Strange Things Happen At The One Two Points 5/9
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Frank wakes up with the sun drilling beams in his eyes.
He gets up, takes a leak and splashes water on his face and the back of his neck, enjoying the rare moment of total silence and solitude. Even the wind has died down.
All of a sudden a blood-chilling scream pierces the silence, and then Tegan comes running through the jungle of tents, her linen dress flapping against her legs. Frank follows her with bleary eyes, blinking to clear his vision when he notices Bob’s sturdy shape in the distance. He's walking towards Tegan with a heavy stride, carrying something limp and big in his arms.
"What the hell?" Frank breathes out as his vision starts to clear. He runs after Tegan, only stopping when he’s reached the trio. Tegan's crying and shaking, draped over Sara's boneless body. Bob's just looking grim and upset, struggling to hold both girls up. "Shit."
"Frank," Bob says, voice strung tight but steady and sure. "Would you go and get Schechter here? You should find him in Ray's trailer."
"Okay," Frank says, wondering why his own voice sounds so distant in his ears. "Uh, what should I tell him?" What the fuck am I gonna say? Hey, Brian, guess who's fucking dead?
"I don't fucking care what you say," Bob grits out, shifting Sara's body in his arms. "Just fucking get him here."
"Right. Fuck. Okay," Frank says, turning away on shaky legs.
The next hour passes in a blur. Lindsey’s taken to washing Sara's dirty body, running a wet towel along her face before washing her hands and feet with it, occasionally sniffling and wiping her own eyes on the back of her hand.
Bob had placed her body on a long table inside the main tent, being so careful to not let her head bang against the hard surface. Tegan had held her sister's hand against her cheek, and sobbed into Bob's shirt when he tucked her under his arm.
"Who did this?" Brian keeps repeating, his face wet, distraught. "Who the hell did this?"
"Who the fuck do you think did this?" Jimmy growls, and Frank is sure Jimmy would strangle Brian on the spot if Jepha and Quinn weren’t there holding him back. "You brought us here, you fucking knew what reputation the town has, and you still fucking brought us here."
Frank sits himself outside the tent and presses his face in his hands, his head reeling, his stomach convulsing.
It isn't Brian's fault, he thinks darkly. If anything, it's all Frank’s fault. If he hadn't kept pushing Brian and Ray into going this way, Sara would still be alive.
Her face is all he can think about, all he sees now when he clamps his eyes shut, and he has to focus on regulating his breathing or he'll throw up again.
On Sara's forehead someone's carved harlot with a blunt knife, and for that alone Frank wants to hunt them down and strangle them with his bare hands.
"Oh God, Frank," Gerard's voice breaches his thoughts. Frank looks up just as Gerard sinks down next to him and pulls him into a tight hug, pressing his wet face into Frank's shoulder. "I can't even -- who could ever hurt her like that?"
"I saw her last night," Frank says, startled by the sudden memory. "I fucking saw her talking to some guys, but I didn't. I didn't know. I didn't know."
Gerard lifts his head and sniffs, shakes his head. "I saw her too, she seemed happy. I didn't notice anything suspicious. The girls have always taken care of themselves, fuck, Lindsey's more badass than Brian." He pulls back a little and looks almost ashamed when he says, "Frank, I have to ask… Could you -- could you still save her?"
Frank's stomach sinks and he shifts awkwardly, hating himself for what he has to say. "She's dead. I think -- no, I know that there's only one way that could bring her back."
Gerard's brows knit together but he nods his head, prodding Frank to go on with his explanation.
"Gee. Shit. It's always been life for a life. I'd have to take someone else's life to bring her back."
Gerard looks at him with wide eyes and swears under his breath.
They sit silently until Brian, Bob, Jimmy, Bert, and a handful of guys and some girls: Maja, Lindsey and Tegan march out of the tent, Brian and Bob in the lead, Brian slipping a small handgun in the waist of his jeans under his shirt as he walks.
"What's going on?" Gerard voices Frank's thoughts, getting up from the ground.
"We're going to pay the townies a visit," Bob answers him, his jaw set and face tight.
