Talker 25

by McCune, Joshua

  And now it’s the dragons’ turn to suffer. Hunted toward extinction. Slaughtered by All-Blacks or dissected by scientists. Each night at eight, seven Central, a government spokesmodel lists the numbers of Blues, Reds, and Greens killed.

  They’ve turned it into a national lottery, most everyone eager to win.

  Except for the crazies. Camera crews in tow, one group of nutjobs attempted to commune with a Green hiding in the Appalachians. They were roasted; the Green was executed.

  Inspired my new favorite show.

  Each episode begins with a warning against amateur dragon hunts. The next fifteen minutes provide details on the enemy. Number of kills, famous buildings destroyed, last known whereabouts. Show some clips of the monster in action, fifteen minutes of teary interviews with victims’ friends and families, then on to the good stuff.

  Frank, Kevin, Mac, and L.T. (who replaced J.R. after he was killed in season two) skulk into jungles, rappel down mountains, trudge through swamps. Whispered banter in the early stages gives way to the minor-key soundtrack that accentuates leaves crackling, rocks skittering, water splashing—any noise that might alert the evil dragon and endanger the innocent humans.

  Shot in natural light, the armored soldiers are little more than hulking shadows until they come in sight of their glowing quarry, nicknamed Redzilla, Komodo Green, or something else easily remembered for the tie-in video games played by farmboys across the globe.

  The fab four sneak into position. Two quick minutes of gunfire, shouts and curses, and the dragon is hogtied and collared. The camera zooms in on the monster’s snarling face. The soldiers use knives to peel scales from its cheeks. Frank, a ruggedly handsome man, sticks his kill token to his helmet and turns to the camera.

  “There are many rules critical for a successful dragon hunt. The first and most important: never wake a sleeping dragon. The sonofabitch’s a lot easier to kiss when asleep.”

  I’ve heard this rule before. Episodes one, fourteen, twenty-seven, and thirty—the one where J.R. died because he woke a wily Red. And somewhere else, too.

  An episode later, I remember Konrad Kline and his farmboy advice.

  Frank bows his head and leads a brief prayer as the Mean Green Machine writhes in the background. The soldiers gather around the dragon and kiss it while giving thumbs-ups, saluting, flashing peace signs. An unseen photographer snaps pictures. After various poses, the dragon hunters disappear out of frame and a large digital X is stamped across the monster’s forehead.

  The credits roll to triumphant music. On one side scroll the names of producers, directors, cameramen, and the “brave soldiers of the armed forces”; the other plays a montage of the interviewees hugging their All-Black heroes and laying flowers at graves. At the end, an In Memoriam for the victims.

  Who in their right mind could empathize with these monsters after watching an episode of Kissing Dragons?

  Empathize or not, I beg for their help often. Cover my ears, close my eyes, and concentrate. Send out mental pleas to Old Man Blue, Vestia, Syren . . .

  There’s never any response. Maybe there’s no signal down here. Or maybe the fab four got them.

  Midway through episode sixty-seven, the finale to season three—a hunt for twin Reds hiding in the outback—several of the glowing rectangles on the wall flash into letters. Riley Hanson. A familiar name, though I don’t know why.

  Riley scrolls once around the room. Back to the colored rectangles. A second later, another flash. Who is Johnny Mathers? Six more unfamiliar names go by, then Captain Timothy Wright, USAF. Several more military personnel, followed by dozens of men and women without ranks.

  I miss episode sixty-eight watching names. Nobody I know. A glitch in the BoDA entertainment system?

  The truth hits me toward the end of episode sixty-nine. Riley Hanson was a Montana ranch hand who spotted the first dragon. Mistook it for a UFO. Became a footnote in history. The first dragon victim.

  A dragon kiss later, Mr. Food Man shoves a paper plate into my room.

  “You’ll have to pick up the pace!” I scream at his boot heel before the slot snaps shut.

  I struggle to my feet and wave at Lance Corporal Edward Hicks, USMC as he makes his loop around the room. “I’ll be dead before you get to Mom!”

  Two episodes later, the lights go out, the screen turns off.

  “I’m not a traitor,” I moan into my mattress over and over.

