S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND: Season Two Omnibus (Episodes 9-11) (75 page)

Not even the sleeping pills could draw her away from this obsession. “I can fix him,” she'd say, her words slurring. “Ill figgerrrr sumpin ow.”

“Does Mommy know magic?” Cassie had asked him, that first night. She had been witness to the entire display and was obviously confused by her mother's behavior. “Can she really make Remy come back?”

“No, honey. There's no such thing as magic, only science.”

He needed to make Lyssa see that. He needed her to realize there were still people who needed her.

So he found the puppy in the pound and brought him home. A distraction, not a replacement. But Lyssa was too far lost inside of herself, a ghost to the rest of the world. She would only talk about the day and a half their son was theirs, reliving each and every moment as if only they had been real everything else was a dream. She existed only in that microcosm, obsessed with the curve of his eyelashes, dwelling overlong in the creases of his wrists. The dead boy became her entire universe.

And Poor Cassie. She had been so wonderful, so patient! She could've been miserable —
should
have been — given how her parents had so neglected her those first few days. She could've taken the dog as her own. Ramon could see how invisible it was to Lyssa. But she didn't. The puppy would follow her around, and she'd keep bringing it back to the master bedroom, putting it on the bed next to Lyssa, on her lap. But she didn't even seem to know it was there. She was somewhere else,
someplace
else. She was still in that grave.

The poor puppy just wanted attention. And Cassie was trying so hard not to grow attached to it.

So he brought the rabbit home for her a few days later. Maybe if the two bonded, then Lyssa would somehow learn from it. She would follow that path to a place where she could begin to heal.

Was it a mistake? He just didn't know.

Flashing lights ahead brought him out of his thoughts. It was another checkpoint.

He was barely holding on himself, clinging to sanity by his fingertips. Unless he acted soon, he would fall into the same pit of self-despair that Lyssa had.

The knock on his window startled him. “Where are you headed, sir?” the marine asked, a hand on the butt of his rifle, the other shining a flashlight through the glass, illuminating the empty passenger seat, the back. He was a young man, barely old enough to shave. He even had a rash of acne on his chin.

Ramon rolled the window down. “Flanders Bay,” he said. It was only partially true, since he planned on passing through there before heading further east. It would do for now until he had a better plan, a better excuse, because if he confessed his true destination, then they would know who he was and they might give him grief.

Once you get to Flanders, then what?
There was very little between there and the lab. What if there were more checkpoints? What would his excuse be then?

“Purpose, sir?”

“My boat's there,” he lied, “in the harbor. I'm planning on taking it out in the morning. Just a leisure cruise.”

“Coast Guard's screening everyone leaving land, so you know. Pop the trunk, please.”

He did as requested and the soldier disappeared behind the car.

Ramon fingered the paper copy of the driver's license folded up in his shirt pocket and hoped he wouldn't be asked to show identification.

“No supplies?”

Ramon looked up, frowning. “Excuse me?”

“You're going on the water tomorrow, but you don't have any supplies?”

“Oh,” he said, relieved, “I packed the boat today— well, yesterday, before they said to stay home.”

The marine nodded and waved him on. “Be safe, sir.”

Ramon gave him a wan smile. “Anymore checkpoints?”

“Between here and the Bay? No. You're good to go.”

And beyond?
But, of course, he didn't ask.

“But if you were thinking of going south, say, through the base at Hubbard County Park down to Hampton Bays, that whole area is still under lockdown. I'd avoid it.”

Ramon was tempted to push for more information, but he just mumbled a thank you and pulled away from the stop. Once out of the glow of the tan truck's headlights and into the darkness beyond, he let out a deep breath.

Now's when having a boat would really come in handy.

He soon passed Riverhead and was on his way to Mattuck, and while there were signs of checkpoints — military and police vehicles — they appeared to be unmanned. He finally arrived at the gate to the laboratory compound just shy of one-thirty in the morning, both surprised and perplexed to find it completely deserted. Given the publicity, he'd expected someone to be here.

