Thunderbird

by Chuck Wendig

  The coyote leans forward. Its mangy, slick muzzle inches from her nose now. She can smell the dead stink coming off it. The sour-sweet pickled smell like when you pass roadkill on the highway. “Consider this, then. What if all this— waking and dream— is just an illusion? Just a moment before dying.”

  “As my mother says, It is what it is.”

  “Maybe you’re dying right now. Maybe you’re a young girl, still, on the floor of a high-school bathroom. Bleeding out of your broken womb. A red snow shovel clattering nearby. A little light inside of you winking out, like a star gone dark— and all this has been a fever dream at the cusp of your own demise.”

  Her mouth goes dry. Her hand shakes. The fear is unexpected: Am I really afraid of dying? She sticks out her chin in faux defiance. “Fuck you,” she says. Her thumb flips open the cigarette box.

  Spiders spill out. Black spiders with tickling legs. Little tarantula babies running up the back of her hand and—

  She shrieks, hops up, shakes them off her hand.

  They’re gone. So is the pack.

  The coyote’s one good eye blinks lazily.

  “Or maybe,” the coyote says, “when that little star inside you collapsed, something else filled the vacuum— a purpose, however dark, filled the void. A power. A power you have since failed to appreciate. A power you have only recently come to see fully. You change things, Miriam. You are chaos: necessary so that order does not calcify all we see. Vital: free will shattering the mirror of fate, a mirror that reflects the way things are rather than the way things could be. Why do you resist? Why do you run?”

  Above, the massive winged thing swoops again— the shadow in front of the moon. The night is suddenly cold and a chill skitters up her spine.

  “I run because I’m done,” she says. “Because I want the choice to work for me this time. Not for—”

  “The boy? Isaiah? Or Louis? Or Gabby? So many you’ve saved.”

  “So many I’ve hurt.”

  The coyote gives something approximating a shrug— as much as a canine can. “If you say so. Go on, then. Save yourself. Find your way to the door in the dark. This way to the great egress. Go. Find Mary Scissors. Pull the stitch. You run because you’re a coward. You shun your gift because you want to be normal? Now, after everything? Bah. You will never be normal, little bird. But fine. Cut the thread. Begone. You’ll never see how much you can do. You have only found a part of your reach, a fraction of your power. But you plainly don’t deserve it.”

  “Eat balls, coyote.”

  The bird shrieks.

  The coyote laughs.

  The dark shape swoops for her— from high in the sky to suddenly right above her. The stars, swallowed. The moon, eaten. Talons in her back, her shoulder, puncturing her head like a fork through a grape, and—

  THIRTY-NINE

  PULLING STITCHES

  Snort. Wuzza? Awake. Miriam lurches up from the floor, suddenly panicked. They’re gone, Gabby is gone, the boy is gone. And it’s true. Nobody’s there. The bed is a rumpled mess. The bathroom door is open; the lights are dark. Sunlight in through the crack between the curtains: like fire through broken stone. And she thinks an absurd thought: That massive dark bird came down, stole them from me. Took them away in its terrible claws.

  But then the door to the motel room rattles. Unlocks. Miriam feels around under the bed for the pistol and damnit she gave it to that whacked-out-of-his-gourd dealer, Hermes, while poor Grace Baker sat dead ten feet away.

  Miriam thrusts out her claws.

  My talons.

  The door opens and Gabby walks in. Holding Isaiah’s hand. He’s clean. So is Gabby. Seems like they had bath-time while Miriam was out cold.

  They have a bag from Conoco. A white paper bag with what looks like grease soaking through. The smell of something spicy hits her nose.

  As they enter, the boy says, “I think your scars make you look pretty. Momma broke a mirror once and I thought it was cool-looking after that.”

  Gabby looks like she’s going to cry. A sweet smile. She runs a hand across his close-cropped hair. He pulls away— a shy move, not a defensive one.

  “I’m gonna go wash my hands.” As he skirts past Miriam, he says, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she says, giving him a nod.

  Into the bathroom. She hears the faucet running.

  “What was that?” Miriam asks.

