by R. R. Virdi
Ortiz eyed me. “You saw that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You think—”
“Dunno,” I cut in. If the tendrils were moving on their own, unconnected and with no input from the phage, we were in deeper trouble. There was the chance that in navigating the snare formation before us, a rogue limb could grab us. Anything could happen after that. We could be dragged down, buried beneath the tangled mat and strangled. A walnut sized lump formed in my throat. I swallowed and shook my head clear. One thing burned my doubts away—Lizzie. We had come this far. She was still in danger. So we would go further. End.
“I hate to say this,” Ortiz began.
“Then don’t,” I said.
“But I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Everything I do is inherently a bad idea. There’s always going to be a bad feeling associated with it.” I gave her a weak smile.
Ortiz stared at me for a second. Her body shook. The next instant she broke into laughter that echoed down the hall. Realizing what she had done, she shut her mouth with a forceful click of teeth.
“Smooth,” I whispered. The area just above my shoulder throbbed like I had taken a softball pitch to it. I rubbed it. “What happens if one of these days I punch back?” Ortiz gave me a look that made me reconsider the idea—permanently. “So, uh.” I gave a flourish of my hands. “Shall we?” I gestured to the intricate weavings of tendrils. Stepping through was not going to be easy. One wrong step and game over, Graves.
Ortiz’s chest rose as she inhaled several times, steeling herself. I mirrored her. Her fingers tightened around mine. I reciprocated and we took a step. We maneuvered ourselves so that each step put us in between the gaps of the net like pattern. My knuckles ground and my fingers rubbed against each other.
“Crap.” Ortiz let out an irritated huff of breath, squeezing my hand as she did.
“What?”
“One of those things brushed up against my leg.” She shivered.
I would’ve reacted the same way.
“So when we find her, what’s the plan?”
I was tempted to tell her I hadn’t gotten that far yet. My mind was solely occupied with Lizzie’s safety. The phage, if we bumped into it, was a then and there sort of problem. “I’m going stab it.” I punctuated my statement by jabbing the stake through the air.
“I was hoping for a little more than that.”
“What do you want me to say?” I asked as we navigated the maze of limbs. “The truth is, Ortiz, you can’t really plan for this stuff because, as soon as the shit hits the fan, all plans go south. We have a weapon. We know we can kill it. It’s the best we can hope for. My priority, honestly, is to save Lizzie and, if possible, get out. We know the freak’s nesting down here somewhere. We can always come back. I’m not risking a fight with a little girl down here.” My voice took on a sharpened edge.
Ortiz’s grip faltered for a second. “I’m not asking you to.” Her voice was just above a whisper.
“Sorry.”
She didn’t reply but nodded.
“I don’t know, Ortiz. I never know in this line of work. I just do the best I can and hope it’s enough.”
“Your best will be enough. We’ll make sure of it.” Her voice made steel seem soft.
Let’s hope so. I didn’t have the heart to tell Ortiz that my best hadn’t always gotten the job done. “Thanks.” I gave her the best grin I could manage. I was about to speak. I don’t know what came first: the feeling that my wrist was connected by bits of breaking string or the scream. My entire arm wrenched and I was pulled to the side. The pressure built in my socket to the point where I was given a harsh reminder of how I had started this case—with the dislocation of my shoulder. I still refused to let go of her hand.
Ortiz tumbled into the bed of tendrils. They flared to life like writhing snakes. Slender rows of pain, like minute razor blades, pressed into my hand. Ortiz dug her fingernails into me. She fought to hold on as the limbs sought to bury her. They lashed themselves to her like bits of binding, restraining her by the waist, head and arms. Her legs kicked in desperation as she tried to fight her way out.
I took a death grip on the stake and plunged toward the tendrils. It severed one of the limbs with ease. I repeated the process, stabbing like a deranged killer absorbed in the act of burying the blade into whatever I could. For every one of the tendrils I cut, two more slid forward in its place. Ortiz’s body was shrouded beneath the roiling mess. I did the only thing I could think of.
I let go.
