She stepped from a hospital stairwell into the barn. Staring at the pile of blood-spattered loose change from the slot machines, she realized her mistake. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She wanted to steal some food from the fridge and go to her Bismarck bolt-hole. She entered the farmhouse the regular way, through the kitchen door. And was immediately enveloped with a warm buttery, creamy, beefy aroma: Mom was cooking a big pot of stroganoff.
Oh, shit. Mom, thought Mollie. She’d never thought to go get Mom, or warn her that half the family was in the hospital with grievous injuries. The kitchen door banged shut behind her before she could catch it. Mom came into the kitchen a second later, as though summoned by the racket. She still wore her apron, and carried a dish towel draped over one shoulder.
From the other room came the sound of a TV rapidly flipping through the channels. The younger boys—Adam, Michael, Jeff—hated Wheel of Fortune and always changed the channel when Mom and Dad were out of the room. They must have come home from school while Mollie was at the hospital. Rural bus routes sometimes got them home an hour or more after school let out.
Mom said, “You all almost done out there? Whatever stupid scheme you got going now, it’s taking your father and the older boys away from their chores. You come and go as you please, dropping in when it’s convenient, or when you’re hungry, or when you have laundry you don’t feel like doing yourself, but you forget this is a farm with work to be done.”
Who would do the work now? How long would they be in the hospital? Even after they’re discharged, even if they eventually heal, it’ll take a long time before …
“Mollie!” Mom snapped her fingers at Mollie. Drying her hands on the dish towel, she said, “I asked you a question. How much longer are you gonna be wasting everyone’s time in the barn?”
“There’s been … Mom, something happened. Something bad.”
She started to explain but realized she couldn’t. That she didn’t know how to explain what happened because she didn’t understand it. Didn’t even want to think about it. She managed to say, “They’re in the hospital.”
Mom dropped the towel. “Who?”
“All of them.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Marcus said, for about the hundredth time. “I just didn’t know…” He carried Olena’s unconscious body pressed to his chest. Face flushed and sweaty, his breathing came hard. His arms quivered with fatigue, but he kept moving. His one goal the only thing driving him.
The hours since he broke through the barricade had been one long misery of motion and worry. He dodged soldiers and troop transports heading toward Talas, and refugees fleeing the city in vehicles and on foot. He darted for cover as helicopters flew in low, thrumming their way toward Talas, and squirmed even faster when fighter jets appeared, always instantly there, announcing themselves with an earsplitting roar.
All the while he kept checking Olena. For a time she had been feverish. She had bouts of trembling, and would occasionally mumble something. Later she went deathly still and got cooler to the touch. Her breathing became so faint Marcus feared time and again that she’d died. That he’d killed her. If that turned out to be true, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He’d go to Talas and give in to the madness. Part of him wanted to do that even now. First, though, he had to try the one thing he thought might save her.
It wasn’t until he cut away from the highway and up the valley toward the village that the last sounds of the chaos truly fell away. By the time he dragged himself down the main street of the village under the lightening sky of dawn, the world seemed almost normal. Quiet. Tranquil. The dusty street was empty, breath held. He slid down it, Olena so very limp and cool against him. He set her down on the street in front of the Handsmith’s house. He hated the way her head lolled, the way her arms and legs flopped. He told himself that she wasn’t dead. Not yet. Not yet.
He slithered away to pound on the Handsmith’s door. “Jyrgal! Jyrgal! It’s Marcus. Please help me!” He kept up his pounding on the frail door until it opened. Jyrgal looked warily out at him, wearing only a long nightshirt. The amorphous stubs of his hands were uncovered, writhing. His wife stood behind him, looking frightened.
“Olena’s dying,” Marcus said. “She’s cold and barely breathing. She needs Nurassyl.”
