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Sunday, 09 April 2006

Chapter Three

 Quist drove like a maniac to Mac’s house. He was stern and stiff-lipped as he slammed back Mac’s front door; relieved when he found the place the same as always. He hastily checked the locks on windows and doors, then, satisfied, he hauled in Zander’s stuff.

"Where are you going?" Zander asked him.

"To make a police report," Quist growled. "So, lock the door." He hadn’t mentioned the twitchy curtain to Zander and he didn’t intend to. Time to have it out with whoever was doing this.

Zander grabbed his arm. "Not alone."

Quist shrugged him off. "I’m not alone. I have people coming over tonight. Lots of people!" he said, tossing his arms in despair. "I’m gonna stand there, in my empty room, and try to explain why someone ripped off my dirty undershorts!"

Zander shook his head. "None of this makes sense." Tired, he hobbled over to Mac’s overstuffed chair and sat down.

"You’re right," Quist agreed. He pulled a couple of garlic cloves out of his pocket and looked at them dismally. "My only possessions. Here—" He tossed one to Zander.

"Thanks." He chewed thoughtfully. "Neighbours might know something. I’ll start with them."

"Good idea, but, you’re the one who needs to hide. Not me. You know damn well the police won’t do much more than search for prints, and ask for a list of what’s missing." Quist scratched at his hand, then rubbed the back of his calf. "Feel like I have fleas," he complained. He scratched some more. "I’ll have a nosy with the neighbours."

"Why?" Zander’s face looked like thunder.

"What do you mean, ‘Why’?" Quist returned impatiently, beginning to squirm now. "You suggested it. Figure it out."

"No, you fool! Why am I the one who needs to hide?"

"Let’s be stupid, shall we?" Quist said sarcastically. He pulled up his shirt and looked at the red blisters beginning to form on his stomach. "It was you after work, and you in the hospital. You Mac said to watch out for."

"But it was your house that got the brunt of it—"

"Don’t you get it?" Quist asked, and there was an anger in his eyes Zander had never seen before. "It’s a punishment—for ripping off your car, and stealing your DVDs. You get gifts, and I get shit."

"That’s crazy! You’re my best friend! Hell, you’re family! If they were after me, like you claim, why would they punish you? Think about it—"

"You think about it. Whoever’s doing this is playing games! Screwing with our heads, just to show they can get away with it! And I’ll be damned if they’re gonna do it any more!" He spluttered, "Aren’t you even listening to me?!"

Because Zander wasn’t looking at his face—he was staring at his neck. "Quist," he said, through stiff lips, "you know that medal: th-the one from your dad?" It was a disc-shaped amulet. Quist had worn it as long as Zander could remember.

Quist’s eyes filled with alarm and his hand went to his throat. "You mean the medallion?!" he asked, panicked. "Don’t tell me they took that, the bast-!" He never finished. As his fingers closed on the medallion’s etched surface, a humming sound filled the room.

Zander’s eyes widened, and he came to his feet. Mac’s TV suddenly came to life in an eye-filling clash of colour and sound, that escalated as the humming grew louder. The microwave in the kitchen began a horrendous whining roar.

Overload...

"Duck!" yelled Zander, launching himself onto Quist’s startled form as the TV exploded behind him. Glass and metal blasted across the room.

Zander lay there, facedown on the floor. I came home for this?! To Quist, he said sarcastically, "Yeah, the medallion. I was gonna tell you it was glowing."

*

Quist wandered into the kitchen, peered at the microwave, then came back in, scratching, and glared at the molten TV. He repeated (for what must have been the tenth time), "I did that...with this?!" He held the medallion warily, dangling it between two fingers.

"No and no and no."

"What do you mean, ‘no’?"

"It was a surge, you fool. The metal must be the same as what’s in the microwave."

"Yeah—kinda like the way I heard you ‘surge’ at those dogs."

None of them had mentioned the incinerated canines. Zander had wanted to keep it that way. "You’re dreaming," he said, turning away.

"At least I’m not singing," Quist retorted.

Zander poked warily at the medallion. "Sure it’s the same one Brian gave you?"

"Quit picking at it!" Quist took it off and looked at it closely. Then, he closed his eyes and fingered it. "Yeah," he said. There was a trace of sadness in his voice as he added, "After Dad died, I used to sit there for hours—" He stopped abruptly, embarrassed. "Never mind."

