Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

“Do you think they will talk to us?” Remy was curious, given the feud between the two groups.

“Sure,” Jon said. “Right before they find out who we are, and try to kill us.”

Fernita Green reached into her bucket of filthy water and removed a rag.

“Here,” she said to Mulvehill, handing him the dripping cloth. “Start scrubbing. Anyplace you see this writing.”

For some reason he took it, soapy water dripping from his hand to patter on the threadbare carpet.

“Listen, Fernita,” Mulvehill started. “Why don’t we talk about this . . . ?”

“There’s no time to talk,” the old woman snapped as she frantically rubbed at a blackened smudge on the wall. “I have to get it all off.”

Mulvehill wasn’t familiar with the scrawl, but it looked old, and he got an odd, itchy feeling at the backs of his eyes when he looked at it for too long.

“All the things I forgot,” Fernita said as she scrubbed. “The more I wipe away, the more I remember. . . . It was horrible . . . just horrible.”

The old woman was sobbing as she dunked her brush into the bucket beside her and brought it out again to scrub at the wall.

Cautiously Mulvehill knelt beside her, feeling the spilled water from the bucket soak into the knees of his slacks as he gently put his arm around her. “It’s all right,” he tried to console her. “Everything is going to work itself out. Why don’t we take a break, talk a little, and see what—”

“They were burnin’,” the old woman said, staring at him with eyes red from crying. “All those folks inside, they all got burned up because of me.”

Mulvehill felt horrible. Fernita Green was in genuine pain; he could practically see it eating away at her.

“He was trying to kill me,” she said between sobs, and then with a desperate moan she attacked the wall again, rubbing with all her might to make the markings disappear.

“Who, Fernita?” Mulvehill asked. “Who was trying to kill you?”

The old woman slumped forward, sliding down the wall until her face and hands were touching the ground. She was exhausted, barely able to hold herself up anymore.

“The angel,” she said into the floor, and he thought for sure that he must have misheard her words.

“Who?” he asked again, squeezing her tighter.

“The angel,” she said again, raising her head. “The angel wanted to kill me.”

“Shit,” Mulvehill said, fingers of icy dread tickling the length of his spine. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

Jon and Remy were at a motel on the outskirts of the Sonoran Desert, cleaning up before beginning their search for the Daughters of Eve.

The van from the biodome had been singed a bit in the explosion, but it had proven to still be road-worthy. They’d made a quick stop at the closest megastore, picking up some fresh clothes, a map, and Jon’s hearing-aid batteries.

Remy had just run himself through the shower, and he came out of the bathroom to find Jon sitting on the corner of one of the beds, staring at the room’s green carpet with laser-beam intensity.

“You all right?” Remy asked, drying his dark hair with a towel.

It took a moment or so, and he was about to ask the question again when Jon pulled his eyes away from the rug.

“I’m good,” he said, but Remy wasn’t sure he believed him. The man was pale, sick-looking, and he hoped that it was just the reality of their situation catching up with him.

“Are you done in there?” Jon asked, rousing himself.

“It’s all yours.” Remy stepped aside as Jon grabbed a plastic bag containing his purchases and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him; seconds later the water in the shower was running.

Remy had bought a new pair of jeans and a powder blue dress shirt. He tore the price tags off and dressed, glancing toward the bathroom, wishing he were alone on this leg of the journey. Something told him that things were only going to get worse, and Jon had already been through enough.

From another bag on the floor, Remy took out the maps he’d bought and unfolded them on the bed, planning the quickest route to Louisiana and hoping the van would last long enough to get them there.

Steam swirled around the bathroom as Jon held on to the edges of the sink, staring at his fogging reflection in the mirror.

But it wasn’t himself he was looking at; it wasn’t a person at all. Jon was seeing a place . . . a place not seen by man or woman for a very long time.

Eden was coming.

He was both in awe of and terrified by the immensity of the place, the wildness of its smell. It was closer now than it had ever been, and soon it would be here.

If only Nathan could have lived to see it.

But it was his sacrifice that had allowed Jon to connect to the special place in a way that his people never had before.

It was as if he were actually there, walking amid the lush, tropical green, feeling the moisture of the humidity upon his naked skin.

The pain was sudden, like stepping on shards of glass with bare feet.

Jon recoiled, his entire body shivering with the intensity of the agony. His gaze fell on the ground at his feet and he realized that where he was standing was inexplicably dead. The Garden around him was lush and thriving, but this area now appeared leached of life.

And then he heard the sounds. They were coming from the dead zone, somewhere very close.

Something was stirring.

Something beneath the earth.

And as it stirred, Jon felt himself growing sicker . . . weaker . . . as if his very life force were being sucked away.

Remy had just finished leaving Linda Somerset a message, explaining that he’d be gone longer than he thought, but would make it up to her when he got back.

First Mulvehill’s bottle of twenty-five-year-old Scotch and steak dinner, now Linda, and he was sure Marlowe would have something to say when he returned.

Jon emerged from the bathroom, interrupting Remy’s thoughts. He was completely naked, and looked even paler, if that was possible.

“We have to find the key right away,” he said, swaying on his bare feet.

“I agree,” Remy said carefully. “I’ve already gone over the maps and I think—”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “We have to get there fast. . . .”

“Yes, I know, and I’m pretty sure I’ve mapped out the fastest route—”

“Faster,” Jon interrupted, panting, as if he’d overexerted himself in the shower. “It has to be faster. We have to be there now.”

Remy rushed to the man’s side as he began to fall, grabbing hold of his arm to steady him. “What’s happened, Jon?”

“Something’s happening in the Garden,” he said, gasping. “Since Nathan did his thing I’m more connected. . . . I had a vision. . . . Something’s killing it.”

“Did your vision show you what’s killing it?” Remy asked. “Is it Zophiel or . . .”

“I don’t know what it is,” Jon said with a shake of his head.

“So not only do we have to get the second half of the key and get Adam home; now we have to save the Garden as well.”

“Looks like it,” Jon agreed. He pulled out the chair to the desk and sat, elbows resting on his bare knees. “We need to get to Louisiana as fast as possible, and the quickest way is you.”

Remy didn’t like the sound of that. “Me?”

Jon looked up, face pallid and sweating. “You’re an angel; I saw those wings when you rescued me from the wreckage of the dome.”

“You want me to fly us there?”

“Don’t play stupid, Remy,” Jon said. “You know you do more than fly.”

“And you received your doctorate in angelology from what school?”

“From the school of answering to one for more than seventy years,” Jon retorted.