Zee’s people opened fire on the fog then and Dominica leaped out of him, the fog withdrew, his mother was gone, and the rising sun burned against his back. He pushed up from the dirt and lurched back through the cemetery gate, his monstrous thirst like that of someone who had wandered through a desert for days, sucking at every oasis the mind fabricated. When the gate clattered shut behind him, he collapsed against the ground, his dog whining and dancing around him, licking his face, leaping at him.
Someone clasped his hands and started pulling him across the ground. Sanchez’s eyes popped open. Zee Small stood over him, tears of grief for his dead son and daughter-in-law brimming in his rheumy eyes. He picked up Sanchez, carried him to a cart, set him gently in the back. “You are one weird fucker, son. But we protect our own and I’m mighty relieved we don’t have to bury you, too.”
Sanchez desperately needed to speak, to tell Zee what had happened, what he’d experienced, to tell him he knew what could conquer these ghosts, that it might be as simple as laughter. But a strange inertia claimed him. His last thought before he drifted away was, Shit, that mutant was inside me.
* * *
Dominica reluctantly withdrew with the fog, then she and Whit drifted free of it and moved upward, over the cemetery. They coasted just above the treetops, where they could see the pandemonium below them—men and women shouting and running around, people carrying the bodies of the dead into the largest trailer, two men carrying an unconscious Sanchez into another trailer, the guards mobilizing around the cemetery. They scurried like ants whose nest had been penetrated.
She wanted Sanchez, wanted him as a host for Whit. How perfect would that be? The two of them in the fine bodies of Sanchez and Maddie.
They’re terrified of us, Whit. Let’s drift down and terrorize them some more.
No, thanks. I don’t do cemeteries.
C’mon, Whit. Don’t tell me you’re like all the others in the tribe. What’s there to be afraid of?
I’m not afraid, okay? I just don’t like cemeteries.
Bullshit. You’re afraid! But why? You’re dead. Nothing can hurt you.
I’m NOT dead. I’m conscious, I can think and plan, I have desires, I laugh, I feel.
She had heard this argument countless times throughout her existence and it still amazed her that any ghost could actually believe it. I have news for you, Whit. Only the dead need hosts. Without a host, none of the physical pleasures are available to you. You can’t touch or be touched. You can’t taste food or smell or see and your hearing is truncated. Consciousness uses your memories to fill in the gaps, that’s all this is. And sooner or later, if we’re going to round up the people in this camp, we’re going to have to go into that cemetery and attack them.
If you’re so goddamn brave, let’s see you go down there, Nica.
With pleasure.
She immediately regretted her bravado. But now that she’d made such a big deal out of this, she couldn’t back out. She’d hoped that Whit would descend with her, that they could give each other strength and perhaps overcome their mutual aversion to cemeteries. She should have sweet-talked him, approached it more gently, cajoled him. But the nuances of relationships had always escaped her.
Dominica disengaged from the brujo net and slowly drifted down through one of the trees, through branches and leaves. Waves of revulsion swept through her. During her last physical lifetime in Spain, she had been buried after her death, and her consciousness had awakened inside the coffin as dirt was being tossed onto it. She hadn’t understood what had happened, thought she’d been buried alive, and had screamed and screamed. She had even dived back into her lifeless body and struggled to animate it. When that hadn’t worked, she had tried to shoot through the coffin’s lid, but couldn’t. So she had drifted inside that tight, black space, alternately screaming and sobbing and listening to the thump thump thump of dirt hitting the lid.
When her horror and panic had grown too great for her to sustain her awareness, she had passed out. A long time later, her consciousness had become aware again and she understood that her body had died but her consciousness lived on. With that understanding, she was able to leave the coffin. She had shot out through the lid, up through the ton of dirt, and into the world again. Wayra had been waiting for her.