The man stared at him, perplexed and, of course, not understanding his English. Marcus grasped him by the arms. He pulled him through the doorway and pointed at Olena. Jyrgal said something under his breath and rushed to her. He knelt beside her, checked her pulse, her forehead. He looked back up at Marcus. He wanted, Marcus knew, to understand what was wrong with her. Even if they spoke the same language, what could Marcus say? That he’d poisoned her to save her? And how could he convey what he’d been trying to save her from? He couldn’t explain anything, so he just pleaded, “Please. Bring Nurassyl. Please…”
The Handsmith glanced back toward his house, taking everyone’s eyes with him. Aliya stood in the doorway, Nurassyl half hidden behind her, pressed tight to her hip, his large eyes wide with concern. Marcus called gently to the joker boy. “Nurassyl, please come. She needs you.” The boy stared at him, his mouth an oval as round as his eyes. Marcus pointed at his tentacled hands. He mimed his healing touch. He pointed to his own cuts and burns, touching them, and then pointed to Olena. “But not me,” he said. “Her. Heal her.” He didn’t know how to act that part out, so he gestured toward her, beseeching, letting the unconscious evidence of her speak for him.
After a confirming nod from his father, the boy slid forward on his many tentacled base. When he bent over Olena his eyes grew attentive instead of fearful. He pulled his hands away from his chest, tentacles squirming. He touched one hand to her neck, at exactly the place Marcus had tongue-tagged her. The other he eased across her forehead, down across her nose and mouth. The tentacles expanded to cover her face entirely. Marcus almost cried out, afraid that she wouldn’t be able to breathe. He stopped himself, though. As strange as it was to watch, this was what he’d brought her here for. Nurassyl, the boy who he’d named an ace. He knew what that healing touch felt like, he just hoped it would be enough to save her.
The nurse was busy in the plane’s galley heating soup for Baba Yaga. Franny had slept for a few hours and awakened ravenous. He made a sandwich of cheese and hummus and dreamed about getting home and having a cheeseburger and a beer. There was a well-stocked bar on the plane, but he resisted. He needed to keep his wits about him, and he didn’t think a combo of bourbon and pain pills would help him do that. He returned to Baba Yaga and settled in the seat across from her.
“We need to start making some plans.”
“The plan is that you take messages from me to people who can actually accomplish things,” she snapped.
He held on to the fraying ends of his temper. “Okay, fine, but I’ve got to be able to tell them something other than a criminal needs to talk to you.” He decided to test his premise. “Besides, which, I’ve arrested you,” he added. “You can tell them yourself.”
She laughed and it was surprisingly robust like the harsh cry of a crow. “You’ve arrested me? You would be adorable if you weren’t so foolish. My plane, my people. I could have you beaten senseless or tossed out if it pleased me to do so.”
Franny glanced down the length of the plane to where the nurse stared with cold eyes at him. The nurse had four inches and probably eighty pounds on him. Franny might have been able to take him if he wasn’t wounded and exhausted. In his current condition he didn’t have a prayer.
“Okay. I see your point. Still doesn’t obviate mine. I need to know what is happening.”
“Something is entering the world, and it will not be kind to our reality. It will bring horrors, madness, and change. Can humans survive?” She fell silent, then gave a tiny head shake. “Doubtful.”
“More hints and no specifics. Fucking give me something!”
She bowed her head. He could see the lin
e of white between scalp and the bright red where her hair was growing out. “I will tell you a little story. Once I was young.” She shot him a bleak smile. “Yes, it’s true … and beautiful. My companion and partner was a hero of the Motherland, handsome, brave, fearless.” Her hand went unconsciously to her breast and that medal. “He had a great power that he used in service of the revolution. He was known as Hellraiser, but I knew him as Tolenka.”
“Okay, great. This is relevant how?”
“You met him or his body in that hospital room in Talas.”
“That joker?”
“He was not a joker. He was an ace. What is in him has twisted and deformed him,” she said.
“What is in him,” Franny repeated with a growing sense of dread.
Baba Yaga looked up. “A creature too powerful, too fearsome to be banished.” The flow of words stopped and she gazed at memories. “All we could do was hold it at bay.”
The nurse arrived carrying a steaming bowl of soup. Baba Yaga waved Franny away.
