Planet Purgatory (15 page)

I wasn’t feeling well. All I could think about was Mr. Winter’s statement that those who drink chikka are doomed to drink chikka, lest they die. I’m sure it was psychological — it had been less than half an hour since my last mouthful, but I was already experiencing chills followed by bouts of sweating. Fortunately, Flea was there to distract me. She was obsessed with Rosie, chasing her around and tugging the poor dog’s ears. And she seemed especially fascinated whenever Rosie stopped to pee.

“Ew! Look!” she’d exclaim. And just to make sure I knew what she was referring to, she’d run up to the puddle of urine, point at it, and begin the chase all over again.

Poor Rosie never got a moment’s rest, and there were moments when she’d snap at the imp, causing Flea no end of delight. It was stressful. Yet at the same time it proved to me that as naughty as the imp was, she wasn’t evil. Rosie would have ripped her apart if that were the case. This was made abundantly clear when I turned around to discover Flea climbing onto Rosie-dog’s back. Rosie looked thoroughly miserable, but there she was, waiting obediently while Flea scampered nimbly atop her shoulders.

“Don’t do that!” I said, placing Flea back on the ground.

“Why not?”

“Because dogs aren’t horses. You’ll hurt her back.”

“No I won’t.” And in what I could only describe as a complete lack of respect, Flea climbed on Rosie’s back again.

“I told you, don’t do that!”

I was angry, but rather than pick her up and place her on the ground, I threw her, sending her onto her hands and knees. I knew I shouldn’t have done it. The hurt expression on her face only made me feel worse, and I closed my eyes in sweat-soaked frustration.

I expected her to leave. I was sure of it. Instead, I felt a tugging at my shirtsleeve.

“What’s wrong, David?”

She sounded so much like a little girl sometimes, it was unsettling and I sat cross-legged in the road, rubbing my face with my palms.

“Mr. Winter said those who drink chikka must keep drinking it, or they’ll die.”

“Well, yeah. Everyone knows that.” She knelt beside me, and taking my face into her little hands, forced me to look into her eyes. “What else did he say?”

“That judging from the amount I drink, I’d probably die quickly.”

Flea erupted into a smile. “Is that what you’re worried about? Silly man!”

“What are you talking about? Why are you laughing?”

But Flea was already busy climbing back onto Rosie’s shoulders.

“Come on,” I said, rising to my feet. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, except that Julius Winter is a big fat liar.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying never take a word that man says at face value.”

“So I’m not going to die quickly?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. But if I had to guess, something tells me you’ll last a few more hours,” she said with an impish grin.

“Gee. Thanks a lot.”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby. It hasn’t been that long. How are you feeling right now?”

“That’s just it: I don’t know! One moment I feel fine, the next I’m experiencing chills. Man, I wish I’d remembered to bring those stupid bottles!”

“We can always go back—”

“No!” I closed my eyes and exhaled. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go back in there. I just can’t.”

And that’s when I was struck by an idea. “What about the stash the Scavenger stole?”

“What about it?”

“We can go and get some!”

The imp shook her head. “They’re long gone.”

“What? There were nearly a hundred bottles there!”

“Do you know what kind of stink a hundred bottles of chikka makes? And with the things living in those woods? I bet those bottles disappeared within an hour of us leaving.”

It pained me to admit it, but she was probably right. At least I still had my cigarettes.

And so we resumed our travel of the dirt road. At this point I’d given up trying to keep Flea off of Rosie’s back. The truth was, they made a striking pair. All Flea needed was a spear and they could have trotted straight out of a story from Middle-earth. I, meanwhile, was still fixated on my need for chikka. I tried approaching it rationally, telling myself I regularly slept eight hours without ever experiencing any withdrawal. Common sense dictated that I should be able to go twice that before anything truly bad happened. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get Mr. Winter’s words out of my head.

It was all I could do to keep walking. And then I spied a group of people off in the distance. There were six of them, all dressed in black. I knew exactly what they were.
Dhatura.

My heart raced.

“Do you think they have chikka?”

“Maybe,” answered Flea from her place atop Rosie’s back.

I quickened my pace, gaze locked on the undead party before me. It seemed like one of them was holding onto a bottle. No, he was definitely holding a bottle. I walked faster.

Meanwhile the Dhatura spread across the road to welcome us. There must be a handbook on how Dhatura are supposed to greet travelers, because the largest one stepped forward and said exactly the same thing as the first one I met, in exactly the same tone.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

“Shut up and gimme all your chikka,” I said, pointing my rifle at his chest.

