The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Eleven

by Jonathan Strahan

  “I don’t know!” the girl said. “I don’t remember! Just let me do my job, please?”

  From the hallway the boy shouted, “Be careful with me, ogre!” El Cap walked past, cradling the boy in his arms, heading toward the bathroom. “I will crawl in your ear and batter your brains!”

  The girl burst into fresh sobs.

  “I need something, anything,” Tindal said. “Do you have a wallet? Purse?”

  She shook her head.

  Tindal put his face in his hands. He’d have to drop these kids off at the police station and hope the amnesia held after the drugs wore off. If he was lucky, all they’d remember was that a hag and a giant held them captive.

  Tindal wasn’t sure he was that lucky. “So, little girl,” he asked gently. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Tindal the Witch,” she said, wiping away a tear. “And your companion is El Capitan.” She smiled for the first time since he’d found her. “Did I do good?”

  “Just. . . great,” Tindal said.

  The boy shouted from the bathroom, “Don’t you dare drown me! Wait! Come back! Give me back my wand!”

  El Cap walked into the kitchen. “This fell out of his pocket.”

  “A pen! He’s got a pen! Thank God,” Tindal said.

  “May I please go back to my chores?” the girl asked.

  The boy refused to unlock the device. When Tindal tried to hand the pen to him, he threw his arms wide as if trying to hug a redwood. Something about taking the device from him had moved it from the realm of the tiny—one more toy-sized item among the boy’s micro-possessions—to Thing of Giants.

  “We’re just trying to find your next of kin,” El Cap said to him.

  “Never!” the boy said.

  “Or your friends,” Tindal said. “Wouldn’t you like your friends to come pick you up?”

  The boy’s look turned crafty. “And how many young ones have you lured here in just that way?”

  “There’s no luring,” Tindal said. “I do not lure. You walked in uninvited.” “Because I was lured,” the boy said.

  The word sounded dirtier every time they said it.

  “Hey, what about the emergency contacts?” El Cap asked.

  “Right! Of course.” Tindal unrolled the screen and said in a clear, perfectly sober voice, “Call. Emergency. Contact.” He grinned. “It’s ringing. You’re a genius, mon Capitan.”

  El Cap shrugged bashfully. The screen displayed a number and the name ‘ice home’ hovering over an animated map of Toronto.

  “What the fuck do you want?” a woman said. At least he thought it was a woman. The screen stayed rudely dark, and that harsh, corrugated voice could have been that of an old man.

  “Uh, hi,” Tindal said. “Who’s this?”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “My name’s—” Caution neurons managed to fire in time to interrupt him. “I’m a friend,” he said. “Calling from your son’s phone. At least I think he’s your son. Do you have a son? Or a daughter? Because—”

  “Fuck off,” the woman said. The screen displayed call ended.

  “Huh,” Tindal said. He let the screen retract. “Was that your mom?” Tindal asked the boy.

  The lad glared back over the tops of his knees.

  “I’d run away too,” El Cap said. “That voice.”

  “Right?” Tindal said. “Like a garbage disposal with a spoon in it.”

  “A garbage disposal that smokes three packs a day,” the Captain said.

  “Ha! A garbage disposal that—”

  In the corner, the girl moaned.

  Oh. Right. Focus. Tindal called the number again. “Please don’t hang up!” he said. “I just want to get your children home. See, they’re here in my house—”

  “You call me again, motherfucker, and their dad will track you down and bash your fucking head in, you hear me? Tell those fucking kids they’re not welcome here anymore.”

  The pen went dead again. “Whoa,” Tindal said.

  “I think I see where the boy gets his anger,” El Cap said.

  “She said, ‘their dad.’ I don’t think they’re her kids.”

  “Evil stepmother,” El Cap said, nodding. “Classic.”

  “She said Dad would track us down.”

  “How?” El Cap said. “You didn’t tell her your name.”

  “Unless—shit. What if the phone’s got location turned on?”

  “Who leaves that on?” El Cap said. “That’s the first thing you learn in the war against the Great North American Spytocracy.” He took the pen from Tindal. “Maybe I can—huh.”

