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Friday, 10 March 2006

Chapter Two

He smelled the thing before he saw it. As it neared the windowsill, Zander caught a whiff of mouldy rot as the wind swept past his head.

Death had come calling...

His eyes were tearing now, making it difficult to see. Gritty dirt swirled in anticipation of its master’s coming, nearly blinding Zander with the swiftness of its strike.

And the wind was being mastered. Weather as foul as the Thing that drove it. The storm, the clouds; the wind tearing at his hair, the dirt in his eyes—they were all part of this. Zander’s twenty-first century self wanted to deny it, to tell himself this was just a bad trip—another reaction to the medication. But some part of him, that had roots in a time long past, warned him that he wasn’t going to get off that easily. The stench, the scrape and scratch of claws, the fetid breath—they were real. Marks. Signs. Indicators. Things his body knew well—and his body was already reacting to centuries of conditioning.

The creature was bringing the bad with it. Using it. The chilling gusts were whipping into a whirlwind now, and Zander was being slapped, pummelled, torn by its force.

Take him off-guard and take him out...

That was the plan. Blind him, render him impotent, render him dead.

I need to see it.

In that instant, he regretted killing the light. He felt like a fool. Now, he had no idea what he was facing.

What’s not as important as where...

No. No light. If he’d stood here, highlighted in the glow, he’d be dead already. He shivered, and took a step back.

Suddenly, he recalled the glitter of his blood in the dark and the horror that had filled him at the sight. Time to wonder later—right now, it could be used. He ripped back the bandaging on his arm and tore at the clamp. Blood poured down his arm, and it was just as he remembered...

He gulped and nearly gagged.

But somewhere, in the dark, he heard a gasp of anticipation. The thing had seen it—smelled it.

And it couldn’t wait.

The beast’s charge came out of a cloud—just one more movement in the swirling mist. Zander used it, letting himself be toppled backwards, then smearing his opponent with blood from his arm. It sickened him to see how well it worked—how the creature snapped and licked at the stuff now coating its face.

It was a face that belonged on a rooftop. A distorted visage with a giant head and a bat-like curl of lips and nose. It was all Zander could see before the long tongue snapped out, and lapped the blood delightedly from the face.

He’d had no trouble seeing the blood-drenched teeth or misshapen scalp.

It had the hairy shape of a near-human form. Genetic accident? Hunchbacked human? The pity had barely formed when it was wiped by a spiky slash from a well-hooked tail.

Zander dove to one side, his heart pounding. Not human. Not canine. Not like anything he’d ever seen before. He was shaking in terror now, his senses quickening.

There was a grunt and snuffle and rapid shuffle. The beast was eager—now that it had tasted him. But things were a little different this time round—because now Zander could see where it crouched.

The last of his logic vanished with the first slice from a sharp-tined claw.

A weapon...

His hand snatched his dinner tray from the floor, to use as a shield.

The beast laughed—a cackling rattle that shook its body and made those glints of Zander’s blood jiggle in the darkness. Of all the sounds that had terrified Zander this night—the lashing wind, the scrabbling of claws—that laughter frightened him the most. For this wasn’t a hyena’s mindless mirth, or the parroting action of a trained bird—it was amusement, cold and simple.

The feeling of cold—that chilling purpose—was coming back to haunt him. There was a tingling in his head, and for a moment, Zander thought he was going to pass out. It was a buzzing, and an ache, much as he’d experienced the night before. He gripped his forehead and fought to stay alert, but he knew he was out of control. He snarled, and felt the ache centre behind his eyes.

The beast’s laughter stopped abruptly, but Zander was scarcely aware of it. He reached for the bed, to steady himself, and fell to the floor, as the bed jerked away.

What the hell?!

The monster pounced, claws first, and Zander threw up his hands to shield his face. The creature was jettisoned backwards, while Zander did his own backwards slam, to ram his head against the linoleum.

Repulsion, he thought, dazed. I’m repulsive...

The beast was circling him again now, awaiting its chance.

Zander didn’t give it one. He rolled onto his stomach, then crept forward, advancing on his opponent, hand outstretched. He was hit with cloud and rain and ripping wind as the beast fought his advance. Zander was thudded into the wall, the wardrobe, the mirror, but he didn’t let it sway him. He came at the beast again.