It was a clusterfuck.
There was no other way to describe the conglomeration of military, medical, and media clumped together outside the fog-enshrouded city of Talas. Michelle closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her index finger. Even by normal FUBAR standards, this was a corker.
As they pulled up in the armored Hummer, Michelle saw that the Kazakh army was dominating the area. There were khaki military tents set up, but they seemed to have been placed haphazardly. Michelle saw pairs of guards walking the perimeter.
About seventy-five meters from the military camp was the Red Crescent encampment. Like the military setup, there were tents erected, but the pattern to them was even more haphazard than the military one—as if they had gone up fast. There were people in yellow hazmat suits removing patients from ambulances. Michelle saw that most of the people on stretchers had drawn a Black Queen and some appeared to be jokers. A handful looked like nats, but they were crying or babbling incoherently as they were carried off. A frantic hum was in the air.
A phalanx of media was set up behind an orange honeycomb-plastic barrier. The stretchy webbing was doing little to stop the TV crews from encroaching on the buffer between them and the people doing the real work inside the Red Crescent compound.
Just inside the barrier, a woman—Michelle assumed it was one of the Red Crescent doctors—was talking to a reporter from MSNBC. The doctor had her hazmat helmet cradled in her right arm. Michelle couldn’t hear what was being said, but from the expression on the doctor’s face, she wanted nothing more than to end the interview.
“Jesus,” Bugsy said as he began taking video footage with his camera that Michelle knew he would post on his blog later. “They sure know how to put on a show.”
“I get the feeling this wasn’t exactly planned,” Michelle replied. She knew all too well how difficult it was to control the media once they got hold of something juicy. “And please don’t be quite so obvious about the filming. I know you want the inside story, but don’t be an asshole about getting it.”
Bugsy looked hurt. “Okay, maybe I’m an asshole sometimes, but I’m here to help the Committee, so lay off.” A couple of wasps detached from his hand and landed on Michelle. She brushed them away impatiently.
“As long as you do what Lohengrin needs you to do, we’re good,” she replied. “But the mission comes first. The rest of us—” She pointed at the other aces who were grouped by the Hummer. “We’re here for one reason—and we can’t afford anyone screwing that up.”
The Angel and Ana came over to them. “This is nothing but a huge mess,” Ana said. She shoved up the sleeves of her denim shirt then glanced around. “Does it look like the army tents have been moved recently?”
The Angel and Michelle turned and looked back toward Talas. There was a large area with flattened grass and dirt roads winding to nowhere. It was about 250 meters from where the military camp was now.
“I think you’re right,” Michelle said. The Angel nodded in agreement. “And the fog is covering part of that area.”
“Have you called Barbara yet and told her what’s going on?” Sheeba asked Michelle. She sounded cool and regal like she always did.
“I thought Klaus would be doing that,” Michelle replied, pulling her phone out of her pocket. It was Committee standard issue and would work just about anywhere. “But you know, it might be helpful for her to hear what’s going on from a different point of view.”
A uniformed private hurried up and snapped a salute at Klaus, who was standing a few meters away. “Mr. Hausser, sir,” he said hurriedly in heavily accented English. “I have orders to bring you and the other Committee members to General Nabiyev for a briefing on the situation.”
Michelle looked around again. Yep, there was no doubt about it. The situation was a clusterfuck. While the others followed Klaus, she stayed behind to call Barbara. It went directly to Babel’s phone. Michelle was prepared to tell Babel everything she’d seen, but instead of Barbara, Ink picked up.
“Director Baden’s line.”
“You know it’s me, Juliet,” Michelle said with some irritation. “There’s caller ID on this phone.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Jesus, ‘Rooster in the henhouse,’” Michelle said, giving the pass phrase. “I cannot believe you.”
“Oh, c’mon, Michelle,” Juliet said impatiently. “You know procedure. Let me get Barbara.”
Michelle waited for a moment, then Babel came on the line.
