16: Bus Stop

Jack Dandy's goal was simple, if lofty: Destroy the Devas. Restore natural order. Reclaim the planet, both for our forefathers and our children.

It would, in fact, be impossible, and we all knew this even from the beginning. The only conceivable way to destroy all the Devas would destroy all Animals—all true humans—as well. And even this would have been highly unlikely—the surest way would have been through nuclear power, and the Devas had eliminated all nuclear weapons ages ago, when they had taken over human governments. When they had taken over the world. It had been an insidious takeover, to say the least. At first, true humans such as myself had been reluctant to allow these creatures into government, into anything at all. But, over time, as more and more Devas began to be bred, man had no choice but to let them into positions of leadership. And that was when our time began to end.

I suppose one could say that man had been at the pinnacle of his power—with billions of people on earth, and Devas a new, small population just developing along the edges of the scientific world. But, of course, once one has reached the pinnacle, the only way to go is down.

John E. Shepard and his crack team of geneticists perfected a technique of genetic refinement—one so perfect and accurate that it could be performed safely nearly 100% of the time. He refined all the processes of the body—blood conditioning, digestion, muscle coordination and movement, down to the tiniest details, down to ideal oil production of the skin and hair, fingernail growth rates. He even coded DNA to adjust all of these things in accordance with environmental factors. He created, physically, a human who ran perfectly.

He was, as they say, either a genius or a madman. Potentially both. They're probably rather common bedfellows.

These people that he had coded were the best that humanity could become. Shepard created them in twenty years in a laboratory, whereas they would have taken a billion years to evolve on their own. They were Homo Sapiens Major.

But they weren't Devas. Not yet.

Shepard died before any of his Homo Sapiens Major were old enough for reproduction. It was a colleague of his, George Epstein, who convinced several of the Homo Sapiens Major specimens to lend their gametes to him.

The first two children he created using this bizarre and unnatural method exhibited strange behavior that was first thought to be evidence of some "gross developmental glitch." They would go limp, occasionally, and unresponsive to physical stimulation. Physical stimulation—they began to react, however, to the emotions of those around them.

In truth, these two children, these two Devas, had become the first to discover the Shekinah, as it was called by future generations of these aberrations.

It is a hard concept to explain, or so I have been told, to an Animal, or even to a first generation Homo Sapiens Major specimen—although few exist any longer. Few Animals can afford to buy the process for their children, although it is provided cheaply for Devas. That is their single flaw—most are sterile. But it's the Shekinah that sets them apart.

"It's like sticking your hand into a stream," a young Deva girl tried to explain to me, once, as I scooped her ice cream. "No, it's more like touching a living rope, and knowing that everyone else in the world is reaching out and touching the rope, too—yes, even you." She had smiled kindly, seeing my clear disbelief. "Everyone is touching it. Creatures, plants, trees, everything. It's so beautiful." She had closed her eyes, and seemed to drift. "And you can feel them all. All those lives. …All those lives."

Epstein called it a 'byproduct' of genetic perfection—humans so close to how God intended them to be must somehow crack the very shell that holds the universe together, and reach beyond, to the spiritual matter inside. Like being such a damnably good kickboxer that one knocks someone over and splits their head open—now the brain is visible, the center of emotion, logic, and thought. Few bothered in later times to wonder why, if God intended us to touch this thing, God did not originally create us in a manner that would enable us to do so.

After two days spent in jail I was released, for no better reason than that no one really wanted me around or cared what I had done. Devas hate jails, and run them badly. They believe, for whatever reason, in seeing the good side of man. They believe in mercy wholeheartedly. I suppose I don't care what they believe in, in the end—if it helps me get out of jail, I'm all for it.

After I left, the first thing I did was check out what Jack Dandy considers his headquarters and home. It's old, as far as buildings go, and had clearly been out of use for ages before Jack took it over. It sits back a way from the road leading out of town to the north, in the thick forest that begins there. It appears to have been, at one time, the site of a farm. A large red barn sits behind the house, and a small area of land had been, at some point, cleared out and sectioned off in various places. The fences—wire, mostly—are coming down and being relentlessly overtaken by the local flora.

