FEVERCHAIN 14

Lesbian werewolves, et cetera. FEVERCHAIN is a contemporary horror-romance serial set in the fictional Pinetown, New Jersey.

A TENSE voiceover from Emily S Hurricane! Enjoy.

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After work, I stomp into the woods without Smokey. Make my presence known. The sun is already half dead. A dog or coyote or whatever howls until my spine tingles. Fury keeps me warm, but it doesn’t reach my fingertips. Clench my fists.

“Gwen!” I’m already hoarse. “Gwen!” I shout, through a pang of shame and dread I don’t know how I’ll ever shirk.

Silence presses on my chest. The forest is flat and gray. For miles, it seems, there’s nothing but trees like stakes in the ground. If she was here, I’d know. “Wade came to see me today.” I speak like she’s beside me. “They know you left. You left me.”

Each icy word shoots up my root canals. I stumble, weak and wobbly. So fucking weak. “They know. They probably embedded a GPS tracker in your skin or have cameras or wiretapped my house.”

I prop myself on a skinny pine, feels like I’ve been breathing through a straw. “They know something. Maybe everything.”

Cold air stretches my lungs. Cold air leaves me dry. Thousands of tiny cuts in my throat and nostrils. Isn’t she cold? But I know better. Where is she sleeping?

I press my forehead into the tree. My glasses haze over. “You can’t just leave when I hurt your feelings.”

I’ll hurt them again.

“I couldn’t find their cameras.”

They’ll hurt more than my feelings.

“I’m scared, Gwen.”

They’re gonna come get me. Doesn’t she care?

Leaves crackle and craunch. My heart contracts, swells.

I turn around.

Should’ve known—it’s a fucking squirrel, kicking up dust. Looking for lost nuts.

I slam my hand on the bark until it stings through the numbing chill. “I’ve given up my whole life! My whole fucking life!” Smack, slap. “Maybe it wasn’t much of a life. Maybe that doesn’t impress you.”

I take the package of pork roll from my grocery bag. “It’s all I have.” Chuck it, to stress my point. Watch and wait until stars poke through the sky. The moon—almost full. Almost perfect. And totally uncaring.

On my walk home, pass the spot where we roasted marshmallows and fucked. She could’ve bitten me then. She could’ve bitten me many times. She didn’t.

But if Gwen abandons me like this, she is a monster.

↟↟↟

Thursday, February 25th. The internet claims the moon will be full on the 27th.

Before the sun rose, I went back to the woods to check on the pork roll. It’s still sitting in its plastic package. Untouched.

Then I went home and made myself throw up. Told Mom that Gwen must’ve given me that stomach bug after all. A week later, but whatever. She believed me. Or believed I didn’t want to go on the cruise anymore, at least.

I’m wrapped in a blanket on our front steps shivering slightly, Smokey’s head in my lap. I’m hoping he’ll alert us if he smells, hears, or senses anything strange.

Clyde is packing the car. It’s 39 degrees, but he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and flip flops.

A clasps holds my shoulder. Smells like nail polish. Steadies me. While Clyde puts suitcases in the trunk, Mom bends to my ear: “Bun, you sure you’re still feeling too bad? I know Clyde is excited, but, if you’re feeling up to it, you should come.”

I shake my head, resist the urge to grasp her and never let go. “Being stuck on a boat with a stomach bug seems like a bad idea.”

“Okay.” She squeezes my shoulder. Can’t hide the disappointment in her tone, and it makes me feel like shit. “Just let me know how you’re feeling. I’ll be texting you.”

“Don’t. I’ll be fine, Mom. Just relax, swim in the heated pool…” Smokey’s head jerks, ears erect. A shiny black truck is descending the shallow hill of our short neighborhood, slowing, slowing. Stops.

Parks with a click and a clunk.

My muscles tighten at the thunk—the driver’s door opens.

This is bold. Concerning.

