How We Became Wicked

by Alexander Yates

  “I don’t,” Mr. Collins said, crestfallen.

  “That’s a shame,” Ria said.

  “I know. There might be some back at my house. I’m pretty sure there are, actually. But I’m tired. I don’t want to go all the way back home.” Mr. Collins went quiet for a moment, perhaps weighing his conundrum. Then an idea struck him. “Actually,” he continued, “do you have any bullets that you could give me? My gun needs a special kind. . . . Thirty-eights, I think?”

  “Thirty-eight caliber, you say?” Now that Ria knew Mr. Collins couldn’t shoot at them anymore, she allowed herself to stand and look at him through the window. “Definitely,” she said. “Just give me a few minutes while I find them.”

  “I’m going to put those bullets into my gun,” Mr. Collins explained. “And I’m going to use my gun to shoot you in the heart and stomach.”

  “I bet you are.”

  Ria headed upstairs, motioning for Astrid and Hank to follow. Hank was still shaking, his legs wobbly, but he seemed better now that he was properly fastened into his suit. They passed through the second floor, which already had a few singers floating down the hallway, and up into the turret room. There, Ria kept an old telescope by the window.

  “We have to get back to the greenway,” Astrid said, looking at her mother.

  Ria didn’t answer. She turned the telescope toward the plaza and put her eye up to the viewfinder.

  “There must be people in town who haven’t caught it yet,” Astrid pleaded, gulping down a breath. “It’s only been a week!”

  “A week is a long time,” Ria said, adjusting the focus. “And if the wickedness really has spread, it won’t be safe to just walk around the greenway asking everybody the question. Even if they don’t have any symptoms yet, they could still . . .” Whatever her mother had been about to say turned into a long, deep sigh.

  “Hank. Did you manage to find that boat key?”

  “I did.”

  “And the boat?” Ria asked, not taking her eye off of the telescope. “Is it ready to go?”

  “It has some food and water,” Hank said. “And it’s all gassed up.”

  “Mom, what are you talking about?” Astrid said. “We can’t just go. There are people back there. And we can’t leave Dad in quarantine.”

  “We’re not leaving your father anywhere,” Ria said. “But whatever was going to happen on the greenway has already happened. I’m sorry, Astrid. It’s too late to go back.”

  With that she pulled away from the telescope, allowing Astrid to look for herself. The scene that greeted her through the viewfinder was like something out of a nightmare. Henry Bushkirk stood astride the stage—it looked like he was delivering the annual commemoration speech. But instead of holding a microphone in his hand, he was talking directly into the severed head of one of the milk goats from the dairy garden. Henry’s arms were pure red from his elbows to his fingertips, marinated in blood. Meanwhile, the Abbitt twins had begun setting off the fireworks early. They were lighting them right inside the plaza, sending the rockets bouncing off of the glass dome and tumbling back down again, exploding here and there upon the sand. One of these rockets set the hem of Mrs. Wrigley’s lace party dress on fire, and she ran in circles, trailing smoke. It looked like she was laughing. Astrid’s head snapped back from the telescope as if the metal eyepiece had burned her.

  “Guys?” Hank had drifted over to the opposite side of the turret room. “I think it’s too late to get to the boat, too.”

  Ria spun around. “What do you mean?”

  “Just look.” He pointed. “The harbor.”

  Astrid and her mother raced to the far window. Down beyond the plaza, the docks were swarming. The newly wicked had surrounded the lobster boats, playing catch with wooden buoys. Some grabbed at the singers like kids chasing fireflies, while others leapt into the shallow water, splashing with a kind of frenzied joy. Still more wicked were pouring out of the eastern hatch of the greenway, headed directly for the north shore.

  Down on the veranda, Mr. Collins must have seen the fuzzy shape of the approaching crowd.

  “I think those are my friends!” he announced. “They’re going to help me blow your house down.”

  • • •

  The investors arrived at Ria’s house one by one, gathering in a crowd outside. They greeted Mr. Collins with laughter and embraces, rocking back and forth as they hugged. Chipper Gregory was there, still wearing his crushed party hat. So was Mrs. Wrigley, her dress in ashen tatters. Even the Abbitt twins came, their slender hands blackened and blistered by the fireworks. But the wicked didn’t claw or scramble, like a horde of monsters at the door. They all just stood around the house, as if waiting expectantly for their friends to come out and play.