But the creature still had some tricks—some weather wiles to manipulate. Zander gasped and choked as a spearpoint of wind tore down his throat.

Can’t breathe...

His world was fading when another figure came lunging through the dark. It dove at the misshapen beast and knocked it to one side. As the creature reacted, in its own burst of adrenaline, a dark wind caught both Zander and his saviour, and tossed them head over heels into the wall.

Quist...

Zander stretched out a hand to his friend, then yanked it back in a panic. The force was still with him—he could feel it. There would be no rest until the shape, the stench, the horror, was gone. Something had happened inside him—and it had triggered his reaction. He was no more in control now than he’d been moments before. The buzzing was building again, throbbing at his temples.

And the beast was heading towards Quist now—payback for that attack. Zander braced himself against the built-in wardrobe, then lifted his arm once more. In a voice he didn’t recognise as his own, he bellowed, "Be gone!"

At the end of his arm he could feel the dense weight of the intruder’s mass, as it was pitched backwards against the window hole. Backwards and out, into the night beyond.

The storm went with it, in a horrifying vacuum-like jettisoning that took half the room. Lamps, newspapers, books, sheets, food, trays, blankets, IV stand, monitors, clothing were swept from the floor and tossed out, into the night. Anything that had been scattered across the room, anything loose, anything not secured to the wall was set in motion.

Zander was flipped forward, onto the bed. The wheeled bed rolled toward the gap, its mattress sliding forward, inexorably, toward the space beyond.

Three storeys! Zander fought for purchase.

The wind rushed past his face, whipping his hair into his eyes, stealing the bandaging off his chest, his thigh, and sending a trail of glistening drops sailing through the window.

The last of the storm was fleeing now, and Zander was caught in the suction. It was a mini-cyclone, chasing its master out through the gap, and Zander was snagged mid-centre.

A last effort to win back what had been lost?

Drenched and battered, Zander clung to the mangled window frame, as he was yanked across the mattress, and into the black night. He no longer had the strength to fight it—that was going with the seemingly endless trail of glistening droplets that was whirling away in the darkness. Halfway out the window, he could feel the blackness clamping down. His last conscious thought was of something else clamping down—on his ankle. A hand.

 Quist. Zander relaxed and let the blackness come.

*

There was no mistaking the thudding and jarring—the snarls, whines, and then—yes—laughter, spilling from the room next door. Ben Lowry was on the phone to the police, security, maintenance. He put out a call for staff to help him with the door.

Impatient with the delays, he ran back into Quist Craigen’s room, and leaned out, trying to peer into the room next door. There was a mass of dense black fog—so dark, he thought at first of smoke. But it was too moist; too clammy. Ben’s face was wrapped in the stuff, and he stretched out his hand toward the sill next door. Somehow, Craigen had made it across into Brody’s room.

Hell of a jump...

It was a wonder they weren’t peeling Quist Craigen off the ground.

There was no light in the next room. Ben ran back, to borrow a flashlight from one of the maintenance men.

The fire department was cutting through Brody’s door now, much to the interest of a number of patients and staff from other floors. Ben raced back into Craigen’s room, closing the door to shut out the zoo behind him. The less they knew, the better.

Should have thought about discretion before you called the fire department...

He shrugged off his doubts, grasped the window frame, and flicked on the flashlight. At that instant, a vortex snagged him, and jerked him up, off the floor. He dropped the flashlight and latched onto the framing, digging his fingers desperately into the warping aluminium and scrabbling with his feet to brace himself.

The flashlight dipped, then went sailing away. As Ben clung there, unable to move, he could see the flashlight wasn’t the only casualty—nor was he getting the brunt of it. Papers, plates, trays, monitors, and God-knows-what-else were still sailing out the window next door—all of it travelling with a horrific whine that made his ears ache.

Vacuum.

The first of the glistening droplets chased the hospital equipment through the portal. Oh, shit! Ben thought, realising what it meant. In the next moment, he could see a man fighting to hang on, much as he was, as the wind tried to tear them both through the gap.

Ben yelled—bellowed—for help, but the wind stole his voice away. Hauled it out and down the black throat of the vanishing vortex—the whirlwind that had swallowed gear and was now trying to consume people as well.