Zander grinned at him. "Hey, I miss him, too." He looked at his ring—the one from his own father. Like Quist’s medallion, it was quite elaborate—heavy and antique. He’d sworn first to his father, and later to Brian, that he wouldn’t take it off. Now it occurred to him how weird that was. "Quist—" he began, but he could see Quist wasn’t listening.

He was looking at the back of the amulet and poking a little gingerly at some of the recessed surfaces. "What d’you think? Lasers? Some form of EM?"

"I already told you what I think."

Quist nodded. "Obviously combines with my mighty mental wavelengths." Grinning, he added, "It’s a wonder I didn’t do any damage before. Have to learn to pace myself."

Zander snorted. "If you’re gonna brag to Mac that you blew up his TV, you’ll have to pace yourself pretty fast. Where’d your dad get that thing, anyway?"

"He said it was an heirloom. But it may have been first-generation, if you know what I mean."

"‘Here’s my heir—watch him loom’?"

Quist shrugged. "Something like that. You know what he was like."

"Liked history but not the past."

"Yeah." Quist smiled. "Wouldn’t talk about his own past, but big on all of us ‘making’ our future."

Quist was still scratching, and Zander remarked, "You’re getting a ra-" He froze mid-word, remembering the plants that had filled his rooms. He’d been so shocked at the time that he hadn’t stopped to consider what types of plants—till now. "Uh-oh!"

Quist dropped the medallion abruptly, and jumped back. Then, when he noticed Zander’s distraction, he complained, "Don’t do that! I thought we were about to blow up again!"

"Puff up," Zander corrected. "Quist, did you touch any of those plants?"

"In your house?" Quist stopped mid-scratch to look at him darkly. "Why?"

"Because they were poisonous. Toxicodendron diversilobum and radicans. It was all the autumn colours," he explained distractedly. "And the shock of seeing them there. I didn’t think—" He shook his head, distressed.

"And this means...?" Quist prompted.

"That you’d better strip. It’s probably too late, but maybe you can stop the spread of the urushiol."

"Urushiol?" Quist looked scared.

"From the poison oak. If you’re itching already, this may be bad."

Quist stared at the red patches on his hands and forearms. "You’re telling me," he said.

*

It was nearly eight o’clock before Zander could convince Quist to leave. "Mac will be wondering where you are." No kidding, Zander thought. Mac was still in the hospital. Ever since he’d discovered they weren’t answering their landlines, he’d been coming unglued. He didn’t mind either of them staying at his house, but he did mind that they found it necessary. During the last two hours, he’d been on the phone four times, trying to force the truth out of what he called "Quist’s worthless hide".

It didn’t seem to dissuade him that he had lots of company, either. Apparently, he’d decided to coerce as many of his well-wishers as he could to swing by and check on his suffering "brothers", because there was now an unending string of his friends at the door. Add them to Quist’s friends, who were coming by to commiserate on his losses, and Zander’s own co-workers, who were stopping by after the lab (or before going on to nightfill duty)—and the place was a zoo. Zander had finally given up, dossed down on the sofa and thrown a blanket over his head. He yawned. "Mac says he’s bored out of his mind."

"Bullshit! He’ll have so much company he won’t know if I’m there or not."

"If you don’t tell him, somebody else will—" He smiled at Zabu, who took it as a sign he needed a tenth Coke and brought one over. "Thanks, Zabu," Zander told him. To Quist, he said, "Mac’s freaking. If you don’t go see him—"

"You didn’t go visit him tonight?" Zabu interrupted, appalled. "Do you know how worried he is about you?"

Quist buried his face in his hands, and Zabu chuckled. "I’ll take you, Quist. Then, we can go by my place. There’s the sweetest little Hungarian violin I just picked up. Made in Budapest." He added temptingly, "You might want to give her a try—"

Quist lifted his head eagerly and Zander saw the longing in his eyes. Of all the things the bastards had taken, it was Quist’s violin he missed the most.

"Will you be okay?" Quist asked him quickly. He was obviously itching to leave, and Zander knew it wasn’t to visit Mac.

"With you gone?" Zander grinned. "Never better."

