Everfound (37 page)

And so, with tears filling her eyes, she took the cap off the syringe, found a vein in Milos’s arm, and injected a massive dose of poison into his withered body.

Mrs. Vayevsky opened her eyes to see the delivery girl looking down at her.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” the delivery girl said.

Mrs. Vayevsky was now lying on the couch with no memory of how she got there. She sat up feeling weak and light-headed. “What happened?” she asked. “Have I fainted?”

“You’re fine,” the delivery girl said. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.” She offered Mrs. Vayevsky the faintest of smiles and a glass of water, which she drank with a shaky hand. “You should rest,” the delivery girl said and she clasped Mrs. Vayevsky’s shoulder a little too hard, for a little too long. “I’d better be going now.”

“The package . . . ,” said Mrs. Vayevsky.

The delivery girl pointed. “It’s on the table there. Like I said, there’s no need to sign for it.” Then the delivery girl left, quietly closing the door behind her.

When Mrs. Vayevsky felt strong enough to stand, she went to the table to find the package had already been torn open. Had she done that before she fainted?

Inside, of all things, was a Russian nesting doll. Its familiar shape—like a squat bowling pin—and brightly painted surface, made her smile. It was the kind of simple wooden toy she had played with in her youth, a reminder of a much simpler time. On the outermost shell was the painted figure
of an old man, but each shell opened to reveal a smaller, younger man inside, until finally in the very center was a wooden baby no larger than her pinky. The gift came with no card, no return address, no clue as to who sent it, or why. All the same, she knew exactly where it needed to go.

She headed to her son’s room and set all six shells of the nesting doll side by side, smallest to largest, on Milos’s desk, admiring the colors and the workmanship it had taken to create the lacquered figurines. Then, when she turned to glance at the bed, her expression changed.

Without even touching him, she knew. Without holding a mirror to his lips to check for breathing, she knew.

She sat in the chair beside the bed, wrapped her arms around her chest, and began rocking back and forth, sobbing his name over and over. She wailed with the deepest grief she had ever known . . . and yet somewhere within that grief was secret gratitude that after so many years, she had finally been given permission to cry.

I
t happened in an instant. One moment Milos was skinjacking a worker, preparing to blow the entire gas main, and the next moment, he wasn’t skinjacking at all. He was just standing on the plant floor, slowly sinking into the living world.

Something had changed.

He could sense it—a sudden lightness, a sudden disconnection. The living world, which always seemed a bit blurry and faded, seemed even more so now—one step further removed. There was a panic in Milos, and with it came a sense of irretrievable loss that he could not put into words. He tried to deny it, refused to even think about what it might mean, and he attempted to skinjack the worker again. He stepped right through the man, and out the other side. Milos did not feel flesh, nor did he hear a single thought.

“No!”

He leaped again and again, but it was like leaping at shadows. Finally Jill and Moose peeled out of their hosts, and stared at him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jill asked.

“Nothing,” Milos insisted. “Get on with the mission.”

But neither of them moved. Now the other skinjackers were peeling out of their hosts as well, wondering what was going on, and Milos was at the center of their attention. He screamed in fury, and leaped at every living blur that moved around him, but it was hopeless.

“I’m stopping the mission,” said Jill.

“No, you can’t stop the mission. I’m the lead skinjacker. I give the orders.”

“Sorry,” said Jill, “but you can’t be the lead skinjacker if you can’t skinjack.”

Mary’s children were overjoyed that the disaster was prevented. Mary, however, was not—but she was wise enough not to show her disappointment. If Milos had been able to rupture the gas main, the resulting explosion would have taken out several residential blocks. The story would have been much different. The fact that he could no longer skinjack posed a whole set of problems she would have to quickly address.