The monster did a double take. “What did you say?”

“Give me all your chikka before I blow your brains out.”

The Dhatura looked genuinely confused, and he turned to one of his mates. “I think he’s robbing us.”

“That’s because he is robbing you, you idiot,” said Flea.

“Watch your mouth, runt,” growled another Dhatura. This one was truly frightening, with a scarred face and yellow fangs that hung well past his bottom lip. But I didn’t care. All I wanted was the bottle in his hand.

“Don’t talk to her,” I said, aiming the gun at his face.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me with your flare gun?”

“Do it, David! Shoot him with your flare gun!”

“I told you to watch your mouth!” barked the scarred demon.

“I said don’t talk to her!”

The scarred demon didn’t like that, and he walked toward me, baring his fangs. “I’ve had enough of this. You want this chikka so bad? Come and take it!”

The promise of getting my hands on some chikka was too much to ignore, and in an example of cold-blooded violence I didn’t think I was capable of, I shot their heads off, one by one, left to right.

Their bodies had barely hit the ground when I leaned over and picked up the bottle of magical beet juice.

“Look!” I said, happily holding up my trophy.

I found a total of three bottles of chikka. Unfortunately all of them were opened, and I was busy trying to figure which one was the least filthy when out of nowhere Flea slammed into me and wrapped her arms around my waist.

“Thank you, David!”

“For what?”

“The way you protected me from those horrible Dhatura!” Flea let go of me to press her hands dramatically against her chest. “It was like something out of a storybook. And the way you said it:
Don’t talk to her!
It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Yeah, well, they deserved it,” I said, feeling my face grow warm. “And I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up. I’m sure you could have gotten rid of them faster than I did.”

“But it’s the thought that counts. You stood up for me. No one’s done that before. And with that darling voice.
Don’t talk to her!
”

“Yeah. Like I said, they deserved it. Now, how do I drink this stuff without catching something?”

But Flea was lost in her own little world, spinning wistfully with her hands still on her chest, reciting that oh-so-romantic line, “Don’t talk to her!”
over and over and over again while I examined my spoils.

It wasn’t that they were opened that bothered me, it was that they’d touched the lips of the undead. I couldn’t think of anything more unclean. But I was desperate, and soaking the bottom of my shirt with chikka, I wiped the bottles down, taking extra care to clean out the mouths. Chikka was a form of alcohol, after all. An extremely potent form. Surely it possessed disinfectant qualities as well.

And so I drank, taking two big mouthfuls before letting the bottle hang by my side. It was as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, only to be replaced by another.

“What’s the matter, David? You look sad.”

“I just murdered six demons for their chikka.”

“So. I would have killed them for nothing.”

“You don’t understand. I sought out and killed a bunch of strangers for their drugs. That’s crackhead territory.”

The imp raised an eyebrow. “What’s a
crackhead
?”

“I’m an addict, Flea! A goddamn drug addict! I can handle being an alcoholic. I’ve known that for a long time. But this,” I said, holding up my bottle of Dhatura-tainted beet juice, “this is like fishing methadone out of a public toilet! No, it’s worse!”

I collapsed onto my haunches, burying my face in my arms.

“If only Sam could see me now …”

“David, David, David. You’re looking at this all wrong. Those Dhatura would have killed you and eaten you right there. You were defending yourself. And me.” Flea pulled my head out of my arms by my hair. “Look at me, you silly man. Chikka is the reason you’re still alive.”

“What do you mean?”

Flea went to smack me in the face, her tiny hand a blur. Amazingly, I caught it.

“See?” she said, grinning. “You’re fast. Much faster than a human should be. And your leg. It was broken when I first met you. Now it’s fine. How many days has it been? Two? And look how smoothly you took care of those Dhatura.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
It’s the chikka, David. That’s what’s keeping you alive.”

It took a few moments before her words even registered. “Wow, when you say it that way …”

“You’re a champion! A hero! Like that man in green with the bow and arrows. What was his name again?”

“I’m not sure. Do you mean Robin Hood?”

“Yeah, that’s it! Robin Hood! Only in your case, you rob from the rich and then you, uh, then you, uh, drink it!”

Flea loved that. “And I’m Maid Merlin,” she said, jumping to her feet

“I think it’s Marian …”

Flea didn’t care. She was back in her bizarre little world, skipping joyfully in circles while I slowly rose to my feet.

