Rory

“They’re gaining on us. Let’s put her in your cart and go,” a man said, so close he could have been standing over her.

“First bit of splendid news I’ve heard all day,” another said with a heavy British accent.

“What, we’re about to get attacked? How is that good news?”

“Don’t be stupid. Just happy you hear them too. Thought I’d gone-” he finished with a two-note whistle.

A branch snapped, and Rory opened her eyes. Nothing about her environment seemed right, churning clouds covered the sky, diffusing any light that passed through. She heard no cars in the distance; no music from speakers; no electric hum. Where am I?

Two men hovered above her; eyes wide in shock. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded, feeling the power flow through and out of her again.

“There’s a hunting party of Blueskins nearby that I’m afraid we might run into. I’m also partly aroused by the wet fabric stretched tightly against your bosom,” the larger of the men replied and flushed a deep scarlet. “I… uh, I don’t know why I just said that.”

“I’m wishin’ you’d sick up that water,” the British man said. His pale sea glass green eyes were unfocused in a drug-addled haze.

“Are you able to stand?”

Rory nodded and pulled herself upright, forcing her knees to cooperate. The two seemed like an unnatural pairing. The largest was broad-shouldered and muscular, with a mane of copper streaked chestnut hair. Even if she stood at her full height, her head stopped at the middle of his chest.

“Good. I’m James, but everyone calls me Doc. This is Sven.”

Sven nodded at her. He stood at shoulder height to Doc but looked to be nothing more than bones, sinew and disheveled black hair. He wore a faded red smoking jacket with a dirty white button-down shirt underneath; the cuffs hung loosely around his hands.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Rory.”

Doc said, “You look exhausted. There’s a cart nearby you can rest in, but we need to go. Sven?”

“Right.” He rummaged through his pockets, pulling out baggies and returning them before finding a compact bundle. “There you are,” he said and tossed it over his shoulder. “On we go.”

“What was that?” she asked.

“No time, love. Gotta keep moving. Won’t work for long,” Sven said while glancing over his shoulder.

“Thank you for helping me, by the way. Sorry about the… um, persuasion thing.” She turned briefly, hoping to glimpse the Blueskins they were rushing away from, but saw only a pond. Even the grass was undisturbed where they’d been only moments ago.

“Won’t see them. They won’t see us neither, but that’s the point. When we get to the cart, you need to sick up that water.” Sven looked at her with his eerie green eyes, made paler by the black smears of liner around each.

“Why?”

“It’s diseased,” Doc replied. “What time are you from?”

“Huh?” Rory tried to look the man in the eye, but he kept her moving.

“Hold on. We’re almost to the cart. Sven and I’ll make sure it’s safe. Can you make yourself throw up? Please, it’s important you get all the toxins out of your system.” He looked down at her with the patience of a medic that’s spent years being ignored.

“I’ll try,” she said, and steadied herself against a tree. They wandered off, she realized, not to check on the safety of the surroundings but to give her privacy. Unsure how she came to this conclusion, she accepted it as fact and began the unpleasant task ahead of her. She wretched twice and the water flowed from her nose and mouth. Coughing and spitting, she continued until she was sure there was nothing left. After wiping her face and a sad attempt at straightening her hair and grass-stained uniform, she emerged from the path onto the remnants of a paved road. Weeds had sprung from the many cracks and giant chunks of asphalt were missing, but it had definitely been a road at some point.

“All out?” Doc asked.

“Pretty sure. Couldn’t get anything else out after a few tries.”

“Good enough for me. Here, let me help you up.” He rushed to her side and effortlessly lifted her into the cart. Sven clamored in behind and sharply clicked his tongue twice. The horse, which looked like it was sprinkled in permanent cinnamon, trudged along the old road.

“You’re not driving?” Rory asked.

“Nah. Ol’ Betts knows the way,” Sven said, leaning back on a makeshift bed of hay.

“The horse probably remembers more trips home than you do.”

“That’s completely possible.” Sven nodded and sat up. “Here’s your handbag,” he said, pulling her purse from a beat-up old mail carrier’s pouch.

“Oh, thank you.” She held it protectively in her arms and peered inside. “My Xanax is missing.”

“Bad luck that,” Sven said and nestled himself back into the hay, throwing one arm over his face.