For centuries, she’d believed her aversion to cemeteries was unique to her. But once she had commanded her tribe in Esperanza, she understood that every ghost held this loathing for cemeteries. It was simply a part of what ghosts were. She had conquered her fear of fire long enough to help extinguish the blaze at Annie’s Café, so she could conquer this loathing, too.
Determined, she drifted about halfway down the trunk of the tree and then just couldn’t go any farther. It was as if she had descended miles beneath the ocean floor and the pressure felt as if she might implode. She shot upward again, back through the branches, the leaves, and hoped that Whit hadn’t been able to see her, that he would believe she’d made it to the ground.
He was waiting for her, and she felt his awe and astonishment. Nica. You did it. Was it … awful?
Worse than you can imagine. That much, at least, wasn’t a lie.
I … I just don’t think I can do it.
We can both do it without any problem if we’re in our host bodies.
What about the others who don’t have hosts? Will they be able to travel within that fog and enter here?
I think so. There’s strength in numbers.
If you’re strong, the tribe will be, too.
After you were put to death, Whit, what happened to your body? Was it buried or cremated?
Jesus, what kind of question is that?
I’m just curious. I was buried and became conscious in the coffin. She told him the rest of it, except for the part about Wayra. That’s where my loathing for these places started.
Silence, then: I was burned. I … saw it happening, saw my body inside the crematorium. I thought I was still alive. I mean, I could think and feel … I— His voice broke off.
Then you have nothing to fear here. Will you try it with me, Whit?
He hesitated. If our essences are merged and if we’re away from the graves and mausoleums, then I can at least try it, Nica.
She moved her essence toward his and they merged. The intimacy lacked that of physical lovemaking, but was the closest thing a brujo in its natural form could experience to intimacy, comfort, and communion. She immediately felt his anxiety and knew he felt hers as well. But she hid the truth about what had happened when she’d tried it alone. She, after all, was the leader of this tribe and was expected to accomplish and achieve things the others could not, acts of heroism to which they might aspire. If he realized she was as cowardly as they were, she would lose the tribe.
They drifted together toward Cemetery Point, where the land jutted out into the water, the salt marsh. Tendrils of fog eddied and swayed across the rocks. She braced herself for that terrible internal pressure; he nearly separated from her and shot for the sky. But he didn’t. And the internal pressure didn’t materialize. As they touched down, they drifted apart and hovered uneasily just above the rocks, separate beings fighting their separate demons.
Dominica knew this water was a brilliant blue, but her perceptions registered only shades of gray. She knew the air smelled of salt and earth, but she smelled nothing at all. The living could stand on these very rocks, open their mouths, and taste the salt in the air. Although she could hear the cries of the gulls and the shouts from the cemetery, these sounds lacked the rich texture of what the living could hear. In her natural bruja form, her perceptions, like her relationships, lacked nuance.
It’s not so bad, is it, Whit?
Not right here, on the rocks, where I can see the water and the sky. But if we were over there, where the graves are, and that was all I could see, I don’t know if I could do this.
Even if you’re smack in the middle of the cemetery, you can always see something else. Trees. Flowers. Grass.
Sky. Let’s try it.
Whit drifted away from her. Not right now. I’ve had enough, Nica. I’m ready to be physical again.
Do you think you’ll have any problem coming in here in your host body?
I can do that.
He sounded certain of this. But the proof would be in actually doing it. If Whit was to rule the brujo enclave with her, he couldn’t be a coward. Well, that wasn’t quite right. She was a coward, but could hide the fact. He would have to do that or confront his fears. Either way, he couldn’t be seen as compromised, fearful, uncertain of his next step, his next decision. The tribe trusted Whit’s host, Sam Dorset, as they once had trusted the mayor. But Whit himself would have to earn their respect and coming into this cemetery would be the first step.
Let’s go reclaim our hosts, Whit.
Nineteen
Maddie swam toward consciousness like a salmon struggling upstream. She knew if she didn’t reach the surface, everything would be lost, Dominica would win, and she would be trapped forever.
