Adermoor Cove: Dissolved Girl - 9. Chapter 9

The footage Moira had recorded on her phone played on the wall, a montage of horrific images: Lane was running for the cell door, his eyes bulging with a boyish look of terror; Ramona grabbing him by the throat and slamming him up against the wall. Carlos could almost fool himself into thinking it was some cheap horror movie, only he’d been there himself. Seen it with his own eyes.

Lane sat in the chair beside him. His face showed no emotion. Only the dark look in his eyes and the stiffness of his body betrayed how he was really feeling. Carlos wanted to reach over and take his hand, offer encouragement, but he sensed it was better to leave Lane alone.

Nichols stood over by the projector. Melvin sat next to him. Everyone was watching the screen. Cynthia Richards, Devin Smith. They were the ones who needed to be brought up to speed. Cynthia Richards kept looking at Lane with wide eyes. It was impossible to tell if her expression was of fear or amazement or both.

Carlos was glad when the video ended. He stood up, walked over to the projector, flipped the machine off. Nichols turned on the lights. For a long time no one said anything. Richards and Smith were looking at him, their faces mirror expressions of pale disbelief. Richards darkened brow was creased.

“Is this a joke?” she asked.

“It’s not,” said Carlos.

She laughed. “Because if it is, it’s a pretty fucking good one. A pre-Halloween little prank.” She was starting to sound angry.

“It’s not a joke,” Carlos repeated. “Jack and Melvin were there.”

“We were,” Nichols said. He drew himself up by Carlos’s side. Melvin did the same. Carlos was grateful for their support. “We saw the whole thing.”

Devin ran a hand over his short-cropped blond hair. “Prove it.”

“Showing them a little video isn’t going to convince them and neither is our word,” said Lane. “They need a demonstration.” He sounded tired, look tired. For the last few days, since they’d met with the mayor, Lane had been in a foul mood. Distant. Carlos was worried about him. He wanted to help Lane, but Lane wasn’t talking much.

“Why is this little shit not in handcuffs and a jail cell? Or a strait jacket?” Devin hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Lane. Lane glared at him but said nothing. Carlos needed to diffuse the situation before a fight broke out. Luckily Lane and he had come up with a demonstration.

Carlos motioned for Nichols to begin. Nichols disappeared into the evidence room and came back out, pushing a table on wheels. On the table was several items: a cage with two rats inside; a single ziplock bag with a container inside, used for holding evidence; a box of gloves; a pile of clothes; and a dripper. All provided by the mayor.

Cynthia and Devin had retreated back into silence, watching as Carlos and Nichols put on their protective gear: an extra long-sleeved shirt and bullet proof vest, black gloves, and a helmet with a visor that completely covered their faces. No part of their skin was exposed. Melvin stood off to the side with a portable video camera.

Carlos reached into the Ziplock bag and carefully pulled out the container. Inside was the black fluid that had destroyed his and several peoples’ lives. He carefully unscrewed the lid, checked to make sure there was nothing on the bottom of the lid. Already he could feel sweat beginning to drip down his forehead. He hated doing this. It was one of the moments when he regretted accepting his father’s badge.

He grabbed the dripper, carefully lowered it into the container, into the liquid. Squeezed the black handle. Liquid was sucked up into the plastic. A test had already been done to make sure the shit wouldn’t melt the plastic like acid. “This,” he said, holding the dripper over the rat’s cage, “is what infected the bear that killed my father, and what infected Ramona.”

Cynthia and Devin’s eyes zeroed on it. They looked frightened and fascinated in equal measures. Nichols already had his hand on the butt of his firearm. The only person in the room who looked completely calm was Lane; he almost looked bored, as if this was something he’d seen a million times before. Carlos told everyone to stay back a safe distance. He squeezed the droplet twice, once for each of the rats. One drop each was all it took. Cynthia and Devin scooted a little closer to get a better look but still remained a safe distance away.

The rats squeaked in fright as the ichor seeped into their eyes like parasites. The sound hurt Carlos’s ears. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for them even though he’d always felt rats to be disgusting. They’re just rats, he told himself. This has to be done. He still felt like a mad scientist.

Devin said something foul. Cynthia said nothing but kept watching.

The already infected rats, sensing other hosts to infect, began hissing, trying to get out of the cage. They bit at the wire, leaving strands of the infection behind. One of them reared back and spat a stream of it at Carlos. Carlos stepped instinctively out of the way. Even if he was wearing protection, he didn’t want any of the shit touching him. One of the rats had already bitten a hole through the cage and was squeezing its fat little body through a hole, the second one right behind it.

The two rats scurried across the floor before launching themselves at the closest prey: Cynthia and Devin. Cynthia screamed and fell ass-first on the floor. Devin scrambled back and knocked over his chair. Carlos was sure the worst was getting ready to happen, was just thinking this demonstration had been the dumbest fucking idea on the face of the planet, when both rats hit an invisible brick wall. They landed on the carpeted floor, little furry bodies broken and twisted. Lane stood feet away, eyes glowing with a milky light. Cynthia and Devin looked up at him with comical open-mouthed looks of awe.

Carlos let out a sigh of relief. “Is everyone okay?”

Devin staggered to his feet. “What the fuck was that?”

“That’s everything wrong with this town personified,” Lane said. He stepped to the front of the room.

“H-How did you do that?” Cynthia said.

Lane made a flourishing motion with his hand. “Magic. So, do we have your attention or what? Because I’m only going to explain this once. What you just saw, the infection, it’s in this town. It can infect animals and it can infect people. Once it gets on your skin, it will go for the eyes or mouth. Any orifice it can get to really. Once it’s in you, you basically become a mindless zombie whose only intent is to spread it to whoever you can. It killed my father, it killed the man I was going to marry; it killed my aunt and Ted Maygers, and his wife. Who knows how many other people it’s killed throughout the centuries. And the truth is, your mayor knew about it all along.”

