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CHAPTER 1
X MARKS THE SPOT
COLE COULDN'T REMEMBER A TIME WHEN Wounded Sky First Nation offered this brand of quiet. Not when he was a child, and not since he had returned to the community after ten years away. If he were to believe Choch, it was the calm before the storm. Cole was waiting for the storm, but it hadn't come. Yes, he had used his remaining anti-anxiety pills over the past week, but not because he'd encountered any stormy incidents like murder or a flu epidemic. Rather, he'd taken a pill upon his return to Ashley's trailer, for his friend's wake. The memory of Ashley being shot right in front of him had appeared, thick and fresh. He'd taken his last pill during the gathering for Alex, as guilt reared its head at Cole's inability to save her, and as her brother, Michael, sent a barrage of glares in his direction. Deserved glares, Cole had thought, not only because he was the last person to see her alive, but also because Alex had kissed him, and Michael knew it.
Deserved, but still not easy to take.
Cole hoped the stillness of the community was the quiet after the storm, not before. A collective sigh. A long breath out. Choch had been quiet, too. Cole hadn't heard from the spirit being since they'd met at the ruins, when he'd given Cole textbooks instead of a ticket home — and when he'd told Cole that school started Monday in Wounded Sky. This was the first clear direction the spirit being had ever provided. Of course, the calm — the non-spirit-being-related peace — could've simply been that it was early in the morning. Cole shrugged, as though involved in a deep conversation with somebody other than himself. A boy could dream, right?
Cole had a hockey stick resting against his shoulder, and a pair of skates fastened onto the stick, bouncing against his back with every step. He'd borrowed the hockey equipment from Brady, who had become something like his counselor, with Elder Mariah still recovering from the sickness at the clinic, and had remained something like his landlord as Cole continued to sleep at Brady's place. The skates fit about right, although there remained a legitimate concern as to whether they'd remain intact. Brady hadn't worn them for years, long enough that they had trouble finding them in his closet. "This is like an archaeological dig," Cole joked while they searched. The bigger problem? Brady was left-handed and Cole wasn't, never mind the fact that the stick was made of wood.
Cole knew where to find another stick, with the right curve for him, too. And another set of newer skates that may have fit better. But Cole couldn't bring himself to use Ashley's equipment, or to ask Brady if it would be okay, or to go back to the trailer. So, he made his way to the arena with Brady's skates and stick, and he didn't much care if the skates fit or if the stick had the wrong curve.
The sun began to rise over Blackwood Forest and the lights were on in the community hall. Cole felt drawn to it. Over the last week he kept an eye out for anything strange, a clue as to why he'd been told to stay here even though he'd stopped the murder spree and cured the virus. An influx of staff from Mihko Laboratories had definitely caught his attention. They were mostly at the clinic — descending upon it after those afflicted by the illness had become healthy (thanks to Cole's blood). But they were around the community, too — at the Fish, the mall, and the community hall, where they'd been sleeping and where the lights were on right now.
Cole took a slight detour. School didn't start for a while, and he wasn't in a rush. A security guard met him immediately upon his arrival at the community hall's front doors, and not one of Reynold's employees, either. No RMS — Reynold McCabe Security — anywhere on the man's clothing.
"Can I help you?" The man's warm greeting belied his presentation, dressed all in black and his body hard and sharp like he'd just come from working out. Like all he did was guard things and lift weights.
Cole tried to look over the man's considerable shoulders, but each try was thwarted as the guard tilted his body to obscure Cole's view. "I was just ..." he started blankly, more concerned with assessing what he saw. But there wasn't much to assess. From his vantage point, all he could see were cots. Some of them were made crisply, and with precision. Others were still occupied: human-shaped mounds under blankets.
"You were just what?" the guard prompted.
"I'm just ..." Cole moved Brady's hockey stick to his other shoulder and noticed the guard flinch "... wondering why you need to guard the hall? I can see why there's guards at the clinic and facility, I guess."
The guard looked around as though worried about company, and then he breathed in, and out, deeply. "You're Cole Harper, right?"
"Right." It failed to surprise Cole anymore when a stranger recognized him.
"Right," the guard nodded, "so you know what it's like to ..." he searched for the right words "... lack trust."
Cole shrugged. "Sure."
"Yeah, you get it. So, Mihko, they have a history here ... I'm sure you know that, Cole."
"You mean that huge lab accident that killed my dad? That history?"
"That history, yeah. So, they're not really popular here, and neither are you, right?"
"I'm slightly more popular now, if you haven't heard," Cole grumbled.
"Well, they haven't had any public meltdowns or anything since they've come. So, we'll call it even, how about that?"
"I guess there was the clinic ..." Cole grimaced at the memory of the community turning on him, turning into an angry shouting mob and blaming him for the deaths and murders only because he'd come back to the community "... and the quarry." The quarry. Yet another reason for Michael to glare at him. Cole had knocked Michael out right after he'd found out Cole had walked Alex home and Alex had kissed him.
