Hookah (Insanity Book 4) (7 page)

“Sorry, senior. They all died after you left. I tried to be nice to them, but they kept kicking my men, looking for you. I had to shoot them all,” the Executioner says, pouring himself a pink drink. “We built a casino where your horses used to live. Very profitable, but nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.”

The Pillar grins. “How does no one go there anymore if it’s too crowded?”

I sense it’s not a question, but some kind of an inside joke.

“It’s Wonderland logic,” the Executioner explains to me. “It’s like saying: it ain’t over until it’s over.” He hands the Pillar a drink.

“Ah, I remember those.” The Pillar sips his drink. “I remember when we used to say: always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t go to yours.”

The Executioner is amused. “I loved that phrase. Because if you went to their funeral, they were dead already.” He turns to me with a smile. “I bet your friend here hasn’t seen the Wonderland days.”

“Be careful.” The Pillar winks. “She thinks she is Alice. The Real one.”

This throws the Executioner off. “Oh, my.” He chuckles. “That’s a new one.” He turns to me again. “Alice is dead, darling. True, we can’t remember what she looked like, but she’s dead.”

Just when I am about to ask why he’s so sure, a horde of young and skinny children are brought into the castle, wearing tattered clothes, dirt sticking to their sunburned skin.

“What now?” The Executioner pouts at the man who brought them in.

“I thought you’d like to see that we cut their fingers like you asked us.” the man says.

My eyes flip, staring at the children’s bandaged hands. They cut their fingers? What the hell?

“Two knuckles from each kid,” the man says. “Just like you always demand. Should I send them to the field now?”

My anger chokes me up. I turn and stare at the Pillar. He signals for me to stay cool and hush it down. I will explain later, he mouths.

But damn it, I won’t stay cool. Who is this horrible Executioner? I was right when I thought of ridding the world of him.

Buckingham Palace, London

“I
want you to find this Lewis Carroll and bring him to me,” the Queen roared at Margaret. “Now!”

“How am I supposed to do that, My Queen? You know what kind of a monster he is.”

“Just figure it out!” The Queen padded the chamber left and right, hands behind her back. “It’s too soon for an apocalypse. I want a mad world. Not a dead world. Besides, why is he here? What does he want with the end of the world?”

“I have no idea, but what you’re asking me isn’t something I can do,” Margaret says. “Normally I’d use the Cheshire’s help with something like that, but he made it clear he isn’t on our side. He just wants to bring chaos into the human world for his own giggles and grins. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in this with Lewis Carroll.”

“Then the Pillar is our only chance,” the Queen says. “Where is he?”

“Haven’t seen him since the last time when I visited this Alice girl to convince her she should be one of us,” Margaret said. “I met him briefly afterward, trying to get the key from him, but he said he’d like to keep it until we find the next one. Sort of a guarantee, so nothing bad happens to him until we both fulfill our sides of the deal.”

“I know how to get the key from the Pillar later, that’s hardly my problem,” the Queen said. “Don’t mention it to him now. Just find him, and ask for his help. He has his own out-of-this-world methods. He should be able to stop this Wonderland Monster.”

“I will look for him right away, My Queen.” Margaret was checking her phone. “Wait, I just received information: he took Alice and flew all the way to Columbia?”

The Queen stopped. “Columbia?” She tilted her head. “You’re thinking what I am thinking?”

“The Executioner?” Margaret spelled out slowly.

“It makes sense. Whoever designed this plague in the hookahs must be related to the Executioner. It’s where all the hallucinogens are cooked.” The Queen rubbed her chin.

“So the Pillar is looking for a cure in Columbia?”

“I hope that’s all he is looking for,” the Queen said. “I hope he isn’t digging into the past, or this will have dire consequences. What kind of complicated day is today?” She romped her feet on the ground.

“Today is Sunday, My Queen.”

“Here’s my second request to the Parliament,” she said, chin up. “No more Sundays!”

“That’s impossible. It’s an important day to the people.”

“No, it’s not. I haven’t been cool with the days of the week being seven anyways. God made the world in six days. And Lewis Carroll, when he was still sane, thought about six impossible things for breakfast. And we’re looking for six keys. Now six weekdays feels about right.”

