Plague (11 page)

BLAZING
SUNLIGHT, DIRECTLY overhead, woke Orc.

It took him quite a while to sort out where he was. There were desks. The kind they had in school. He was on the floor, a cold linoleum-tile floor, and the desks were tossed and piled around him. Like someone had tossed them all around in a rage.

Someone had.

There was a chalkboard. Something was written on it, but Orc’s eyes wouldn’t focus well enough to read it.

The really confusing thing was the hole in the ceiling and part of the wall that allowed sunlight to pour so directly on his face, on his blinking eyes. The wall had been partly torn down, and without support a part of the ceiling had collapsed.

He felt something in his right hand. A hunk of wallboard.

He had done it. He had attacked the desks and the windows and the walls.

The memories were flashes of desaturated color and wild, jerky motion. He saw, as if standing outside himself, a drunken rock-bodied monster storming and rampaging and finally beating at the walls with great stone fists.

Orc groaned. His head was pounding like someone was using a sledgehammer on it. He was thirsty. His stomach felt as if it had been filled with coals.

Other memories were coming back. Drake. He had let that psycho creep get loose.

Howard would . . . well, actually, Howard wouldn’t say much. Howard knew better than to ever really attack Orc.

But what about Sam? And Astrid?

Sudden fear. Astrid. Drake would go after her. Drake hated Astrid.

He should do something. Go and . . . and find Drake. Or guard Astrid. Or something. Astrid had always been good to him. She’d always treated him nice, like he wasn’t a monster. Even back in school.

Suddenly Orc recognized the room. It was the room they used for after-school detention. Astrid would sometimes come tutor him there.

Truth was, he had always liked it better in detention than at home.

Orc squeezed his eyes shut. He needed a bottle. Too many things coming into his head. Too many pictures and feelings.

He noticed an awful smell and knew right away what had caused it. When he had passed out his muscles had all gone slack. He’d wet himself and worse.

He was lying in a puddle of urine and feces.

With a sob he rolled over onto hands and knees. The fatguy sweatpants he wore were stained and reeking.

Now he would have to walk down to the beach to clean off. He’d have to walk down there like this, like this depraved, disgusting, drunken, stinking monster.

Which was what he was. What he’d always been.

And then, one more memory. A sick little boy. A stop sign.

God, no. God . . . no.

Orc stumbled from the room, sick and weeping and hating himself so much more than anyone else could ever hate him.

Drake became conscious and was likewise confused about where he was and why.

His hands were tied behind his back and the wire cut uncomfortably into the pulpy flesh of his whip hand.

“Untie me,” he snapped at Jamal, who was dozing with his back against a palm tree, rifle cuddled to his chest like a stuffed animal. Jamal looked about six years old when he was asleep.

Drake noticed a rope tied from his ankle to Jamal’s ankle. He yanked on it and Jamal snapped awake.

“Untie me,” Drake repeated.

Jamal crawled over and fiddled with the knot until Drake was free.

“Where are we?” Drake asked.

“Down the highway. You know, up past Ralph’s?”

“What are we doing here?”

“I had to get Brittney out of town,” Jamal said. “I barely got you out of the church before Edilio came.”

Drake remembered the fight with Brianna. It brought a savage grin. “Did you finish that skinny little witch?”

Jamal shrugged. “I shot her.”

“Did you finish her?”

“No, man, I don’t think so.”

Drake stared hard at him. “I told you to do her.”

“Did you?” Jamal licked his lips. “I saw you saying something, but you were, you know, changing and all. It was hard to understand.”

Drake knew he was lying. Jamal had disobeyed him. But did he really want a Jamal tough enough to shoot a helpless person in the face?

No, he needed Jamal to be a little weak. Just a little. Still . . .

Drake snapped his whip and caught Jamal across the back.

Jamal cried out and backpedaled away.

“Don’t disobey me,” Drake said. Then he smiled in what he hoped was a friendly way. “I didn’t cut too deep. Just a little reminder for you.”

“It burns like fire!”

“Yeah, well, man up, Jamal. And get me some water. I’m thirsty.”

“Don’t have any water.”

“Well get some!”

“Where?”

