Allie's War Season Four

by JC Andrijeski

  “Aren’t they smelly?” I say. My six-year-old nose scrunches up more. “Our neighbor has a baby, and she smells like poo.” I giggle, watching Cassie frown at me. “Just like poo. She makes funny noises...and cries.”

  “Well, I would be older,” Cassie explains in her best grown-up voice, her face showing she is older than me already. She smacks my arm. “And my baby won’t smell like poo.”

  “Not me,” I say, shaking my head. “I want to be a space pirate. Like Roger Derm on Space Wars. You can’t have babies in space...they explode.”

  Cassie smacks my arm again. “They do not explode.”

  “Yes, they do. My dad said so.”

  I try to think if he really said that. I think he did. I remember something about people exploding in space. For now, my words stump Cassie, though, who thinks my dad is the coolest dad ever. Which he is.

  I look down from our perch in the tree...and laugh.

  Jon stands below us, his thin legs splayed where he glares at me from the forest floor. Red-faced and sweaty, he looks about a mile away. Under his feet, the ground is covered in pine needles and crunchy oak leaves, but I can still see the edge of the grass lawn.

  Cassie and me sit astride a big branch coming out of the trunk of the old oak tree, the highest one we could reach by climbing in our sneakers. Both of us wear dresses, too, so the bark is kind of itchy under my butt, but otherwise, I feel great.

  “We saw the sunrise!” I crow at him happily. “You should have come with us, Jon!”

  “Get down from there!” he snaps at me, gesturing sharply towards the dirt. “Right now!”

  “Are you coming with us?” I say, clapping my hands. “You can be Cassie’s husband!”

  Cassie smacks my bare leg with a fist, but giggles. She likes Jon.

  She probably does want him to be her husband. Maybe they’ll get married and have babies when they get older, then we can all live in the same house with Mom and Dad and have lots and lots of puppies. And a horse.

  Jon shoves the glasses back on his freckled nose, scowling up at me in that way only he has. His thin, pale arms stick out of a blue and yellow striped T-shirt over too-baggy jeans, like he always wears. He is eleven, and even now, he manages to have a book in his hand. Although knowing him, it’s probably something ‘useful,’ as he says. One of Dad’s field and stream guide books so he could find us, or maybe something about how to climb trees.

  “You are in so much trouble!” he shouts at me. “Just wait until you get down here! Mom and Dad have been looking for you everywhere!”

  “Come with us, Jon!” I plead. “We’re going to run away,” I add, in case he hasn’t figured out that part yet.

  “And get a dog!” Cassie adds gleefully. She points to the section of branch where we’ve pulled the baloney out of our sandwiches.

  “We’ll live on the beach!” I tell him.

  “And have husbands and babies...” Cassie says.

  “And be space pirates!” I say, not to be outdone.

  Red-faced, sweaty, and now maybe as mad as I’ve ever seen him, Jon glares up at us––well, really, at me, his hands on his hips.

  “They called Cassie’s parents,” he says then, his voice cold.

  There is a second of quiet as this sinks in.

  “No!” Cassie wails. “No! Why? Why?”

  Jon glares only at me. “You’re lucky. They almost called the cops.”

  I stare down at him, feeling my hands turn cold where I grip the branch of a tree in Golden Gate Park. My tummy hurts now, I feel scared, but I can only look at my best friend, Cassie. Cassie is crying now, giving great big sniffs as tears run down her round face. She has dirt on her nose and cheek from where she’d wiped it after gripping the branch.

  I just sit there, watching her.

  We were having so much fun.

  We were going to get a puppy.

  “Why?” I say to Jon, angrily, whirling on him. “Why would they do that? They know Cassie’s dad is mean! Why would they call him?”

  “They had to, Al!” Jon snaps. “You should have known they would have to call them, when you two go missing in the middle of the night! What were you thinking, taking her out here? What were you thinking, Al? Whatever happens now, it’s all your fault––”

  JON JERKED AWAKE.

  Fear hit him first. He felt heavy, full of smoke, weighed down by a tar-like taste in his lungs, his mouth, his nose... coating his tongue.