  “Then what are you?”

  I look up. Lights still off. Screen, too.

  “I’m not a traitor. You believe me, don’t you?”

  No response.

  I stand, shuffle my way around the room with arms extended. Padded walls, toilet, showerhead. Down on my knees, I find the paper plate, chew at the rest of the meat, which tastes better now. Where’s the bread? Did I eat it already? Did rats get it?

  Sometimes I nap, usually against the wall opposite the screen. It’s more comfortable than my bed. And my BoDA landlords are so nice. Once I drifted off with the infrared images of Frank, Mac, Kevin, and L.T. navigating through a field of stalagmites; when I woke, they were still prowling the dark depths of Mammoth Cave.

  So maybe I’ve been here more than a hundred hours, but that’s okay. I’m back to season one, and J.R.’s smiling nice and pretty in his unscorched hat. And the names scrolling along the ceiling don’t make me sad anymore, except for the Sams, Peters, Olivias, Keiths, Jameses . . .

  We’re back in season two, episode twenty-eight—J.R.’s been reckless recently. Doesn’t bode well for him and his hat—when the lights go white, the screen shuts off, and the door opens.

  I’m in the shower, fully clothed, but not at all presentable. Covering my eyes against the brightness, I stare at the shadow outlined in the doorway. “Hello?”

  A D-man steps forward. My height. Red hair, a receding hairline. He gives me a towel, which I wrap around my soaked sweatshirt. “Sam?”

  I glance at my hands. Pruney. Wrinkled? Maybe I slept longer than I thought.

  “Come with me, Ms. Callahan.”

  Folding my arms across the towel, I give him my stern older-sister look. “This isn’t some prank, is it?”

  “Jesus,” he says beneath his breath, but I hear. “No, Ms. Callahan, this isn’t a prank.” He gives me a sad look, like he thinks I’m crazy.

  “I’m not a dragon talker, Sam. I’m not a traitor. I’m not—”

  “Ms. Callahan, I am not your brother.”

  “He’s not dead, is he? I kept thinking his name was gonna appear on the wall, even though I knew it would take years, but I watched for it. You’re not lying to me?”

  “No. In fact, I’m here to take you to see him.” He touches the handcuffs looped through his belt. “I trust you won’t try anything rash.”

  Shaking my head, I squat and grab the plate from where I’d placed it near the drain. I offer it to him.

  He blanches. “Thanks, but I’ve never had the stomach for dragon.”

  It takes me a couple of seconds to register his words, but when they click into place, I vomit onto his black loafers.

  “Baby?” I slide down the wall, clutching at my stomach. No, I mustn’t feel sad. “I’m not a traitor, Mr. D-man. I’m not a traitor.”

  He turns on the shower and washes regurgitated dragon from his shoes. I unwrap my towel and give it to him, nice and proper. “I’m not a traitor, Mr. D-man.”

  “Of course not.” He opens his briefcase, which contains a PDA and a silver circlet that reminds me of a dragon collar, except miniature. He pulls it out, offers it to me like a crown.

  I shrink away. “What is it?”

  “A CENSIR. It prevents communication.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone. Can’t call Dad or Sam or anyone.”

  He comes closer. “Not that sort of communication.”

  “Oh. But I’m not a traitor.”

  “Even so . . .” He places the circlet on my head.

  “Does it hurt?”

  The D-
man gives me a sympathetic smile. “A little at first.”

  He removes the PDA. I notice words inscribed on the case. CONTROLLER FOR ENCEPHALO SYNAPTIC INHIBITION AND RECORDING (CENSIR). I’m trying to makes sense of them when the CENSIR warms and tightens. I groan, scream, beg for it to stop, but it doesn’t until Mr. D-man’s PDA beeps.

  He pockets it, helps me up. “Can you see?”

  “Dizzy,” I manage to say.

  He wraps his arm around my waist. “It’ll be a few minutes before you feel right.”

  Feel right? I laugh, which hurts my head. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”

  Another sad smile. “We had to be sure,” he says, and walks me from the room.