Drake jumped up and looked around. They were near where the road came down from Coates and met the highway. He tried to think if there was anything left at the old school. Had to be some kind of water up there.

Or he could head back into town. Of course they’d be ready for him now. And by the time he got there he might be Brittney Pig again.

Drake felt a surge of frustration. If it was just him, he’d go straight into town and take out anyone who got in his way. He might not be able to take Orc down, but he could wear the stupid, fat drunk out. And Brianna? Bring it on.

With Sam and Caine both away there was no one who could take him on in a fight. But if Brianna was backed by a few of Edilio’s guys with rifles, well, they might be able to get Jamal, and if they got Jamal, they could grab him when the Brittney Pig emerged. Lock him up again. And this time when Sam came back Sam would finish the job.

It had been supernaturally cool putting himself back together after being sliced in three pieces. But he wasn’t sure that would happen if Sam incinerated him, burned him to ashes.

Threw the ashes in the ocean.

That image made Drake very nervous.

He had to find a way to rid himself of the Brittney Pig. Otherwise he’d be dependent on Jamal. But how was he supposed to do that? It was hopeless. For a moment Drake felt despair. He would be trapped like this forever.

But then, faint hope. Maybe there was someone who could help. He felt its touch on his mind. It had never forgotten him.

“Get up. We’re going,” Drake said.

“Where to?” Jamal asked.

“Going to see . . .” He’d been about to say, “a friend.” But friend wasn’t the right term. Not a friend. Much more.

“My master,” Drake said, self-conscious about the word. But when Jamal didn’t laugh, Drake repeated it, more confidently. It felt good. “Going to see my master.”

Sanjit found flowers easily enough. A lot had been picked for eating, but there were still untended gardens behind abandoned houses where it was possible to pick a small rose or a marigold or whatever. He didn’t really know what flowers they were. Some were probably just weeds.

When he had a half dozen he stopped to check in on Bowie, who was being watched by Virtue. Bowie was better today. Maybe a permanent improvement, maybe not. Sanjit never counted his chickens before they’d hatched.

Virtue stared at him and at his flowers. He stared like Sanjit had lost his mind.

“What are those?”

“These?” Sanjit looked in mock surprise at the bouquet. “I think these may be flowers.”

“I know they’re flowers,” Virtue said. “Why are you carrying flowers?”

“I’m bringing them to someone.”

“That girl?”

“Yes, Choo. They are for that girl.”

“You should stay away from her. She’s a very scary girl.”

“Hot, though, don’t you think?”

Virtue stared at him. “Don’t you know there’s a quarantine? Where have you been? No one is supposed to go out.”

“A what?”

“A quarantine. That flu going around. Everyone is supposed to stay inside.”

“I’ve had flu before, big deal,” Sanjit said dismissively.

“Look, if they put on a quarantine they have good reasons. You don’t know these people, I think most of them are crazy. You don’t know what they might do if they catch you out.”

“I’ll be back,” Sanjit said with a jaunty wink. “Unless I get really lucky.”

“Or she shoots you with that big gun of hers.”

“That’s also a possibility,” Sanjit said cheerfully.

He patted Bowie on the head and checked on the others. Then he headed out into the sunlight.

The streets of Perdido Beach had never exactly been busy. It wasn’t New York or Bangkok. But they were particularly quiet now. Not a soul in sight.

Maybe Virtue was telling the truth about a quarantine after all. But hey, who better to be with than Lana, the Healer?

He reached Clifftop without seeing anyone.

He pushed through the lobby doors. He knew that Lana had the best room on the highest floor, a room with a balcony that looked down at the cliff and the beach and out at the ocean.

He was confronted with a confusing hallway full of doors, some closed, many showing signs of having been kicked open or battered down so kids could raid the minibars.

He found what he thought was the right door. He straightened his clothes and his flowers and knocked. From inside Patrick erupted in loud barking.

He saw the peephole go dark as someone looked out.

He smiled and waved.

Soft cursing from inside. Then, “It’s okay, Patrick, it’s just some idiot.”

The door opened. Lana had a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. She had her pistol in her hand.

“What?” she snapped at Sanjit.

“Flowers,” Sanjit said, and held them out to her.

Lana stared at the flowers. “Are you kidding me?”

