Helix: Plague of Ghouls

by Pat Flewwelling

“No . . . the last name—” Buckle blinked back at him. “Maurelli. Son of a bitch.”

  “What?”

  Buckle grimaced. “Seriously, she’s the vice-principal of Oxley Collegiate?”

  “Sure, why?”

  Buckle snorted. “Remember that jungle punk we brought in for questioning? The one with the skull and the attitude?”

  “One of three punks, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure, I remember him,” Two-Trees said. “Connection back to Maurelli?”

  “Big one. Mother and son.”

  Two-Trees closed his gaping mouth with a click. “He goes to Oxley Collegiate?”

  “No, no.”

  “Elmbury North?”

  Buckle shook his head. “No, Alistair Secondary. Town of East Oxley,” Buckle said. “Huh—I wonder if there’s a connection between Sydney Mission and both Maurellis.”

  “You didn’t ask him?”

  “Of course we asked him. We asked all three if they’d seen Sydney. They said no. Doesn’t mean a damn thing, though.”

  Two-Trees looked up at the sound of doors opening and at the sight of Foster getting quickly to her feet. A brown-shirted courier struggled through the door with a few boxes and went straight to the counter where Two-Trees’ favourite—and most understanding—receptionist stood waiting for him.

  “Gotta few packages here for Eva Foster?” the courier asked.

  “Oh thank God,” Foster said. “Thank you!”

  “Great,” the courier replied. “All I need now is some form of ID, and you can sign . . .”

  Shit, Two-Trees thought. She hasn’t got any.

  “Actually,” Buckle said, taking out his own wallet, “she’s with me. Will this ID suffice?” He showed the courier his OPP identification and spelled out his badge number, and no, he wasn’t taking the shipment from him and had no subpoena for it. He was only vouching for Foster’s identity pursuant to his prerogative as a sworn officer of the law, and no she couldn’t provide any ID at the moment because there was an outstanding criminal investigation, Case File Number Blah-blah-blah, showing that she’d been accosted two nights earlier and had had her wallet stolen.

  The receptionist watched all this with great interest.

  The courier shrugged and turned to the receptionist. “Heck, I don’t care. You could sign for it yourself.” He turned over the electronic scanner and gave her a stylus to write with. “Do you have an Alex Selkirk registered here too?” The receptionist checked. There was no one there by that name.

  “He might be staying at another hotel,” she said. “Do you want me to call around?”

  The courier looked at the small box, turning it around so he could better read the label. “It’s definitely this hotel. Alex Selkirk, care of Hector Two-Trees?”

  Two-Trees perked up. “Actually, that would be me,” he said, and almost added, but I don’t know any Alex Selkirk. He presented his driver’s license and special officer’s identification. Buckle half-heartedly offered to vouch for his identification too, but the courier said the photo ID was enough. It was a box big enough to house a camera with a zoom lens, and it was heavy.

  The receptionist made a disappointed noise. Two-Trees followed her line of sight. Through the side door of the hotel, a younger woman was walking in, laughing and talking to a man behind her. Two-Trees’ favourite receptionist had just fallen back down the totem pole. The assistant manager, all twenty-some years of her, was walking in with her master key pass in hand.

  “I have another box outside in the van,” the courier said to Foster.

  “Okay, we can move it directly into my truck,” Foster replied. “Do you need help?”

  “It’s heavy,” the courier warned.

  “That’s fine. I have friends.”

  The young assistant manager looked up and saw Foster and Two-Trees. She focused on Two-Trees. “What’s all this?” she asked the receptionist. The larger woman stood up to speak face to face with her manager. Foster, wisely, decided this was as good a time as any to show the courier the way out. “Yeah, so, what did I say about hotel policy and unchecked visitors loitering in the lobby?”

  The manager’s young visitor looked up.

  Two-Trees looked back at him.

  They recognized each other in the same instant.

  The boy turned and bolted.

