S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND: Season Two Omnibus (Episodes 9-11) (124 page)

The girl stepped up to her, stopping only a few feet away. Slowly she raised her face, and her eyes were as black as night, while her skin was as pale as the sky in winter. Was she offering herself to be the first?

Jessie looked over the girl's head and out over the sea of dead faces. Boys and girls, all of them long dead. All of them long since forgotten, left to rot in a place that would never let them rot away.

She was crying, not just for herself, but for all of them who couldn't cry for themselves.

She lifted her hand and wasn't surprised to find her sword in it. She raised it up until the gleaming steel tip pierced the blue sky above her and the black poison spread from there and over the world. She brought the gleaming metal down.

The girl's head came off clean, and through the gap came a shriek so shrill that it pierced her soul. It was of no earthly voice. It was no voice at all. And yet, in it Jessie heard the girl's cries, not of gratitude or relief, but of hatred:

You killed me! You killed me!

Hordes of spiders erupted from her skull, pouring out of every opening, scurrying away over Jessie's feet. The skull shriveled as the tiny creatures fled; it shrunk until it winked out of existence. The body collapsed into dust, leaving nothing but a few cobwebs. And the rabbit hopped away.

Jessie was horrified. And there were still ten thousand more to go.

A hundred thousand.

Millions.

How could she kill them all? How could she free them?

One by one, that's how.

She lifted her sword again.

* * *

Jessie recognized the room as soon as she opened her eyes. The angle and quality of light slanting in through the window were different than before. It was fall now instead of summer, and the furnishings had been moved around, but it was the same room. The same pillow. The same bed as before.

How did she get to Brookhaven? And who was caring for her?

As far as she knew, all of Father Heale's people had been killed or fled. And with him slain too, there was no reason for any of them to stay. He had been their sole reason. He had kept them alive. His death was their death.

There was a needle in her arm and it was connected to a clear tube which was connected to a bag on the stand above her head. The liquid was thin and colorless, dripping rapidly. Lactated Ringers solution. The same stuff the Coalition had been pumping into Micah when she found him unconscious in LaGuardia. The bag was almost empty.

A second bag, already drained, hung from the same hook. Both had expiration dates which had passed more than ten years ago.

She peeled the tape away and pulled the catheter out, mesmerized for a moment by the drop of blood that bubbled out. She placed a thumb over the tiny hole, then stuck it in her mouth. Her stomach gurgled. She was starving.

The needle slipped over the side of the bed and drained the rest of the bag onto the floor.

How did she get here?

Who brought her?

The questions kept repeating in her mind.

Why was she even still alive?

She sat up and saw her clothes folded on the same chair as before, her shoes underneath. They'd been washed.

How long had she been out?

She raised her arms and realized that she, too, had been bathed. Her skin smelled faintly of homemade soap, as did her hair.

Was it Rosie? Was she secretly one of Heale's people?

Or was she caring for Jessie only to return her to Gameland so she could collect her bounty?

With a sense of dread, Jessie lifted the bed sheet from her body, expecting to see another tube between her legs, but there was none. Nor was she naked. Someone had taken the time and care to dress her in comfortable pants and a matching shirt. Pajamas.
Pink
pajamas. They were well worn, but clean.

She sighed and shook her head, then laid it back onto the pillow.

Who brought her here? Where were they now? What did they plan for her?

Instinctively, she reached up to touch the back of her neck, but she found no bandage there, either. This was both relief and disappointment.

Why am I here?

The bedroom door would be locked, of course, so it wasn't even worth getting up and trying.

She did anyway.

The knob turned without resistance and the latch released. The door popped open.

She stuck her head out into the hallway, which was unlit, gloomy. The floor runner was torn and folded back at the top of the stairs, stained with old blood. The place had always looked neglected, but unlike her previous visit, it now seemed utterly abandoned.

She slipped down the stairs, unconsciously avoiding the two steps that creaked. Through the tiny window in the front door, she could see that the day was coming to an end. Golden light glittered through the trees.

Down the hall she crept, as if on cat's toes. To the kitchen.

Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, mold growing on them. A half slice of petrified toast sat on the counter, no plate to hold it. Mice had eaten most of it away.

The basement door was locked, but the keys were still hanging on the hook inside the storage closet across the hall. She noticed that the supplies had been plundered. Most of the chemicals they'd stocked to prepare Heale's blood for injection were scattered about the floor, the eviscerated bottles spilling out their contents.

She found a candle and lit it, then unlocked the basement and went down.

The air smelled sweet, a hint of old wine and an undertone of decay. She expected more of the latter. After almost three weeks, her grandfather's body should be a putrefying mess. But the smell didn't grow any stronger the deeper she went, and by the time the table came into view she already knew she wouldn't find what she'd come all this way for.

The body was gone. The blood where her grandfather had bled out was also missing. Someone had cleaned up.

A teacup sat in the middle of the table, though not the one Father Heale had used. That one had shattered. The scene appeared staged, like someone was expecting him to return. Jessie snatched it up and hurled it against the far wall with a cry of anger. It just wasn't fair! She'd come all this way, risked everything, and it was for nothing. The Link was gone.

Micah had been right. She'd wasted her time, risked her life, all on a hope. She didn't even have her own Link anymore.

She wanted to storm out of there, up the stairs and out of the house. She wanted to go home. She was ready to give up. She couldn't take this anymore.

The candle in her hand flickered, came dangerously close to extinguishing. She cupped her hand around the flame and prayed for it not to go out. There was something about the crushing darkness surrounding her, something overpoweringly terrifying. She couldn't imagine being stuck down here all alone. To just disappear in this godforsaken house in this godforsaken place.

