“This was where they went this morning,” Andrew remarked.
Greg and Judge positioned themselves nearby so they could film the encounters from two different angles; Andrew stayed at the foreground with Rosemary. Sally, Kaye and Stefan hung back but close, to observe. Rosemary said to the group as a whole, “You all are my measuring devices, all right? Get a good look at these people, inside and out, and tell me what’s wrong with them.”
*****
Sally was proud to be included in the bunch – obviously Drew could read minds, and Stefan (with ghostly Brentley’s help) was always able to sense if matters were awry, and of course Kaye could usually tell within a minute if a person was sick. The three of them were supernaturally gifted, like the bomb of supernatural gifts, here. Sally’s talent – she was almost embarrassed to think of it as a talent – was far less direct. She could taste moods. She tasted people like flavors in her mouth and nose. Most of the time her friends had recognizable flavors to her, unless their moods went drastically south. Rosemary, for example, always tasted like a fine red wine, a little spicy, always exciting; Judge tasted like warm earthy root vegetables with a frantic touch of peppers; Stefan tasted of acidic lemon (which Sally equated with loss), Drew like chocolate and longing, Greg like bold Grade A meat, and Kaye like peppermint and confidence.
This was knowledge she’d gained over months, even years, of knowing these people, because it wasn’t as if Sally went around constantly licking up the tastes of those around her. That seemed intrusive. Drew always said that he didn’t mind-read friends, because he liked to keep his friends, and Sally understood what he meant. It was sort of a personal-space issue. Nevertheless, she could do this trick, and if Sally was to be included in this impressive group of psychic power, she wanted to be useful. Would the flavors of the people of Slope be a useful piece of information?
Rosemary and Drew stood side-by-side at the mouth of the path, Drew seeming twice Rosemary’s size with his shoulders, height and smooth swimmer’s muscles. But Rosemary, in spite of her slight build, never seemed diminutive. She was too confident to ever seem small, plus somehow, even half-drenched without a bit of make-up on, Rosemary still looked so pretty it was stupid; like a fresh pink flower in the rain. How was that even fair? Sally adored Rosemary but envied her a little too; the young woman was so comfortable in her own body, so utterly fearless. Rosemary wasn’t afraid of anything. Sally had no siblings but she had long since decided that Rosemary was her older sister in spirit.
It was gratifying to feel the crackling hot pull between Rosemary and Andrew; always there, but quite recently grown both hotter and sweeter in nature. It was about time one or both of them had gotten over their shyness and made a move. That pent-up attraction had gotten a little distracting; Sally had been watching the pair like she was waiting for a dam to break (and she had twenty-five dollars sunk into the betting pool). Now, Sally thought she could hear the water rushing through the cracks.
About twenty minutes after seven, there was movement in the forest and figures began to appear, six people shuffling up the path, their heads bowed. After a moment, another group, this time of seven, appeared close behind them.
They did not speak, only hauled themselves heavily through the mud. They were all dressed in similar drab, threadbare clothes: denim overalls, lank t-shirts, worn caps, worn boots. Sally felt a dull stab of pity when she saw grey-faced young man in a CAT cap, who could only be identified as youthful because he still had fierce acne - he’s probably no older than me! He was carrying a wet cardboard box; the bottom was about to drop out of it.
The people were all so similar that it took Sally a moment to find Tina among them. Tina trudged, listless, never raising her eyes to look beyond the sodden path. These poor people! Unkempt, uncared-for, their teeth crooked and yellow, or missing outright, their hair ignored and allowed to drip and hang before their eyes, their faces pummeled into blank potato shapes. Sally feared tasting them, and had to stiffen her resolve to do her job. Drew, Kaye and Stefan were obviously already working on their impressions, but of course, Drew, Kaye and Stefan wouldn’t have to stand around with the aftertaste of unwashed misery coating their nostrils and throat. Even if that taste was only in her imagination, it was really really unpleasant.
