Everfound

As she pondered the days ahead, looking out at the smoke, and her Afterlights shining through it, she saw one Afterlight coming toward her. One who wore a helmet. Moose had finally returned, and hopefully with a good excuse as to what had taken him so long . . . but as he got closer, Mary could sense that something was very, very wrong.

* * *

It had been a pretty bad football accident that landed Mitchell “Moose” Moessner’s body comatose in a Pittsburgh convalescent hospital, paralyzed from the neck down. Wilted flowers attested to the fact that he was visited regularly, but no one was visiting him at the moment that Allie “the Outcast” Johnson put his physical self to rest. Unlike Milos, he had not suffered brain damage. In fact, Moose’s brain should have been functioning normally, and yet he had never come out of his coma. It made perfect sense to Allie; consciousness could not exist here while his consciousness was elsewhere.

Moose could have skinjacked his own body if he had chosen to . . . if he had, he would have woken as a quadriplegic with no hope of motion below the neck, and no hope of even breathing for himself. Still, he could have done it, reclaiming some version of his old life. Now, however, that was out of the question.

There were many things that Moose feared: hell, the scar wraith, but God help anyone who witnessed the fury of Mary Hightower. As far as Moose was concerned, her anger was the most frightening thing in the universe—and for the first time ever, he was glad he was wearing a helmet, because he truly believed her rage could make his head explode.

“How could I have been so stupid?” Mary seethed. “How could I have been so blind to not know the truth from the moment Milos lost his ability?”

“Maybe itch a coincidench?” Moose’s eyes were full of tears, but fortunately his face mask hid them, and Mary was not looking too closely.

“If you think that, then you’re a more of a fool than I thought you were.”

He had lost his ability to skinjack only minutes after crashing the tanker truck into the electrical station. And since then he had been hiding, afraid to come back.

Mary paced back and forth in the gazebo. “This is Allie’s doing—I’m sure of it—and it’s all Milos’s fault! He should have sent her down the moment she was captured instead of making her the blasted figurehead of the train. He brought this on all of us!”

“Not really,” said Moose, trying to defend him, because Milos was beyond any ability to defend himself. All of his attention was now on a deck of cards he had taken from one of the other kids. Milos spent all of his time shuffling it, and looking for one-eyed jacks.

“What I want to know is how she found your bodies,” Mary said. “She must have known your true names!”

“Not neshisharily . . . ,” said Moose.

“Stop contradicting me!” Mary paced with such a storm of emotion, Moose half expected lightning to crash all around them. Finally Mary turned to look at Moose and saw the tears in his eyes. She softened just a bit. “I know this isn’t your fault. It’s unfair that you have to be the one to suffer.”

Moose nodded and the tears started to flow more freely, no matter how hard he tried to hold them back.

“You may go now,” she told him. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He left sobbing in tears that were as great as the day that Squirrel was extinguished. But his tears were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of joy. Although he was always a team player, the weight of being a skinjacker in the service of Mary Hightower was more than he could bear. He didn’t care if he lost his memories and his mind the way Milos had—in fact, he would prefer it. As he left Mary, he could already feel it all slipping away, so he went forth into the ruins of Eunice, searching among the crossed odds and ends, until he finally found himself a football . . . because the prospect of throwing and catching a football from now until the end of time was Mitchell “Moose” Moessner’s idea of heaven.

Mary gathered the remaining skinjackers. They numbered seven now, including Jill. “We are under attack,” Mary told them, “and we must strike back with full force as quickly and severely as possible. We must find the body of Allie the Outcast, and we must send that body to the grave.”

No one answered immediately. These new skinjackers had no frame of reference, no idea who she was talking about. It just infuriated Mary even more.

“Her coma would have begun after a car accident, north of New York City, not quite four years ago. That is where we will begin our search. I will need a volunteer.”

Rotsie immediately raised his hand, and Jill gave him a look of utter disgust. “Don’t be stupid,” Jill said. “You don’t even know what she looks like.” Then she turned to Mary. “If you need someone to do some pest control, it might as well be me.”

This gave Mary pause for thought. It was out of character for Jill to volunteer for anything . . . but then perhaps Jill’s hatred of Allie rivaled her own. Or perhaps it was because Jill knew that she would be next on Allie’s list.

“Sorry,” said Rotsie, “but I think I’m better equipped to handle something like this.”

“Yeah, right,” said Jill dismissively, then turned back to Mary. “Even if you wanted to send him, you couldn’t—you need Damon to lead the group, don’t you?”

And suddenly Mary saw Jill in an entirely new light. “Indeed, I do need Damon,” she said, keeping her eyes tightly trained on Jill. “I didn’t know you knew Rotsie’s real name. How ever did you come across it?”

Jill opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then The Pet politely raised his hand and said, “We told her our names. She said it was important in case we ever forgot it, that someone should know.”

Mary offered a smile that was anything but pleasant. “I wonder why you would say that, Jill, when you know that skinjackers don’t forget their names like other Afterlights.”

“You’re . . . you’re blowing this all out of proportion,” Jill said, looking more and more worried.

“Do you know that I never knew Milos’s and Moose’s real names? I never felt a need. But I’ll bet you knew their names, didn’t you, Jill?” This time Jill said nothing. As far as Mary was concerned, her silence convicted her.

“I will ask you this once,” Mary said. “And your answer will determine how you will be dealt with.” She paused, letting the severity of the situation sink in, then she asked, “Did you give Allie the names of my skinjackers?”

“You had Milos flip that boat and sent more than fifty kids down!” Jill accused.

Mary did not lose her cool. “Did you give Allie their names?”

She looked to support from the other skinjackers. “The tanker truck today was no accident either! Ask her!”

Mary couldn’t tell if Jill’s accusations rattled the others, because she wouldn’t take her eyes off of Jill. “Answer the question,” Mary asked calmly, then she waited, knowing that every criminal, if given enough time, will confess. Jill was no exception.

“Yes,” Jill said, in arrogant defiance. “And now that she knows who they are, she’ll pick them off one by one until you have no skinjackers left.”

So there it was: proof positive that Jill was a traitor. Well, if Jill’s accusations had won any points with the skinjackers, she had lost them now.

“Treason,” said Mary, “is the highest crime in any civilized society. I will try to treat you with compassion . . . but it will be difficult, even for me, to show you mercy.”

TO: [email protected] /* */

FROM: [email protected] /* */

SUBJECT: Returned mail—see transcript for details.

*** ATTENTION ***

Your e-mail is being returned to you because there was a problem with its delivery.

----- The following addresses had permanent fatal errors -----