Our War with Molly Nayfack

by Chris Capps

  Willard sat staring long at his sister. She had turned a page in the red book, pointing at the top where a crow headed monster stood in robes surrounded by featureless thin figures. Red fire was illustrated rising up in front of the image on the page, guiding the shapeless masses, giving them a sort of cohesion.

  Watcher of nightmares. Grower of crops. Gatherer of things greater than truth. This last line Willard said aloud, his eyebrows furrowing as he watched Molly discard the apple’s core into a small pile of refuse in the corner.

  "What does that mean?" he asked.

  "You've had dreams that held more history than reality. I know because we all have. You've heard names, words out of context that hold a great significance to you. This is the secret language of the Allflesh. With us these symbols are all the same, drawn from the same experiences, subject to the same uniformed nature. We share such a strong identity that we have set out together to explore the thoughts deeper than truth, the dreams that are worlds, the ideas that are alive."

  "What's your end game?" Willard asked, "Where is this going?"

  She didn't seem to understand the question. After a few seconds she rose, rushing to the front door and swinging it open. She pointed into the darkness beside the door, where that thing was cradling a gun.

  "We've learned a lot about him. New symbols, fears, desires. In only a few days I know more about Sherriff Rind than you do. I know the man beneath the skin, the one that must be hurt to be known. What he shares in common with us is all that is human. And if I can know a complete stranger in this way, imagine the depth we have learned to understand ourselves. And yet it goes deeper. We're shackled to a world now where we can only depend on one another. We're not meant to be here. Listen. You won't hear his grace here. What do any of us do without gods?"

  "What did you do?" Willard asked, searching her face for answers.

  "I crucified myself, built new Gods, new truths, new living ideas."

  Willard sat shaking his head. This wasn't the gentle girl he had known all those years ago. This was something else. It was a woman who had a lot of work in her past. There were events there he couldn't imagine in a dozen lifetimes. More than that...

  He wondered.

  More than a dozen lifetimes and he might share her madness. Was this the true face of immortality? It had changed her in so many years more than living with death could change him in a hundred. She was quiet before. Now she seemed to actually enjoy talking. And there was something else in her. A power he couldn't quite grasp. It was the power of a woman who knew things more immutable in the mind than any fabrication of reality.

  "Let me join you," Willard said, standing, "I've served you until now not understanding why. I told myself it was because you were my sister, but I understand now. You are all that will be left in this world, the unconquerable."

  He rushed toward her, his eyes filled with wonder and terror. This would change everything. The world on that island he would plunge into from here would be alien, undying. And yet in some ways it would always hold a familiarity he could never get used to. As he approached, Molly's hand darted forward, into his stomach. He felt a sharp pain, and something warm oozing across the front of his shirt.

  "No," she said, her gentle voice massaging his ears, "This is the reason you were brought here. You served me, but deep inside you did understand why. And you will serve me once more, and you'll be loved forever hereafter."

  Willard's eyes changed only in direction. They traced down to the knife wedged in his gut. Molly's hand was still on the handle, her other hand moving to his shoulder, around it to the back of his head which she cradled, saying,

  "Understand this is the cruelest thing I've done yet. Not only to you, but to the rest of us. You don't live forever in body, only in our hearts. You'll live forever in our hearts."

  Willard collapsed, but he didn't die immediately. He leaned up on his elbows, breathing heavily and staring down at the knife. Weakly, he looked back up shaking his head. He couldn't speak. His movements were growing weaker by the second. He was trying to say something, but the words were gone forever. She knew what he was trying to say.

  "I'm still protecting you," Molly said, "You know that."

  He reached after her wordlessly, a shaking hand grasping the air behind her as she left the room. On the silent walk back to the coast, the Icarin sought out the interlocutor, the Molly that had brought Willard here. She found the girl sitting by the bank, preparing a small canoe and untying it from the makeshift dock they had built over the years. She looked up from her work as the Icarin approached.