  I glance back at the thinscreen. “Will we be back in time before the next episode? It’s the one where they go after Abominable Red at Everest. Definitely on my top-five list.”

  “No. Probably not.”

  “You’re gonna make me miss my show? You’re horrible, horrible people.”

  I say it like a joke, but he frowns and nods, like he doesn’t think it’s a joke at all.

  “Yes, Melissa, unfortunately we are.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  17

  Beneath sun too bright, but too short-lived, Mr. D-man leads me across a narrow street to another nondescript building. Potted plants, a secretary’s desk, and a couple of cheap paintings adorn the lobby.

  A receptionist buzzes us through a glass door at the back into a room that resembles a single-person salon, complete with rotating armchair, wash basin, and lighted mirror. An array of beauty products lines the countertop.

  Mr. D-man waves at an opaque half globe mounted to the ceiling.

  The door at the end of the room bursts open. A short, bespectacled man in a purple silk shirt bustles out, followed by a towering fat woman whose floral-print dress somehow intensifies her double-chinned scowl.

  Purple Shirt looks me over, wrinkling his nose. “Strip.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  He extends his hand back, flicks his fingers in a commanding gesture. The flower lady slaps a rolled-up tape measure into his palm. He uncoils it, steps on one end, reaches up, and presses the other to my head.

  “Seventy and one quarter. Come on, girl, strip.” The little tailor points toward the door. “You. Out.” That was quick. I turn to leave. “Not you, girl. The dragon man.”

  Mr. D-man releases my elbow. I wobble for a few seconds before finding my balance. “I’m fine.” He nods and retreats out the door.

  Purple Shirt strokes his goatee, purses his lips. “Strip.”

  “Why?”

  “For your dress. Helga, help her.”

  I’m out of my sweatshirt before Purple Shirt’s fat assistant takes her second step. No way I’m letting that lady touch me. After the jeans come off, the tailor makes fast work of me, barking measurements to Helga. He finishes, hands her the tape measure, then scurries from the room, mumbling about my odor.

  Helga bundles my clothes, holding them at arm’s length like soiled diapers. She points at the door on the far side of the sink. “You shower now, Stinky.”

  “What about—”

  “Shower.” She marches from the room, leaving me alone in my bra and underwear, crusted shoulder bandage, and silver crown. What a monstrous (and evidently smelly) queen I must be.

  Bruised, bloodied, subsisting on dragon meat and moldy bread—for how long? Nothing but dirt showers. God help me, I must be worse than monstrous. I make a slow turn toward the mirror to check what’s become of me.

  The girl gazing back at me shares my startled gasp. She’s no older than seventeen, once pretty perhaps, maybe someone I knew.

  She looks lost, confused, alone.

  “You’re not a traitor,” I tell her. “You did what you thought was right. Yom chi.”

  I wipe at my eyes, give her a pained smile. “Not a traitor. Not a victim. In nae.”

  “That’s right, persevere. Baekjul boolgool, Melissa, no matter what. Now go get cleaned up. You look like ass.”

  Hot water, soap, shampoo. Simple things that make me feel almost normal, make me almost forget where I am, what I am. As blood, dirt, and grime disappear down the drain, the fog that surrounds me begins to clear.

  I’m considering spending eternity in this shower room when someone with a cigarette voice calls from the other side of the curtain. I peek out. A short woman in a pink pantsuit stands a foot away.

  She flings back the curtain.

  “They don’t pay me to wait.” She snatches a towel from a wall hook and thrusts it at me. “Get over yourself, sweetheart. The longer you gawp, the angrier I get. And me and tweezers don’t work well when I’m angry.”

  I dry off under her intense gaze. “Who are you?”

  “Cosmo Kim. You probably haven’t heard of me.” She gives me a quick once-over. “Definitely don’t look like you’ve heard of me.”

  “The Cosmo Kim?” Über-fashion consultant to the stars. Or maybe it’s fashion consultant to the über-stars.

  “Not everybody’s natural. Some of us require work.” She frowns at me. “Some of us, a lot of work. That’s enough.” She jerks the towel from me as I’m drying my legs, then hands me fresh undergarments.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Do I look like a scale chaser to you? Pink’s a dead giveaway, I thought. Maybe I’ll wear a sign next time. Faster. Can’t you dress and listen at the same time?”

