Blane had been too busy coordinating defenses. Twice, armed groups had tried to get inside. Both times they’d been rebuffed, once using blood magic to make them forget what they were doing. They wandered off into the bright desert day, forgetting the hotel was even there. But the second time came at night. Blane and three of the drivers had shot two of them and driven the rest off. As revenge for the deaths of their comrades, the survivors made sure to set fire to all of the league’s vehicles before they left. He could still smell the taint of burning rubber.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Frezzie joined him up on the roof where he’d set out a lawn chair so he could have a good view of the road leading up to the hotel.
She looked as worn as he felt. Her black skin glistened in the starlight. She stared into the night for a while and he stared with her.
His rifle lay across his knees. He wore a wife beater, shorts, and flip-flops. On a small glass table between them sat a mostly empty fifth of Macallan 12 and a lowball glass with two inches of scotch in it. His feet were crossed at the ankles. He took a sip of the single malt, then sat the glass down. He held the liquid in his mouth, feeling it burn and burn, like Chicago and L.A. and Dallas, then swallowed.
Without looking, she reached over and grabbed the bottle. She tipped it back, took two shallow droughts, then sat back, cradling the bottle like a child. She wore a white tank top that almost glowed against her skin. She wore khaki shorts beneath this. She was barefoot.
When she spoke, her voice was a rough whisper. “Haven’t had a drink since Chance…”
He hadn’t noticed whether she was drinking or not, but he did remember that awful week where she could barely walk. He’d had to clean her up several times. Blane raised an eyebrow. “On the wagon?”
She glanced at him, then back to the night. “Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” He shrugged and looked out with her.
“I figured what the hell. The world seems to be ending, why not go out in style?”
“That’s a little premature, don’t you think?” he asked.
“Is it? Have you seen what’s happened? Have you seen the creatures coming out of the woodwork?”
“Doesn’t mean it’s ending. Maybe changing a bit.” He pointed off to his left. “There, see it?”
She followed his finger. “What is it I’m supposed to see?”
“The cluster of ground fog over there.”
“What about it?”
“When’s the last time you saw ground fog?”
She sighed heavily. “I’m not up on my meteorology.” She stared at it for a moment, then narrowed her eyes.
“You saw it, didn’t you? The rabbit came out of the fog, but it wasn’t there to begin with. It’s as if it actually DID come out of the fog.”
She leaned back and grinned, looking at him. “Must have been some trick of the light. Must have been something we missed.” Then she frowned and stared at her bottle.
“Why must it have? Why must it be?”
She flashed angry eyes at him. “Because it just has to be, okay? Bunnies don’t come out of fog. This isn’t some horror novel, understand?”
He reached out, grabbed his glass, and drank the rest, his eyes never leaving hers. He placed the glass back on the table, then turned to the desert.
“What do you believe in, Blane?” she asked in a scared little voice.
“That’s not a soup question.”
He could almost imagine her smiling as he said it. Finding Forester was her favorite movie and that was a line from the movie said by Sean Connery to the character Jamal, when Jamal asked why Connery was such a recluse. If Connery knew the answer, it might be too complicated an idea to convey. Blane and Frez used it on each other whenever they got the chance, sometimes when it was necessary, and sometimes just to be funny.
“No, seriously. What do you believe in?”
“Are you talking about god and the devil and heaven and hell?” I asked. “That kind of believe in stuff?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m asking. It’s just so…” She shook her head and took another small drink.
“Let’s talk about what you believe, okay?”
It took a while, but she eventually nodded.
“Do you think you are sane?”
She glanced sharply at him.
“Seriously. Answer the question,” he said.
“Yeah. I think I’m sane.”
“Then tell me what you think. I know it scares you, but tell me what you think is happening. This isn’t about belief. It’s about what you see, what you witness.” He wanted another drink, but by the way she was cradling the bottle, he doubted she’d give it back. He put the glass on the table. “The way I see it is this. Those guys around Christ saw him and knew him and witnessed what he did. They didn’t need belief because they were there.” He opened his hands to encompass the world. “Just like you are here, witnessing. Leave the believing for those who want to make sense out of all this after it’s reported. Just witness for now.”
“Shouldn’t we care why this is happening?”
“Sure,” he said. “Care. Be concerned. You can even be worried about it. But it won’t help anything.”
“Are you saying you don’t care?”
“Oh, I care. It’s just my care meter is turned lower than yours. I think we’ll eventually know why all of this is happening.”
“And until then we suck it up?” she snarled.
He grinned. “Until then we survive. You help me survive. You get and protect the backs of those who love and care about you.”
She tried to stay angry, but couldn’t manage to pull it off. She poured him a drink.
He took it and drank half.
“You’re almost there, Frezzie,” he said.
“Almost where?”
“To stage five. Sebastian taught me something without even knowing it. The Kubler-Ross model for grief has five phases. Those phases can really be applied for anything. For disappointment, for death, for change.” He nodded. “You’re on stage two trying to claw your way to stage three.”
“Which is?”
