The Earth Dwellers

My head throbs, but I don’t mind it. The pain helps sharpen my mind, pulls me away from sleep, from the dream…

Why can’t I remember it?

I feel around with my left hand until I find what I’m looking for. Cold and solid and familiar. Metal. A gun. Three men dead because of how well I wielded it.

Before I slept I reloaded it with the last magazine. Today I’ll use every last bullet on Lecter if I get the chance.

Will killing Lecter be enough to stop the genocide? Or has the ball started rolling so fast down the hill that no one can stop it without getting flattened too? If he dies, will someone else just step in to take his place?

I close my eyes and try to sleep, but the last forty eight hours continue to spiral through my mind. Watching it in a continuous stream like this makes me wonder if it’s real. Only the pounding in my chest and head assures me it is.

At some point, the room begins to lighten, the surreal glow of real sunlight pushing its way through the window and sending a bright white line around the bedframe, just below the skirt, which hangs almost to the floor.

There’s a knock on the door and Jocelyn stirs. Then, suddenly, she scrambles up and onto the bed, dragging her blanket and pillow with her, the mattress sagging slightly toward me between the wooden slats as it takes her weight. I hear the door open.

Light footsteps. A gentle voice. “Good morning, beautiful,” Lecter says.

A groan that I know is faked. Jocelyn trying to keep her secret. That she never sleeps on the bed. “Tired,” she says.

“You were kept up by the excitement?” Lecter keeps his voice low and soothing, but there’s a piercing sharpness behind it.

“I thought we were under attack,” Jocelyn says. “The guns were so loud. I was scared. I watched the news. Why is that girl doing this?” Her question is full of i

“I think she’s trying to get to me,” Lecter says. I freeze. How does he…? “I think she’s from down below.” What?

“But the news said she was an unstable soldier. Post-traumatic—”

“You should know by now that sometimes the people don’t need to know everything,” Lecter interrupts.

“Then why are you telling me?”

The mattress sinks further as Lecter sits. He’s right there. So close. Is this my one and only chance? Can I shoot him through the mattress? Or could I roll out fast enough to surprise him from behind?

The mattress shifts, undulating like a rippling lake, and I know he’s moving closer to Jocelyn. Too close for me to risk trying to kill him. If I hit her by mistake…

“Because you’re special…” Lecter says. The acid in my gut roils as I picture the scene above me. Is he touching her face, caressing her, his words whispered in her ear? Has her body stiffened, or is she melting into him, her movements so well-practiced they almost look real? Are they real? Can I trust her?

My heart races as I remember the soft and familiar way she said his name—Borg—like an old friend or lover. Is she pointing at the bed, secretly making Lecter aware of my presence? Is he slipping off, about to shove a gun underneath the bed skirt?

Quietly, quietly, my fingers tighten on my gun.

“And because I know you have no one to tell,” Lecter adds with an arrogant laugh.

Jocelyn laughs like it’s the fu

“We’ll find her,” Lecter says. “She’ll be held accountable for her crimes.” His words are as cold as stone and twice as hard. And then he’s gone, his weight leaving the bed, his footsteps across the room, the door flung open, so fast that even if I’d been ready, there’s no way I could’ve risked rolling out and shooting.

The door closes, opens. Lecter’s voice again. “Breakfast will be up soon. I apologize that you’ll have to eat alone today. I’ll be conducting the search from here if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Jocelyn says, but her words are only for me because the door is already shut again.

I let out a long breath and relax my fingers from the gun handle. So close…and yet impossibly far.

There’s silence above me. I can’t even hear her breathing, almost like she’s dead. I follow her lead, lying still, breathing through my nose.

Minutes pass. Is it safe? Just as I’m considering saying something, there’s another knock and the door opens. Under the cloth I see two feet and four wheels move into the room. “Breakfast is served,” a woman’s voice says.

“Thank you.”

The feet leave but the wheels stay.

The door closes. Silence once more.

“Okay,” Jocelyn says after another five minutes pass. “That should be the last danger for a while.”

“Are you sure?” I say. If I get caught now, it will all have been for nothing.

“No,” she says. “But they don’t usually come back to collect the cart for a few hours.”

I don’t like the way that word—usually—echoes in my head. Words like that will get you killed.

I roll out from under the bed, ready to dive under at the first sign that someone else is coming in. From her perch, Jocelyn watches me with interest. Her hands are clasped, but I detect a slight tremor. What did she think Lecter was going to do to her? What does he usually do to her? There’s that word again.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

She nods, but it’s not convincing. “We’ll share the meal,” she says, motioning to the cart. Three plates covered by silver domed lids form a triangle on a silver tray. A fork, a knife and a spoon rest beside them.

Keeping one eye on the door handle, I step to the cart. “Let me guess: one green, one brown, one yellow.”

“What?” Jocelyn says.

I remove a lid. “What?” I echo.

It’s food. Real food. Not the weird rectangular blocks of faux-food that everyone else gets. An oval of ham, pink and steaming with heat. The next lid reveals fluffy yellow-white scrambled eggs, flecked with pepper. The urge to use my hands as shovels shudders through me. Hands shaking as much as Jocelyn’s, I open the third lid. Thick bread, at least five slices, browned on one side, damp with melted butter.

I don’t wait for an invitation. Three pieces of toast are gone in less than a minute, my mouth bulging with buttery flavor and warmth. Three quarters of the eggs are next, the spoon moving ceaselessly from the plate to my mouth until I try the ham. In three bites the meat is gone and I’m chugging half the glass of water to wash it all down.

Finished, I stare in shock at the cart.

Oops.

“Uh, sorry,” I say.

“You eat like Tristan,” Jocelyn says, finally smiling for real. Her hands have stopped trembling. “It’s fine though, I’ve had enough of the food here to last a lifetime.”

“I thought you might turn me in,” I blurt out, wondering why I’m saying it even as the words spill from my mouth.

Jocelyn stares at me. “Why would I…?” Something flickers in her expression. Understanding. “Because of how I talk about Borg?”

I nod. She sighs, looks down. Is that…embarrassment? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I say.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m screwed up. I have been for a long time.”

“No,” I say, but I know it’s true. No one could go through what she has and not be a little scarred by it. Okay, a lot scarred. “We’re all a little screwed up,” I say.

“Thanks for saying that,” Jocelyn says. She scoots to the end of the bed and eats what’s left of the breakfast, taking each bite slowly.

“See?” I say. “I ate breakfast like a crazy person. You’re eating normally.”

She grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. As she swallows the last bite, however, her expression turns serious. “I know what you’re really doing here,” she says.

Uh oh. Here it comes. The I-can’t-let-you-do-that speech. She might hate Lecter, but she also doesn’t want to see him die.