The Best of Subterranean

by William Schafer

  There were times when he swore he could hear his grandmother’s voice in his ear, calling him a nasty boy, a wicked boy. And when he did, he would smile, knowing he was feeding the dragons properly. But they took much feeding, and it wasn’t long before no one tormented him and there were no worthy targets for his wickedness. He had to find targets and, increasingly, they were less worthy, until finally, by the time he turned twelve, many were innocent of any crime against him. But the dragons had to be fed.

  That summer, his mother took him to Cainsville two days after he’d done something particularly wicked, particularly cruel, and when he arrived at the new diner, the elders were not there. Even Mrs. Yates was gone. He’d walked to her house and then to the schoolyard, where they sometimes sat and watched the children play. He found her there, with the others, as a group of little ones played tag.

  When she saw him, she’d risen, walked over and said he should go to the new diner and have a milkshake and she’d meet him there later. She’d even given him three dollars for the treat. But he’d looked at the children, and he’d looked at her, standing between him and the little ones, guarding them against him, and he’d let the three bills fall to the ground and stalked off to talk to Rose.

  He found her at her one brother’s place. Rose was the youngest. A “whoops” everyone said, and he hadn’t known what that meant until he was old enough to understand where babies came from and figured out that she’d been an accident, born when her mother was nearly fifty. This brother was twenty-nine, married, with a little girl of his own. That’s where Rose was—babysitting her niece.

  Bobby snuck around back and found the little girl playing in a sandbox. She couldn’t be more than three, thin with black hair. He watched her and considered all the ways he could repay Rose for her treachery.

  “What are you doing here?” a low voice came from behind him. He turned to see Rose, coming out of the house with a sipping cup and a bottle of Coke. Like Mrs. Yates, she moved between him and the child. Then she leaned over and whispered, “Take this and go inside, Seanna. I’ll be there in a minute, and we’ll read a book together.”

  She handed the little girl the sipping cup and watched her toddle off. Then she turned to him. “Why are you here, Bobby?”

  “I want to know what you told the elders about me.”

  “About you?” Her face screwed up. “Nothing. Why?”

  He stepped toward her. “I know you told them something.”

  She stood her ground, chin lifting, pale eyes meeting his. “Is there something to tell?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  She started to turn away. He grabbed her elbow. She threw him off fast, dropping the bottle and not even flinching when it shattered on the paving stones.

  “I didn’t tell anyone anything,” she said. “I don’t have anything to tell.”

  “Bull. I’ve seen the way you look at me, and now they’re doing it, too.”

  “Maybe because we’re all wondering what’s wrong. Why you’ve changed. You used to be a scared little boy, and now you’re not, and that would be good, but there’s this thing you do, staring at people with this expression in your eyes and…” She inhaled. “I didn’t tell the elders anything.”

  “Yes, you did. You had a vision about me. A fake vision. And you told.”

  “No, I didn’t. Now, I can’t leave Seanna alone—”

  He grabbed her wrist, fingers digging in as he wrenched her back to face him. “Tell me.”

  She struggled in his grip. “Let me—”

  He slapped her, so hard her head whipped around, and when it whipped back, there was a snarl on her lips. She kicked and clawed, and he released her fast, stepping back. She hit him then. Like a boy. Plowed him in the jaw and when he fell, she stood over him and bent down.

  “You ever hit me again, Bobby Sheehan, and I’ll give you a choice. Either you’ll confess it to the elders or I’ll thrash you so hard you’ll wish you had confessed. I didn’t tattle on you. Now leave me alone.”

  “You think you’re so special,” he called as she climbed the back steps. “You and your second sight.”

  “Special?” She gave a strange little laugh, and when she turned, she looked ten years older. “No, Bobby Sheehan, I don’t think I’m special. Most times, I think I’m cursed. I know you’re jealous of us, with our powers, but you wouldn’t want them. Not for a second. It changes everything.” She glanced down at him, still on the ground. “Be happy with what you have.”