Sally concentrated, reached for their auras and sampled. At first she was relieved that nothing sour or bitter invaded her, and then she realized with some concern that she felt almost nothing from them but a vague impression of dust and dry rot. Kaye caught Sally’s eye and grimaced tightly, gave her head a slight shake. No blatant sickness, then. Stefan was consulting with Brentley. It was always easy to tell that, because he’d cock his head to one side as if listening to someone standing just behind him.
With rainwater dripping off the brim of his Royals cap, Drew stepped forward directly into the way of oncoming traffic. The smaller group halted in unison, raising their faces slowly, uncertain what to do with their path blocked.
“Randall, Martine,” said Drew, picking the two closest. If they wondered how Drew had known their names, they said nothing about it. He could pick names up from anyone. So these people weren’t so far gone that they’d forgotten what they were called. When he was trying to help someone, Drew had the kindest smile. He did that smile now and said, “What a night, eh?
The group seemed to sigh collectively. Randall, a man with the nastiest grey-peppered beard Sally had ever seen, said, “Damn the rain.”
“Better build our ark,” said Drew with a deep chuckle. “You all mind meeting some friends of mine? This is Rosemary; she’s a TV producer who came to Slope to meet Cloda Baker.”
“Hi, nice to meet you,” said Rosemary, putting on her high-wattage smile. “I’m a big fan of Miss Cloda’s. I got to meet her today, a real treat. And I know her spells work. I’ve seen them in action. I was wondering if anyone wanted to share any stories about her. You’ll get to be on our webshow.”
The crowd had stopped processing Rosemary’s words sometime around “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” They stared at her dull-eyed with their mouths sagging. Sally had to smother the uncomfortable temptation to laugh.
“I’m sure some of you have been up to the mountaintop to see Miss Cloda,” cajoled Drew. “Come on, doesn’t anyone want to brag on having your own mountain witch?”
“We have to get on home,” said the woman Drew had called Martine, though in the gathering darkness, rain and her own state of disarray, her voice was the only sure indication that she was female. “Dinner time, then bedtime.”
“Early to bed, early to rise,” said someone else from the back. There were vague nods all around. The second group had come up behind them and were now huddling and rocking slightly, as if they too were confused about how to proceed.
The youngest man, scarred by acne and still suffering a concerning number of pustules, shuffled forward with the wet box and bumped by Rosemary, without acknowledging that he’d practically knocked her out of the way. The others followed him.
“Where do you all work?” Rosemary asked their passing figures.
“Rocking chair factory,” said Martine.
“Do you like it there? Nice place?” Rosemary stepped after them, her expression growing more bemused by the moment. “Good benefits? Got a gym or anything?”
When she was ignored, she planted both her feet in the mud and said, “Martine. Come here.”
Whoa – Sally knew that tone. Rosemary had just popped out the telepathy and issued a command. Martine did stop, and as ordered, she returned a few steps toward Rosemary, unrushed, unfocused. The truly creepy thing? The rest of the group did the same.
They lingered before Rosemary, a row of dull waiting faces. Rosemary examined them all with mild surprise, taking a moment to check that Greg and Judge were still filming. She was always making sure that good scenes didn’t go to waste.
“Tell me about your job,” Rosemary said to Martine, but her eyes flicked to the other faces. She, like Sally, was wond
ering if they would answer her in unison.
“We work at the rocking chair factory,” said Martine dutifully. “We work there from seven to seven. It’s a good place to work. We make rocking chairs from local wood. Made in America. Fine craftsmanship.”
“What do you do there?”
“I make rocking chairs.”
“On an assembly line?”
Martine hesitated. “I make . . . “
“Rocking chairs. So you said. But what specifically do you do?”
“I work from seven to seven.”
Rosemary stepped forward and peered more intensely into Martine’s sagging face. “Tell me what you did today.”
“I went to work at the rocking chair factory at seven this morning and I worked all day and I got off work at seven and I walked home. Almost home. I’m not home yet.”