At the doorway, Quist hesitated.

Zabu gave him a tug. "C’mon, Music Man. He’ll be fine." He chuckled as he saw the big glass of juice Jack Freedman was trying to force on Zander. "And if he’s not, Quist, he’s got lots of help."

*

Zander didn’t remember dozing off, any more than he remembered his company leaving. When he jerked awake, it was to a momentary panic that bore shades of hellspawned hounds and fiend-driven winds; all the things his nocturnal mind couldn’t dismiss with logic or denial. His heart pounded as he fought to remember where he was. For days now, he’d been waking up in different beds: first, the hospital; then, ICU; then, back to another bed. Now, he wasn’t in a bed at all.

The couch. Mac’s house.

He’d had a dream—or maybe it was a memory. About his mother.

He wiped moist eyes and cursed himself for a fool. He’d been a man these ten years or more. Why tonight? Because he was in Brian’s—now Mac’s—house, and she’d always talked to Brian when she’d had a problem?

Or was it because Zander’s own life had just been turned upside down, and there was no Brian, no Dad, no Mom to talk to?

That was a big thing he remembered from his childhood—how much both his mom and dad had relied on Brian. Like family. Only, they weren’t family—had never been family. Then why the hell were they so close?

Because they’d grown up together?

But that answer was too trite; too easy. That’s what he and Quist and Mac had—but it was balanced by a healthy dose of separate lives, and separate friendships. It hadn’t been that way with Brian, or Andrew and Meg—his parents. They’d lived like hermits—kept to themselves.

To their own kind.

The last thought slipped in, under his guard. He’d never been big on self-analysis, and even less on parental blame. His parents had gone their own way, but they hadn’t expected him to live their lives. They’d given him a freedom they—for some reason—didn’t possess.

He’d spent his childhood learning to downplay anything that would make him subject to mockery or rejection. Only now, when the cloak of night had somehow stripped away his camouflage, could he look at things baldly. It was stupid to think he could have lived so long without openly acknowledging the differences—those things he shared with his family, that distinguished them from the people around them.

The things that he and Quist and Mac could disguise, or play down, because they’d grown up here. He had a feeling it wouldn’t have been so easy for Meg or Andrew; for Brian. Too many ingrained habits, and too much history. Too few reference points.

It was only now that Zander realised how much of his parents’ background had been garnered from his experiences. How the visits from all the neighbourhood children and school friends had given them substance—a role to play. For years, in the community, it was enough. Zander’s parents. "Those are Zander’s parents." Credibility.

"What do your parents do?"

They’d studied. Weird, really. They’d been study-a-holics. Studying human history and folklore. He could remember his mother’s laughter, as she’d read him the classic fairy tales.

His father had been different. Almost arrogant at times, and too often frustrated. Brian had taught him to use his hands in crafts. Things like glass blowing and sculpture; metalwork and carving. More study. His mother had found a similar outlet in music and painting. Her pieces had begun to sell rather well—toward the end.

Artists could be excused much. His parents and Brian had made their way along a path strewn with eccentricity.

Each piece they’d produced—whether metal sculpture, or oil painting—had been inspected. Brian had approved each one before it had gone out for sale, to ensure it was "up to standard". Now, Zander wondered if he’d been checking whether any of the pieces would be too revealing. Too telling about the artist or his background.

Maybe one of those pieces had given away his parents’ lives. They’d died on one of their rare trips, to a distant city, during an exhibition of his mother’s paintings. A freak explosion caused by an electronic surge. A lightning strike, Brian had murmured.

They weren’t the only victims. But they were the only ones who mattered to a sixteen-year-old boy.

He suddenly knew that’s why he was awake. There’d been a freak explosion today, in this very room.

A freak accident...

No, though the "freak" part fit. Their pointed ears, their tilty eyes. All the things they’d discounted in order to make their way.

The abnormally keen hearing, the refined sense of smell.

The speed, the agility, the strength.

The metabolism that wouldn’t stop.

The time in the hospital? First time any of them had been there. First time any of them had been sick.

During their school years, they’d been given "holidays", three or four times per year. Days when they’d been kept at home. Then, the return to school with the obligatory note.

Because perfect attendance would have drawn attention.

Zander’s heart was still pounding. His reflections hadn’t done much to calm him down.

