The Marbury Lens

by Andrew Smith

  Ben took a breath and followed me out through the trees.

  And not more than thirty feet ahead of us, the dog began yelping; and Griffin called out, “Spot! Get back here! Let go! That’s my dog!”

  I cocked my rifle and ran in the direction of Griffin’s cries.

  “Griff!”

  Ben followed, chasing behind me.

  “Give him back!” Griffin howled angrily.

  And when we’d caught up to where he was, we found the half-naked boy pulling on the skirt of a woman who had the dog wrapped up in her arms, her fingers tightly clasped around the animal’s struggling snout.

  There were people here.

  “Griff! Get back!” I yelled at him and pointed my gun at the woman.

  I can’t say it was a strange sight, because nothing was stranger than anything else in Marbury. But the woman was big, strong-looking, with wild white-gray hair that flung away from her head as she tried to shake free from Griffin. And she was dressed in a nun’s habit, her eyes crazed and desperate.

  “Pierre!” she called out. “Pierre!”

  “Mary!” A man came running toward us from farther off in the brush.

  Ben already had both his guns drawn, one pointed at the woman with the dog, and the other aimed at the sound that came crashing through the trees in the dark.

  “Let go!” she said, tried kicking at Griffin.

  “That dog is mine!”

  “Hey!” I said. I wanted her to look at me, to see I held a gun. But I wondered if she even knew what guns did. “Hey! Give the boy his dog back!”

  “We can share. Please. We can share,” she said.

  “You’re not fucking eating my dog!” Griffin held on to her sleeve and kicked her legs.

  “Mary!” A man appeared behind them, holding a large, gnarled club that had sharpened branch-spikes sticking from its end. He raised it, but Griffin spun the woman between them, kicking her again.

  “Let go of my fucking dog!”

  Ben raised his gun, pointed directly at the old man’s chest.

  “Don’t shoot him, Ben!” I said.

  I could tell Ben didn’t know what to do. These were people. How long had it been since the boys had seen any people?

  The man swiped his club at Griffin’s back, but the boy was too quick. Still holding on to the woman’s clothes, he dropped, attempting to use his weight to pull her down. He looked like a bug trying to tip a tree.

  Then Ben raised both of his guns and fired them into the air above the man’s head. Pierre, shocked and dumbfounded, dropped his club immediately and covered his eyes with his palms as the deafening report and white-yellow flame balls exploded from the barrels.

  Everything froze in stillness.

  Griffin let go of the woman, and looked around at the ground to see if anyone had fallen dead.

  I gave Ben a disappointed look. We didn’t need that noise, and he knew it.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “There was nothing else I could do, Jack. That sonofabitch wouldda killed Griff.”

  The woman shuddered, still smothering the dog inside her arms. She sniffed at him hungrily. “Have mercy on us, please. I can cook. I can cook. Mercy! We can share, can’t we? Surely you are men of God. And I can cook for you.”

  “You’re not going to cook my fucking dog,” Griffin insisted.

  “Griff,” I said, trying to calm him down. Griffin looked like he was ready to fight again. “Lady, put down the boy’s dog.”

  Ben kept his guns pointed at the man, who still hid his face in his hands.

  “They must be gods,” he said, quivering.

  “Devils. Devils,” Mary said. Muddy tears streaked from the nun’s eyes, but she glared at me defiantly and bent forward, dropping the dog at her feet. He took one failed snap at her dirty hand, then ran behind Griffin and hid, the hair on the back of his neck bristled like quills.

  Griffin patted the dog and looked at the woman. “That’s an old woman, isn’t it, Jack.”

  “You are unkind heathens,” Mary said, wiping her face. She sat on the ground and shook her head. “Cruel little devils with hidden brands. Pierre!”

  The man lowered his hands and looked at us.

  She snapped at the bent man. “Tell them! Tell them the truth!”

  The man, stoop-backed and ancient, shrugged like he didn’t understand what the woman was asking him to do.

