It took a moment for him to catch Bunny’s meaning. He grimaced. “Hell.”
“Yeah.”
Summer would bring soaring temperatures and increased water consumption. Many more families would have been exposed, if it had been summer. This was a tragedy, but in July? It would have been a disaster.
Top put the last of the water into the back and slammed the hatch. “All done,” he said. “We’ll get this home and hand it off to the techies, and then I’m going to take a long damn shower.”
“Do you think this was the only place?” Bunny asked. “No other leaks?”
Top looked toward the hospital, where even now Rudy and Circe were trying to make the locals understand that there would be no coming back from this. No miracle, no cure; no chance of survival. The bastards at the Dragon Factory had been too damn good at their jobs.
“I hope so,” he said. “I really fucking do.”
The Alabama sun shone down on a red-dirt town, and there was nothing else to say, and nothing else that could be done. Not for the living; not for the dying; not for the dead.
Mira Grant lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest, where her home overlooks a large swamp filled with frogs. Truly the best of all possible worlds. When not writing as herself, Mira writes under the name “Seanan McGuire” and releases a truly daunting number of books and stories during the average year. She regularly claims to be the vanguard of an invading race of alien plant people; any time spent with her will make this surprisingly credible. Mira shares her home with two enormous blue cats, a lizard, some very odd bugs, and an unnerving number of books about dead things. She loves horrible diseases and is not always a good dinner companion. Keep up with Mira at www.seananmcguire.com, or on Twitter @seananmcguire. Mira would very much like to show you what lurks behind the corn, but for some reason, the editors won’t let her.
BLACK WATER
BY WESTON OCHSE
“That could be you,” Wheatie said in my ear. “Joe Ledger. Teen heartthrob.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
Yet here I stood at Patton’s Pond, designated make-out spot for Baltimore high schoolers near and far. The only problem was I didn’t have a date. It was just me and Wheatie on stakeout.
“You know she’s hot,” Wheatie said.
And she absolutely was. But me being here had nothing to do with Susan Fraily. Instead, me being here had everything to do with Greg Monger — high school star quarterback and professional scumbag. Rumor had it that Greg liked to bring girls to this spot and force himself on them. I hated bullies, and rapists were the ultimate bullies, taking from someone something that they could never return. So when I’d heard Greg was bringing Susan here, I’d decided that maybe this time there should be some chaperoning. Problem was, they were just sitting in the front seat talking.
“Do you smell that?” Wheatie asked.
I did smell something… something chemical that tickled my nose. But I didn’t want to be distracted. Any second and the scheming rapist might make his move. I wanted to be ready when it happened. Still, I couldn’t help but ask, “What is it?”
“Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here.” Wheatie went over to the water’s edge. “Look here. See the foam? It looks like the water is black.”
“I can’t look. I’m busy.”
“No, Joe, I’m serious. You need to see this. Someone’s been messing with the water.”
I sighed. Wheatie just didn’t understand the concept of surveillance. “It’s a stakeout, Wheatie. I can’t look now.”
“Okay, Magnum, P.I. Just don’t come running to Wheatie when you drink this shit and your pecker falls off.”
I couldn’t stop my lips from curling into a smile. That was actually funny, so I glanced over at the water. “What do you think it is?”
“How am I supposed to know? I look like Mr. Wizard to you?”
The sound of a car engine turning over made me return to my vigil, but it was short-lived. Monger put his Trans Am in reverse, then pulled away, the crunch of gravel receding until he hit the main road. He hadn’t tried anything tonight, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try tomorrow night. And when he did I’d be ready.
The next morning was Saturday, so no school. The weather was still cold, but April was promising to be warmer than March. I spent three hours at the dojo working up a sweat, then went to Luskin’s and unloaded trucks for a few more hours. It didn’t pay much and the hours sucked, but it gave me enough cash to be free from my father.
After slamming a burger and fries, I met up with Wheatie. His discovery intrigued me. The Pond had always been an idyllic spot. When we were younger I’d fished from its banks. I never caught anything impressive, but it was the fishing that was important. Then when I was older and when Helen was still in my life, we’d swim there. Once we even went skinny-dipping, but I was too embarrassed to look at her and she was too embarrassed to look at me. Now, it was where we brought dates… scratch that… where other people my age brought dates. And it was cyclic. The young get older and go from fishing to kissing. I bet there were some eight- and nine-year-olds who wanted to fish there but couldn’t because of the pollution, and that pissed me off. So the question was, where did the pollution come from?
It was a chemistry lesson that gave me the idea to go to a swimming pool store and get a water test kit. During daylight, the water looked far worse than at night. Not only did it have a black color in places, but in others it had the telltale rainbow of gasoline, especially near the cattails. I decided to ignore the gasoline and go for the mysterious black water. I was forced to wade knee-deep out into the pond. I’d capped the plastic tube and was about to turn around to leave when I heard a voice.
“There he is, boys,” came a voice I knew and hated.
I spun. Where the hell was Wheatie when I needed him? He was supposed to be watching my back and now he was gone, leaving me to confront Monger, the right side of the offensive line, and the running back, Eric Mattis. The size of the two linemen with them was impressive. Each of them was at least two people. For all I knew, they probably ate their way out of their mothers, then ate their fathers. I supposed if I cared about football I’d know their names, but for now, I referred to them in my mind as Thing 1 and Thing 2.
“The Peeping Tom returned to the scene of the crime,” said Mattis, his voice girlish despite his twenty-one-inch neck — sort of like Mike Tyson on helium.
They’d arranged themselves in an arc at the edge of the water. I played out five different scenarios, in each one knocking them all down. I wasn’t scared because I knew I could take them, despite Thing 1 and Thing 2.
“I see you brought your sisters, Monger,” I said.
This turned all four of their faces red — the quarterback, the running back, and the two linemen.
I looked past them, hoping to see Wheatie, but no joy.
Thing 1 and Thing 2 had balled fists the size of softballs.
“Who you calling a sister?” Mattis asked in his girl’s voice.
That made me smile, which pissed him off royally. He lunged toward me, but Monger put a hand on his chest.
“He’s just trying to goad you into something.” Monger eyed the water. “You actually swimming in there? That shit will make your pecker fall off.”
“Since when did you care about my pecker?” I asked, remembering Wheatie had said much the same thing. I stepped forward and kept walking until I was at the water’s edge. As I approached, they backed away, allowing me to step onto the bank. My sneakers were wet and muddy and didn’t promise a lot of traction. I’d have to be careful.
“I saw you trying to sneak up on me last night,” Monger said. “I want to know why.”