“Michelle, I didn’t expect to hear from anyone so soon. Did Klaus tell you to call?” There was a faint anxiousness in her voice.
Michelle looked around to see if anyone could hear her, then walked closer to the Hummer, just to be sure. “Things are pretty confused here,” she replied. She pulled her cap even lower over her forehead. Though the other aces were pretty well known and it was possible they’d been recognized by the press, Michelle was much more high-profile. It might set off a frenzy if the press knew the Committee had taken an interest in Talas.
“Klaus and the rest of the team have gone to talk to General Nabiyev. I’ll keep in touch with you as much as possible. I figured you could use someone letting you know how things are going—and how Klaus is doing.”
It sounded like Babel gave a tiny sigh of relief, and Michelle knew she’d done the right thing. If Joey had been in a similar situation, she’d want to know what was going on with her, too.
“Klaus is Klaus,” Michelle said. “Taking control, doing his Klaus thing. I can’t stay long or I’ll be missed. I know it’s not protocol, but I’m going to call Joey about Adesina.”
“I’m giving special permission for that, Michelle,” Babel said, her voice not altogether businesslike. “I know you didn’t want to leave her, and I’d rather you know how she’s doing than not. Just make the call quick.”
“Thanks, Babs,” Michelle said.
“Stop calling me that.”
The connection was broken. Michelle immediately called Joey. The phone rang a couple of times, then Joey picked up.
“It’s me,” Michelle said hurriedly. “I only have a second. How’s Adesina? Any change? I don’t suppose you’ve had any dreams…”
“I’m sorry, Michelle. The niblet hasn’t done anything. No visiting me in dreams. Just the same as when you left,” Joey replied. “Wally came over with Ghost. There was no response.”
“Oh,” Michelle said in a small voice.
“You get there okay?”
“Yeah, but it’s a mess here. I just hope we can figure out what’s going on soon.”
“Yeah, me, too.” There was an odd tension in Joey’s voice, but Michelle didn’t have time to tease out what it was.
“Okay,” Michelle said. “I’ll call again soon as I can.” Then she tapped the off button on her phone. The quick phone call to Joey wasn’t nearly enough time. Even though nothing had changed, she wanted to talk to Joey about how much she hated being away from them both.
<
br /> She started walking toward the general’s tent. She hoped Nabiyev realized what kind of situation he had by the tail, but you never knew what you might get with military. Like most people, sometimes they were the best thing ever, and sometimes they were so clueless you despaired for the human race.
Fortunately, Nabiyev was the former. Michelle knew he was feeling the strain of being in charge of a rapidly deteriorating situation. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the collar of his shirt was damp despite the unseasonably cool weather.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Nabiyev began. He was tall and thin with a sallow complexion and eyes. “Things are getting worse, and we’re still not certain what is happening. We can’t discern the nature of the fog. And as you can tell by the drone photos, it’s expanding. We’ve already moved back our forces once to avoid possible infection.
“We believe we have the source pinpointed.” He jabbed a finger into the map on the table in front of him. It landed roughly in the center of the fog, and the ID marker read: NAZABBAYES MEMORIAL HOSPITAL.
Klaus looked at the map and back at Nabiyev. “Have you sent in any forces?” he asked.
“Of course we have,” the general replied acerbically. “Do you really think I would allow this thing to escalate without taking some kind of action?” His eyes narrowed. “I realize you have your little band of aces here, but we have men brave enough to go in there without any powers. And we have an ace of our own!” He pointed across the room to a short, dark-haired, brown-eyed woman. Her nose was broad and flat. Michelle noticed that her freckled fawn-colored skin had a subtle golden glow to it.
“This is Inkar,” he said with no small amount of pride. “She is our first ace. Show them your power!”
Inkar looked appalled and uncomfortable. “With all respect, sir. There is hardly enough room in here for all of us, much less me in my Tulpar form.”
The general frowned, then nodded. “You must show them after we’re done here.” Inkar nodded, but Michelle could tell she wasn’t happy being asked to put on a show.
High Stakes: A Wild Cards Novel Page 28