Page 41 of Night in a Waste Land

The house shifted around them, a faint, damp creak, driving home the point.

Bixby took a deep breath, and reached for his glass – red wine, by the look and smell of it. Rose wondered how much he had left in storage at this point. “John hadn’t done anything wrong, but…conduits weren’t supposed to be around anymore. When the Rift closed, they all went away – went back. Whichever. There had been sightings, but the media wrote them off as hoaxes. I wanted to believe they were, but here was our very own conduit, and if he was fooling us all, I hadn’t figured out how.” He glanced down at his hand, and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “He closed a cut on my hand. A deep one. I watched my skinknit back together.”

“Mr. Mayor,” Rose prompted.

“I tried to report him. I contacted the military. I reached out to Washington. I talked to the governor, and, eventually, a few senators. I kept saying there was a conduit here in town, that he was using his power, that he wasn’t cut off and he definitely wasn’t human. No one believed me. They thought I wanted attention.

“And then, three years ago, the mine shaft collapsed.”

It had been wholly unexpected, he said. All the safety protocols were being followed. There hadn’t been unsanctioned blasting. But, suddenly, the ceiling was coming down on the miners’ heads. Seven had been trapped, and estimates on the time it would take to dig them out were bleak; they’d been running out of air.

And then John, the conduit with a man’s name, had walked into the shaft, his hands glowing blue, and he’d walked out with the men, dirty-but-whole, and he’d left the ceiling of the mine shaft healed, just as he’d left human flesh reknitted.

“He was a true hero after that. There was even talk of naming him mayor – no election, no process. They wanted to install him, because he could do what no one else in the town could.”

“Are you only the mayor in spirit, now?” Lance asked.

“No, I’m still technically mayor. John doesn’t want any titles – though he has them, I think. The people here treat him like a deity. Like their god.”

“Heisan angel,” Gallo pointed out.

Bixby turned a savage, pained look on him. “And what sort of angel wants to be worshiped like a false idol?”

“If we figure out how conduits think, we’ll be sure to let you know,” Lance said, wearily. “Where can we find him now?”

“At the scene of the miracle. The mine.”

~*~

Mayor Bixby went on to tell them that a witness had come forward after the miracle in the mine, one who claimed to have seen John cause the cave-in before he then saved the minors from it. In the years since, Bixby had tried to resist without overtly accusing the man – conduit – but that John had basked in the adoration, the people had shirked their responsibilities, and the weather had turned even nastier. John saved the town from another conduit, during the Second Rift, but Bixby feared it was too late, that the town was dying.

“If you go up to him dressed like that, brandishing weapons, he’ll kill you,” Bixby informed them.

“He’ll have seen the helo,” Tris pointed out. “He’ll know someone’s here.”

“But you might be diplomats, instead of soldiers,” the mayor suggested, and that was how they found themselves upstairs in the crumbling mansion, digging through warped and swollen chests and armoires, dodging roof leaks and trying to see if there was any way to disguise themselves.

“Oh my God.” Gavin held up a green blazer. “Did this guy play in the Masters?”

“The what?” Gallo asked.

“You’re disgustingly young,” Gavin said.

Tris smacked him in the face with a handful of threadbare white linen, and Gallo laughed.

Rose left the bedroom and went down the hall to the next, carrying the oil lantern Bixby had given her. This room was packed with more trunks, though the floor looked less damp, and the scent of mold wasn’t as strong.

She set the lamp down in a clear space, where its light could spread out toward the walls, and began opening trunks.

Bixby was a widower, he’d said, and Rose quickly realized she’d found the late wife’s things. She’d been slender, and only a little taller than Rose, judging by her hemlines. She found pants, and shirts, and skirts, and dresses, and sensible boots good for muddy streets; sweaters, sweatshirts, ponchos, and coats. All of it smelled of mothballs – but not unpleasantly so. Probably conduits had no concept of mothballs, nor what the scent of them would mean.

Rose chose a gray turtleneck that would go with her black pants and boots, and a black, collared, waxed wool coat with brass buttons. A little formal and military chic all together, but none of it screamed “soldier,” and the jacket had plenty of cover and pockets for weapons.

She stripped down to her tank top and stood holding the sweater a moment, longing for her black leather coat with the hood and flared hem, back at home base – and when had base started to feel like home?

A throat cleared at the door, and she whipped her head around to find Lance standing there, shoulders nearly too wide for the jambs.

She resisted a sudden, stupid urge to cover herself with the sweater. She was covered. The tank top was hardly indecent, and she had a sports bra beneath.

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