"Okay, then we're coming with you," Frank says, pushing himself up to his feet. He thinks, maybe if they catch the right man, the one who fucking violated Sara like it was nothing, like it's okay to fucking do that to a person, maybe then she still has a chance.
But the town is empty. They even break into a couple of houses, check every crook and crevice, but find no single soul. The bar is also empty, the only sign of life the empty glasses and bottles that they left behind last night.
Tegan's leaning into Bob's side when they trudge back, his arm around her back, hand cupping her upper arm. Brian's walking with a heavy step, all determination and hot, stabbing anger drained from his body. The gun is outlined against his shirt on the small of his back, and it rubs against his skin as he walks.
Mikey's sitting outside by Ray’s trailer when they get back, Ray on the steps with his guitar, and Gerard goes to hug his brother, squeezing him tightly as Mikey's head rolls onto his shoulder.
"We need to bury her," Bert says to Brian quietly enough that Frank has to strain his ears to hear. "It's a hot day. Hell, Brian, she'll start to --"
"I know," Brian snaps before Bert can finish that thought. "Show some respect for fuck's sake."
Bert frowns at his dusty shoes but keeps his mouth shut.
"I'll take care of it," Bob says with a grave voice, giving Brian's shoulder a squeeze.
"Thank you," Brian says gratefully, cupping the back of Bob's neck and pressing their foreheads together for a short moment.
Then Bob pushes back and picks up a shovel from the back of a truck, hoists it up on his shoulder and starts walking in the direction of the hills where Frank found his cave. The grass grows green there, so unlike all its surroundings.
The nausea has settled firm in Frank's stomach and sweat is gliding down his back, his temples and armpits damp from it. He can't just stand here feeling useless, he wants to help.
"Where do you think you're going?" Brian says, blocking Frank's path. "No one goes anywhere without clearing it with me first."
Frank goes around Brian and gets another shovel from the back of Brian's truck. "I'm going to help him," Frank replies, ignoring Brian's surprised look.
The hill Bob's chosen turns out to be steeper than what it looked like from below. Frank's out of breath, his throat burning when he’s finally managed to clamber all the way up. Bob's already knees deep in the pit, his yellow hair matted on his forehead, the back of his shirt damp between his shoulder blades.
Frank hops down into the pit, startling Bob. "Iero?" he grunts, swiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Frank takes notice of the way he's rubbing his wrist and the tremble in his hand.
"You shouldn't have to do this alone," Frank shrugs, trying to sound unaffected, casual.
Bob's just staring at him, furrows on his forehead, his eyes sharp and clear. Then he gives Frank a curt nod and jabs his shovel into the dirt, resuming the digging.
They work in silence for a while, Frank pretending he hasn't noticed the pain Bob seems to be in, not saying anything about the occasional whimper and the clatter of his shovel.
"Fuck," Bob exclaims in a sudden fit of anger, throwing the shovel away. "Goddamn fucking shit."
"It's your wrist, right?" Frank asks, steeling himself for whatever shit Bob's gonna throw at him for asking something this personal.
For a moment Bob looks like he's gonna punch him in the face, tense like a string. But then he deflates, plonking down on the edge of the pit. He starts rubbing his wrist again, turning his fist in circles.
"I used to be a baseball player, did you know? Before I joined Brian's crew." Bob's got a small, wistful smile growing on his face. He tries to hide it though by ducking his head.
"Yeah? Like, what's his name, Joe DiMaggio?"
Bob jerks his head up, glaring at Frank. "Fuck DiMaggio, he's no match for me."
It tugs a laugh out of Frank, and then Bob laughs too, short and gruffy.
"What happened?" Frank asks, jabbing the ground with his shovel. "I mean, what made you stop?"
"What do you think fucking happened?" Bob says, showing him his wrist.
"I mean, what's wrong with it?"
Bob hesitates, then grabs the support strap from his pocket and starts tying it around the wrist. "The bone got shattered from my team-mate's bat," Bob says without emotion, and Frank winces, his own wrist aching with sympathy. "We were practicing out in the field one day and I guess he just wasn't really looking when he swung that bat. That was the end of my career."