In the glare from the perimeter floodlights, he could see nothing amiss. The fence wasn't charged. Instead, it was topped by a double coil of razor wire. There was no sign that anyone had tried to gain access by cutting the chain link.

This was the advantage of having the lab located so far off the beaten path, out at land's end. Nobody ever came out here unless they had business. It was simply too remote, too far from civilization, even if only by a half-hour, that not even protesters found it worth their while to come all the way out here. Sure, the location had worked against them in the past, making recruitment of qualified talent difficult, but it now seemed to work in their favor. He was utterly alone.

He pressed his identification badge against the keypad and waited for the gate to roll open, rattling heavily on its metal track. After passing through it, he slowed, watching in the mirror as it slid shut again. Nothing came out of the darkness of the woods alongside the road; nobody sane would be out at this hour unless they had to be.

When the clanking ceased, he drove the winding course around the corner of the compound to the parking lot. And although he couldn't see the ocean out to his left, he could feel its presence, could feel the weight of the waves battering themselves against the rocks. Around the corner, the sound was cut off by the building. But then the darkness pressed in on him, and it felt like the spirits of those he had tragically lost.

 

Lyssa dropped the blanket and stumbled backward away from the bed. One of her heels caught the sharp corner of Cassie's dresser. Wires of pain shot up the back of her leg, turning her moan of horror into a sharp cry of anguish.

She crashed back, knocking objects to the floor. A snow globe of downtown New York thumped onto the carpet and wobbled beneath the bed. A jar of pennies tipped and spilled behind the dresser.

And yet, despite the noise, despite Lyssa's choked cries, Cassie didn't move. She slept on without stirring, oblivious to the terror she had created in her mother by sharing her bed with the battered, bloody, mud-caked corpse of her pet rabbit.

A sound, like a massive cataract, filled Lyssa's ears, flooding through her head, her whole being, drowning her insensate. She crouched at the base of the dresser, the back of her shirt yanked halfway up to her shoulders by the drawer pulls jabbing into her spine.
Why?
was all she could think.
Why?

The lump at Cassie's feet seemed to grow. Lyssa stared at it, waiting for it to do what she willed herself and yet could not do: move. But it did not. Her mind registered the tiny rise and fall of Cassie's breathing, but the form further down remained as still as a statue.

Gradually, she became aware again of the burning sensation in her heel and the cold hard knuckles pressing into her back. She shifted awkwardly, forcing muscles to release themselves and obey her commands. It seemed a herculean effort, willing her body to ignore the dueling urges to flee and pull Cassie from the bed, to throttle some sense into the girl.

Why why why?

There was no sensible reason for the desecration, no possible explanation for her daughter's defiant act. The girl knew about death, how permanent it was. Lyssa knew Ramon had spoken to her about it, reasoning with her as if she were a person twice her own age with twice the ability to comprehend. Despite the inappropriateness of his bumbling attempts to make her understand, Cassie had to know that once something died, it didn't come back.

The government discovered a way to reanimate people.

She wanted to shout at Ramon's voice inside of her head, wanted to tell him to shut up.

No such things as zombie rabbits. Only people.

It was Ramon's fault for saying that.

But when did Cassie do it? When did she dig up the carcass?

And how had she managed to slip it past her and Ramon?

Lyssa pushed herself shakily to her feet, knocking the dresser back against the wall in the process. A picture frame toppled over, smacking the surface. She reached instinctively back and pushed it away from the edge. That thing in Cassie's bed, she was totally focused on it now. She had to get it out of the room, out of the house. Out of their lives. It was dangerous— not in any physical way, but what it represented. It needed to be destroyed.

She took a tentative step forward, hesitated, torn by indecision. Even in her current state, she knew that she could cause Cassie more psychological harm unless she handled the situation properly. She thought about sneaking it out from under the sheet.

No! Cassie needs to know this is unacceptable behavior!

