by Stephen Cox
Molly felt hope rise like a song. They didn’t know about Cory’s power. He’d run away because he couldn’t hide from everyone too long. He’d go to his bedroom, then down the drainpipe outside the window; he was allowed in emergencies. Cory got up and down it like a monkey, so he’d soon be safe with the Hendersons . . . Roy would know what to do. Roy owned a hunting rifle. He might blow these criminals’ heads off.
‘I told you yesterday was weird,’ the big guy growled.
Napoleon swore. Still covering Gene and Molly with his gun, he used his free hand to rip the tape off her mouth. ‘What’s the fucking deal with the freak? Where is he?’
Molly looked at him, tasting blood in her mouth, and wished him dead. ‘Well away by now. He’ll be safe with the police before you know it. He’s gone to get help.’ She looked into the short man’s eyes and saw death. She felt her breath rasp, because she saw the man would kill her and lose no sleep; for him it would be like swatting a bug.
Napoleon smirked and raised his voice. ‘Cory, you better come out. Your mom is hurt real bad and she needs you.’
‘Don’t you dare threaten us,’ said Gene. ‘How dare you—!’
The big guy took a few steps closer and raised his gun, ready to club him, while Scarface kept prowling around as if he might hear something.
Molly realised Napoleon was looking at her breasts and fear and disgust fought inside her for the upper hand.
Napoleon said, ‘Cory, I’m going to count to ten, then something real bad will happen.’ He looked at his gun and licked his lips. ‘Mr and Mrs Myers, this is going to get nasty. Get the freak back.’
Cory is smart. He’ll have gone.
‘Seven, eight, nine . . .’
Without a sound, Cory was back, on the stairs, and Molly felt her heart fill with despair. Why didn’t he run, like we told him? Poor, brave Cory. He’d pinned his Deputy’s badge onto his costume. In full light, Cory’s violet eyes were deep and dreamy, but here in the low yellow glow they looked strange and dark. His tentacles stuck out, determined, and he raised his webbed, four-fingered hands. In this light his skin looked grey and his tentacles dark, not their normal healthy lavender milk and plum.
Scarface and the big man turned their guns on him as Napoleon snickered and ordered, ‘Get the freak.’
‘Cory, hide!’ Molly snapped. ‘Run away!’ Don’t try to be a hero like in Chuck’s stupid comics . . .
‘Bad Men,’ Cory said, in his piping voice. ‘Hurt Mom you horrid Bad Men. Leave Mom and Dad alone. Bad-bad-bad-bad-bad men.’ That face meant fear and disgust.
And in that instant, Cory filled the hallway with his terror, pouring out of him like a torrent of icy wind. He brought a nightmare into the hall too: although they were awake, the dream was real in every sense, every feeling, and the horror swallowed the men whole.
She remembered this nightmare from months ago: warm darkness, bright bursting stars, the lapping water and the loving presence of his first mom – until a moss-green monster, some hellish mating of crocodile and crab, leaped out of the night-coloured water, poison-blue glowing fronds that could burn through flesh spilling from its mouth. Cory and his mother thought they would die – and now Molly felt that utter terror fill the room.
Then there was fire and thunder and the creature screamed, broken, and she felt its pain and rage as it died. The eight clawed leather limbs thrashed in their heads, in the hallway, in their memories, and for all her rational mind screamed, Not real, not real! Molly was only a bystander.
Now Cory was shaping the dream: the thing was wounded and vicious, not dead. Its electric-blue tentacles crawled across the men’s hands; its foul corpse stench filled their lungs. Napoleon fired up, into the dream, the gunshot sounding like it cracked the world open, then time slowed . . .
All three men threw away their guns and their screaming began.
Scarface almost pulled himself together. Fumbling with the door handle, he was ready to run – until Cory made the door into the monster’s mouth. The fear froze their legs and they couldn’t move.
Molly tasted their terror, felt their pulses hammering, fast as a hummingbird’s heart. Hot piss ran down their legs, their bowels opened and their throats hurt with their forced cries.
