Phoenix (19 page)

Brad was glad his friend’s OCD frequently
overrode everything else.

While Mort continued to watch Brad from a
distance, worrying more about his carpet than piecing together the
puzzle of Brad’s lost night, Brad focused on the Henderson’s and
tried to hide what he’d already figured out. The agent had
manipulated him. How could he have been so stupid? Brad had stood
here, in this house, and argued with Mort over Sean Boucher’s fate.
Cut
off
the
head
, he had said. Then he
found where the old man had been hiding and discovered the note.
It’d been a message specifically for him, confirming what he should
do. He’d been played.

Cut
off
the
head
.

But why would the agent want his boss
dead?

"It is possible to put a cloak over someone
else?" Brad whispered.

"Yes, if you’re powerful enough."

"Would it have…side effects?"

Mort crept up behind Brad. "Like amnesia?
Probably."

Brad swallowed. "We can assume he put the
cloak on me, then."

"That sounds right. But it doesn’t make sense
to me why he
would
. What purpose would it serve? And to fix
it so the cloak dissolved once you broke through the gap in your
memory?"

"I don’t know," Brad breathed.
Sonofabitch
used
me
. "We haven’t done anything
I’d need to be invisible for."
Can’t
tell
him
I
killed
Boucher
.
Can’t
tell
him
I
was
used
as
the
weapon
. "I think we have bigger things to worry about
now."

Mort lifted a shaggy eyebrow, surprised his
friend was lying to him so boldly. He’d put away his power and
wasn’t reading anything, but he’d known Brad for too many years not
to know when the young man was being dishonest. "Yes, we do." He
placed a hand on Brad’s back. "Come on. Let’s work up an inventory
of our supplies until the others wake up. Then we’ll decide our
next move."

Brad grunted and let Mort lead him to the
pantry.

* * *

Izzy was the first to make it downstairs. The
other two were up and moving as was made apparent by the stomping
coming from the ceiling and the sounds of running water from the
upstairs bathroom. The two men were crammed in the pantry, Mort
ticking off descriptions and numbers and Brad writing them
down.

"Chicken noodle soup, six."

"Got it."

"Beef bouillon cubes, one jar, looks like
about twenty left."

"Twenty cubes in the jar?"

"Yeah."

"I’m not eating those."

"Brad, you don’t eat the
cubes
—"

"Good morning." Izzy said as she passed. She
filled the teapot from the faucet and carried it to the stove.
While the water heated, she rummaged through the cupboards looking
for tea bags.

Mort shoved Brad aside and leaned until he
could see what was making all the noise in his kitchen. Upon seeing
the mess she was making, he growled and snatched something off a
shelf behind him. "Here. Give these to her and tell her to stop
moving my spices and those powdered soup packets better be put—No.
I’ll do it myself."

Brad chuckled and they both squeezed out of
the pantry.

"Izzy," Mort barked.

She whirled around with her arms elbow-deep
in a cabinet.

"Here." Mort pulled her arms from his
cupboard and shoved the teabags at her, then he flapped his hands,
"Go. Just—" He grumbled and focused on realigning all the spices
and organizing the dry soups in alphabetical order.

Brad sighed and said to Izzy, "You really
think you need all that caffeine?"

"What do you mean? I love tea, it calms me
and it really helps wake me up in the morning, I don’t just drink
it in the mornings, though; I like a cup in the afternoon too,
sometimes at night before I go to bed—"

Brad smiled and held his hands up. "Okay,
okay, I got it. You, uh…knock yourself out." He turned back to the
pantry.

"I had a dream last night. Did you?" she
asked.

Brad stopped halfway across the floor and
Mort’s head popped out of the spice cabinet.

"I…think I tried to have a dream," Brad
answered. "But they’re getting all muddled. It’s like seeing things
through a fog." He stepped closer to her. "Was
yours
muddled?"

"No." The teapot started to whistle, so Izzy
turned off the burner and poured herself a cup. "Well, yes, it was
a little fuzzy, but nothing like yours. I could still understand
mine." She bobbed the tea bag up and down in the cup while she
spoke. "The interference is getting worse and I think I know why.
Saw it last night."

