said.
Astrid stared gloomily at her brother. He coughed twice and then lay quiet. “The thing is, I don’t know what would happen.”
“If he got sick?”
“If he died. I don’t know. I do not know.”
Pete
THE DARKNESS WAS watching him, touching him with its wispy tendril, listening for him to speak.
He would not speak. The Darkness could not help him. The Darkness only wanted to play, and it was so jealous when Pete played with anyone else.
Come to me, it said over and over again.
Pete’s legs were weak. He stood poised atop the glass but his legs hurt and his feet, too, like the glass sheet was slicing into him.
He had felt better when his mother was there. She was quiet, the way he liked. She had not tried to touch him except to let him lie there against her breast and feel the soft rise and fall of her breathing.
But then the breathing had begun to wear on him, making him distracted. If it didn’t stop . . .
But then it did stop when he made her go away. He could remember the good part, before the sound of breathing got to be too much, and not have to hear it anymore.
Loud sister was talking and then another. The other touched him with her hand. He looked at her and was puzzled. A faint green tendril spiraled up to touch her. She seemed to be on both sides of the glass at once.
He felt her touch and it made him tense. He endured it, but inside he was feeling worse and worse.
Hot. Like fire was inside him.
He didn’t want to hear any more from his body.
The other left. She took her hand away and left. But he could feel an echo of her inside him. She had touched the Darkness, but she refused its pleas to come and play.
He wondered . . . but now his body was drawing his attention again. Hot and cold, hungry and thirsty.
It bothered him.
Chapter Eight
54 HOURS, 21 MINUTES
“KILL IT! KILL me!”
It was muffled, but you could still hear it. They’d closed the air-conditioning vents—wasn’t like there was air-conditioning anymore—but still the desperate wail came up from the basement.
Howard was out at some kind of stupid meeting. Some big deal. Howard always had big deals.
Charles Merriman, who everyone called Orc, rummaged in the mess beside his couch. There had to be something left in one of these bottles. He didn’t want to have to go into the back room closet and get another bottle.
“It’s the only way. Sam! Sam! Tell Sam to do it!”
Orc wasn’t drunk. Not drunk enough to ignore the sound of that stupid girl’s voice. That took a pretty good drunk and right now he was only drunk enough that he didn’t want to get up off the couch.
His stony fingers lifted a bottle. Wild Turkey. Only about half an inch of brown liquid left in the bottom. He twisted the cork. The glass neck of the bottle shattered in his grip. That happened fairly often. Orc had a hard time gauging his strength when he was a little drunk.
He blew slivers of glass away. He raised the bottle high, careful to keep the sharp points away from his still-human mouth.
The one part of him that could be cut: his mouth.
Well, his mouth and his eyes.
He drained the fiery liquid into his mouth and swallowed. Oh, yeah. Yeah. But not enough.
Orc levered himself up. He was heavy, like you’d expect of a boy made of wet gravel. Like a walking creature of wet cement. He couldn’t fit on a scale although Howard had tried once to weigh him.
He had crushed the scales.
He stomped toward the booze closet where Howard kept his stash. With the exaggerated care of a person not in control of his body, Orc opened the closet door.
A few bottles of clear booze. A few bottles of brown booze. A couple bottles of Cabka, the liquor Howard made by distilling cabbage and rotten oranges. It was nasty stuff. Orc preferred the brown booze.
He snagged a bottle and after a few seconds of clumsy fumbling he gave up and twisted the glass neck off.
“Is that you up there, Orc? I hear you stomping around.” Drake. The girl Brittney was
Astrid stared gloomily at her brother. He coughed twice and then lay quiet. “The thing is, I don’t know what would happen.”
“If he got sick?”
“If he died. I don’t know. I do not know.”
Pete
THE DARKNESS WAS watching him, touching him with its wispy tendril, listening for him to speak.
He would not speak. The Darkness could not help him. The Darkness only wanted to play, and it was so jealous when Pete played with anyone else.
Come to me, it said over and over again.
Pete’s legs were weak. He stood poised atop the glass but his legs hurt and his feet, too, like the glass sheet was slicing into him.
He had felt better when his mother was there. She was quiet, the way he liked. She had not tried to touch him except to let him lie there against her breast and feel the soft rise and fall of her breathing.
But then the breathing had begun to wear on him, making him distracted. If it didn’t stop . . .
But then it did stop when he made her go away. He could remember the good part, before the sound of breathing got to be too much, and not have to hear it anymore.
Loud sister was talking and then another. The other touched him with her hand. He looked at her and was puzzled. A faint green tendril spiraled up to touch her. She seemed to be on both sides of the glass at once.
He felt her touch and it made him tense. He endured it, but inside he was feeling worse and worse.
Hot. Like fire was inside him.
He didn’t want to hear any more from his body.
The other left. She took her hand away and left. But he could feel an echo of her inside him. She had touched the Darkness, but she refused its pleas to come and play.
He wondered . . . but now his body was drawing his attention again. Hot and cold, hungry and thirsty.
It bothered him.
Chapter Eight
54 HOURS, 21 MINUTES
“KILL IT! KILL me!”
It was muffled, but you could still hear it. They’d closed the air-conditioning vents—wasn’t like there was air-conditioning anymore—but still the desperate wail came up from the basement.
Howard was out at some kind of stupid meeting. Some big deal. Howard always had big deals.
Charles Merriman, who everyone called Orc, rummaged in the mess beside his couch. There had to be something left in one of these bottles. He didn’t want to have to go into the back room closet and get another bottle.
“It’s the only way. Sam! Sam! Tell Sam to do it!”
Orc wasn’t drunk. Not drunk enough to ignore the sound of that stupid girl’s voice. That took a pretty good drunk and right now he was only drunk enough that he didn’t want to get up off the couch.
His stony fingers lifted a bottle. Wild Turkey. Only about half an inch of brown liquid left in the bottom. He twisted the cork. The glass neck of the bottle shattered in his grip. That happened fairly often. Orc had a hard time gauging his strength when he was a little drunk.
He blew slivers of glass away. He raised the bottle high, careful to keep the sharp points away from his still-human mouth.
The one part of him that could be cut: his mouth.
Well, his mouth and his eyes.
He drained the fiery liquid into his mouth and swallowed. Oh, yeah. Yeah. But not enough.
Orc levered himself up. He was heavy, like you’d expect of a boy made of wet gravel. Like a walking creature of wet cement. He couldn’t fit on a scale although Howard had tried once to weigh him.
He had crushed the scales.
He stomped toward the booze closet where Howard kept his stash. With the exaggerated care of a person not in control of his body, Orc opened the closet door.
A few bottles of clear booze. A few bottles of brown booze. A couple bottles of Cabka, the liquor Howard made by distilling cabbage and rotten oranges. It was nasty stuff. Orc preferred the brown booze.
He snagged a bottle and after a few seconds of clumsy fumbling he gave up and twisted the glass neck off.
“Is that you up there, Orc? I hear you stomping around.” Drake. The girl Brittney was
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