  "It's done," the Icarin Molly said, "Gather the body from my house and bring it to the docks. Tell them where you found him murdered. He's still alive, but he can no longer speak. Let them see him die."

  "I found him murdered in the town," the young Molly said grimly, "I will call them out here."

  "Very good."

  That night as wave after wave of the Allflesh poured from the island to the bank where Willard lay, the Icarin sat in her house listening to them. The normally discordant waves of emotion rippling through it were singular, focused. There was a unifying immense pain running through them all, and the chorus of howls that shook her lasted long into the night. Willard's death was punctuated by such a sound from them that she hadn't heard in years.

  They would tear the messenger apart, burdened overwhelmingly by her news that the town had killed their brother. And that would forever after silence the interlocutor. Icarin Molly sat in the house staring into a candle flame as the horde descended on it. The Rind sitting in front of her house was gathered, dragged away into the woods. The Icarin even imagined that she heard him manage a scream, though she knew it was impossible. His death would be enough to satisfy their rage tonight.

  Tomorrow the war would begin.

  Chapter 11

  Morning DJ Pop Thomas looked up into the streets at the darkened grey cloud that hung clinging against the window. It had been a long time since he'd had to cover the night shift on KOIF radio, but every now and again he still found himself burning the 10:30 oil as the station played its final song of the day before shutting down. Taking the penultimate record off, he pushed the volume slider on his microphone up and switched it on. In his tired evening broadcast voice, he began the night DJ's ritual of punctuating the day's events with some final thoughts. In the past, they had been simple platitudes and advice on how the townspeople might get along. But Pop was in a strange mood that night after looking out from his modest studio,

  "Well friends, this ends today's broadcast. I'm looking out the studio window now and - I don't know how many of you have actually seen the layout of this place. There's a window here that leads out into the foyer and from there I can look out into the street outside. Well, it's not directly into the street. It's into that cotton candy iceberg that swirls around us at all times, obscuring our view. I'm looking, staring out into the fog right now as I prepare to send out one last jazzy lounge number, and I'm seeing that the fog isn't the same screen that once protected us from the sun. It's not the natural privacy fence that we once found comfort in while walking to the theater or a semi-summer football game. Instead I see two men standing there staring in at me, waiting for me to leave. I suspect this may be my last broadcast for a while. This is how it goes, folks. So long for now. I'll drop this needle on you and you'll start to hear music. After that, I don't know. "

  He gracefully lowered the needle on an unnamed lounge track, and as it spun out, Pop Thomas went to greet his visitors. Mayor Sugarhill was talking to Rind outside, pointing into the studio and smiling. The two of them always seemed to show up in a pair when things were about to go uniquely bad. Rind rounded the exterior corner of the studio and walked in through the door. Sugarhill was following close behind, leaning with his hands tucked into suspenders.

  "Pop Thomas," Rind said, pointing at the DJ, "You usually do mornings, right?"

  "The evening guy didn't show up today," Pop said, "Did
n't call in, he just didn't show."

  "Due to recent events," Rind said not missing a beat, "we're going to be sending some people here tomorrow morning. This station will not be left unattended at any time. You know what this is about. This is about the recent revelation regarding a girl named Molly Nayfack."

  Pop snorted sardonically, running his fingertips against his oily hair,

  "Revelation? I must have missed that. What do we know about Molly Nayfack?"

  "We know some, you know some," Sugarhill said, "Son, I understand what you must be thinking. We're not here to take over your radio station. You're not going to be censored in any way. We just want to make sure you're protected here."

  "Sure I'm not being censored," Pop Thomas said, his hands waving in front of him in agitation, "I just have to stare at a gun carrying cop every time I want to say something critical or leak what rumors I do manage to hear."

  Rind inhaled deeply, placed a hand on Pop's shoulder, nodded.

  "Pop Thomas," he said, stopping Mayor Sugarhill before he could respond, "That's a born DJ name. Is that real? Your own pop give you that name?"