"Shit."
"It was a pretty dark time in my life. For months I practically lived in the town bar, trying to drown myself in cheap whiskey. Then the carnival came into town one day, and Brian offered me a job. He always used to say that he couldn't stand to see a grown man wasting his life in a dirty dollar bar. I owe my fucking life to him."
If anything, Frank feels even more awkward around Bob now that he knows about his past. Although it explains some things, puts them in a new perspective for Frank.
"Jeez, Bob. I'm --"
"Don't fucking say it," Bob grits out, standing up. He hoists himself up out of the pit and goes to grab his shovel, leaning it against his shoulder. "Look, let's just pretend this conversation never happened and get back to work."
Frank shrugs, pushing the head of his shovel in the ground with the sole of his shoe. "Fine by me," he says, chucking dirt over his shoulder without really looking where it’s going, kind of annoyed now.
After the awkward conversation it doesn't take long for them to finish the job, both working in silence towards a common goal. People are starting to gather on the hill, dressed up in their best clothing.
Ray's brought his guitar with him, and he's sitting on the lone rock holding it in his lap, testing out some chords.
"Hey, if you want to grab a quick shower before the funeral starts, now's your chance," Bob says, wiping sweat from his eyes.
Frank hoists himself up from the grave and dusts his hands on the back of his dungarees. He snorts, giving Bob an incredulous look. "What's with the sudden goodwill?"
"Fine," Bob shrugs, dropping the shovel to his feet. "I'll take that shower," he adds impassively, stretching his joints as he turns to walk away.
Frank watches him give Gerard and Mikey a small nod as they approach him, and for the first time since last night Frank wishes he knew what Gerard and Bob really talked about after getting back from the bar.
"Frank!" Gerard says, parking Mikey's chair close to the grave. His face looks a little puffy, his lips chewed red and tender.
"Gee," Frank says as Gerard scoops him up in a tight hug, tucking his jaw in the crook of his neck. "Come on, man, I fucking stink."
"You smell like a man who's been sweating his brow all day doing something honorable for his friends," Gerard says, sounding almost reverent, his voice tender as he presses his nose into Frank's neck and takes a sniff. "Besides, that armpit smell is totally homey," he adds, tongue-in-cheek.
"Ha," Frank says dryly, gently pushing Gerard away.
They don't have to wait long for the service to start. Soon enough, Brian, Bob, Quinn and Jeph walk up the hill, carrying Sara on a bier between them, following the mourners: Tegan leaning on Lindsey's side, both in black dresses and hats, Tegan holding an off-white handkerchief in her fist.
Jimmy helps them lower Sara in her grave. She's been dressed up in a simple, black corduroy dress, and there's a small golden cross around her neck. Frank takes notice of the lace scarf wrapped around he hair, covering the cuts on her forehead. He feels a white-hot flash of anger when he thinks about all the horrible things Sara might have gone through; wants to make someone pay.
They say their goodbyes, each in turn placing something precious and small in the grave on Sara's chest while Ray plucks strings on his guitar, the tune heavy with mood. Gerard kneels down and unwraps the scarf around his neck, lets it flutter on top of Sara's hands crossed over her belly. "Godspeed," he whispers, reaching down to brush her cheek with his knuckles, gently, so, so gently.
Tegan takes out a rumpled photograph from her hem pocket and kneels down to place it on Sara's chest. She lets out a huge, painful sob and takes off, running down the hill. Bob looks like he wants to follow her, but Lindsey gets there first, squeezing Bob’s shoulder before going after her.
Frank closes his eyes and heaves a sigh against the pressure in his chest, suddenly missing his mama like crazy.
"Hey, who's that?" Jimmy says, squinting into the distance. Frank follows his gaze, and sure enough there's a figure walking down a hill with a bindle over his shoulder.
"Isn't that --" Frank starts, but Bob's already after him. He tackles the man on the ground and then starts dragging him down the hill by the back of his jacket, marching him towards the carnival.
