Ignited Page 3

  As Henry entered through the front door that morning, Mrs. McClure called out a cheery, “Hello, dear!”

  “Hi, Mrs. M,” he replied, leaning over the front desk so he could kiss her powdered cheek. Mrs. McClure was in her late sixties, and yet she still got up every morning to “put on her face.”

  She shooed him away with the wave of her hand. “Your charm is wasted here, buster. I still remember the time you caught the flu when you were six and—”

  “Let’s not tell that story again, shall we?” He grimaced. Mrs. McClure was just teasing, but sometimes he worried no one would ever see him as a physician—that he would always be the doctor’s grandson, rather than a doctor himself. “Did you get your insulin shot this morning?”

  Mrs. McClure sighed. “Henry, I’m a grown woman. I can manage my own insulin shot.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  She gave him a pointed look and motioned toward the back. “Your grandfather’s waiting for you.”

  Henry made his way to the back, where a small kitchenette was hidden at the end of the hallway, past the various patient meeting rooms. Dr. Pinkerton was bent over a cup of coffee and the morning paper, hip butted up against the counter as he skimmed the news. He looked up as Henry entered the room, wrinkled face splitting into a grin.

  “Henry!” he said, discarding the paper. “How are you this morning? I checked the appointment book, and it looks like you are going to have a busy day.”

  “Really?” Henry looked back over his shoulder, as if staring at the back of Mrs. McClure’s head would reveal her secrets. “That’s great! Any of the—” He tripped over the words, unsure what to name the people who had revealed themselves to have tapped into some sort of superhuman abilities. “You know. The people who got really, really ill at the beginning of the summer?”

  The smile dropped away. Dr. Pinkerton looked more weathered this way, the evidence of long hours and his recent string of illnesses weighing heavily in the lines of his face. Even though there had only been two serious injuries during the fight—Veronica Clark’s fall into the rapids and the abrasions to June Powell’s neck—the townspeople had been frightened, and there had been a noticeable influx of patients.

  Veronica had survived, and June’s neck had healed, but the damage to the town’s morale would take longer to repair.

  “Come now, Henry. You know I prefer to handle those myself.” His grandfather’s tone was kind, but his face resolute. “In times like these, people want the doctor they’ve always known.”

  Henry sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But I still want to help.”

  Dr. Pinkerton clasped Henry’s shoulder. “You do help. Why don’t you grab a cup of Mrs. McClure’s coffee and let her know when you’re ready for your first patient.”

  With that, his grandfather abandoned his own half-full cup of coffee on the counter and rounded a corner, effectively disappearing. Henry watched him go, trying not to let the resentment growing in his stomach overtake him. He breathed out heavily through his nose and ran a hand through his hair. It was getting long. He needed to cut it. When his mother saw him, she was sure to comment on it.

  He had family dinner with her and his grandfather that evening. He grimaced thinking of it. Sitting under his mother’s glare while Dr. Pinkerton tried to make small talk? It was not his ideal meal.

  But who had the time to worry about petty family issues when there were superhumans in their midst? It had been weeks since the mysterious fog had rolled into town and sickened many people, some of whom had then developed powers. Yet Henry had not so much as spoke to one of those such afflicted in the waiting room.

  Henry knew that by taking on most of the other cases, he was doing his part for the clinic. He was happy to do it, as well. He had become a doctor for this practice, this town. But the illnesses and subsequent powers were interesting medical anomalies, and he was curious about them. He wanted to study, to learn how this had happened. It was a mystery, and he wanted to help solve it.

  The opportunities were not forthcoming, however. His grandfather still seemed to think of him as the energetic child running wild through the clinic, rather than the newly-minted doctor that he was. They had talked about Henry taking over the practice for what felt like years. Now that the time for him to do so was here, he was starting to doubt that his grandfather would ever give up the reins to the practice he had built.

  Henry frowned at the pot of coffee on the counter, and then decided to forgo it in favor of moving back to the front desk. He touched Mrs. McClure’s shoulder. “I’ll take my first patient, whenever you’re ready to send them in.”

  She nodded at him just as someone walked in the front door, so she shooed him away.

  Walking to his office, located directly across the hall from Dr. Pinkerton’s, he spent a few minutes going over paperwork until he heard Mrs. McClure’s voice through the rudimentary speaker system.

  “Dr. Porter? You have a patient in room two.”

  Kenny Goodman held back tears as his mother squeezed his hand. The cut on his knee was deep and needed stitches. Henry knew from experience that getting stitches was no fun—although most kids enjoyed showing them off afterward as a kind of battle scar. It had to be scary, to have a man in a big white coat brandishing a needle.

  Henry hoped some talk would distract Kenny.

  “Playing a little too hard outside?” he asked, his voice low and soothing. “You’re being very brave right now.”

  Mrs. Goodman leaned over and kissed the top of Kenny’s head. “Very brave,” she echoed.