  She leads me back to the salon, sits me in the chair, and tips my head back into the basin. “Try to relax.”

  She proceeds to give me a facial, waxes my legs. Next comes makeup, makeup, and more makeup. What the hell is going on? Three times I ask, three times Cosmo Kim suggests I relax.

  I drift.

  A firm shake awakens me. Helga. She’s holding a sleeveless white cocktail dress. Behind her, Purple Shirt’s got a silver belt that’s studded with red, green, and blue gems.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hold still,” Helga orders. She unwraps my towel with surprising gentleness and helps me into the white dress. It’s tight in the chest, tighter in the hips. She takes the belt from Purple Shirt, cinches it around my stomach, then sits me back down and slips a three-inch heel onto each foot.

  Purple Shirt claps. “Ah! See, Helga, I told you there was a pretty girl inside.”

  “One last thing.” Helga takes a brooch from her pocket and pins it to my shoulder. “Yes, a beautiful angel,” she says, twirling the chair around a hundred-eighty degrees.

  I thought I recognized the girl in the mirror before, but this one I’ve never seen. Her hair’s blond and falls in glorious curls around her shoulders. Eyebrows are also dyed, what remains of them. Smoky eye shadow. Enough foundation to fill a grave. Skin a shade between gold and bronze. Midnight-red lipstick to offset the silver circlet nestled in her hair.

  And a silver dragon pin on her breast, right over her heart. Anger wells inside me.

  I reach for the brooch, but Helga slaps my hand away. “No touch.” When I reach again, she jerks me from the chair. I kick at her with my pointed shoes. She spins me around, pulls my arms behind me, and applies a pair of handcuffs.

  As Purple Shirt waves good-bye, Helga escorts me into the lobby, where Mr. D-man awaits. He looks at me, smiles. “I preferred you as a brunette.”

  God, how did I ever think he could be Sam?

  He loads me into the back of the Escalade. I squirm away from him, lean against the tinted window, hope he’ll stop looking at me.

  It’s a cloudy twilight now. Parallel rows of ankle-high green solar lamps mark the road. Blue runway lights in the distance brighten as the suns slips below the horizon.

  Windowless buildings blur together. Headlights and taillights from other vehicles make irregular patterns. We pass several open hangars, lights on, me
chanics and welders busy. Mr. D-man continues to leer.

  I attempt to contact dragons, but my silent pleas fall on deaf or dead ears. I check the sky every few seconds anyway. I search the black buildings, looking for the dragattoir, for a hint of silver glow peeking through the darkness.

  Nothing.

  At another hangar that seems like all the rest, the Escalade makes a left. We park between a black van and a black BMW.

  Mr. D-man herds me to the entrance of the adjoining building. One firm hand on my back, the other on my elbow, he leans in, his breath warm and heavy on my neck.

  The goose bumps working their way up my arms from the cool night air give way to full-on shivering. I peek over my shoulder. The Escalade’s gone.

  “Sorry,” he whispers. He’s close enough for me to feel his heartbeat racing a storm—or maybe it’s mine.

  “Please, don’t do this,” I say, unable to keep the panic from my voice.

  He squeezes my shoulder.

  I raise my foot, ready to slam the stiletto spike through his loafer. Maybe if I hurt him enough, I’ll be able to get away. Some All-Black will shoot me, or someone will run me over in the dark, but that’s better than this.

  Anything’s better than this.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  18

  Abruptly he releases his grip on my shoulder, reaches out, and presses the buzzer.

  My relief lasts until the door opens to bright lights mounted on massive video cameras. Mr. D-man nudges me forward. My heel catches on the threshold, and I tumble.

  The lights zoom in at me. Mr. D-man helps me to my feet. The cameramen wait for us to pass, then follow close behind. I keep myself steady, hold my head high.

  The door at the end of the hallway cracks ajar. Muffled voices come from the other side. The door starts opening again. I chew through a thick layer of lipstick, glance over my shoulder. Mr. D-man and a wall of cameras block any chance of retreat.