"What is it?" Mort pressed.

Izzy turned her face to the kitchen window.
"It’s the dead." She wiggled her fingers next to her head. "They’re
mucking things up. I still can’t see things happening soon, like
tomorrow, or next week, so I think PhoenTek is still blocking us.
But this looks different. We’re getting hit from another side, and
it’s them." She pointed outside.

"She’s right." Adams walked in rubbing his
eyes and went straight to the coffeepot.

Brad looked to Mort for confirmation and saw
his mentor was already looking into it.

Mort’s eyes were unfocused and the muscles of
his face went slack. Mort tried to picture some folks who he’d
known in town, bringing up mental images of them. He tapped his pen
and waited for emotional wisps of smoke to coalesce around them,
but it didn’t happen. Then, as he watched, those same images began
to fade. They turned grainy, then disappeared. He blinked, stuck
his pen back in his shirt pocket, and shook his head.

"Does Laura feel the same way?" Brad
asked.

Adams answered, "Yes."

Brad felt a blanket of something ugly fall
over the room. Izzy and Adams leaned against the counter, sipping
at their cups, and said nothing more. As far as he was concerned,
Brad had noticed a difference in his dreams, but it had happened
suddenly and he’d assumed it had something to do with seeing the
dead all around him, all the time. Brad had noticed the biggest
difference in his danger radar. It hardly worked, as was evident
during the trip to rescue Izzy.

"I need to make some phone calls," Mort
whispered and immediately left for his room.

"Alright." Brad looked at Izzy to see if she
had anything to add. She didn’t. "Okay. Alright." He turned his
back and started pacing the kitchen. "Let’s just, uh…let’s just
focus on sticking together. We need to figure out what we’re going
to do next."

"I’d say not getting eaten by dead people
would be a start."

Brad jabbed a finger at Adams and made a move
toward him. "You’re a real smart ass."

"Guys,
please
," Izzy cut in. "Some of
us still have family out there, okay? If you want to continue this
pissing contest, take it outside."

Adams shot Brad a look, then refilled Izzy’s
cup, and murmured his apologies. "You can ask me about them. It’s
okay. Unless you don’t want to know, that is."

"No, I do." Izzy glanced at Brad, but he’d
returned to the pantry. She lifted her eyes to Adams and asked, "Is
my grandfather still alive?"

"Yes."

She smiled and sighed so hard she wilted
against the counter. "Good. Thank you."

Adams nodded and raised his cup. "Yep."

Inside the pantry, Brad braced himself in the
corner and lowered his head. He took a deep breath and began the
process of clearing his mind and bringing up his internal radar. If
he could force it, fight through it like Adams had back on campus,
maybe he could figure out how far away the danger was and how long
they had to get ready.

An hour later the kitchen was empty, Mort
watched from the pantry entrance, and Brad was still trying.

"What are you doing?"

"Doesn’t matter. It didn’t work." Brad shoved
away from the corner and went to Mort. "What did you find out?"

Mort curled a finger and left the room. They
wound up outside on the sidewalk with the rest of the group.
Laura’s hair was still wet from showering earlier. Everyone was
turned in the direction of town, staring in silence. Brad stood in
the back next to Mort and listened. He strained his ears, waiting
to hear gunfire, screams, bombs, something. The air was perfectly
still, but far off in the background, he could just catch a droning
noise.

What
the
hell
is
that
?

Brad’s radar sprang up, but it was shorting
out like crazy and green blips were dancing all over the screen.
The droning continued, rising and falling, sometimes sounding like
a small motor, and other times breaking up like the cry of a
wounded animal.

Brad gasped. He’d heard this before, in a
dream. "What
is
that?"

"I’ll give you a hint," Mort answered. "He
rides a pale horse."

"Everyone inside. Now." Mort pushed the group
back to the porch. "C’mon, let’s move, people." He didn’t shout or
even raise his voice with them. All he needed to do was use that
tone Brad was so familiar with, and the others didn’t need to be
told twice.

Brad brought up the rear and kept looking
over his shoulder. His physical eyes showed him nothing but a quiet
little neighborhood.