“Oh, that’s the mayor!” Mom moves towards the car as Mr. Dyer steps out clutching a bouquet of fresh fruit. Bright orange slices, spikes of melon and pineapple, skewered strawberries—all of it unnatural against the barren winterscape.

“Hi there. Sorry to disturb, but my wife made this for you.”

I can hear the entirety of my mom’s gasp from here. Clyde watches warily, leaning on our beat-up Prius.

“We wanted to thank you for taking care of Gwen.”

“Oh, no! She’s always welcome in our home,” Mom sputters. “No need to thank us.”

He touches her arm, lays it on thick: “We really do appreciate it, Elena. You’ve been a lifesaver.” The mayor turns to Clyde and smiles: “Where ya headed?”

“The Bahamas!” Mom’s head is covered by the fruit bouquet. “Bianca won a weeklong cruise!”

“Did she?”

Mayor Dyer’s eyes land on me. His forehead shimmers panic under the late morning sun; his stare is stiff: holds me for too long.

I grip Smokey’s collar. He shakes, whines at the restraint. Shit, I’m trying to restrain myself. The world reels around the gun in Mayor Dyer’s holster.

“Yeah, one of those marketing survey things,” Mom explains. “Unfortunately, she’s not feeling well. Stomach bug. So Clyde’s using her ticket.”

“Aw, that’s a shame. For Bianca, that is.”

Clyde huffs a laugh over his crossed, burly arms. Looks pretty stand-offish. Though his back is facing me, I imagine his signature scowl. For once, he’s getting it right, even if it’s for the wrong reasons. He never forgave the Dyers for hiring contractors from outside of Pinetown for their renovations instead of him. That dislike extended to Gwen. Clyde’s petty like that.

“Marie will make her some soup—miso lemongrass! Easy on the stomach and full of nutrition. I’ll drop it off tonight.”

They think they’re too fancy for me, Clyde had said.

“Oh.” Mom looks back at me. I feel like a child, innocent and ignorant of adult conversations and insinuations. Wish that were true. “Oh, there’s no need for that. You’re too kind, really. We have some canned soup for her already, and Bianca’s a little picky—”

“Marie’s soup heals the gut, I swear by it. And when you get back,” the mayor glances at me, “you’ll have to come over for dinner. All of you, please. I insist. You Pancos are always cooking for everyone. You should be served, for a change.” Every curated smile and word tells me he is performing and overselling it. I guess my mom is interpreting the mayor’s behavior as belated embarrassment that we’ve been housing his daughter for weeks without a clear reason.

But I recognize his dinner invite as an explicit threat. I force myself and Smokey inside. Mom calls for me as I shut the door.

Don my long puffy coat, gloves, and, what the hell, I grab the bolt cutters. And Clyde’s Swiss Army Knife keychain. Smokey’s following me all the while, panting.

Smokey. Oh my god.

I have to take him with me, wherever I’m headed. They won’t let him in the emergency room, will they? I’ll have to drop Smokey off at some kind of daycare first—Emilio can’t watch him. E can’t get involved in this.

We don’t have a back door, so I’m pushing at my window. Then they enter the house.

“Bianca?” Mom’s voice resonates down the hall. “Mr. Dyer wants to speak with you—”

I throw off my coat, kick the bolt cutters under the bed and Mom is at my door.

“Bun. We’re about to leave. Are you alright?”

“Nope. Privacy please.”

She cracks the door. “Are you wearing gloves?”

Fuck. I hide my hands behind my back. “I feel nauseous.”

“Are you gonna be okay here? Without us?”

“Mhm.” This could be it, the last time I speak to her. I don’t want it all to be a lie. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too. Text me! Drink water.” She closes the door. Opens it. “Oh, and do you know where Gwen is?”

Real pain twists my guts. “The woods.”

“The woods,” she sighs. “I’ll tell him. Text me, Bun. And don’t go outside looking for her… not when you’re sick like this.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m fine. She’s fine. You have fun. Go on, don’t miss the ship. It’s already 11:45!”