The house itself is large—made to fit an extended family, and perhaps that's what we are. I was one of the first of Jack's followers. In fact, that first day that I dropped by, just two people came out to meet me: Magdalena, and a man called Mink Longfellow, who was killed later that year.

Mink spoke to me passionately about their ideals, but he need not have. I knew, understood, and needed no convincing. I joined their ranks immediately, and moved from the shabby apartment I rented at the time and into the farmhouse. I got a fair pick of rooms—most were empty, since Magdalena and Jack shared one.

They were always a bit of an odd pair—bickered on an almost constant basis, but always, when necessary, worked well together. She was, unlike Jack and myself, legally born. Her father was a rich man—an oral surgeon who wanted Magdalena to follow in his footsteps. Unfortunately, she had other ideas—she wanted to be a stylist. She nicked the money he'd set aside for her dental schooling, and went, instead, to beauty school. He kicked her out, saying she had shamed him in front of his associates and insulted his profession. Some people are, I suppose, just a bit too touchy about things like that.

Not long after she met Jack. The rest was, as they say, history. It was together that they purchased the farm house—with Jack's life savings (that didn't amount to much), and the leftover money from Magdalena's school fund.

At the time that I joined, the Hungry Ghosts had not yet truly begun to fight. Jack was in prison for attempting to rob a Deva munitions storage facility. But Jack's disorganized, harebrained attempt to get inside was a cover for Mink, who broke in during the distraction created by Jack's apprehension, and managed to make off with a few kegs of gunpowder left over from long ago days. Jack was just a cover. Deva munitions houses hold nothing for current use but defensive weapons, and for this reason are not guarded heavily—that, and no Deva would try to break into one. Jack knew he wouldn't be in prison for long. Deva mercy can be, as I said, useful.

That was, when I joined, as far as they had gotten. Just what they wanted to do with this newly acquired weapon was a mystery, even to themselves.

That was five years ago. We have accomplished much and gained friends since then. Enemies, too, of course, but that is to be expected—and anyway, all enemies are Devas, or those who sympathize with them, and it should be reasonably obvious by now what I think about that.

We are a terrorist group; there is nothing else to call us. We would not deny that. The whole country knows us by name—perhaps even a greater area than that, but we have not yet been caught. Not even now, after everything has fallen apart, have we been discovered. This is because Devas are inherently weak, peace-loving creatures, who have forced Animals to be submissive for so long that most of us no longer truly know what it means to fight for something. They have not apprehended us because they no longer remember how it was done, in the old days, when Animals ruled.

I remember the day that things began to unravel, although it seemed a rather average day, at the time. I was going to the Deva side of town to blow up a bus stop. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Jack was bored, and complaining that we hadn't done anything in a long time—which was true.

"People'll think we've given up," he said at breakfast.

"So quit your bitching and do something," Magdalena said. Magdalena looked gorgeous, even in the mornings, before she'd put on all the powder, dark lipstick, and black eyeliner that she liked to wear. Her hair was an ever-shifting rainbow of colors, but was at that time a purple so dark that it was nearly black.

Jack sighed, blowing his own dark hair out of his face.

"I can't. It must be nice for you, Maggie, to be able to do whatever the hell you feel like, twenty-four-seven, but some of us gotta put bread on the table," he said, indicating the table at which he sat as if it were truly the piece of furniture's fault.

"Well maybe," she screeched back, slamming down her coffee cup, "You should rethink your choice of hobbies if you gotta be so busy working all the time!"

"Hobby?" Jack yelled, standing up. "You call this—"

"I'll go," I interjected quietly, before the argument got too involved.

"Yeah?" Jack asked, sinking back into his chair and fingering the sharp scar along his collarbone thoughtfully. "Whatcha gonna do?"