  * * *

  He was not happy with what he had. As the year passed, he became even less happy with it, more convinced that Rose and the elders were spying on him from afar. Spying on his thoughts. This was not paranoia. Twice, after he’d done something moderately wicked, his mother got a call at work. Once from Mrs. Yates and once from Rose’s mother.

  “Just asking how you are,” his mother said over dinner after the second call. She slid him a secret smile. “I think Rose might be sweet on you. She seems like a nice girl.”

  “Her family’s not nice,” the Gnat said as she took a forkful of meatloaf. “Her one brother’s in jail.”

  His mother looked over sharply. “No, he isn’t. He’s in the army. Don’t spread nasty gossip—”

  “It’s not gossip. I heard it in town. He’s in jail for fraud, and so was Rose’s dad, for a while, years ago, and no one thinks there’s anything weird about that. I overheard someone say the whole family is into stuff like that. They’re con artists. Only the people saying it acted like it was a regular job.” She scrunched up her freckled nose. “Isn’t that freaky? The whole town is—”

  “Enough,” his mother said. “I think someone’s pulling your leg, young lady. There is nothing wrong with Rose Walsh or her family. They’re fine people.”

  For once, he believed the Gnat. He’d wondered about Rose’s brother ever since he took off a few years ago and Rose said he’d joined the army to fight in Vietnam, but he’d been over thirty, awfully old to sign up.

  Con artists. That explained a lot. Rose was conning the elders right now, telling them stories about him. Trying to con him, too, into not wanting powers. He did. He wanted them more than anything. And he was going to find a way to get them.

  * * *

  He spent months researching how to steal powers and learned nothing useful. It did not seem as if it could be done, and the more he failed to find an answer, the more the jealousy gnawed at him, and the harder it was to focus on keeping the dragons fed and happy. He had to do worse and worse things, and it made him feel even guiltier about them. Together with the jealousy, it was like his stomach was on fire all the time. He couldn’t eat. He started losing weight.

  He had to go back to Cainsville. At the very least, the visit would calm the gnawing in his stomach and let him eat. He would talk his mother into a special trip to Cainsville and he would go see Hannah. Not the elders. Not Mrs. Yates. Certainly not Rose. No, he’d visit Hannah. She’d help him set things right.

  His plan worked so beautifully that he felt as if the success was a sign. His luck was turning. He asked his mother to go and off they went that Sunday. He arrived to hear that Rose was in the city, and he found Hannah in the playground, tending to an injured baby owl.

  “Did a cat get it?” he asked as he walked over.

  She’d started at the sound of a voice, and he expected that when she saw it was him, she’d smile. She didn’t. She scooped up the owl and stood.

  “Bobby,” she said. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

  “Surprise.” He grinned, but she didn’t grin back. Didn’t even fake it. Just watched him as he opened the gate and walked in. “Is the owl all right?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “Something got him. Maybe a cat. He’s dying.” Another pause. “That’s the worst part. When they’re hurt and I can’t help.”

  “You can put it out of its misery.”

  She almost dropp
ed the fledgling. “What?”

  “I can do it. Mercifully. Then you won’t need to feel bad because you can’t help.”

  She stared at him like he’d suggested murdering her mother for pocket change. One of the dragons roared, a white-hot burst of flame that blazed through him.

  “I’m thinking of you,” he said, glowering at her.

  “And I’m not. That isn’t how it works. Rose said you…” she trailed off.

  “Rose said what.” He stepped forward.

  Hannah shrank, but only a little, before straightening. “That you don’t understand about the powers. You think they’re this great gift. There are good parts, sure, but bad, too. Lots of bad. I woke up in the middle of the night last week because a dog had been hit by a car. I ran out of the house and my mom helped me take it to the vet’s, but there was nothing we could do. It was horrible. Just horrible. And I felt it—all of it. But the only thing that made that dog feel better was having me there through the whole thing, no matter how hard it was. So I did it. Because that’s my responsibility.”