Doc said, “This is going to sound crazy-”

“This is going to sound crazy?” Rory said. “Last I remembered I got attacked by what I’m pretty sure was a vampire, got lost in an endless alleyway, got kicked out of a cottage, fell from outer space, and woke up next to a pond with you two talking about blue people. Also, the sky is that.” She pointed to the churning haze above them. “But, please continue with your crazy part.”

“You’re frustrated, and it’s completely understandable.” Doc looked at his hands. “For me, it was 1967. I was a combat medic on tour in Vietnam. We all knew flash floods were a thing, but we were young men and we knew it all. That included thinking we knew better about something we’d never experienced. Until it happened to us. I stood on the bank, helpless, as all my friends disappeared, carried away by the current.” By the look in his eyes, he was miles away and his voice became a whisper. “I yelled so long my voice gave out.” He shook his head to clear the spell of his past. “I’d just gotten the nerve to jump in when she called me. Took door number two and here I am.”

“London, 1980. Got comfortably numb at a Floyd show. Possibly too numb. Felt like I melted through the floor and landed in a country cottage. Door two and here I am.”

“So, you’re trying to tell me this is a thing that’s happened more than once?”

“Five, well six now including you. But that’s only the ones we know of for certain. And only in our little area. Who knows if some of them get picked up by Blueskins or picked off by…” Doc cleared his throat. “… others.”

“Others?” Rory didn’t like the way his mouth formed that word.

“Superstition. I shouldn’t have even mentioned them.”

Sven snorted. “Clever save, Doc.”

The large man scratched his head. “What about you?”

Rory explained her night and Doc attentively nodded, while she couldn’t be sure Sven was even awake.

“Your persuasion, as you called it. That’s your talent. You’ll find it works better now,” Doc said.

“I didn’t even know I had it until earlier tonight.”

“You probably always had it in some form but just weren’t aware of it. In my case, it was kind of hard not to notice. Back when I was five or six, a neighborhood boy fell off his bike and fractured his leg. He was screaming and crying that it hurt and to make it stop. I kneeled next to him and touched it. Still not sure why, but kids are morbid. Or maybe I knew what to do. The second my finger touched the exposed bone, it moved. The wound knitted itself and there was a sickly grinding and pop, but the kid was the same as he’d been before the accident. Shaken, but not even a scar. Me, on the other hand, I was blind for the next three or four months.”

“No kidding?”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up his hand in salute. “It still happens here, but not as long. Nadine, you’ll meet her later, she cooked up some brew to make it go away almost as soon as I get it.”

“She put some leaves into a cup and poured boiling water over ‘em. Know what that is? Tea.” Sven mumbled. “Anyone can make tea.”

“What’s your thing then, Sven?” Rory asked.

“I make stuff. Like good stuff.”

“Stuff?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Sven is an alchemist of sorts.”

“Turn things into gold type alchemy?” she asked.

“If he wasn’t too busy snorting what he created before turning it into gold, then sure. He could probably get there—eventually. For now, he’s our resident pharmacist and local drunk.”

“At your service,” Sven said with a grand flourish and bow made awkward by the confines of the cart.

“So, the thing you threw back there was some type of alchemy?”

“More like a party trick. It shows the viewer exactly what they don’t wanna see. You wanted to see the blue bastards I’m guessin’, so you didn’t see ‘em. They wanted to see us, so they didn’t. Sometimes it really works and they’ll see a hungry vampire-”

“Vampire? Was that what you meant by others?”

“Sorry mate.”

Doc shot Sven an annoyed look. “Yes. They exist, and from what you said, that’s probably what attacked you before. But they’re not as bad these days, they mostly stay hidden. I’ve only seen one of them for certain. People are scarcer here, so they don’t just run around eating people.”

“How do I know you two aren’t vampires then? Leading me to your secret lair.”

“If we were, we’d have drunk you dry and tossed you back in the water,” Sven said.

“Oddly comforting. Where are we going then?”

“Alma, we can get you some food and a bath there. I’ll see if Nadine has a spare bunk at her place,” Doc said.

“A warm bath. Clean clothes.” Rory sighed and glanced down at her ruined, sickly pink uniform. “I always hated this thing.” She adjusted her hips and kicked off her shoes. “What I hate more are these stupid things.” She grunted and stripped off what little remained of her nylons.