  Gabby gives her a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s . . . I dunno.” She really doesn’t know. Being around kids makes her uncomfortable. They seem so fragile. Like a stack of teacups you know you’re going to knock over because it’s sitting right there in the room. “He seems okay.”

  “He’s not, probably. But he’ll get there. I think he’s processing. Or just shutting it all out, maybe. What do I know?” She shakes the bag at Miriam. “Breakfast sandwich. Chorizo and egg.”

  “Oh, fuck. I’m gonna need that in my body right now.”

  “Language,” Gabby says.

  “What language?”

  “As in—” And here Gabby lowers her voice. “Watch the f-bombs.”

  Miriam blinks. “Why?”

  Gabby’s voice drops to a whisper. “Because of Isaiah.”

  “I think he can handle a few naughty words.” Miriam gets close so he can’t hear her. “His mother was a prostitute drug addict who just died. He may or may not have psychic powers, the truth or myth of which means he was in the care of a cult of patriotic weirdos. Or maybe they’re anti-patriotic? It kinda seems like both, somehow. And now he’s stuck in a hotel with a pair of cuckoo bitches who stole a wizard van. Either way, I think hearing me spout vulgarity is the literal least of his concerns.” Footsteps behind her, and here he comes. As he sits on the edge of the bed, Miriam turns to him and asks: “Do you care if I say ‘fuck’?”

  He shrugs.

  “Is that a noncommittal no I don’t care shrug, or are you scared to say to me that you do care?” she asks.

  “You are scary,” he says in a small voice. “But I don’t really care.”

  She sizes him up. He’s wearing a different shirt. Gone are the Superman duds. Now it’s a green shirt with what looks like the symbol of a ring in the middle. She recognizes it back from when she read comic books. “Green Lantern, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  “I like the John Stewart Green Lantern.”

  She clicks her tongue. “I only remember, what’s his name? Barry Allen?”

  “That was the Flash.”

  “Right. Shit. It’s been a while.”

  “Hal Jordan, maybe.”

  She snaps her fingers. “That was it. Hey. How old are you?”

  “Eight.”

  “Eight years old. All right. Cool.” The conversation suddenly hits a wall. “Good talk, kid.” She pats him on the shoulder, then gets up and snatches the food out of Gabby’s hands. “See? He’s eight, going on eighteen. Practically off to college. Let’s eat.”

  “We ate already.”

  “Oh, well. Don’t mind if I do, then.” She hunkers down at the rickety-ass, rinky-dink desk here in the motel room like a gargoyle and starts unwrapping the sandwich. Steam comes off it. A spicy, vinegar tang. Behind her, the boy picks up the remote control and turns on the clunky, boxy TV. Flips through channels until he gets to something that sounds like a kids’ show: lots of boings and gonks and other sound effects reminiscent of Saturday morning cartoons.

  “I got you another present.”

  Miriam bites into the sandwich. It’s hot. Burns her tongue. She doesn’t care— let the scalding commence. Around the mouthful of food she says: “What is it? Liquor? Helper monkey? Green Lantern ring?”

  Gabby smiles, but it’s one of those wince-smiles. “It’s a good news, bad news situation.”

  Miriam frowns. Gulps. “I don’t like those. I like good news, better news.”

  “Bad news first?”

  “My life st
ory. Sure.”

  “We’re out of money.”

  Miriam blinks. “That is not ideal. Especially since we just had a lot of money. Like, a few hundred bucks. In a bag.”

  “That’s gone.”

  “Why is it gone?”

  “Remember the wizard van?”

  “Of course I remember the wizard van; the wizard van is amazing. It’s the best thing in my life right now.”

  “It no longer has a wizard on it.”

  “You have killed the thing that made it beautiful. You have killed beauty. The world is a dead place now. Full of darkness and devoid of wizardly hope.” Miriam sighs. “Let me guess, you got it painted?”

  “I got it painted. Paid extra to get it painted fast.”

  “That’s probably smart. You’re smart. I hate that you did it. So, the bad news is, no money, and the ugh-fine-whatever good news is that you got the wizard van painted. I am sad the wizard is gone. But I’ll cope.”