A rubberband-like snap went off in my skull as it happened. I had let her fingers slip through mine. Willing the thought away, I went to work. I tugged my waistband and shoved the stake down my pants, taking care not to hit the important bits. Flexing my fingers, I formed stiff claws and raked at the tendrils. My goal wasn’t to tear them apart. It was to pull them away. Hacking at them didn’t seem to do any good. I burrowed through the tangled limbs until Ortiz’s face was plainly visible. Satisfied I had loosened as many of the tendrils as I could, I grabbed hold of her legs and pulled.
“Get,” she spat. “Me.” She took another breath of air. “Out of this crap!”
It was tough, but she slid through most of it, swiping at whatever bits she could. I made the effort to stomp a few rogue tendrils that wormed their way toward me. Her body rose out of the mess. The tentacles stopped flailing as she was freed. Relinquishing my grip on her legs, I extended my hand and she took hold of it. I hauled her up and we watched as the tendril’s undulating motions ceased. They receded toward the far end of the hall.
Ortiz and I were breathing heavily, but we managed to exchange a quick look of confusion. In truth, the phage’s left-behinds were winning. I had no idea why they pulled away. It could have been that the net-like construction was exactly that—a snare trap. Good for one go. Once Ortiz and I had put up enough of a fight and the tendrils hadn’t gotten what they wanted, they sank away. Not that I was complaining.
“Well,” Ortiz panted, “that was unpleasant.”
“Yeah. Phage—zip, dynamic duo—one.”
“Good job, Robin,” she quipped.
I glared. There is no reality, no train of thought, no plane of existence where I am not the goddamned Batman. I kept this to myself, of course. Batman doesn’t tell others he’s Batman. Everyone just knows it. And they should.
I sniffed and turned my head back to the clear hallway. Hooking a thumb inside my waistband, I tugged it away and removed the stake. Ortiz watched me, shaking her head in disappointment while nursing a small smile. She muttered something under her breath along the lines of, “Boys,” and, “always playing with their wood.”
I ignored it. “Keep an eye out. Likely that’s not the only surprise lurking around.”
Ortiz didn’t reply. Her features tightened before slipping back into neutrality. The only thing that remained was a certain light in her eyes—widened, alert.
We moved on with our heads on a swivel. Every hint of motion from the tendrils on the walls caused my heart rate to spike. The appalling lighting didn’t help in determining just how large the stone halls were. All I knew was that we’d been walking for longer than I wanted. In the next flicker of light, I turned over my forearm. My lips pressed tight.
Ten hours. It’d have to be enough.
“Charles?”
“What?”
She pointed off to the side. The wall was covered in tendrils like all the others. Through another burst of dismal lighting, I made out a thicker grouping of limbs. They were clustered together like webbing, much like the snare had done to Ortiz. An acidic coating lined my throat. It dried when I saw what Ortiz had.
Each bundle of tendrils held something within: men dressed in the overalls you’d see on mechanics or plumbers. At one point the man suspended on the right would have been dark-complected. His pal to the left was a pale associated with only one thing—death. A durable-looking canvas cinch bag lay at their feet. All manner
of tools protruded from it. They must’ve been the resident maintenance. The asylum must’ve been having problems of late, and why wouldn’t it?
“Damn.” I spat. The word left a note of bitterness in my mouth.
“Poor guys,” said Ortiz.
“Come on.” My voice carried a hard edge. Ortiz didn’t budge.
“Someone should cut them down.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Later. Right now, Lizzie’s the priority.” I tried to keep my voice soft. I felt her pain.
I wasn’t a fan of anyone dying, random civilians included. The hardened truth of the job is that it happens. It will happen. Always. There’s no way around it. It wasn’t that I was insensitive; there was a more pressing matter to attend to. Lizzie was still alive, and I hoped there was something we could do for her.
“Come on.” I gestured with my hand.
Ortiz stayed rooted in place. She gave the two a final look before turning to me. With a slight nod, she gestured ahead.
I turned. Light shone with an almost paper white brightness in the dark. It came into the hall at a sharp angle, emanating from a room to the side.