Then, suddenly, they were in the hospital and Cory’s mother was dying, slipping into the darkness . . . and all his people in space were dying, and each one hurt like a sword in the side, like the loss of a beloved child.
Cory was going to make the men live every single death, one after the other.
Through the swirling terror Molly saw her son, frozen on the stairs. He was terrified. She couldn’t tell if he was in control, or if this was hurting him – or how much more the men could take—
—then Gene gasped, ‘Enough!’ and Cory let out a great breath and at last the dream faded, second by second. The images became distant, the smell less powerful, as reality became stronger again. At some point Molly realised the thugs weren’t screaming anymore, just trying to catch their breath through their sobbing.
She smelled the mess Napoleon had made of himself and moved a little away, using the opportunity to kick the guns along the hall, out of their reach.
White-faced, Gene freed her hands.
Fragments of dream lingered as Cory stood shivering in fear and misery. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked at her and as she tried to control her laboured breathing, she thought, I brought something worse than a gun into this house. This is a weapon, not a person: this is something you cannot tame or understand. Cory was alien and he terrified her.
But no, she thought, looking at him again, Cory was not the bad guy here: he was her son and he was frightened and he needed her. She took the deepest breath she could manage and gave him the best, biggest smile she could. He took a few shaky steps and she ran and held him and stroked his striped ears just the way he liked.
He quivered and shook and finally said, ‘Tried grown-up thing – horr-i-ble, horr-i-ble . . .’
At least doing that had upset her kind little boy. She held onto him, shivering. She couldn’t stop.
Gene was white and shaking too, but he took control. Standing over the men, who were moaning and gasping and mumbling, he said, ‘We’d better tie them up. I’ll get the duct tape.’
The evening sky was only one notch from dark and their lives were falling apart. Hands trembling, she helped Gene bind the thugs on the hall floor. Screams on Halloween were usually a game, but those guttural shrieks might have caught someone’s attention. She took particular pleasure in taping Napoleon’s mouth shut. She wanted to cover his nose too, watch him struggle to breathe. She wanted to hurt him so much it scared her.
Cory sat on the bottom step and stared at the men, wide-eyed. ‘Cory make the Bad Men say sorry Mom,’ he said, blinking. ‘They never said sorry.’
A muffled moan came from Napoleon.
Gene rubbed his chin, then said, ‘Don’t worry, Cory. Mom and I’ll figure out what to do.’ He paused. ‘Molly, you okay here? I’ll just run over to Roy’s.’
Molly thought, We could drown these men in a lake. We could get in the car and run . . .
Gene squatted down by Napoleon and said, ‘Next time, he won’t stop. Move one inch while I’m gone and all three of you will go mad, and then you’ll die. Get it?’
Molly got out the chocolate ice-cream and joined Cory on the stairs. She could still see the men, but she couldn’t smell them from there and that was good. She put her arm round Cory, who dipped a purple tentacle into the tub.
‘Cory Myers, manners!’ she said, just like she always did.
Cory gave an odd gulp. ‘Sorry Mom-Mom.’
In a few fleeting moments, the world had changed again. How many people had the thugs told? How long did they have? Had this last year, the months they had spent happily alone with their son, been the easy bit?
Cory wouldn’t ever be safe if the world knew what he could do. She’d failed him tonight. She’d been lax and self-indulgent and that could have killed the people she loved. She must never fail Cory again.
CHAPTER 26
The aftermath
The four of them stood in the hall, listening in case the thugs tied up in the kitchen stirred. Gene looked from Roy to Dr Jarman and then at Molly. She looked terrible; tired and shaken, a large bruise purpling the side of her face. Nothing in Gene’s life had prepared him for this: three bound criminals in his house – and who knew who they’d talked to, or what further dangers would come.
Dr Jarman behaved like he was in charge, as always. ‘So, Roy talked to the neighbours, but we can’t expect that to hold. People will talk and it will only take one of them to call Lars – Sheriff Olsen. And the thugs aren’t making much sense, plus one of them has a weak pulse so I’ll need to keep them under observation.’
‘We’ve gotta figure out what to do,’ Roy said, for the third time. ‘We can’t just drag ’em into the woods and bash their heads in.’
