AFTER (29 page)

A few minutes later, Joan joined her in sleep. But it was a fitful one, totally devoid of the serenity that normally followed a Paradise trip. Once or twice the sharp pain in her abdomen woke her – a nagging reminder of the one she would seek tomorrow – but, somehow, she ignored the discomfort and managed to drift away again.

The following afternoon, she set off into the ruins of the French Quarter, in search of
Stivers
.

She left Grace locked in the kitchen closet, as she always did when it was necessary for her to venture beyond the restaurant on her own. Joan had armed herself with a butcher knife from one of the utensil drawers, donned thigh-high waders and one of the gray slickers, and headed out into the rain.

Muddy water washed around her shins as he made her way along Rampart Street. She kept her face well within the oversized hood and her hands shielded within the folds of the sleeves. Over the years the aftereffects of The Burn had severely altered atmospheric conditions, turning "acid rain" into precisely that. If not protected properly, no one had a chance in such a driving downpour. In only a few minutes, the upper layers of their epidermis would melt away, exposing the raw muscle and bone underneath.

Joan checked several abandoned buildings that
Stivers
used for manufacturing and selling his wares; crack, meth, Ecstasy, and, of course, Paradise. None of the places looked as if they had been occupied for days or even weeks. She finally located him in an old funeral home on the corner of Bourbon and
Kerlerec
.

Wading through eighteen inches of water, she entered the structure, passing through the lobby and viewing rooms. All had been ransacked and stripped of their furnishings and fixtures. Joan heard a sputtering roar somewhere within the building and knew that she had found the right place. She made her way through the funeral home until she reached a back room that had once served as a display room. Six caskets – decorated with graffiti and gang signs – floated in the stagnant water. Their lids stood open, telling her that they had been used as makeshift beds the previous night. Beyond the coffins, a narrow staircase led to an upper floor.
 

"
Stivers
?" she called up to the gloom at the top of the stairs.

There was a long moment of silence, then his voice answered… a harsh, high-pitched whisper. "Who is it?"

"Joan. Joan Porter."

Again silence. Then "Come."… followed by a peal of snickering laughter.

Joan shuddered and closed her eyes. She gathered her nerve, then ascended the steps.

For years she had heard rumors of mutation; of people evolving into something less than human after being bit or attacked by radiation-infected animals. Joan had thought it to be nothing more than an urban legend – like something out of a bad science-fiction movie – until she had come across
Stivers
. He had made a believer out of her… in more ways than one.

When she reached the top of the steps, she found that
Stivers
had covered the windows with heavy black paper, shutting away the outside light. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she studied her surroundings. The upper floor had been turned into a small lab. A dozen hotplates were connected to a gas-powered generator. Each held a ten gallon pot of boiling chemicals. The fumes made Joan light-headed. There was no telling what
Stivers
was concocting.

"Where are you?" she asked, raising her voice above the noise of the generator.

A shadow separated from the darkness of a far corner and stepped forward. The man – or thing – known as
Stivers
was short, lean, and slightly hunched, but that was all that was distinguishable about him. He was dressed in a long, black overcoat with a hood much like the one on Joan's raincoat.

His face was hidden deep within the hood and only the moist gleam of his eyes could be seen. He wore black rubber gloves; partly due to his work and partly to conceal his hands. The slender fingers were abnormally long – a good seven inches – and seemed to be pointed at the ends.

"I came for my…"

"Yes," rasped
Stivers
. His breathing was harsh and labored. "I know what you came for."

He walked over to four cookie jars that sat on a table and motioned to her to join him. He lifted the head off one that bore image of a grinning monkey and dipped his slender hand inside. It emerged with a plastic sandwich bag containing a number of tiny purple pills. He tossed them on the table top.

Joan took a couple steps forward. She counted the pills through the plastic and eyed him suspiciously. "There's only ten. You usually give me fifteen."

"It's a matter of supply and demand,"
Stivers
told her. Inside the shadows of his hood, his face – long and malformed – twitched. "Supply is low, while demand is high. My stock is limited."

"So make more," Joan told him anxiously.

"The materials to make it are in short supply, too," he told the woman, watching her carefully. "I may have to stop manufacturing it entirely."

The thought of no more Paradise made Joan's heart sink. "No, please… you can't."

Stivers
chuckled softly. "Be glad you've got your ten. Who knows… we may not even be here tomorrow. The dykes may burst and flood the entire city. Like God did in Genesis… because the world had grown so utterly wicked." His eyes sparkled within the hood. "Do you think I'm wicked, Joan?"
 

"No," she lied. She considered the defective pills she and Grace had taken during the past few days. "They're not working right. Not lasting as long as before."

"Like I said, materials are limited. I've had to cut the ingredients to make it last. Sadly, you take what you get."

Joan stepped forward and reached for the bag of pills.

Stivers
laid his long-fingered hand over her prize. "Payment, please."

The woman felt sick to her stomach. This was the part of the transaction that she loathed.

"Payment, please…. or Paradise will be lost."

Joan knew there was no need to stall. Reluctantly, she pulled off her sweat pants and panties, and, lying atop the table, offered herself to the Devil.

She closed her eyes as he entered her. Joan didn't cry… didn't utter a sound. Sex was the only currency she possessed and, so far, it had kept her and her daughter alive.

From Sunday school teacher to whore in five years. She wondered what the Lord thought of her now.

It didn't take long.
Stivers
tensed and Joan felt his seed release, sticky and hot. He remained over her a moment longer, his rubber-clad hand gently tracing the bulge of her belly. "Mine?"