There was a group of the newer recruits—whom we called the 'Newly Dead,' because they had only recently become Hungry Ghosts—clustered on the floor around the table. There were only enough chairs for Jack, Magdalena, myself, and Sidney Christmas, who had yet to return from the previous night.

"Last time, you did the post-office," one boy suggested eagerly. He had a round face and open eyes. I knew that it wouldn't last. Many of the newest to our ranks had that look; it faded quickly, if it didn't kill them.

"No," I corrected him lazily. "That was just for fun. No one got hurt."

I'd mailed a letter with a very small explosive devise hidden inside, which I had detonated later that afternoon. Half the mail room had been set on fire. It hadn't been anything serious—the Devas themselves investigated and attributed it to a freak electrical short.

"How 'bout doing it for real this time?" the same boy asked hopefully.

I gave him a disgusted look. "You're an idiot," I said. "The workers are all Animals."

"Now, now, Lory," Jack said placatingly, with an edge of amusement. "Be nice to Ambrose. He's new. He doesn't know. …I know what you'll do. The bus stop on the corner of Fifth and Ash. That big department store there's having some kind of sale. There'll be lots of Devas wandering around. Maybe a couple of Animals, but just a few."

I stood.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Yes," Jack replied. "Use a Twelve. We've got too many of the damned things. Sidney went on a kick with 'em awhile back, and they're coming out our ears now."

I turned without saying anything, and headed off toward the back door.

"Good luck!" I heard Ambrose call, followed by giggles from the other Newly Dead. I didn't need luck. I had drive; that was all that mattered.

I grabbed my coat and left through the back door—a screen door much patched with duct tape and nearly coming off of its hinges, but nonetheless so well-oiled that it didn't make a sound except a click as it shut. I turned the corner of the house and stopped before the sunken double doors of the root cellar. I yanked one open and went carefully down the stone steps, which were more treacherous than they looked. The familiar smells of dirt, explosives, and old age filled my nose as I reached the floor. The root cellar was our store room. Neat, numbered barrels lined the walls, sealed tightly. I stopped in front of the one marked Twelve, about half way down one wall. Indeed, there were so many that a few had been left outside the protection of the barrel. I kicked them aside, for fear that the damp had made them less. I left the root cellar after pulling one out from deep inside the barrel.

By the time I got into town it was perhaps an hour away from noon. Having foregone breakfast, I stopped into a diner across the street from the bus stop and watched traffic patterns. Not, perhaps, as heavy as Jack had expected, but hardly slow either. The threat of winter's holidays loomed now, though, and so people were definitely out. It was November. There was a chill in the air. …A big fire would warm them up nicely.

As I paid my bill, the waitress—a homely Animal woman—looked up at me with the wide-eyed, almost worshipful look that I've seen some Animals give to Devas. Or in my case, those they believe to be Devas. It incensed me. Here was a woman so used to being looked down upon, to being condescended to, that she had been reduced to the mannerisms of a stupid, loyal dog to its master.

"You poor thing," I murmured, scarcely even thinking of what I was saying. "You've been oppressed for so long."

"Oppressed?" she asked, as if the thought had never occurred to her. And maybe it hadn't. It was people like this who most needed what we were doing. Those who didn't know they needed rescuing were the ones most crucial to rescue. "I don't know what you mean, sir," she continued.

"It's all right," I said, tipping her a little extra even though I really couldn't afford it.

"Oh, thank you for your kindness!" she called as I left. I smiled to myself. She would never know the full extent of the kindness that I was about to do her, nor would she understand.

I crossed the street, pretending to window shop, and felt for the Twelve in my breast pocket. I slid it out and pushed it up my sleeve. Twelves are round and thin, with a small remote detonation device. If one gets more than about an eigth of a mile away, they won't go off. I don't know how they work—Sidney made them, and also came up with the idea of fixing sticky labels to the backs, so that they're easier to conceal.