"Come on," Brian says, motioning with his head. "Let's go see what this is all about."
Inside the main tent Bob has sat the man down on a rickety chair, holding him still by the shoulder.
"I thought you said you were leaving town," Brian says, stepping close.
The man seems regretful and downcast. "Once you're rooted here, you never get to leave," he says. "I should have learned that a long time ago."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means just what I said. Once the town gets a hold of you, it's the last place you'll ever see. You should go. Now. Before that happens to you."
"Don't fucking tell us what to do, you son of a bitch," Bob barks out, pulling the man's head back by the scruff of his neck.
"No one's going anywhere until we figure out what to do with you. We've got a dead girl six feet in the ground that was very much alive before we got here, and no one around to pay for it," Brian says.
"Well, not until now," Bob adds, pushing the man back when he attempts to stand up.
"Now, look. I haven't done nothing to no one."
"Maybe so but you seem to be the only person in this town that hasn't been swallowed up by the ground. And someone’s gotta pay. Who’s to say you weren’t with Sara last night?"
“Yeah!” Jimmy incites, his features full of hate. “I think I saw him!”
“W-what?” The man’s voice is starting to sound hysterical. “He’s lying! I didn’t touch her! I swear!” Then he changes tactics and says, accusingly, “Everyone knows what this town is like. I’m sorry, but she should have known better and kept away from the townies.”
Tegan cries out in red-hot fury, and Bob punches the man in the face so hard he breaks his nose. “Shut up! Fucking shut your mouth!”
The man starts shaking, his shoulders vibrating under Bob’s hold. "What are you gonna do to me?" he whimpers, blood trickling down his nose.
"Fucking kill him!" Tegan yells from the back, her voice breaking. Frank glances at her and wonders if she’ll ever manage to get over this. He would like to help her, any way he can.
"That wouldn't be right." Gerard's voice is quiet but resolute.
"What the goddamn shit do you care whether it's right or wrong, Sara's fucking dead! Didn’t you fucking hear what he said about her?"
"So we're gonna sink to their level? Start killing innocent people?"
"Sara was innocent," Tegan cries, burying her face in her hands, furiously rubbing away her tears.
"I'm with the lady," Bert says, stepping out of the shadows. Frank doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bert this grave and sober before. "I say we give this fella a touch of old carnie justice."
Brian looks like he could drill holes with his eyes.
"What's carnie justice?" Frank asks, finding his voice cloggy and soft.
"Eye for an eye," Bob says slowly, "life for a life."
"I can't get behind that," Gerard says, shaking his head. "If he was guilty, then, yeah, I'd probably be on board, but I don’t think he is."
"But how can we know that for sure? Jimmy thinks he saw him last night," Bert says, adding fuel to the flame. "I say we lynch him and then get the fuck outta here."
"I haven't done anything. Fuck, I don't wanna fucking die for something I haven't done. I'm sorry for what happened to your friend but I've never even seen her in my life!"
"How about we play a game of Russian roulette," Quinn suggests, ignoring the man. "The carnie way. Let fate decide his destiny."
Brian considers it for a minute, then nods his head and walks to the cluster of junk in the corner where he retrieves a small, hand-painted box. He creeks the lid open and takes his handgun out, rotating it in his hands. He extracts the bullets from the cylinder save for one, and then goes to stand in front of their captive, keeping the gun hidden from his view.
"Pick a number from one to six," he says as Bob urges the man up, pulling him by the back of his jacket.
"Shit, no, what’re you doing?"
"I said pick a number," Brian snaps, "or I'll pick one for you."
"Five," the man says hastily, squeezing his eyes shut tight. Brian rolls the cylinder in its orbit and clicks it back in place. Bob walks out of the range of the gun, taking his place by Brian's side. Tegan's jaw is set, her body so tense that Frank can almost feel the nervous energy radiating off her in waves. She comes to stand on Bob's other side, grabbing his fingers and squeezing them so hard the skin around his knuckles goes white.
Frank watches as Brian takes aim, his heart hacking at his chest so hard that everyone must hear him.
"Time to say your prayers," Bob says as Brian starts shooting.
