The Marbury Lens (14 page)

“Now I can see why you warned me about your friend Conner.” She laughed.

“Nickie. I am so embarrassed.” I flipped Conner off, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to find my camera, digging around through the stuff I’d kicked all over the floor. Then I realized that I still didn’t have any clothes on, and that made me feel really stupid.

“Actually, it’s not at all an unflattering picture,” Nickie said, and I could almost hear the smile in her voice. “Rachel thinks so, too.”

“Oh God.” I picked a towel up from the floor and wrapped it around my hips as I brushed past Conner. I went back into the bathroom. “What would you do if Rachel ever did something like that to you?”

“If she did that to me, I should think I’d get even with her by introducing her to Conner.”

I fumbled through the folded and clean clothes on the bathroom’s marble counter. I must have put them there, but couldn’t remember doing it. I pulled a gray T-shirt down over my head and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Nickie made me smile.

Conner insisted I get dressed, said he was starving to death, and that he wasn’t about to let me stay by myself in the hotel room, even though I pleaded with him to leave me alone. We found an Italian place that made plate-sized pizzas. Conner drank beer, and tried to talk me into having some, too, but I didn’t want anything to do with that.

While we ate, he sat beside me and thumbed through the images we’d taken since Monday on my camera.

Some of the pictures seemed familiar to me as Conner narrated what we’d been doing—just like it did when I talked to Nickie on that first night—but three days was a big hole to fill up.

The last picture showed Conner and me, wearing white shirts and ties, leaning our shoulders together in front of the brilliant green of a school’s soccer field.

We were smiling.

“Is any of this coming back to you, Jack?”

I sighed. “Kind of. Not really, though.”

“Do you think the shit that Freddie guy gave you messed up your brain?”

Freddie Horvath did something to my brain and I need to get help.

“I don’t know, Con. I think it did. Maybe.”

I was nervous. I kept thinking about how I’d left those glasses wadded up under my pillow. I needed to get back to them, to keep them safe. I felt ashamed about it. And I kept looking around to see if Henry was still following me. I think Conner picked up on it, so I tried to relax and took an awkward drink of water. It made me cough.

I asked, “Well, did we like St. Atticus enough to want to spend a semester or two here this year?”

Conner shook his head. “I keep waiting for you to start laughing and tell me you’re just shitting me, Jack.”

I poked a finger at my food.

Not hungry.

“I think you seemed to like it a lot, but that’s just ’cause you’re, well, you know, so
Jack
. But, for me, well…I’m a tough sell on that whole boys-only thing.”

That made me laugh. “You are so fucking weird and hung up on that shit, Conner.”

Then Conner got serious. “I wish I could help you, Jack.”

“Me too, Con.”

“When we get back. You know, back to California. I’ll go with you. We don’t need to tell anyone else. So you can get this sorted out. Okay?”

He didn’t know.

Nobody was going to help Jack.

At least not here.

So I said, “Okay.”

“Sure you don’t want a beer?”

“No thanks, Con. Go ahead and have another if you want. I’ll get you home.”

I waited.

I lay there in the dark. Occasionally, I’d turn my eyes toward the window, trying to be as quiet as I could, so I could listen to Conner—to see if he’d fallen asleep. It was making me crazy. I thought he was listening to me, too.

And those glasses felt like they were burning a hole through my pillow and straight into my head.

Sweating, I threw the covers off, looked out the window again.

“You okay, Jack?” Conner said.

“Fucked.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Sure.”

I could feel him rolling over in the bed. I knew he was looking right at me, and I wished he would quit it and go to sleep.

Conner whispered, “I don’t feel bad, or guilty, at all. I mean, about what happened to that guy.”

I rolled away from him. I stared at the wall. “I don’t want to talk about this, Con.”

“Just think what he would have done to you. If you didn’t get away, you wouldn’t even be alive right now.”

“So fucking what?”

“And what happened to him was an accident. No. It was his fault, and he would have done that same shit again to another kid as soon as he got the chance to. You know what they said about him—what they found—on the news. So, fuck you, Freddie.”

