Feeder

by Patrick Weekes

  “Let her feel this, then!” Hawk called back, and slammed into another one, ripping it apart with the force of his impact.

  No judgment, no questions, nothing that made him less or broken, just the field of battle.

  He mowed down another, kicked one that had fallen apart to the point where it couldn’t even get up anymore, and yelled as he tackled the last one. It went down beneath him, and he felt the bones crunch and thought, Good.

  Then it was done. Nobody stood in the big room except him and Tapper, both breathing hard in the flickering fluorescent light. He stood there looking at the carnage, sweating but unhurt. None of them had been able to do anything to him, not punch or push or hold down or laugh or . . .

  Behind them came the metal clank of the air lock door.

  “No,” Iara said, “no, no, no.” She made her way into the big room, looking over her shoulder as she came.

  “It could be Lori,” Maya said hopefully, even as she moved to a wall. A moment later she seemed to slip away, vanishing against a picture of a pretty blond woman wearing a designer dress.

  “It’s not Lori.” Tapper moved beside Iara, his hands raised and tightened into fists.

  Footsteps echoed through the room as whoever it was came toward them. It didn’t sound like Tiamat’s high heels.

  “Who’s there?” Hawk called out, and was pleased to hear how tough his voice sounded. “You want some of what the shells got?”

  A man stepped through the door, a portly man of middling height with balding curly hair. “I would love some of what the shells got, Mister Bautista,” he said with a sour smile. “You children have been running around quite a bit. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

  “Kirk,” Tapper whispered. His hands trembled a little.

  “Mister Taylor,” Kirk said affably, “you’re holding up very well, considering. Miss Costa, we have your wheelchair waiting for you back at the foundation office. I’m sure you’d find it more comfortable.”

  “I do not need it,” Iara declared, pushing her hair out of her face with one hand.

  “Oh, don’t you?” Kirk raised an eyebrow. “You don’t get tired of the backaches, the blisters? The annoyance of balancing in that awkward almost-standing position all day?” He smiled and shook his head. “When we offered you the scholarship, we did a little research on Brazil. Not the best record for disabled access, hmm?”

  “I survive,” Iara said, glaring.

  “Of course you do, Miss Costa.” Kirk was still smiling. “Your parents let you swim as much as you like. It helps them forget what happened to you. It might even let you forget. And now the miracoral has turned you into the Nix, and everything begins again, just like it did for Mister Taylor here.” He looked over at Tapper. “We have a new drug that might help you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  Tapper glared. “What do you plan to do? You can’t stick one of those eels down our throats.”

  Kirk chuckled. “Can’t we, though?”

  “You cannot.” Iara’s voice was sharp. “You tried on Sarah Campbell, and she died.”

  “Right, right,” Kirk said, nodding, “and so we thought that was a no-go, but do you know what’s interesting, Miss Costa? What’s interesting is the possibility that that’s just because the miracoral is connected to you, so if it senses an obvious threat like that, it pulls the plug on the connection. But,” he added brightly, “but-but-but, if you got a tiny little baby eel put inside you, it’s possible that it could grow very slowly and start taking you over without the miracoral even noticing.”

  “That’s garbage.” Tapper took a little step backward, bumping into Iara.

  “Is it, Mister Taylor?” Kirk smiled at Hawk. “How are you doing, Mister Bautista?”

  “Fine,” Hawk said, shrugging, and came forward, ready to punch the guy, since none of the others were doing anything except standing there looking horrified.

  Kirk grinned broadly. “Fine? Really? You’ve been kidnapped, electrocuted, and trapped, and now we’re going to do horrible experiments on you, and you’re fine? Doesn’t that make you sad or scared or . . . anything?”

  “Feeling nothing is better than feeling pain,” Hawk said, and punched him as hard as he could. It was weird that he had to keep explaining this to people.

  Kirk’s head turned with the blow, and he took a half step back. Hawk hit him again, this time in the gut, and the man bent over. Hawk stepped in with an uppercut that knocked Kirk into a standing position.