Moving through the crowd, I tried to pick out anyone who was clearly an Animal. This was, of course, not exactly easy. Who knew how many were like myself—Animals who could pass for Devas? Without asking for papers it was nearly impossible to be sure, and I didn't have the authority to do that. Most of the ones in worker's uniforms were Animals, anyway. Only a young Deva would accept a job in a department store.

I made my way carefully to the bus stop. There were a few more there now than when I had last looked and I had to elbow my way in, where I pretended to be looking at the schedule which hung in a pad on the wall. I examined it with my hands crossed before me, and carefully peeled the back off of the sticky label and slid the Twelve out, cupped in my hand. In the pretense of ripping off one of the schedules to take, I stuck it behind the whole sheath of papers—this way, it was shielded both from the eyes of those waiting inside the bus stop, and those who might see it from outside.

Satisfied that it had stuck, I took my schedule and elbowed my way back out. I crossed the street, casually turning to look at the crowds in the area. I tried not to smile. Perhaps there were more than I had previously thought. I crumpled up the bus schedule and dropped it, planning to detonate the Twelve from a little way down the street. I started walking toward where I had parked, when I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder. I froze, paralyzed at the thought that someone had seen me planting the Twelve. I turned, expecting to see a Seraphim, but… it was nothing of the sort.

"There's a garbage can right over there," she said, smiling, pointing, and holding the crumpled bus schedule out to me. "I'm sure you didn't mean to just drop this. You don't look like a litterbug."

She was beautiful. A creature sculpted of alabaster and walnut. Her face was kind, open, and framed by thick, wavy, chestnut hair that seemed to flash a deeper, reddish tone. Her doe-eyes reflected the same color, and her mouth was small, round, and as pink as a child's. Her perfect lips were slightly upturned. She was smiling. Smiling at me. Why? Already I had forgotten what she had said. I opened my mouth to say something, but couldn't think what, and closed it again.

She took a step back, now, looking uncomfortable. I didn't want her to look like that, especially not toward me—I had to correct it. I started to take a step forward, unsure of what I was going to do, only that I was going to do something. People were moving around us, but someone had stopped, and was watching.

She extended the hand with the bus schedule again, and I took it, and shoved it in my pocket. She smiled again, and the world was once more right.

"Next time," she said, "Please don't throw your trash on the ground."

I nodded, and watched as she turned and walked off through the crowds, away down the street. She had the grace of a gazelle, and I was aggravated by the amount of her body covered in that useless dress. It was a waste of such beauty, to hide it like that. …Was she a Deva? She looked like one, but… something about her was different. Something… And I couldn't think what.

I watched until I could no longer see her, and then turned once more toward where I was parked, wondering who she was. Wondering, also, why I wanted so badly to turn, still, and follow her. To find out who she was. To hold her, and press her lips to mine.

I was sitting in my car before I even thought of the number Twelve, still at the bus stop. In truth, I doubt I would have remembered it at all, except for the fact that the detonator jabbed me in the leg as I sat down. Immediately I turned back, looping the block, so that I wouldn't seem too suspicious, but knowing full well that I had probably screwed things up beyond all imagining.

And, indeed, as I rounded the corner of the department store, I saw through the glass of the bus stop a young Deva of about fifteen, prying the twelve off of the wall. His mouth was moving.

"Hey," I could imagine him saying. "Isn't this an explosive device?"

At the same time, the bus was pulling up. Ice cold panic filled my chest—this was bad. If he left with the thing, got too far away for me to set it off, and told someone about it… The bus had stopped. Now or never. I turned away from the street, pretending to be absorbed in the window display, while reaching into my jacket pocket. My hand closed around the plastic cylinder that would end that stupid Deva boy's life. I found the button with my thumb. Depressed it.

Behind me, an explosion. People screamed. Brakes squealed. Something plastic hit my boot. I didn't turn, mostly because I knew that I would be unable to feign shock. It didn't matter. No one would be looking at me; they would be too absorbed in the 'accident.' I walked away.