Ben thought the man’d had it. He was dangling half in and half out—his blood spiralling away on the wind. There was nothing he could do. Ben couldn’t help him, any more than he could help himself.

Then, abruptly, the wind ceased. It stopped, left, whirled away.

It was gone so suddenly that Ben was caught off-balance. He toppled backwards, onto the floor.

The next moment, Steven Kern was there, helping him to his feet. "You okay?" he asked in concern. Ben’s hair was standing straight up, his clothes were ripped, and he had little glass cuts all over his hands and arms.

"Are you in?" Ben asked abruptly.

Kern nodded. "Yeah. Came to tell you—"

Ben didn’t wait any longer. With a slightly dazed look, he pushed past Kern and tore back out of the room.

*

"It was a cyclone—hurricane," Ben told reporters wearily. They’d caught him on his way to his car. It had been a hell of a day. He felt exhausted, and more than a little sick.

"Tornado?"

Ben nodded. "Yeah."

"Centred on that one room? Isn’t that a little weird?"

"Not one room—two," Ben retorted ruefully, holding up his bandaged hands. Keep it low-key. "Freak of nature. We’re just lucky it wasn’t worse."

"Can you describe it?"

Ben had thought about this one. He’d known they’d be asking. "Like those pictures you see of a waterspout," he replied seriously. "Black. Swirling." And in that moment, he could see it again.

Ready to suck a man down.

"Dr. Lowry, are you okay?"

"Sure," he said. He leaned against the car and tried to fight down the black swirling in his vision. He’d seen people pass out, but it had never happened to him. He had a terrible feeling this was what it felt like.

Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people—reporters, for God’s sake...

The swirling was getting worse and he couldn’t even hear them now. He buried his face in his arm. "Please," he whispered. "Just go—"

They never heard where he wanted them to go. The next moment, he was passed out on the paving.

*

"Where’s Lowry?" Mac asked the nurse abruptly. It was the first time one of his dreams had included a near-stranger. Usually, it was only family, or close friends.

But he owed the man. He’d saved Zander’s life, the night before. Refused to give up when Zander’d been nearly bled out. Covered up queries about the "tornado", and stopped Quist from rambling in delirium. He’d covered for Zander, for Quist, for them all.

For himself?

Probably, but that wasn’t the gist of it. The man was only human, after all.

But you’re not. The thought crept in, and Mac banished it, at once. I’m as human as the next man...

Did the next man have veins that bled shimmery liquid, pointy ears, or a metabolism that wouldn’t quit?

Don’t think about it.

Zander wasn’t the only one who’d been remembering Brian Craigen’s death. It hadn’t been far from Mac’s thoughts, either. He’d never really taken his dad’s warning that seriously. Quist and Zander were grown men—had been grown men for years. His father’s terrible end had been a singular event—he’d thought. He hadn’t wanted the responsibility for guardianship.

For guardship over a man who was grown and independent and didn’t need it.

But the incident with the hounds had hit him hard. Brought back his father’s cruel death and his own doubts. There’d been a scent to that scene, a feeling, a sound, which was more than a little familiar. And something inside him had quickened in reaction.

Last night’s attack was like a nail in his coffin. Mac had a terrible feeling he’d never be his own man again.

He was only three years older than Quist; two years older than Zander. He wanted a life, a destiny, of his own. He didn’t want servitude or solitude. He wanted to leave his father’s coffin behind and move on. Instead, the coffin nails were being driven into his feet, to pin him down. To tether him—and Quist—to Zander forever.

He’d tried to save Quist from it. He’d shouldered the burden and endured his brother’s cries of "fool" and "dumbass". He hadn’t wanted Quist’s freedom squelched. Mac knew how irksome it could be. He wasn’t built for quiet or complacency. The thought of being trapped for life was anathema to him.

But it was too late. His father was here, standing beside him, the warning on his lips. Mac could see it—could still recall how his insides had rejected it. How his father had looked at him sadly, because he could understand the spurning of duty. He’d done his best to spare his sons, but then, as now, there was nothing to be done.

It was Zander. His father had thought he was keeping the burden light—that little mention would keep Mac from dwelling.

Did he know me so little?