On the other hand, what if she hadn't even been aware she'd done it? What if she'd unburied the body while in a sleeping-pill-induced torpor?

The uncertainty froze Lyssa. She couldn't remember if she'd given Cassie a pill earlier that evening.

It explains why she hasn't woken.

It was wrong to give Cassie those pills, she knew it. And now it was coming back to bite her in the ass.

This is all your fault, taking the easy way out.

She took another step forward and reached for the crumpled blanket, touched it with trembling fingers, tips curling around to grasp an edge to peel it away.

It moved!

She stared wide-eyed at the lump.

It's bigger!

It did seem bigger. But it hadn't mov—

Lyssa stumbled back, sure she had seen it shift. This time her foot landed on the snow globe and down she went. Her head cracked hard against a drawer pull.

Consciousness fled from her. Into that darkness she fled, chased by the image of the dead rabbit and the sound of its angry growl.

* * *

The phone was ringing.

She was standing on a barren windswept hilltop and the sun was out and it was too bright. She was all alone, lost, and screaming. And the phone was ringing.

Somebody really ought to get that.

Her cheek was wet. She tried to raise a hand to touch it, puzzling at the cloudless sky, bewildered at how blood-red it was instead of blue. Red, yet still dazzlingly bright.

But her hand wouldn't move. And yet she knew that her cheek was wet. She could feel the coldness there every time the hot wind pressed itself against her.

She realized she'd stopped screaming. Nevertheless, the sound of it continued to echo about her, which seemed strange, given that there was nothing around to throw the sound back.

Like the wet cheek, she knew her surroundings without visual proof. Without turning to verify it with her own eyes. She just . . . knew it.

Riiiiiiiing.

What the hell is this place?

She couldn't seem to remember how she'd gotten here or what she was doing before she'd arrived.

Another gust of hot air on her face, hard this time, rough, almost physical.

Lyssa opened her eyes. She turned her head toward the light and saw Shinji, and she blinked at him and thought,
Bad dog. Get off my bed.

But she knew in the next instant that she wasn't in her own room. It was daylight. The sun was shining in the window and falling on her face. She was lying on the floor and the pounding in her head was so fierce that it felt like something inside of her skull trying to hammer its way out. This time when she tried to turn her head, the pain exploded, sending hot waves of nausea through her body.

She was going to be sick. Her stomach clenched and tried to force itself up her throat. It didn't matter that it was empty. The muscles in her abdomen contracted and she convulsed. A silent scream filled her head and the ringing—

That damn ringing! What is that?

The nausea rose and just as quickly fell away again, leaving her gasping for air.

Now on one elbow, tears streaming down her cheeks. The clamp on her throat felt like a metal vise.

Eventually, the fog in her head cleared a little. She remembered Shinji behind her. She turned, still wondering how she'd managed to get on the floor. Had she fainted from exhaustion and hit her head? Where was Cassie? And Ramon?

The last thing she remembered was darkness falling and her husband pacing in the kitchen, accusing her of conducting illegal experiments.

She reached blindly out and laid a hand on Shinji. Her mind simply couldn't register why he was cold and rigid, not until the memory of what had befallen her last night came flooding back.

And then she really did scream out loud. And this time the sound didn't echo at all. Not even when Cassie rose from the bed, her eyes dark circles in her pale face.

Not even when the girl kneeled down beside her and opened her mouth wide and began to scream with her.

 

Lyssa made Ramon take the carcass outside. She didn't ask him what he did with it, though he told her anyway. “It's Sunday,” he reminded her, after she'd come back downstairs after her shower, after she'd ripped the filthy, muddy, blood and gore-stained sheets from Cassie's bed and replaced them with clean ones from the linen closet. After she'd scrubbed Cassie down in the bathtub with the toilet brush until the girl's skin was raw and they were both screaming and their throats were sore and neither of them had anymore tears to cry. “They'll pick up the trash bins first thing tomorrow morning,” he quietly told her.