  Two-Trees tossed the box to Buckle, who threw it toward Foster, who may have fumbled it, Two-Trees didn’t know and didn’t care. Two-Trees was already halfway down the hall, shoes booming on the floor. The kid from the pharmacy crashed through the side door and spun himself around as he stumbled outside into the parking lot. Two-Trees slammed open the door and lengthened his stride. Standing beside the truck, Bridget spotted them. She threw down her cup of coffee and ran perpendicular to the thief’s flight, intent on taking the long way around. Two-Trees kept going straight ahead. Two-Trees had speed, but Bridget had stamina. The boy had youth and fear in his corner. The kid looked over his shoulder, tripped over a concrete wheel stop and fell onto the grass. Two-Trees poured on the gas, veering slightly to the punk’s right, giving him the option to run toward the driveway and away from the undeveloped lot east of the hotel. The kid got up and ran straight instead, toward the highway. He collapsed over a snagged foot and got up to run again. He was losing ground, and Two-Trees was determined not to let this one go, not again.

  “I just want to talk!” Two-Trees shouted.

  The boy stupidly looked over his shoulder, saw the knife sheath on Two-Trees’ belt, and he ran left, following the highway. They ran through the weeds like they were running across a tractor-tire obstacle course. Two-Trees’ chest and arms were burning, but this was a petty crook who had answers. This was a kid who was scared because he’d recognized Two-Trees and knew that if he didn’t disappear, Two-Trees would ask uncomfortable questions about diaper cream and hemorrhoid medicine. Two-Trees veered a little more to the right, trying to cut between the highway and his quarry. Normally it would be Bridget running the long way around, but Two-Trees had a lot of steam and he knew his old stomping grounds well.

  The earth dipped toward Deer Jump River, and the kid went sliding, arms waving like Kermit the Frog, all the way down the embankment.

  Two-Trees took four running steps toward the edge and leapt, knife unsheathed and clasped in both hands raised over his head, coat tails flapping behind him, long hair flying loose. The kid ran across the shallowest parts of the river with arms and legs pumping, jacket half off, things falling out of his pockets, water spraying everywhere, eyes on the knife-wielding Indian flying through the sky toward him.

  Bridget’s arm appeared out of nowhere. The thief recoiled as if he’d run into a glass wall, and he fell into the river with his hand on his throat. A clothesline like that could have crushed his larynx.

  Two-Trees stomped to a stop and doubled-over, completely out of breath, big chest heaving, arms on fire, ankles sore, hand loose around his knife. His mind was made up. He was going back to the gym the very second he found one.

  “Shit, dude,” Bridget said. She sounded like she’d strolled the whole way. “I haven’t seen you move that fast since 2010.”

  “Shut . . . up . . .” he panted. He sheathed his knife and grabbed the kid by the jacket lapels, dragging him to drier land. They were both soaked—the kid from half-frozen river water, Two-Trees from sweat. He dropped the gagging boy twice. Bridget moved Two-Trees aside.

  Then she recoiled and put her hand over her mouth, repulsed.

  “Is he . . . ?” Two-Trees asked.

  Before she could answer, more feet came splashing through the river. Two-Trees had nothing left. If it was an ambush, he was a dead man. Bridget could fight her way out, but he didn’t even have the strength to lift his arms anymore.

  It was Buckle.

  “Wow,” Buckle said. “That was . . .”

  “Never knew a fat guy could move so fast, huh?” Bridget asked behind her hand. “Do me a favour and roll t
hat kid around in the water for a minute?” She turned away, covering her mouth and nose with the crook of her arm. Her eyes had already changed. “Damn, but he smells.”

  Buckle squatted by the kid’s body, checking him over for the most life-threatening of wounds. “I don’t smell anything but Axe body spray and sweat.”

  “Pheruh . . .” Two-Trees couldn’t get the whole word out. He stood, but the stitch in his side made him want to lie down and curl up in a ball.

  “Pheromones,” Bridget said. She was in the middle of the river, up to her shins in ice water, and she was scrubbing her sleeves, hands, and face.

  “But he’s not changing,” Buckle said.

  “Don’t ask me to explain it,” Bridget replied. “Just wash him up.”

  “Why the hell were you chasing him?” He took out his handcuffs just in case, and began applying them to the kid on the riverbed.

  Bridget found one of the boxes of diaper cream floating downstream. She sloshed after it and picked it up.

  “Why the hell did you run, son?” Buckle asked.

  The kid was coughing, probably to give himself an excuse to not answer Buckle’s question.

  “Wait. I shouldn’t wash this guy,” Buckle said, suddenly.