"I can't believe he's still standing," Jimmy says after five empty shots to the head, sounding equally awed and disappointed.
Frank releases a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding, his head reeling.
The man's knees buckle and he sinks to the ground, looking like he's gonna spew.
"This is wrong," Tegan says, pulling away from Bob. "He should be dead."
"No," Gerard says, helping the man up to his feet. "You made up the rules to your sick game and he survived it. He's free to go."
Brian sighs and presses his head down, brushing his hand over his face and sliding his thumb and pointer finger along his eyelids. "He's free to go," he says, and Frank can't help but think he sounds relieved over anything else.
"You need to go. Now," Gerard says, shoving hard at the man's back. "Get the fuck away."
Frank watches as the man stumbles out of the tent in half-run, keeping his face on the ground rather than the people all staring at him in various stages of disgust. He disappears through the tent opening into the bright daylight, the luckiest man on earth.
"Come on," Brian says without much feeling. "Let's pack up and get the hell out of here."
Around four in the afternoon they're ready to leave. Frank hops onto the back of Brian's truck, preparing himself for another day and night of driving. Each mile takes him closer to the rest home and Ozzy, but now he can't help but feel like he's been nothing but bad luck to the carnies, to his only friends.
As they're driving down the main road through the town, Frank notices movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks up at the town bar and in the window sees Sara with her palm pressed against the glass. She's in the clothes she wore the night before her death, and there're no cuts and bruises on her face. As she opens her mouth to speak, she gets pulled out of the window by two, thick arms, someone's palm clamped against her mouth.
"Shit." Frank hops out of the truck so fast he loses his footing, his stomach giving a painful lurch. He runs to the bar, ignoring Brian’s angry yells. He throws the door open, looking inside frantically, searching for Sara. But the bar is as empty as always, the dirty glasses and half-drunk bottles that they left behind still there, nothing's been cleared out.
"What the fuck was that?" Brian barks with his head out the window when Frank comes back.
Frank's chest feels tight where he rubs his fist against his sternum. "I thought I saw something," he says quietly, fear and sorrow weakening his voice.
Exhaustion hits Frank like a ton of bricks as soon as the truck coughs up into motion. He slumps down on a slap of plywood and rests his head on his folded arm, ignoring all the aches in his body. He blinks up at the sky until his eyes start to water, then heaves a sigh and closes his eyes. He jerks up almost immediately though when a loud bang splits his ears.
"Jesus fuck, what the hell?"
Frank props himself up against the wall and peers over the edge, bile rising up his throat. The man they weren't supposed to shoot is lying face down on the ground, still gripping his bindle in one hand. There's blood pulping out of the hole in his skull, seeping into the dirt.
Brian's looking at Frank in the side mirror, his dark eyes challenging, but Frank realizes he doesn't want to object anymore, not after what he saw in the bar window. He holds Brian's gaze for a moment, but then just slumps back on the plywood. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, his throat working to swallow down his sick while he makes feeble attempts to stop his head from spinning.
--
Pete lies on the floor in his padded room for hours after he's been released from the straitjacket, gathering his thoughts, clearing his head as best as he can. He thinks about Joe on the hospital bed and Ashlee by his bedside, and the little boy on top of the tree trunk, playing with his pocketknife. A crow sits down on the window sill and peeks inside, tapping at the glass with its beak, cocking its head and considering Pete with its black, beady eyes before flying away. When it starts to get dark outside, Pete hoists himself up, stopping to marvel at the soft scrapes on his palms that he only could have gotten when he fell off the bridge.
But wasn't that all in his head? Hadn't he just imagined it?
"I must be losing my mind," he says to a longhaired old man who's looming by the wall just outside the padded room. The man hunches his shoulders and takes a few steps back, eyeing him nervously while rubbing at his wrists.
The room leads to a hallway, which in its turn leads to a huge lounge with chairs and large barred windows, patients, nurses and guards scattered around. Everything is white here: the walls, the furniture, even the people's clothes. The floor is white, too, and the ceiling. The radiators buzz and bang at short intervals. Everywhere smells like disinfectant and chalk.