"You came to see me, Liss!"

It was Beatriz who answered the door. She threw her arms around my neck once I had stepped inside, but it was not a comfortable embrace. She was eight months pregnant, and huge. Beatriz had always been small. She looked lost in the gigantic armchair that she settled herself in, and even her maternity clothes seemed too big.

She pushed the call button on the intercom situated by the door, and after a moment a servant appeared from the kitchen.

"What would you like?" she asked me, beaming.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Oh, yes you do. Bring us both hot cocoa," she told the man.

"It's a good day for hot cocoa, don't you think?" she asked, after the servant had gone. "It's a bit nippy outside, isn't it?"

I nodded my agreement.

"It's starting to feel like winter. …I wouldn't really know, myself, of course," she confessed. "Edward doesn't think I should go outside much, in this condition."

"Hm. Where is he, anyway?"

"Working. He's awfully busy these days." She saw my look, and her face fell. "Liss, I know you don't like him, but he only means the best for me. Really. Ever since he rescued me from the home—"

"You were seventeen. He could have waited a few years. Even now—how did he get a permit for that?" I gestured at her. She put a hand over her stomach almost protectively.

"He's the Head of the Council of Homo Sapiens Minor," she said. "He wanted to start a family. He told me. He's very important, you know. He's a very important man."

"He's a puppet for the Devas," I muttered.

"Alister! I won't let you say things like that, I won't! You're horrible. I don't understand what your problem with them is."

"Look at what they've done to you," I sighed. "Beatriz, I don't want to argue with you. I can't stay long."

"You're the one who brought it up," she snapped. The servant returned with two mugs, and she thanked him quietly.

"I just wish he paid more attention to you," I said.

"Well…" Her face showed that she agreed, even if she wouldn't say it. "He provides well for me. Better than I'd get on my own, right?"

"You could have better. You would deserve it. That's all."

"I don't deserve you."

I smiled thinly. "You're right. You don't."

"What's new?" she asked abruptly. "Are you still living with those… people?"

"Am I still living with Jack Dandy?" I paused to take a drink of hot coca. It was too thick. "Yes."

"Still driving the ice cream truck?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a girlfriend yet?" Her eyes danced with mischief.

"No." She had something devious planned. I could tell.

"Well, Liss—"

"Why don't you call me Lory? Everyone else does."

"Well, Liss," she continued. "Edward knows this very nice young woman—"

"Edward?" I took another drink of the hot chocolate, draining half the mug, and scalding my tongue. "That's nice. How old is she? Fourteen?"

"Liss, why're you in a bad mood?"

"I'm not."

She gave me a critical look from under her fringe of bangs.

"I can't believe you're having a baby," I said wonderingly, for perhaps the hundredth time. My little sister, who was still capable of giving me looks like that. My little sister, whom I had watched going through potty training, and helped learn to ride a bike, who had cried when she skinned her knee, or when her doll fell out of the tree limb where she had perched it, was having a baby.

She perked up. I noticed that her feet didn't touch the floor—the chair was too high.

"I know," she said. "Isn't it wonderful?"

I nodded, and gulped the rest of the hot cocoa.

"Now, let me tell you more about this girl, Liss. She's really very nice. She's interning for Edward. I think she'd like you. I mean, of course, she's on the political track, and you're an unambitious ice cream man, but you could make it work."

"I'm very happy being alone, Beatriz."

"You only think that," she insisted, struggling to draw her legs up under herself. "I think, really, that you're very lonely. Isn't it just awful living all the way out of town with Jack and his girlfriend? Don't you get lonely, seeing them together?"

It was impossible to be lonely in that house—not with the number of new recruits swarming around—but I couldn't tell Beatriz about that. About the Hungry Ghosts. I didn't want her to worry, or think ill of me. And so, instead of telling her the full truth, I told her half. "You don't know Jack and Magdalena. You barely know that they're involved."