  Bridget was fighting hard, but between the chase and the pheromones, her body wanted the change. Her fangs were showing. Buckle was shaking.

  “The cadaver dog,” Buckle said, despite his obvious terror and disbelief, his voice sounding strained. “You need something to set him off. We have it right here. We take him in my car. Two-Trees and I interrogate him. As soon as we get back to that field, we introduce your man to this kid. Sparks fly. We can pick up that trail again, before more weather moves through.”

  Bridget had stopped scrubbing herself so violently. Two-Trees stood up a little straighter, though he kept his hands on his knees. “Hey, Buckle,” Two-Trees said.

  Buckle finished putting the handcuffs on their quarry, who told Buckle to perform some biologically unlikely sexual acts on himself. “What?”

  “We could use a guy like you,” Two-Trees said.

  Buckle pulled the boy to his feet. “Yeah, I know.”

  “You made up your mind then?” Two-Trees asked.

  “Not yet. But sure as hell, you guys are a lot more interesting than Palmer. Never see Palmer doing a Last of the Mohicans over a hill like that.” Buckle wiped his face. “Seriously though, why’d I just cuff this guy?”

  Two-Trees took the box of diaper cream from Bridget’s hand, and then he pulled her along by the arm, leading her closer to Buckle. “Theft, for one,” Two-Trees said. He tossed the box to Buckle.

  The wind shifted, and Bridget backed up. “Don’t make me do this, Hector.”

  “Fight it, then,” Two-Trees said. “He needs to see this.”

  “No, I don’t,” Buckle said.

  “You want something help you make up your mind?” He pleaded with Bridget, to get her to look at Buckle, to show him her lengthening teeth and thickening jaw muscles. Buckle didn’t seem interested in that, not nearly as much as he was interested in the black, bristling Mohawk growing through her spotted hair. She jerked her hand free and stalked off, further upstream.

  Buckle’s eyes were glassy.

  “Even before she’s finished changing, she’s got a bite force quotient that could break your femur. And you’re watching her change. You know her name. You can identify her human face. That makes you a threat.”

  Buckle watched, fists clenched, wavering when the cuffed kid fell against him in his efforts to stand up.

  “She’s full of adrenaline, and all her instincts are telling her right now: complete the kill. Complete the kill. Those instincts are telling her that you’re standing between her and a meal, and you’re not nearly as scary as another lycanthrope. And what’s she doing?”

  Bridget reached down with cracking hands to scoop up water and splash it on her face.

  “Proving she’s not a cannibal,” Two-Trees said. “Trusting you with her secret. Trusting me to bring you into the fold.”

  When the kid got up, Two-Trees swept the legs out from under him, and he came crashing down, nearly taking Buckle with him. He cursed and wriggled, and when he got up again, Bridget spun on her feet, round orange eyes wide, black lips curled back from dull fangs. The kid lay still.

  “From now on,” Two-Trees said, “whether you join us or not, you’ll never, ever look another human being in the eye the same way. Because without a nose like theirs, you’ll never know who might rip his skin off and come at you with claws and fangs like hers. And every day, in every encounter, you’ll have to decide whether to trust a lycanthrope, or to put him down. And you’ll never, ever know when one turns on you.”

  “Is that what happened to Red Cloud?” Buckle asked.

  Bridget was cursing Two-Trees, the kid, Buckle, mankind in general. She dragged claws across her chest and screeched in outrage. She jammed her fists under her arms and doubled over, fighting to keep the hyena-demon in its cage.

  “Red Cloud was one of the founding members of Wyrd,” Two-Trees said. “He believed these were people with a spiritual sickness, something that could be healed. Some of them came to him, thinking that maybe, just maybe, an Indian medicine man might know how to fix them.”

  “And did he?”

  “No. But he knew how to keep them fed and sheltered, safe from other human beings so they wouldn’t be induced into fur to protect themselves. He trusted the wrong one for too long. The wolf went rogue. Tore the shit out of him.” Two-Trees frowned and shook his head. “But by God, if Grandfather didn’t give as good as he got,” he said, surprised at the thick catch in his voice, “That’s why I do this job, and to hell with Wyrd. I do it to honour my grandfather’s life. I do it to apologize for being a scrawny, screaming eleven-year-old, incapable of making a difference in the fight. And I do it because I think there’s something powerful in the human spirit, and I want it to survive. And if I think there are other human beings out there at risk of getting this god damned disease, I’ll do whatever it takes to stop it.” He glared at the handcuffed kid.