Ortiz tilted her head to regard it. “If I were a spooky monster hiding out in a sublevel—”
“That’s where I’d be hiding.” I grimaced.
I raced over and pressed my back against the wall near the doorframe. Ortiz moved to rush past the door and position herself on the other side. I shook my head to advise against it. She pulled up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. She’d follow me in as I turned the corner.
A lead balloon formed in my stomach as I rolled the stake in my palm. I looked back and gave Ortiz a steady look. I nodded and she returned it. My free hand gripped the doorframe like an anchor. I pulled off of it and swung around the corner. We charged into the room.
The lead balloon rose and settled into my throat.
A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, lighting the stone room. Opposite us was another throng of tendrils. A tawny young face protruded from them. A body was suspended a foot off the ground.
“Lizzie,” Ortiz breathed.
I spat a string of curses.
Her face hadn’t paled. It still retained its healthy coloration. Her mouth hung slack, the way you might expect when someone is deep in sleep. But her eyes were a different story. If Lizzie were a normal child, the look she wore would be like she’d seen a ghost. There was an alertness to them. I could see the whites shaking. She was looking straight at us. Or through us. I couldn’t tell. Either she was seeing us or something else entirely. Given the phage’s abilities, I was banking on the latter. Seeing her like that pushed me over the edge.
Acid seared my marrow. My heart beat with a diesel throb and the stake never felt more comfortable in my hands. Lizzie was still alive. The phage could wait.
“Ortiz.” I reversed my grip on the stake. “Get her out of that crap!” Ortiz took the weapon without reply and inched her way to Lizzie. I stood back, watching in case the tendrils decided to flare into life and attack. Nothing of the sort happened as Ortiz seized the top corner of bundled limbs and hacked away.
“Stuff’s tougher than I thought,” she grumbled to herself. Ortiz cast a glance over her shoulder at me. Her eyes went wide. It set me in motion. I was turning before she shouted, “Charles!”
Tarnished silver flooded the corner of my view. It grew larger by the millisecond. Color warped from patinated metal to a rush of seventies disco assaulting my vision. The whatsit crashed home in a concerto of pain. It didn’t glance off but deformed as it impacted my skull with a groan of objection. Thin, soft metal—a tray—I deduced as I stumbled sideways.
The flurry of disorienting dots cleared from my vision. Ortiz flew into motion, a near blur lashing out with a kick. It connected and drew a pained oomph from the woman as she tumbled into the wall. Caught up in the moment, Ortiz and I hadn’t had the chance to register the stranger’s identity. Plump, with a pear-shaped face and brown hair done up in a bun. She had a warm matronly look.
Ortiz’s posture slipped from the tight, controlled fighting stance. Her arms wavered, and her head lowered a bit. “Katherine?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat to get the words out.
“You knew?” she said, the whip crack question coming with a hint of accusation.
“I figured it out just before we came down here. I wasn’t a hundred percent certain though.”
A low groan of pain and exhaustion left Katherine’s mouth.
“What should we do?” Ortiz’s voice fluctuated. I could see her jaw tighten even as her eyes lost focus. She was having trouble believing Katherine was involved.
I wasn’t. “I’m nursing the awful temptation to take the stake and—”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” interrupted a soft, confident voice.
He was taller than anyone I’d seen in the asylum, with gentle cherubic features and cheeks made of pudgy flesh. The hefty guy blocked the door.
“Who’s that?” Ortiz morphed back into an aggressive posture, stake held point out.
I buried my surprise that Ortiz could see him and turned my focus to Katherine lying slumped against the wall. “Gus,” I said. “Gusbert Robinson.” I kept my voice as flat as I could.
“Her son.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gus smiled. It was all teeth, disturbing to see on his face as his flabby features morphed. “When did you figure it out?”
“The photo,” I said. “You have her eyes.”
He arched an eyebrow. “That was enough for you?”
“Wait,” Ortiz chimed in. “I thought her son was dead? One of the nurses said—”
“He is.” I thrust my hand toward Gus’ sternum. He never moved. My hand passed straight through.
His smile grew.