  "Yeah," Pop said, "what of it?"

  "Good name for a DJ," Sugarhill said, his own hand moving to Pop's other shoulder, "Hard to imagine a profession more fitting for someone with a name like that."

  "Of course," Rind said, never breaking eye contact with Pop. He held out his hand, tracing an invisible marquee in front of them both, "I had an idea for a program. Harry Tanhauser Music and News Hour."

  "That," Pop Thomas stuttered, taking a step away from the Sherriff and his companion, "That doesn't even rhyme. Tanhauser's a grave digger, a lawn mower. He'd be a terrible DJ."

  "I think you might be right," Sugarhill said in mock discovery, his hands rifling through a stack of dusty records on the foyer's front desk, "Tanhauser's taste in music is probably a bit more modern. None of the experience and refinement of your shows. Look at this. A whole stack of electric folk bands from just before the tunnel shut down. And they're still in the shrink wrap they were shipped in."

  "Maybe Tanhauser likes bands that sing about wizards and faeries," Rind said, "Have you been in Scratchy's diner when Rind is sitting near the juke box? It's a sight to behold. Maybe he should be here spinning discs in a comfortable chair while you bury our dead for a change."

  "I get it," Pop said, his fingers drifting to the bridge of his nose, "Play ball or it's Pop Thomas signing off. I'll look the other way for now, but I'm not going to be censored if peoples' lives are on the line."

  "Peoples lives are on the line," Sugarhill said a note of understanding entering his voice, "Which is why we need you to help us. No leaks. No more Daily Finger updates. And I want you to run announcements from us exclusively at the top of every hour. This should only last a few days, maybe a couple months. Until this business with Molly is straightened out."

  "I understand," Pop said, his fingernails digging deep ruts into his balled fists, "For now I'm on your side."

  "We really appreciate it," Rind said, "But we should get going. We can't jaw at you all night. Thanks again for cooperating."

  They made their exit quick, as quickly as they had entered. Pop was left behind in the office to rifle through a stack of unopened LP's, his revulsion palpable.

  ***

  It had been a long night sitting in Scratchy's diner for Mike and Felix McCarthy. The events of the past few days had bewildered them. Even Mike, who had intuited something very much like the return of the deceased Sherriff Rind, wouldn't have been able to predict why or how it was happening. He had simply noticed a trend in recent days. People who disappear and turn up dead end up coming back. And it seemed once they came back, they would continue to return - over and over again. It was a need to understand what was going on, to have a sympathetic and analytical ear, that had driven them to wander the streets in the dead of night from the diner to Dr. Rosario's house. They had barely spoken during the walk, simply ambling as if on a track, driven by a need for answers.

  "Rosario has been doing autopsies on the dead that show up," Felix said, his voice echoing and lost as they passed a small crowd of community actors gathering in front of the town theater. And when they finally reached Rosario's front door, it was Mike who noticed Harry Tanhauser's truck still parked in front of it. They knocked, eliciting a half-hearted bark from Rosario's elderly dog, Michigan.

  After a moment, the doctor walked out onto his screened in porch and eyed them with reservation. He had a strange way about him, taking a while to study the area around the two boys before coming out to meet them. Finally approaching the front door, Rosario unlatched it and said,

  "You two come alone?"

  The McCarthy brothers looked between them, bewildered, and nodded.

  "Yeah we came alone," Mike said with a snort, "What are you talking about?"

  "May we come in?" Felix said, his eyes moving past Rosario into the house where he caught sight of Harry Tanhauser's arm. He was leaning forward onto it, clutching his own hair in his hands. Rosario, still looking beyond them into the night, didn't say a word. He just opened the screen door and held it for them as they shuffled in. It wasn't until he closed and re-latched the door that he motioned for them to follow him inside.

  "I was afraid you boys might come over tonight," he said as he crossed the threshold into the house, "I was afraid a lot of people might come visit me tonight. You among them."

