Silent waters stretched on beneath the wraith fog. Its glass surface betrayed no hint of what lay below, but one look and Lee knew there be monsters here. Her hands were balled and stuffed into the deep pockets of her duster coat, a cut of dark oiled leather which kept her dry. It frustrated the moisture that tried to wet her tawny skin, and so it settled for her auburn hair instead.
Across those waters stretched a steel plank bridge, unchanging forever. Her boots thudded sharply on each plank as she ambled over them. Resting flatly on the surface, they shared in the stillness of the water. The sound of her passing brought no change to the world, no ripples, no rumbling or groaning of her weight on the bridge. There was only the rumble of her shoulders, the bounce of her wide-brimmed hat.
Her hazel eyes scanned back and forth, searching tirelessly for the foe she knew lay in the abyss below. It wanted her, and she it.
Without prompt she came to a halt, a last hollow thud which was absorbed quickly into the laden air. She joined the waters in their placidity. Her hardened gaze ceased their roaming, fixated on one spot. Just in front of her, a little to the left.
There was a dappling there, an irregularity. The water was stretched thin, strained, but not quite broken.
She blinked, and the world was torn asunder.
Something bestial was overhead now, its own gaze striking back at her as it rode the air. Golden scales lining a serpentine body flashed, reflecting a light that came from nowhere. The waters were suddenly angry and clamored to swallow her whole. She ignored the greedy lapping at her feet, the steel bridge which now swelled up and down in a squall. Rain tumbled down, kept out of her eyes by the grace of her hat.
The wraith-beast, some perverse fusion of fish and snake, slapped into the heaving mass of water with the fullness of its body. Its bronzed girth produced a wave that had no choice but to smash into her, and she was forced to grip the rail or be swept into the churning ocean.
Lee had indulged it enough, she decided. Before the last of the cool liquid had even poured down her legs and back into the sea, she turned on her heels to see the craven thing leaping straight for her, viperous fangs extending from thin lips that belonged on a monster trout. It sprayed poison at her, and where the liquid death touched her jacket and skin they melted away. The bones of her right arm were doused in rain, the flesh already working to magically knit itself back together. Not fast enough to use her gun properly.
Good thing she was a lefty. Blue steel appeared in her hand, and the palm of her tattered right fanned a hammer the size of her thumbs. Her magic eyes refused to break their concentration, she couldn’t have missed if her life depended on it.
Milky smoke belched out of the muzzle, the hand cannon exploding over and over with force that should have shattered her wrist. But the southpaw grip held firm as ragged, gaping holes materialized in the creature’s twisted body. Copper scales and pale flesh were blown apart, splinters of teeth and gobs of its eyes were cast back into the raging froth.
From start to finish it took about ten, fifteen seconds. Billie Hitchcock stood once more in plain clothes on the plank into the marina of Lake Jacomo. Choppy water played underfoot, catching the fair-weather sunlight.
Her easy-won grief cubes lay in a messy pile a few planks down, some of them spilling down and sinking under the surface of the reservoir. She hastened to collect the rest, grimacing for every one she lost. Shameful waste, but not much she could do about it.
She didn’t feel like diving in and causing a fuss, opting instead to manifest her soul gem and hold some of the spoils up to it. Soot receded quickly to reveal a soft earthy brown.
Satisfied, Billie plopped the rest of what she had gathered into a little cloth purse and cinched it shut, stuffing that into a tote sack. Safely tucked away, she marched down the walkway onto the marina proper. She adjusted effortlessly to the miniscule bobs of the lake water rocking the barge, enjoying the gentle tug and sway underfoot.
All manner of freshwater fish swirled in the waters beneath, but far and away the most common were invasive carp, their golden scales flashing at her menacingly. To her right, on the north side of the platform, was the dock with its navy of rusting row boats and pontoons.
She walked into the marina’s store, suffused with the moist, earthy smell of nightcrawler bait and a little fishiness on top. The whole place was comprised of only a few compacted aisles, one with all manner of tackle—hooks, bobbers, lures, jellies, fishing line in every weight, you name it—shirts and hats with odious fishermen jokes on them, the same on some dusty novelty bottle openers and license plate covers, and there were some heavily expired snacks at the front counter in case you forgot to bring your lunch with you like a retard.
Billie ignored all of this, honing in on a little basket on the counter. It contained a multitude of little ziplock baggies, each holding a sizable quantity of hard, tiny brown pellets. A crumpled cardboard sign said “Fish Food, 50 cents” in a lazy scrawl. She plucked two bags out and slapped a dollar on the counter, not waiting for the attendant to show up from wherever they were enjoying a nap.