She latched on to her rage and it lifted her.
She grappled for memories of love and surfaced into a subtle awareness that she was in the attic, on a cot, breaking free of the deep sleep.
She remembered the kiss in the salt marsh, Sanchez in all his trusting glory, and snapped forward, gasping for breath. She struggled through the mush in her brain, heard her limbs popping and cracking. But her lungs now breathed only for her, her heart beat only for her. She was free, free. Maddie swung her legs over the side of the cot.
For moments, she just sat there, gripping the sides of the cot, her mind assaulted by images of the men in hazmat suits, bleeding out in the middle of downtown, of Sam Dorset controlled by Whit up here in the attic, of— A steel door slammed shut in her head. She couldn’t allow the horrors to keep her paralyzed. She curled and uncurled her toes, flexed her fingers and wrists, lifted her arms, moved her legs, sucked air into her lungs. She listened to the deep, steady beat of her heart and nearly wept with joy that her body functioned only for herself.
I’m free free free and so outta here.
Her running shoes stood side by side on the floor, and Maddie quickly put them on. When she stood, her knees felt as if they were filled with water, couldn’t sustain her weight, and buckled. She struck the floor and stifled a sob of frustration. Get up fast, you need to get out of here. Maddie gripped the edge of the cot, pulled herself to her feet, and weaved over to the other cot where Sam lay in the deep sleep.
“Wake up, Sam, c’mon,” she whispered, shaking him by the shoulders.
He muttered and groaned and turned slowly onto his side, as though his mind and body were mired in honey. Maddie forced him to turn onto his back and slapped him across the face. He pushed up onto his elbows, shaking his head like a dog with fleas. His eyes squinted open, his murmurs melted together. Maddie helped him sit up all the way, moved his legs until they hung over the edge of the cot.
“Sam,” she whispered urgently. “We’re free, okay? They’re gone and you need to get up and walk so we can get the hell outta here. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Y-yes. But—”
“No buts. C’mon, here’re your shoes.” She slipped on his left loafer, his right. “I’ll help you stand. It’s not far to the door. It’s light outside now, so we’re going to have to sneak out through the kitchen and into the alley. And then into some other alley and get as far away from the hotel as possible.”
“If they … find us…”
“They won’t find us if you move your goddamn legs. Put your arm around my waist. Okay, good. Left foot, right, you’re doing fine, not much farther to the door. We’re going to take the back stairs to the kitchen, then go out that rear door that opens to the alley. You with me, Sam?”
“I’m moving, I’m okay, I’m so … sorry for what happened, Maddie, for what I did to—”
“It wasn’t you, Sam. Forget it. Focus, just focus.”
“I feel like shit, I need to take a piss…”
“Keep moving.” They reached the door. “Just stand right here for a second. I want to check that old bureau. Maybe we stuffed our packs in there before they put us under. Shit, I can’t remember.” She remembered removing her shoes, keeping her jacket on, but couldn’t recall what had happened to her pack. Had Dominica performed a quick memory wipe before she’d plunged Maddie into the deep sleep?
Maddie jerked open the drawers and rifled through old place mats, old clothes, old linens, old dusty stuff. No packs, nothing useful, of course not. Dominica had been thorough. She hurried back to Sam, cracked open the door, and they started down the old, sloping stairs.
They reached the second-story landing, but when they heard voices nearby, just up the hall, they ducked into a storage room. Pitch-black. But she’d been in here often enough while working at the hotel to know her way around. Stacked on the shelves were linens, towels, pillows, bedspreads, blankets, and quilts. Two large bins on wheels overflowed with dirty bedding and towels that had been sitting here for weeks.
Maddie patted her way across the wall until she located the handle for the oversized door to the laundry chute. She pulled it open and a thin watery light appeared at the very end of it, in the hotel cellar. Not a cellar, exactly, not like those in Esperanza, more like a postscript. It was below the kitchen, on the ground floor. Maddie knew there was an exit from there into the alley. The chute dropped about twenty-five feet, and the bin beneath it was empty.