‘Why not?’ said Molly fiercely, hand over her eyes.
They stared at her.
‘Molly . . .’ Gene put a hand on her shoulder. How tempting – and he had thought of places in the wilds where the bodies might be stashed; they might not be discovered for years. But he froze at the stark reality of taking three lives in cold blood . . . And bodies get found, and then there would be trouble.
There was a long pause.
‘Give me a better plan, then,’ Molly said. ‘Some sweet thing we can do that keeps Cory safe.’
‘We need to call in Olsen. Get him on the team. Get his ideas,’ Roy said.
Dr Jarman looked grave. ‘I have to agree. We need to get rid of the truck and grill the prisoners so we can find out what they know. We must get a cover story that will keep them away from the FBI and the army. And we need to figure out what to do about that stupid woman. I don’t even know where Nurse Hooton lives now. And all this means we need Lars.’
Shaking his head, looking worried, Gene asked, ‘How can we trust him?’
The doctor met Gene’s gaze. ‘I’ve known him twenty years, played poker with him for ten. When he found Cory and his mother, dying, it was me he called, and I talked him into keeping it under wraps. When the FBI arrested me, he could have blown our story apart. He didn’t.’
Molly refused to look at the doctor, who added, ‘I trust him.’
‘Never in a million years,’ Molly said. ‘Cory’s our son and we’ll decide who’s told, just us.’
‘Molly, for all we know, he’s already on the way. We’ll need to tell him something, one way or the other,’ he pointed out.
Molly was shaking again. Gene whispered, ‘Stay strong, Molly-moo!’ as he hugged her.
‘I’m going to lie down,’ she said. ‘Bring me some Tylenol, would you?’ She broke away and walked to the stairs, not looking back.
*
Molly sat on Cory’s bed, stroking their son’s ugly-beautiful, achingly familiar face. The little mobile Gene had made for him threw shadows on the wall: a rocket, a plane, a bird. Cory was exhausted, but he’d fought sleep, needing her to hold him.
She’d put on her coat and had Cory’s clothes ready on the bed.
‘Roy’s moving the truck,’ Gene said, poking his head round the door.
‘Nothing is safe. They’re going to tell Olsen, aren’t they? I’m going to the farm.’
She’d expected argument, but he just said, ‘Good. Not tonight, though. You’re too tired to drive – get some rest now and leave first thing.’
‘We need to go—’
‘No, I need to stay. Don’t worry, if I need to scarper, I will.’
The walls of her house were closing in like a trap. ‘I won’t take any risks with the driving. I’ll find somewhere to rest up, off the road and safe.’
Cory was unresponsive as she dressed him, his leaden limbs like a giant doll. As she laced his sneakers, he mumbled, ‘Sleeping. Go ’way.’
‘Shush,’ Molly whispered, ‘we’re going to the farm.’
The world was dark and forbidding, just like the future, but she’d feel safe with John and Eva.
Gene carried Cory down the stairs, the site of the battle, while she followed with Cory’s backpack, past her nursing diploma, the peace poster and the smiling face of Dr King. There was a bullet hole in the ceiling and the hall smelled of disinfectant.
Dr Jarman came out of the front room and stopped.
Molly tried to smile. ‘Thanks for coming, but I need him out of here.’
For a moment Jarman puffed up like an angry bear, then he sighed. ‘Drive safely.’
Gene led the way into the garage and lowered Cory onto the back seat, where he flopped, then pulled the blanket over his head. Molly put her stuff in the car and hugged Gene.
‘Please come,’ she said. ‘This isn’t over – more of those thugs will be coming . . .’
‘I’ve either got to make it safe or know the worst before I go. Don’t worry, Molly.’
For a few moments, all the horror was washed away by love: her husband, standing guard so she could get away. Romantic idiot.
One last kiss. Her body wanted to stay, but they needed to be gone. Every time a branch shifted in the wind, she imagined a sinister man, hiding in the shadows.
The engine coughed into life and she looked back at Gene, waving her off. She stared at him and the home they’d made, and the feeling of fear and loss was so strong she wanted to weep.