  “What?”

  “Evil Stepmom didn’t have location turned off on her phone. Look.” A pulsing dot hovered over the animated map next to the words ‘ice home’.

  “Don’t close the screen!” Tindal said. The locator would vanish, and he’d have to call that terrible woman again.

  El Cap touched something on the screen and showed it to him. A trail of pulsing dots between here and there. “Perhaps the father is henpecked but kindly.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Tindal said. “The wake is in four hours. I still have to decorate, make pizza pockets . . .”

  El Capitan regarded him from behind his expanse of beard, saying nothing.

  “Okay, okay,” Tindal said. “You’re right.” He took the pen from him. “I’m going to need some courage, though.” He went to the living room and looked at the pages of recipes taped to the walls. Which one was Courage? He had a distinct memory of printing some out on orange paper. Or maybe red. Blue? No—

  “Are you going or not?” El Cap asked him.

  Damn. He was going to have to do this straight. Or at least as straight as he was currently, which in medical terms was Not Very. “While I’m gone, maybe point OCD girl at the kitchen?”

  “Dude,” El Cap said disapprovingly.

  He followed the trail of dots past KFCs and nail salons, through throngs of Numinous-addicted converts pressing Numinous-infused paper into his hands, over underpasses and under overpasses, around shifty-eyed cops and their drug-sniffing badges, through leafy blocks of ramshackle twentiethcentury frame houses and shadow-slabbed blocks of ramshackler apartment buildings, until he reached a blighted neighborhood that was ramshacklest of all: unregulated multifamily homes painted with multiple coats of resignation and misery.

  It was the longest two kilometers he’d ever walked.

  He found an empty cement planter to perch upon and rested his soul for a while with a quick half-dozen vapes of Millie-produced ultraproduct. Not Courage, but definitely a viable treatment for anxiety.

  The destination dot still throbbed at him from the boy’s pen screen. Not too far now. Though he was concerned by the battery indicator that had started flashing at the opposite end of the screen. How long had that been going on? It was interesting that the battery icon flashed in counterpoint with the map dot. Beep-boop. Beep-boop. Beep—

  “Uh-oh.” Tindal said this aloud, though only the planter was there to hear him. The trail of dots had vanished as if consumed by ravenous pill heads. He tapped at the screen, and the whole of it went black.

  He experienced a wave of panic that was subdued only by another set of hits from the vape. Then the cartridge gave out, and he knew he was truly screwed: alone in unfamiliar territory, holding two skinny, dead devices. He would have thrown them across the road if he was the kind of person who threw things. What was he supposed to do now? Going door-to-door in a neighborhood like this might get him killed. And even if someone answered, what would he say? Hi, my name’s Tindal, and I’m looking for the parents of two cognitively impaired white slaves staying at my house.

  No sense in that. The only choice was to go home. His brain flooded with relief chemicals, most of them internally generated.

  From above him a voice said, “And don’t forget the fucking tampons!” Tindal thought, I know that voice. It sounded like an animated garbage disposal.

  He di
d not want to look up. Instead he looked right, where a short, pudding-faced white man had stepped out of the apartment building. A swoop of black hair covered his forehead, leaving none to cover the bald spot in back. He raised a hand to the upper window and said, “I heard you!”

  Henpecked? Tindal wondered. Kindly?

  Tindal risked a peek skyward. From an open second-floor window, a pickax wearing a white dust mop screamed down, “And pizza pockets!” Which reminded him that he was hungry, and that he really needed to get back to the house to prep for the wake.

  Tindal hopped up and began following the man down the sidewalk. When they were a hundred yards away from the ax-wife’s window, he said, “Hey, man, quick question?”

  The man kept walking. Tindal hurried up alongside him. “Fuck off,” the man said tiredly.

  “I’m here about the kids,” Tindal said.

  The man shot him a glance.

  “Fourteen or fifteen?” Tindal said. “A boy and a girl. I don’t know their names.”

  The man stopped. “What about them?”

  “Don’t worry, they’re safe. They’re in my house, and they’ve eaten some of my—I think they’ve taken drugs.”

