The Fall of Crazy House, page 15
Grrrrrrrroooooowwwwwwwll. The noise was so low my chest vibrated. I’d never heard such an utterly menacing sound—it turned my blood to ice. Moving as little as possible, I turned my head and saw a large, gangly, smooth-coated dog hunched down, staring at me, its lip curled. Not—a wolf. Maybe a mastiff? A Rottweiler? It was about ten feet away.
My shoulder thudding painfully, I scanned the area and used every muscle I had to suppress a scream. Oh, God—there were more of them. Many more. Ten? Twelve? Their eyes reflected red in the darkness. They had snuck up on me as silently as Tim had snuck away.
I didn’t swallow—didn’t make a sound. Just tried to keep my shit together and assess the situation, as I’d been taught. The animals’ ribs were showing. Well, we were in a desert and we hadn’t seen any small prey. I wished I could tell them there was an enormous dead elk only a couple hours away.…
The largest dog inched forward, head lowered, growling. Clearly the pack was thinking I would provide at least one meal, between them.
Shit, shit, shit. Could I run, jump up on a display? Where was my gun? My fingers drifted to where it had been and then my terror turned to stunned disbelief. My gun is gone. Tim had left me with no weapon. That goddamn asshole! You need to leave, fine, leave! But give me a fighting chance!
Think, Cass, think. There’d been bows and arrows somewhere. My mouth was dry, my eyes hot. I had no idea where the bows and arrows were. I’d been so exhausted last night I hadn’t memorized the store layout. Ms. Strepp would think I’d deserve to die just for that.
My sleeping bag provided zero protection. Wait—I had a knife tucked into my boot. I’d have to be super close to the wild dogs to use it. Deathly close. But it was all I had. I gripped it in my left hand and faced the animals, pulling my knees in so I could jump up. I couldn’t swallow. After everything I’d been through, it was weird that this was how I was going to finally die.
I’m going to die today, a dim part of my brain registered. I’m going to die today. Tim deserted me, and now I’m going to die. And I’ll never see Becca again.
83
BECCA
“YOU ARE SHITTING ME,” I said flatly. The plain gray dress, its white apron tied neatly around the waist, lay over the back of a chair. The Loner patted it with one long, thin hand.
“It’s the best chance for success,” he said smoothly. “And it’s taken us almost two years to set this up, so don’t blow it.”
“A maid,” I said. “A housemaid.”
Nate turned from warming his hands at the fireplace. I hadn’t seen him or the others since dinner last night. I wonder where they slept. “Wouldn’t she have to have, you know, like domestic skills for that?” he asked, not even bothering to hide his smirk.
“I have domestic skills,” I insisted. I didn’t admit that in fact Cassie had inherited that gene. My domestic skills included almost being able to boil water for tea.
“You will be working in the kitchen,” the Loner told Nate, and handed him a pair of black-and-white checked pants and a white jacket. “The President entertains a lot and the kitchen is huge and well staffed. You’re going to start as a dishwasher.”
I thought of how, as a Provost’s son, everything had been done for Nate since he was born.
“Huh,” I said thoughtfully, putting one finger to my chin. “Wouldn’t he have to, you know, have any kind of skill for that?”
Nate’s face flushed, but he had no comeback.
“Two years,” the Loner warned us. “This plan has been in play for two years. Don’t tell me that Strepp sent me a couple of clowns.”
I glared. Two years? That meant the Loner had no intention of keeping Nate away from me—was yesterday some kind of test? He wanted to see how I’d react at being separated from my squad? I’ve had enough stupid mind games. “Okay,” I said. “Give us the brief.”
The Loner did, turning on the bank of large monitors that surrounded his desk. We saw several bird’s-eye maps of the President’s palace, and then a schematic map of each floor: four floors in all, and then a basement below.
“Memorize these,” the Loner said. “I’ve heard there’s been some remodeling of some areas, some redecoration. I haven’t been able to have that confirmed. But until you get inside to assess, this is the best we have to go on.”