  Then you’re a fool, he thought. The dog wouldn’t have helped you. It would have left you by the road to die. He didn’t say that, because when he looked at her, getting worked up, all he could think was how pretty she’d gotten. Prettier than any girl in his class, and he wanted to reach out and touch her, and when the impulse came, it was like throwing open a locked door. This was how he could steal her power. Touch her, kiss her…

  He bit his lip and rocked back on his heels. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I wasn’t thinking. My dad always said a quick death is better than suffering, and that’s what I meant. Help you and help the baby owl.” He met her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded. “It’s all right. I’m just feeling bad about it.” She set the fledgling back on the ground.

  “I know.” He stepped closer. “I wish I could make you feel better.”

  Another nod, and in a blink, he was there, his arms going around her, his lips to hers. It wasn’t the first time he kissed a girl. He’d done more than kiss them, too. Sometimes that was him being wicked, but most times, he didn’t need to be—he knew how to say the right things. A little charmer, that’s what his mother called him, obviously relieved that her sullen boy had turned out so well.

  So he kissed Hannah. It was a good kiss. A sweet and gentle one, for a sweet and gentle girl. But she jerked back and pushed him away hard, as if he’d jumped on her.

  “I-I’m sorry, Bobby,” she said. “I have a boyfriend.”

  He was about to say “Who?” when he saw her expression.

  Liar.

  The dragon whipped its tail inside him, lighting his gut on fire. He forced it to settle. He wouldn’t be wicked with Hannah. He just wouldn’t. Not unless he had to.

  “It’s Rose, isn’t it?” he said, stepping back, looking down at his sneakers. “She doesn’t like me. She has dreams about me—about a dragon. She told me that, but I don’t understand what it means.”

  “She doesn’t either. What did she tell you?”

  He shrugged and continued the lie. “Something about a dragon. That’s all I know.”

  “It’s two dragons. She dreams they’re fighting over you and screaming awful screams. Then one wins and it…it…”

  “It what?”

  “Devours you,” she blurted. “We don’t know what it means.”

  “What do the elders say?”

  “Elders?” She frowned at him. “We wouldn’t tell the elders. Rose looked it up in books. She has lots of books from her Nana. Some talk about the sight and dreams, but she can’t figure this one out.”

  “So she’s never told the elders? About me?”

  “Of course not. What’s there to tell?”

  He bit his lip. “I get the feeling Rose doesn’t like me very much anymore.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I get the feeling you don’t either.”

  “I…” She swallowed. “I’m fine, Bobby, I just—”

  He grabbed her around the waist and kissed her again. This time when she struggled he held on, kept kissing her, and the more she fought, the more certain he was that this was the answer. She had the power. Touch her. Kiss her—

  She kneed him between the legs.

  He gasped and fell back. “You little—”

  “What’s happened to you, Bobby?” she said as she scooped up the bird and backed away. “You never used to be like this.”

  “I just wanted to kiss you. You didn’t need to—”

  “That wasn’t kissing me. That was hurting me. You want to know why I don’t like you as much?” She held up the owl. “Because they don’t. The animals. You scare them and you scare me.”

  She cradled the fledgling against her chest and ran off, leaving him there, gasping for breath in the playground.

  * * *

  He started walking, not knowing where he was going, spurred by the fire in his gut, a fire that seeped into his brain, blinding him. When the rage-fog cleared, he found himself on Hannah’s street. And there, crossing the road, was what he’d come to find, though he only knew as he saw it.

  The black cat. Hannah’s matagot kitten. A middle-aged cat now, slinking arrogantly across the street without even bothering to look, as if no car would dare mow it down.

