Busted Flush

“How many times are you going to read this crap?” she asked. “Why don’t you read something educational instead?”

“How long until Uncle Shylock takes you back to Jew York City so I don’t have to see your ugly face no more?”

“I’ve told you,” she said, wheeling the cart away, “I’m not from New York.” She left the Racist to his solitude.

“Nibble they toes, nibble they fingers . . . ”

Her last stop was outside the cell of Terrence Wayne Cottle, aka Sharky, in reference to his gray skin and the serrated, triangular teeth that filled a mouth extending halfway around his head. Cottle embraced the identity enthusiastically. He’d eaten his victims to death.

“. . . chew they skin, chew they guts . . .” Featureless black eyes popped open when Niobe pushed her squeaking cart to a halt outside his cell.

“. . . chomp they tail and all them kiddies!”

“Something to read, Terrence?”

“Not bored. Hungry.” Thin lips pulled back from his teeth as he said this. “So hungry.” He licked his lips.

A single scoop of butter brickle sat at the bottom of her cooler, but of course she couldn’t give it to him. Pendergast and the security techs were adamant that Cottle could never receive any utensil. Even a plastic spork.

“Can’t help you there, Terrence.” Niobe held up a few magazines. “How ’bout a National Geographic?” Even staple-bound magazines were off-limits.

“What I’d really like, Genetrix, is a copy of Modern Gourmet.”

“Sorry, Sharky, no such luck.”

Cottle shook his head. “Shame. Been looking for a good recipe for roast joker tail.” He laughed. “Something that’ll tell me how to debone that thing.”

His shouts followed her back up the hallway. “. . . or a marinade for fat little kiddies?”

Yves, Yvette, and Yectli were extra quiet. But she knew how to cheer them up.

Hey, you kids ever been to Disneyland?

Yectli clapped. Of course not! said Yves.

Well, let’s fix that, thought Niobe. And this time, no putting the trip off until it was too late.

All they needed was a few days. She’d let Pendergast know they’d be gone, and then find some tickets online. The oil crisis guaranteed that she’d have to pay a king’s ransom to get all four of them to California and back, but she hadn’t touched her trust fund in a long time. It might have taken a hit, thanks to market craziness brought on by the crisis, but odds were that her parents’ goodbye-and-go-away-forever gift was still pretty hefty.

You guys are gonna love Space Mountain.

Returning through the medium-security wing, Niobe found one of the cells open. The cot had been stripped, and a pile of new linens rested at the foot of the mattress.

“Get a move on, Genetrix.”

She turned to find Tom, one of the BICC orderlies, standing next to her.

“Oh, hiya, Tom. What’s going on? New guest?”

“I’m not kidding. Beat it.”

“What? I’m just asking.”

Tom shrugged. “I got my orders.” He pointed down the corridor. “Scram.” He glared until she turned the corner.

She waited a moment before peeking back.

Justice—the head of BICC security—escorted a boy down the corridor and into the cell. Young, based on his height, and a little pudgy.

The boy turned just as Justice slammed the cell door behind him.

He looked terrified.

The interrogation room was cramped and dim. Drake was sitting on one side of a metal table; facing him from the other side were a doctor, or so he guessed from the man’s white coat, and another BICC guy. Justice was behind Drake, but he was letting the others ask the questions.

“Mr. Thomas, you’re aware of your medical condition, are you not?” The doctor leaned forward and adjusted his glasses.

Drake shook his head. “No, no one’s told me anything.”

The BICC man, wearing a badge that said “Smitty,” opened a folder. “Well, it’s time you learned why you’re here. Let’s start with exactly what you remember?”

“Nothing,” Drake said defensively. This was going to be just like the army hospital, nothing but questions. “Why don’t you tell me something for a change. Like where my family is or why I can’t see them, for instance.”

“Well, there is a bit of information I can provide you with about your medical condition.” The doctor had a really nasty look on his face, reminding Drake of his fourth-grade math teacher. His badge read “Dr. Pendergast,” which sounded like something made-up. “You’ve been infected with xenovirus Takis-A, the wild card. As for your family, they’re all presumed dead.”

“Doctor,” Justice said, a serious look on his face, “are you sure . . .”

“Yes,” Pendergast interrupted. “This young man needs to come to grips with the situation he’s in. It might help overcome his memory suppression.”

Drake went numb. “You’re lying about my folks.” He had a feeling, deep down, that it was true. “Tell me you’re lying.” He’d been afraid they were dead, but until someone said it Drake wasn’t going to believe it. Now, someone had said it.