“Not going to lie. It took me a while to put it together. You only ever showed up after I drank water.”
“Coincidence?” He gave a light shrug. Even he wasn’t buying his own story.
“Yeah, I don’t believe in those. Not with the life I lead.”
“About that.” Gus gave me an oblique stare. “How are you alive?”
Shit. Always the problem with my job: confronting the monster—or an extension of it—while inhabiting the body of someone it killed. I could almost hear the pneumatic drills Ortiz’s eyes were using to glare at me.
I ignored his question. “Then I remembered our conversation with one of the orderlies. We were arguing. He looked at you, then back to me and called me a nut job. It didn’t sink in until later. He couldn’t see you, could he?”
Gus’ smile stayed plastered on his face, but his eyes glimmered for a second.
“It wasn’t until I took a nasty acid trip, courtesy of you, that I realized how powerful your illusions are. It’s why I was able to touch you, feel you, and interact with you like you were real. I only thought you were. Now that’s gone.” I punctuated my statement with a swipe of my hand that sailed clear through his head.
“Charles, what are you talking about?” Ortiz asked.
“He’s an illusion, Ortiz. Created by the phage...for her.” I nodded to Katherine. “Gus was never real. He’s a projection. Anyone who’s drunk the water here has a chance of seeing him, so long as the phage wants them to. That’s what Gus is—a tool, an extension of its powers.” It dawned on me how obvious it should’ve been, all the clues. Lyshae’s lectures on the power of illusions, everything the phage had thrown at me, and Katherine’s treatment of Gus. “We took a trip into the Neravene, and we saw twisted versions of the asylum. We saw some people too.”
Gus’ expression remained the same, save for a slight tilt of the head.
“I saw Katherine. She looked broken. She was talking to someone, endearingly so. Someone we couldn’t see. I saw her mouth a name—your name.” I smiled.
He brought his hands together in a slow, heavy clap that echoed through the room. It wasn’t real. It was just for show. Illusions exist t
hrough belief. So long as I thought Gus was real, I’d interact with him as such. The phage’s toxin was powerful stuff. But the second I came to realize what he was, he couldn’t touch me, couldn’t hurt me. He was nothing. Gus was a cheap parlor trick at best.
“That’s what you are, right? A crappy trick by a disgusting creature with a two-bit act!”
Gus’ face contorted. Excess flesh bunched together as his skin flushed.
Guess I could make the apparition mad. Good. “Katherine was never ‘cured,’ was she?” I thought about what one of the nurses had told me earlier. Katherine Robinson was one of the asylum’s greatest triumphs. “The phage—you—manipulated her. Gave her the illusion that her son lived on, even though, deep down, she knew he’d died. She was broken!” Spittle flew from my mouth. “You preyed on her, twisted her, pushed her. You kept her dangling on puppet strings!”
Gus’ remained silent.
“She was your way in, your eyes in the asylum, using her to pick out targets!” I paused, realizing what else she’d done. “You used her to clean up your mess.” I thought back to the smell of bleach, the removal of the markings in Charles’ bedroom. “You took a mother’s grief, her heartache, and used it to bend her to your will. You sick, twisted mother—” I stopped.
His body lost its appearance of solidity, looking all the more like a stage magician’s conjuration. That’s not what prompted me to stop though. As Gus’ body became more like a fine mist, I could see past him. Behind him was a figure in need of a serious tan. Chalky white with tendrils protruding from its body.
“—fucker,” I finished when I saw the phage. Its head fell to the side, much like Gus’ had. It regarded me with eyeless sockets. Its mouth parted, opening halfway before it was stopped by the strands of skin connecting both lips. The phage released a dry breath that stirred the hanging strands of skin. Without turning my head, I shifted my gaze to Ortiz. “Ortiz, um, now might be a good time to go Xena on this thing’s ass.”
Gus clicked his tongue, waving his finger in warning as the phage stepped through him. “If you try…I can’t guarantee young Elizabeth will be okay.” A rustling forced Ortiz and me to look away from the phage to where Lizzie was held captive. The tendrils writhed, creeping over her face, and working toward her mouth and nose.