“Alright, alright. Buh-bye Bunny. Hope you feel better.”

The door shuts. With all my strength, I open the window. Gather my coat and random shit, a lollypop, a crumpled water bottle I fill up in the sink. I try to lift Smokey out the window, but he’s 56 pounds of fur. Fuck.

“I’m sorry, bud.” His legs scratch the wall and kick as I lug him over. The drop from the window is short, but he’s not a cat. “Stay!” I beg. Grab the Squatty Potty from my toilet and use it as a step stool to get my ass through. I roll the landing. Smokey licks my face. Mom, Clyde, and the mayor’s voices float over from around front. Sounds like farewell.

I need to get the hell away from this house and hide. Hide and figure out what to do with Smokey, then myself. It’ll take Mom and Clyde a little over an hour and a half to reach Cape Liberty, even longer to get on the cruise ship. In the meantime, I decide to trespass through my neighbors’ backyards, whispering at Smokey to follow. I didn’t account for this. For the Dyers just… showing up. Maybe because I’ve been sleep deprived and totally unstable. Speaking of unstable, I hope that trying to kidnap me in the middle of the day in a neighborhood is out of the question for the mayor, but he’s clearly cracking.

I’m directionless, bolt cutters stuffed in my pants, hitting my hip. Between the squat, beige houses, their sparse trees and sad shrubs, the shiny black truck is stalking me, window rolled down. No way. No fucking way.

“I’m gonna call 911!” I scream.

“Where’s my daughter?”

As if I know. I curse under my breath once I reach the last house on my street. Beyond this, it’s just woods. In the woods, he can shoot me and call it a hunting accident. So I retrace my steps. No one is outside, but I spy Mr. Nowack through his kitchen window. He’s adjusting his glasses, staring at something that gives them a white-blue glare—phone screen. I jump. Wave. Yell. He turns away, wearing earbuds—who wears earbuds in their own house? Disappears behind a wall, attention swallowed whole.

I scream again when the truck stops and Mayor Dyer steps out. Smokey halts between us. I pull my phone from my back pocket and wield it like a weapon.

The mayor has a jar of peanut butter. We stare at each other over my husky without moving. A standoff.

This town ain’t big enough for the both of us. But Dyer isn’t stupid or crazy enough to whip out his gun. I hope. I delude myself.

Unlock my phone—or, try to. My password fails. Fails again.

The mayor grins. “That’s a rental, remember? You don’t own it. You’ve violated our terms.” He opens the peanut butter jar and kneels down, becoming Mr. Friendly: “Come ‘ere, boy! Come ‘ere!”

Smokey bolts before I can hold him back. Fucking traitor.

“No! You can’t—he’s stealing my dog!” I yell at the kitchen window. But Mr. Nowack is no longer there. “Smokey! Smokey, come!”

Too late. The mayor shoves Smokey into the back of his car. Thunk, click. “Stop yelling and get in.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll drive away.”

And I’ll never see Smokey again. He’s panting in the back, fogging the tinted window. Lets out a muffled cry for help.

“Please. I don’t know where she is, but she’s gonna come back any minute—”

“Car. Now.”

You’re not my dad, fucker. I swallow bile and approach. Once I’m close, he wrenches my arm and sticks me with something. I see the syringe and gasp. All my weight falls to my legs and I slump against the truck, cold metal sapping the life from me. Peel my eyes open as far as they’ll go, and through thin, quivering slits I see that I’m in the truck and Smokey is breathing in my face. He’s never liked car rides. I can’t even raise my arm to comfort him. My gaze drops and I see legs under my feet, across the floorboards. Wade is there, sitting against the passenger door with legs outstretched, something silver in his hand catching the light. He’s been there the whole time, waiting. I want to speak, but my jaw is slack—too tired.

Mayor Dyer presses a button to start the engine. We glide away from the curb and up the street. Everything lags like loading video.

“You’re our peanut butter,” the mayor says. My mind sinks into black water.