What am I? What are we?

The conclusions were unmistakable. There was a preponderance of extraterrestrial life dotting the TV screens, and movies were full of them. Maybe aliens weren’t little green men. Maybe they were average-sized people, with pointy ears, tilted eyes, and unnaturally strong singing voices.

Andrew’s art. There were some pieces his dad had locked away—pieces that had been fashioned to fail Brian’s inspection. Pieces that held too much of the artist’s soul—too much of his past.

Zander flung back the blanket, and reached for his crutches. There were some things he needed to do.

He needed a wander through his systematics texts. There was something about the fungus in Quist’s house that was bothering him. He’d recognised it, for one thing. Yet, it wasn’t one he’d seen in the lab.

Then, he needed to find the box. An ordinary cardboard box that was stacked away somewhere in the attic. No ornate chest, no elaborate hiding place. Just your standard packing box, nestled amidst the dusty mess that Zander called "storage".

Andrew and Meg—his parents—were lying entombed in a city far away. Brian had made it seem sensible not to bring home their broken bodies, and Zander had been too distraught to question it. Now, it was just one more odd circumstance in a long list.

Since Zander hadn’t been able to bury their bodies, he’d buried their personal possessions instead. Locked them away, so he wouldn’t have reminders. Too much pain to remember his mother wielding the brush, or his father’s pride in the remaking of stone. He’d put the pain aside, until he was able to deal with it. Now was the time. Time to face it whether he wanted to or not.

A chill scattering of gooseflesh danced across his skin. He could almost hear Brian’s voice in his ear, urging him to act. He’d always taught them to respond on a moment’s notice. "When that moment comes, you’ll know it—"

It had come in the shape of hounds, with flaming eyes. With contorted bat faces and cyclone breath.

"—and it’s time to act. Don’t think. Go with your instincts."

Act. Don’t think.

Zander shrugged into a warmer shirt, pulled himself up on his crutches, and silently limped out the door.

*

It was easy to be wary in a generation of barred windows, padlocked doors, and alarmed everything. Walks were taken with mace, and guns were commonplace. Sadism was entertainment on TV, and murder was as expected as the next morning’s headlines.

Brian had been wary, and now Brian was dead. Zander knew he hadn’t been wary, or even very watchful, and it was a wonder he wasn’t dead, too.

Mac would be in a frenzy if he knew Zander was back on the streets. But, it was the shade of Mac’s dad who was urging Zander on. Brian had been insistent about a lot of things. Part of that had extended to seeing things through. If the means wasn’t clear, then it was necessary to "hone your vision."

The vision that had sprung up at Quist’s words was not a happy one. It meant that, in some obscure way, he was responsible for Quist’s and Mac’s injuries. He would have undertaken similar efforts in their defence, but that wasn’t the point. If Quist was right, their peril was no accident. It was because Zander Brody was their friend. And Mac, who loved taking things in his stride, wouldn’t be going nuts unless he feared it was going to happen again.

He had good reason. Someone had stripped Quist’s house and re-decorated Zander’s. This was one time where ignorance was inexcusable—because it could well get someone killed.

Zander didn’t hesitate. His dream had been every bit as valid as one of Mac’s. He had much to do and very little time to do it. The only way to take charge of his destiny at this point, was to create it.

His eyes glistened. Not Brian’s words—his father’s.

It was time to discover what destiny his father had been at such pains to conceal.

*

He parked his car a block from his house, and stared at the distant building with bleak eyes. How many times had he walked this path? How many times had he run in that back door, or opened it to a friend? Despite the poison oak festooning, the intrusion by unknown visitors, this was still home, and he’d always equated "home" with "safe". This was the house where he’d been born—the neighbourhood where he’d grown up. He knew people in every house along the way.

Which is why it made it all the more difficult to accept the shudder of dread that shook him when he reached for the door. Now, that he was here, he no longer felt "safe".

He realised it wasn’t only the dark doorway that was scaring him—it was the solitude. Zander didn’t own any pets because he didn’t need to—he had everyone else’s. Normally, he couldn’t move even a few steps without having some feline or canine rubbing against his legs, jumping up on him, or trailing him down the road. Birds divebombed him, sang in his face, and frequently landed on his head, or his shoulder.