  The man was still smiling.

  “You know, Mister Bautista, I’m so glad you feel that way,” Kirk said, and took hold of Hawk’s arm—

  it wasn’t fair, he’d gotten the ball and he’d tried, but they hadn’t blocked for him, and the defense had hit him hard, and now they weren’t letting him up, they were sitting on him, laughing, and even the guys on the offense were laughing, and he pushed and squirmed, but he was too small, and then came the sharp slap as one of them spanked him, and then even the coach laughed, and he couldn’t get up, they wouldn’t let him up, they just kept laughing and laughing at the little boy who thought he could play, and all he could think was what was he going to tell his father

  —and Hawk, on his knees, tears streaming down his face, looked up and saw guards in wetsuits, like the ones who had come after them that first day on the docks, come marching into the room with spearguns and Tasers held ready.

  He waited for the feeling to whisk away, but it didn’t, it wouldn’t, and he had to cough or puke or something, and he gagged, and then a tiny little eel slithered out of his mouth and dropped into Kirk’s other hand.

  “How do you feel now?” Kirk asked, and Hawk didn’t have the strength to pull away.

  LORI

  Lori stood outside Splash Zone Play Space with Ben tugging on her arm, both of them waiting for Jenn to come.

  “I can wait inside,” Ben said for the fourth time.

  “Since Jenn is going to be in there with you, she needs to be the one who goes in,” Lori said, and looked down at him. “It’s for safety. You’re important to me, kiddo.”

  Ben sighed. “I know. And you’re important to me, too,” he said begrudgingly. “But there’s no laser tag out here.”

  Handler would have said something there, would have buzzed on her phone, Lori thought. But Handler was gone, just like the parents she couldn’t even remember.

  She was real.

  “If I wait in the front part, I can play on the game machines,” Ben added.

  “I’d like to stay out here, just to make sure that Jenn can find us,” Lori said, and didn’t add, and also so we have a clear path of escape if she’s got an eel in her like Mister Barkin had.

  “We’ll be fine,” Ben insisted, with a petulant confidence that somehow made Lori feel like things would actually be better.

  A ferry stopped at the nearby dock, and Lori watched the people disembark, looking for her friend’s face, along with signs of anything that could conceivably be wrong or off or weird, any warning sign. She had hunted feeders for two years . . .

  How had that started? She remembered Handler explaining it for the first time—this is a way for us to make money so you and Ben are okay, and it will also make the world safer for people— but everything around it was fuzzy. How had she known Handler? It was, like her parents, a thing that just was in her mind, an accepted fact.

  “Hey, Ben-to-Box!” came a friendly yell, and Ben pulled from Lori’s grasp and ran to Jenn, who smiled and hugged him. Lori felt a weight she hadn’t known she was carrying lift from her. Jenn looked fine, relaxed and happy and normal. “Hey, Lori! More of this consulting stuff?”

  “Yep.” Lori forced a smile. “I should just be an hour or two, and then I’ll meet you back here, all right?” She looked down at Ben. “Be careful in Splash Zone, okay? Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” Ben said absently, and headed toward the entrance.

  “You’re not okay,” Jenn said. It wasn’t a question.

&n
bsp; “This one is . . .” Lori broke off, looked down into the canal, where the miracoral gleamed.

  “It’s not just the job,” Jenn said, and stepped closer. “Talk to me, Fisher. Is someone . . .” Her eyes widened. “Who did that to you?” she asked, and darted a hand out to Lori’s collar.

  Lori pulled back fast, pressing her hand to where Jenn was pointing, and felt soreness. She remembered Barkin’s arm around her throat yesterday and said, “It’s nothing—”

  “Hey!” Jenn moved nose to nose with Lori and raked her pink bangs back from her face to glare. “You are my friend. If you’re in trouble, let me help. We can go to the cops. If it’s some guy, you know my boyfriend is on the soccer team, and he and his friends can—”

  “Jenn.” Lori really wanted to collapse into her friend’s arms. But if she did that, she knew she’d start crying, and she couldn’t afford that right now. “What I need is what you’re doing. Watch Ben for a couple hours. Don’t leave here. I’m going to take care of this, okay? And if it doesn’t work, then I’ll come back and get Ben, and we’ll figure out what to do next.” Like get fake IDs and disappear forever, assuming that would even work.“For now, that’s everything you can do, okay?”