“Whatever you say, My Queen.” Margaret chewed on the words.

“So, back to our problem. Send someone to follow the Pillar in Columbia.”

“You’re aware that very few Wonderlanders have the guts to go there, right? Not even me or the Cheshire.”

“Then find those who have the guts. Wasn’t Wonderland full of gory loons? Find one and send them after the Pillar to expedite his search for a cure.”

“I need to make some phone calls,” Margaret said and left the chamber.

The Queen turned and stared into the mirror. “What are you doing, Pillar?” she mumbled. “Are you planning on opening those old wounds from the past again?”

Mushroomland, Columbia

G
ritting my teeth, I watch the poor kids being led outside.

“Where are they going?” I ask, my hands trembling.

“None of your business, little girl,” the Executioner says. “I’m starting to lose my patience with you.”

“Why not have another drink?” the Pillar interrupts.

Oh, God. How I hate both of them.

“Indeed.” The Executioner pours more of the pink liquid. “And since you’re in the mood for more drinks, here is what I will do. I know you have a question you want to ask me.”

“Finally,” I hiss.

“Yes,” the Pillar says. “I’m looking for a cure for the Hookah of Hearts plague that’s sweeping over the world by the minute—suspiciously enough, it has no effect on this region of the world.”

“Oh, that.”

“I know you don’t care about the world outside of Mushroomland, but I really need to stop the plague,” the Pillar says.

“I saw it on TV this morning,” the Executioner says. “Very funny plague. Did you see the naked teacher on the bicycle chasing his wife, trying to kill her?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” the Pillar says.

“Well... I understand it’s Lewis Carroll who spread the disease,” the Executioner considers. “I have to admit I don’t want to have anything to do with him. You know how mad and angry he can get, with all those migraines of his.”

I can’t believe they’re talking about Lewis Carroll, but finding the cure is my priority now. I don’t say a word.

“I know,” the Pillar says, “but we need the cure.”

“The thing is, there is no cure, Senor Pillardo.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I’m sure because you have no idea what the hookahs do to people.”

“It turns them into nuts, just like the mushrooms did to me,” I say.

“That’s an understatement to the brilliance of what this plague really does to people.” The Executioner taps the diamond grail he is drinking from. “This plague does something to people you would never have imagined in a million years. And once you realize what it is, you’ll understand why there is no cure.”

“What does it do?” I demand.

“Like I said, I’m not saying because I don’t want to have anything to do with Lewis Carroll.” The Executioner stands up. “But I know who cooked it for him.”

“That’s a start.” The Pillar steps forward. “Who?”

“I’m not telling you that either.” The Executioner smirks. “Not until you entertain me like in the old days, Senor Pillardo. Come on, make me laugh.”

The Pillar stiffens for a fraction of a second. “Of course.” He raises his glass. “Want to play Wonderland logic again?”

“Whatever’s on your mind. Just be sure you make me laugh.” The Executioner hands him a pistol. “And for starters, I laugh when someone shoots one of my guards. How about that for a start?”

“My pleasure.” The Pillar grabs the gun from the table and shoots two of the guards without hesitation.

I swallow hard and step away from him. Never have I imagined him this cruel. But who am I kidding? He has twelve dead people on his conscience.

“Frabjous! Haven’t lost your swift speed, Senor Pillardo.” The Executioner clinks glasses with the Pillar. “Now make me really laugh. Tell me jokes. Tell me about your adventures outside of Mushroomland all of these years. But I have to warn you, if you don’t make me laugh...”

“You will shoot me and the girl, I know.”

“No.” The Executioner approaches him. “I will make you shoot one of those kids outside, make the girl watch it, and then shoot you and her.”

This is the moment when I raise my trembling hand, unable to stay here any longer. “Is there a bathroom nearby?”

“Just outside that door, to the left,” The Executioner says dismissively. He is so much into the Pillar.

I turn and leave. Not for the bathroom. But for the children. It might be close to the end of the world, but I’m finding those children and getting them out of Mushroomland, if it’s the last thing I do before judgement day.