Or did he just have no idea how ghastly his death would be—and how it would affect us all?

"They will come, and if they fail, they will return, again and again. Their success will be measured in Zander’s death."

Mac remembered thinking sarcastically, How cryptic, Dad. He would have forgotten the message entirely if his father hadn’t picked that day to die. Mac had been annoyed because his father was usually pretty reasonable, and Mac had other places to be. Work, plus a date with his then-girlfriend Susan. He’d sighed with obvious impatience and asked, "So when all this happens, how do I stop it?"

"Believe in yourself, Mac." Brian had sounded almost like himself then—a pep talk from a father to a son. Then, he’d ruined it. "And your gifts."

"Great help. I’ll do that. Now, if we can get off the topic of death and dismemberment—"

Brian Craigen had interrupted to say seriously, "Only Zander can end it."

"How?" Mac had asked flippantly. "By dying?"

His father had looked slightly taken aback and not at all amused. "That’s one way," he’d said sternly, in a voice Mac had never heard before. "There’s another." He’d grown agitated, then, and Mac had realised his dad was actually afraid. "If he does the research," he’d mumbled, "it might clue them in."

"Okay—so what?"

"So you’ll have to play it by ear!" his father had retorted, annoyed. He’d flicked Mac’s upper ear. "God knows, yours are big enough!"

"Gee, Dad," Mac had said sarcastically, but with a grin, "next time, invite Quist over for one of your little talks. He loves dark and desperate shit."

"Yeah," his father had replied with attempted lightness, but the sadness was back in his eyes. "Since you know him so well, I think I’ll leave that to you."

What Mac remembered most, though, was the hug his father had given him. He’d squeezed him, released him, then grabbed him close and held him again. "I love you, Son," he’d whispered, under his breath, but Mac’s keen ears had picked it up.

He’d had a flicker of foreboding then. Too much, too late.

"Believe in yourself." His father’s words.

Great advice, Mac thought, almost angrily. How could he believe in himself, when he was beginning to wonder who—and what—he was?

*

The kids started pouring in after school, bearing gifts. Mac greeted them with a smile, but there was a shadow behind it. Zander had crashed last night, bigtime. He was in Intensive Care, and the prognosis was bad. Mac had heard the whispers—the ones they didn’t think anyone could hear. They were worried about the fever, and brain damage, and the words "no heroics" had been bandied about. Mac had jumped halfway out of bed at that, until he’d heard the argument; the "wait and see".

Where was Ben Lowry? He, at least, had pulled out all the stops. Maybe too many. It seemed to Mac’s keen ears that the discussions were riddled with anger. Against Lowry, or on his behalf? Mac couldn’t tell.

Mac had sneaked in to see Quist, but it had used him up. He felt weak and sick and more than a little hopeless. Despair was beginning to creep in, but it would never do to let them see it. The kids—his students—were coming to cheer him up. They didn’t need to know how very cheerless he was.

He smelled it the moment they entered, but his confirmation came in the hastily suppressed giggles, the snickers, the phoney smiles. They were up to something, and they expected him to appreciate the gesture, if not the gift.

He’d never felt less like joking around, but he donned the expected smile. "What’s that stink?" he asked, wrinkling his nose distastefully.

His sniffing ability was legend.

"Smells like—" Mac sniffed, stuck out his tongue and pretended to gag, then sniffed again. He groaned and looked woeful. "Chocolate-coated garlic!" He hesitated, his eyes sweeping the group. He sniffed once more, then settled his gaze on Charlie, who was standing inconspicuously at the back. "Or is that your roll-on, Charlie?"

He’d done it. Pegged the one holding the loot. "I don’t get how you do that!" Charlie grumbled as the others shoved him forwards. Then he grinned good-naturedly and plunked several packages down on the bed. "You have to eat that one, right away."

It was a dare. They knew he hated the smell of the stuff. Knew he could sniff out the student who’d had it on a pizza or bread two nights before. He’d always toss them a breath mint and plead for mercy.

Now, it was payback.

He undid the wrapping. "Garlic ice cream?" he verified woefully, giving them the expected pained look. There was a spoon with a big bow taped to the top, and he stared at it in horror.

"Just a few bites," Jake goaded.