“Tell me. How many rocking chairs did you make today? How many, Martine?” Martine shook her head as if she did not understand the question. Rosemary put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “My gods, you’re thin as a rail. Tell me what you had for lunch today.”
Martine shook her head again.
“Romy,” said Andrew.
“Oh, what?” Rosemary groaned as she looked to their psychic. “I suppose I’m beating a dead horse here.”
“You are, sorry. I don’t think any of them remember what they did today.”
“Seconded,” said Stefan, raising a hand. “You’re confusing them.”
“This is awful,” said Kaye.
Rosemary paused, squaring herself and adjusting her neck like she was about to go to bat, then she commanded, “I want you all to awaken from the spell you’re under. Come toward me and we’ll set you free.”
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then one of the workers in the back whined, “It’s dinnertime.” The group consented, more or less, murmuring, “Dinnertime,” among themselves.
“Oh, well.” Rosemary said abashedly to Drew. “I thought I could at least try it.”
“It was a good try,” Drew told her. “I felt like coming to you.” They both hesitated, looking into each other’s eyes as his words settled over them, and coming to the slow realization that a group of five nearby friends were pretending to look elsewhere. Sally covered her smile and observed the hubcap house.
“Ahem,” said Judge. “It’s dinnertime, apparently.”
The contact broke. “Right. Go on,” Rosemary told her captive crowd, releasing them from the faint leash she’d held around them. “Go home. It’s dinnertime.”
The system of dinnertime was another strange wonder. Sally recognized that they had watched this ritual the night before without fully understanding. The pimpled young man with the wet box took a position beside the ruined mud road, and there he waited as each of the others shuffled by in a line. They all selected cans from the box. Sally saw tin cans of microwave-ready pasta and other cans of bean-free chili, and everyone got one of each. Then the group dispersed, listlessly shuffling toward their ruined shacks, in groups of three and four. Doors closed behind them. Once again, no lights appeared.
“Come on,” Rosemary said to Greg. “Follow me.” The group as a whole had wandered far enough into the middle of Slope to watch the procession end. Rosemary climbed onto the porch of the shack into which Martine and Randall had disappeared, asking Drew, “Are they married? A couple?”
“I don’t think they’re married,” Drew replied. “I’m not sure. I got names off them, and damn little else.”
Rosemary rapped on the door and waited. Her team watched her from the ground, all alert. She turned a wry smile to Drew. “Warn me if someone’s coming to the door with a gun, would you?”
“No one’s coming to the door at all,” he replied. “They’re carrying on inside like they didn’t even hear you.”
“I’m going in, then,” said Rosemary. “Greg, Andy, come with me, please. No, don’t argue, there’s not room for all of us. The rest of you, go get out of the rain, if you want to.”
Sally had rather forgotten about the rain; admittedly she had on the best hat of any of them, wide-brimmed and weather-proof. She watched her three friends cautiously step through the front door of Martine’s house and then looked around for something else to do. “Judge, come on. Let’s see what the ones in Tina’s house are doing.”
Judge’s face lifted. “Well let’s go, Sally Friend.”
Sally followed Rosemary’s plan of action. She approached the house she’d been inside the night before. Sally knocked twice, and when no answer came, let herself inside. Judge followed with his camera. The inside of the hubcap-decorated home was much like the inside of Ardelia’s but with far fewer possessions and a far worse smell - overpowering as it had been the night before. It was almost too dark to see and Sally used the light on her cell phone. “Hello? It’s us again. Where did you go? We came to see if you’re alright.”
The four people were not difficult to find, because they’d only put themselves in torn plastic chairs around a badly chipped Formica kitchen table. They had all pulled the tabbed tops from their cans and each sat eating from his or her can with a spoon, moving as if in a dream. Before them on the table were at least a hundred similar cans, empty, and one could guess how long each had sat there by the amount of mold growing from it. Sally put her hands over her mouth and Judge muttered a small curse.
“What’s your name?” Sally asked the pimply boy.
“Denton Collins,” said the young man with his mouth full.