  For a moment he could only lay there, unsure if he’d really woken up at all. His mind shifted towards movement. He fought to pull himself up, out of that heaviness. He fought to breathe, to be awake, maybe even get out of bed altogether so he could find a toilet... but it all felt like too much. He already knew if moved he would feel worse. He was still lying there, fighting to breathe, when he realized something else.

  Another light was there, with him.

  That other light felt so familiar it brought a sharp pain to the middle of Jon’s chest.

  “No.” The word startled him, even from his own lips. The other light grew stronger as Jon shook his head, fighting to push it away. “No... go away. Please...”

  He felt pain, maybe from the other man, but Jon couldn’t hold onto that, either. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear the thought of him being there, lost in this shit and filth with him. He didn’t want him here. He wanted him to go away. Forever. To never come back.

  Fingers grasped his arm, painfully tight.

  “Fuck you, little brother,” a voice said, thick and low. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Jon blinked against the swinging light, feeling nauseous, his head exploding in pain. But the other seer wouldn’t leave, not even when Jon shoved at his arm.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” that voice murmured, right in his ear. “I’m not going anywhere, brother... so just let go. Let go, let me take care of you.”

  Jon fought a sob, still trying to move his limbs. He heard another voice, then another. Their words filled his head, echoing there, and Jon felt a shiver of terror when he realized he recognized most of those voices, as well.

  “How is he?” Revik said, his voice quieter, somehow more audible than the rest. “Is he conscious, Wreg?”

  “Just enough to tell me to piss off,” that familiar voice muttered.

  “Stay with him,” Revik said.

  “Fuck off,” the familiar voice said, his voice coarse with anger. “...Sir.”

  “Stay with him, brother... please. Whatever he says.”

  Unlike Wreg, Revik didn’t sound angry.

  His words also didn’t sound like a request.

  Jon tried to hold onto that faint whisper of understanding. It was too much, too many words, too many thoughts... more than he could ever pass through his deadened lips. He couldn’t see past that sheen of light and morphing dark, didn’t know he was crying until he blinked and felt the tears running down the skin of his face.

  Those hurt, too, burning hot trails through his flesh.

  They wanted him dead. They all wanted him dead.

  Before he could see them, before he could make sense of the faces of his accusers, the black smoke filled his head yet again, dragging Jon back to that tar-filled grave.

  “JON.” THE VOICE sharpened, tugging at his light, pulling on him. “Jon,” it repeated. “You’re going to eat now. Do you hear me? You’re going to wake up and eat...”

  Jon fought with his eyes.

  The light seared his corneas, as soon as he opened his eyelids even a crack. He tried to answer, but could only let out a moan. He threw up a hand, fighting to ward off the blow he half-expected to follow. The pain in his gut worsened, even as gentle fingers brushed his face, making him wince and flinch away, cowering more.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, goddamn it,” the voice said.

  That voice rumbled against Jon’s back, rising up from a muscular chest. Jon realized he was leaning against the other man, so far into his light that he was having trouble
seeing through it. The pain worsened as he felt skin against his bare sides and arms, along with muscles and bone, clothing and hair. The man’s thighs flexed as he twisted his upper body, reaching sideways to grab something from a table... the same table from where the light originated.

  Pain blinded Jon. Pain that nearly made him groan.

  “Fuck,” Jon’s voice came out involuntarily, dense sounding, hoarse.

  “Not right now, brother,” the other man muttered, a faint attempt at humor.

  Jon lay there, gasping, confused at first. Then he realized some part of him wanted that. He wanted sex. He wanted the other man to fuck him.

  The pain in the other man’s light worsened sharply, enough that Jon gasped.

  Jon found himself struggling, trying to get away from that light, but a hand gripped his arm, even as a warning pulse of light entered his skin, making him groan again. He felt it almost as a threat... but it made that other pain worse too, confusing him. Adrenaline shot into his blood. The sickness worsened, and he was coughing then, coughing hard enough that it worsened the pain, bringing a sharp yet somehow deadened feeling to his chest.