There was nothing for it. It was a joke, but they’d pooled their money on this. He had a feeling the other bottle was garlic wine. Neither one came cheap.

"We know how you like to eat," Samantha coaxed.

Mac flinched theatrically, pinched his nose, and dug the spoon into the ice cream. He forced a bite, worried that he might disgrace himself. They had absolutely no idea how much he held garlic in aversion. It stood somewhere between a physical repugnance and a gastro-allergic reaction. Quist and Zander had similar responses. Right now, he didn’t need any reminders of their similarities, if it was about to see his brother and lifelong friend dead.

He played it out—held the bite in his mouth, and pretended to swish it around in delight. "Yummy!" he said loudly.

And suddenly, he realised it was. He took another bite, and another. "This stuff is really good," he said in stunned surprise.

They stood there and watched him eat. They’d brought chocolates, too, but Mac was absorbed in his ice cream. "Great!" he kept mumbling.

His kids thought it was hilarious. At the end, he’d scraped the carton clean, and was waiting only for them to leave so he could lick it. "Thanks!" he said, gleefully. He felt better than he had in days.

Jake made the parting gesture, but Mac knew it was on behalf of the class. He tossed Mac a pack of peppermint gum. "Please, Mr. Mac," he said, a little desperately. "Before you come back—?" he hinted loudly, rolling his eyes.

Mac threw it at him.

He could hear their rowdy, raucous laughter till they were halfway down the hall.

*

Mac didn’t waste any time. By the time he’d swigged some of the garlic wine, he’d figured it out. It took him a while longer to come up with the "uncut" version. When he had the smelly stuff in hand, he went straight to Quist’s room. "I want you to eat this," he told Quist sternly.

Quist opened one eye and peered at the garlic clove distastefully. "Go to hell, Mac."

"It’ll help—"

"Better still," Quist interrupted. "You eat it. That oughta gag you."

"Do you know what trouble I had to go to?!" Mac asked him angrily. "I’m not exactly mobile!"

"So go be immobile somewhere else—"

They were falling into the same patterns as always. His father had wanted him to go with his instincts. Garlic was usually abhorrent to him, but now that he was sick, he was craving it. He couldn’t get enough. It might just be the placebo value, but Mac could swear he was already feeling better.

Quist opened his mouth to argue some more. He felt sick as a dog, and as grouchy as hell. For the first time he was really beginning to wonder whether he and Zander could beat this infection. The doctors were all optimistic, but he could read them. They were stumped. "You have a room, don’t y-"

Mac shoved the garlic clove in his mouth.

Quist nearly choked, accidentally chewed, then started to spit it out. "You bastard—" he began, then stopped. "Damn, that’s good," he whispered. "Got any more?"

Mac grinned, and shoved a dozen cloves into Quist’s hand. Quist popped two in like candy. "I can’t (chew) believe (chew) this!" The last time he’d eaten garlic, he’d thought he was going to die. "We need to get some of this to Zander," he said seriously.

"No kidding. Any ideas?" Zander was in ICU.

"A few," Quist replied. He gave a shiver and broke out in a sweat. "End of fever," he said, surprised. He looked at the garlic clove and smiled. "I’ll stick some in his IV if I have to."

Mac just grinned.

*

Four days later and it was just like old times, when they were the only ones in the world up and about. It had been that way for as long as Mac could remember.

Zander worked two jobs and jogged home nights to wear off his excess energy. Quist was a musician by trade, and a security guard four nights a week. Mac? Teacher during the day, and painting fool at night.

Crazy metabolisms. Another thing that made them "different".

Mac decided not to think about it. He was just glad Quist and Zander were back up to night-time wanderings.

"Lowry’s sick," Zander whispered. "Hate to suggest this, but I overheard something in the ICU. Seems he may have picked up something nasty from yours truly." He looked both guilty and concerned.

"You bastard," Quist said calmly. "Or, considering the original source of the infection—you dirty dog."

Mac rolled his eyes. "Garlic in his IV?" he asked. It had worked for Zander.

Zander shook his head. "Nope. I’ve smelled garlic on his breath."

Quist grimaced. "How distasteful."