  He followed the beast, waiting for it to get to a secluded spot. In Cainsville, though, there weren’t any secluded spots. When he’d been young, he’d felt as if he was being merely observed, someone always watching over him, keeping him safe, and he’d loved that. Now it felt as if he was being spied on, judgmental eyes tracking his every move. They weren’t, of course. As he moved, he’d sometimes see someone peek out from a house, but they’d only smile and nod. He might be thirteen, but here he was still a child, innocently out playing hide-and-seek or tag with his friends. He could cut through yards and steal behind garages and no one would ever come out to warn him off as they would in the city.

  Eventually, the cat stopped prowling, and did so in one of the rare secluded spots around—the yard of an empty house. Cainsville had a few of them, not abandoned but empty. This one was surrounded by a rare solid fence for privacy, and once Bobby was in that yard, he was hidden. That is where the beast stopped to clean itself, proving that whatever airs cats might put on, they were very stupid beasts.

  As he crept up behind the cat, his hands flexed at his sides. He had to grab it just right or it would yowl. Pounce and snatch. That was the trick. Scoop it up by the neck, away from scrabbling claws and then squeeze. It was simpler than one might think, particularly when the beast was so preoccupied that it didn’t turn even when his foot accidentally scraped a paving stone.

  He got as close as he dared. Then he sprang.

  The cat whipped around and leaped at him. The shock of seeing that stopped him for a split second, and before he could recover, the cat was on him, scratching and biting, and it was like Rose and Hannah all over again, fighting like wild animals, only this animal had razor claws and fangs, and when he finally threw the beast off, blood dripped from his arms and his face.

  He ran at the cat, but it bounded away, leaped onto the fence and turned to hiss at him, almost half-heartedly, as if he wasn’t worth the effort. He glowered at the beast then stomped toward the gate. When he swung it open, someone was standing there. Three someones. Mrs. Yates and two of the other elders.

  “What have you done, Bobby,” Mrs. Yates said, her voice low.

  “Me?” He lifted his blood-streaked hands. “Ask that damned cat. I was trying to rescue it for Hannah.”

  “No,” she said. “That isn’t what you were doing at all.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. If Hannah told you—”

  “Hannah told us nothing. She doesn’t need to. We know.”

  He looked at her, and then at the other two elders, and he knew, too. Knew the truth he hadn’t dared admit. The girls weren’t tattling on him. It was the elders, burrowing into his head, reading all his most wicked thoughts, seeing all
his most wicked deeds.

  He managed to pull himself up straight and say, “You’re all crazy.” Then he pushed past them and raced back to his mother.

  * * *

  It was the old story. The one where he’d first heard about the screams of dragons. It was coming true. All of it. First the dragons. Then his stomach, twisting and hurting so much these days that he couldn’t eat—just like the king couldn’t eat because his food went missing. Now the people who could hear everything. The elders and Rose. They knew what he was doing even when he didn’t speak a word. He could not escape them, again like the king in the story.

  That’s why he used to dream of castles. He wasn’t a changeling child. He was a king—or he had been—and the old story was replaying itself, consuming him and his life.

  After that last trip to Cainsville, the elders were no longer content with the occasional call to check on him. Twice they’d shown up at his house. His house. Mrs. Yates had taken him aside and tried to talk to him, prodding him hard now with her questions, telling him she was worried, so worried. If only he’d talk to them, they might be able to help.

  Liar.

  They didn’t care about him. They came as a warning. Letting him know they were in his head, watching and judging. Letting him know they were going to win. He was just a little boy. He would be consumed by them—the dragons—as Rose’s dreams predicted. It all made sense now, or it did, the more he thought about it, obsessed on it, dreamed of it. It was like a puzzle where the pieces don’t seem to fit, but you just had to be smart and twist them around until they did.

  He went to the library and dug until he found the story in an old book of legends. He’d vaguely recalled that the king had stopped his enemies—those who could hear everything—by feeding them something. Apparently, he’d fed them food made from very special insects. Bobby read that, and he went home to sleep on it, and when he woke, he knew exactly what he had to do.