  Griffin stepped cautiously toward the seated woman. Carefully, he reached his fingers out and touched her cheek. “This is a woman,” he said. Then he lowered his hand so he could cup the softness of her breast. And Mary slapped him across his face so hard it sounded like the crack of another gunshot. The swipe of her palm sent Griffin to the ground, and nearly knocked the skinny kid right out of his pants, his guns clattering noisily against the granite. Griffin launched himself back onto his feet and rushed at the woman, fist balled. He punched her squarely in the nose, and the nun flattened, face to the sky, on the rocky ground behind her.

  The old woman began sobbing; and Pierre came rushing to her, stroking her crazed hair, moaning, “Mary, Mary! Look what the filthy and wicked will do to us!”

  It looked like Griffin was getting ready to kick Pierre, too, so I swung my rifle behind me and grabbed the boy by his shoulder.

  “That’s enough, Griffin,” I said. “You had it coming. I’ll talk to you about it later.”

  And Griffin just stood there, staring at the pathetic couple, dazed and rubbing his cheek. I could tell he was genuinely mad about getting slapped like that, and I know he would have continued fighting both of them if I didn’t hold him back.

  And I believe that Griffin Goodrich had never cried about anything one time in his life.

  “Please show some mercy,” Pierre begged, his shaking hand patting the frantic woman’s head. “We are hungry. She was only helping me look for food. Please let us go on.”

  The nun pinched her nostrils shut between bloodstained fingers.

  Ben put his guns back in their holsters. “Are there any more of you up here?”

  Pierre looked at me to answer. I thought he was most likely terrified of Ben’s guns. “There are a few. It is an inconsiderable community.”

  “Fie!” Mary whined. “Fie! They are devils, Pierre. That dirty one raped me! Did you not see him? He raped me!”

  The nun sat forward, her head hidden in the draping hammock of black between her knees. She clasped her hands above her and, rocking forward and back, began muttering a prayer in Latin.

  “Where are the others?” I said.

  “We see them,” Pierre answered. “We see them here, there, sometimes. They hide well; we all must. Mary and Pierre, we hide always in the days. And with the ghosts. But we are good. We share our food, our kindness. It is all we have, if it is nothing but that.”

  “You’re not eating my fucking dog,” Griffin growled.

  “Shhh…,” I said. “I vote we give them something to eat.”

  I raised my hand.

  “They’re crazy,” Ben said.

  Griffin stopped rubbing his face and raised his hand. “Let’s feed them.”

  Ben showed his palm. “Well, okay, then.”

  “Listen to me,” I said to the old man. “We are good, too. We have some food and will share it with you.”

  “Devils!” Mary said, her head still buried in her tunic.

  “I’m sorry,” Griffin said to her. “I didn’t rape you. I don’t think I ever saw a woman. At least, I don’t remember it. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Griff,” I said. I turned to the man. “We’re going to get you something to eat. We’ll bring it back in just a minute. Trust me.”

  “Please,” Pierre said. “Please.”

  With the dog leading the way, the three of us went back to the horses to get a few bits of food for the old couple. I took out two foil pouches of something that we’d taken from the soldiers on the train and slipped them into one of the pockets of my fatigues.

  For j
ust an instant I saw Seth, standing across the water puddles from us. He was so faint, it was like a blur on my eye. Then he was gone again, with his whispering sound, “Seth.”

  “We need to get ready to ride hard,” I said. “I don’t want to feel like we’ve led those Hunters up here, in case there are any more people around. We’re going to need to go back on our own track and pick a different way over the top.”

  Ben said, “How much longer are we gonna keep this up?”

  “As long as it takes, Ben. What do you want me to say?” I shook my head. Ben looked guilty, got up onto his horse. “You guys get ready. I’m going to give those two lunatics this stuff and I’ll be right back.”

  “Jack,” Griffin called out after me, his voice urgent and edgy. “Jack! One of my guns is gone.”

