The Wilds (Reign and Ruin 1) (3 page)

"He's dead."
Marty's voice was a whimper. "It's true." His knees buckled onto
the linoleum floor and his body followed in a hopeless slump over
the corpse. "He's as cold as ice."

"No shit,
Sherlock," I said quietly. "He overdosed on your shitty drugs."

"He wasn't with
me tonight. I . . . overslept." Marty smacked the side of his head.
"
Shit
. This wasn't my stash!"

"If he wasn't
with you, where was he?"

"I don't know.
This is bad. This is really,
really
bad," Marty said,
looking back at me furtively and shaking his head. "Like, you don't
know
how
bad."

"I know how
bad, you moron!"

"And he knows.
He's already waiting," Marty said softly. He stood up suddenly and
started to go through his pockets. I stared at him in disbelief.
"We need to leave."

"And do what,
Marty? I am not going to help you hide a body, if that's what
you're suggesting. Jeez, go call the police!" I yelled. Marty shook
his head and shot me a glance that could only be classed as
condescending.

"My dear, the
day I ask you to drop a body in the river is the day we follow that
with dinner and a movie." He continued to pull out paper receipts,
empty ounce bags, and pencil stubs. "I need a smoke."

He finally
retrieved a cigarette from the depths of his back pocket and lit it
with a match. He inhaled like a man downing water in the desert and
sat slowly back down on the ground.

"We're in deep
shit. Can you comprehend how deep?" he asked. "He didn't waste any
time. I've already been told to report. You need to fix this."

I raised my
eyebrows.

"Me? Dream on,
Marty. You sold him the drugs, you take the fall. I am not getting
involved in this."

A laugh escaped
Marty's lip mid-exhale and his smoke came out like a cloud of dust.
"Little girl, you are in over your head whether you like it or not.
Your uncle is dead but it's a bit more complicated than signing
some papers and fighting over the family silver."

"What do you
mean?" I asked. Marty took another drag and regarded the lifeless
body sprawled next to him. He looked about to speak, but made a
fizzing sound through his teeth and started to look around him at
the paintings. My jaw clenched shut in frustration.

"I've never
been in your apartment sober. I don't think I've ever looked at the
walls." He shivered and glanced over at me with a grimace. "These
painting make him look like a fucking loon."

"You're the
loon," I said.

"These
paintings –" he continued, "I bet your uncle didn't tell you that
when he painted his dreams, he was painting a world entirely
different from yours." Marty gestured towards the walls and out the
corner of his eye watched me cross the room to the phone.

"Look, I'm
giving you fair warning. I'm calling the police and you can just be
here when they show up to explain."

"It wouldn't do
any good. In fact, you would be making it worse for your uncle,"
Marty cautioned.

I groaned and
rolled my eyes. "Fuck you and your fucking cryptic threats." Quick
as a cobra, Marty jumped up and slammed his hand over the dial. I
recoiled with a gasp, dropping the receiver and backing a few feet
away.

"You obviously
don't understand anything about who your uncle really is!" he
hissed. Marty drew his hand back to rub his palm quickly over his
buzzed head. "And here it comes. The doozy. The part where you
think I'm insane."

A bit late for
that, I thought.

"He's the
Painter."

There was as
slight pause as we looked at each other in different shades of
disbelieving.

"A Painter?" I
repeated sarcastically. 'I KNOW. Look around you."

"No no, not
a
painter.
The
Painter. Creator of Palet and of all
existence," Marty replied reverently.

"Palet?"

"A world as
real and wonderful as the one you exist in so innocently now,"
Marty said with a flourish before taking a dramatic drag of a
cigarette. I stared at him in disbelief.

"What the fuck,
Marty?"

"He's been
around for hundreds of years," he continued. "Time runs differently
in Palet and . . . oh Jesus, I really need a beer."

He stubbed out
his cigarette on the floor and looked at his watch. "No time. Oh,
shit, Maggie I messed up. But I need five minutes, that's all, and
then we need to go."

"I am not going
anywhere with you."