Back outside, she made her way over to sit at her favorite corner of the platform, still under the awning of the store but on the far side away from the jetty where people parked their cars. The fish were there again, turning and tumbling over each other in their lazy, circuitous motions. A few crappie were there, she thought she spied a bluegill, but most were those huge carp. Back and forth their tails waved, gentle in the eddy of the sprawling lake.
Where sunlight struck the surface of the water, it brimmed with a pleasant green glow. Billie loved to watch the refractions, a splendid false aurora that tumbled down in little motes and beams to the obscuration of the lakebed, or else thrown back out by the shiny scales of the fish.
She opened one of the bags of fish food and sniffed it. A sharp, chummy scent filled her nostrils and stuck there. She threw a single pellet in, and the whirlpool constellation of their endless circling was invigorated for the merest second as some lucky carp got the first bite.
She threw a couple more in, watching their dance hasten and slow back down.
Strictly speaking she was in Blue Springs’ territory right now, but their towns bordered each other and intermixed, sharing roads and businesses in odd, unpredictable ways. They worked together often, assisting each other in their hunts and bounties. Billie doubted she would mind the intrusion. The wraiths had been plentiful enough to share anyway.
She didn’t really know what to make of them. The rest of the Kansas City girls didn’t bother thinking about it too often, or at least never talked about it with her. Kyubey, conversely, had taught her about it in terms of sin, of wrongdoing committed by humans against one another. Billie always felt that had to be an oversimplification, like when you explain something complex to a young child.
The cyclone of fish rippled, consuming the pellets with an increasing frenzy. As far as she could tell, no sins had been committed here, so why the great wraith? She watched the carp as the glint light scattered off of them and into her eyes. Their mouths gaped, wanting more. Feed us, feed us. We’re so hungry. Feed us, they pleaded, their bulging eyes begging for a sacrifice.
Maybe things had changed, and they were all filled with sin now. She couldn’t remember whether things had been like this before the Unveiling, but she didn’t think so.
Lee’s Summit had been with this group before all that went down, and she had swiftly taken over as their top earner. She didn’t care much for the muddied waters of leadership, but was more than fine with hunting. She got pointed in a direction and that’s where she shot her gun.
It worked well to keep her mind off things, but those times where they lost people it was harder. She missed the last Kaycee, and Gladstone, and Belton. Good friends taken away; desperate lives cut short.
She didn’t like it when she got in these moods, but it happened often enough anyway. Especially now, with the threat of Overland Park looming.
The first bag was empty now, and she sighed as she stuffed it into her shallow back pocket. Looking up she saw the first ring of rain clouds tumbling in from the northwest, out over the wet docks bobbing in the gentle swell. Her phone started buzzing, so she whipped it out like a gun. Message from Kaycee. Meeting soon? Sure. She made to stand and stretched, enjoying the gentle scraping and bumping of boats, a faint rumble of distant thunder.
It was about that time anyway, she supposed.
Billie took the second bag of smelly food and dumped it straight into the lake. The fish dance turned into a cyclone as the carp, in their frenzy to consume the offering, swam upwards so hard that they actually began to lift each other out of the water. Lake and foam splashed up, borne on their tails as they slapped at each other, many going unsatiated as they fought in their panic to return to the water.
Averting her eyes to avoid getting blinded by the spray, she spied the bloated carcass of a particularly fat carp which floated belly up near the closest pontoon. It was wrong in ways that defied her understanding. For being so greedy none of the fish seemed too keen to consume it, and she intentionally ignored it as she trundled to the walkway that took her back to her car.
She set course for her hometown, passing out of Blue Springs and into Lee’s Summit proper, the plentiful greenery of Lake Jacomo and the surrounding nature parks turning gradually into a collection of apartment complexes and an endless collection of strip malls. As the sky continued to darken, Colbern Road took her up to 291 North, and from there on down she eventually reached her destination.
A light mist started coming down as Lee parked her car on the shoulder of the paved road. A fenced graveyard, the Historic Cemetery, lay on the other side. 3rd Street had several entrances to drive in, but she never parked inside of it.
The engine spun down as she turned it off, cooling and ticking as she lightly shut the door behind her. She was unable to stop a small sigh, turning onto the eastmost road. Towards the graves. Her keys jangled, so she took them off her lanyard and stowed them in her tote bag. Couldn’t have any of that while here.
First rule: the living shall be quiet while in the house of the dead.