  Not more than five seconds later, as I was walking back to see if Griffin had dropped it around the horses, we heard the sound of two shots coming from the direction where we’d left the old nun and the man.

  I ran.

  I looked back once, saw Griffin starting to dismount, and I yelled, “Do not follow me unless I call you!”

  I stopped running when I came to the last few trees beside the clearing where Mary had caught Griffin’s dog. I tried to control my breathing, to listen for any sounds.

  Nothing.

  I got down flat, onto my belly, pointing the rifle out in front of me, and slowly crawled forward.

  Feet.

  I saw their feet. Paired beside each other and pointed upward as though they were both lying together, watching in delusional awe the unremarkable Marbury sky.

  I stood.

  The nun still clutched Griffin’s pistol. Pierre wheezed a bit of blood through his nose. His eyes were open, and there was a black, fizzing hole just above the tip of his right ear. The nun had shot herself in the chest, perhaps her own way of branding the part of her body the boy had touched in curiosity. Her teeth were showing, her mouth screwed back in an angry grimace.

  I took the gun from her hand and walked back to the horses.

  I held the barrel of the gun and handed it up to Griffin.

  “Here. Be careful,” I said. “The old man just about gave himself a heart attack when that gun went off in his hand.”

  “Are they okay?” Griffin asked.

  “Yeah. I think they never had food as good as that we left for them. They said we were good, Griff.”

  We backtracked for two miles before choosing another path toward the summit. Griffin and Ben both seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep atop their horses, but they followed me anyway. And just before I turned my horse up between two thick stands of creosote, I looked down the dim face of the mountain and saw two winking red brands—just a flash, but they were there.

  Two of them. Coming.

  Then they were gone.

  Maybe I was tired, too. Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly, or had started dreaming with my eyes open. No matter what it was, though, dream or real, I knew that one of the things coming up the mountain after us was Conner.

  Thirty-Seven

  “Open the fucking door, Jack!”

  My hands jerk out, palms forward, ready to hit something.

  A dream where I’m falling, trying to catch myself.

  Fuck you, Jack.

  My eyes focus. I’m sitting on the toilet.

  Sweating. Everything is wet.

  Oh yeah.

  The door. I open it.

  I’m sick as shit. I need to throw up.

  Conner is standing above me. He’s saying something.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Jack?”

  I say, “Huh?”

  He’s in his underwear.

  Remember.

  It’s because we were asleep.

  He’s in his underwear and he’s holding those purple glasses in his hands.

  He’s putting them on. I try to get my head down, twist around onto my knees so I can puke into the toilet.

  I’m puking but I’m watching Conner’s bare feet on the floor beside me.

  He’s just standing there.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Don’t leave, Con.

  Please don’t do it.

  The bathroom door is open.

  I picture that devil, slick with the bile and blood of his friend, a rope of guts twisted around his neck.

  The nun and the man, staring up at nothing with relaxed, blank eyes.

  I had to lie to the kid.

  I had to.

  I look up.

  Conner has the fucking glasses on.

  Fuck you, Jack.

  “Con?” I raised myself up from the toilet and nearly fell into him.

  “Con? Don’t do this, man. Please.”

  Conner stood, motionless, his arms down at his sides, breathing so hard, like he was about to explode, or he’d been drowning. My hands shook when I reached out and pulled the glasses away from him. I didn’t look at them, folded them blindly, and dumbly groped around the floor with my foot to find where I’d dropped the sock I used to hide them.

  Conner had his eyes open, but I could tell that he wasn’t really seeing me. He gripped the edge of the counter when he began tipping toward the sink. I pushed past him and wedged the glasses down inside the sleeve of my pack’s frame. Conner wouldn’t find them again, I thought.

  I wouldn’t let him.

  “Con? Con?” I went back to the bathroom.

  The water was running. Conner was bent over the sink with his head under the faucet.

  “Conner!”