  Astrid, Ria, and Hank ducked down and kept clear of the windows. They snuck downstairs and took cover behind the couch.

  “Let’s give it some time,” Ria whispered. “Sooner or later they’ll forget why they came out here.”

  “How do you know?” Astrid asked.

  “I don’t,” Ria said, scowling.

  The wicked began knocking on the door. The sound continued for a time and then stopped. The doorknob jostled and then went still. This happened again and again. It seemed that none of them could truly understand that the door was locked until they’d all tried it for themselves. There was a soft murmur of conversation as the wicked puzzled over the problem of how to get inside. When nothing worked, they tried the exact same thing all over again—jostling the knob, knocking, asking with hopeful voices if somebody could please open up. They didn’t sound the least bit discouraged.

  Then one voice rose above the rest.

  “Is my son in there?”

  Hank went rigid.

  “I saw him!” Mr. Collins said, bursting with pride. “At least . . . I think it was him.” Less sure now. “I would have shot him. But I was out of bullets.”

  “I agree that we should shoot him,” Henry Bushkirk said. He sounded officious—the very formal chairperson he’d always wanted to be. “I agree with you on that.”

  Astrid reached out to take Hank by the hand, but he snatched it away from her. Slowly he began to inch out from behind the couch. He was heading for one of the windows. Astrid crawled after him.

  “Be careful!” Ria whispered.

  “Do any of us have bullets?” Henry Bushkirk called out. “If anyone has bullets, please pass them forward to me now!”

  There was a general commotion as the investors searched their pockets and purses. “I have scissors,” Mrs. Wrigley offered. “Are my scissors enough?”

  “My scissors,” Henry said.

  There was the sound of a brief scuffle, followed by an agonized cry. Hank and Astrid scrambled the rest of the way to the window. They cracked the curtains open and peeked out to see if Mrs. Wrigley was all right. She was sitting down on the front stoop with her head in her hands, sulking. Standing before her was Mr. Bushkirk, his arms still dripping with goat blood. He held the scissors in his fist, gripping them like he would a tiny ceremonial dagger.

  “I don’t think he’ll hurt her,” Astrid whispered to Hank.

  Hank looked at her. The panic had left him, but something else had taken its place. “He already has,” Hank said. “He made her like this. He made Klara and Mr. Collins and everyone else like this.”

  Hank’s eyes were glassy with shame and rage. A strange expression passed over his face, and an instant later his hand darted into the compartment of his bee suit. Astrid remembered, a second too late, that he kept a sanctuary-issued pistol in there—the same one he’d aimed at poor Eliza when they’d first met her. Hank must have forgotten about the pistol too, because he seemed almost surprised when he pulled it out. He pressed it through the curtains, the barrel making a clinking sound as it touched the window glass.

  “Hank.” Astrid grasped his wrist. “Stop.”

  “It’s an easy shot from here.”

  “Don’t do it,” she whispered.


  Outside, Henry Bushkirk climbed up onto the stoop and faced the crowd. He couldn’t have been more than a few feet from them. “What about our mother?” Mr. Bushkirk called out. “Does anybody remember how our mother works?”

  “He deserves it,” Hank said, pulling against Astrid to steady his aim. “He deserved it even before he fell wicked.”

  He finally wrenched his wrist out of Astrid’s grip, but before he could pull the trigger, Ria landed on top of him. She was not messing around. She got an arm up under his chin, squeezing so hard that she knocked the wind right out of his throat. With her free hand Ria pressed on the back of his head, completely cutting off Hank’s air. She yanked him away from the window, and together they fell backward onto the floor. They wrestled without speaking. After a few short moments Hank began to go limp. The pistol dropped from his hand, and Astrid snatched it up from the floor. It was only then that Ria released Hank.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she whispered. “Not about to let you put us in danger.”

  Hank was gasping too hard to answer back. He put a gloved hand to his throat and rolled over so that neither of them could see his face.

