by Rich Larson
Bo rocked on the balls of his feet while Wyatt divvied everyone up, and a minute later he followed Wyatt out of the theater, swinging the blackjack back and forth, feeling the Parasite sparking in his belly. He was reciting the rhyme in his head:
Done killed one, I’ll kill another.
“Boniface, is that you, honey? Boniface, honey, is that you? Boniface, is that—”
Violet reversed her bat, smashing the knob down into the othermother’s bobbing throat. Something crunched inward and the syrupy voice jittered to a halt. She wiped the bat off with the hem of her tunic, leaving a dark smear. She didn’t care about stains today. She was pissed.
“Take a leg each,” she ordered. “Hold it by the first joint.”
Saif and Alberto scurried to comply, wrestling for a second to see who would take the one leaking fluid. They were both bouncy on their feet, all wired up like the last time she caught them playing potions, which meant dumping a half dozen energy drinks into a big plastic cup and swilling it until their hearts beat hummingbird-fast. They weren’t as smart as Gilly. Everything was still a game to them, hunting othermothers included.
Violet and Alberto had done the dirty work and Saif had done the baiting, since he was nearly dark enough to pass for Bo. Of course, everyone looked more or less the same now, thanks to Bree’s little stunt. Like a bunch of fucking space monkeys. Violet was sure, with a burning clarity, that she’d done it to barb her. Bree knew Violet wouldn’t shave her head, even if the other girls did.
That wasn’t the only thing either. While she’d been out with Wyatt, he’d asked her where she’d gone last night. She’d said nowhere important, and he’d dropped it, but it still put a squirmy fear in her. She hated it when she disappointed Wyatt. It stung all over.
Violet stowed the bat and seized the othermother’s rubbery wrists. “Up on three, guys,” she said. She gave them the three-count, then they all lifted in tandem. Violet knew that dead bodies were supposed to be heavy, but the othermother was light. She briefly wondered if they had honeycombed bones, like birds, or maybe no bones at all. Then she remembered how pissed she was and jerked her head forward.
They’d done the othermother near a dumpster outside the Safeway, meaning they didn’t have far to go to the meet point. A few times they heard the sound of another othermother approaching and had to either detour around or duck into an alley to avoid being spotted, but when they got to the fountain, Violet felt a small bit of satisfaction seeing they were the first to arrive. They dragged the othermother up to the lip of the fountain and heaved her over. She splashed into the scummy water, bobbing the plastic refuse around.
“We’re first,” Alberto beamed, running his dirty hands over Saif’s head.
“Yeah, well, this was the easy part,” Violet said, flipping the othermother’s dangling arm over the edge with the rest of her. “Don’t get too excited, my little skinheads.”
Three othermothers drifted around the fountain, limp limbs knocking against each other. Bo rubbed absently at the little pink scar on his elbow, the one from when he first escaped the warehouse. He was perched a ways off from the fountain, on top of an empty electrical van, watching the sky and waiting. Wyatt had picked the plaza because it was a wide empty space. The pods didn’t like maneuvering in cramped quarters. Here there was the fountain, a bare island of cobblestone, and mostly empty streets surrounding it. Nowhere to hide, nothing to make it suspicious.
Bo stretched his legs and his arms, then flexed his knuckles until they cracked. He’d been watching and waiting for over an hour. He was getting restless. He stared up again into the cloudy gray sky, squinting hard. And suddenly, there it was: three or four times the size of the porpoises he’d seen in the aquarium, floating through the air, steering itself with serrated fins. A pod.
Bo slipped down off the van, swinging himself into the open back and out of sight. He didn’t see its descent, but he heard the familiar chugging noise, the mixture of dying motor and gasping animal. It set his teeth on edge. Then the pod dropped low over the fountain and he had a good look at it. The outside was part inky-black flesh and part something else, something hard and plastic-looking. Bundles of wire and glowing electronics clung to it in patches. The fins were metal and sharp.
It loomed over the fountain, and from its underbelly Bo saw two spidery pincers unfold. Slowly, delicately, the pod picked the first othermother out of the dirty water, dripping on the stone. Bo watched it envelop the ragdoll corpse, sucking it back into its belly. He felt a flare of anger knowing they would use it to grow another, and another, and another. His Parasite caught the emotion and crackled. He wondered, briefly, if he could vanish the pod from here. If he could make the static ripple far enough to rip the pod right out of existence.