  He raised his head up, dripping cold water everywhere. His eyes looked like ground hamburger meat.

  “Jack?”

  I could see he wasn’t all there yet. Then he said, “What the—” and fell to his knees, catching himself on the toilet.

  “I need to sit down, Jack. I need to sit down.”

  Then Conner threw up, too.

  I was terrified, imagining the worst of what my friend might have seen; what he might know.

  Okay, think, Jack. Think.

  This time it wasn’t Seth who brought you back here, it was Conner. And I must have done the same thing to Conner, too. How long was he in Marbury? A day? A month? Maybe just a flash.

  Fuck!

  Think!

  He couldn’t have been among those devils in the mountain ambush. If he was, he wouldn’t be able to see anything. That’s why Henry can’t use the glasses anymore. You could be dead there, and not dead here. That’s why I saw those people on the train to Heathrow.

  That’s why I saw Henry Hewitt’s head nailed to a fucking wall, but I drank beer with him the other night.

  I’ve got to get rid of those fucking glasses.

  You can’t.

  Fuck you, Jack.

  He finally started to calm down.

  Conner sat with his back resting against the bathtub, elbow propped on the toilet, his legs straight out in a V on the wet floor.

  Just like being born, Con.

  How’s it feel?

  “You okay?”

  “That was fucking insane, Jack.”

  “You’re not insane, Conner.”

  “This is real, right?”

  I could see how he pressed his fingers down onto the slick floor.

  “Yeah.”

  “What about that other shit?”

  “I don’t know. You want to talk about it?”

  “Fuck that shit, Jack. I don’t ever want to see that shit again.”

  “Okay.”

  “You told me. I didn’t listen.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Conner bent his arm back and pushed himself up to his feet. He looked like he’d been beaten up or something. He looked small and weak, defeated, not like Conner Kirk at all.

  “Will you have a beer with me, Jack?”

  “Sure. Let’s have a beer, Con.”

  Thirty-Eight

  We caught the bus to Blackpool outside Victoria Station before eight in the morning. Neit
her of us slept much after the way we both fucked up the night before. We’d emptied the refrigerator bar of everything that had the least bit of alcohol in it, but it didn’t help. I’m sure we both just lay there all night, wondering what the other saw, what he knew. We hardly spoke at all after Conner picked himself up from the floor in front of the toilet.

  It would be a six-hour ride.

  I called Nickie once the bus got out of the city. It was almost like I had to hear her voice just to prove that this was what was really happening, to know there was such a place called Blackpool, to be able to count on her meeting us there when our bus arrived in the afternoon.

  I’d taken a picture of Conner on the bus with my cell phone and sent it to her with the text message: this is a pic of conner. dont worry, he isnt naked for once in his life. its so rachel can see how ugly he is lol. He leaned against the window, sleepy-eyed, wearing a black beanie that was pulled back at an angle on his head. His stringy, dishwater blond hair hung down over one eye, and he smiled a closemouthed grin that looked too much like he knew something. But it was a great picture of Conner because it really looked like him. The Conner from here.

  Quit it, Jack.

  You know you’re not going to leave Griffin and Ben by themselves.

  How long do you think you’ll last before you have those goddamned glasses back in your hand?

  How long till Conner asks where you’re hiding them?

  Conner cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. His knee bumped mine.

  “Oh. Sorry,” he said.

  Conner would never say that to me.

  Fuck this place.

  I sighed. “Yeah. Whatever. I’m sorry, too, Con.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Are we just not gonna talk to each other anymore?”

  A gray-haired woman sitting in front of us turned around and looked through the gap in the high seat-backs.

  “Bullshit,” Conner whispered.

  “Yeah. Just like Gary in the airport toilet.”

  “You knew that guy’s name?”

  “He fucking sat next to me in business class,” I said. “He tried hitting on me the whole time, invited me to come clubbing with him in London. Then the flight attendant felt sorry for me and upgraded me to first class after he tried to grab my nuts.”