“Jesus,” Devin breathed. “How do we stop it?”

Now they’re listening, Carlos thought.

“A bullet,” said Lane.

“But you saved Ramona,” said Cynthia.

“That was mostly blind luck. I easily could have killed her and I’m pretty sure I almost killed myself doing it. I can probably do it once more but not if a bunch of people get infected. That’s why we’re giving you this little crash course, so we can prevent any further infection.”

“What are the signs?” Devin asked.

“Black eyes. Vomiting up the black stuff. Black stains on the wall, kind of like moss. Creepy looking bugs. It can appear anywhere it wants to.” Lane cleared his throat. “Even with all my encounters with the plague, there’s still a lot I don’t know. The reason why I’m here is to figure it out and stop it. Okay, seminar over.”

Lane walked out of the police department, double glass doors swinging shut behind him. Carlos stared after him a moment before jogging out into the chilly daylight. Lane was walking towards the Mustang. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. The wind blew his raven-black hair from his forehead. The sides, which he usually kept shaved down to a fade, were beginning to grow out into tufts.

“Wait!” Carlos said. He grabbed Lane’s arm.

Lane stopped, turned to face him. He waited for Carlos to say what he had to say.

“What’s wrong?” Carlos panted. “What’s going through your mind right now? Don’t shut me out. Talk to me.”

“Right now I want to go to the lighthouse, take a long hot bath, smoke a joint, sleep for about a year, and be left alone for a little bit.”

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to go back to the lighthouse.” Carlos was thinking of Ted. He knew his death still weighed heavily on Lane’s mind. Even now he could sense the torment within the younger man. The dark circles around his eyes wasn’t from eyeshadow because he hadn’t had time to put any on lately. “Just go back to my house. I’ve got some other things I need to do, so I’ll be awhile. You just do what you need to do and get some rest.”

Lane’s lip might have twitched. The sun reflected off his black fingernail polish as he raised his hand and caressed Carlo’s cheek. He kissed him gently on the lips. “Thanks. You’re sweeter than I deserve. But I can’t stay at your house forever.”

“Or you could,” Carlos said a bit too hopefully.

This time Lane really did smile. “Maybe one day. But not today. I have to go home. Call you later?”

“You better, you little shit.”

Lane kissed him before ducking inside his car. Carlos watched him drive away, his heart plummeting.

                            ...

Lane could still see the spot where Ted Maygers had died. A section of the carpet had been removed, showing the wood paneling beneath, but the black fluid had somehow seeped through the fabric. The fluid had dried, creating a stain. With gloved hands Lane had tried to scrub it up, but the stain would not go away. It would forever be there to remind him of what he’d done.

Fuck it. He dropped the sponge into the bucket of sudsy water. He was going to have to replace the carpet - the whole carpet. But right now he didn’t have the energy to deal with it - he didn’t have the energy to even think about dealing with it.

He went up the stairs to the bathroom, drew himself a bath. He’d brought his little sandwich bag of rolled joints with him, and a little packet of matches he’s scavenged from one of the many hotels he’d stayed in. He stripped naked, settled in the water, lit the joint with a match. The last time he remembered getting stoned had been with Carlos; he couldn’t remember when that had been exactly. So much had happened since then.

Within a minute or two he was pleasantly high. He laid back, head resting against the porcelain edge of the tub. Looking up at the ceiling, he let his thoughts drift. Enjoyed the silence. No one yakking at him, asking him if he was okay. No one needing him to save the day. No one dying. He just needed a few hours to get his head on straight, to be human for a little while.

Half an hour later, just as he was pulling the plug from the drain, he heard a crash downstairs. Lane froze, eyes wide. He listened. He heard someone’s voice. It wasn’t Carlos or any voice he recognized.

Who would be breaking into my house? he thought, incredulous and scared at the same time.

He reached for the towel and rose out of the water as quietly as he could. Stepped out of the water. Dried himself. Got dressed. He listened the whole time. Something shattered downstairs. He could hear glass tinkling on the floor. His cell phone was downstairs, so he couldn’t call Carlos. And so was his gun.

Lane crept slowly down the hallway, barefoot. His shirt clung to his skin from where he was still wet. The stairs creaked beneath his feet but the commotion downstairs continued. There was another crash, the sound of something being knocked over. At last Lane reached the bottom of the stairs.

A man Lane had never seen before stood in the middle of the living room. He was of average height and build. He wore a three piece suit. His medium-length brown hair, shot with streaks of silver, was slicked back with sweat. Even from where he stood, Lane could smell the reek of alcohol on him.

The man turned and looked at Lane with hazel eyes. He had high cheekbones, a small mouth. To Lane he looked like a rat. Sly and dirty. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The living room was a mess. The man had knocked over the shelf full of records and CDs. The record player lay in pieces. One of the glass panes of the curio cabinet had been shattered. The bucket of soapy water had been kicked aside; water soaked the carpet, the floor. The man looked at Lane with murderous rage.

“Lane Hardy,” the man said. “At long last. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you little shit.”

“I don’t know you,” Lane managed to say.

The man chuckled, running a hand through his hair. The corner of one eye twitched. “But I know all about you. I know about all your little false identities. I know about what happened with your fag boyfriend. I know what happened at that faerie bar in Colorado. I’ve been looking for you for a long time.” The man shook his head. He was sobbing pitifully now. He was holding something in his hand, had been holding it this whole time, but Lane was just now realizing what it was. A gun. Not his gun, a different gun,

The man was sobbing hysterically, shoulders shaking. “I have to kill you...in order to save my daughter...”

Then he raised the gun, aimed it at Lane, and fired.