We nodded.
“Once you’re there, Nate, you’ll report to Mal in the kitchen,” the Loner said. “He’ll show you what to do.”
“Washing dishes,” Nate said dully.
“Yes,” the Loner said, then turned to me.
“You’re starting as an undermaid, which is basically maid backup. You’ll do whatever they ask you to do.”
Nate snorted and I tried to change the mulish expression on my face.
“This will be great,” Nate said. “I’m sure that’ll come naturally to her.”
The Loner looked at us seriously. “You will do as you’re told,” he said. “You will not give away your identities or the fact that you’re on a mission. If you should be captured or found out, no one will admit to knowing you. No one will be able to come to your aid. Do you understand?”
I understand that I’m being screwed, I thought sourly, but said, “Yeah, I understand.”
“Nate?” the Loner prompted.
Nate didn’t look any more thrilled than I did, but he nodded. “Yeah. I got it.”
“Good. Okay. You guys get changed,” said the Loner. “And we’ll go to the palace.” With a flourish of the cape that mostly disguised his back deformity, he swept out, tall and thin like a stork.
“You know, I can’t call him ‘Loner’ anymore,” I told Nate. “He needs a new name.” I thought for a minute, then smiled evilly. “Blondie McMystery Man. It has a certain ring to it.”
“Fine,” Nate said. “But can you see me taking on the kitchen staff, armed only with a rolling pin and a sink of hot water?”
“I’ll be armed with a feather duster,” I pointed out, then mused, “Actually, I can think of seven different ways to kill someone with a feather duster.”
Nate looked at me. “You’re kind of scary and bloodthirsty,” he said. “I like that about you.”
I rolled my eyes and picked up the maid’s uniform. “Only ‘kind of’? I must be slipping.” But I thought of his words over and over—was Nate flirting with me?
84
“YOU ARE SHITTING ME,” I repeated, staring at the… palace that the President lived in. Sure, I’d seen pictures and floor layouts, but this was far, far beyond anything I’d imagined. It was enormous, taller than the United Bank and United Insurance buildings at home combined, and it went on and on, taking up a whole city block. The land around it wasn’t divvied up into neat rows of vegetables for the family’s use. There was no thought here of making every square foot count. For at least an acre in every direction it was lush, fragrant flower gardens. The precise symmetrical beds were lined with narrow paths of pale crushed stone. The tall iron front gates were wide enough to drive a farm combine through, and the drive itself was laid brick. Even the Provost back home had to make do with rutted concrete.
“I’ve tried to blow it up any number of times,” Blondie McMystery Man said wistfully, breaking into our stunned silence. “But it’s impregnable, even from above.”
I couldn’t respond. The President of the United and his family lived here—thanks to us, all the rest of the people. Cellfolk like me, Cassie, Tim and even Nate, provided everything these people ate, wore, drove, sat on… They were like fairy tale royalty. I thought back to the worn clothes Cassie and I had shared, the ancient radio in the kitchen where Ma had listened to Cell News. I thought about our dinky moped, our beat-up truck.
Looking at the pruned cherry trees, the carefully trained apple trees growing between windows, I thought of my mom, who had loved beautiful things. Her need for beauty had clashed so strongly with the reality of our lives in the cell that eventually she had been taken away for a mood-adjust. And had never come back.
Five years later Pa had killed himself, though it had been months between the poorly aimed rifle shot and his last breath.
People like this had caused our misery, all across the United.
And it was only just now that I finally got it, that the truth finally struck me with the clarity of a lightning bolt against a dark sky: It wasn’t just how things were. It was how things were designed to be. By a handful of people. People like the President.
“Oh, yeah,” I said softly. “This guy has to die. And I’m just the housemaid to do it.”
“Excellent,” Blondie said.
85
CASSIE
I COULD KILL ONE OR two, maybe three dogs before one of them ripped my throat out. Those were bummer odds, but if this was my death day, then it was my death day. The Crazy House had done that for me—removed any expectation of a Happily Ever After. I really hoped Nate and Becca were okay, wherever they were. I even hoped Tim was okay, wherever he was, however far he had gotten.