  Meanwhile, the baffling conversation outside continued. Mr. Collins said that he remembered everything there was to remember about their mother. Mrs. Wrigley offered up that she was also on good terms with their mom. Then the two of them trotted off together across the north shore, heading in the direction of the greenway.

  “What the hell are they talking about?” Astrid whispered.

  Ria didn’t answer. Her face had drained of blood.

  • • •

  It began soon after.

  A great whooshing noise split the air above Ria’s house, as though the sky were being pulled inside out. No more than a second later, there was an explosion that sounded like two thunderclaps butting heads. It was so loud it made the windows shake. Even the singers fell silent. The gathered wicked oohed and aahed, like this was just another one of the fireworks. There was a round of enthusiastic applause.

  “That’s our mom!” Mr. Gregory shrieked.

  “Hooray for our mom!” the Abbitt twins cheered in unison. They clutched hands and jumped up and down.

  “I’m not ready to celebrate,” Mr. Bushkirk said curtly. “I’d rather they don’t miss!”

  Astrid couldn’t believe what was happening. She parted the curtains again and looked up at the hills beyond the greenway in horror. At this distance she could barely make out the puss-yellow smudge of Mother, the tank, sitting before the Goldsport gates. Mr. Collins and Mrs. Wrigley must have climbed inside and gotten it working. All the times she and Hank had spent in and around Mother, they’d had no idea they were sitting inside of a loaded gun.

  At that moment a thick puff of smoke burst from the tank, and Mother rocked back and forth. The sound of the cannon reached them a few seconds later—a deep double boom. This time the shot struck the peak of the plaza dome, shattering it. Giant chunks of greenway glass went cartwheeling into the sky. One landed on the Pratt house, smashing through the roof. Another crashed into the archives, shearing off the old wooden steeple. Moments later the plaza dome itself collapsed. Sharp claws of glass slashed down onto the stage and the banquet tables. A great plume of sand and dust rose up, obscuring Astrid’s view.

  There was more cheering from the wicked crowd, but Mr. Bushkirk was still dissatisfied. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “I think you’re aiming too high!” as though Mr. Collins and Mrs. Wrigley could possibly hear him all the way up in the hills.

  Astrid turned to her mom. But for once in her life, Ria seemed paralyzed. Astrid ran to the back door to check if they could get out that way. But there was a host of wicked behind the house as well. Mr. Gregory saw Astrid’s face at the window and gave her a thumbs-up. He tipped his party hat to her. He pointed at Astrid, pointed at his own mouth, then rubbed his belly and grinned.

  “That means I’m going to eat you,” he said, concerned that Astrid had somehow missed this.

  There was another boom from Mother.

  The shot ripped across the sand, passing directly through the crowd. The shock wave knocked some of them back onto their butts. Others, who’d been standing in the path of the shell, simply vanished. Right before Astrid’s eyes, Missy Van Allen and Joshua Lee turned to mist. Their shoes alone remained at the edge of a smoking crater. Mr. Gregory gawked. He looked like a happy child, wowed by the most amazing magic trick—disappearing people.

  “Could you show me that again, please?” he asked.

  Over in the front yard, Mr. Bushkirk was still hollering in vain to his friends in the tank. “You guys, are you even listening to me? We want to hit the house!”

  Astrid stood at the window in shock. Something was floating in the air out there, above the crater. Missy Van Allen’s favorite silk scarf, patterned with purple and golden lotus flowers. She wore it to every Sunday picnic, and of course to every commemoration. Missy had once told Astrid that she’d bought it on a vacation in Vietnam, back in the world before. Back when Vietnam was a place. Back when America was a place. Back when you could go from one of those places to the other. The scarf rippled through the air, still riding the wind of the tank shell.

  It looked to Astrid like it would never land.

  Again Mother exploded, shredding the air.

  The shot flew wide, crashing somewhere on the far end of the north shore. Mr. Bushkirk had had just about enough. “How the hell does that help us?” he screamed. “I meant this house, not that one!”

  The words pulled Astrid’s attention back into the moment. What did Mr. Bushkirk mean when he said that house? She looked farther down the shore and saw what looked like a crashed ship, broken to pieces on the rocks. It was the quarantine house. It lay in shambles under a faint cloud of smoke and dust.

  Her father was in there.

