Villain (Gone 8)

Shade steeled herself.

One . . . two . . . three . . . Cruz counted off seconds, expecting to be hit with the brutal agony she’d experienced earlier. But nothing. Four . . . five . . . six . . .

“Shhhh shhhh ah ah ahahahah aaaarrrrrgghh!” Shade screamed suddenly. “No, no, nonononono! No! No! No!” Her screams bounced around inside the car, deafening. She scrabbled madly at the door with hands she could not control, nothing but escape on a mind reduced instantaneously to an animal state.

Then Shade sagged and fell silent but for gasping breaths.

For a long while no one had anything to say. Sweat poured down Shade’s face, joining bitter tears. Finally Shade pulled back out into traffic.

“Where are we going?” Cruz asked.

Shade jerked her chin forward. “That way.”

They drove toward the mountains, toward the great dry mountains, toward the desert, away from people, away from the Port of Los Angeles, away, away, but never away from the one person Shade most wanted to leave: herself.

And yet, buried as she was under a mountain of guilt, shattered as she was by the pain Malik had again revealed to her, nevertheless, deep down in the lowest depths of her mind, the shark began to move, somehow liberated by the pain, as if it was penance. There was no other way forward. Malik was not in a state of mind to make decisions. And Cruz? Well, Shade thought, Cruz had been amazing, but only in a support role. Cruz was not willing to take responsibility. She was not willing to lead. Only the shark could lead them now.

Because I’ve done such a great job so far.

They were three fugitives on the run from the entire US government, and possibly one or more mutant monsters. None could go home. None had a family anymore; they were beyond all of that. They were no longer daughters and son, they were no longer children at all, no longer anything they had meant to become. Monsters, the three of them. Monsters who had meant to be heroes.

“Cruz,” Shade said. “I’m taking this turnoff to Desert Hot Springs. Google houses for sale. Find us one that’s been empty for a while, at least two weeks.”

Desert Hot Springs, like every Mojave Desert town, was flat and sparse. Few if any buildings extended above a single story. Houses were all ranch-style; businesses were marked with indifferent, sun-bleached signs. They drove past developments of gated trailer parks, gas stations, modest family restaurants, always heading toward dry mountain ridges that never seemed to get any closer.

Cruz found a house listed for sale, and they drove there. It was not in a gated development but stood somewhat forlorn, well off the main road, a single shaggy palm tree standing guard over a yard otherwise devoid of vegetation.

Shade pulled past and parked a quarter mile away. “Excuse me,” she said, morphed, and ran. Thirty seconds later she was back. “Totally empty. I got in through a back window. We can hide the car in the garage.”

Inside, the house was clean and completely empty, and smelled of carpet cleaner and fresh paint. But the water was still on. The water heater was not, but there was no such thing as really cold water in this part of the world. Cruz practically ran for the shower and stood for half an hour beneath a lukewarm stream, wishing the water could flow through her mind, cleaning away memory and self-doubt, anger and fear, leaving her as clean inside as out. When she was done she dressed in her old clothes, there being no towels.

Shade glanced up as Cruz reappeared. “I need a store. A big one. There’s a Target, but it’s a bit far, so I’ll drive there rather than run. Back in an hour.”

Malik and Cruz sat on freshly vacuumed beige carpet and leaned their backs against beige walls. The electricity was still working, and Cruz turned on the air-conditioning. She found an old red plastic Solo cup in the back of a cupboard, rinsed it out, and brought a glass of water to Malik, who gratefully gulped it all down.

“Shade will figure something out,” Cruz said, wincing as she realized how weak that sounded.

“Yes,” Malik said. But he wasn’t listening. Not to Cruz, anyway.

“Watchers?” she asked.

Malik nodded slowly, eyes fixed on nothing. “It’s like . . . like . . . like being touched. Molested. Inside your head. I feel them in there. They’re pushing into places . . . memories . . .” He shook his head. “I guess you already know all that. When I resist them, they laugh at me.” He tapped the side of his head. “In here. It’s like I have other people inside my brain, Cruz, like . . .” Tears came again, bitter, helpless. Defeated.

The agony of his burned body, or the agony of a mind invaded. Those were Malik’s choices now. He could see it all clearly: pain or madness. Because in the end, Malik knew, the Dark Watchers would defeat him. They were tireless and relentless, dark tendrils reaching inside him, through him, treating him like some sort of video library where they could just punch up his memories and watch them play out like his short life was a biopic.

“Malik,” Cruz said softly. “Maybe this is stupid . . .”

No answer.

“Maybe it’s nuts, but . . . but if they can watch you, maybe it goes both ways. You know? Maybe you can learn about them.”

She was rewarded by a narrowing of Malik’s eyes, the first familiar thing he’d done since the hospital.

“Maybe,” he said, but shaking his head no.

And a minute later, “Maybe.” And this time he did not shake his head.

Shade reappeared, heralded by the sound of the car pulling into the garage. She had sleeping bags and prescription painkillers, whose sudden absence from the shelves following what felt like a burst of wind would baffle the pharmacist. And she had food, orange juice, and a bottle of vodka.