Supernormal (11 page)

Ch. 11

Cam grabbed his cell phone and headed out the back door.  He sat down hard on the kitchen steps, braced himself—and then dialed.  And waited.

No one picked up, but he hadn’t expected them to.  They had caller ID, after all.  “Naomi.  It’s me.  I’m just checking in to see how you’re doing.”  He paused, felt the seconds tick by in silence.  “Please.  Talk to me.  It’s been—”  Weeks.  Months, soon.  “I need to know you’re okay.” 

Still nothing.  The sun was setting, a soft and slow dip into the water.  Cam squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to push back the anger.  “Pick up the phone.  You have to talk to me some time, I’m your brother. 
I know you’re there.
”

Maybe if he hung on until the machine hung up.  Maybe if he called and called until the voicemail filled up and they were forced to answer the phone.  If they didn’t just ignore it.  If they didn’t just pull the cord out of the wall.  When would he stop waiting for someone to pick up?

“Love you, Naomi.  I miss you,” he added quickly, and hung up.

Cam stayed on the back steps, watching the sun sink until Meg came home.

It took him a long time to get to sleep that night.  He kept staring at the picture on his nightstand, the one of him and Naomi when they were little.

Seven calls now.  Seven calls and seven messages.  He couldn’t make Naomi talk to him, he didn’t know how.  He felt sore, like his body was one giant bruise that wasn’t fading.

It was past one when he finally fell asleep, and when he did it was fitful, restless, waking every half-hour to check the clock.  To check the picture.  He kept shaking himself awake, certain it was missing, that he’d knocked it off the table and broken it, but it was always there.

When Cam finally did sleep deeper, he dreamt.  A confusing, liquid dream, where nothing stayed the same.  He dreamt he was on the old Adam West Batman, except it wasn’t Gotham, it was Sugar Beach, and everybody was dressed like superheroes, except for Cam.  In the dream, the capes and colors seemed perfectly normal, and his khakis and shirt felt more like a costume than anything they were wearing.  It was bright and colorful, and even the fighting was just like the show, with the
Pow!
and
Blammo!
  Cam recognized one of the fighters—a big guy with a Triforce hoodie. He owned the video game store downtown, and Cam and Meg had been in last week to put up extra shelving.  Rob?  Roth? 
Reese.
Underneath the hoodie he was dressed like one of the X-Men, but he was fighting Lex Luther, who was
three guys with guns
.  Cam fought to move towards them, because underneath the
Kerplows!
and silliness, the fight was getting ugly.  There was something uncomfortably real about the crunches, and the blood, and then there was a
spit, spit, spit
as fingers tightened on triggers
.  Strange little explosions in midair,
and Cam realized, Not bullets.
 
Darts
.  Strange little darts.

And then there was an earthquake?  Cam accepted this—after all, it was California. 
Vibrations built up, ‘
til the whole store was shaking
. 
Comics fluttered down from the shelves
.  A display case crashed over, right into one of the Luthers. 
A crack worked its way up the wall, sending shelves smashing into the floor.  Another Luther launched himself at Reese, tackled him to the ground.  Cam felt the barrel of the gun wedged against his chest, and there was that strange spitting sound again.  The dream blurred and
the vibrations faded away. 
He felt plastic cuffs
pulled tight around his wrists and tape mashed over his mouth.  Cam knew—saw—them drag him—Reese—out into the night.

He turned over in his sleep, and slipped deeper into darkness.

The trick was not throwing the rock hard enough to break the window.  She wanted to wake him up, not break in.  He hadn’t answered her texts, and she didn’t want to call the house and risk waking Meg.  Ashley erred on the side of caution, and the first couple tries fell short, rattling down the side of the house and plopping to a soft stop on the grass.

Ashley gave it a little more force, and a couple good ones snapped perfectly off the window.  She waited a second and, when nothing happened, hurled a couple more off.  Got a little too enthusiastic with the last one.  It struck the window with a sharp pop, and a crack spider-webbed out from the center.  Ashley dropped out of sight into the shadows.  God, please, don’t let her have woken Meg.