  Buckle thought for a while. Then he reached down, picked the kid up and dusted him over. “So it seems I’m outnumbered two bad cops to one. What say you and I take a walk and talk things over, eh, son?” He turned to Two-Trees. “Maybe you’d better come with me.” He then nodded toward Bridget, who was looking ragged and wet but human. “Give her a moment of privacy.”

  Two-Trees ran his hand under his nose and wiped his eye. “Yeah. Right behind you. Let’s go.”

  Buckle made sure to keep a firm grip on the boy’s bent arm, but he made no threats, and quoted him his rights—though Two-Trees wouldn’t let the kid get as far as jail—and he spoke tough-love words in a level, rational voice. They’d run a lot farther than Two-Trees had realized. It took a long time to follow the river and find a safe way back up onto the service road.

  “Red Cloud killed him?” Buckle asked. “The animal that ruined him . . . Was that the corpse they found in the barn?”

  The punk was glaring over his shoulder at Two-Trees. “You have no idea what you’re up against, asshole,” he said, with a laugh. “You’ve got no idea. Just wait until my girl gets in touch with the Tribe.”

  “Whose tribe?” Two-Trees asked.

  “You’ll see,” said the kid, laughing.

  “We’ll go up this way,” Buckle said. “Near the bridge, you see it?”

  There were steps carved into the mud where generations of fly fishermen had come to test their luck in the river. Buckle helped the kid climb up ahead. Two-Trees followed.

  Buckle stopped at the top of the old river bed. The pharmacy thief began to laugh.

  “Shit,” said Buckle.

  Two-Trees shouldered him aside.

  There must have been forty of them.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  FOSTER BROUGHT AS much as she could with her, leaving the courier to get the rest. She showed the
extra box to the Padre, asking if he’d ordered anything.

  Ishmael was stretched out on the truck’s middle seat, trying to get some rest. He intercepted the package before it got as far as the Padre’s hands. “Thank you.” He sat up and picked at the packing tape.

  “Alex Selkirk?” she asked.

  “In the 1700s,” Ishmael explained, “Alexander Selkirk had a fight with his captain and was marooned for four and a half years. When he finally made it back to England, Daniel Defoe heard about his story, and wrote a book based loosely on Selkirk’s life, calling it Robinson Crusoe. And apparently Selkirk had a real love for cats.”

  Ishmael opened the box. Inside was a wallet, a new smart phone, a set of car keys, a well-used passport in Selkirk’s name with Ishmael’s picture, a driver’s license likewise named and photographed, Manitoba medical insurance, some business cards for Selkirk & Anderson, a stack of American currency, two stacks of well-used Canadian tens and twenties, and two credit cards. Equipped with his Alex Selkirk identity and resourcefulness, the first thing he wanted to do was run out and buy a decent suit.

  “The modern-day Alex Selkirk happens to be the senior partner in Selkirk and Anderson Investment Banking,” Ishmael added, “and makes about sixty-five million a year without Wyrd knowing about it, with assets in Hong Kong, London, Islamabad, Gdańsk, St. Petersburg, and Manila. The vast majority of my employees are teleworkers or cottage-industry workers, and all of them are either refugee lycanthropes, carriers, or witnesses. See, this is why I travel abroad helping people. You never know when they might be able to return the favour. It doesn’t pay me much, but any port in a storm.”

  “Sixty-five million a year isn’t much?” Foster asked.

  The Padre was hiding on the floor between the back and middle benches with a blanket over him. He slid back a corner of the covers. “So that’s why you didn’t bat an eye when I asked you for a computer. You’re made of money.”

  “Yeah. And do me a favour? Fire up that laptop.” Ishmael wiped his nose as he turned on the smart phone. He had full service. The phone was locked with a four digit code, which had also been left on a note inside the box. He walked the Padre through the initial log-in settings; his cell phone was now acting as a Wi-Fi hotspot, and the Padre could start sending messages out. Coughing, shivering, Ishmael dictated a message first to Anders Jewell Anderson to confirm that he’d received the care package. He sneezed twice. “I don’t miss that,” he said, running his hand under his nose. “Any sign of Bridget?”