  Jenn held her glare for a long moment, and then finally sniffed and stepped back. “When you get back, you tell me everything.”

  Lori wondered how much she’d be able to tell Jenn before Jenn’s face went blank and she started saying that it was just one of those things. “Deal. Thank you.”

  “I love you, dumbass,” Jenn said, and pulled her into a hug.

  “Love you, too.” Lori squeezed everything she could into the hug.

  It was interrupted by Ben’s voice saying, “Are you coming, Jenn?”

  Jenn broke the hug. “Right behind you, Ben-to-Box!” She looked back at Lori. “I’ve got him. Be careful, whatever’s going on.”

  “Thanks.” Lori watched her friend take her brother back inside. The door squeaked shut behind them, cutting off the sound of loud arcade machines and happily screaming children.

  Lori got on the ferry, flashed her pass, and sat, watching the water, as the engine churned.

  The miracoral glowed beneath the surface, its bright light painful and foreign. Where its radiance didn’t touch, the water of the canals was a dark gray-green, fringed with foam that slid away from the ferry’s wake.

  Maya was down there somewhere. Iara, Hawk, Tapper, too. Tiamat had them.

  But Lori didn’t have Handler. She’d choked on the water. There would be no swimming through the darkness, no fighting. There would be a short visit home, to get a few needed essentials. And to see if there was anything there to remember.

  Then she and Ben would disappear, just like Handler and her parents.

  Like one of those things.

  It’d be selfish to keep in touch with Jenn after she left. It would put both of them in danger. No parents, no old friends, no new friends.

  No Maya.

  That was selfish. The Nix, all of them, were powerful enough to take care of themselves. If she tried to help them, she would probably just get in their way, since Lori didn’t have powers anymore.

  She blinked as people got up, and realized she was at her stop. She hopped off the ferry, her steps on the walkway unsteady.

  Nothing looked out of place on the sidewalk. She saw no strange people loitering, watching her home. She nodded to neighbors as she passed, went up the stairs, strangely out of breath by the time she reached the top.

  Her key slid into the lock, and she pushed the door open slowly, alert for anything out of place.

  It all seemed normal.

  She stepped into the entryway. Her fingers trailed on the rough texture of the wall, curled over the hook where jackets and shopping bags hung. She glanced over into the kitchen, where the remains of Ben’s yogurt cup from yesterday still sat on the counter. The dishwasher shone the little green light that meant the dishes were done and needed to be unloaded.

  She walked forward, toward the hallway. On the right, the office door was cracked open. The big desk full of financial documents had its rolltop pulled down, same as always. On the left, past the kitchen table, where Maya had sat on her lap and they had kissed, the carpeted living room had Legos scattered across the floor and minifigures and other toys engaged in some kind of battle on the coffee table.

  The hallway.

  Ben’s room on the left, bathroom on the right. Lori’s feet didn’t want to move anymore. She tried to pretend she was just going to her room. There was the little vent by the floor, there was the outlet where she plugged in the vacuum, there were baby pictures of her and Ben . . .

  She was being selfish. She was endangering her brother. If the Lake Foundation had found Mister Barkin, it would find Jenn Vickers, and it would get Ben, and it wouldn’t be because the feeders were dangerous or Tiamat was evil, it would be because Lori had been selfish, wanting to get answers enough to endanger her brother. If she were a good sister, a good guardian, if she were even a real person, she’d get out of here right now and take Ben and never look back. Who cared about answers? When had answers ever helped anything? Answers hurt you. Answers showed you all the terrible things in the world. Answers told you that you were a monster.

  But I’m not I’m real. I had parents, and something happened. Was it you, Handler? Did you do this to me? Did you kill my parents?