“Oh, look,” she said. “It’s Robin Hood, come to save me from the big bad Sheriff of Nottingham.
Don’t talk to her!
”

I could only shake my head. “You’re strange, do you know that?”

“And you’re my hero!” she answered with a grin.

Flea’s pep talk had done wonders for my mood. That’s not to say I was happy, but I didn’t feel quite so disgusted with myself anymore. What I needed was rest, so when I spied a little hut half-hidden in the trees, I approached the window and peered through the dirty glass.

“It looks empty,” I said.

But Flea and Rosie were already inside, the two of them busy exploring what appeared to be a lived-in bedroom.

“You need to be more careful,” I said, stepping through the door.

“Pfft. What for? I’m not scared.”

“Yeah, but whoever’s in here might be.”

It was empty, all right. And relatively tidy, with an assortment of everyday objects decorating a set of drawers and a pair of matching tables.

“Looks like the Scavenger’s getting lazy. There’s some good stuff here. Ever seen one of these?” I asked, holding up a yellow plastic pencil sharpener.

The imp shook her head.

“Now let’s see if I can find a pencil. Well, what do you know, there’s one sitting right here. So you see how the tip’s all dull? Well, a few twists, and voila, it’s all ready!”

I held up the newly sharpened pencil only for Flea to wrinkle her nose. “What
is
that? A weapon?”

“No, silly. It’s a pencil. You write with it. Here, look,” I said, grabbing a conveniently placed sheet of lined paper. I wrote FLEA in big block letters. “See? That’s your name.”

The imp’s face lit up. “Really? That’s my name?” She traced the letters with her finger before turning her attention to the pencil. “But you could still stab someone with it, right?”

Before I could answer, Flea swiped the pencil from my hand and began running around the room, stabbing imaginary foes in the eye with her newly found graphite spear.

Rosie, meanwhile, was relaxing on a queen-size bed. She looked comfy, and taking off my boots, I joined her, resting my head on my arm while I smoked a cigarette. It felt good being off my feet — too good — and I searched for something to talk about to keep from falling asleep.

“It’s weird to think this is how a person enters Purgatory. Why a bedroom of all places? Why not a living room? Or a kitchen?”

“Are you still talking about that?” Flea asked, jumping onto the mattress beside me.

“It’s because it’s the truth. You know it. I can tell by the look in your eyes.”

“You’re delusional.”

“So why are you turning away? Come on,” I said, raising myself onto my elbow, “look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”

She looked me in the eyes, all right, and then smacked me on the forehead.

“What the hell was that for?”

“For being delusional.”

I returned to using my forearm as a pillow, blowing smoke rings and watching as they slowly made their way to the ceiling.

“I wonder what happened to the person who lived here? How’d they die? And when? Couldn’t have been that long ago, or a scavenger would have picked it clean already.”

“Would you stop talking about that?”

“Why?”

Flea brought her orange face to hover over mine. “Because you sound crazy!”

“You’re one to talk,” I grumbled. “I wonder if it’s got anything to do with a bedroom being someone’s personal space? A living room is shared. So’s a kitchen. But a bedroom, that’s yours. That’s a part of you.”

I yawned, fighting against the weariness in my eyelids.

“You know what’s weird? I don’t remember my bedroom. I mean, I remember it, but not as a doorway for coming here. My parents remember their bedroom, but I don’t remember mine at all. Isn’t that weird?”

A silence fell upon the room, and finishing my cigarette, I took to blankly staring at a crack in the ceiling, my mind sliding into the shallow end of a dream.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Huh? What was that?” I asked with a start.

“I said, what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to really think about it.” I rolled onto my side, replaying my time in the
SYS
building in my head. “I still can’t figure out why the angel sent me there. Risking my life like that. Surely there must be a reason.”

“I know what it is,” said Flea.

“Really?”

“You met me, silly!”

That made me chuckle, and I turned onto my back once more while the imp played with my hair.

“I just wish I knew what I was supposed to do,” I said. “I can’t go back to Harkness empty-handed. Not after promising my dad. If only the angel had been clearer, then maybe I’d know.”

“But that’s how it is, isn’t it? Deities are always sending champions on important quests with only the barest facts. It’s silly. If this ‘angel’ of yours is really so powerful, why doesn’t he get rid of Bill himself?”

“Because that’s not how it works.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’m tired.”

I wasn’t going to tell her, but Flea had made a good point. Why didn’t the angel take care of Bill himself? It was a question I asked myself over and over again until I fell asleep.