The Otherworld

by Mercedes Lackey

  :Well,: she said. :Are you going to do something, or am I?:

  His father, evidently, didn't see a thing. Joe did notice a transparency to her appearance now, which hadn't been obvious when she was in the bathroom. He could see through her, as though she was constructed of an elaborate pattern of faintly colored fog.

  :Surprise. I forgot to tell you,: Sarah said. :Right now I'm only visible to you.:

  Joe exhaled a breath he'd been holding in for a while. Meanwhile, his father continued to rant away, as if he was speaking before a full audience. Maybe he was practicing.

  His father frowned down at him, playing the judgmental God instead of the vengeful version. "I just wanted you to know that you handled things, well, I'd say average. You'll have to stand up a little more to the officers than that. Don't disobey. But be firm. And remember who's really in control of the army." He winked and stood up, looking directly at Sarah. Or, at least, where she was sitting. The little girl stuck her tongue out at him. Joe winced, praying for it all to be over.

  His father waited for him to say something, and he couldn't bear to. He held his peace, and Brother Joseph watched him in frustration and puzzlement.

  Finally, after several moments of silence, he gave up waiting for a response. "I suppose I'll leave you to picking up this room," he said.

  He moved towards the door—then sniffed the air with a puzzled expression.

  "Do you smell something?" he asked, with one hand on the knob. "Smells like, oh, electricity in the air?"

  Joe smelled it, too. He looked at Sarah, who shrugged.

  :Make something up,: she said.

  "Uh, maybe there's a thunderstorm on the way," he supplied, praying his father would just go.

  Brother Joseph hesitated at the door. "Perhaps. Maybe I should have someone check out the breakers in this quadrant. It reminds me too much of what happened the other night." He frowned, shaking his head. "There's something else. Like perfume, maybe. Or flowers. Something sweet."

  He wrinkled his brow, as if troubled with unvoiced thoughts. His eyes looked odd, as if thinking seemed to be taking greater effort than normal for him this evening. Or as if he almost—but not quite—sensed Sarah's presence, and it bothered him so much he was having trouble concentrating.

  Yeah. Like I'm not?

  Brother Joseph seemed to be growing more and more uncomfortable as well. Finally he said the words his son had been longing for and dreading all at the same time.

  "Good night," his father said, and opened the door quickly, shutting it behind him. His exit seemed—rushed. As if something had alarmed him and he was determined not to show it.

  Joe waited until he heard his father's footsteps descend the flight of stairs at the end of the great hallway. Even then, he wasn't able to look at the ghost sitting on his left. Now they were alone.

  Alone, with a ghost. Or a hallucination? He only wished he could believe that.

  :Okay, Joe, it's time to talk,: she said abruptly. :Things are going to start shaking up around here real soon. I want your complete attention, as Miss Agatha would say.:

  Joe picked up a book at random and looked up at her covertly over the top of it. From the viewpoint of the spy camera, it would look as if he was reading it. Fortunately it was on the approved list.

  Much as he dreaded using it, he was going to have to make use of that gift of his to talk to her. If he were caught talking out loud to empty air—well, his father would surely think him possessed. There was no "insanity" among the Chosen Ones after all—it was either "sane and holy" or "possessed by the devil."

  :What kind of things? What do you mean, shaking up?:

  :That's not important to you. Jamie needs your help. Remember what he looked like last time you saw him?:

  Joe shuddered. He suddenly wished she would just go away. :You know, I don't need this! I was just fine until you came along. I was going to defect. Squeal to the police. Things my father would have me shot for. And probably will, if he has a chance. I can't help the kid by myself; I have to get outside and tell the police what's going on here. It's the only thing that will keep Jamie alive.:

  Her expression remained hard and firm. :That's not the attitude I was picking up back there at the dinner table,: she informed him. :You were starting to feel a little too comfortable, if you ask me. Proud of your "men"! They look more like boys to me. And you trained them to hate as well as fight.:

  Joe could feel himself withering under her gaze. :Don't remind me,: he said. :I know what I did. But I can't help the way I was raised.:

  She had no mercy on him whatsoever. :Were you raised to kill innocent people?:

  Like Jamie, did she mean? Or—herself? :No, but—:

  She glared at him, her eyes full of accusation. :You stood there and watched him kill me. Don't you remember that? What did I ever do? Was I a Communist? Was I even a Jew? Would it have been right even if I was? How old was I? Ten? You've gotten to live eight more years than I did!:

  He flung the book across the room and huddled inside his arms, away from her angry gaze. :Shut up!: he screamed inside, resisting the urge to jump to his feet. :I know what happened! I know what I did and didn't do! I couldn't help it! You can't possibly know what it's like to have him as a father!:

  The words came tumbling out, like rocks cascading down a hill in an avalanche. Then the words ran out, and he buried his face in his arms, sobbing. That he was talking to a ghost no longer mattered to him, and somewhere in the back of his mind was the suspicion that he had gone certifiably crazy. :You're right, I was going back on my decision to leave, to help Jamie. But how can you know what it's like? For me or for him?:

  She shifted to a place right above him, where he had to look up to see her. :How do I know? Do you really want an answer to that?:

  Did he? But her attitude demanded an answer, and irked the hell out of him. Who did she think she was, anyway? Who put her in judgment over him? :Yes, I do. What are you, a mind reader or something?:

  Joe wasn't sure if it was a frown or a smirk that passed across her childish features; at this warped angle, her misty composition made her expression especially difficult to read. It also became difficult to tell if he was really talking to a child, or a very angry adult.

  :Okay, smarty-pants,: she said. :Here's how I know.:

  She drifted across the room before he could make a move to stop her—though he hadn't any idea how he could possibly manage that. Reaching down, she touched him on the forehead.

  The room dissolved rapidly around him, burning away in an instant, and all that was left was black space. He felt the space in his mind expand outwards, and he could no longer feel his body. His emotions of grief, confusion and fear all fell from him; broken glass, discarded shards, leaving a neutral vacuum in their place. All was air and non-light; he floated in nothingness. The strangeness of it, of what he understood or couldn't even begin to grasp, triggered the deepest level of fear he had ever experienced. He sensed a loss of bladder control, but his bladder and the plumbing connected to it was nowhere to be seen or felt. He wanted to scream, but couldn't.

  Where am I? Where's my body? The thought formed from the purest distillation of fear. What did she do to me?

  Sarah was invisible in the blackness, but suddenly Joe knew she was nearby, watching, orchestrating this strange dance in the spirit world. Then gradually, the pinpoints of pain from a tormented soul entered his senses, and he felt himself unfolding into a tiny, frail body. A body that wasn't his own.

  The pain increased, gnawing at his belly, as if there was a monster trying to eat its way out of his stomach. He was aware of another being, reminding him the body he was in touch with was not his own but belonging to another. Like a parasite, he saw and felt the torment, but at a distance.

  His arms were encased in something soft that held them completely, he felt, as two eyes struggled to open. It felt like a nightmare, but he knew it wasn't. The eyes that weren't tried to see and saw only darkness. Finally, another kind of ey
e opened and looked through his head, seeing people who were standing above him; a man he recognized as Jim Chase, Luke, Brother Joseph, and . . .

  . . . himself.

  Help me out of here, Jamie was trying to say. My tummy is hurting. I can't see and I can't hear. But he just didn't have the strength. The Joe standing above him seemed so capable, so strong, yet so helpless. His objections meant nothing to the ones around him, the ones really in charge. The thoughts blazed through Joe-from-beyond and burned away all pretenses.

  Joe watched himself protest—feebly, it seemed from down here—to his father. He could have easily overpowered all of them right then, and he knew it; from Jamie's perspective, it seemed the only thing to do. Consequences didn't seem to matter in this state of starvation and agony; that he was conscious at all was a small miracle.