“Tina and I have already met,” Sally said, as if she were at a party. She introduced herself but got no response. “Maybe I can help you with some of this.” She searched around for a trash can, but goodness, the entire awful little kitchen had been used like a trash can. She saw a plastic bag on the floor, stooped to get it and shook it out. A bug – a roach, no surprise there – hurled out of its folds and hit the floor only to right itself and skitter away.
She began to pick up cans and put them in the sack. It was probably a pointless endeavor; cleaning up a few cans wasn’t going to fix anything in this filthy shack, but she couldn’t stand it.
“Be careful, Sally Friend,” warned Judge. “You’re not even wearing gloves.”
“I’m not allergic to cleaning,” she replied. With a sigh Judge put the camera away and together they filled the sack, keeping watch on Denton and the others to see if their actions were noticed. Apparently not. Instead, the residents stared as if hypnotized into their own cans as they ate methodically.
Judge said softly, “There are rats in here. Cockroaches. I think raccoons in the attic. I’m sure there are bats. I can’t believe animals live like this. Oh, and, uh, people, too.”
Denton Collins finished his dinner, set the dirty spoon on the table, and pushed the can aside, without noticing that Sally picked it up and added it to the now-full bag of trash. “Bedtime,” he said, and he left them standing in the kitchen. He went into the bathroom, they heard the toilet flush, and from where they stood they saw Denton emerge once again. He went straight to the tiny bedroom and artlessly laid himself down on the grimy bed – Sally knew those sheets hadn’t been changed in months – and within seconds the young man seemed to be sleeping. The other three followed these actions exactly, but took turns. This was a polite group of zombies. Tina took the fourth place in line, tilting precariously on her tired feet in the narrow hallway, and seemed not to see Sally at all.
After a few seconds of this, Judge said, “Let’s go see what Rosemary’s group found.”
Sally felt miserable. “Kaye’s right. We should take that grimoire away from Cloda Baker. Her stickmen spells do bad things to people’s heads.”
Back outside in the rain, they saw that Rosemary, Drew and Greg had emerged from their own special investigation. They met together in the middle of the soggy road, Rosemary asking what they’d found inside the hubcap house. Sally told them briefly, shuddering, showing the bag of trash they’d collected which Irving now held.
&nb
sp; “Well, we saw more or less the same,” Drew replied. “Four of them eating out of cans, not speaking to each other or to us.”
Judge asked, “What are they thinking, Drew?”
Drew frowned and considered his answer before beginning. “It’s strange. They have thoughts, simple ones, pretty ordinary stuff, no different than what they’re saying out loud. It’s dinnertime. It’s bedtime. Really basic things, no planning, no complex ideas. I’ve heard thoughts like these before, but from toddlers, or people who are too sick to think straight. But, hang on, that’s not even the strangest part. The strangest part is that they’re all thinking the same things almost at the same time. Where did Stefan and Kaye go? I want to know their take on this.”
Sally smiled as she watched: about Drew, she had noticed that when he “looked” for people, often instead of casting his eyes around, he would simply look at the ground and let his psychic sneak do the work. Sure enough, within a moment he was saying, “They’re in the third house down.”
Rosemary chuckled. “What a good team we have!”
“These houses,” said Judge, “if you can call them that, which I doubt, anyway these cardboard boxes that people are calling houses, they’re full of pests. Bugs and rodents.”
“Ardelia’s too?” asked Greg, who was no doubt thinking of brown recluse spiders, of which he had a serious paranoia.
“Hers isn’t nearly as contaminated,” replied Judge. “She’s got her share of bugs – maybe this close to the woods that can’t be helped. She doesn’t have rats or mice, though, that’s a surprise. And they all have bats in their attics.”
“Is that a euphemism?” asked Drew, and Judge giggled.
Kaye and Stefan reappeared from the door of the third shack of the ruined town, and they both looked as if they’d just witnessed a particularly gory roadkill. “This is absolutely unacceptable,” said Kaye as they met up with everyone else. “People cannot want to live this way.”
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