Doc’s face flushed, and he quickly turned away. Sven continued staring into the sky, fingers laced together on his chest.

“There. That’s a little better at least. Tell me about Alma.”

“Well…” Doc cleared his throat. “It’s uh…”

“She stripped her stockings, mate, not the dance of the seven veils. ‘Sides, we can’t hear your stunning monologues when you’re facing that way.”

Rory stifled a giggle and nudged Sven playfully. “Please continue, Doc”

He sighed and turned to face them, his jaw tighter than it had been before. “It’s a larger camp of a thousand total—give or take. The place is ruled by the Catherine and her Immaculate Daughters. They’re the ones that provide clean water after they’ve pulled it from a large lake near the camp.”

“So, they boil it?”

“Boiling helps, but it doesn’t prevent the more damaging side effects. Insanity and bloodlust being the main two. They have some ritual but it’s a member’s only thing so I know nothing more than that,” Doc said.

“Boys in the camp’ll tell ya the ladies all strip off their white robes and have a magical pillow fight in their pants.”

Rory shook her head at Sven and turned to Doc. “So, what do you think the ritual is? Is the Catherine one of us?”

“If she were the only Catherine, that would be a possibility, but it’s just a title. This is the second since I’ve been here,” Doc said.

“How long have you been here?”

“Days and night are a little different, but I’d imagine it’s around four years. Little less than that for Sven. Don’t bother asking him. Time stopped being a concept for him long before he got here.”

“Still right here, mate.”

“How long have you been here, Sven?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Can’t say I wasn’t warned.”

Doc smiled down at her. “Turnover is high for the Catherines, but who knows, the ritual might take a lot out of them.”

“What happened to the last one?” Rory asked.

“She retired. Went off somewhere and never came back.”

“Bollocks.” Sven sat up too quickly and held a palm to his forehead before continuing. “Saw the old bag the other day.”

Doc rolled his eyes. “You’re talking about the old lady in the market again, aren’t you? The one that looked nothing like the old Catherine. Even the eye color was different.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I was sure it was her.”

“Just like you were sure that some Joe Strommer guy told you where your lost stash was?”

“It was Joe Stru… Know what? Never mind. That’s the last time I tell you any of my personal stories.”

Rory wrinkled her nose. “The singer of The Clash told you where your drugs were?”

“You know ‘im? Yeah, some folks have naked Indians in the desert show ‘em stuff. I have him.”

“Huh.” She wasn’t sure what to think and peered up at Doc who shrugged.

“Getting back to the topic at hand, The Catherine runs the place, mostly. I say mostly because we, or people like us, don’t really fall under her umbrella. We’re protected, but I’m not sure it’s her choice.”

“Got that right. The tart stares daggers into me when she’s around.”

Doc patted her hand. “Alma isn’t the best of places, but it’s safe.” The words ‘At least for now.’ hung unspoken in the surrounding air.

The conversation diminished. Rory stared in shock at the ominous landscape around her. The sky looked like a high ceiling of rolling gray cotton slashed with brilliant streaks of fire. Daylight itself felt unnatural, as if she were in a dream. It wasn’t sunlight on her skin but something dead, leaving her neither warm nor cold. Grass and foliage were mostly yellow with spatters of green. The more she took in, it appeared the world was at a crossroads between life and death, held together by whatever magic had brought her there. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her.

“I’m sorry. It’s a lot to process at first. Here.” Doc pulled off his dirty olive jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she said and pulled it around her. Homesick tears welled and threatened to spill over. She realized how much she missed the one-eared Charming and his metallic purr. She struggled to think of anything else and found herself at a total loss. Her home was a studio apartment above a mechanic’s shop—no loss there. Her mother had passed a year earlier, and she never knew her father—no loss there either. A weight lifted from her chest. Maybe she’d been waiting to find where she belonged.

Hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion, her eyelids grew heavy and she slept.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Doc said and nudged her awake. “We’re almost there. Turn around and you can see it.”

In the distance, behind the bobbing brass dappled ears of Betts, she could see a ramshackle wall of rusted metal and plank boards surrounded by tents of different shapes and colors. Already she could smell the cooking meat and oily smoke from their fires. Her stomach groaned.

Beyond the enclosure was a massive sapphire blue lake with waves lazily rolling in and out. Life flowed from the walls; the grass was no longer a sickly yellow, but vibrant green. Gigantic oaks and birch trees dotted the area providing shelter, their leaves wide and healthy.