"Yes, well,"
Marty said, ignoring my refusal completely, "the matter involves
you as well. I wish there were another way, but I must take you
with me. And I will knock you about the face and carry you over my
back if I have to, but I don't think Cirrus would want you
damaged." He then tried to smile reassuringly, which didn't help
seeing as he had just threatened to hit me over the head with a
blunt object. "I'm so sorry, Maggie. But I wouldn't ask it of you
if it weren't important. Your job is so much bigger than yourself
and unfortunately that is how the world works most of the
time."

"If my uncle
dies –"

"Did you forget
how this all began, Mags? He is dead!" Marty's voice rose. "What do
you think he's doing there, sleeping? But the people inside his
head? The world he created with these paintings . . . they aren't
dead. And they want you."

He kneeled down
in front of me and spoke very slowly. "Now I am going to tell about
Palet and about Cirrus. Pay attention and do not forget what I say.
Forgetting for a moment that you are no longer your own person will
be the death of you." He reached over and patted me on the shoulder
"And just remember that really, most of us want you to win."

"Win?" I
whispered. The look Marty gave me was full of sympathy.

"Please,
Maggie.
Listen
. You're about to take a very long walk . .
."

Chapter
3

"You've naturally heard of invisible friends?"
Marty asked.

"I never had
one," I replied. I couldn't stop myself sneaking glances over at my
uncle.
Still dead.
I wished someone would close his
eyes.

"That somehow
doesn't surprise me," Marty said. "Well, I was your uncle's."

"My uncle
dreamed up a scabby old hobo to play ball with at the playground?"
I asked. Marty's eyes narrowed but other than that he ignored
me.

"Imaginary
friends, however recreationally entertaining, usually disappear as
quickly as their child discovers television. Your uncle was
different. One day not so long ago, he must have put me down in
grease paint. It was at that moment that I suddenly found myself
concrete, tangible and feeling."

"You're telling
me that because he painted you, you became real?"

"Like the first
man on earth, I could feel my blood flow for the first time as I
took the first breath ever breathed. After feeling like that, why
do you think heroin is such a rush?" Marty walked to the walls
where the painted dreams hung. "They all became more than just
ideas. Every one of these ugly creatures has a real face and
name."

Marty looked
over to one of the paintings, two angels fighting high above the
plains of what looked like a great green and yellow dustbowl. One
of them held an upraised silver sword, ready to plunge it into the
breast of the other. My uncle had painted their bodies at the sheer
limit of physical effort. Every muscle looked to be in action,
straining to win over the other. Their faces, however, were serene.
Their lips were slightly parted, as if speaking soft poetry. They
looked at each other with the tenderness of lovers. The sword would
never be thrown and the battle would forever be fought in their
manner of violent quiet.

"Understand,
Maggie, that every world has a very sensitive balance of good and
evil. Not even evil, Maggie, but imperfection. It needs bad as much
as good or it would tip into ruin. In Palet, it is understood that
everyone has a responsibility to uphold the balance."

Marty held his
stillness for a second before turning around.

"Now that
balance is in jeopardy" he said. "The balance is being tipped and
it's being tipped by a man called Cirrus." He smiled. "My new boss
and your challenger. He's an important man in Palet right now. But
uneasy sits the crown. You pose a real danger to his new
position."

"What do you
mean by that?"

Marty spread
his hands wide and gave a short bow. "You're the rightful heir to
the throne. You could shake things up. Make it real difficult for
Cirrus if you were to ever claim your right."

I pushed out a
laugh in a lame show of bravado. "Marty, he can have it. Tell your
friend Cirrus that he is welcome to the kingdom of my uncle's
heroin-fueled fairyland." I gestured to the door with a shaky hand.
"I'll take the next world you come up with, ok?"

"Mags, this is
serious."

"I'm sorry
Marty. I just want you to go." Marty was shaking his head and I
could feel my anger rising. "Marty, I would literally allow you to
take anything you want, smash anything that's left and stick your
hand down my pants for good measure. That is how much I want you to
leave right now."