It was one of the things that had frightened him most about those hounds. Unlike other dogs, those flaming brutes had had no use for him, except as an entree. It was the first time Zander had ever been looked at like luncheon loaf.

Tonight, no dogs had barked a greeting. No cats had prowled his way. No night birds had sung in warning. He was alone.

Like the night I went running. All his companions had fled then, too. That last trek towards the cemetery, had been a solitary one—until he’d encountered the hounds.

He was suddenly angry, with a fury that was rapidly displacing his fear. The intruders had taken away his safety net—his security. They’d persecuted his friends, then made him dependent upon them. They’d violated his privacy and trampled his memories. His parents’ personal possessions, their art, their tender reminiscences, the bits and pieces of their lives, were all snagged within these walls. Memories, trapped in notes and photos, drawings and carved stone. A childhood, their young adulthood. All here.

Act. Don’t think.

He used his anger to get himself through the door, being careful not to brush against the bright autumnally foul foliage. There were rustles in this shrubbery, but he refused to listen. His job was to get upstairs, to the attic. He was stricken with a sense of urgency, as though his parents’ stuff was already being dismantled. The feeling that if he didn’t act now, it would be too late to act at all.

Determinedly, and as quietly as possible, he hobbled up the worn steps.

*

"I’m busy, MacFart. Try bothering Zander." Quist felt more relaxed than he had in days. Zabu Morris knew his weakness for lemon anything, and had pulled a lemon meringue pie out of the fridge. Quist was so far gone he could barely hold the violin bow. He’d been mucking around with Zabu’s flute, too, until his lips went too numb. Now, he was just plain happy.

"Damn you, Quist!" Mac yelled at him. "You’ve been at the citrus!"

"Not Thitrus, MacFart—just lemon." He licked his lips, then picked up the plate and ran a finger over a leftover lemon ridge.

Zabu chuckled and grabbed the phone. "It’s okay, Mac. I’ll see him home—"

"To my house," Mac interrupted hurriedly.

"No point in taking him to his," Zabu pointed out practically. "Quist, you wants you should stay here?"

"No!" Mac bellowed.

"Sure!" Quist said cheerily. "Got any more pie?"

"There’s a tangelo in the cupboard." Zabu’d never gotten over how Quist reacted to anything citrus. It was hilarious. Once he got started, though, there was no stopping him. He’d lemon or orange or kumquat himself into oblivion.

"Gotcha!" Quist snorted, and wobbled towards the kitchen.

Zabu could hear him banging cupboard doors, and then, "Ooh, come to Papa, you little beauty..." There was a loud slurping sound, a bang and a thud.

Mac was still yelling, something about Zander not answering the phone.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Zabu replied, finally getting annoyed. "Maybe there’s a good reason," he suggested pointedly. "Like peace and quiet." Mac confined was a real pain-in-the-ass.

Mac went silent.

"Excuse me," Zabu went on, and Mac could hear the amusement in his voice, "while I pick up ol’ Quizzical off the floor. Think he’s had his limit." Zabu clicked off the phone.

*

Damn Quist! Mac tried to make excuses for him, but he was just too angry. They all had the same fool weakness for citrus. This wasn’t the time for Quist to be eating himself into oblivion. Not with Zander essentially unprotected.

But what protection would Quist be? Mac wasn’t willing to sacrifice his little brother, any more than he was willing to sacrifice Zander.

Besides, Quist was still recovering from injuries himself, which is probably why he had no willpower when it came to lemon confectionery.

Hell, Mac admitted, if someone stuck a lemon tart under my nose right now, I wouldn’t be able to resist, either.

Zabu was right. Maculley Craigen was making both a pest and a fool of himself.

Zander’s failure to pick up the phone? If it were me, I’d have unplugged the phone hours ago.

Mac leaned back against the pillows, wishing he could sleep. Uninterrupted sleep...

As much as he needed it, though, his subconscious wouldn’t let him drift off. He was too afraid he’d dream, and then he’d have to act on it. Act on something he was scared to believe in, just because he couldn’t afford not to let the fear in.

All day he’d been trying to set things up so he wouldn’t be afraid any more. That was the problem: he was terrified. It wasn’t only Zander’s fate that was in question—it was his and Quist’s. The citrus incident had brought it home. The three of them had similar origins. Bonds that, in this instance, were closer than blood. Bonded by their differences...