But that wasn’t the mission. Bo waited instead, waited as the pod reached for its second corpse, reeled it in slowly. Wyatt had said to wait. Minutes ticked by. Bo clenched and unclenched his hands. Waited. Waited. When the pod was finishing with the last corpse, intent on its work, Bo knew it was time. He slapped at his face, letting the pain pump his adrenals—Violet had shown him that trick, and not gently. His Parasite surged. He almost hoped he would need it.
The pod was full of sodden bodies now. Wyatt had said it would be slow, sluggish even. Wyatt was always right. Bo slipped out of the van and paced three cautious steps toward the fountain, judging distance. He’d baited plenty of othermothers over the past few days. He had the timing for it. But as far as he knew, nobody had ever baited a pod before. Bo watched it drift in place. He wondered, briefly, if it might be the same pod that had chased him when he first escaped the warehouse. He wondered if aliens knew what a rematch was.
Bo licked his lips and whistled loud. The pod revolved in a slow circle until its blunt nose was facing him. Bo peered at it, trying to distinguish features. It didn’t seem to have any eyes, but that went with what Wyatt had said too, that they used sonar like dolphins. Its head was a smooth blank curve. Bo took a big step backward, keeping his eyes locked on the pod.
He remembered the one that had swooped down on him outside the warehouse with its blinding lights, the one that had picked him off the sidewalk in front of his burning house, how terrified he’d been both times. Out here low to the ground, in daylight, instead of circling in a dark sky, it didn’t look as frightening. It looked out of place. Almost like a cartoon, all clumsy and swollen.
Bo took another step backward, and the pod drifted slowly toward him. No different from an othermother. Easier, maybe. He took another step. The pod followed, chugging and wheezing, still hovering only a few feet off the ground. Bo turned and kept walking, checking over his shoulder every so often, drawing closer and closer to the alley Wyatt had picked out, recognizable by the old rusted water tank on the one rooftop. He felt almost giddy. Almost wanted to laugh.
Then, as he looked over his shoulder, there was a whirring and a bright yellow light flashed in his eyes. Bo blinked hard, chasing spots away. He saw a miniature image of his half-turned profile slide across the pod’s black skin like a hologram. The pod hovered in place, as if it was thinking, almost, considering its options.
Bo rubbed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”
There was a scraping noise, and from the underside of the pod’s featureless head Bo saw a spiny projection slide into view, a spiky proboscis-looking thing with a gleaming sharp hook at its end.
“Shit,” Bo said, and he took off down the alley.
It was a strange déjà vu, like he was breaking out of the warehouse all over again, but this time there was a plan and a destination and he knew what he was running toward. He dug in, found his rhythm. Stretched his stride. It felt springy and pure, better now with the new shoes, better now that he was eating real food and drinking all the water he wanted.
This time the pod had to stay low to keep him in sight, because the Lost Boys had crisscrossed the top of the alley with heavy wires, strung roof to roof, and draped tarps over the top. He cros
sed over into their shadow. The pavement pounded away under his feet, all of it swept clean of debris, nothing left that might trip him up. At the end of the alley he could see the twin dumpsters they’d pushed into a blockade. He put on an extra burst of speed.
Bo could hear the pod chugging along behind him, picture its sharp proboscis level to his shoulder blades. His Parasite was thumping in beat with his heart, crackling and nearly sparking. Hot greasy-smelling air blasted over his shaved head in waves like an animal’s panting breath; the pod was closing the gap, close, closer—
Wyatt stepped out from behind one of the dumpsters, spear gun held up against his shoulder, gray eyes narrowed to slits of concentration. Bo dove to the ground.
It was Jenna’s idea to put an old spongy mattress down to break the fall, and he was briefly grateful to her as he hit it and rolled. He saw the glint of the pod’s proboscis whistle past his face, then the rest of it, its smooth black underbelly skimming inches over him. The blast of air shut his eyes for him, but he heard the dull pneumatic chunk of Wyatt firing.