"Honey, on any
other day I would be your stallion, But right now I need you to
come with me. Cirrus has challenged your right to rule and there
are . . . rules," he finishing awkwardly. Sighing, he pulled an
ounce bag from his inside jacket pocket.

I blinked. Two
marbles.

"This really
doesn't help your case for sanity, Marty."

"Yes, hardy har
har," he said, rolling his eyes and tipping both small globes of
glass out of their bag. They rolled into his palm with a little
click
. "Swallow one."

"Excuse me?" I
asked.

"Swallow. One."
He took my hand and pushed one into my fist. "It'll take us to
Palet. To be part of the world we need to induce the state that
sustains it in the first place." I stared at the marble in my hand
confusingly.

"Induce what
state?"

"For Christ's
sake, Maggie, it's a drug!" Marty said and I inadvertently flinched
in disgust, almost dropping the glass marble to the floor. "Oh, act
like an adult and take it already. I'm right here with you."

"Marty, I am
not swallowing a ball of glass."

"You will
swallow that marble or I will force it down your throat," Marty
replied, pushing my hand up towards my mouth. I jumped back and
tried to rein in my panic. My mind was desperately scrambling to
keep up but was being swept along quicker than I could swim. What
was Marty saying?
Why is he here again?

"Marty, I don't
know what is happening," I said slowly.

Marty's face
softened. "Maggie, I'm sorry. Maybe I'm just crazy old Marty trying
to get you high on a piece of glass." I swallowed hard and he
leaned in close. "I will do my absolute best to protect you," he
whispered, "which is not saying much but I haven't killed anyone
yet."

I raised my
head up tentatively to look at my sprawled uncle. Marty shrugged
sheepishly. He cupped the marble in his hand and toasted me. "To
Steve, the best friend a guy could have. To the Painter." Throwing
his head back he swallowed the marble.

I considered my
marble. What's the worst that could happen? Famous last words.

"Do it," Marty
said. He took a step towards me.

"Fine fine!
Jeez. Down the hatch," I said, swallowing the marble and wincing
painfully as the round glass slid slowly down the back of my neck.
"There, Marty. Happy? Now, can you please –" But before I could
continue the scene grew fuzzy. I staggered sideways and suddenly
found myself in Marty's arms, clinging close to his moldy jacket
and trying not to vomit. I thought – not for the first time in my
life – that I might be falling in with the wrong crowd. And then my
body collapsed on the ground. And my eyes went black. And I heard
the faint ticking of a clock until that too become nothing.

Chapter
4

There was a little girl, who had a little curl .
. .

Tick, tick, tick . .
.

Who had a little curl
–

Tick, tick, tick . .
.

Right in the middle
–

The first thing
I felt was my mouth. And then my chin. I blinked in the new light,
the glare of overhead fluorescent through the already fading black
spots. A few moments later I felt my stomach and then – oh,
Christ
.

"GggaaaAAHHH!"
I screamed, doubling up on myself in the fetus position. My insides
felt like they were eating each other, crawling from the inside to
get out. The thin carpet scratched my face and I vaguely sensed
Marty kneeling over me, rubbing the sides of my arms.

"Sorry about
this Cindy," I heard Marty say. "She's a newbie. She isn't used to
the after effects. Say . . . do you have a bucket?"

I retched and
groaned into the ground. Marty smiled embarrassingly up at the
young woman behind a low counter, who was watching us with an
expression of concerned patience.

We were in a
large waiting room. It was silent except for the soft murmurings
coming from me fighting down the nausea on the floor and the light
jazz emitting from a hidden speaker system in the ceiling. The
walls were papered in a floral pattern. Marty gave me a short pat
on the back and straightened up to peer pleasantly over the
desk.

"Marty
Kleizenberg here to see Cirrus, Cindy. I was summoned." The
secretary looked down at her notebook and went down a very short
list. Marty leaned over the desk curiously. The secretary looked up
and smiled.

"Please don't
lean over the desk. It casts a shadow." He went back, rolling his
eyes. "Well, he should just be a few minutes. Why don't you, er –"
she glanced pointedly at my dry heaves, "take this time to freshen
up."