Slowly, she made her way back upstairs. The darkness there was deeper than she'd left it, the silence heavier. She stopped and listened, but there were not even the usual creaks of the walls settling. All was still.

She returned to her room and searched through the drawers and closet. She did the same in each of the other rooms and found them all empty. The last, Brother Walter's, was locked.

She used the keys and opened the door.

The lantern on the desk was still lit, the chair before it empty. Across the room, the bed clothes were rumpled. A short bed. A child's bed. Empty.

Brother Walter wasn't there.

She went to the desk. The objects on it reminded her of Doctor White's office: a cup holding an assortment of pens from places that no longer existed, an old telephone, a stapler. One by one, she pulled the drawers open and checked inside. She had no idea what she was looking for.

The contents of the bottom drawer were bathed in inky shadow, forcing her to bend down and angle the candle in order to see. Something shiny reflected the light. It was black and rectangular. Wax dripped onto her hand, and she flinched, hissing in pain, and dropped the candle.

Behind her, the door handle jiggled. A key slipped into the lock and turned.

She shut the drawer, then spun around to face whoever it was.

Brother Walter didn't seem at all surprised to see her. The scowl on his face remained unchanged.

The only reaction he gave was to raise the pistol in his hand to her chest.

“You're awake,” was all he said.

 

Brother Walter quietly shut the door behind him and locked it.

“You should be resting,” he quietly told her. “You're not ready to be up and about yet.”

He crossed the room and sat down on the bed, still holding the gun. He didn't say anything more, just sat there looking at her, the large eyes in his oversized head glinting from the dim yellow light of the lantern. His hands were similarly too big for his body. He was not an attractive man to look at, and yet Jessie found it impossible to look away.

“Please leave the keys on the desk and return to your room.”

“How did I get here?” she asked, not moving.

“We'll talk in the morning. I brought you some dinner. It's not much, but I couldn't risk using the generator.”

“Not in the morning. I want answers now.” She pulled the chair out and sat down.

“I carried you from the highway.”

“That was you?” She frowned. “The child? I'm sorry.” She looked away, embarrassed for him, that she'd thought he was one of the young Infected.

But if he was insulted, he didn't show it. “You were lucky,” he said quietly. “Unlike the others. The Children were hungry.”

“Some of them got away. They're heading here now.”

He shook his head. “They went to the Church. They're still there, waiting. I've been watching them for the past two days.”

“Two days?”

“You were severely dehydrated. I think you also suffered a concussion. I couldn't do anything about that but hope the swelling receded. It appears to have done so.”

“I was out for two days?”

His face remained impassive— as impassive as one with as much character as his could be. He showed no change in emotion at all. Jessie wondered if all men became so stoic as they aged. Her grandfather had been a master at hiding his thoughts and emotions too, and Eric was well on his way to becoming just like him.

“Did you know we were coming?”

“No.”

“Then it was just pure dumb luck that you happened to be there, on that road two, three miles from here? Seems like quite the coincidence.”

“Who are those other people? Why were you hiding from them? Why are they looking for you?”

“They want to kill me.”

“Why?”

“I don't know! Ask Arc.”

He frowned.

“It's for their stupid game. I thought I'd be safe outside of the arcade, but they followed me out. They mean to take me back inside to do it. This was the only place could think to come.”

“That's the only reason you came here?” He clearly didn't believe her.

But she wasn't ready to tell him everything. She didn't know if she could trust him yet.

“Is it just you now?” she asked. “Where's Sister Jane?”

“Gone. All of them. Brother Ezekiel. Walter and Matthew.” His voice quieted. “And Julia.”

Jessie nodded, choking back a sob. “I know. I was . . . . I was there. She hoped to leave with us, but she . . . . She died.”

Brother Walter sighed. It was the first such display of anything but annoyance. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and in that motion Jessie realized the girl had meant something to him. They had been a family here, and she had torn them apart by coming.

“The rest of the flock have scattered,” he told her. “It's only a matter of time before their last treatment cannot fight off the infection and they turn.”

“But you didn't go. You stayed behind. Why?”

“I had—”

The telephone on the desk rang, a low jangle that made Jessie jump. She stared at it for a moment, as if expecting it to attack her. Brother Walter stood up. He still held the gun, but it was pointed at the floor by his side. “You should return to your room.”

The phone rang again. Jessie reached for the handset.

It took Brother Walter only a moment to cross the space between them, faster than she would've expected. He swatted her hand away.

It rang a third time.

“Aren't you going to get that?”

She tried to reach around him again, but he stopped her. Then he picked the receiver up and waved her away. Jessie didn't move.

“Hello?”

She couldn't make out the other speaker's words, but she could tell that it was a male.

“No, she's awake.” He glanced at her, then turned his back, as if that would prevent her from hearing. “No, I haven't had a chance. She just woke. I see.” There was a long pause as he listened. Then: “Can it be stopped?”

There was another long explanation.

Finally, Brother Walter exhaled and shook his head. “Yes, I understand.”

He hung up the phone.

“Who was that?”

“An . . . ally.”

“Another brother? Where was he calling from? Can what be stopped?”

He shook his head. “I need to know why you came back.”

She thought about whether she could trust him. After all, he had rescued her. But she needed to know why. “You need to answer my questions, too,” she said.

“After you eat and rest.”

“There's no time. Please, Brother Walter. Arc wants me dead. That's what the other people were doing. They were hunting me down. Arc is paying them to kill me.”

He looked startled for the first time.

She stood up. “What church did they go to?”

“Where Father Heale conducted his experiments, his laboratory. We knew Arc found it after he died. The people you were following have been watching it. I suppose they expected you to show up there.”