For myself, I was going to die here and now, and I was cool with that.
I saw the almost imperceptible tightening of the alpha dog’s hindquarters. It was about to spring. I knew getting bitten would hurt. I just hoped I’d be dead before they started in on their feast. The dog leaped and I yanked the knife out of my boot.
Blam! The gunshot was deafeningly close. The large dog dropped out of midair and landed heavily not three feet away from me. Should I hunker down and be rescued, or throw myself into battle, armed only with a knife?
I jump-rolled out of my sleeping back and landed in a crouched ready position, ignoring the agony in my shoulder. Within seconds more shots were fired and several more big animals hit the ground. A straggly husky type lunged at me, and though it weighed less than half of what I did, it easily pinned me to the ground, standing on my chest, growling meanly.
I almost felt sorry for it as I adjusted the knife in my hand. But it was me or the animal, and I chose me. My hand went up in a hard, practiced move, and I stuck it right between the ribs. Still it lunged for my face, its hot breath mingling with mine, but in a second I saw the light leave its eyes. It collapsed slowly on me, a smelly, furry body, and I pushed it off, feeling like I might be sick.
Two more quick shots and the remaining pack members turned tail and raced off howling into the desert.
Looking up, I saw Tim lowering his rifle. It was a different rifle, one I hadn’t seen.
“I thought you left,” I said.
“Left? No. Exploring,” he said shortly. “Guess what? They have guns here!”
“I had a gun here,” I retorted. “What the hell did you do with it?”
“I was gonna clean ’em, but then I found better ones,” he said. Then he took a good look at me, pale from pain, splashed with blood from the dog at my side. He frowned. “How’s your shoulder?”
It took me a second to register the waves of numbing pain radiating out from yesterday’s injury. “Not great,” I admitted.
“Like, ‘I’m in pain but I’ll live,’ not great? Or ‘I’m probably gonna die,’ not great?” he asked.
I shrugged, which hurt, so I winced.
“Okay, well, look what I have here.” He knelt and upended his backpack. A hundred things fell out.
“We have more bandages,” he said, “and we have needle and thread.”
Needle and thread? I narrowed my eyes.
“The bleeding isn’t stopping,” he said, pointing at my shoulder. “You already look like you’re ready for the funeral pyre. You can’t lose any more blood. Not if you want to keep going.”
With me went unsaid.
“Take off your shirt,” he said, threading the needle.
Feeling somewhat sick, somewhat embarrassed, I did, revealing the lacy camisole underneath. I’d gotten it here, for once choosing something pretty instead of practical.
But Tim might as well be working on a sheep for all the acknowledgment he gave of me as a woman.
He poured alcohol on his hands, then swabbed the front and back holes that the antler had left in my body. I tried not to yelp at the cool, burning sensation.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned. “Find something to bite on.” He cleaned out the wounds, using alcohol liberally. He was going by rote, following the procedures we’d learned in our field-medic classes. For myself, I was gripping two legs of an overturned chair and biting as hard as I could on a retriever’s toy duck.
When he was done, I threw up into a portable compost pail, fixing its lid on tightly. I felt wrung out and exhausted and wished my arm would just fall off so I could leave it behind.
Tim was busily opening ancient camping food packets. “We’re going to stay here the rest of the night,” he said. “But we have to go first thing in the morning.”
Or else went unsaid.
86
BECCA
I WAS A SOLDIER. AN assassin, even—call me what you will. I was one of the best that Strepp ever trained. I could kill people silently with whatever I had at hand. Now I was getting a list of my duties as a housemaid at President Unser’s house. And the head housekeeper, Mrs. Argyle, made Strepp look like a pansy-ass amateur.