"Where the hell am I?" he asks the room. A man with a long, rubbery face and gray, thinning hair flashes his teeth, says, "Hell, we're in Hell," letting out a sharp, harrowing laugh that irritates Pete's ears.
He walks to the window and looks outside. It's full moon tonight, the gleam of it lighting the ground, casting long shadows over trees and rocks, making the water in the river sparkle like the stars.
The river. It's within a stone's throw, running along the edge of the forest. He realizes, with a start, that he can't be that far away from home.
He grips the bars in front of the window and presses his forehead against them, relishing the coolness of the metal on his skin. He watches as his breath fogs up the glass and listens to the incomprehensible noises and chatter of the mentally ill.
Something's changed, he thinks. A new sensation, like something that's been sleeping inside of him for years has finally started to stir. Even through the haze of sedatives, Pete can feel it awakening, giving him strength, a new sense of purpose.
An old woman in white linen dress crooks her head and peeks at Pete through the curtain of thinning, gray hair. Her eyes are a matching gray, the black pinprick pupils the only contrast against all that white.
She stares at Pete for a while, swishing her head from side to side, then folds her arms over her face in a dramatic display of fear, shielding herself from him, hissing like a cornered cat as she shrinks away.
"Freak," Pete murmurs to himself, smushing his nose into the cool metal bars.
When the night finally creeps over them and the people start wandering out of the lounge, he retreats back to his white, padded room. He presses his cheek on the floor and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the doors getting locked for the night. One of the guards walks into the room and looms over Pete, the epitome of authority.
"There's a room with a bed down the hall reserved for you, this is just for the newcomers waiting to be checked in."
"What if I like it here?" Pete says, voice muffled against the padding.
"Tough," the man says, hoisting Pete up by the back of his shirt and marches him out of the room.
Anger flares up inside of Pete. He thinks he could snap the man's neck like a twig, but as he tries to struggle against the hold, he realizes he's met a worthy opponent.
The guard shoves him into his new room so hard he loses his footing and staggers down, says with a sneer, "Doors open in the morning, have pleasant dreams," then pulls the door shut, snapping it tight, the lock clicking into place.
Pete pulls himself along the floor towards the window. He leans his back on the side of the bed and folds his legs against his chest, pressing his chin into his knees, looking at the crows circling his window on the other side.
--
It's only when another dust storm starts looming in the distance that Brian gives the sign to stop.
"Everyone inside," he yells, walking around the caravan of trucks and trailers while people run around gathering things, roll the car windows up and start covering the biggest cracks and holes in their trailers with clothes.
"Frank, get inside," Brian orders when notices Frank getting off the bed of his truck. He grabs Frank's wrist and starts dragging him towards Ray's trailer, ignoring Frank's protests.
Frank throws glances at the brothers' trailer. Gerard is stuffing one of his old scarves into a crack on the wall next to the faded painting of a fortune-teller, just above her crystal ball.
"Oh, but I don't wanna bother you guys," Frank tries to say while Brian makes him stumble on the steps. "I was thinking I'd go stay with Gerard and Mikey --"
Brian barks a laugh, pushing Frank through the doorway. "Oh please, could he be more obvious?" he asks Ray as he pulls the door closed behind him.
"Huh?" comes Ray's distracted reply. He's running his fingers up and down the guitar strings in the lamplight, back partly turned to them.
"Never mind," Brian rolls his eyes, and Bob gives an amused snort in the corner, toying with the pack of cigarettes in his hands.
The wind starts picking up, and soon it's a full blown storm, dust lashing against the windows hard enough for it to be scary, like the wind could knock down the trailers and trash them around.
Brian's leaning back in his chair next to Bob, his legs stretched out and head resting on the wall, the tension in his body visibly melting. Bob's still turning the pack of smokes in his hands, hitting the lid against his palm.
"You have something on your mind," Ray says softly, putting his guitar away, regarding Frank with interest. He leans on his thighs, clasping his hands between his knees and waits for Frank to speak.