  “God.” He leaned over one of those muscular legs, coughing harder. He felt a hand on his back, massaging him there, and choked. “Stop... stop it...”

  The man ignored him, sending more light through his fingers.

  After Jon had been hacking a few minutes more, he didn’t have the strength to fight him. He hung over the other man’s leg, groaning between coughs, feeling like he was going to die.

  “You’re not fucking dying,” the voice said, angry that time. “It’s light poisoning, brother. It’s better if you cough. It’s better if you get it out, any way you can.”

  Tears filled Jon’s eyes. He could feel the sickness in the other man’s light, the dense, dark cloud Jon had already spewed all over him. He’d hurt him...coated his light in shit.

  “I can take it, brother,” the voice said.

  Jon heard more than anger in the other man’s words that time. Hurt. A denser grief. Maybe even tears. He can’t bear to look at that face. He knows who it is, but he won’t confirm it. He won’t fucking confirm it, he can’t take it right now.

  “What if we brought her in here?” another voice asked.

  Jon flinched, cowering against the muscular body. He’d thought they were alone. He didn’t know someone else was in there, watching the two of them. He couldn’t stand the thought of others here, watching Jon hurt the other man, poisoning him with his light...

  Killing him. Gods, he was killing Wreg.

  Strong fingers gripped his hair, tightening until they hurt. The other man was massaging Jon’s back, using strong, skilled fingers. He worked over the back of Jon’s heart, the back of his chest, until Jon couldn’t help it, he started coughing again, hacking each breath.

  “This is taking too long,” Wreg muttered. “Would he allow it, do you think? Nenz?”

  “I think he’d do just about anything to help brother Jon right now,” the other man said. “I’ll ask him, brother... wait here.”

  “Like I’m going anywhere,” Wreg muttered.

  Jon knew that other voice, too. He knew it. He squinted up at the shadow by the door to the bedroom, that lamp that wanted to burn the lenses out of his eyes. He glimpsed dark chestnut hair, streaked gray at the temples...gray eyes.

  “Balidor...” he managed.

  Wreg let out an irritated snort. “Your name, he knows.”

  The man at the door only smiled, then left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Wreg,” Jon managed. “Wreg... does he still want to kill me?”

  Wreg’s hands tightened on him again, massaging his shoulders, his arms. It hurt, but something about the pain felt so good, Jon couldn’t bear for him to stop.

  “No one wants to kill you, little brother,” Wreg said, his voice gruff again.

  His light pulled on Jon’s, gently that time, but Jon immediately started coughing. It hurt so badly he thought he really would die, that the coughing alone would crack his spine. He realized a bucket of some kind lay under the edge of the bed, right under where he’d been coughing. When he tried to focus on what was inside it, though, he only groaned again.

  “Gods,” he said. “Blood...”

  “Yes, brother,” Wreg said grimly. “That’s blood.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes.” Wreg’s hands held him tighter, even as Jon felt a shiver of fear off the other man, a worry intense enough that he couldn’t think past it. “And, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer it if there wasn’t any more of that...”

  Jon nodded, closing his eyes against another wave of sickness. He leaned deeper into the curve of Wreg’s body and fought to breathe, even as Wreg continued to pull on his light, hard enough that time that Wreg started coughing, too. Thick, wracking coughs, like he was trying to expel something from deep inside his lungs.

  “No,” Jon said, groaning. “No... don’t... please, Wreg. Please...”

  “Shut up,” the seer snapped. “Gods damn it, Jon, stop fighting me... let me help you!”

  Jon only shook his head. It seemed like forever that he lay there, unable to fight off Wreg, unable to do anything to help him, either. He couldn’t even ask him to stop and really mean it. The pure selfishness of wanting Wreg there, even if it was hurting him, was more than Jon could bear. It made it hard to think, hard to do anything but cry until he couldn’t breathe anymore, coughing until he thought he’d die all over again.

  Wreg only held him, stroking his hair and arms and neck, massaging the muscles in his back and chest. He didn’t talk, but Jon felt him there, he felt his light with him, every second he managed to stay conscious.