"If it was going to help him, he probably has enough residual in his system to last him for years," Zander added, with a trace of amusement. He’d noticed that for him—and, apparently, for Quist—the scent of garlic was losing its appeal. Must be a sign of returning health. "You still on the garlic, Mac?" he asked casually.

"Yeah. What about it?" Mac frowned.

"Nothing. Stay on it."

"And stay in bed for a while," Quist ordered. "I’ll be your dealer—strictly garlic, that is." He saw the stubborn look on Mac’s face and added, "Don’t worry—I won’t let Zander fall out any more windows."

Zander looked uncomfortable. He pulled himself up on the crutches a little jerkily. "I’ll take care of Lowry." He limped silently to the door, peered out, then, with barely a squeak from the crutches, vanished through the gap.

"Quist, we need to talk—" Mac began earnestly.

"Not now, you fool! How am I supposed to watch Zander’s back, if you’re blabbing at my front?"

Quist shook his head impatiently, then followed Zander out the door.

Mac grinned, and for the first time in days, actually relaxed. In seconds, he was asleep, the smile still on his face.

*

"Where have you been?!" Quist asked. He’d spent the last two hours searching, and he could swear he’d visited every room on this floor. He was feeling better, but he wasn’t that much better. "If I’d keeled over in the Ladies, it would have been all your fault," he hissed.

Zander snorted, and leaned the crutches against the bed. "Go away. I’m tired." He flopped back on the pillow.

Quist propped Zander’s bad leg up on a pillow. "You’re never tired. You’ve been up to no good."

"Yes. And no. Go away," he repeated.

"This have to do with Lowry?" Zander’s eyes were closed, but Quist knew he wasn’t asleep. "Will it work?"

"I hope so," Zander said seriously. Quist could tell he was worried. "It should, if I read my chart right."

"And if not?"

"He’s dying, Quist."

"What the hell did you do?!"

"Made a decision. Now, please," Zander said tiredly, "just go away and let me sleep."

Quist stood there looking at him for a moment. He did look tired. What had he been up to? Suddenly worried, he dug around in his pocket and pulled out a couple of the garlic cloves he’d saved for Mac. "Zand?"

"Yeah?"

The man was barely awake.

"Have some garlic."

Zander took one and popped it in his mouth. "Needed that," he said, chewing. "Thanks."

Quist stood there uncertainly. "Just don’t do it any more, okay?"

Zander re-opened his eyes wide enough to see Quist’s face. He smiled. "Wouldn’t dream of it," he said.

*

Quist prowled through Zander’s house, disgusted with himself for complying with Mac’s paranoia, and wishing he were doing any one of the half-dozen things he had lined up for the evening. He looked at the array of books on Zander’s shelves and shook his head. Texts and journals and theses—crap and more crap—on botany and plant physiology and fungi and viruses. Not an interesting book in sight.

He knew Zander had better taste than that. On a hunch, he opened the cupboard beneath the bookshelves and grinned as a mass of books and magazines spilled out onto the floor. They’d been crammed in there so tightly it was a wonder the doors could close.

He pocketed a detective novel and a couple of game mags, then slammed one of the doors and shovelled things back in behind it. The house was pretty tidy, considering this was Zander. Quist was lucky enough to come up with a clean shirt and a semi-clean pair of pants for him. It’d do for the ride home.

He walked through the room one last time, snatching up several of Zander’s DVDs as he went. A couple of movies and a game or two tonight sounded just about right. He wasn’t up to an abundance of exercise quite yet.

He glanced around, then sighed. He and Mac would have to have this out. There was nothing here for Mac to worry about. No psychopathic killers, no freak tornadoes, no black dogs. Just Zander’s messy house, and a lot of silence.

Quist left, locking the door securely behind him.

*

"You loaned me some of your DVDs," Quist told Zander the next morning. "Oh, and a trashy detective novel, too."

"How generous of me. Tried out any of those cheats?"

Quist tilted his head to look at him strangely. "‘Cheats’?"

"In the Gamestar."

Quist grinned. "I don’t need any stinking game rag to—"

"Which issue’d you borrow?"

"Two, actually. June and September."

Zander nodded. "When will I get them back?"

"June and September."

"That’s what I thought." Zander grinned.

Quist looked disgustedly at the huge pile of gifts. "I’m a sick man. How do you expect me to get all this shit home?"