Yet even though this mission had been botched, Mary was a girl with a positive outlook. In spite of her frustration, she couldn’t help but see the glass as half full. She looked out at her huge cumulus of Afterlights, and quickly came to realize that far from being a failure, the morning had, in an unexpected way, been a grand success. Her children all believed that the disaster had been averted because of the skinjacker’s efforts—which meant they now believed fully and completely that Mary had the power to see and to change the future. After today, they would trust her
decisions even more than before, and follow her guidance without question. In this case “failure” made her stronger. Thinking about it lifted her spirits, and left her ready to prepare the next mission—which she knew would be a resounding success. She would make sure of it.

For eleven years, Milos had taken his ability to pop in and out of the living world for granted. To do something as simple as grab himself a burger if he wanted to, or, if the whim struck him, to ski down a white, powdered slope in the body of a fleshie who actually knew how to ski.

Deep down he knew it couldn’t last forever, but Everlost has a way of making one dismiss tomorrow as just another version of today. He never considered what existence without skinjacking would be like, so he wasn’t prepared for the shock of his body dying.

For Milos, it was nothing short of horrific. The constant hunger, with so little food to satisfy it. The slow drift of memories being lost. The relentless chiseling away of one’s identity. How could ordinary Afterlights stand it? What made it worse was the speed at which a skinjacker reverts—as if making up for lost time. Memories didn’t just fade, they were sucked out into a vacuum. Milos suddenly realized his mind, which had been so sharp, was now an open box, and if he took out a memory to treasure, or even to just ponder, it was lost by the mere act of thinking about it. In just one day, he had forgotten his last name—which he had remembered all these years—and he quickly came to realize with increasing dread that he had no yardstick with which to measure the depth of the things he had already forgotten.

“Get over it,” Jill had told him, clearly thrilled at the prospect of his misery. “Learn to be ordinary, I’m sure you’ll excel at it.”

But it was more than just being ordinary. When one knew the exhilarating power of dual citizenship in two vastly different worlds, losing connection to one of those worlds was like losing one’s limbs. It had never occurred to Milos before, but to the “ordinary” Afterlight, the living world might as well have been the moon, for it was just as unreachable. How could anyone exist with such disconnection?

Milos went to Mary, knowing that she would have some wisdom and some comforting words for him, as she always did . . . but when he went into the press box to talk to her, he found that she already had company:

Rotsie.

The two of them sat facing one another. Rotsie was all smiles and Mary laughed at a joke that Milos hadn’t heard. A vending machine that had crossed with the arena was still partially stocked, and so the two of them were sharing a can of Coke, passing it back and forth between them. Watching Mary’s lips touch the same can that Rotsie had just drank from made Milos’s afterglow falter. It felt like his body was dying all over again. Rotsie noticed him first.

“Hello, Milos,” he said, seeming both arrogant and self-conscious at the same time. It made Milos feel uncomfortably off-balance. He had to remind himself that Rotsie was the intruder here, not him.

Mary took a moment to gather her thoughts, then stood, smoothing out her shimmering gown. She sauntered
to Milos, and took one of his hands in both of hers, clasping it tightly.

“Milos, I am so, so sorry.” She didn’t move to embrace him, she just held his hand. “I know you’re strong, I know you’ll get past this.”

“Yes,” said Milos. “We’ll get past this together.”

Mary’s smile became a little slim, then she squeezed his hand, and let go.

Rotsie, who still hadn’t stood up, said, “I just want you to know, I have every respect for you.”

Milos had no response to this.

“What Rotsie means,” Mary explained, “is that it won’t be the same without you on his skinjacking team, but we’ll all have to manage.”

“
His
team?”

“Well,” said Mary, turning her eyes to Rotsie and offering him a smile that should have been aimed at Milos. “I had considered putting Jill in charge, but she doesn’t exactly work and play well with others. Then I considered Moose, but he’s much more of a follower than a leader, wouldn’t you agree? Rotsie, on the other hand, already has the respect of the new skinjackers.”

“But . . . but I can still lead the team,” Milos insisted.