*
She made good time on the dark, empty roads, forcing herself to drive steadily, not to speed, although there was no one around. She just wanted to get there.
After an hour, she stopped in the forecourt of a deserted gas station. On one side was a boarded-up shop; on the other was a car showroom that wouldn’t be open for hours.
‘Hoo-hoo-hoo—’
She knelt up to look back at Cory, who was sobbing, his strange head sunk into his strange hands. ‘Oh love, what’s the matter?’ What wasn’t the matter?
‘Cory so-bad . . . Cory did hor-ri-ble-hor-ri-ble thing . . . so-hurt people inside. Cory the m-m-monster . . .’
She got into the back of the car and put her arms round Cory.
‘Everyone h-hate the m-m-monster. M-monster do bad-bad things to hurt p-p-people and humans come with f-f-fire and spikes . . .’
Oh Cory. That sounded like one of Chuck’s trashy comics. ‘No, Cory,’ she said firmly, kindly, ‘no. You are the sweetest boy I know.’
‘Cory so-much bad. Cory did ter-ri-ble so-bad thing. Grown-up thing.’
Cory had used his nightmares to bring three hardened criminals who had hurt her to their knees. ‘No, no, Cory. Sweetie-pie, listen to me: yes, it was a horrible thing, but you needed to do it. We understand: you had to. It’s just . . . well, hiding is much safer, so let’s keep the scaring thing for real emergencies, like this. We’re very proud of our brave boy.’
‘Bad-Men be all right?’ His eyes pleaded. ‘Take to place of healing, make well? Not bad anymore. All o-kay.’
Molly couldn’t stifle the thought of Cory doing it again, but this time killing someone – if he just kept on, what would it do to someone with a weak heart? Or their mind?
‘Leave worrying to the grown-ups. I’ll call Grandma and Grandpa, tell them Cory needs his breakfast.’ She sniffed. And a shower.
‘Don’t go,’ he said. He burbled in alien, then, ‘Men-with-guns.’
&nb
sp; ‘Look, Cory: the telephone booth is just there and you can hide while I’m phoning, okay?’
‘Cory run away, live in woods, then no more bad-bad men come. Keep Mom and Dad safe.’
Oh, my son, the marvel. She hugged him. ‘No, you won’t: it’s cold and it’ll get colder, remember, and there’s nothing you can eat out there. And we’ll be so sad if you go. We’d just wither away.’
‘Nuts and berries and roots in woods,’ he said, just being factual. ‘Or hide in deserted house. Pretend to be ghost.’
Even now, with all this trouble, he could make her smile.
A light came on in a window above the car showroom. ‘Hide,’ she ordered, and got back into the front. She started the car, which coughed then began to purr as she pulled out into the road and headed off.
There was silence behind her for a couple of minutes, and then Cory whispered, ‘Saw Bad Men day before. Cory bad and stupid for not saying: three bad-bad men and bi-noculars. Mom-mom, didn’t think saw me but same men.’
It was the wrong time to tell him off. ‘Well, they picked on the wrong little boy,’ she said.
Cory said, ‘In comic, not Monster fault look different with bolts.’
‘Well, if people had looked after him, he would’ve been a very kind monster. Didn’t he just want to play with the children? He was big and strong: he could give them piggy-backs.’
‘Better story. Cory draw that.’
‘Sleep now, sweetie-pie. Or sing, to help Mom stay awake.’
How easy it was, to talk about the path of peace, but she had fought and now she felt a pull to more violence. It might never end.
*
Molly stood among apple trees long since stripped of their fruit as the evening sun sank. Yellow leaves clung to the branches, or dappled the ground beneath. Cory was chasing in circles, because there was fresh air and space and the last of the sun, so why not race your shadow, or whatever he was doing?
‘Bonnie and Chuck be okay?’ he asked yet again.
‘Sure. Dad and Roy and the others will make it all safe,’ she said, even though the doubts kept rising inside her, no matter how hard she batted them down. They could flee . . . In the old days, you just changed your name and went West.