  Once inside, Mike stopped dead in his tracks as he caught sight of Molly Nayfack's sleeping form, prone on Rosario's couch. Next to her, Harry Tanhauser was sitting still, the palms of his hands upturned against his head. There were two bottles of blood on the desk nearby, both empty. There was also a bottle of craft whiskey, half empty. The girl on the couch had her eyes open. She was bandaged on one arm and around one of her knees. She wasn't speaking much, only staring at the ceiling as they approached.

  "What?" Mike asked simply, pointing at the girl on the couch. It was as if everyone in the room were encased in stone, unable to move or react much farther than this single moment of revelation. Even Felix merely stood transfixed by the moment. Tanhauser sat with his hands on his head, Mike stood pointing, and Molly stared at the ceiling, breathing quietly. Rosario was the only one moving, busying himself with the bottle of whiskey on the desk. He had picked up two more glasses from his personal entertaining set, blowing a cloud of dust from one before setting it down. He said,

  "You boys look like you could use a drink. I think we should talk about this before anybody leaves. I'm not fool enough to try to detain you, but I would like you to hear me out before you go running off to tell Paul Rind or Jessica what you found here tonight. I let you in for a reason."

  "What reason?" Felix said, "You could have turned us away at the door."

  "No one has done anything wrong here tonight," Rosario said, clutching two of the swirling glasses by their rims and holding them out to the McCarthy brothers, "I'm a doctor and I'm sworn to help whoever needs it. Even if she's Molly Nayfack."

  They took the glasses and Mike downed his within seconds. Felix let his own rest in his hand, once again letting his eyes drift down to the girl. She was in a sort of trance, it seemed. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, although she was certainly awake. Rosario continued,

  "She isn't going to kill anyone tonight. She's awake, but she's recovering. She's been given something to help her relax. Tanhauser found her at the graveyard just after the funeral. He was attacked by a duplicate of the girl you see before you."

  "Not this again," Mike said, holding his glass out, "More copies of people..."

  "I'd get used to it, Mike," Felix said.

  "A bit more than that," Rosario said, "I was working on a theory based on the information I've gathered over the past few days. It's rough, but I think it's starting to paint a very specific picture. We've been unable to get details out of Chance Cooper, but he mentioned visiting a place - an island outside of town."

  "So he's started ta
lking, then," Felix said, "He's started telling you what he saw."

  "A little. He's shaken up," Rosario nodded, "An island where these Mollys come from. What he didn't know was that by visiting the island, he had doomed himself to be duplicated forever as well. I can't say how it works, because I haven't been there. But the Sherriff was dragged there as well. He's being copied over and over again. He, as well as our current Chance Cooper, have memories of visiting the island, but they don't identify with the other copies. It's as though their own facsimiles are complete strangers with a common history."

  "So," Mike said, glaring down at the Molly on the couch, "You visit the island and something makes a stamp of you, and that stamp gets created over and over after that point."

  "You could live a whole lifetime, by my reckoning," Rosario said, "And ultimately have nothing in common with the person who was originally scanned and stamped by the island. Only that stamp will come around sooner or later, it'll come out and start living from that point. It will be born from that same moment no matter how many years may pass. It won't have any memory of what came afterward, won't have any knowledge of your future. Only the memories you brought with you to the island that first time. And every other detail."

  "Doctor," Felix said, setting his still full whiskey glass back on the desk, "Is she human?"

  Rosario nodded,

  "Everything I've seen says yes. Contrary to what the Sherriff believes, this process appears to exist wholly without the assistance of magic or any kind of demonic or superstitious intervention. Everything I've been able to figure out has been working under the assumption that there is in fact only one unknown compelling force, and that it only does one specific thing under very specific parameters. It isn't everywhere. Molly cannot call upon a phantasmal supernatural force, otherwise she would have done so already. She's just a person living out in the woods with others who are her exact copies. Maybe that's the most troubling part of it all. We can't blame this all on a demon or break out the holy water to fix this. They're people, like us."