  :No!: Joe screamed, from somewhere beyond himself he couldn't locate just then. :Sarah, no more of this! Please!:

  :You had to see what Jamie was feeling,: she said without a hint of emotion. :You had to, for you to understand. You do understand now, don't you? Or do I need to show you what I went through?:

  Joe considered this, wondered briefly what it would be like to be the victim of a strangling. And for a moment, he could actually contemplate the idea in a strangely detached mood, temporarily barren of fear.

  But that moment passed.

  He felt the tightness around his neck, of his own father's hands crushing his windpipe, of the futile gasps after air, the struggle to get free—felt his lungs burning for air they would never have—his throat collapsing—his eyes bulging—

  He wanted to scream and couldn't. She released him before the moment of her death.

  He floated in the blackness, numb with overload. :Too much, too much,: he heard himself thinking. :I can't go through any more with her. Sarah, let me out of this place!:

  The silence was maddening. Had she forgotten him? Had she abandoned him to this?

  Then—:When you leave the church,: she said, :go to Pawnee and talk to a county sheriff named Frank Casey. He'll help you. And tell him about Jamie!:

  Then Sarah was silent. He sensed that she was gone now, leaving him alone in this place that he could only describe as hell. He was all alone with what his father had done to him, his righteous father who was so convinced that he was right all the time.

  He felt Sarah's absence now, though he wasn't certain how he had felt her presence.

  He lost it, then, control, sanity, everything—he thrashed wildly against nothing until he was exhausted and consciousness slipped away from him.

  Jamie can't hold on much longer, was his last, exhausted thought, I don't have much time—Then he slipped into oblivion.

  * * *

  When Joe woke he was laying on his back in the middle of his new living room, spread-eagled like a sacrifice. He sat up suddenly, expecting to see Sarah sitting there, wearing that sly, adult look she had used to wither him.

  Sarah was nowhere to be seen. He was completely alone in the new place, and this felt more unsettling than sitting with the ghost.

  When he struggled to his feet, the memory of Jamie and his experience in the tank came rushing into him like the wind of a hurricane. The sudden movement, and the recollection, instantly unsettled his stomach, and he had to dash to the toilet, where he heaved into the porcelain god until his stomach and lungs ached.

  "Please help me through this," he whispered to no one in particular, as the porcelain cooled his forehead. "Help get me out of this place."

  He stripped and got into an icy shower, which helped his queasy stomach. It wasn't until he reached for the soap, dropped it, and had trouble retrieving it, that he realized he was shaking.

  I've got to get out of here tonight, he thought, the certainty of it now so absolute that it felt branded on his mind.

  Question is, how?

  Several plans came to mind, most of which he rejected because they would probably result in several pounds of lead perforating his flesh. He considered just walking out, flashing his new rank if anyone gave him any hassles. But—no, not a good idea. That would be reported right away, and someone would come after him, and he would have nowhere to hide except the forest—that was a dubious haven at best. No, he needed a way out of the place that would not be visible to anyone, or to cameras.

  This place is designed to keep people out, not in, he thought frantically. There has to be a way.

  He toweled himself dry and then thought of one idea that might delay things. He went out into the room and turned off all the lights, as if he was going to bed. Hopefully the tears—and the collapse—would be put down to his sickness. He went to his bureau drawers in the dark, felt for certain textures, then began putting clothes on—street clothes, not the new uniform or the undress "uniforms" of camo-clothing. The jeans were worn, a little too tight, and had holes in the knees, but were clean, as were the plain white t-shirt and old battered combat boots he pulled on. He packed a few essential items, things he couldn't leave without. The small backpack was easily overlooked; if he walked out with a suitcase, however stealthily, he knew he would be asking for trouble.

  While he packed, he put together a plan to get out. The trash collector came around three A.M. every morning and emptied three dumpsters the Chosen Ones had leased from the refuse company. The dumpsters were inside the perimeter of the complex, but beyond the buildings, so he wouldn't have to attempt an escape either through the gate or over the fence, both of which were risky propositions. The trucks were rear-loaders, if memory served him correctly. Perhaps he could sneak onto the truck somehow, in that rear compartment, as it pulled away. It was the only way out he could think of that stood a chance of working.