"They're trying to build trust," the guard said, "coming here to help after all that's happened. The murders, the sickness ..."
"Yeah, I'm kind of more popular because I stopped those murders."
"... but until they have that trust, if they need guys like me to make sure they can help without interruption or interference, well ..." the guard half-grinned.
"What are they worried about? Somebody's going to come and do something in their sleep? Do you think we practise, like, guerilla warfare or something?"
"They had pitchforks out for you, didn't they?"
"That was different, and I didn't cause a huge, like, epidemic chemical leak or whatever the hell happened down there at the facility!"
"That's kind of my point, bud."
"They wouldn't have really done anything to me, and nobody's going to do anything to them, so what's the deal?"
Cole moved towards the front door, but the guard pushed him back, one hand to Cole's chest. "Kid, I'm losing my patience."
"Anybody in my community is perfectly entitled to ask questions of our guests," Reynold McCabe said from behind Cole. "You'd do well to humour the boy."
Cole's heart skipped a beat. Choch, the friendly neighbourhood spirit being, typically was the one to appear out of nowhere. The last time Reynold McCabe snuck up like this, he'd held a gun to Cole's head, accused him of murdering Maggie and, by extension, Alex and Ashley. Reynold had knocked Cole on the back of the head and had him arrested for murder. Cole didn't turn around, but he watched the guard's face reluctantly soften. Then, Reynold stepped around Cole and faced him and the guard, shifting glances from one to the other.
"That clear?" Reynold asked.
"Yes," the guard said through his teeth, "crystal."
Reynold looked disheveled. Cole had only ever seen him completely put together — slick hair tied back into a braid, ironed shirts, sport coats, and crisp new jeans. Weird. Now his hair was loose, uncombed, and falling over his shoulders like broken cobwebs. His shirt and pants were scrubbed with dirt and covered in grass stains. He smelled, too. Like an old, neglected hockey bag. Sweat and mould. Reynold must've noticed Cole giving him a good inspection because he buttoned up his shirt quickly and tied his hair back into a ponytail.
"You okay, Mr. McCabe?" Cole asked him.
"I'm fine, Cole, although I appreciate your concern. That's how it should be here. We should be concerned for each other." Reynold kept working at his pony tail, smoothing it back as best he could. Cole and the guard waited, and watched, and both of them exchanged curious glances about the acting Chief of Wounded Sky First Nation. Reynold continued: "Anything that happened in the past, happened for the same reason, you understand."
"I understand, sure," Cole said.
"Now," Reynold looked at the guard, and Cole watched as the big hulk of a man seemed to shrink before Cole's eyes, "there won't be any more problems, will there?"
"No, sir," the guard said.
Cole looked back and forth between the guard and Reynold. Each time he looked at Reynold, he looked him over, head to foot, and everything about this exchange made Cole want to leave now. Forget whatever weird stuff was going on in the hall. It had nothing on this.
"Good," Reynold said after both men had not said anything for an uncomfortably long silence, just stared at each other. "Cole," Reynold nodded.
"Mr. McCabe," Cole echoed the same goodbye.
Reynold tucked his dress shirt into his pants, then walked away like this had been a typical exchange.
Cole kept standing there, but now it was supremely awkward. No eye contact with the guard either. He almost felt bad for the guy — who'd gone from authoritative to meek in no time. A couple of seconds passed before the guard cleared his throat. "So you're going skating this morning or ..."
"Right, yeah." Cole lifted the stick for a moment, and then rested it back against his shoulder.
"Maybe you should do that, then."
"Yeah, maybe I should."
Cole tried to shake off the last several minutes as he continued on his way to the X. He felt that if he thought about it too much, Choch might pop into his head. Moments like this were the perfect mental conditions for Choch. Oh, CB's confused about something? Weirded out? Let me make that worse. But Choch remained silent, as he had been. Silent and, well, just plain absent. He hadn't been working at the Fish, being the world's worst and most annoying server and making up food specials that didn't exist. Jayne, his half-burning ghost companion, hadn't been around either. He stopped short of calling either of them and walked alone with only his thoughts to keep him company.
Cole stopped out in front of the rink where he dropped his anxiety medication last week. He crouched down and sifted his fingers through the dirt, as though the pills might still be there. Bits of grass and small pebbles fooled him for a split second, but none were his tiny white tablets. The crisp, cool rain Wounded Sky's autumn season offered had long since dissolved the pills. Cole stood up and hovered over the same spot, looking down, imagining himself from a week ago, kneeling in front of the pills, contemplating whether to gather them up or not. He hadn't been desperate enough then.