Mac liked to be in control. He enjoyed teaching—the lesson plans, watching the development of a faltering student. This was one time when there was no plan. All he had was the memory of his father’s death, and his father’s words. The warnings, that were too vague to be taken seriously. Vague, because taking them seriously would focus too much attention on them. His father’s mumbled, "If he does the research, it might clue them in."

Them? Who? What research? About their backgrounds?

There’d been another thing that Quist had found unforgivable, but that Mac had been unable to explain. The vow. The promise.

They’d known Brian Craigen was dead because they’d seen it in a newspaper. His body had gone unclaimed. There’d been a photo of an unidentified man, and a write-up about his horrendous death. The one article, and then nothing.

It had torn Quist up, and he’d planned on driving out there, to claim the body.

But, Mac had promised. It had been an easy promise—foolish, really—because it had dealt with a far-future event. The "when I die, I want my ashes scattered to the wind" kind of thing. His dad had made Mac swear that if anything should ever happen to him, he wouldn’t bring the body home. At the time, Mac had guessed it would be incriminating—a way of dragging his sons into some past debt or criminal activity he’d long since left behind.

Quist hadn’t cared about the nearly-forgotten vow, but Mac had. As the elder son, he’d insisted on "leaving Dad to it", the way he’d wanted. Quist, thinking of his father lying alone in a strange city, had claimed it was heartless.

But Brian did the same with Zander’s parents...

And Quist had yelled, "Don’t you know how much that hurt him? Dad was wrong! We need to do right by him—for our own sakes!"

But they hadn’t, and Brian was laid to rest alone; abandoned, though not unmourned.

Recrimination. Secrets. Mac felt as alone in that moment as Brian in his grave. He didn’t know what was happening, and had only a vague idea of whom it was happening to.

He didn’t want to lose anyone else he cared about. He just didn’t know how to stop the losing. He had a terrible feeling that the hundreds of people, who called Quist, Zander, and himself "friend", could do nothing to stop the disaster that was coming. The spectre of death was tapping at their door.

*

His house was full of rustling, unlike anything he’d ever heard before. Zander squelched down the shivers that made him jerk around on his crutches, and mounted the stairs. One flight, two. The stairwell, like the rest of the house, was dark, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He suspected the mains breaker had been flicked off, but he didn’t have the nerve to go out and check. It had taken everything he’d had just to step inside the door the first time.

There were streaks of pale streetlight through curtained windows, that helped illuminate individual rooms, and gave some relief to the hall’s eerie length.

A tickle against his neck made Zander jump. With shaking fingers, he plucked the intruder off his skin and tossed it away. He scratched the spot where it’d been, swearing he could still feel the scraping of its tiny cerci. Yuck.

Earwig.

He hated earwigs. Many of the eighteen-hundred or so Dermaptera species had the same affinity for his form as mammals. Once, as a kid, he’d woken up with a mass of earwigs running that little twitchy dance all over his face and chest. It had been horrible, and his keen eyes had picked up every detail from the prognathous head to the brownish-black (and sometimes winged, God help him!) thorax to the segmented abdomen with the forceps-like cerci at the end.

He had this terror they were going to run into his ears, and munch on his brain. He’d been stupid enough to research them in order to reassure himself, and found out most of them were omnivorous—they’d eat anything. They preferred to hide in warm and humid places, and ears were as likely a place as any.

Supposedly, they would neither lay eggs in your ears nor munch on your brain, but it was awfully hard to believe that when they were running around on your face, and scuttling towards your earholes.

There were more earwigs on the stairs. He could hear the occasional crunch under his feet, and once, the crutch slipped on bug slime and nearly sent him toppling down the steps. The poison oak must have been loaded with the things. Thoughtless thugs, to have brought contaminated poison plants into his home.

He’d become distracted, and he realised it now when he heard a thud from the landing below. Whoever it was, was bound to be faster than he, and he hunkered along as fast as he could on one crutch, with the other gripped firmly as a weapon. If he went down, he was going to do his damnedest to take his opponent with him.

Maybe it’s one of the neighbours, his practical mind asserted, checking on the house.