  “They do that,” the man said.

  “But they’re fine!” Tindal said. “I just want to be able to get them home safe to you and their stepmother.”

  “Their what?”

  Tindal nodded back the way they’d come. “No judgment? But, I mean, wow. Harsh.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who called.”

  “That’s right. I’m was just trying to reach out to—”

  The slap spun Tindal’s head around. Pen and vape went flying, proving that Tindal was the type to throw things, but only under specific conditions. Then he bounced off a no parking sign and plopped to the ground.

  The man bent over him like a Doberman on a short chain. “That’s their goddamn mother, motherfucker! I’m their goddamn father! You don’t talk to us like that! And you tell those fucking kids that I will not be disrespected in my own damn house!”

  Tindal put up his hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. I think I’ve made a mistake.”

  “You bet your ass you have,” the man said.

  Tindal took a breath, then coughed. His jaw felt like he’d been hit by a shovel. He thought of those bruises on the girl’s arms. Either Mr. Shovel Hands put them there, or Madam Ax Face had. Did it matter which?

  “I’m just a little confused,” Tindal said. “You’re both shitty parents?”

  That was when Mr. Shovel Hands started kicking him. His feet were pretty hard, too.

  By the time Tindal limped back into the house, it was transformed: black crepe paper looped across the front windows, candles burned on the tables, and a Gregorian chant dance remix played through Rolfe’s array of matchbox speakers.

  Well, not everything had changed. The boy still huddled in his box in the living room.

  “Where’s El Capitan?” Tindal asked him.

  “He went to obtain food, I think,” the boy said almost sheepishly. “My sister is cleaning the bathroom.”

  “You seem better,” Tindal said. Not completely, though: his skin shone with sweat, and his eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion.

  “I am better,” the boy said. He ran a hand through his damp hair. “I would like to apologize for some of the things I said to you. I am so sorry.”

  “No worries, little man.”

  His head jerked up at that.

  “I mean, young person! Not little person!” The boy did not seem to believe him. “Listen,” Tindal said, “you want something to eat? Drink? I think I have some Vegemite and pita chips.”

  The boy exhaled. “I would like that, thank you.”

  Tindal walked toward the kitchen, then realized the boy wasn’t following. “It’s in here,” Tindal said.

  “I understand, but . . . ?” He glanced down at the box.

  “Just stand up,” Tindal said. “Oh wait, are your legs cramped? Sure they are. Just a second.” He limped back to him, held out his arms. The boy reluctantly reached up. Tindal bent at his knees, freshly kicked ribs twinging, and got his arms around him. The boy came out of the box, feet pedaling the air, and Tindal set him on the ground. Immediately the kid hunched to the floor.

  “Ha-ha!” he said, and slowly turned toward the door. He put his right hand down inches in front of him, then dragged a knee forward.

  “What are you doing?” Tindal said.

  “I shall escape, find a weapon, and then come back and rescue my sister!” His left hand moved another few inches.

  Tindal moved between him and the door. The boy howled in anger. His fingers crept forward to grip the toe of Tindal’s sandals. He pushed up, grunting.

  “Are you trying to trip me?” Tindal asked.

  “Fall, crone, fall! Crack your head against these stones!”

  “First of all, this is carpet. Really, really clean carpet.”

  El Capitan appeared in the doorway, holding two sacks of groceries in one arm and a twelve-pack of Molson in the other. “Oh, should have left you a note,” El Cap said. “He tries to escape every time you let him out of the box. What happened to your face?”

  “Turns out, Tiny Tim’s dad is an asshole.”

  El Cap frowned. “I’ll put these away, then put him away.”

  “Thanks, man.” Tindal walked down the hallway, leaving the boy to creep slowly toward the doorway. He was thinking of taking a shower before switching to his funeral T-shirt. What day was it, Friday? Not too early in the week for a quick wash-down, and it would be a sign of respect to Rolfe. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing the extent of his bruises, though.

  The girl lay on her side on the bathroom floor, a sponge in her hand. Her eyes were closed.