"Get off me, you freak!" she snapped.

"Hopefully, he'll resemble his father," whispered
Stivers
. And, for the first time, the pusher removed his hood and revealed himself to her.

Joan had suspected what he was, but to see it in the open was almost too much for her to bear. Apparently, the man named
Stivers
had been bitten by a rat. His head was narrow and cone-like, ending in a sharp point at his nose.
Stivers
skull was covered with fine gray hair and his ears – fleshy and misshapen – lay flat against the side of his head. Coarse whiskers sprouted from his nose and from his mouth ugly, yellow incisors protruded. A musky stench – like the sort common at a zoo – emanated from the creature, along with the acrid odor of piss.

"Handsome, aren't I?" he asked. The only thing human about him was his eyes. They twinkled at her, bloodshot and watery, just before he pulled the hood back into place.

"Just give me my pills and let me go," Joan said.

Stivers
laughed and tossed the bag of Paradise onto her naked belly. "Get the hell out of here. I have work to do."

Joan slipped off the table, her inner thighs wet and slimy. She quickly pulled her clothing on and, sticking the pills in her pocket, started for the stairs.

"When Junior arrives, tell him that Daddy loves him," said
Stivers
.

Joan ran down the staircase, her heart pounding in her chest, leaving the mutant's squealing laughter behind.

Minutes later, she was outside again. She breathed in deeply, trying to rid her nostrils of the pusher's stink. The musky odor remained on her clothes, though. She wondered if Grace would notice it when she got back to the restaurant.

As she made her way down the street, spasms gripped her. She doubled over with the force of the cramping and had to steady herself with a streetlamp for a moment until it subsided. She thought of the abomination that grew inside her. Sometimes at night it felt as though it was kicking, clawing, attempting to escape her womb. With dread she wondered if there was more than one. Rats did have litters, didn't they?

She stumbled onward in the ceaseless rain, tears of frustration forming in her eyes. What was she going to do? About the horrid life within her… about Mike, if he were to find out… and, most of all, Bristol?

The downpour seemed to increase in fury. It pounded upon her head and shoulders, like a fist beating her down. She considered what
Stivers
had said. A scripture from Genesis came to mind.
And I will establish my covenant with you; neither shall there
any more
be a flood to destroy the earth. I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.

Joan hadn't seen a rainbow since before the Burn.

She wondered if God, in his rage against the unrighteous, had finally gone back on His promise.

The next trip was unlike any Joan had experienced before.

She found herself standing in a garden a thousand times more elaborate and beautiful that her mother's simple patch. Lush plants and flowers of all colors and varieties covered the ground and, from tall marble trellis, dangled huge baskets of fruit, succulent and ripe. She recalled what she had read about the fabled Hanging Gardens of Babylon and wondered if this was how it had been.

Joan stood upon a pathway cobbled with golden stones, marveling at the spectacular garden around her. Further on, past an alabaster gateway, stood a tall mansion constructed of pure white marble, surrounded by blooming magnolia trees. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The air was incredibly clean and invigorating. Joan felt herself let go of all her worries and wants. Of all the places the Paradise Pill had taken her, this was the place where she belonged the most.

"It's good to see you, Joan," came a voice from behind her.

She turned to see a man standing on the pathway. He was dressed in a flannel shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed work boots. Joan knew who He was at once, but He didn't resemble the hundreds of religious paintings and images she had been exposed to since her childhood. No, strangely enough, His clean-shaven face almost seemed to be an odd, but comforting, combination of features she was familiar with; a mixture of everyone she had ever loved in her lifetime. He possessed her mother's smiling eyes, her father's strong nose, and her husband's mouth. His hair was dark brown and styled in a way similar to her son, Daniel.

Joan was speechless at first. Then she muttered what had been foremost in her mind since arriving in this beautiful place. "Is this Heaven?"

"If that is what you wish to call it, yes," He answered.

"But… I shouldn't be here," Joan muttered. A great swell of shame and sadness filled her heart. "The things I did…"

"Out of necessity," the man told her. "That is all in the past, Joan. Don't you remember the pact you and I made when you were twelve? That will always stand."

Joan felt as though a great burden had been lifted from her. "Thank you." She looked past the alabaster gate, toward the huge manor house. "Who does that belong to?

The man laughed. "It's yours, Joan. I have prepared it for you." He walked toward her, his hand outstretched. "Come. Your family is waiting. They've prepared a feast in your honor."

An intense feeling of happiness and peace filled the woman and she reached out for him. It was then that she realized that her right hand was empty.

"My daughter!" she said, suddenly alarmed. "Where is she?"

"Grace is okay," He assured her. "Don't worry about her. She knows what to do."

The calm in His voice caused her to feel the same. Joan took His hand and, together, they left the garden and mounted a rise of golden steps to the white-columned mansion. On the porch, a dozen people stood anxiously, smiling and waving cheerfully. Her parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters, dear friends, her husband and son.

As she marveled at the beauty around her, a question came to mind. "Will everyone come here someday?" she asked.

For a moment, a great sadness crossed His face. "No," was all He said, before escorting her to the wondrous reunion that awaited her.

Grace had deceived her mother. She had only pretended to take the "piece of purple Heaven" Joan had offered her, afraid that their shared trip might end up like last time; like those last few horrible minutes with Bristol high atop the Ferris wheel.

The girl had dozed off on her own, but when she finally awakened, she found her mother's hand terribly cold in her grasp. "Mama?" she mumbled. Then the truth hit her. "Oh, Mama! No!"