  “I tripped.” Kenny’s lip quivered. “We were playing tag in the square and I fell over a hole in the ground and I hit this piece of rock from the fountain and—”

  “I was just over at the butcher’s,” Mrs. Goodman interrupted. Gail Goodman had been in Henry’s high school class, years before, and she’d married his best friend in Independence Falls. He was glad to see her and her son on the other side of the exam room door, although these weren’t the best circumstances.

  She was usually such a happy woman, always smiling and laughing. Now, she looked drawn.

  “I don’t understand why that area around the fountain is still such a disaster,” she said, fidgeting nervously in her own seat. “It’s been long enough.”

  Henry kept his smile kind. It looked like Mrs. Goodman needed just as much reason to calm down as Kenny did. “Gail, it’s barely been a week.”

  “Well, still!”

  Kenny had stopped crying and was reduced to small whimpers as Henry finished threading the stitches through his skin. He pulled back to survey his handiwork. The wound would heal easily. It might not even scar.

  “I think we’re finished here. Let me grab you a bandage, huh, Kenny?”

  “Thanks, Dr. Porter,” Kenny said, sniffling.

  Gail leaned forward and hefted her son onto her shoulder. “It’s just ridiculous, don’t you think, that only Butch Murphy got arrested? They were all part of it.”

  Henry turned his back to reach for bandages in the cupboard. He didn’t want her to see him frowning.

  “Many of them were protecting the town, you know.” He hoped he didn’t sound defensive. “You’ve known these people forever, haven’t you?”

  “I just don’t know what to think,” Mrs. Goodman said. She sighed. “Bill was talking about you this morning. Wants to grab a drink soon, if you have the time.”

  “Tell him I’d like that.”

  Henry followed Kenny and Mrs. Goodman to the front door, waving them good-bye, but his mind was far away. Having a bunch of people in a small town feeling that scared? It was never a good thing. The winds in Independence Falls were changing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ruth

  Ruth was elbows-deep in dishwater, and her mind was a million miles away. The kitchen was sweltering with the mid-morning heat, and she was already behind in her chores. The breakfast dishes weren’t going to do themselves, and she needed
some of these same pans for dinner that evening.

  She just couldn’t get her mind to focus.

  As she put another dish on the drying rack, Ruth swiped her soapy wrist across her brow. The window above the sink was open, but there was hardly any air moving through it. She leaned closer to it, hoping that would help. It didn’t.

  With a sigh, she rinsed another dish and put it with the first. Her hands moved slower and slower as her thoughts drifted away from her task ….

  To a little house—something neat and tidy, with a real tiled floor, not the tacky linoleum the military had installed when they’d first built these trailers, or the cheap floral wallpaper that curled around the edges when it was hot outside. Spotlessly clean in the way that screamed it was brand new, and all hers.

  She wouldn’t mind washing dishes in a house like that, she mused, putting a pot out to dry. Dream Ruth wore a chic dress—something like June always wore, fitted, with a crinoline to make the skirt flounce outward. And her hair wasn’t long and plain and tangled, it was done up in curls and tied with a scarf.

  And then someone would come up behind her, and put his arms around her as she worked, hooking his chin over her shoulder so he could whisper in her ear. Not Arnold—even if he wasn’t so bad, he wasn’t daydream material.

  No, it would be someone like … like Dr. Porter.

  The plate in Ruth’s hands slipped back into the water, and she shivered just thinking about it.

  The arms around her were lean and strong, and he smelled clean, like he had in the general store, for that one brief moment. The sweet nothings in her ear begged her to step away from her work, come on, Ruth, just five minutes, the dishes aren’t going anywhere ….

  Ruth shook her head, and the daydream dissipated around her. Her heart was beating quick in her chest, and she gripped the edge of the sink to orient herself in her kitchen—her real kitchen, with the ugly wallpaper and the wobbly table and chairs.

  She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was her life. When she got married—and it would be soon, it had to be, she’d been waiting for four years for this shoe to drop—it would be to someone like Arnold Johnson, not Dr. Henry Porter. She felt guilty for even thinking anything else. What was the point in it? It was not the kind of life her father wanted for her.

  She needed to be more obedient. She needed to be a better daughter. Maybe then these powers would go away and her thoughts would stop running toward these stupid, impossible fantasies. She was tired of the mystical. She just wanted reality.

  With renewed focus and resolve, she picked up the last dish and started scrubbing.

  “I had an interesting visitor today,” Edward said, swallowing a bite of potato. Dinner had turned out well enough, despite Ruth daydreaming her morning away. He leaned back in his seat, eyebrows raised. His gaze felt expectant, like he suspected Ruth already knew what he was going to say.

  She directed her gaze toward the table and took a sip of water. “Oh?”

  “What’s the name of that girl—the lying one?”

  “Briar Steele?”

  He speared a piece of meatloaf. “So you did know she came by.” He raised an eyebrow at her.

  Ruth wanted to frown, but she schooled her face into something neutral. “I know of her reputation, is all.”

  Silence fell over the table, and Ruth fought the urge to fidget with every ounce of reserve she possessed. Her father wanted something from her, and she didn’t know what it was. She was safer if she stayed silent and let him tell her in his own time.

