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The blast caught Clarence in the chest, his whole body twisted, and the shotgun flew like it had been launched skyward.
“NO!”
But the officers couldn’t hear Mikey. Clarence wailed in pain, fell to the ground, and the officers were on him. Although the living world was a blur to Mikey, he could see that there was a lot of blood. Clarence writhed on the ground, while the second officer radioed in for an ambulance.
The first officer knelt down, trying his best to staunch the flow of blood. “Crazy old man, why did you have to go and do that?”
“M-m-monster in the cage,” Clarence said. “Monster kid in the cage.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said the officer.
Mikey rattled the bars. “Clarence, the key!”
“Lousy kid,” mumbled Clarence. “Don’t think of no one but yourself.” Then, with his ruined hand he reached into his pocket.
“Easy, old man!” said the officer. As far as the officer was concerned, the suspect had gone from dangerous lunatic to wounded victim, and he was doing his best as an officer of the law to comfort him. He saw the old man reach a ruined stub of a hand into a pocket but the hand came out empty. Still, he swung his arm, grimacing in pain, as if he was throwing something that the officer couldn’t see.
“Stop moving,” the officer told him. “An ambulance will be here soon.”
“Go on,” said Clarence. “Go back to hell or wherever it is you’re from.”
“Calm down. You’re just making it worse,” said the officer.
Meanwhile, in Everlost, Mikey watched the key fling from Clarence’s hand, and spin end over end, making an arc in the air . . . but the throw was wild. Mikey reached through the cage as far as he could, but it was no use. The key landed on the ground more than ten yards away, and although Mikey grew a tentacle that stretched toward it, he wasn’t fast enough. The key sank into the living world, beginning a long journey to the center of the earth.
The ambulance came and took Clarence away. He had fallen silent long before it arrived. Still, Mikey knew he wasn’t dead—at least not yet. He knew, because Mikey would have seen his soul leave his body. Clarence, as frail as he looked, was a fighter, holding on to life, refusing to give up the ghost. It was a rare kind of strength, perhaps the same strength that left him a scar wraith to begin with. Mikey had to admire the kind of willpower that could defy mortality.
Once the ambulance and the police cars were gone, Mikey was alone, and knew he would be alone for a long time.
When he was a monster, he used to set out soul traps, not unlike this cage. He would snare unsuspecting Afterlights in his traps, and sometimes he would go a long time without checking if a trap had sprung. He hadn’t cared if a soul was trapped there for weeks or months, and he showed neither mercy nor remorse when the souls were finally brought before him.
“Find out what they can do, and make them do it,” he would tell Pinhead, his second in command. If a soul was useful, then he or she would become part of the McGill’s crew. If the soul had no skills he needed, it would be strung up in the hold and stored like a side of beef. And now Mikey was caught in a trap himself, without even a prospect of a monster to come around to enslave him.
“Serves you right,” Allie would have said, if she were here. She would call it “universal justice,” or something annoying like that, and Mikey would grumble at her bitterly, but all the while he would know that she was right. You reap what you sow in Everlost just as in the living world, and Mikey McGill had sown some pretty nasty weeds.
Above him, storm clouds gathered in the living world, and it began to pour. Of course, Mikey didn’t get wet. The living world rain passed through him, tickling his insides but nothing more. It was just another way for life to mock him.
Well, if Allie was right, and the universe was a place of justice, he understood why Clarence’s key flew so far off course. It was because he had lied to Clarence. Mikey didn’t have any intention of helping him. If he had been able to open the padlock, remove the chain, and pry the spring-loaded trap apart, Mikey would have bolted without looking back.
Mikey could accept that his actions could have an effect on the world, and on his own destiny—but could his intentions have an effect too? Could he be tried and convicted not because of the things he did, but because of the things he planned to do? They say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but bad intentions could certainly get one there faster, couldn’t they?
He had no way of knowing if being trapped in this cage was merely bad luck, or some judgment from beyond . . . but either way, the result was the same: Mikey McGill was forced to think about who he was, what he had done, and who he might be, if he ever was freed from that cage. He knew he would never be entirely virtuous, but he also knew that there was enough virtue in him to make Allie love him. Perhaps his path back to her would have to be paved with good intentions . . . which meant not all good intentions paved a road to hell—so there was still some hope for Mikey, in this world, and maybe even the next.
It rained through the night and finally eased at sunrise, when the light of dawn broke through the clouds on the horizon. That’s when Mikey shaped one of his hands into a claw, and his index finger into a sharp talon. He inserted the tip of that talon into the lock, and began moving it around.
Picking locks was not a skill he had ever cultivated, but he persisted day after day, turning the tip of his talon into different lock-picking shapes, and trying different ways of approaching the keyhole. He never tired, and he never gave up . . . because if there was any justice in the universe, he wouldn’t be trapped there forever.
In her book Caution: This Means You!, Mary Hightower has this to say about gangs of wild Everlost children:
“It’s true that Everlost has its share of feral children, often banding together in nasty little vapors. These bands of ‘undocumented Afterlights’ must be tamed with both force and love. We must put aside our disgust upon encountering them, and teach these savages all the things we know to be right. Unless of course there are too many of them. In that case, retreat might be a wiser course of action.”
CHAPTER 13
End of the Line
The train tracks heading west were still alive.
That is to say, they were a part of the living world, and as such could not carry the ghost train anywhere but to the center of the earth. There was, however, a single track heading south, which wasn’t ideal, but at least it was there. They took on a southerly heading, rolling at a cautious snail’s pace into Texas, and through Dallas. No dead westbound tracks in Dallas, either.