"Magdalena? That's such a pretty name. Tell me, is she beautiful?"

"I suppose."

"Prettier than me?"

"Of course not. Look, Beatriz," I said, standing, "I need to get going—"

"Liss, why won't you let me set you up with Mabel? Or with anyone, at all?"

"Because you're my baby sister."

"Still…" She chewed on her thumbnail.

I sighed. She had done this before. "Look, if you really want me to… No, don't get up." She had been struggling to stand, like a turtle on its back. "Do whatever you want," I told her, knowing full well that Beatriz always did whatever she wanted.

She clapped happily.

"Oh, good, Liss! I'll set up something and call you."

"On my cell. Not the house phone."

"Of course not." She finally managed to force herself into a standing position, and she walked me to the door. Standing in the open door frame, she threw her arms around me once again in parting, but much more fiercely than before, and buried her face in my coat.

"I worry about you, Liss," she said.

"Don't."

Suddenly, something inside of her moved.

"Oh," she murmured. "Did you feel her kick, just then?"

"Yes. She's strong, isn't she?"

Beatriz nodded, loosened her hold on me, and then pulled part of my coat closer to her face.

"You smell like sulfur," she said. Then she smiled up at me. "I won't ask. And I'll call you soon. About Mabel."

"About Mabel. Right."

I waved to her as I left. When I looked over my shoulder from down the road, her figure was still there in the doorway.

When I arrived back at the house, the smell of food was in the air and Sidney Christmas was on the entry hall floor. Being that I was unable to see his face, due to it being obscured by a sheath of thick hair, I prodded his ribs with one boot, checking for vital signs. He reached out and grabbed my ankle with one hand, which was close enough for me.

"Good evening, Sidney," I said.

"Go to hell, Lory" he snarled.

And then, from the kitchen, Jack yelled, "Lory's back, and did I hear Sidney?" He came swaggering into the entrance hall. "Thought so," he said. "Hey, Sidney, how long you been there?"

"Did I not just say go to hell?" Sidney asked, raising his head off of the floor and glaring at the area around Jack's head.

Jack grinned, and then looked up at me.

"Well, Lory, the good news is, you get a choice tonight—you wanna do dishes, or you wanna do laundry?"

"Laundry's mine," Sidney said, raising his head again, and smiling this time. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. "I like sorting through Maggie's underwear."

Jack laughed. "Fine, then, get to it."

Sidney pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and staggered off in the direction of the kitchen.

"You get dishes, then, Lory."

"How about dinner?"

"If there's anything left," he laughed, following Sidney to the kitchen. I trailed behind.

"How'd it go, Lory?" Magdalena asked from the living room as we passed. She was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by the Newly Dead. The television was on, and most of the new recruits were staring at it, transfixed.

"Fine," I shrugged. "Could have been better."

"Oh?" Jack asked, turning to look at me with a hint of suspicion. "What went wrong?"

"There was this girl… She distracted me."

"Oh…" Jack's face broke into a knowing grin. "We know all about that, eh, Sidney?"

"Right," Sidney said, sidling out of the kitchen. "But Lory? 'Kill-em-all,' 'take-no-prisoners' Lory? She musta really been something."

"No," I said firmly. "She just… called me a litterbug."

"She saw you plant the Twelve?"

"No, she saw me drop the bus schedule."

"…What?" Jack asked, understandably nonplussed.

"It's not important. The bus stop is gone, now."

"And no one would have seen you?"

"I doubt it."

"How could they miss him?" Sidney asked. "His hair is flaming white. I still stare, and I've known him for what? Two years? Three?"

"Yeah, but Sidney, you also have a strong tendency to go off and forget where you left, say, your left arm," Jack said, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking.

"Can't deny that," Sidney replied, going back to the laundry.

"People probably just think that you're a well-preserved old gentleman," Jack said, grinning.

"Well, whatever," Magdalena cut in, standing. "As long as he got away with it, right? Come here, Jack."