Frank imitates his posture, elbows pressing into his thighs. He ducks his head and scratches at the back of his neck, pulling at lumps of his overgrown, dirty hair, his scalp itching.
"What do you know about Avatars?" he asks, just wanting to get straight to the point. He watches as Ray's face turns into a frown, eyebrows knitting together into an unbroken line.
"I think I have some books about them, why do you want to know?"
"I saw the word somewhere and it stuck with me."
Ray gives him a skeptical look. "You just saw the word written somewhere? Jeez, Frank, you gotta take me to your walks sometime if that's the kind of stuff you find."
"So can you tell me anything about it?" Frank prompts.
"I guess, sure. But I'm gonna have to consult my private library first," he flashes a small smile, motioning at the shelf of dusty tomes behind his back. It spans the whole bottom half of the wall, and there's a tiny, spiky cactus sitting in a pot on top of it under the lampshade.
Frank sits back in his chair and sighs. He twiddles with his thumbs and alternates between watching Bob and Brian playing a game of poker -- Bob's been winning from the beginning, which has put Brian on the defensive -- and Ray wading through an old-looking book after another, occasionally mmm'ing to himself. When Bob's done robbing Brian of all of his pocket money, Ray presses his pointer finger to the double-page spread and says a comical, "Aha!"
"Find something?" Brian grunts, throwing the final wad of dollar bills at Bob's head. They’re pretty well up-to-date with matters considering the minister, mostly because of Brian’s incessant nagging. The look on Bob’s face when Frank told them about his nightmares and visions was just as spooked as everybody else’s.
"Yeah, yeah, it's all here. It says Avatars are embodiments. A new personification of a familiar idea,” he quotes. “Like, the embodiment of hope or the incarnation of evil, I think. Hindus believe in their deities manifesting themselves in human, superhuman or animal form."
"Huh," Frank says, feeling suddenly very small.
"That tell you anything?" Ray asks, studying Frank's face, still looking painfully interested.
Does it? Incarnations? Embodiments? He wouldn't be all that surprised if the minister really turned out to be evil incarnate, but. What does it all have to do with him? "I don't know," he answers honestly, and watches the excitement on Ray's face fade. "But thanks? I think I just need some time to mull this over."
"No problem," Ray says, slamming the book shut, but not before carefully marking the page with an old postcard. "Don't hesitate to ask for my help when you need it."
"Thanks, man, I appreciate it."
It's already a new morning when the wind dies down. Frank had spent the night dozing in the hard chair, his ass gradually getting number until he couldn't tell if he was still sitting in the chair or floating in air. The sisters had been in one of his dreams, standing in the middle of their stage in the dark, facing each other like mirror images and then dancing together in perfect sync.
Outside of Ray's trailer, people are checking out their vehicles and each other for damage and dusting off wide surfaces with dirty, holey rags.
Tegan's sitting on the steps of her trailer, knees drawn up to her chest. Bob makes his way to her and offers her a glass of water. She gulps it down in a few, quick swallows and hands the glass back to him, looking at him with her head tilted on one shoulder.
"Hey, Frank," Gerard says, removing himself from Mikey's chair when he notices him. "You doing okay? I was kind of expecting you to wait out the storm with me and Mikey."
Frank gives him an awkward smile, glancing at Bob out of habit. "I got shanghai’d into Ray's trailer before I could really react to it."
"Brian's been kinda intense lately," Gerard nods, stealing a quick glance at Bob and Tegan as well, "looking out for his own."
"Considering the circumstances, I guess that was to be expected."
Gerard hums in agreement, looking away and blinking hard.
"Hey, shit, um," Frank panics, touching Gerard's arm and then quickly snapping his hand back. "Are you --?"
"I'm good," Gerard says with a tight voice, thumbing his sternum. "Just, y'know."
"Yeah, I mean. I didn't know her like the rest of you, but even so, what happened to her -- shit. And she was always really nice to me, right from the beginning."
"She had a great spirit. She was just overall a great person, you know? She didn't ever leave anyone cold."
"She was wonderful," Frank agrees, trying not to think of her face in the bar window, like she wanted to tell him something.