“Denial doesn’t help anyone,” Mary told him. “Circumstances have changed. Your body has died, and we all need to face that.” Then Mary sat back down, took the can from Rotsie, and took a long sip of soda, savoring the flavor. That’s when Milos realized that this was more than just a shared can of soda. It was like a champagne toast between the two of them, to celebrate a decision
that had already been made in Milos’s absence.

“Why don’t you go down to the arena floor with the other Afterlights?” Mary suggested, indicating the endless basketball game below. “You could watch the game—maybe join in if you like. You’ve been so busy for so long, it’s been forever since you’ve played anything at all. Why, I bet if you thought about it, Milos, you could find something you’d like to do more than anything else. One special thing that would keep you content.”

“Think of it as retirement,” Rotsie said. “I’m sure you’ll find something useful to do.”

“That’s right,” echoed Mary. “Useful and fulfilling.”

“No,” insisted Milos feeling his last ounce of hope fading away. “Please, Mary . . . you still need me. . . .”

Mary sighed and rose again as if it was an effort. Finally she gave him an embrace and a kiss, but none of it held the passion it did before. The embrace was perfunctory, a mere requirement of common courtesy. And the kiss was a peck on the cheek. He felt the way a beloved pet must feel the moment before being “put down.”

“Please, Milos,” she said. “There’s no need to make this so . . . awkward.”

Finally Rotsie stood. “Why don’t I escort him out?”

But Milos would not allow the humiliation of being kicked out by Rotsie. Milos backed away, holding Mary’s gaze, hoping she would look away in shame, but she didn’t, because Miss Mary Hightower wasn’t ashamed of anything she did. Ever.

“I will go,” Milos said. “I will go and make myself . . . useful.” And he left, turning all his attention to the supreme task of remembering his name.

O
ne by one, Jackin’ Jill had teased out the real names of Mary’s new skinjackers—even though Mary had insisted they all take on nicknames to keep their identities secret. Mary was shrewd, but Jill was far more cunning, and she was already feeling the thrill of the hunt—a different kind of hunt, but, in its own way, rewarding. She knew who they all were within a few days, and then she memorized their names, knowing that even if she found a way to write them down, she could not take the list with her when she skinjacked.

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Now all that remained was getting the information to Allie. Jill hated the fact that she was on Allie’s side now, and she had to remind herself that she was on nobody’s side but her own. This next part turned out to be harder than finding out their names. There simply was no way for Jill to sneak off and send the information to Allie. She was under the constant scrutiny of Rotsie and the other skinjackers. She couldn’t get away from Mary’s structured little world without raising suspicion. Finally she came up with a plan.

“These skinjackers are pathetic,” she told Mary. “They need more training, or they’ll be useless—and they need more skills to make up for the loss of Milos.”

Mary, who was preparing to march west from Odessa with her horde, was aggravated by anything that might delay them. “You’ll train them as we go,” she told Jill.

“How? There’s nothing west of Odessa for miles. We need fleshies to train them, and the only fleshies around are in this town.”

Finally Mary relented, allowing them a training day, and the next morning they went to downtown Odessa.

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Although Moose and Jill were the most skilled skinjackers among them, Rotsie insisted on taking charge. “We’ll practice soul surfing,” Rotsie said, “and increase the distance we can jump.”

“You can do that, but I want to teach partialing.”

“What’s that?” Rotsie asked.

Jill gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Don’t you know anything? It’s when you take over just a part of a fleshie. A mouth, or a leg, or an arm.”

“What good is that?”

“Sometimes it’s all you need, and it’s faster when you’re in a hurry, moron!”

Then he grabbed her wrist angrily. It would have hurt if they were skinjacking. “I am your superior,” Rotsie said. “You will treat me with respect.”

Jill saw all the other skinjackers, including Moose, looking at her to see what she would do. A battle of wills would not help the situation, so she gave him a salute, just
exaggerated enough to be defiant, but just real enough for him to have to accept it. Then she made a mental note to list his name in all caps for Allie, so she’d go after him first.