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

“What?”

“Say,
Fuck you, Freddie
.”

It was hard to get the words out. I sounded weak. “Fuck you, Freddie.”

“Louder.”

“No. That’s enough.”

“I’m not going to let you do it, Jack.”

“Do what?”

“Whatever fucked-up thing you’re doing to hurt yourself.”

“I’m not the one who’s doing it.”

“Then who is, bud?”

“Okay, Con. Good night.”

I waited, and it finally came: the sound of a metal edge, each individual groove cut around the circumference, tumbling, turning one over the next, so faintly, near the wall, in the triangle of space between my leaning backpack and the windowsill. A coin.

Roll.

I held my breath, lifted my head from the pillow so I could look over at Conner. He slept.

Tap.

I slid my hand beneath the pillow. I felt relief like cool waves pouring over my body when my hand closed around the glasses that lay twisted inside that sock of mine. And I felt guilt, too.

We’ll only just take one peek.

Tap.

Just one short second, Jack.

A second.

Tap.

I took them out, unfolded them.

But he’d been watching me.

“What the fuck is that?” Conner shot straight up in bed, like he’d been frightened awake from a nightmare.

My hands jerked. I nearly dropped the glasses, then I twisted in the covers and tried jamming my hand down under the bedsheet. But in that brief instant, I saw through them. Just a flash. I could see Griffin’s face, how he looked, concerned and angry, as he kneeled over me and fixed that bandage to my chest. And all through the room there glowed a dim purple light, muted like the radiation from a television screen that had a blanket over it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The noise from behind the backpack came sharp, insistent.

Conner caught my wrist in his hand, squeezed tight.

“What the fuck
is
that?” he repeated.

I fumbled, wanted Conner to stop looking at me. “A mouse, I think.”

“Not that. What’s in your hand?”

Conner tried pulling my arm out from the covers.

“Let go, Con!”

“Did you see that shit? Let me see what that is.”

I let the glasses go.

Tap. Tap.

I scooted over and covered them beneath my leg.

“What the fuck, Con? Let go of me.”

When my hand came up, I pushed Conner away. I started to make a fist. We both sat there looking at each other. I knew I looked sick, was out of breath.

Tap.

“What’s going on, Jack?”

“Shhhh…”

I took a deep breath.

Calm down, Jack.

“Did you see that shit?” Conner said. He turned toward me in the bed, crossing his legs and leaning into me. He was practically touching me. I could feel his warmth. He panted. “Show it to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Did you see that shit? Let me see it.”

Conner knew I was hiding something under my leg. He pushed me back, but I slipped my hand under myself and shoved the glasses behind me.

“Quit it, Con. Please.”

“What is that thing?”

“It’s…” What could I tell him? “Forget about it. It’s not good.”

“Let me see it. I want to see that shit again.”

I squeezed the glasses tightly in my hand. Part of me wished I could crush them. Most of me didn’t.

I pulled my knees up. “What did you see, Con?”

“Are you going to show whatever that thing is you got in your hand to me, or what?”

“Tell me what you saw, first.”

Conner looked at me. The colorless rectangle of the window reflected in his eyes. He didn’t blink. “It was a flash of something. Like a whole movie condensed into half a second, burning through two holes. Like eyes. It was white. I could see a bunch of people who looked like cavemen running around. And me. We were all practically naked. And we were eating by a fire, and it was like I was right there. I could taste it and feel it. It felt like being totally wild. And the next thing I saw were all these nasty-looking bugs. It was fucking intense. Did you see it, Jack? Did you see that same shit? Was that some kind of a fucking dream?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

I was terrified.

Please stay away from there, Con.

Don’t do it.

“It’s a mistake.” I sighed. “Look. I’m going to ask you to do something for me, and I want you to make a promise you’ll do it because we’re friends. And we’re not going to fight about it, okay? Will you promise?”

