Project Maigo(50)

She either doesn’t hear me or she’s ignoring me. I take a deep breath and catch the scent of ocean still dripping from her maw. I shout louder this time, my voice scratchy with desperation. “Maigo!”

The beast pauses.

The one eye I can still see shifts toward me. I can see my reflection in her pitch black pupil; I’m bleeding and leaning to the side, eyebrows turned up in abject fear. It’s an embarrassing image. But it’s erased as she stands up straight again, looking down at me. A hot breath, rank with the scent of oceanic decay washes over me. Nearly knocks me to my knees—from the stink, not the force.

“Woodstock,” I whisper, trying not to move my mouth. “Now.”

I hear the distant whoosh of a rocket being fired, but I try not to react. Instead, I sit down. Nemesis’s eyes track me as I move, perhaps confused by my attempt at communication. Or perhaps trying to understand why she’s compelled to protect me. Maybe she’s just remembering the last time I stood atop an apartment building like this on the other side of the ruined North End.

“It’s the hat,” I say, touching the tight blue cap on my head. “Looks weird, right?”

No reaction. We’re definitely not communicating in any meaningful way right now. The part of her that is Maigo seems to respond to the name, but maybe doesn’t even know why.

Doesn’t matter, in a few seconds I’m going to have a front row seat to the madness that is Nemesis’s mind. I lie back on the scorching hot, tar roof, feeling its pliable surface give a little. If there’s a chance I’m going to end up in a coma, I want to do it lying down.

The building shakes as Nemesis shifts her weight, perhaps bored or impatient, preparing to leave. But she doesn’t get a chance. The rocket arrives with a roar, on target and unavoidable. It strikes the side of Nemesis’s head. Her temple, if she’s got one. But there’s no explosion other than the outer shell shattering and flitting away. Nemesis reacts less than I would if a mosquito flew into the side of my head.

Before the device that remains can fall away, four sharp claws snap out from the sides and clutch to Nemesis’s rough skin. A whirring sound pierces the air—the machine’s diamond tipped drill, burrowing into Nemesis’s skin. The neural implant looks tiny on the side of her massive face, but it appears to be doing its job.

Nemesis huffs in frustration, looking back and forth for the source of the irritating sound, and I realize the mosquito comparison is even more accurate. It’s nothing but a—

“Ahh!”

Seizing pain lances through my body, which arches involuntarily to the point I fear my back is going to fold over on itself. Then everything goes black.

When I awake, I find myself standing.

The floor beneath my feet is tile. Hard and white.

There’s a wall of windows to my right. A view of Boston, unscathed by Nemesis. But something is off. My perspective. I’m...short.

I look down. My hands are small. Tan. I’m wearing the clothing of a young girl just home from prep school. A Hello Kitty backpack rests at my feet.

Oh, shit. I know where I am.

“It’s okay, Maigo,” a sinister sounding male voice says.

I turn my eyes slowly up, pausing for a moment to watch the dark red fluid trace a path through the squares of grout on the floor. Then I see him. His face, pale and fat. Eyes burning like blue dwarf stars.

I hate him. For who he was and for what he’s done.

“It was an accident,” he says.

I know he’s lying, but I can’t say anything. Instead I stare at the motionless form of my mother, her manicured nails soiled with blood.

Mother...

In a blink, I’m me again.

But I’m still short.

The world has changed, but I know where I am.

I’m home. Christmas Eve. 1979.

No...No! I try to shout, but can’t. I’m on autopilot, reliving a nightmare.





27



The shouting stopped ten minutes ago. But it didn’t end like normal, which would have been slamming doors. It just...stopped. Suddenly. Mid-shout. I weep for several minutes, clutching my knees in the corner of my bedroom, bathed in the rainbow glow of a ceramic Christmas tree. When I stand, it’s not out of bravery, but curiosity. Perhaps things are okay?

Maybe they’re still wrapping my presents?

I decide to check. I move slowly across my room, pausing every time the radiator hisses or clicks. But I don’t make a sound. I open my door, pushing against it with my foot to keep the tight latch from thumping open the way it does.

The stairs are covered in thick rug and don’t creak, so the next part will be easy. Still, I take it slowly, lying down beside the banister at the top of the stairs, peering down into the home’s foyer. The dining room to the right is lit by the warm glow of electric candles in each window. To the left, the living room blinks with light from the TV. They’re watching a show, I think, and I start down the stairs, confident that neither of my parents will move until a commercial.