  Tindal squeaked and threw himself down beside her. “Hey. . . you!” He’d never learned her name, a definite drawback in the resuscitation department. “Are you okay? Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”

  He turned her face toward him. The collar of her shirt fell open, fully revealing the necklace of bruises. Fucking Shovel Hands, Tindal thought. He tried to remember how mouth-to-mouth worked. Okay, mouth on mouth, obviously, but after that?

  “Cap! I need you!”

  He heard a thunk! from the living room. “Darn it,” El Capitan said.

  Tindal shouted, “The girl’s passed out!”

  A moment later El Cap was there, the boy in his arms again. “So’s this one,” he said. “She’s breathing, right?”

  “I don’t know! Wait. Yeah.” He’d just seen her chest move. In fact, now it was clear that she was breathing deeply. How had he missed that? He sat back against the tub, sick with relief. They were sleeping. Only sleeping.

  “I’m going to put him down in your room,” El Cap said.

  In a few minutes they had both of the kids tucked into Tindal’s queen-size bed. “Should we surround them with pillows?” Tindal asked. “So they don’t roll off?”

  “They’re not babies,” El Capitan said.

  “I know,” Tindal said with a sigh. “But they’re so beautiful when they’re sleeping.”

  The Captain put his arm around Tindal. “So what are we going to do with them?”

  “Can’t go back to their parents,” Tindal said. “They’re horrible.”

  “Well, we can figure them out in the morning. Tonight we have a party to throw.”

  Rolfe’s friends and clients—a Venn diagram of two circles that overlapped almost completely—started rolling in before seven, and soon filled the house. Tindal recognized the heavily tattooed plumber, a pair of shockhaired assistant professors, an award-winning pet groomer, half a dozen unpublished poets. . . and those were just the Ps. The weepy wept, and the stoic nodded with the wincing frowns of those who were not only familiar with tragedy, but had its private number. Tindal hugged them, told the story of the suicide note again and again, and waited for them to notice the papercovered walls.r />
  “You just printed. . . everything?” asked an unlicensed Reiki therapist. “Without labeling them?”

  “I think it’s more true this way,” Tindal said. “Like life. Random.”

  “But isn’t it kind of dangerous?” she said.

  He didn’t like her judge-y tone. “This is art,” he said. “For adults. You don’t have to have any.”

  The wake accelerated from there, at least subjectively. Tindal had started eating some of his own handiwork, and the recipes were busily redirecting all neuronal traffic into complicated patterns. One of the pages was evidently that old favorite MirrorMaster, because suddenly half a dozen El Capitans— Los Capitans!—were ferrying trays of bagel bites out to the living room. Interestingly, each copy wore a different apron. “I meant to have pizza pockets,” Tindal explained to a squad of Antonias, who’d kindly returned to pay their respects, if not pay back the sheets Antonia-prime had taken from the deceased’s lab. “Rolfe always got so angry when I burned them.”

  “True, true,” they said, eyeing the walls.

  “Goddamn it, Tindal!” a voice shouted.

  “I can almost hear him now,” Tindal said.

  The crowd, now a thousand strong, parted biblically. At one end of this new path was a trio of Rolfes. They stood in the doorway, holding backpacks and roller bags.

  Tindal burst into tears and dropped to his knees. Then thought, Wait, what if I’m hallucinating this? Before he could decide, the lead Rolfe seized him by the T-shirt. “I told you, no parties!”

  “You’re alive,” Tindal said, wiping at his cheek.

  “Of course I’m alive. I went to visit my parents in Decatur. Didn’t you get my note?”

  “It was delicious,” Tindal said.

  All eyes of the mob were on Tindal and the Rolfes, beaming so many emotions at them: confusion, joy, confusion, anger. Mostly confusion.

  The Rolfes were looking around now. “Tindal?” they asked in soft threepart harmony.

  “Yes?” he answered.

  “What’s that on the walls?”

  Suddenly, there was one chief emotion hammering at his psyche, drowning out all the others: Rolfe Rage. The screaming went on for some time, until suddenly one of the Rolfes tapped the shoulder of another and said, “Who the hell is that?”