  He couldn’t get the seer to leave.

  WHEN JON WOKE up next, he felt hot, buried in skin and breath.

  He tried to move, and immediately got hit with pain... all kinds of pain that time, separation pain, pain in his lungs and throat, thirst pain, hunger pangs, pain in his bones, his joints, his feet, his fingers. His hand was coiled around a muscular forearm, his head resting on the bicep to which it was attached. A different hand belonging to a different person clutched his fingers.

  A small hand. A hand that was so, so familiar...

  Jon’s eyes flipped open.

  He found himself staring at green eyes he knew, but didn’t know.

  She didn’t blink. She stared back at him, her narrow face utterly motionless.

  Jon couldn’t tear his eyes off her. Not just the familiarity of her, the reality of her, but whatever he could see in that face, in those eyes he knew but didn’t know. He fought to categorize the expression there, make it compute. Her eyes were open.

  Fuck, her eyes were open.

  He only realized he was holding his breath when his chest started to hurt for real. He forced air out through his mouth and nose and lungs, even as a voice on the other side of where she lay spoke up, soft, but loud in the silence.

  “It’s all right, Jon.”

  Jon’s gaze jerked up, away from where Allie stared at him. When he looked back down at her, her expression remained smooth, strangely curious, as if Jon were a species of animal she’d never seen before.

  “She won’t hurt you,” Revik added, rubbing his own, lightly-bearded face with one hand. His arm tightened around her as he said it, pulling her deeper against his body.

  Jon hadn’t even noticed Revik’s arm until then, but now he saw where it wrapped around Allie, down to the tattooed band of writing around his bicep and the H tattoo on his forearm. It wasn’t the arm that Jon lay on, though. That arm belonged to Wreg, who lay behind Jon’s back and to his left, his other arm wrapped loosely around Jon’s chest.

  Jon realized the four of them were all crammed into the same bed.

  “Hurt me...?” Jon said. He fought to get more air into his lungs, to get enough spit in his mouth to talk. “Hurt me...?” he said again.

  Revik made a vague gesture with his hand, not answe
ring.

  Jon felt a pulse of grief off Revik, though, dense enough that he flinched deeper into Wreg’s bulk. He could feel the seer behind him waking up, too.

  “What are you... doing here?” Jon said finally.

  Revik gave him a wan smile, his clear eyes pulled off where he’d been gently tugging the hair out of Allie’s face. She was still staring at Jon with that unnerving blankness.

  “What the hell is wrong with her?” Jon said, hearing his voice catch that time.

  Revik frowned at him, his voice suddenly cold. “I’m grateful to you, Jon. I mean it. Really grateful. But watch your fucking mouth...”

  Jon swallowed, looking up at him. Seeing the warning stare in Revik’s eyes, he nodded, even as Allie began stroking Jon’s mutilated hand, her eyes focused sightlessly on his skin, studying the place where his thumb had been before Terian cut it off.

  “I just meant––” Jon began.

  “I know what you meant,” Revik said. Exhaling in a dense, but less-specific-feeling anger, Revik tightened his arm around Allie, pulling her closer to him again.

  “I’m sorry, Jon,” he murmured. “It’s been a tense few days.”

  Jon barely heard him, though.

  He watched Allie’s fingers as they continued to stroke his hand, then as they moved up his arm, almost as if feeling human skin for the first time. She traced the tattoos on Jon’s forearm, the Chinese writing he’d had there since high school, moving up towards his upper arm and chest before Revik reached over her, clasping her fingers in his.

  Gently, he pulled her hand off Jon.

  Allie frowned slightly, but all Jon saw in her expression was confusion as she glanced back at Revik’s face.

  “Not now, baby,” he said softly, kissing the hand he’d pulled off Jon. “Touch me, if you want to touch someone... you can touch me all you want.”

  She seemed to understand that.

  Winding her body around backwards, as fluid as a snake, she slid her hand immediately under Revik’s T-shirt, and began stroking his chest and ribs. Jon saw pain tighten Revik’s face briefly, but he didn’t try to stop her.