  There was no buzzing from her phone. Nobody was there to tell her what not to do.

  She forced her feet forward, her brand-new shoes dragging on the ugly old carpet.

  There was the linen closet, the sheets never quite managing to fit.

  There was her room on the left and another on the right but—

  There was a door on the right.

  She stumbled forward, thrust her arm out, and shoved it open.

  A long bed with a dark headboard sat against one wall, with a dresser off to the side. The covers on the bed were a pretty light blue with little yellow flowers, and the bed had been made perfectly, except for little indentations where someone had sat.

  Ben had sat there. Remembering.

  And she hadn’t been there to help him.

  The anger pushed her forward, welling up inside her and giving her the strength to move. There was a small bathroom off to the right, and a tiny little detached part of her head said, Well, that would have been handy to know about all the times Ben was taking forever in the shower.

  On top of the dresser were the pictures.

  Her eyes slid off them, pulled back, skated away again, and finally stuck. Her breath caught, and everything felt heavy, her lungs tight and pulling.

  Her father was white and had brown hair and a crooked nose and one of those uncomfortable smiles, at least in the ones where he was posing for the camera. His smile looked better in the ones where he was holding Lori’s mother.

  In the largest picture, they were holding hands, just getting ready to kiss, outside at a park. They were dressed a little too nicely for a day at the park, but not in formal wear. A party, maybe? Inset in the corner was a smaller picture, one that might get stuck on a fridge, of Lori and Ben and their mother, smiling and sunburned at the beach.

  She looks so pretty, Lori thought, and felt tears sting her eyes. Glossy dark hair and tan skin a few shades darker than Ben’s, dark eyes. Chinese-American, Lori knew, but couldn’t say why she knew. She tried to pull her mother’s maiden name to her mind and couldn’t.

  She took us to the beach. We got sunburned, and there’s sand on our legs, and Ben has the remains of an ice cream in one hand, and we look so happy, and what happened after that? Who are you, Mom? Where are you? What did they do?

  “Handler,” Lori said, and it came out cracked and weak. “Handler, you can always hear me. I know you hear this. Answer me.”

  Nothing.

  “What did you do to them, Handler?” She forced herself to walk to the dresser. “What did you do to me?” She looked at the pictures. “You let me
think I was a monster, and you took them away from me. Why? You turned me into this . . . thing that traps feeders to help you eat. You used me. Why?”

  The anger was breaking over into tears, and she felt the room starting to spin around her. She tried to lean on the bed and found herself stumbling toward the door instead, and right then she knew, she knew, that if she went outside, she would shut the door behind her and forget everything she had just seen.

  She sank to the floor, digging her fingers into the carpet. “Answer me.” The dizziness was worse, and the floor swam and swayed under her hands. “Answer me!” It was tilting, it felt like, and any moment, she would find herself rolling down the incline, right out of the room. “Answer me!”

  She reached for that part of her that had been, the part that could move into places a normal person couldn’t understand—

  Pretend for a moment that you’re looking at a microbe smeared on a microscope plate. The microbe has lived its entire life stuck between those two planes of glass. As far as it’s concerned, there’s no up or down. Everything in its world is forward, backward, left, or right.

  Now pretend that it knows.

  Pretend that it strains its primitive sensory organs, reaching for a way to understand up and down, pushing against the plate. Pretend that it shows signs of distress, jerking back and forth as though moving that way will somehow translate into the “up” it only now realizes that it needs.

  Pretend that it’s screaming at you, that in its own way, it’s alive and a person with feelings and cares, and that it wants to know, and you don’t know what to tell it without breaking it, or even how to communicate, but it’s sliding out from under the plate, because it’s just a microbe, tiny and insignificant and small, but you’ve played the trick with the dropper a few times, and even if it doesn’t know exactly what it all means, it understands enough to know that there’s a place it can go where you are.

  Pretend that you reach up from where you’re huddled on the floor, your bleeding hand shaking, and catch the plate in your trembling fingers and say, “Okay, I’ll try,” as the world dims and darkens around you.