Tall and willowy, she walked in cruddy sneakers on the paved road, passing by headstones marked with all manner of mostly English names, a smattering of German, an odd sprinkling of Polish here and there. A few trees along the way rustled, their leaves full and overflowing with the falling moisture. It promised proper rain soon.
Lee glanced at a few names as she walked along. She could never remember them, European names that faded from memory as soon as she looked away. She passed by the heavily weathered McConroys, the Ashtons with their plastic flowers. She sometimes made a point of looking more closely at obelisks and the odd mausoleum, but never too close.
Second rule: the living should step not on the grass, except to visit the dead.
She did make one exception, a momentary diversion: approaching the east wall, she walked quietly to the grave of one Cole Younger and plinked an old copper penny on the headstone, joining dozens of others, festooning the mason relief of his name like rhinestones.
She moved on quickly. The northwestern corner held the prime object of her interest. A few minutes more as water began to gather in her dark hair, plodding along brought her to their graves.
Two markers. The usual names and years, and one addendum: “PAPA.” This one had passed a long while ago, so long that she couldn’t remember the last time she had brought a bouquet. It was a simple piece, a flat rectangle of concrete lacquered in black. Age had dulled the ache of missing him.
The other one not so. There were many graves in this yard which had affectations for wives and mothers. “MEMA,” “MEMAW,” ME-MA,” “MEEMA” occupied several stones the whole place over. For Lee specifically it was “MEMAH.” In all the hours she had spent here, she hadn’t seen another just like it.
This was where she knelt, muddying her knees. There were still flowers here from her last visit, brown and wilted. She collected but did not replace them. This ache was still fresh, sharp; her mom had been lost in the Unveiling, just before it ended. Just over a year now.
There was a hole in her stomach as she struggled for words and found none.
If she had any idea what she was getting into, there was a decent chance this was the last time she would see her parents. If she was lucky, she would be buried next to them.
Refusing to take up with her relatives, she had instead flitted from shelter to shelter, working odd jobs for change to buy food. Kaycee could have ignored all of it, demanding her continuing service and giving none in return. Instead, their leader had given her a new home and renewed purpose. There was meaning in her life again, even if strained.
Overland Park (or was she the new Kaycee Kay? Didn't matter, she supposed) threatened to destroy everything she had left. There could be no question of standing against her.
She stood up as anger flared bright and hot inside her. It wasn’t the feeling she wanted to depart on.
Third rule: the living should leave something pleasant behind for the dead.
Often, people left nothing except their thoughts, and many of those were far from pleasant. She had brought no more gifts for her dear parents, so she left them with her thoughts and dreams instead.
Sorry I couldn’t protect you mom. I’ll do better for my friends. I miss you. I love you. I hope to see you again soon.
She straightened her thin jacket, flecking the water off onto the headstones. The names of her parents darkened with moisture as she turned away and, lacking anywhere else to go, headed back to the city to meet with the rest of the crew.
Chapter End Notes
"... if such should be we never meet again, while firing my last shot, I will gently breathe the name of my wife - Agnes - and with wishes even for my enemies I will make the plunge and try to swim to the other shore."
This is the town I live in now. It's alright.
When I was younger many fond days were spent on marinas, usually at Lake Truman and not Lake Jacomo. One of my strongest memories as a young child was the family renting a pontoon to fish, swim, and picnic in the middle of the reservoir, though my foot got tangled in some weeds once and I think that gave me a paralyzing fear of swimming in bodies of water I cannot see the bottom of.
Feeding the fish in real life is exactly as described here: it is tradition to take the last bag of fish food, or multiple, and dump it out as quickly as possible. One time we even got a carp to flop onto the barge. I need to go again soon now that it's almost summer, but the smell is strong and difficult to get used to.
The gravestone of Cole Younger is a real fixture in Lee's Summit that I have visited many times. He was a Confederate officer and people still lay copper pennies on the tombstone for some reason. This always struck me as odd considering Lincoln's head is on them, but I think Younger may have been a turncoat who worked for abolition or something? So it's probably fine. I'm not sure why they have to be copper though.
The quote is from a letter written by Wild Bill Hickok to his wife. I love Bill, he's a folk hero and the personification of the Wild West cowboy. I was originally planning to include a character named Springfield, a city in the southwest of Missouri where the Actual, For Real Duel at High Noon happened between Hickok and some stupid fucker named Davis Tutt who bragged about stealing Hickok's watch or some petty shit. I absolutely love that story, go read the Wikipedia article about it.