“Stage one is denial. We all did that pretty well. Stage two is anger. Look at the world. Everyone is so pissed off. Who told the universe it was allowed to change without their input? The third phase is bargaining. Your soup question is part of that.”
“And the others? Come on now, Blane, don’t keep a lady waiting.”
“The fourth stage is depression. You get that when you realize that the change is here to stay.”
“But it might reverse,” she said, a bare glint of hope lodged in her eyes.
“You really want to go back to stage one?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Let me guess, the fifth stage is acceptance.”
He smiled grimly and nodded.
“I’d call it giving up.”
He shrugged. “Good a term as any.”
“How will I know when I’ve reached that stage?” she asked.
“See that cloud over there, the one we saw the rabbit come out of? I think it’s a gateway to another dimension. Possibly a parallel universe.” He turned to her. “What do you think it is?”
“Just a little ground fog.”
“Seriously?”
She looked away and took a hit from the bottle.
“Do you remember when Sebastian told us to stay away from the fog? I’ve been watching it ever since. There has to be a reason. It’s hardly around in the daytime, but at night, sometimes I come up here and it’s everywhere, people walking into it and disappearing, chupacabras coming out, hunting in this strange new universe. That’s here. It’s real. And it’s not a good thing.”
He watched her nod.
“So let me ask you again, what do you think that fog is?”
“Something bad.”
He grinned. “Now you’re talking. Welcome to phase five.”
He drank the rest of his scotch and cl
osed his eyes as it rushed to his stomach, heating it with its single malt reality.
She interrupted the silence. “I’m still not at phase five when it comes to Chance, you know? I think he could be out there.”
“If he was then it means he’s staying away intentionally.”
She nodded. “I’ve realized that since the beginning. You know we fought a lot.”
“I remember. Some of them were legendary.”
“And the worst part of it was that most of them were my fault. I didn’t want him to get hurt so I lashed out.”
He nodded. “And he took it.”
She shrugged awkwardly. “Right up until the point he couldn’t any longer.”
He considered asking for another drink, but he was done. He was buzzed slightly and had just enough scotch in him to keep warm. “Why is it you lashed out instead of just talking to him?”
She laughed hollowly. “That’s not exactly a soup question now is it?”
Chapter Nineteen
Palm Springs. The redheaded girl’s name was Brianna. Jenkies only knew this because her mom yelled up that Brianna was here. Curious to see who it was, Jenkies had poked her head out of the room and peeked down the stairs. Sure enough, it was the same redhead she’d seen encouraging Jenkies II and the blonde to cut themselves.
Brianna rushed up the stairs and into the room, a sly smile on her face. She plopped down on Jenkies’ bed.
Jenkies closed the door behind her, aware that she had absolutely no idea how to act around this chick.
“Can you believe what’s happening?” Brianna asked, her words avalanche fast. “My mom says it’s the End Times. She’s been going on and on about how these are signs from the Bible. I don’t know, she might be right. Hey, guess where my dad is?”
Jenkies stood, her back to the closed bedroom door. She felt a little overwhelmed by the force of her fellow teenager. She shook her head.
“Atlanta. He was there on a business trip and now he’s stuck because the FAA grounded all the flights.”
“How’s he going to get home?” Jenkies asked.
Brianna’s eyes went wide. “What did you say?”
Jenkies repeated herself softly.
Brianna leaped off the bed and ran to Jenkies, grabbing her by the arms. “Your stutter is gone?”
Jenkies felt her heart sink. She’d barely said a word and the girl had already discovered she was a fraud. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? Whenever you start a sentence with the letter H you stutter. Ask me the question again.”
Jenkies hesitated, but complied, now repeating the sentence for a third time. “How’s he going to get back?”
Brianna danced, forcing Jenkies to dance with her. After three rotations, she stopped and hurled herself back on the bed. As she lay there, she said, “This is just so awesome. Good things are happening. My dad might never come home, Sarah went to the Grotto, and you’ve lost your stutter.” She sighed ecstatically.
Jenkies remained still as she processed the girl’s words. Clearly there was a history between her and her father. There was also the issue of Sarah. Was she the other girl? She’d have to be careful.
She stepped around the bed and sat in her desk chair. “My dad can’t stop watching the television,” she said.
“Same with my mother. She says it’s better than any of her soap operas ever were. She’s also constantly on a website called Apocalypse Weird where it’s constantly updating the death toll with links to pictures and videos of people dying. The networks are even broadcasting these deaths on television.” She made a disgusted face. “I asked her how she could watch people die so easily and do you know what she said?”
Jenkies shook her head.
“She said ‘it’s just television, honey, this isn’t real.’” She circled her finger around an ear. “I think she’s gone crazy. I started to watch this man about to get run over, but I turned away at the last moment. It might be television, but some things you just can’t unsee. Know what I mean?”
Jenkies nodded and hoped Brianna would keep talking, but the other girl fell silent.
“Where did Sarah go?” Jenkies asked.