I watched as they fell into each other on the couch, and the Newly Dead scattered under this sudden display, only to regroup in front of the television when it became evident that neither one of their leaders cared who else was in the room.

I escaped into the kitchen. Pots and pans sat on the stove. Plates were piled in the sink, on the table, and on the floor. Before tackling that, I checked the things on the stove, to see what they had eaten for dinner.

"We just had sausage sandwiches," said someone behind me, apparently reading my mind. The voice had surprised me; I thought myself to be alone.

I turned to see who it was—a girl who had been with us perhaps a few weeks. Her sandy hair was cut short, and her eyes were placidly blue. She had a boyish figure, and in fact could probably have passed for a young Deva boy, had her skin not been so tanned.

I turned back to the stove, where there was a pot of cooked peas. I grabbed a bowl and spoon, ladled some out, and slathered them with butter.

The girl was seated at the table now, and I sat down across from her and immediately began gulping down the peas.

"Am I bothering you?" she asked.

"No."

"Oh, good. I thought—well, never mind what I thought, right?" She started to laugh, and then stopped. "Are you sure?" she asked again.

I nodded. How stupid. If she had been bothering me, I would have left.

"You must be just wonderful at poker," she said.

"I'm not."

"Really? You have the best poker face I've ever seen."

"Nice to hear," I said flatly. I couldn't figure out what it was that she wanted.

"If I had known that you were coming back, I would have saved you some of my sandwich. But sometimes you don't come back."

"That's true," I replied.

"Cold peas don't make much of a meal."

"You get used to it. How long have you been here?"

"A couple weeks. Ambrose is my brother. We weren't legal, and they finally found us out. So we came here."

"This isn't a charity house," I said coldly. "And I didn't ask 'why,' I asked 'how long.' I couldn't care less why, as long as you're true to the cause."

"I am. I—I hate them. You shouldn't have to ask permission to have a child. That's God's work."

"I told you, I don't care why."

"Are you sure that I'm not bothering you?"

"No. I don’t even know your name."

"Call me Thistle."

"Fine, then, Thistle," I said, finishing my pathetic dinner. "I'm going to do dishes, now."

"I'll help you, if you like."

"Do whatever you want."

"I've never had an adult say that to me before, about chores. It's kind of nice," she said, rising and following me to the sink.

I turned the water on, poured in soup, and then went about the room gathering abandoned plates and cups. Thistle leaned against the sink and watched. I noticed that her ripped jeans hung loosely around her hips—like maybe she wasn't getting enough to eat. But then, who was?

"Mom always made me wash the sink out before I did the dishes," she said. Her boldness surprised me a little. I had never had one of the Newly Dead approach out of the blue like this. She must want something, I thought. Just what was still a mystery.

I snapped rubber gloves on, and looked her in the eyes. For a moment she stared back, but then looked away, blushing. And I still didn't know what she wanted.

"You don't have to do much here that you don't want to," I said, lowering the first of the dishes into the sink. "That's the beauty of it. It's like Never Never Land."

"Ambrose calls it 'The Hungry House.' Because of the name, 'The Hungry Ghosts,' and well…"

"Yes?"

"Well, because meals aren't very big."

"It's not a bad name."

"No, I thought it was clever of him," she said brightly. "He really is very… zealous. Is that a good word for it? Would you call yourself zealous?"

"I might." I'd never thought about it before.

"Would you call yourself a zealot?"

"Would you?"

She laughed. "I don't know."

She just watched me wash dishes for a while, not really helping very much. We got through all of the plates and cups in silence, and then I picked up a medium-sized knife, and rubbed the steel wool pad over it. Thistle drew in a sharp little breath, and when I looked over at her she blushed.

"Sorry… It's just that's really sexy. I have a thing for… men with knives…"

She looked up at me, possibly trying to gauge my expression. I brought the knife closer to my face, and ran my tongue along the dull edge, never taking my eyes off of her face. She looked absolutely petrified, until I laughed. It was a short, barking noise, like rusty machinery coming to life. Like I was out of practice. And come to think of it, I was.