She saw him a moment later through the fractured glass, peering down into the yard.  It was nearing dawn, but it had been a cloudy, moonless night and she wondered if he could see her.  He must have, or maybe he was just an idiot, because he disappeared from the window and a minute later the back door opened and his scent fanned out into the yard.  She stepped back into the open.  “Ashley?  Why are—you didn’t—”

“No,” she said, though it hadn’t been a question.  It took her a second.  Cam was in his pj’s—that was, of course he was, it was barely morning—and he apparently slept in a pair of worn flannel pajama bottoms.  Only pajama bottoms.  And did a lot of crunches.  She cleared her throat, ignoring the warm, shivery feeling that slipped straight down to her belly.  “I need your help.  Ian’s gone.”  At the moment it was the best word for it.

“Ian?  Reese.”

She nodded.

For a second he focused on something in the distance, his expression taut, and then his face scrunched up as if he had a headache.  There were dark circles under his eyes and tension lines on his face.  She almost wished she hadn’t woken him.

“Okay,” he said finally.  “Let me get a shirt.”

It took forever to get to Level Up.  Ashley was about to go out of her mind, keeping pace with Cam.  She debated throwing him over her shoulder so she could run, but that probably wasn’t the best idea.  The boy looked tired and tense and pale; he seemed drained.  Hauling him around like a sack of potatoes wouldn’t help.  And he was pushing himself.  He was running.  Wasn’t his fault if she could take his run at a relaxed jog.

Brody was waiting for her by the hair salon.  The sky was already starting to lighten.  Ashley slowed when she saw him, pushing back on muscles that wanted to run, race, tear.  The scent was out here, almost as bad.  It hung in the air like fog, rich and heavy, soaking the street.  Ashley glanced at Cam, but she knew he couldn’t smell it.  How could anyone not smell that?  Christ, she could
feel
it, pressing against her skin.  She tried to focus on Brody, to will herself into resentment because he would be here, waiting.  He wouldn’t even say anything about it, she knew, like it was taken for granted that if she called he’d show.  She tried not to feel grateful.

Okay, maybe a little bit.  He’d brought her a pair of shoes.  She tended to forget them; they weren’t allowed shoes at the facility and Ashley had gotten used to not wearing any.  As she slipped them on, she caught him glancing at Cam.  There was a question there, Ashley knew it, but Brody just nodded to Cam and led them through an alley to where the store’s back door was standing open.  She held back.  Wished she had something to hold onto
.

“What is it?” Cam asked.

Ashley breathed in, small, shallow breaths. Nodded to the open door.  “Blood.”

He eyed the door warily.  “A lot?”

“Yes.  No.”  It was always a lot.  She tried breathing through her mouth, but that didn’t help.

“You going to be okay?” Brody asked.

Ashley shrugged.  “Yeah.”  Maybe.

Then the breeze shifted, and for a second the scent of sawdust and mint and something that was only Cam, no one else, cut through the blood and cleared her head.  She wanted to grab onto him, burrow her head against his skin, until he was the only thing she could smell.  With that smell she could
think.

“I’ll go in by myself,” Brody offered.

Ashley hesitated.  It was tempting.  But Cam was watching at her.  She shook her head. 

Brody came up, looked her right in the eye.  “You’ll be fine.  You can do this.  You are not what they made you.”

She nodded.  Yeah, right.

Brody gave her a look.  She wished he wouldn’t.  He had a way of making you look back, even when you didn’t want to.  Ashley didn’t know how, but she really hated it.  Man had a stare like a scalpel; it cut through all the bullshit.  “Say it.”

“I’m not what they made me.”  She almost choked on the lie, but Brody didn’t call her on it.

Ashley could feel Cam’s eyes on her.  There was a question there.  She forced her feet forward.

She wasn’t sure what she expected, but the store was worse.  Shelves slanting off their hinges, comics spilling to the floor, and a large crack climbing up one wall.  One of the glass display cases had crashed over—that seemed to be the worst of it.  It was the figurine case; all of the X-Men busts were smashed up.  Nobody ever bought them—they were pricey—but Ian kept them because they looked nice.  He was going to be so pissed.

