11.2
The sun was blindingly bright after the dark tunnel. It struck diamond flares off the melting snow, dazzling my eyes. There was a smell of electricity in the air, and I could once again taste copper on my tongue; it was the same sensation that had greeted me on my way into the city.
It felt like a different world out here, in the sun, and none of it seemed real. All around me this bright, still city: nothing but plastic and cellophane, a dime-store mask hiding the true face of the world. And it was a dark face, underneath it all, distorted with disease and rot, with eyes closed and mouth wide open, leaking pure midnight ichor.
We walked back to the house in silence. Floyd spent the first couple of minutes shaking an empty pill bottle; then, as we crossed the bridge to North Spokane, he pulled his arm back and launched it out into the river. He moved with a slow, exaggerated grace. His eyes were unfocused, hidden beneath drooping lids.
“What do we do, Dean?” Charlie asked as we rounded the corner to our block. “Amanda and Mac just disappeared… into thin air. So what do we do now?” His voice was a quavering whisper. He seemed far less confident—less substantial—without his computer in front of him.
“I don’t know,” I said. “If you’ve got any bright ideas, feel free to chime in.” I couldn’t keep the annoyance out of my voice. This was just about the last thing I wanted to hear: people turning to me for answers.
“Where’s Taylor?” Sabine asked. “She’ll know. She always knows.” And somehow, this seemed a million times worse than Charlie’s question.
I shot Sabine a dirty look and headed straight for our front door.
There was water dripping from the eaves when I mounted the porch. The day was getting warmer, and the snow was transforming into slush. Before long, the streets would once again be bare. No more snowball fights, I thought, remembering Amanda and Mac playing in the backyard. The memory drove a cold spike through the middle of my stomach.
I continued up to the privacy of my room, shutting the door behind me.
I sat down on the futon mattress and dropped my head into my hands. I felt awful. I’d woken up in a rush of adrenaline—Mac pulling me out of Taylor’s bed—and I’d spent the whole morning so far jumping from one long adrenaline spike to another. Now that that ride was over, however, and the chemical rush was gone, a massive wave of sickness came flooding in, and suddenly I felt nauseated, hungover. My head was throbbing. My injured hand was on fire.
And Taylor wasn’t there for me, I remembered. The thought popped into my head unbidden, washed ashore on that wave of misery. She ran away in the middle of the night. She ran away… from me.
I gritted my teeth and lashed out, kicking the back of the folding chair. It skidded into the sewing table on the other side of the room and collapsed in a loud clatter, falling flat like a deflated lung.
I seethed for a full minute, gritting my teeth and clenching my hands. Then I got up and righted the chair.
After I calmed down, I settled into the futon and got a couple of hours of sleep. It was a restless sleep, tainted by pain and nausea. I don’t remember my dreams, but I’m sure they were bad. Dark tunnels and singing voices. Expressive eyes peering out from plaster and wood. And Taylor, always Taylor, retreating from my touch.
The light was still bright when I woke up, shining a midafternoon orange against my closed blinds. My head still ached, and my wounded hand felt hot and wet.
I slowly unwrapped my bandages, wincing at the change in pressure against my flesh. The smell hit me even before I was done: a gamy vinegar tang that turned my stomach. I opened the blinds and raised my hand into the light. The whole hand was swollen. There were red tendrils snaking up my forearm, fleeing the gray withered holes—crucifixion holes—one in my palm and two in the back of my hand.
My hand was infected. Badly infected—mutant wolf—infected. And I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
I needed antibiotics.
There were only two places I could think to go for help: the military, which would almost certainly get me kicked out of the city, if not arrested, or Mama Cass. And really, that wasn’t much of a choice. Still, I found myself conflicted. Taylor had made her dislike for Mama Cass perfectly clear.
But she can’t be worse than the alternative, I told myself: military scrutiny, expulsion, imprisonment. Besides, if Weasel’s any indication, Taylor’s not exactly the best judge of character.
I left my hand unwrapped, careful with the sensitive flesh as I shrugged into my jacket and tucked it away in my pocket. Then I slung my backpack over my shoulder and fled the room, quickly making my way down the stairs and out the front door.
Sabine called after me from the kitchen: “Dean! Where are you going?” There was surprise and concern in her voice, but it was cut short as I slammed the door shut behind me.
It was about four o’clock when I reached the restaurant, and the sun was almost gone. There were a half dozen people crowded around the entrance and another twenty inside, seated at the mismatched tables. I didn’t recognize any of the customers, but some of them must have recognized me… and remembered my camera. As soon as I entered, a ripple of whispers spread throughout the crowd, and a large number turned my way, fixing me with wary, suspicious eyes. One woman got up from her seat and started edging back toward a side entrance. Her movements—nervous, with shifty-short glances back and forth—made her look like a tiny bird ready to take flight. I nodded in her direction, and that set her off. She flashed me a startled grimace and ducked out through the door.
I stopped a waiter carrying a pair of ham sandwiches. He was bearded and burly, and his hair was tied back in a greasy ponytail. There was dirt smeared across his forehead, and a splatter of mustard dotted his flannel shirt. The impression as a whole was rather unsanitary. As soon as I got his attention, I asked after Mama Cass.
“What do you want her for?” he asked, gruff and impatient. His eyes roamed about the room as we talked, checking on each table in turn.
“Just tell her there’s something I need.”
The waiter let out a sly, knowing smile. Apparently, this was a familiar conversation. “Yeah, yeah. I got it, I know… there’s always stuff we need.” He delivered his sandwiches, then disappeared into the back room.
Mama Cass stepped through the door a couple of minutes later. She glanced around the room, spotted me, and summoned me back with a wave of her hand.
A burst of steam hit me in the face as soon as I opened the kitchen door, greeting me with the spicy scent of pepper and simmering tomato sauce. It was a good-size kitchen, but it was mostly deserted. The central work space was lit up bright with gas lanterns, but the periphery of the room remained dark and empty. A breeze flowed in through open windows along the back wall, cutting through the steam and spice with a damp, earthy chill.
There were bins of fresh vegetables stacked three deep in front of an unplugged industrial-size refrigerator, and a coffin-size footlocker blocked the rear entrance. The locker stood open, and I could see snow and ice packed around containers of store-bought meat. Mixed in with the ground beef and cuts of chicken and steak, I could see at least a dozen prepackaged Hormel hams. Hand-smoked, my ass, I thought. There were three people working back here: the burly waiter, assembling sandwiches at a side table; a heavily tattooed girl, stirring pasta sauce on a camp stove; and a rail-thin old man, sweating over a generator-powered griddle.