In the afternoon they pass a medium-sized town and park just on the edge of it. Brian sends Frank and Gerard off to stock up on food, water and other supplies. A couple of carnies from Bert's crew follow them in one of their trucks, Maja sitting on the back with her legs hanging out.
They get back with both trucks loaded with necessities, and Frank's stomach twisting and churning, cold sweat breaking out on his skin.
"Goddamn it, Gee, why didn't you warn me about eating that fucking chili plate?" Frank moans, clutching at his stomach while Gerard's steering him into his trailer, out of the white-hot blazing sun.
"I tried to," Gerard says, sounding defensive, gripping Frank's arms a little tighter when he stumbles.
"Yeah, because a half-hearted I don't think you should eat that is totally a fair warning."
"I said you shouldn't eat it, what more did you want?"
"How 'bout wrenching the plate from my hands and dumping it somewhere?" Frank suggests while Gerard throws him on the armchair, slides a pillow behind his back and then pushes the other chair next to Frank's legs, hoisting them up by his ankles.
On the bed Mikey cocks his eyebrow, and Frank just knows he's mocking him.
"Oh, you think this is funny, huh?" Frank says to Mikey, and Gerard lets out a laugh, going to sit on the edge of Mikey's bed, ruffling up Mikey's hair but then quickly smoothing it back on his forehead when Mikey gives him a look.
"You gotta see the humor in that."
Frank's stomach lurches, and he groans, feeling like he's falling.
"But Frank," Gerard adds, reaching out to squeeze his hand, "why don't you just heal yourself? You don't have to feel like this."
"I thought we went through this already? It wouldn't be right. Besides, getting sick was my own fucking fault, at least it'll teach me not to fucking eat street market food."
Gerard sighs, pressing his cool hand against Frank's burning neck. It feels amazing. "So stubborn," he murmurs, and Frank can just manage a tired groan for reply.
"We'll probably start moving soon, but you should sleep this off here, okay? Take it easy for a while."
Frank sighs. He's feeling delirious, eyes already slipping shut.
He's standing in the field again, all around him the corn is growing thick and tall.
There's distant rustling behind him, and glancing over his shoulder he can just about make out a shape moving towards him by the swaying of the cobs.
Shit, he thinks, starting to run, just knowing who’s following him fast on his heels.
His knees buckle and he falls down, dry stems on the ground scraping his palms. Judging by the sounds of stalks snapping in half and rapid panting, his pursuer is getting closer, and as Frank scrambles back up he realizes just how screwed he is. The furious face of the minister is now just within a stone's throw from him, bare-chested, the black, wilted tree on his chest undulating as he runs.
Frank feels himself falling again, but now the sensation is stronger, and just as the minister yanks at his shoulder, Frank tumbles over the armchair, smacking face-first on the floor.
"Ow," he says, inhaling a lungful of dust and then coughing it back up.
"Frank? Frankie, what the hell happened?" Gerard rushes to his side, takes a hold of his arm and helps him to sit up.
"I fell off the chair," Frank explains dumbly, rubbing his jaw.
"Well, yeah," Gerard says, giving him more space. "Was it another bad dream?"
Frank nods, trying to shake off the gut-wrenching panic that he had felt when the minister was gaining on him. Things had changed, the tattooed man had gotten a familiar face. The two scariest people of his dreams had merged into one.
"Fuck," he says, pressing his head into his forearms. "I fucking hate my mind for coming up with this shit. Like, what the hell is wrong with me?"
"It's probably just you feeling sick, Frank. It's normal for people with stomach ache to have nightmares."
Normally Frank would agree, but these particular nightmares don't seem to care whether he's feeling good or not.
"How are you otherwise? How's the nausea?"
"Oh," Frank wonders out loud, pressing his hand to his belly, giving it an experimental rub. The churning has stopped, all there's left is a similar sick feeling he gets sometimes inside a moving car, which, yeah, he can deal with that. "It's almost gone?"
Gerard is grinning, looking pleased as he helps Frank down in the chair. "Now that's what I like to hear."
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