“I promise, Jack. You know I’d do anything for you. You don’t have to ask. I’d never fight with you. You know that.”

“Promise not to ever look at this again.”

Then I pulled the glasses out from under the cover and I folded them shut. I held them in my palm and Conner just stared down at them. Into them. I knew he could see something. I watched him. I had my eyes right on his.

Neither one of us blinked.

“Look at me, Con.”

He raised his eyes.

“What is that shit, Jack?”

“I don’t know. But it’s bad, and I’m going to get rid of it.”

I slipped the glasses back inside my sock.

“Remember what you promised me, Conner.”

Then I put my hand out to shake, and Conner took it, but he had an unsure look in his eyes. I’d known him too long for him to fool me about it.

I slid my hand back under the damp pillow and left the glasses there. I watched Conner while I did it. I saw his eyes follow the movement of my hand.

“Is this for real?” he asked. He just stared at the pillow.

“If you saw it, then that makes it real.” I lay down and stared up at the ceiling. I folded my hands behind my head. “I thought I was crazy, but you saw it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I need to get rid of them,” I said. “You don’t understand. I need to get rid of them. I think I know what I need to do.”

“Let me look at them again, Jack,” he said. “Just for a second. Come on.”

He tried to slide his hand under my pillow. I grabbed his shoulders and started to push him away, but I held him there and said, “You promised, Conner. You have to trust me. I don’t want to fight you.”

I loosened my grip on his shoulders. I don’t know what I was thinking, because if he and I ever really fought, Conner would kill me. But he loosened up, too, and slid back over to the far side of the bed.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“What is that shit?”

“I think it might be hell. It fucks with you, Con.”

“Is that what’s wrong with you, Jack?”

“I think so,” I said.

“You don’t think it’s going to fuck with me, do you?”

I thought, maybe, Conner sounded scared.

“No.”

“Where’d they come from?”

“I don’t know. The guy I beat up the other night. He left them for me.” I was burning up. Sweat beaded on my chest. “I need to get rid of them.”

“Could I take one look?”

“You have to trust me.”

“Can I?”

“No.”

And when Conner went to sleep, I lost control.

Fuck you, Jack.

I eased out of bed so slowly, carefully, not making the slightest sound, the faintest ripple of movement. I carried the glasses into the bathroom.

My stomach was shaking, giddy, like being five years old and waking up in the dark before Christmas when you still believe that there is nothing anywhere that isn’t good, and you need it all.

I was soaked in my own sweat. I folded the seat of the toilet down and sat there, trembling—and I was getting shocked again by Freddie Horvath, pale, damp in my underwear like some sick and palsied addict.

“Bring me back, Seth. Soon. Before he wakes up.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Just for one second.

Just a peek.

I put them on.

Somewhere, I heard Conner, faintly knocking.

“Jack! Open the fucking door!”

Tap.

“Jack!”

Tap.

Tap.

The only captives they’d ever take were kept for food, or for worse things than that.

They were coming, close enough that I could hear the hooves when they slipped on fragments of rock, the grunts of riders, a cough. Griffin’s dog cowered, shaking beneath a broken catalpa bough. We had picked our spots, stocked them with ammunition. It was time to separate.

“Let’s be good, boys,” I said. I stood between Griffin and Ben, and we put our arms around each other’s shoulders and leaned in until our heads touched.

“Let’s fuck them up,” Griffin said.

And Ben squeezed hard and said, “They won’t even know what hit ’em. And when we’re finished, we’ll have some more candy.”

The kid flashed a smile.

“And whiskey,” I said.

“What makes you think I took the whiskey?” Ben asked.

“I’ll ride back if you didn’t.” And when Ben smiled, I said, “Shit, I’d walk back to that train for some whiskey if we make it out of this one.”

And Ben said, “We’re getting out, and you’re not walking nowhere.”

Griffin’s position was at the point of our ambush line, perched on a granite ledge where he could belly out and see almost all the way down to the field of crosses below us. Ben and I flanked him, higher up but more exposed, about thirty yards off to each side of the boy.