The road led to an old broken gate with two guards standing out front. One tall and round with a bushy black mustache. The other’s helmet was too large and sat askew on his head. The expression on his face said he’d rather be anywhere but there. To the right of the road, a green sign stood with chipped paint that read: Alma. A large, black heron perched on top, watched them approach. It ruffled its void dark feathers and shifted its feet before striking the sign's flat side with its massive beak. Each note a deep, reverberating echo.

“What is that, Doc? It’s too large to be a normal heron,” Rory said.

“I didn’t know they got that big either, but she’s the only bird I’ve seen since arriving. Still not sure what she is, but we all call her the Watcher. When a new arrival shows up at the gates, she’s always here to make sure they get in.”

“New arrival like us, he means,” Sven said. “See all them tents around? Get born here, they don’t give a toss. Give ya a bit of water and a swift kick in the arse. Say they’ll call ya when there’s an open spot.”

She frowned. “How often do spots open up?”

“Not often enough,” Doc replied.

“Sven,” the larger guard said. “How many times do we have to tell you to control your beast? One day it’s gonna get spooked and what’re you gonna do then?”

“Betts here is made of iron. Ain’t gonna happen.”

“If someone in camp gets trampled, it’s your ass.” The guard sniffed and focused his gaze on Rory. “New one, eh? Bird’s here. Go on in.”

“I’m Rory. It’s nice to…” she said. But the guards had already resumed their conversation with each other.

“Don’t mind him, he’s a grumpy old bastard. Oi, Ed,” Sven said, digging through his bag. He pulled out a compact bundle and tossed it to him. The mustached guard caught it and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. Sven smiled showing a mouthful of oddly perfect teeth and held up his index and middle fingers at him in a backwards peace symbol, otherwise known as a V-sign. The man smiled back and tipped his helmet to him.

“What’d you give him?” she asked.

“That? My take on what people back in your day called a little blue pill according to Holga. You’ll meet her later whenever she and Lena get back.”

“It’s nice you’re able to do that for him.”

Doc snorted. “Sven doesn’t do that out of the kindness of his own heart. A guard hasn’t searched his cart since the first dose.”

“You must be exaggerating.” She scoffed.

“He’s not,” Sven said, climbing his way to the front of the cart and fumbling for Betts’ reins. The horse began her slow plodding steps, and the gates swung open.

Rory’s first impression of Alma was how loud it was. Hundreds of voices, young and old, seemed amplified by the thin metal sheets that made up the lean-to shacks. They took an immediate right onto a large walkway surrounding the inside walls. Awestruck, she peered into the tangled web of the village. Roads and alleys formed a confusing network of blind corners leading to dead ends and one person walkways that suddenly opened wide enough for the cart to drive through. Most of the shacks were two stories with the occasional three-story monstrosity towering over the rest. The third levels leaned in a discomforting manner or had wires holding them up; staked into the ground or tacked to their neighbor’s shack.

The air was thick with sweat and dirty flesh. Someone had scattered garlands of fragrant flowers and herbs throughout, granting the welcome aroma of sweet honeysuckle and jasmine as they passed.

“Those flowers grow out here?” she asked in amazement, thinking of the sparse landscape she’d just traveled in.

“Only if you have someone around like Nadine. She puts those around the camp to sweeten up the place,” Doc said.

“So, her gift is growing stuff?”

“There’s more to it than that, but that’s the easiest way to say it. It’ll be easier for her to explain.”

They turned a corner, and the odor lifted. “Welcome to the Witches Grotto,” Sven said.

Sparser, their dwellings sat in a less chaotic manner. Each with its own ripe garden ready to harvest and line for hanging wash.

“That’s me over there.” Doc pointed at a tidy red house. “And that…” He pointed to a structure with streaked black paint and a dripping red anarchy symbol on the door. The words PISS OFF scrawled underneath.

“Pretty sure I know who lives there.”

Betts came to an abrupt halt next to a shack surrounded by wildflowers and herbs. A simple fence of branches and vine wrapped around the perimeter. Rory breathed in deeply, remembering times her mother took her to greenhouses and gardens before she passed.

Doc wrapped a muscular arm around her and beamed. “Welcome home.”