She scooped dirty sheets and towels out of the overflowing bins and shoved them down the chute, creating a nest in the bin for her and Sam to land in. But would it be enough to prevent a hard landing that might snap a foot or leg? Add more, play it safe.
“Sam, give me a hand here. We’re going down the chute but we need more stuff to land on.”
He didn’t reply.
Maddie glanced around. Just enough light trickled through the chute door and into the storage room for her to see Sam slumped against the wall, hands pressed to the sides of his head, as if he were holding it in place. He gave no indication that he’d heard her. Maddie went over to him, gripped his arms. “Sam. Pay attention. We’re going down the chute. From there, we can get out of the hotel and—”
“And to where, Maddie? Don’t you fucking get it? There’s no place to hide from them, no place where we’re safe, no—”
“Fine. Then stay here, where they’re sure to find you. I’m outta here.”
She quickly scooped more laundry from the bin, dropped it down the chute. When the bin below looked satisfyingly full, Maddie swung one leg over the edge, then the other. “Sam?”
“They’ll find us,” he said.
“They’ll find you, for sure.”
She pushed off and dropped with shocking speed from darkness into a dim light. She landed feet first in a mountain of laundry, sank to her knees, looked around uneasily, making sure she was alone. The light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling on the other side of the room, and between it and her stood three more overflowing bins of laundry. One of them sat beneath the chute from the kitchen like a giant open mouth waiting for leftover food. It held dozens of tablecloths and napkins. Stacked next to a laundry sink on the other side of the room were plates encrusted with old food, stained glasses, used silverware. Some brujo either disliked kitchen detail and had decided to get even with his boss or had suffered memory loss about where the kitchen actually was. Regardless, the neglect didn’t surprise her.
The sheets on which that Disney World group had slept hadn’t been changed since they had departed. These bins had probably been filled since January, Maddie thought. The kitchen upstairs was so filthy a health inspector would puke. But that was the brujo way, a disregard for basic cleanliness and hygiene.
As Maddie stood, Sam landed beside her in the nest of sheets and towels.
“You’re right.” His voice vibrated with tension, fear. “Staying here is certain death.”
“They may find us
anyway, but at least we’ll know we tried.”
They scrambled out of the bin and crossed the room to the alley door. Maddie unlocked it, and they peeked out. Brilliant sunlight sliced into her eyes, the chilly air nibbled at her skin. A scrawny cat darted through the light and shadows and vanished behind a garbage can spilling over with bulging bags of trash. The alley in both directions was as empty as her hope had been for months.
She and Sam slipped out into the March morning and ran like the refugees they were. They stopped when the alley emptied into State Road 24, and huddled back against the wall, arms clutched to their chests for warmth. Just up the road lay Island Market, definitely under brujo control. The tribe also controlled the small museum, gas stations, bed-and-breakfast places, and motels along this road. It didn’t mean brujos guarded these locations right now, but she scratched them off her list of possible hiding places.
“Now what?” she whispered. “It’s your island, Sam.”
He looked cold and scared. “On the next block, that half-finished church. They’re terrified of churches.”
Brujos feared cemeteries and fire, and Dominica didn’t like oceans because she didn’t know how to swim. But to her knowledge, they weren’t afraid of churches, crucifixes, or garlic. These ghosts weren’t like vampires. Maddie didn’t argue with Sam, though. Maybe he knew something she didn’t. Maybe, through Whit, Sam had access to information that she simply couldn’t reach in Dominica. The dead shared among themselves in ways the living did not. The brujo net was evidence of that, a telepathic connection that guaranteed company and compassion for any ghost, anywhere, once they tapped into it. The living also had this same sort of net, but they were so divided in their religious and cultural beliefs that they rarely tapped into it. Most of the living didn’t even know it existed.
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