“Make sure you just don’t fucking shoot me,” he’d told us before we left him.

The platoon came up through steep ravines, natural pathways between fractured rocks and patches of scrub brush, riding or walking two across. Maybe forty of them, I estimated, with crude and gore-stained weapons made from wood, hide, stone, jagged pieces of metal, glass, and bone. No women or children among them. The world was like this.

Just below the cocking mechanism on my rifle was the switch that set it to automatic. I clicked it over.

You haven’t gotten away from anything.

Nearly every one of the men wore a codpiece of human hair, some were golden or white. A few of them were completely naked except for their own trophies and decorations: dried hands strung around their waists on cords of braided gut strand, useless car or house keys dangling from holes in their ears, anklets of teeth. Some grew spots along their sides, the older ones had hornlike spines of piss-colored bone jutting through calloused skin from their vertebrae and elbows, some tusklike, curled. And each of them had his own red brand that burned hot searing images into our eyes, even in the daytime, all different. I remembered seeing it on the morning of the day before: Conner’s, small, shaped like a fish or an incomplete side-tilted figure 8, four inches below his belly, among the first pale strands of his pubic hair. I looked for him among the Hunters, but couldn’t find him anywhere. I didn’t want to.

I worried about it; so I scanned each of them, knowing that even at a distance I would recognize the way Conner Kirk carried himself. And they came, all black and white eyes, nearly close enough for me to see reflections of what they were looking at, looking for; so near to us that we all squeezed sweating fingers on the triggers of our guns, one in each of the boys’ hands, and me with the rifle, waiting.

Waiting.

I watched as Griffin rolled away from his promontory; they were that close. He would let them pass, and our plan was that when Ben and I began firing at them, Griffin Goodrich would not let the first one of them back down from the mountain.

This was our mountain, we’d said.

As they ignorantly passed him, I thought that if that dog came running out, I’d have to start shooting. So I held steady, kept the apex of the rifle’s pointed sight centered directly on the sternum of the rider at the front of the line.

I looked over at Ben. He was watching me, and nodded.

I shifted my eyes back onto the rifle sight.

The last of them, at the rear of the foot soldiers, a lone horseman who was missing an arm from just below his left elbow, passed Griffin’s position.

At that moment, I suddenly became dizzy and cold. I ached everywhere, and realized my last sleep was two nights before, when we were on the train filled with mummified corpses. It was suddenly almost as though I didn’t even have enough strength to hold up the weight of my rifle.

I turned my head, saw Ben waving at me. He motioned it was time.

I lowered my gun and Ben’s signaling became more frantic. I knew he was wondering what I was waiting for. I saw Seth squatting against the rocky face of the ledge behind me. He was leaving.

“Seth,” I whispered.

His voice was just a breath, out of sync with his mouth. “No, Jack. No. I have to leave.”

It was because of the harvesters, I knew that.

And he disappeared.

Our pursuers were almost even with me and Ben. I sighted the first three of them down the barrel of my rifle. The one at the point rode a spotted white horse that wore a collar of human jawbones. It looked like he had black chaps covering his legs, but it was dozens of harvesters, just clinging to his naked skin in anticipation of some kind of reward, clicking their shells, buzzing their pale wings. Licking their chops. He was so close, I could smell him, shaved bald, his scalp patterned with zigzagging scars, each cheek pierced with black barbs that looked like cat whiskers. He was relaxed, balancing a crossbow with black-feathered arrows against his forearm, pointing upward from his crotch.

I could see his face clearly, and couldn’t help but wonder if I knew him, had passed him, maybe, one day on a run in the park or eating breakfast at the pancake place Conner and I considered our hangout in Glenbrook.

When I pulled the trigger, the spray of bullets nearly cut him in two. It splashed warm crimson bits of him like pudding across the bare bellies of the next two riders in line. They didn’t even have time to express shock. I shot them both in their faces, continued firing until the rifle’s magazine clicked empty, and the horses at the front collapsed in wheezing and agonized cries, blocking the advance, rolling their eyes back and spouting mists of blood from their enraged nostrils as the column of unsuspecting demons froze in their tracks and stared, gape-jawed in terror as line after line of those in front fell in flailing and shocked heaps of gore.