  It didn’t make her any less curious, however. Even as she took small, careful bites of meatloaf, her mind raced. She hadn’t talked to Briar since that day in the general store, so why would her father be asking about the girl now?

  “Ruthie.” Edward interrupted her thoughts, and Ruth snapped to attention. “Did you put that Briar girl up to this?”

  She felt like the conversation was littered with land mines, and at any moment, she might take a wrong step and face an explosion.

  “I think I’ve only spoken to Briar Steele a handful of times,” she told him. It was the truth, but that didn’t mean he’d believe her. “And never about anything personal. I don’t know why she would come to visit me.”

  Edward dropped his fork and leaned back, considering. “She came to visit you, did she?”

  Stupid, stupid. She felt a pinprick of anger deep inside of her—anger at having to be so careful with every word, at feeling like she was always disappointing her father, even when trying to do something simple like eat dinner.

  Her daydream came back to her, along with a wash of guilt.

  Ever since she was young, her father had told her the only true path to God was through righteousness, and that righteousness was a difficult thing to achieve in such an unholy and evil world. He’d always done his best to keep her on the right path, and there she was, dreaming about leaving everything he’d ever taught her. And for what, a man she’d spoken to once? A man who had probably already forgotten she existed?

  Ruth sighed. “I shouldn’t have assumed that. Why did she stop by?”

  “There’s some kind of collaborative fundraiser going on. All the local east side churches are pitching in.” Edward’s mouth curled down, and he pushed away his plate, still half-full. “Briar asked me if I would be willing to send you to volunteer so that every church is represented.”

  A flutter of excitement curled in Ruth’s belly. She hadn’t seen June in weeks, and it would be nice to go out and socialize like all the other girls her age. Why Briar would suggest this, she wasn’t sure, but Ruth was not about to turn away from that sort of generosity.

  It wouldn’t be good if her father saw just how excited she was, however. He didn’t like the other churches in town—they weren’t godly, like his church. He would forbid it, if he thought Ruth was too excited. He would take it as proof she was being led away from the holy path he’d set out for her long ago.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  There it was again: the land mine feeling. Ruth swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. “Are they collecting something?”

  “Goods, clothes, whatever they can get. There was a bit of personal property damage, after the fight with those freaks.” He spat the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “We saw that enough with the destroyed car. They’re going to work on the town square, too, try to get it back in order. I think this might be an opportunity for us.”

  Ruth frowned. There was something in his tone—a kind of excitement that didn’t bode well. “What do you mean?”

  “This is war, Ruthie. I saw what they were that awful day. These people have abilities God never intended anyone to have. And with the spike in attendance—we’re the only church coming down harshly against these demons. Now people want to band together to help the victims of that fight?” He grinned, wolfish. “That means they’re angry. They’re already rejecting those freaks. This town has some sense, after all.”

  “So you’ll go and try to convince others to join our,” she gulped. “Cause?”

  He nodded and then reached out to pull his plate back, digging in with relish. “They obviously want to hear sense, and when they do ….” He grinned around a bite. “We just need to get them in church, get them to hear the truth, and then we can bring them around to the exorcisms.”

  Ruth dropped her fork. Edward glanced up, his eyes hard, and she covered by coughing into her napkin. Her throat felt like the desert, and she took a sip of her water. When she glanced at him again, he seemed satisfied.

  “Exorcisms? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Edward shook his head. “Only for demons. We need a way into the people, Ruthie, to get them to trust us, and then when we have them on our side, we’ll save all of their family members and friends who have been infected.”

  “How do you do an exorcism?” she wondered, struggling to keep her tone passably interested, rather than terrified.

  “We’ll starve the dem
ons out of them. No demon will stick inside its mortal shell when its dying. We can lock up everyone who is possessed, and within a few weeks, everything will be back to normal.” He paused, smiled. “Except we’ll have a new, big congregation to see every Sunday.”

  She was suddenly queasy, but Ruth knew she couldn’t excuse herself. She choked down the rest of her plate. With each bite, she imagined her father’s ideas, saw herself tied to her bed, unable to move and dying of hunger.

  It wouldn’t do any good. There wasn’t a demon inside her. Was there?

  June was infected, but she still seemed like June. Everyone seemed themselves, in fact; she couldn’t think of a person who had changed significantly.

  For the first time since her powers had surfaced over a month earlier, Ruth felt cold. Her insides were frozen solid. She could barely breathe. What if her father found out about her?

  She needed to get rid of these powers.

  Squaring herself, she asked, “What day is the drive? I’ll make sure you have something to bring, a pie or something. That will help you win over all the church ladies, and—”

  Edward shook his head. “What? No, I’m not going. You’re going. I already asked Arnold Johnson to escort you there and back.” He leaned across the table and picked up her hand in his, squeezing it lightly. “You’re going to be the shining beacon who brings people to us and who helps show them the way. I have faith in you.”

  Guilt ripped through Ruth. If he only knew the truth.

  “Thank you, Dad,” she said, her voice quiet.

  They turned back to dinner. Edward continued on with his brilliant scheme, but Ruth couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was a million miles away again, and this time, it was not focused on a daydream.