Part 11 (2/2)

The lawns are starting to smell syrupy sweet. In the next week or so, many of the blossoms on the trees change to leaves, however that works.

The leaves are so fragile, an infant green, they look almost frightened when they first cl.u.s.ter at the joints and elbows of the trees in the yard.

All I seem to see on the news are stories about people killing inhumans. I've never noticed it so much before. There are still all the same stories about starvation, and fighting in the Middle East, and senators talking about the national debt - but now I notice more than I ever did before those other stories about the mobs, the lynchings, all over America.

I see the deaths of vampires, as much as can be shown; and I watch the televised burning of witches. I see the chasing of warlocks through main streets in Iowa. And then there are the Abominations of Slanterville, a town in Florida that is found to be filled with wors.h.i.+ppers of an alligator-G.o.d named Slundge. Federal agents were lowered in on bungee cords from helicopters and they captured the townspeople, who had bred with beasts of the swamp to produce squalling children with mongrel patches of scale and horn. The people of Slanterville, down to the rat-tailed babies, were sent to prison, and their town was burned in the night.

”I don't know why the Feds didn't just kill those Abominations,” says my mother idly as she pa.s.ses in front of the TV, feeding herself Cheetos. ”It's not like they could ever lead normal lives.”

In prison, away from the swamps, the Abominations started to weaken and get sick. A fight broke out. I guess some human inmates claimed that the Abominations of Slanterville hogged the showers. The fight turned into a riot, and within fifteen minutes all the Abominations in the male ward had been beaten to death. The riot spread. More people were killed. In a prison riot, the first to die are the inhumans. The Abominations, the trolls, the changelings, the demon-possessed.

I can't believe I'm one of a hated race, too. It doesn't matter that I'm a half-vampire and they're Abominations. We are all hated. We are brethren in being hated. I watch the human inmates brandis.h.i.+ng b.l.o.o.d.y instruments, waving them in triumph, and I can't understand why they hate me so much. I have done nothing. It is like they are saying, ”We're coming for you next, boy. We know your zip code; we're on our way. We'll kill you all.”

But then I think, I am not inhuman yet. I am not inhuman yet.

I will not be a killer; I will not give them reason to hate me.

I feel people's eyes on me all the time. ”Why are you watching that gruesome footage?” my mother asks. ”You want your brain to turn to mush?”

And when I keep watching I notice her lingering by the door, looking at me as if she's worried about me. She's worried about why I have to keep staring at these scenes. I can't pay attention to the screen when she looks at me that way because I'm too busy being looked at. I just sit there, not looking back, hoping she'll go away, and I wonder: What is the difference between the look of a parent who is concerned and the look of a parent who is suspicious?

She doesn't look concerned or suspicious when my brother watches riot footage, because he talks constantly about the media and the splicing techniques.

She almost glares at me, though, as if she knows, maybe somewhere deep within her, that what I'm watching is myself being killed on screen. I'm staring at it because I need to know what might happen to me. I need to understand why I am hated.

I keep telling myself that it will not happen, that soon this will all be a memory.

But I do not know when Chet is coming; or why he would come; or if he is coming at all.

Peeper frogs are starting to chirp in the woods. The sunlight is bright through the leaves of the oaks. My brother is out there, in the back yard, filming slugs.

He has a big biology project to do. He decided to do a science doc.u.mentary on the life cycle of the slug. That way he can work with video equipment and lots of gastropods.

I am lying upstairs on my bed, trying to get some sleep. Through my open window, I can hear my brother's voice. ”Establis.h.i.+ng shot. The lawn,” he says. ”A fearsome jungle for the average garden slug.”

Somewhere downstairs, my mother is talking on the phone, comparing her antidepressant brand with her friends'.

It has been some time since I've slept. I hate the sunlight, now. It makes me weary.

I am trying to fall asleep, but I can still feel the dull thirst sucking at my upper palate. Everything bothers me. The glint of light from my posters. The hiccupping, nervous chirp of the peepers. The distant rumble of a lawn mower.

Something s.h.i.+fts over near my desk.

I turn the other way and jam my wrist in my ear. I close my eyes. My arm is uncomfortable, twisted so my wrist will fit in my ear. I turn the other way.

Something scuffs the rug.

I open my eyes. A man is in my room, staring down at me.

I sit up, yelping. It is the Thing with the One-Piece Hair. It approaches me. Its hands are spread outward, ten fingers raised in a fan. It has no expression on its face.

”No! s.h.i.+t! Get out!” I scream, scrabbling with my sleeve to reveal Chet's symbol.

The Thing keeps walking toward me.

”What's your problem?” calls Paul. ”Can you shut up?”

”Christopher,” says the Thing with the One-Piece Hair in its voice like many speaking. ”Do not be alarmed or attempt to flee. I am a servant of the Forces of Light.”

I babble, ”No, you're not! You broke in! Get out! You're . . . This is illegal!”

”I am a servant of the Forces of Light, and I have been instructed to approach you.”

”No, you're not!” I scream, holding out the sigil on my arm. ”Get out! You can't do this! This - this is breaking and entering.”

It gazes at me. ”As I am a five-dimensional construct, the concept of 'entering' has no useful application in this scenario.” It walks toward my bed. Its knees are by the edge of the bed. It bends down over me so its dead eyes are close to my face. I can smell its steely breath as it speaks.

”Get out!” I scream. ”Help! Help!”

The door slams open against the wall. My mother storms into the room. ”Chris!” she says. ”Good G.o.d, what's wrong?”

”Help me! It!” I say, inarticulately.

”What?”

”Hey, what's the matter?” yells Paul from the lawn. ”You okay in there?”

”He's fine,” my mother calls. ”A nightmare or something.”

”As you may observe, calling for help was ill advised and futile,” the Thing points out, straightening up.

”Chris, what's the matter?” my mother asks, concerned.

The Thing is prattling obliviously, ”I have come to make inquiries of the whereabouts of the Arm of Moriator, which was taken illegally from our a.r.s.enal twenty-eight days ago.”

”The Arm . . . it was taken illegally?” I stutter. ”I-I mean . . .”

”Who are you talking to?” my mother asks. ”h.e.l.lo? Earth to Chris.”

”Never mind,” I say to her. ”I'm fine now.”

”You're fine now. Great. Why is this family so crazy? Why, and I ask why, is this family so crazy?”

”You have seen the Arm of Moriator?” asks the Thing.

I nod.

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