He scrambled up from under the pod’s now-thrashing tail, back the other way. More Lost Boys were out from behind the dumpsters now, swinging the hooks Elliot had made so sharp. Bo took another step backward, not daring take his eyes off the scene. The pod was trying to turn around, but the alley was too narrow, even when it tucked its metal fins up against its sides. Wyatt had guessed right. He was clutching tight to the spear gun in both hands as the line unspooled, hissing into the air. The dart had stuck deep, buried in the pod’s ink-black flesh, and Bo could see something luminous and yellow leaking out of the wound.
Quentin was the first to hurl his hook, but it slapped against the pod’s side and bounced off. Jon went next and struck true, sinking it into the skin around its left fin. Bree’s dragged an oozing gouge along the pod’s back but slipped out. Jenna’s bounced.
The pod was thrashing wildly, making a horrible keening drone that Bo could feel in his jawbone. He stared, transfixed, as it twisted Wyatt’s dart free with a wet pop. It wasn’t sluggish-seeming anymore. It was strong, terrifyingly strong. Wyatt loaded the spear gun again, cursing, and Jon slid on his feet trying to keep hold of his cord. Bo was frozen.
Cold metal slapped into his hand. He looked up and saw Violet.
“Get in close,” she said. “Don’t throw it. Get close.”
She had a hook of her own clenched in white knuckles, and she took off toward the pod as it slammed its tail end against the stone wall, raising a cloud of dust and grime. Saif and Alberto were right behind her, howling with fright and excitement. Bo watched in frames as Violet darted in, back out, then finally underneath the twisting pod. She drove the hook into its underbelly with more force than Bo thought she could get from her skinny arms.
The pod wailed, an ear-splitting sound that seemed to shake the whole alley. Saif struck next, planting his hook under its fin and then hurling himself out of the way. Alberto missed, but by then the other Lost Boys had seen what Violet had done. Bree came from the other side, taking a flying leap off the top of the dumpster, and stuck her hook into the pod’s arching back. Yellow fluid splattered into the air.
Bo gripped his hook, heart hammering hard, Parasite thrumming. He went in on the next opening. The pod jerked sideways, nearly taking him off his feet, but as he hopped backward he managed to stick it. The pod gave another wail, quieter this time. Bo scrambled backward, snatching the cord up off the alley floor, holding it in both sweaty hands.
Wyatt had reloaded and he shot again. This time it hit the pod in the head, or where its head should have been, shearing deep. There were a half dozen hooks in it now. All of the Lost Boys were holding the cord, some doubled up, everyone straining and sliding. Bo had wrapped his around his arms, pulling down hard as he could while the pod writhed.
“Hold it!” Wyatt called. “Quentin, help out on Saif’s. Hold it!”
Slowly, slowly, the pod’s struggles slowed. The tugs became weaker. Across from him, Bo could see Gilly and Alberto doubled up on a cord, pulling with all their might. Gilly grinned at him and he tried to grin back. The pod stopped all at once, hovering in place, no more twisting. A second ticked past. Another. Everyone shot looks to Wyatt, questioning, ready to celebrate. The pod wasn’t droning now, and even its breathing was modulated, quiet. Hesitant smiles appeared. Bo’s heart started to slow. Even Wyatt had a look of triumph on his face. Bo took a deep shuddering breath and let his grip slacken.
The cord leapt out of his hands like a startled snake as the pod shot straight upward. Bo lunged for the cord but it slithered out of reach; he saw half the other Lost Boys doing the same, trying to grab hold again. He managed to get his fingers around it an instant before the pod surged again, climbing higher. He dug in his heels. The cord slid and burned his palms, and in the corner of his eye he saw Bree lose her hold, then Violet, then Quentin.
The pod climbed until it struck up against the wires they’d strung along the roof of the alley, and Bo was nearly yanked off his feet before he lost hold. He fell on his tailbone with a jarring thud, watching the cord spring away. The loosed bungees danced wildly under the pod’s wounded belly; Saif was still somehow clinging to his, kicking his legs a foot off the ground.