Then where were their flashlights?

He reached the attic door and fumbled with the key. C’mon, open! It was difficult to turn the key in the lock, but that, in its own way, was reassuring. He hadn’t been up in the attic for several years. It didn’t appear anyone else had, either.

Zander practically fell in through the creaky door. The squawk gave him away, though, and as he slammed it shut, and leaned his weight against it, he could hear the swift judder of running feet. His hand was still on the knob when it began to turn.

Zander grabbed it, desperately trying to keep it from rotating, but it was too late. Something rammed the door and it bashed against him. Zander braced his good leg against the attic stairs and his back against the jolting door.

Oh, God...

The door slammed back once, twice, into the jamb. Zander fought to push in and twist the button; to lock the door.

Such a feeble mechanism against such a strong force.

He stood poised. There would come a moment, in the knob’s jiggly rotation, when he could set the lock. Sweat poured off his brow and he fought to keep his shaking fingers tight on the knob. When the instant came, it happened so fast he was stunned.

But his opponent was just plain mad. The scrabbling of claws around the door became a scratch and rip. He heard the screech of extruded nails as the doorjamb was torn away.

At the same time, the earwigs were pouring under the door. Zander had been stationary long enough that they’d arrived—en masse. It wasn’t all bad, though: outside the door, there was the splishing thwack of a heavy body, as door demolisher slipped on earwig splat.

The earwigs were still coming, and Zander could feel them beginning their crawl up his legs. He hopped and slapped and wriggled and scraped.

Then froze as his eyes caught a glint of movement.

Something was wriggling beneath the door. It had a weak bioluminescence that required no additional brightness for Zander’s sensitive eyes. At first, he thought it was some kind of serpent or worm—until he realised it was a tongue.

A tongue that was now slurping greedily at the escaping earwigs. Slurping, lapping, curling, coiling and sliding them back under the door. Then, the tongue was on Zander’s wounded leg, and the glitter of his blood outshone the bioluminescent squirming of his vile antagonist. Minute, razor-sharp ridges were slicing his skin—tasting him.

Zander tried to jerk away, but the muscles in the tongue were horrendously strong. His leg was yanked backwards, and he toppled, nearly onto his face. In desperation, he lunged for the banister, then slammed the crutch down on the writhing tongue.

Hand on the banister, he strained against those almighty muscles, tugging himself up, onto the lowest step. The tongue was stretched now, as it sought to hold him. Zander pulled the rubber stopper off the bottom of the crutch, exposing sharpish metal. Then, he rammed it into the tongue.

The tissues tore, and a spurt of silvery liquid shot across the steps. It hissed and sizzled in the air; hopping like water droplets on a hot grill. Zander scooted backwards up the stairs, while silvery rain spattered all around him. Panting, he crawled up, step by step. The earwigs, which had been chasing him, had now turned, and were wallowing in those bubbling droplets; latching onto the leaking tongue.

Where, seconds before, they’d been eaten, now they were eating.

The food chain, taking a one-eighty.

Zander didn’t stop crawling, until he’d reached the attic floor.

*

The door was holding—for the moment. Zander wrapped his throbbing calf with a rag, and tried to still his shaking hands. His brain felt petrified with fear, and his reason non-functional. His mission here, to discover something about his father’s background, suddenly seemed like an incredibly foolish risk. Stupid. Unnecessary.

But, it had somehow been necessary to his sanity. He’d wanted to reclaim his house—and his heritage—from the fear that was keeping him a prisoner. It wasn’t only his fear; it was Mac’s, and to a lesser extent, Quist’s. Quist’s reaction was blended with a healthy dose of resentment, whereas Mac’s smacked of confusion.

Zander had preferred his fear mixed with denial, and a strong belief in the power of bullshit. Someone was screwing with their heads, just as Quist had claimed. Only, it wasn’t limited to the break-ins—it was also a distortion of everything they’d seen. It had been a real pack of dogs, and a bizarre weather event. Zander Brody hadn’t sung their salvation, or played Repulsa Man.

And he was neither the cause nor the end to their troubles.

The police had been through his house and Quist’s, this afternoon. There was nothing here, and less at Quist’s, and the investigating officer had seemed to think the poison oak more of a joke than a threat. Zander could see it from his perspective: if you wanted to threaten someone, you used a gun, or a knife. Something with lethal value.