O
utside, I don’t bother finding the bathroom. I just want out to look for the children.

Among the Executioner’s soldiers, I pretend I am an airhead brat with a colorful umbrella, trekking around the vast landscape and admiring the roses.

Some of them are irritated by me, borderline offended, but none of them can do anything about it. I have the Executioner’s permission to be out here.

Flashing my stupid-girl smiles, I’m looking for the children in my peripheral vision.

Nighttime isn’t helping much. All I have for light is a small moon up in the sky. For a moment, it looks like a mushroom lighting up the world. But I know better. The coconut’s effect hasn’t fully worked on me yet.

Farther into the landscape, I am happy to be hiding between folds of darkness and even darker trees in the castle’s garden. I am like a cat now. I see everyone from my vantage point but none of them see me. The Cheshire comes to mind instantly, but I don’t want to think about him.

Then I glimpse the children in the distance.

They’re being loaded like sheep into a barred Jeep, surrounded by machine gun men.

Like a cat, I tiptoe closer. Each child is given a gun before getting on the Jeep. Oh, my God.

I mean, I’ve read about drug lords and cartels using young, poor children in their drug business, even in war, but I never thought I’d see it with my own eyes. It seems that the words we read in newspapers, the videos we watch on news cable, no matter how atrocious and unbelievable are never really processed by our brains. We watch these things as if they are a movie, as if they’re not real, until you see them with your own eyes.

But right now, I can’t stand it. Those children aren’t going to become machine gun drug traffickers. Their childhood isn’t going to be taken advantage of by this mean man called the Executioner. I will find a way to get them out of Mushroomland.

This means more to me than the end of the world.

Because frankly, the world will end anyway. It’s the crimes we don’t do anything about that are the real evil.

T
aking my shoes off, I pad as slowly as I can, closer to the Jeep.

There are about twenty children, and for some reason, they’re shown out of the Jeep again. One of the machine gun men tells them to wait next to a huge mushroom tree—haven’t seen one before, really, but hey, I could still be imagining things.

Once the kids are alone, I approach them, worried they’ll shoot or resist me because I’m foreign or something.

But they don’t.

They actually look at me as if they know me, anticipating whatever I have to say.

“I’m Alice,” I begin. “I will get you out of here. You want to get out of here, right?”

They nod eagerly, and I realize they don’t speak my language, but they seem to understand me, still. Maybe freedom and children’s rights is a universal thing. No language is really needed.

“Look,” I try to explain things with my hands while I talk. Common sense sign language should work, right? “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but how about you all get into that Jeep again. I can drive it away until we figure out what to do next.”

They follow my pointing finger to the Jeep, guns still in their hands.

“No,” I say. “No guns. You don’t need them.”

They’re reluctant about it, but cooperate eventually. One after the other they get into the Jeep, smiling at me. It’s lovely how a child’s smile makes your life seem worthless in order to save them.

But it’s not funny at all seeing each one of them is missing knuckles on their last two fingers, starting from the pinky. I can’t explain how this breaks my heart. I suddenly feel embarrassed complaining about shock therapy back in the asylum. At least no one cut off a piece of me.

“Hey.” I stop a boy and kneel down to face him. “Who did that to you?” I point at the missing fingers.

“The Executioner.” Of course.

“Why?”

“Mark.”

“Mark?” I blink. “Who’s Mark?”

“No.” The boy waves his forefinger. “Slave. Mark.”

My hands reach for my mouth to cup a shriek. “It’s a mark? Like a tattoo? You’re a salve?”

“Executioner slave.” The boy taps his chest and then points to the rest of the children. “Travel. Drug. Sell.”

“Not anymore.” I hug him closer. “I will take care of you.”

The boy smiles broadly, as if I have bought him a gift. I mean, God, he doesn’t even know what they are doing to him, trapped within the walls of mushroom all around.

Before he gets in the Jeep, he turns around and touches my hair. “Alice,” he whispers. “Mother say Alice come. Alice save us.”

I
nside the Jeep, lights still out, I try to think of a plan.