“I would have brought candy, but I couldn’t find any.”

“Are you retarded? There’s a quarantine on. No one is supposed to be outside.”

He had hoped for a little smile. He detected no smile. Instead he smelled alcohol on her breath. Although she didn’t seem drunk, her words weren’t slurred, and her eyes focused the full intensity of her incredulity quite effectively.

“May I come in?” Sanjit asked.

“In?” Lana echoed. “Here?”

“Yes. May I come in?”

Lana blinked.

“Okay,” she said, and her eyebrows shot up like she was amazed the word had come out of her mouth. She stepped back and Sanjit stepped through.

The room had once been a sterile, anonymous hotel room.

It still was. Lana had hung no pictures, collected no precious possessions. No stuffed animals lay on the bed. The room was filthy, of course, but so was just about every room in Perdido Beach.

It smelled of cigarette butts, whiskey, and dog. A huge shotgun leaned against one wall. Patrick seemed almost as agitated as his owner. Neither Lana nor Patrick was used to receiving guests.

There was a small Sammy sun in the closet so that when the closet door was left open there would be light, and when closed less light.

Sanjit crossed to the glass door. “Great view.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to get to know you,” Sanjit said.

“Why?”

“You’re interesting.”

“Yeah,” Lana said. “But not in any way you’re going to like.”

Sanjit sat down on the desk chair. He laid the flowers on the hutch next to the TV set. He noticed a scratch from a thorn. It was bleeding a little, no big deal.

“No,” Lana said, “I’m not going to heal your scratch.”

“Good,” Sanjit said.

“Good? Why good?”

“Because when you hold my hand, I don’t want it to be work for you.”

“Hand holding?” Lana barked out a laugh. “That’s what you want? Hand holding?”

“Well, we would work up to that. If we like each other.”

“We don’t.”

Sanjit smiled. “You seem awfully sure of that.”

“I know me, and I’ve met you,” Lana said. She sighed. “Okay, look, I get it. You’re one of those people who thinks they have to help screwed-up people. Or maybe you’re attracted to dangerous, unbalanced people. But listen up: I’m not Edward and you’re not Bella.”

“I don’t understand what that means,” Sanjit said.

“You’re not going to get some kind of contact cool off me, okay? You’re a normal kid, I’m a crazy freak, it’s not really the basis for true love.”

“Oh. You think I’m normal.”

“Your mom and dad are movie stars.”

“My mom was a teenage prostitute who died of pneumonia after a bout of hepatitis. My father was any one of maybe a thousand guys. If you know what I’m saying.” Sanjit made a fake perky smile. “Up until I was adopted half of everything I ever ate was stolen, and the other half came from some charity.” He let this sink in for a moment. “Oh, and see this?” He opened his mouth and pointed to a gap where two molars should have been. “Got beaten up really bad by a pimp who wanted to sell me to some old dude from Germany.”

Lana glared at him. Sanjit met her gaze and refused to look away.

Finally, she said, “Okay. You want to talk, okay. I’ll talk, then you get it through your head and you leave.” Lana lit a new cigarette, puffed it, and looked at him through the smoke. “I went up there to kill it. The gaiaphage. I drove a tank of propane up there, let it flow into the mine shaft, and all I had to do was light a match. The coyotes came after me. I shot them. I still could have set off the explosion, but I didn’t. Is that the story you want?”

“Is that the story you want to tell?”

“It was inside my head. I couldn’t kill it. Instead it made me crawl to it. Hands and knees. Like a worm. I gave myself to it. I became part of it.”

Sanjit nodded because he felt like he should.

“It made me shoot Edilio. Bang.” She pantomimed it.

“He survived.”

“Sam and Caine knocked the gaiaphage pretty hard. I was freed.”

“And you saved Edilio. But you don’t want to talk about that, right?”

“You know, it’s not a big wonderful thing when you save someone you just shot.”

“You didn’t shoot him, this monster did. You cured him. That was you.”

Lana’s eyes were so penetrating he almost couldn’t meet her gaze. But he held steady. She was looking for weakness in him. Or maybe she expected disgust.

“You went up there on your own to kill it,” Sanjit said.

“And failed.”

“But tried. If you were a guy, I’d say you had a big brass pair.”