"Brad, lock that." Mort turned from him and
started barking orders. "Laura, take Izzy upstairs. Make sure
windows are shut, curtains and shades drawn, and lights out." He
emphasized by repeatedly pointing at the stairs. "Adams, you and
Brad do the same thing down here, and move this furniture," he
indicated the couch and chair in the living room, "against the
front and back doors. Do it now."

Brad flipped the deadbolt and hurried to help
Adams move the couch. He saw Mort head for the basement door. "Hey,
what are you doing?"

"Get to work!" Mort yelled back and
disappeared downstairs.

"We need to get out of here." Adams helped
Brad push the couch in front of the door.

"I don’t think we have time," Brad
replied.

They split up and moved from room to room,
checking windows and pulling curtains. Brad listened to feet moving
across the floor above him, then a stampede as the two women jogged
down the steps. Brad and Adams finished shoving the recliner
against the kitchen door. Mort popped up from the basement with a
shotgun in each hand and tossed one to Adams. He caught it and
promptly checked if it was loaded.

"Hey," Brad started.

Mort quieted him. "You don’t know how to use
that. Get the others upstairs and keep them in your room. It’s
closest to the center of the house. Keep them quiet and don’t move
around."

Brad would have argued, but Mort was already
moving Adams to the living room. Brad followed, said a few words to
Laura, and went upstairs. He stopped at the top of the staircase
and shared a look with his mentor. Mort gave him a firm nod and
motioned for him to go.

Once they were alone, the older man turned to
Adams. "Stay here by the window where you can see, but stay out of
sight." He showed Adams what he meant by leaning against the wall
next to the living room window and peeking around the edge of the
curtain. "Stay quiet, don’t make a sound. No matter what you see.
Understand?"

Adams switched places with Mort and situated
himself. "Yes."

"And
don’t
use that," Mort pointed at
the shotgun, "unless someone physically breaks that window and
tries to get inside."

Adams nodded and Mort hurried through the
dining room, taking a position in the kitchen. From that spot he
could watch the back door and dining room windows.

Outside, someone screamed.

* * *

"Was that—"

"Sshh!" Brad silenced Izzy and pushed down on
her shoulders, keeping her from jumping up from the floor and
investigating the noise outside. "Just do what Mort said,
okay?"

Izzy shot him a look but remained quiet.

Brad crawled on hands and knees to the
bedroom window. He held up a hand to reassure them, urging them to
stay put, then sat down with his back to the wall where he could
peer between the curtain and the windowsill. He couldn’t see
anything yet. The scream had sounded faint. Its owner was still
apparently too far away to be visible.

Laura leaned in and mumbled, "Hey, we can’t
stay here."

"We have to. Just try to stay calm," Izzy
whispered back. Her composure was back now that someone else needed
her. "Lock it down if you have to."

Laura pressed her lips together. "Yeah." She
closed her eyes and everything outside the house flooded into her
brain. The image was blotchy, but the part of her that had leaked
out was standing in the middle of the street. People ran past her.
Other areas were blacked out. Her physical body jerked and Izzy
grabbed her hand. Laura’s body trembled. She pulled on that part of
herself that lingered outside on the street and gasped as a shrill
whine followed her and filled her ears. The interference was
stopping her from merging her two halves. She was stuck outside and
inside, seeing and hearing the horrific scene play out.

Brad snapped his fingers, and when they
looked over, he held a finger to his lips and pointed outside.
Laura squeezed Izzy’s hands and braced herself.

On the street, a Ford Focus raced by. Then an
old 90’s model Cavalier. Brad’s abdominal muscles were clenched
tight, waiting for whatever was coming next. He’d given up on his
radar; it glitched and blipped and shorted out too much.

Laura groaned and held her head. Izzy
whispered a few words to her.

A small pickup zipped past. The bed was
loaded with people. Half were holding on for dear life, the other
half were staring behind them. Traffic increased. It wasn’t
bumper-to-bumper, but a steady stream of vehicles finally clogged
the street. Brad noticed most of the passengers were twisted around
in their seats to watch the way they’d come.