Some of the house rules: speak only when spoken to. The President was called sir, Mrs. President was called ma’am, young master Kirt was called Master Kirt, and young mistress Mia was called Miss Mia. Never say “yes,” only “yes, sir,” “yes, ma’am,” “yes, Master Kirt,” etc. When a member of the household passed by, you stopped what you were doing and cast your eyes down.
No curtsy? I almost said snidely, then remembered Blondie McMystery Man and the two years it’d taken them to place us in the employment agency where Mrs. Argyle got new recruits. I clenched my teeth and said nothing. I wondered how Nate was faring in the kitchen. The fact that he was no doubt elbow-deep in suds cheered me up a little.
I was shown to my quarters—a tiny room in the attic, but it had a small window—and then was given a quick tour of the house, which was mind-blowing. The riches, the beautiful everything, the things I had no idea existed. I was shocked and awed and then filled with rage again at the gross, gross injustice. I wished Blondie had given me a bomb so I could blow this place sky-high right now.
Unfortunately I had gone through a metal detector at the door—every door on the first floor had them, as did every balcony door upstairs. Not only that, but I’d been thoroughly patted down by her. Finally, the uniform Blondie had given me had been taken away and replaced. So if it had had a tracking or listening device sewn into the hem, it was gone now. Burned in the incinerator.
“Rebecca, your job is to attend to Miss Mia,” she said, and I almost choked.
I held up two fingers. “One, everyone calls me Becca,” I said. “Two, I don’t have, uh, much experience with attending… young ladies. Maybe I could just dust instead?”
Her look would have burned holes in a lesser maid. She held up two fingers. “Number one, here you will be called Rebecca. Two, here are the directions to Miss Mia’s room. Don’t get lost.”
Yes, I needed written directions to Mia’s room because the place was so effing big that I could be lost for days before anyone found me. I’d planned to do recon on the way, but soon noticed I was never alone. There was always some other servant within sight, dusting, mopping, arranging flowers, straightening pictures. No wonder the house was so hospital-clean already. Or was this on purpose? So they weren’t only keeping an eye on the new staff, but on each other?
As I passed a girl close to my age, I stopped. “Hey,” I said, and the girl actually startled, like a deer, then gave a quick look around.
Her responding “Hey,” was almost soundless. She stood frozen, the soft paintbrush she was using to dust an ornate picture frame dangling from one hand.
“I’m Becca,” I said. “One of the mistress’s attendants. I’m from Cell B-97-4275. How about you? Where are you from?”
The girl frowned slightly and cocked her head to one side. I resolved to use that expression later ’cause it looked awesome.
“I’m… Nell.”
“What cell are you from?” I was taking a risk, lingering like this. Nell would get in trouble, too. But I had to start somewhere, and time was a luxury I didn’t have.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “What’s a cell?”
87
EVENTUALLY I FOUND MISS MIA’S room and knocked on the heavy wooden door. What’s a cell? There’s someone in the United who doesn’t know what a cell is? How?
No one answered my knock, so I knocked louder. Finally I just opened the door, thinking I could tidy or straighten or whatever I remembered seeing Cassie do back at home. For a moment I stood in the doorway as my eyes tried to comprehend what I was seeing. This girl’s bedroom was as big as the entire first floor of my parents’ house. Pale pink curtains framed giant windows. The white bed was enormous, with four posts and a curved top. Thick, pale-green carpet made my first tentative steps feel like I was walking on a sheep. It was the most beautiful room I had ever seen, and my throat closed in a weird, overwhelmed reaction. A person could be happy in a room like this. Anyone could.
“What do you want?” It was a girl’s voice, full of snide rudeness. Back at school, anyone who talked to me like that usually ended up crying.
Despite my sniper-vision training, it took me several seconds to locate Miss Mia. She was sitting on an overstuffed sofa in an alcove that had its own round window. She was around my age, I guessed, or a bit younger. She was holding a fiddle and bow.
“Well? What do you want?” She looked at me as if I still smelled like farmyard.
“I’m your new maid,” I said bluntly. “My name is Becca.” Well, it’s not like I went to maid school. I went to soldier school.