The lobby was silent and devoid of the familiar litter. No popcorn kernels. No spilled and sticky soft drinks. No drink lids, straws, or candy wrappers. While the quiet was nice, the cleanliness seemed wrong, like it wasn't a hockey rink lobby without the snacks half in mouths and half on the floor. For the last two Saturdays the hockey game had been cancelled. Cole had heard these were the first Saturdays without a hockey game for as long as anybody could remember.
Snap!
A hockey puck hitting the boards grabbed Cole's attention. He walked across the lobby and pushed the doors open to find Tristan skating by himself on the far side of the ice. Tristan had a bunch of pucks lined up and was shooting them. Cole could hardly see each puck make its way from Tristan's stick to the net.
"Whoa," Cole whispered to himself. As strong as he was, he'd never be able to shoot a puck that hard. More than just muscles, shooting took balance, skill, and coordination (and also, for Cole, a right-handed stick). He'd been prepared to suck when he decided to go to the X this morning because he didn't expect anybody to be there. It would be just him and the ice. Now, he had a mind to turn around and leave. Looking like an idiot in front of Tristan had not been in the plan.
But he had run away enough. So he sat down, unnoticed, in the front row of stands and put on skates for the first time in ten years. Cole felt seven years old. He had trouble, as he did then, putting the skates on. He manoeuvred his feet to sneak them inside the boot, jiggled them, and pounded his heel into the rubber mat — all things that his mom and dad used to do. When he finally got them on, he tied the laces tight. His dad used to say, "The skates fit when you can't feel your toes." Cole pulled the laces so hard that his knuckles turned white, got them as tight as he could.
Cole stood up. The skates felt like high heels. His ankles bent from side to side, and he couldn't find his balance. He clutched Brady's stick in his hands and used it as a cane from the stands to the gate. Tristan still hadn't noticed him. Cole stood at the gate for a moment, his breath fogging up the glass, and he watched Tristan take a few more shots before unlatching the gate and pulling it open. The clack of the latch thrusting down, and the squeal of the gate opening caused Tristan to stop mid-shot. He turned around just as Cole stepped onto the ice, in time to see him almost fall right on his ass, saved only by a desperate reach for the boards.
Tristan skated over as Cole attempted to steady himself without the help of the boards, and wondered if Brady's skates were super dull, if he hadn't tied them tight enough, or if he'd really gotten that bad.
Tristan snowed his pants with an aggressive hockey stop. "What are you doing here?" He tapped Cole's stick with his own. Judging by Tristan's face, it wasn't a playful tap.
"Skating?" Cole tried not to sound sarcastic.
Tristan looked down at Cole's skates, moving back and forth as he tried to keep his balance. "How's that working out for you?"
Cole shrugged. "It's not like riding a bike."
"This is the last place I expected to see you, Harper."
"It's probably the last place I thought I'd be, too. But, you know, if I'm going to be here, I figured I might as well do as the Romans do, right?"
"The what?"
"When in Rome?"
Tristan shoved Cole, hand to upper chest. Cole's back slammed against the glass. He barely kept his balance.
"You know where I thought I'd see you?"
"No." Cole pushed himself off the boards even as Tristan skated closer to him, the toes of his skates pushed up against the toes of Cole's.
"At Maggie's wake. That's where." Tristan's eyes started to well up. "I know you went to Alex's. I know you went to Ashley's. But Maggie's? AWOL." He wiped at his eyes before any tears could fall.
Cole didn't know what to say. He knew he should've gone. He'd run out of meds by then, and he didn't want to risk having another panic attack. Tristan didn't need to hear that and he wouldn't have wanted to hear it. It was selfish. "It was just, I don't know ... one too many. I'm sorry."
Tristan lunged forward, put his forearm against Cole's throat, and pressed him against the glass. The tears were back then, and they fell freely. "That must've been really goddamn inconvenient for you."
Tristan had trouble getting the words out, trying not to sob. Cole could hear little hiccups when he talked. Cole tried to say something, but he had trouble speaking, too. His problem, however, was Tristan's forearm pressed against his neck.
"I can't believe Maggie would go and get murdered like that and make things so hard on you."
Cole tried not to slip into an even worse position. He turned one foot sideways so that the blade was stuck against the ice.
"Not so tough without your friends around, are you?"
Cole tried to choke out some words, but he failed. Finally, he reached his hand around Tristan's forearm and pulled it down, away from his neck. He caught his breath. "I ... just don't want to ... hurt anybody else."
"I'm right here. Take a shot."
Cole shook his head in response. He could have knocked Tristan all the way across the ice. But where had hurting Mark got him? Or Michael? More scrutiny, more unwanted attention, suspicion. He slipped out of Tristan's grasp and held himself up against the opened gate to prevent a nasty fall.
"What, you're just going to leave?" Tristan wiped the tears away from his eyes, from his cheeks. He cleared his throat and stiffened his face.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Monsters"
by .
Copyright © 2018 David A. Robertson.
Excerpted by permission of Portage & Main Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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