Poison oak just didn’t make the grade.

And assailants didn’t usually clean a victim’s house, before doing him in.

It had all sounded so reasonable, and his fears so foolish, that Zander had jumped at the chance to prove himself wrong. Even this quest—his so-called attempt to unmask his parents’ past—had been a quixotic effort to fulfil a single-minded impulse. He just hadn’t seen it that way until he was sitting here, weaponless, in the dark. He’d followed his instincts, all right, but his instincts were on the verge of getting him killed. Instinct hadn’t even warned him to bring a flashlight.

He crawled across the attic floor, and began to sift through storage. It didn’t help that with the power out, there was almost zero visibility. But he was the one who’d packed the box, and it was his effort to forget that had engraved the memory so clearly on his mind. As silently as possible, he pulled up the flaps—terrified when the cardboard resonance caused a stir from below.

Newspaper. Why’d I have to pack it in newspaper?

Because I didn’t know noise was going to be an issue...

 

 

It was impossible. Not only was he blind, but the damned Friedelkrieker below wasn’t deaf.

Friedelkrieker. He realised that, unconsciously, he’d named it. He flinched in horror as he recalled the razor-clawed fiend from one of his mother’s fairy tales. There’d been no laughter, he recalled, as she’d spoken of Friedelkrieker and Gefdil, Fyodor and Kaituku.

With shaking hands, Zander tried lifting the box, but it had no handholds. Awkwardly, he fished around till his hand brushed wicker.

His cradle. He felt a momentary pang at the poignancy of it, then cursed himself for being a sap. This was no time to be selective. With a Friedelkrieker ripping at his door, he could ill afford time for reminiscing, and his father would have been the first to tell him so.

Zander dumped the boxload into the cradle, newspaper and all. Across the attic, there was a small source of light—the vent, that allowed for circulation of air. He sincerely hoped the gap would look larger close up.

He hauled the cradle recklessly across the big room. He knocked over stacks, tripped over rubbish and fell into boxes. Desperately, he crushed, flung, and mutilated his way across the distance.

His journey had not gone unheeded. The Friedelkrieker was at the door once more, rapping, clawing and ripping.

Zander panicked. He reached the vent and pounded on the small grate. It jiggled, and he yanked it out and flung it to the floor. With a pawing motion, similar to the one his adversary was using below, he clawed the mementos out of the cradle and sent them flying through the hole. He heard the unfortunate clunk and clatter, but he didn’t let it sway him. It was now or never.

Friedelkrieker tracked mostly by sound and smell—or so they said. Dim-sighted...

And you’re dim-witted! Use your head! That’s fiction. A myth!

They’d outwitted it with cunning...

You can’t outwit what isn’t there!

 

 

The beast was after him. Tracking him. Chasing his sound. Was it also chasing his scent? Zander unzipped his pants and let the cradle have it. A miniature steam cloud arose as his liquid mingled with the chilly night air.

The Friedelkrieker had broken down the last of the barricades, and was moving awkwardly up the stairs. Zander hoped the beast wasn’t wise enough to realise the escape hole could ill fit Zander’s frame.

There was a growling slurp as the monster ascended the last of the steps. Panicked, Zander flopped down, flattening a box.

He held his breath as It passed by. It had lost his scent to the stronger stench of the urine. Zander froze as It stumbled across the messy jumble, much as he had.

Zander shoved the flattened box forward, and did a reckless sledding down the stairs. As he tumbled through the fragmented doorjamb, he heard an angry bellow from above. Zander pushed himself up, then hopped the length of the hall, slid down the banister, then hopped and slid some more. There was a massive rumbling crash as the beastie also made an unexpectedly rapid descent.

Zander tore out the kitchen door, slamming and locking it behind him. Maybe the Friedelkrieker would have as much trouble with inward opening doors, as it did clambering through wayward boxes. He scrambled across the grass, tearing off his outer shirt as he went. He hastily tied the sleeves, then used it like a sack. When the glass in the kitchen door shattered, Zander was halfway to his car. Sweat streamed down his face as he upped his movements to hop-sprint. Seconds later, he fell into his front seat, gunned the engine, and fled fecklessly into the night.

***