  The hour was already late, and the hallway lighting was subdued. No one was in sight as he silently closed the door behind him and made his way down the grand flight of stairs. Instead of going down the well-traveled corridor, which was monitored by cameras, he turned right and entered a maintenance hallway. There were few of these tunnels, because of the expense of blasting the rock, but this section had been dug out of the red Oklahoma dirt. Maintenance tunnels, though they varied in size, all interconnected. And one of them surfaced near the road which would take him to the dumpsters.

  The exit was located at the top of a ladder set into the wall. The door opened up, like a storm shelter. He opened it a crack and peeked through the slit, studying the night. A thunderstorm was brewing on the horizon, licking the clouds with snake-tongues of light, giving the air a wet smell.

  There should be a guard down—yeah. There he is. If I'm careful, he won't see me. And there are the dumpsters.

  The large cubes of metal were very nearby, at the edge of a gravel parking lot, which had a few trucks and earth-moving equipment. When he could see the guard looking the other way, he scurried out of his hole, carefully letting the door close behind him, and sprinted for a large dump truck.

  Joe concealed himself in the wheel well of the huge beast and began a long wait.

  As the minutes ticked by, he considered his decision and knew it to be a good one. But he was scared, and knew it. He was leaving behind everything he had known for a complete unknown. They might not even believe me, he thought. But what choice do I have? I've gotta go through with this. If Jamie dies, and I don't do anything to help him, I'm just as guilty as my father.

  He wasn't sure if he had dozed off or not. All he knew was that he snapped to attention, his senses sharpened with fear, at the sound of the garbage truck trundling up the way. As it backed up to one of the units, he was dizzily relieved to see only one man working it tonight. It would make it all the easier to hop into the back undetected.

  Once the last of the three dumpsters was empty, the refuse man put the truck in gear and began the slow drive to the gate. Joe wondered, fleetingly, if the truck would be searched going out. But this caused only the slightest hesitation; he was already running for the retreating truck, the tag-light giving him a reference.


  Like a cat, he hopped into the foul-smelling cavity where the day's garbage had been deposited and pushed into the deeper recess of the truck. He lay down, pulling stray refuse over him for cover. And prayed.

  * * *

  What began as a simple test drive of Cindy's battered Toyota Celica turned into an expedition into Cleveland for supplies.

  Cindy commented to Bob after Al left—over microwaved dinners—that her '82 car had been running a little rough, and before she could bat an eye Bob had grabbed a toolbox and had the hood open.

  "Eyah, I see the problem here," he commented in the waning daylight, pointing to a thingie that looked obviously loose. "Mind if I have a look to see if anything else is wrong?"

  Of course, she didn't mind at all. In fact, she was a bit taken by his offer, which made her blush. One of her fears in buying the car was that she would get all the way out here in God's country and the thing would quit running. When she drove it into Hallet, what seemed like an eternity ago, it sounded ready to do just that. With her limited money, she had little to spare for a mechanic. This offer, like all the help Al and Bob had extended, was a blessing she could ill afford to turn down. Besides, there had been something about Bob's demeanor, which was often cold and icy, that suggested he was thawing a bit.

  Was there a hint of, well, softness in his voice? she had wondered, but if there was it was so subtle as to be questionable. Bob was twenty, but a mature twenty, so his age wouldn't necessarily eliminate the possibility of involvement.

  But . . . Bob?

  It was a concept that almost made her laugh. It would feel like incest, she thought. He had seemed like a younger brother in many ways—

  Until tonight. Now he was out working on the car. She hated to admit it, but he was reminding her of Jim, before he'd gone bonkers. She couldn't leave him out there on his own—it didn't seem fair. She joined him, holding the light, passing him tools, bringing him rags or something to drink. There was a bond forming between them tonight, reminding her even more of Jim, especially when he started explaining what he was doing.