  “I also stole a license plate. Traded it from another van at the collision place. No cameras. I checked.”

  Miriam nods. “I like this version of you. You saucy little criminal.”

  “I thought you might be proud. But the good news isn’t done.”

  An arched eyebrow. “Howzat?”

  “Actually, the bad news isn’t done either.”

  “Jesus, it’s like an emotional roller coaster already.”

  Gabby reaches into her pocket. “I spent all the money in my account. My debit card. Burned through the last of my cash.”

  “Like, this morning? Buying breakfast? Gas? A cruise vacation to Puerto Wherever? Diamond-encrusted tampon holders?”

  “On this.” She hands Miriam a piece of paper.

  On it is scrawled a Tucson address. Miriam looks it over, gives a quizzical glance. “What is this? I mean, I know what it is. But who lives here? The Pope?”

  “It’s her,” Gabby says. “Mary.”

  Blink, blink.

  “What? How?” Miriam asks.

  “They have these websites. You can look people up— do background checks and the like. It costs, though. Given that Mary Stitch is on probation, it means she’s in the system. Which means—using the birthdate you found— I was able to look her up.”

  Miriam holds the address in her hands. The birthdate was key. One little piece of data unlocked that door.

  “There’s something else,” Gabby says.

  Miriam waves the address around. “This is the finale. You don’t get to have more, Gabs. Seriously, I think you’re going to kill me. What is it?”

  “You know what needs to happen now.”

  “Yeah,” Miriam says, laughing. “We go after Mary—”

  “No, you go after her.”

  “Me? But we’re a thing. We’re a team. You made me believe that.”

  “And now I’m leaving.”

  A thunderclap knocking the breath out of Miriam’s lungs. “No, no, no. I need you. We’ve determined that. You convinced me.” Then she gets it. “It’s about him, isn’t it? The kid.”

  “He can’t stay.”

  “I know he can’t— so we go and we drop him off at a cop station—”

  “I told you. The system will eat him up. Especially here. I sat at a computer and I Googled it— Arizona is one of the worst states in the country for foster care. They got kids sleeping in agency hallways. Not enough foster families. Children ending up on the streets because the system is fucking broken.”

  “So he stays with us. Just for a little while—”

  “You’ll endanger him.”

  “Me?”

  Gabby gives her a look that says, duh, yes, you.

  “I have a sister,” Gabby says. “She lives in Virginia. We don’t talk much, but she’s bailed me out of shit before. I already called her. She wired me money for a couple bus tickets. We’re out of here tonight.”

  Miriam slumps backwards, a doll with the stuffing gutted from her, leaving her feeling like nothing more than a ratty sack that once contained something human. She stares at the carpet.

  She wants to suddenly rage. Kick out. Shove Gabby. Bite at her, scream at her, throw her down on the floor and fuck her till they’re both panting, but she squeezes her eyes and blinks back tears and pretends that everything’s fine. She’s not mad, she’s not sad, this is all perfectly normal.

  “You’re making a mistake” is all she says.

  “You know I’m not,” Gabby answers, then kisses the top of her head. “I have to go pack. I hope you’ll give us a ride to the station.”

  FORTY

  TRIGGERS

  Miriam stands outside the motel room. Not smoking but wanting to. Smokers have triggers; she knows that much. They say that cutting the legs off your addiction is often about something so simple as a change of scenery, a shift in habit, a transformation of context— it’s why so many of those soldiers who got hooked on heroin in Vietnam came home and got clean so easily when other addicts just can’t manage.

  Addiction, like so many things, suffers from context.

  For Miriam, the whole world gives her context. It’s one big trigger— and she’s the finger curled around it, ready to squeeze. Dust blowing off a highway. The sound of traffic. The smell of exhaust. Hell, just being outside. Walking. Standing. Existing at all. Those things make her want to smoke.

  And somehow, she’s not.

  All parts of her, clenched up like a fist. Cinched like a knot.

  The motel room door opens behind her. It’s the boy. Isaiah. Gabby’s still inside, maybe packing.