She laughed, too, then. Sidney poked his head out of the laundry room.

"What're you doing in there?" he asked with mock concern. "You ain't tickling Lory, are you? I can't imagine him laughing for any other reason."

I showed him the knife and flicked that hand's wrist at him suggestively.

"Think I'd miss from here, Sidney?" I asked.

Thistle burst into laughter anew.

"I think you two are up to no good," he said, grinning. "My eye is on you," he continued, pulling down his lower eyelid for effect. He ducked back into the laundry room. Thistle giggled again, and seemed about to say something, when suddenly Magdalena screeched from the living room. There was the unmistakable sound of Jack being slapped.

"Maggie," he whined.

"Don't you 'Maggie' me!"

A moment later he slunk into the kitchen, a blotchy red mark on his cheek. He stumped past us, to the refrigerator, where he grabbed a bottle of beer.

"Lory," he said, "I hope you don't mind company tonight."

I shook my head, and he grinned.

"It'll be just like old times, eh? Back in the home… and jail…"

"We never shared a room in the home."

He frowned at me.

"You spoil all my fun. …Anyway, I better go find myself some extra blankets. See you upstairs." He winked at Thistle, and then was gone.

"Well," she said, drying her hands. "I should probably get to bed, too. Thanks, though."

"For what?"

"Just… for talking with me, and not being annoyed, I guess." She laughed. "I'd be annoyed with me. Thank you."

I still didn't understand.

"You're welcome," I said, finally, for lack of better ideas.

"Well… Goodnight," she said, suddenly shy.

"Goodnight," I replied.

She left. I finished the dishes to the sounds of the television in the living room, and Sidney's humming in the laundry room. Long before I was finished, the lights and the television in the living room went off. Magdalena and the Newly Dead trickled off upstairs.

As I was finishing up—draining the sink and cleaning the counter off—Sidney came out of the laundry room. He stretched, yawned, sat down at the table, and for some inexplicable reason turned off the lights. It was dark outside by that time. A sliver of moon hung beyond the ghostly fingers of the trees, out of their reach.

"She's a piece of work, isn't she?" Sidney said lowly. I wasn't sure if he said it to me, or to himself. "Don't you think?" he asked, after a moment, clearing that curiosity up.

"Who?"

"Thistle. 'I have a thing for men with knives.' Oh, Lory, she wants you."

"She wants something, that's for sure."

"Gotta watch those new recruits, don't you?" he chuckled. "You never know who's really gonna stab you in the back, do you?"

"It hasn't happened yet."

"It will. Someday it will. Let's just hope that we've gone the way of Mink Longfellow, before that happens."

"I wouldn’t want to. It won't happen anyway. Devas are just too stupid and self-assured."

"It's nice to think that. Some day they'll figure it out though. …How many people you think were in that bus stop?"

"Eight or so. Some Deva boy picked it off the wall just before I detonated it. Anyone who would have seen him do it will be dead anyway."

"And how about that girl you mentioned? Called you a litterbug? Was she a Deva?"

"I'm not sure."

"She musta been a Deva. But you know," he said, standing up and heading toward the door. The light from the hall silhouetted him. He wasn't Sidney any longer, just a shadow. Just a ghost. "Thistle isn't a Deva. You could get something outta that one. G'night, Lory." And then the shadow that was Sidney retreated down the hallway.

I threw away my paper towel, and looked up at the wall where the clock usually was. …But it wasn't there. I looked around, and noticed that it had fallen down behind the dish drainer. I reached back to get it, grazing my hand against the knife that I'd licked earlier in the process. It stung sharply, and I retracted my hand to look at the damage. Just a scratch. A little bit of damaged skin. One millionth, maybe, of a lightning strike. I retrieved the clock—11:38—and hung it back on its peg. And then I went to bed.