You can do this.

The bloodstain was smaller than she expected.  There was just the one, soaked into the carpet underneath the display case.  She felt Brody’s eyes on her and shook her head.  It wasn’t Ian’s.  But there was some of his—a few drops splattered across the counter and on the— “Brody.”

He was already there, doing his laser-eyed Batman thing.  He didn’t look up as she hopped over a pool of broken glass to join him.  “Don’t touch it.”

It was a note, marker scrawled on the back of a flyer, haphazard and smudged with blood.  “That’s his.”

“Handwriting?” Cam asked.

“Blood.  He says,” Brody read, “that a couple of kids tried to rob the place last night, that he scared them off with a baseball bat, but got cut up, and he’s headed to the hospital inland for stitches.  It’s not addressed to anyone,” he added.

“And it’s a note,” Cam said.  He sounded like he was taking this a lot better than she expected.  Brody glanced at him, almost cracking a smile.  Cam shrugged.  “It’s not that hard.  This isn’t Victorian England.  Why a note?  Why not call, or text?  We can do it, we have the technology.”  Cam looked from her to Brody and back again.  “He’s not in the hospital.  Those men wouldn’t have taken him just to bring him to the hospital.”

“What.  Men.” Brody asked.

Cam went silent for a long moment.

Finally, he said, “I had a dream.  I thought it was a dream.  Someone attacked Mr. Reese, here in the store.  They had guns.”  He scrunched his eyebrows together, pinched the bridge of his nose.  “There was an earthquake.  I think there was.  Was there an earthquake last night?”

“I didn’t feel one,” Ashley said.

“I could’ve—I thought there was.”  His voice was strained.  “I’m sorry, I…I hate when I dream them.  It gets mixed up.  They shot him.  With darts.”

“Who attacked him?” Brody asked.

Cam smiled wryly.  “Lex Luther.”

Brody looked at her.  “Ashley?”

“How many is ‘they’?” she asked Cam.

“Three, I think.”

She could smell
dozens
.  They clung to the carpet and the walls, they lingered every time someone picked up a comic or opened the door.  The long, lingering trails of sunscreen and sand and saltwater, the traces of the rosin Liz used on baseballs—that was Danny.  He came in every Tuesday like clockwork for the new
Aquaman
, and to chat when he didn’t have anything better to do.  Ashley crouched down to the floor, low, until it was a simple thing to fall onto her hands, ignoring the broken shards of glass and porcelain that cut into her palms as she followed the scents until she was almost crawling.  The mix of pizza and Sam Adams and carpet cleaner—that was Ian’s D&D group.  He closed early for them on Wednesdays, brought out the rusty folding table, and she’d helped him scrub up the spilled beer early Thursday.  She could smell the regulars—Sneaky Pete and his black gym socks, the rush of Tuesday when the crowd came for new comics.  It was getting hard to breathe.  Too many scents.  The hairspray from the salon next door, the gasoline and the bitter rubber of tires from out in the street, the sweat, the palm trees, the dog piss.  And the blood.  It clouded everything.

“Focus,” Brody murmured.

“Too much.  Too much everything.”  Too much blood.  A thousand different scents, but the blood filled her, threatened to drag her back under. The facility always smelled like blood.  They would scrub and clean and bleach, but she could still smell it, she could always smell it.

Don’t think about it, don’t think, don’t think.  She closed her eyes against it, but that was a mistake because with that smell in her head she could see the white hallways stretching out in front of her.  Her head was swimming.  She felt drunk with it.  White walls, white floors, white masks, silver shackles on her arms and legs.

“Focus.”

They would strap her down.  Strap her down and wheel her in.  Procedure, they said, but procedure soon became necessary.  Because she burned through the drugs—they’d do what they could but she burned through the drugs so fast and she’d stay awake, be awake.  They had to strap her down because she would get so angry.  Because it hurt.