  “Whatcha doing?” Isaiah asks.

  “Trying very hard not to smoke a cigarette.”

  “Oh.” He comes a little closer. “My mom smoked once in a while.”

  “Not just cigarettes, though, huh?”

  “No.”

  She lets her fingers drift to her mouth. Can almost taste the paper. Can almost feel the heat coming off the cherry. Her lungs ache for it. Her fingers form little scissors. Clip, clip, clip. “So. You ever been on a bus before?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Well, let me tell you, it’s a delight. Buses are basically insane asylums on wheels. A metal tube on spinning rubber barreling down hot asphalt. Full of whackaloons and kooky fucks— just last year, some homeless guy who had gotten ahold of bath salts ate the face of another guy in Miami. I read about it.”

  “You don’t know how to talk to kids, do you?”

  “Not really. Sorry. I think I knew how, once. Or maybe had the equipment to figure it out at least.” But all that’s been broken and beaten out of me. “The bus trip will be fine. You get nice people on buses too. Old folks. Soldiers going home to see their family. College students deciding to see the world for the first time. It’ll be great. Don’t worry, Superman.”

  “Green Lantern.”

  “Fine. Yeah.”

  “I miss my mom.”

  “I miss mine, too.”

  “Is she dead?”

  Miriam blinks, and offers a half-truth: “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  The boy reaches over, holds her hand. She looks down at it and is about to yank her hand away like she’s touching a hot stove. But it feels nice, too. So, she leaves it. Gives that hand something to do for now that isn’t holding a phantom cigarette. And at least this time, she doesn’t feel like she’s being buried alive by touching him. Who is this boy? What can he do?

  “So,” she says. “I’m told you have a . . . thing, like me. A gift, a . . .” She decides to frame it in a way he might get. “A superpower.”

  He looks up at her. Big eyes, unblinking. “It’s not a superpower. Superman does good things. Green Lantern is a good guy.” He looks down at his feet. “What I have is something bad. Like a supervillain. I hurt people.”

  “How?”

  But he doesn’t say. His eyes shine. He squeezes her hand.

  “I hurt people too, kid,” she says. Not with her power. Not really. But hurt them s
he does. Miriam doesn’t need superpowers for that.

  They stand there for a while longer, watching a car go by once in a while down the long, dusty nowhere road.

  FORTY-ONE

  GIDDYUP, MOTHERFUCKERS

  Greyhound Station. Gallup, New Mexico, not far from the motel, and pretty close to the border between this state and Arizona. Outside the van, with the sky darkening like spilled oil, they say their good-byes. Miriam tells Isaiah to keep Gabby safe. He nods. Then hugs her. She pretends it burns like poison, but truth is, it feels just fine.

  Gabby and Miriam stand there. The space between them suddenly feels infinitely unfolding— though they are only a few feet apart, the distance seems to be ever-increasing.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to find Mary. Somehow, she’s . . . involved with Ethan’s people. Or at least his plan. I need to get to her before she gets blown to bits at the courthouse.” Mary’s strange apology echoes inside her mind.

  “And then? Then you’ll deal with Ethan’s people?”

  Miriam hesitates.

  Gabby continues: “You have to do something. They’re going to kill a lot of people. And they’ll keep coming after Isaiah.”

  “I know. I’ll do something.” But that may be a lie. What can Miriam do? She neglects to remind Gabby that to undo fate, she has to take a life. Maybe more than one. To stop the Mockingbird, she had to kill a whole family. What about this time? Does she kill Ethan? Karen? Or every last one of them? What sacrifice balances the scales? Who is the engineer of the bombing?

  And what if Mary offers her an easy way out of her powers? Something as easy, perhaps, as walking through a doorway. What then? Would she walk away from it all just to be rid of her power?

  Like in a Magic 8 Ball—

  Answer unclear, ask again later.

  “You understand why I have to go,” Gabby says.

  “Sure. Yeah. Yes.” Another lie.

  “You seem mad. Or hurt.”

  “I’m fine.” Miriam pushes a smile onto her face and props it up there like a billboard. “Go on. Bus is waiting.”