scan the windows. We’ll be under in a few minutes. I need to figure out where the fairies are gathered. Looks like most of them are hovering directly above the truck, with a few still straggling in from the road behind. All of them are being careful to stay above the bayou’s surface as they hiss and spit and knock their tiny fists against the glass.
What satisfaction I feel in accurately judging their lack of affinity for water, however, is banished by the fact that I’m in the damn water. And it’s up to my chest and it’s almost time to take this plan to the next level and swim out into gator-infested waters and hope I can hold my breath long enough to emerge somewhere the fairies won’t be looking. And hope Tucker can, too, because even though his presence here isn’t my fault and it’s creepy the way he hangs around watching me all the time, I’ll still feel guilty if I get him killed.
Unless I’m dead, in which case I won’t feel guilty—or anything else—about anything. As appealing as that sounds, I’m not ready to go out just yet.
“We’re not going to die,” I say. “We’ll wait until we’re under, drop the window, and swim downstream as far as we can. If the fairies haven’t noticed us, we’ll crawl up on the bank and circle around until we find the cave.”
“And if they have noticed us?”
“We swim some more,” I say, heart bobbing in my throat as the water inches higher. “And hope we lose them while we’re under water.”
“With the gators and the snakes.” Tucker makes no effort to hide how dumb he thinks my plan is.
Negative Nancy.
“At that point we should split up,” I continue, ignoring his dubious grunt, “and hope one of us gets to the lab in time. If this is where it is. One in five chance, anyway, and—”
“I can disappear, Red,” Tucker says. “I can get away. You’re the one—”
“I’ll be fine. Just promise me you’ll stop Hitch from killing anyone if you can. He won’t be able to live with it if he does. He’s not himself right now.”
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Tucker says. “Never did.”
My eyes flick to his in surprise.
“You’re a good woman. Like the chance to know you better.” He gives me a tight nod that looks an awful lot like good-bye.
I clear my throat. I can’t think about good-bye. Not yet. “You have any idea where these new fairies came from?” I turn to catch one last glimpse of the outside world. Staring into Tucker’s worried face isn’t the best idea right now. I’m already seeing my life flash before my eyes; I don’t need to see it flashing before anyone else’s.
“They’re not fairies. They’re pixies.”
Pixies. It rings a vague fairy-tale bell. “Like troublemaking fairies?”
“No, nothing like that. Different species. Vegetarians.”
“Then why are they trying to kill me?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never seen them like this.”
“I’ve never seen them at all.”
“Not surprising,” he says. “They haven’t been out here long.”
“Really? They mutated recently
? Because I—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what—”
“That’s a story we ain’t got time for,” he says. “Just trust me, they don’t usually hurt people. And there aren’t as many out there as you think. They work in illusions. They’re making themselves look scarier.” Tucker crawls into the passenger’s side in back and plunges a hand into the water, looking for the window crank. I reach down, searching for my own. The water is up to my chin now, and I have to strain my neck to keep my face above water.
“How do you know about pixies?” I ask. “Did the Big Man—”
Tucker curses. “Tell me this car has crank windows, Red.”
Crank windows. I thought it did, but . . . Did I check? I thought . . .
I fumble below the water, my fingers brushing against the door handle and the armrest and some buttons. Lots of buttons. I jab them. I jab them one at a time and all at once and nothing happens and I pat down the entire door and there is no crank and still no crank and oh holyshitfuck!
“Tell me, Red!” Tucker shouts. The water is up to our ears. There are only a few inches of air at the top of the cab. The truck is under. It’s time to go, but we won’t be going anywhere because I drove a car with power windows into the water and we can’t open the windows and we’ll never be able to open the door with the amount of pressure bearing down all around us.
Unless . . .
I gather all my internal forces. The familiar knot of potential energy balls at the base of my brain, but even before I send it punching into the window, I know it’s not going to be enough. My headache is back—probably because I Suck at Safety and just got my head slammed into a windshield—and now Tucker and I are going to die.