“The Grotto. She’s not going to be a harlot or anything, but according to that chatroom we’re in, there’s a new man recruiting cutters for something special.”
Recruiting cutters for something special? “Chatroom?” Jenkies turned to the desk and saw a closed laptop beneath a magazine. She hadn’t noticed it until now. Had she been able to get on it would have helped her out tremendously.
“You don’t remember the chatroom? You’re the one who set it up.” Brianna shook her head. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Jenkies?”
Jenkies forced a laugh, but actually felt a stab of panic. “Oh yeah. Sorry. So much stuff has been going on I can hardly keep track of anything anymore. Who’s recruiting us and for what?”
Brianna swung her legs around the bed so she was sitting facing Brianna. “Boot that sucker up and I’ll show you.”
Jenkies felt her throat go dry. She moved the magazine and opened the laptop. She pressed the power button. As she waited, her eyes roamed the desk, looking for any possible clue that would tell her what the username and or password might be. A welcome screen greeted her. The username line was already filled in with the word Jenkies_Rules, which was the same one that she used. Could it be, she wondered? She hesitantly typed in her normal password—ihateeveryone4ever—and pressed return. A second later she was informed that her password was wrong. Panic gripped her around the neck. She couldn’t breathe. She was absolutely aware that Brianna was staring at her even as her vision narrowed. She heard her heartbeat in her ears, fearful that Brianna could hear it as well. What had she done wrong with the password? If not this one, then what is it?
Then she saw it. She’d fat-fingered her password. Instead of ihateeveryone4ever she’d typed ihatwwveryone4ever. She fixed her mistake, then pressed return and was rewarded as the processor loaded programs and then was greeted by Windows. The wallpaper was a picture of Harry Potter, naked, strapped to an anthill. Seeing it made her smile. She’d used that as wallpaper two times ago. She was discovering that she wasn’t much different than the Jenkies who really belonged to this universe.
Of course there was the stutter.
Curious.
She wondered why the other version of herself had stuttered.
That would be the dead Jenkies you burned up in the neighbor’s house, she reminded herself.
“Come on, slowpoke, open the browser.” Brianna bounced on the bed beside her.
Jenkies opened the browser and scanned the bookmarks.
Brianna pointed to one.
Jenkies clicked it and watched as it opened a window to a chatroom named The Lovely Slice.
Brianna pointed to a name in the new members list— Rook’s Man. “That’s him. He’s setting up some sort of group where he wants people to come and cut.” She grinned from ear to ear.
“In public?” Jenkies asked.
“I think so.” Brianna’s smile dimmed a few watts. “You know, not all of us feel the need to hide our cuts.”
Jenkies stared at Brianna and then she got it. Brianna was a happy cutter. She’d heard about them but never seen one. They hide behind their smiles and laughter just as Jenkies hid behind her dark clothes and introversion.
Brianna removed her long sleeved shirt to reveal multiple rows of one-inch cuts along the inside of her left arm. Then she pulled a piece of cardboard from her pocket and slid a gleaming razor blade from it.
Jenkies’ breath hitched as an echo of the feeling of being hit her. Memory after memory flashed through of her cutting herself, then watching the blood intently as it weaved its way down her leg, the feeling of being alive so much greater.
“You wanna do it with me or watch?”
Jenkies snapped out of her reverie but made no move to get a razor.
“Fine, then watch.”<
br />
“You go ahead,” she said. Then she turned to the screen and scrolled through the conversation. It looked like Rook’s Man posted some sort of Cutting Manifesto. She scanned it, stopping when she hit words such as divine and God-given and earned the right. It looked as if he was promoting the idea that cutting wasn’t wrong.
Brianna began to sing the same two lines to herself over and over in the barely perceptible voice of a child.
Daddy, Daddy, I won’t tell
Kiss the girl and go to hell
Jenkies blood chilled as she recognized the meaning behind the words. She tried to ignore it as she continued to read. She found a long section about how cutting went back more than two thousand years. They called it bloodletting back then and believed that to be healthy there needed to be a balance between the humors. Even George Washington believed in bloodletting. It was only modern society that looked upon it as bad. Ask yourself, if it worked so well for more than two thousand years, why is it that we stopped doing it? Who would benefit from such a thing? The answer is simple—organized religion.
Brianna lay back on her bed, staring at the three new lines she’d created. She kept her arm balanced so no blood would run off onto Jenkies’ duvet. She absentmindedly licked the razor, her tongue gently caressing the vicious edge.
Jenkies continued to read, wondering what the hell this man really wanted.
Chapter Twenty
Bombay Beach Motel. Barry drove Dickie Smith like a pro. The old recovering alcoholic driver wore black driving gloves, a tank top that read Sorry Gulch Saloon and had a picture of a midget stripper, and blue jean cut-offs. Beneath the hem of the shorts several long cuts still weeped blood from where he’d initiated the connection.
Blane sat in a chair behind them, his head down, watching blearily. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t taken a shower. He still wore the same clothes from last night. He’d only had four hours sleep, but he’d been called to come and see what was going on.
Red Palm Page 9