Then I heard the heavier, more solid concussion of Ben’s handguns firing while he carefully picked away at the ranks of Followers from the opposite side.

Panic.

Screams.

They’d never seen shit like this.

We were gods.

I ejected the magazine, reloaded.

Arrows came hissing their wind wakes over my head. A thrown hammer of some kind smashed into the granite rock face with enough force that I saw sparks fly at its impact. I stayed down, below the ridge, looked over at Ben as he calmly fired into the platoon. Already, one of the devils had scrambled up around Ben’s position. He was smeared wet, had a loop of one of his comrade’s intestines wrapped around his neck and armpits. It trailed away behind him to some indistinguishable spot lower on the mountain. He grasped a narrow pike with a barbed blade lashed to the end, and calmly raised it, pointing it down at Ben.

More arrows.

I heard another gun being fired: Griffin’s. The survivors were trying to double back.

Without aiming, I shot across the lancer standing above Ben, taking his legs out from under him. He tumbled down the jagged rocks, absurdly waving his scarf of entrails behind him and dropping his spear on the way. He landed beside Ben, spraying blood from his shattered legs. He rolled himself on top of the boy, clawed at Ben’s hair and back, slobbering with open mouth, trying to bite.

Ben grunted and rolled around beneath his attacker. He brought his .45 up into the thing’s armpit and fired twice. I could see the wheezing mist that spouted from the opposite side of him. Ben pushed the corpse away and turned back over onto his belly, shooting, as though nothing had so much as distracted him, into the panicked and decimated platoon.

I raised myself up and fired again, making wide sweeping paths across the soldiers as they attempted to turn back. Following a trail of retreat that gravity painted for them in flowing red, they ran headlong into Griffin’s ambush.

Standing now, Ben and I chased after the remaining devils.

Ben shot the last one in the back of the head, not ten feet from where the entire platoon had passed Griffin’s position just a few minutes before.

It fell, facedown.

Then silence.

We were completely unmarked, but Ben’s clothes were splattered all over with blood.

“They never seen shit like us,” Ben said. “Never.”

Griffin stood up, shoeless, his bare chest heaving in excitement, straining the fingers of his small ribs beneath his dusty skin, still holding guns in each of his hands, raised up above his head, and said, “Fuck yeah.”

A ribbon of glossy black began winding up the face of the mountains toward us from below.

The harvesters were already coming.

“We need to check them all,” I said. “There’s one I need to find.”

Conner.

Griffin and Ben holstered their guns.

“He has a mark on him like this.”

I crossed extended index fingers and overlapped my hooked thumbs.

“Small, almost looks like the shape of a fish. Right here.” I traced the mark just above my own crotch. “He’s the one that bit me yesterday. I need to find him if he’s here.”

Griffin eyed me skeptically. “He’s the one that you know his name.”

I bent forward and turned the last one Ben killed face up. “Yeah.”

“Okay, Jack. Okay,” Ben said, but I could hear his heavy sigh as I stepped away from them and began looking over the next of the dead. And he said, “Come on, Griffin. This won’t take more than a few minutes.”

Griffin sighed. “Fuck ’em.” Then he unbuttoned his fly, and started peeing on one of the bodies. Ben looked at the kid and shook his head, but Griffin argued, “Fuck ’em, Ben. This is for what they did to Henry, and all of us, too. Fuck ’em.” And his little dog came out from beneath the brush where he’d been hiding, sniffed at Griffin’s piss, and lifted a leg to celebrate on the same place.

“Good boy, Spot,” he said.

A gunshot.

I spun around and saw Griffin, his pants still hanging open, standing over one of the soldiers with his gun pointed down.

“This one was still alive,” he said. “And he’s not your boy, Jack.”