Only Jon’s was still taut. He’d crouched low against the corner of the dumpster, using it as leverage so he wouldn’t be pulled off the ground. Wyatt and Jenna were bracing him from behind. Jenna had a vein blue and throbbing on her pale forehead. Wyatt’s teeth were gritted. But Bo saw, with a lurch in his stomach, that they were slipping. The pod was pulling away, slowly, inexorably, straining against the wires above it. One of them ripped free from the ledge of the roof with a terrific crack and shower of dust. Tarps slipped and toppled to the floor of the alley. The pod was getting away.
Some of the Lost Boys were running to help hold Jon’s cord, others to grab at Saif’s dangling shins, but Bo’s eyes climbed higher, through the gap left by the fallen tarp. They zeroed in on the water tank. It was big around as two of him, flecked with rust, and he couldn’t imagine it was full, but the metal looked heavy on its own. Bo let the fear in his stomach feed his Parasite. He felt it sparking.
This wasn’t like vanishing the othermother or the box, where he’d focused on the whole of it, the shape of it. He didn’t want to vanish the water tank at all. What he wanted was to vanish the two spindly metal legs that propped it up on the near side. He stood stock-still, staring hard at the first of the legs, coaxing the static through his body. He dimly felt someone tug his arm, someone trying to get him to help pull Saif. He shook them off.
Jon’s hook came free with a rending sound, tearing a chunk of flesh and circuitry with it. The pod gave a reverberating drone of pain, or maybe triumph, because Saif had fallen with a thump and now the only thing keeping it in the alley was the flimsy mesh of wire and tarp. Bo tried to concentrate on the leg, only the leg, as the pod strained upward. The hairs on the nape of his neck stuck straight up and he released the static, not all of it, just enough.
The air rippled like a mirage and the metal leg was gone. Some of the wall was too, the bricks sheared neatly in half, but Bo’d already refocused on the second leg. It was creaking, buckling slightly without its partner. The pod snapped another wire, making a gap big enough to fit through if it could twist its back half. It started wriggling its nose through the space, pointed up at the thick gray sky, giving another long drone. Now or never.
Bo sent his second surge of static, taking out the buckled leg and half the water tank too, in a spray of foamy rust-colored water. The heavy metal tore away from its last leg and plunged downward just as the pod slipped free. Bo watched with caught breath as the tank slammed into the top of the pod with a dull crack. The pod dropped a full foot before it caught itself; the broken tank crashed to the floor of the alley, sending reverberations through Bo’s shoe soles.
He could see a dent where the metal had hit the pod, and the creature seemed to be reeling. It sank down, d
own, then finally settled on the wreckage of the tank. The labored breathing was loud in Bo’s ears, nearly as loud as his heart. As he watched, the pod’s fins retracted and its body went limp. He couldn’t tell if it was dying or only stunned, but he felt a white-hot triumph in his chest. They’d done it. They’d pulled a pod out of the sky. Proved they weren’t invincible.
No, even better: He’d done it. Bo had a grin spreading across his face and couldn’t stop it, especially when Bree started a new chant.
“Bo! Bo! Bo! Bo!”
The Lost Boys streamed around him, slapping him on the back, hugging him around the middle, pounding his chest. Jon heaved him up high in the air. Then they were all pushing him onto the back of the collapsed pod, still electric with excitement. Bo’s shoes sank slightly into the jet-black flesh. He leaned down and put his hand on its heaving surface.
“That was for my mom,” he said, quiet so the Lost Boys wouldn’t hear. “And the next one’s for Lia.”
He straightened up, took one step, then another, then stood on the arch of its back and raised his arms in a victory V. The chant got even louder. Bo’s grin was so big it felt like it would split his jaw.
“Bo! Bo! Bo!”
He looked for Violet in the chaos but didn’t see her, and then his gaze fell on Wyatt, standing apart from the mob. His lips were fixed in a smile. Bo gave him a fierce nod, and he nodded back, but there was a look in his eyes Bo didn’t quite recognize. He turned back to the cheering Lost Boys instead.
10
The pod was still buoyant enough to be dragged easily, so they made good time to a storage unit two blocks off the theater. Violet’s heart was still pumping hard from the excitement. It was contagious, all the grinning and whooping and cheering. She nearly forgot about being pissed off. Violet still remembered the pod that had carried her to the warehouses, how terrified she’d been in its liquid cocoon. The Lost Boys all remembered, she figured.