"Why? Are we on your bike?" Zander frowned. "How’d you get your own loot home?"

"Zabu took pity on me." Zabu was a cellist, but he was built like a football player. He’d collected Quist from the hospital two days before.

"There are such things as ‘taxis’."

"Not a chance." Quist steered the wheelchair out to the parking lot. "Actually, I was planning on using Mac’s car, but it doesn’t steer very well on its roof. So, I stole your car instead."

"Let me guess: Wednesday, right?"

It was Friday.

"Had to practice driving it," Quist told him. "What? You think it’s easy to go from two wheels to four? Besides, in my condition—"

Zander just looked at him darkly. Quist chuckled.

They pulled up in front of Zander’s house, and Quist’s keen eye picked up something odd. A curtain in the living room twitched. He didn’t say anything to Zander but "Wait here. I’ll open the door."

A draft. An overdose of Mac’s paranoia. Quist crept around to the back of the house and silently unlocked the rear door. Moving swiftly into the living room, he went into a crouch.

Then, he just froze there, gawking in awe.

The room was filled with shrubbery. Plants, in an array of autumn colours. Bright berries, scarlet leaves, twining vines. Floor to ceiling. Like outside coming in. His eyes searched the room, and he listened, trying to detect the scramble of an intruder.

He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t smell anyone.

But, there was an overpowering odour of "clean". Totally unlike Zander. Totally unlike the night before. No underlying stink of dirty dishes. No mouldy hint of old laundry. Just the overwhelming moist soil and fresh-running sap scent of the severed fronds.

He’d gone through the kitchen so swiftly that he hadn’t really seen it. Now, Quist took the time to look. No shrubbery here, but no dirty dishes, either. Weird. He searched quickly but cautiously through the house.

But all he could see were the garlands, the wreaths, the shrubs. Hundreds of them. Stacked and piled and twined through every clean room.

The next moment, Zander had the front door open. "I thought you were opening the door," he began impatiently. Then, he stood in the doorway, gaping open-mouthed, and staring at the room. "Quist, you didn’t have to—!" he began.

Quist’s eyes met his and a tremor of gooseflesh danced across Zander’s skin. Quist looked solemn, and more than a little frightened.

"The thing is, Zander—I didn’t. I was here last night, an-and, this—" he gestured to include the vines that wound all the way to the ceiling, "—wasn’t." Quist didn’t give himself time to think any more. He grabbed Zander’s arm and half-lifted him, half-dragged him out of the house. Now was not the time to explain about the jiggly curtain. There’d be plenty of time to scare the hell out of themselves later.

Quist pulled up in front of his own house a few minutes later with a sense of relief. A narrow escape. He had this terrible feeling there was danger at their backs. He could feel it crawling between his shoulder blades.

He unlocked the door, hustled Zander and his crutches in, then busied himself with latching and double-locking the door. "Go sit down," he ordered.

But Zander just stood there. "Quist!" he hissed, shocked.

Quist turned around, only to stare at his living room, stunned and appalled.

Distraught, he tore from room to room. "An hour. Only an hour," he kept muttering, over and over.

It was gone, all of it. His house was empty. Vacant. Devoid of everything.

Almost everything. In the centre of the living room was a small pile of foul-smelling fungus.

"Dictyophora," Zander whispered.

"Thanks," Quist retorted sarcastically, but in the same hushed voice. If this was a theft, why had they taken his old couch? His ancient running shoes? He squatted next to the fungus, head buried in his hands. "Hell of a week I’m having," he muttered, near despair. "My music...my violin...everything!"

Zander sensed he was near tears. He laid a hand on his shoulder. "Time to call the police," he mumbled. "It’s the same ones," he said.

Quist looked at him quizzically. "As what? Your house?" he scoffed. "Not likely."

"You know those DVDs you told me about? The ones you borrowed?"

"That’s all you’re worried about?!" Quist bellowed, not quite believing Zander could be so callous in the face of his disaster. "Hate to tell you," he said bitterly, gesturing at the empty room. "They’re gone with the wind."

"No, they’re not," Zander told him solemnly. "When we were leaving my place? I saw them sitting on the table, right by the door."

***

ELF