  “Mom!” Astrid screamed. “They hit Dad!” She ran back into the living room, but just as she got there, Ria’s house flew to pieces.

  • • •

  For some reason, Astrid saw the scarf again.

  Missy Van Allen’s silk scarf, whipping and twirling on the breeze. Astrid closed her eyes and opened them again, but the scarf was still there. She could see it in perfect detail. The individual petals of the lotus flowers glowed as the sunlight passed through them. All of a sudden Astrid decided that she needed to have that scarf. It would be something to remember Missy Van Allen by. Something to remember everyone by.

  Astrid reached out and snatched at it. But her hand came up empty. The scarf floated out of her grasp.

  Astrid tried to take a step forward, but her foot found nothing to land on—no sand or rock or hardwood floor. She looked down to see why this might be and couldn’t make sense of what she saw. There was a doorway beneath her, and piled wood. It was almost like Astrid was floating too. Soaring over a pile of wreckage, right along with Missy Van Allen’s Vietnamese silk scarf.

  “Astrid! Astrid! Are you hurt?”

  Two big, bee-suited heads swam over to her. Hank and Ria. It was only when they grabbed her and pulled her up into a seated position that Astrid realized she’d been lying down on the living room floor. The roof of her mother’s house had been torn away, as if by a hurricane, and she had been looking up into the sky.

  “Are you hurt?” Hank asked again.

  Astrid had no damn idea. She examined herself and found that she was covered in a blanket of dust and splinters. There seemed to be some blood here and there. But did anything hurt? Not yet, it didn’t.

  “I’m all right,” she decided.

  “Thank God.” Ria squeezed the words out through clenched teeth, one hand pressed against her ribs. She was bleeding too. A thick, red flow that oozed between her gloved fingers.

  “It’s nothing,” Ria said quickly.

  It didn’t look like nothing.

  “We’re almost there!” Mr. Bushkirk announced from outside, pulling all of their attention to the front do
or. It stood askew upon sagging hinges. The top of the doorframe was splinters, and the curtains of the quiet room had been blown off their rails. Henry’s naked hand was reaching through a gap in the wood, tugging and prying. Ria leveled Hank’s pistol at the door—their last defense against what was coming. But it wouldn’t be enough. It would, at best, delay the inevitable. Astrid was beyond fear now. All that remained was a certainty that she, and everyone she loved, was about to die.

  “I’m not as young as I used to be!” Mr. Bushkirk said, laughing to himself. Finally, he managed to yank the door off of its frame. He stepped into the ruined house, tossing the door aside. For a moment he stood there, beaming at the three of them.

  “Tell me honestly,” he said. “Do you think I’m strong for someone my age?” He took another step inside, cracking his knuckles expectantly. Then, in a flash, a second man flew into the house. He leapt upon Mr. Bushkirk’s back, knocking him forward and pinning him to the floor.

  “Why did you do that to me?” Mr. Bushkirk gasped, winded and shocked.

  The man’s only answer was to strike him once on the back of the head. He did it with such tremendous force that Astrid could feel the impact through the floor. It knocked Henry Bushkirk out cold, breaking his nose against the hardwood. Then the man looked up at them.

  It was Amblin Gold.

  He was a mess, bleeding from a gash over his eye, but alive! He must have escaped from the quarantine house when Mother blew it to pieces. And now here he was, crouching like a leopard over Henry’s unconscious body. Alive. They were all still alive. And they were going to stay that way.

  “Everyone on your feet,” Amblin barked. “We need to get to the boat.”

  “There are wicked there,” Hank said.

  “There are wicked everywhere.” With that Amblin stood and turned to block the doorway; Mr. Gregory was trying to get inside. Amblin punched him in the throat so hard that he fell like a sack of cement.

  “Can you all run?” Amblin asked.

  They all could.

  They all did.

  Out the back door of Ria’s broken house and through the crowd of giggling wicked they raced. Amblin led the way, clearing a path through their once-beloved neighbors, down to the harbor. Whenever someone got too close, he laid them flat upon the sand. He wore no bee suit, but it was too late to do anything about that. The singers were already on him, thick across his arms, and back, and neck. They glowed upon his body, making Amblin Gold look like a bolt of purple flame, burning a path for his family to follow.