Category: The Stygian Lepus Magazine – Issue Twenty-Three

The spinning clay disc exploded in jagged shards. Neon orange fragments hovered motionless against the sky for a fraction of a second, like separated puzzle-pieces, before tumbling to the musky dead hay of the field.

Dorrie smiled as she coiled the smooth leather of her slingshot and tucked it back into the waistband of her burlap kilt. She was still the best marksman in the county.

“Impressive shooting, Dorrie!”

Startled, she spun in place, her moccasins scraping loose gravel. About seven meters behind her stood a small Chinese woman, grinning widely.

“Who—?” The word stuck in Dorrie’s throat as recognition cut the question short.

She had not seen L-Len Lee Hadstate in over 20 years, but here she was.

L-Len, with her flowing shiny black hair—likely dyed from gray these days—still spilling majestically onto her shoulders, her tiny delicate face smooth and ageless. She wore a short, knit skirt and clingy sleeveless silk top, as she had decades earlier when geared up for nightclubbing. The only detail out of place was the vinyl tote bag over her shoulder, embossed with a large Northwest Coastal Properties logo.

Dorrie was stunned. “I mean, how?”

L-Len grinned. “Should I call that shooting? Or was it throwing?”

Dorrie shook her head, stirring waves of tangled gray-white dreadlocks. “Definitely shooting,” she answered quietly. “Even with a slingshot. So, uh, how did you get through my security gate?”

L-Len smirked. “Good to see you too, Dorrie.”

Dorrie shrugged. “Sorry.” She took a breath and gave a brief, respectful bow. “Welcome to my hacienda. Nice to see you after all this time. I hear you’ve been making mega-dollars doing the realtor thing.”

L-Len stepped forward and hugged her. She felt shorter, smaller than Dorrie remembered, but the sweet smell of her hair and the exquisite smoothness of her bare shoulders brought a flood of pleasant memories.

Dorrie pushed L-Len gently, but firmly away. “Okay now, seriously. How did you get through my gate?”

L-Len smiled coyly, avoiding the question. “I thought a slingshot was one of those old-timey things, two rubber bands on a wooden—”

“This is also a slingshot. Harks back to David and Goliath.” Dorrie uncoiled her weapon and held it up. It was just a long and narrow leather strap, cut somewhat wider in the center than at either end, smoothly tanned on one side, naturally rough on the other. “It’s truly a sling.”

L-Len grinned. “Looks like my underwear.”

“Pretty sure I could knock down drones with it,” said Dorrie, “depending on how fast their pilots react.”

“No drones where we’re heading,” said L-Len. “Winds too strong there. If Northwest Coastal could fly drones in that region, we’d be ogling video instead of riding to the site. C’mon. My KRYKit is ready.”

L-Len’s little orange self-driving pod awaited them at the edge of the field, hovering silently just above the ground. Narrow black letters spelling “KRYKit” blinked intermittently on its front. Aside from the tilted solar panel on top and two oblong headlight lenses—one on either side of the KRYKit logo—the pod had no visible markings or contours to blemish its smooth surface. It resembled a giant plastic egg.

Was the KRYKit capable of driving through walls? Or through gates? Was that how L-Len had slipped undetected onto the property?

“You still haven’t told me how you got through my security gate.”

“That’s because I didn’t go through it. I went over.”

An oblong portal opened silently on the vehicle’s side and a small ramp extended, stopping as it met the ground with a faint crunch of metal against gravel. Dorrie climbed inside, blinking to adjust to the change in light as she extended one moccasin down against the plush black carpet.

The car’s interior was surprisingly roomy. It was ringed on all sides by a narrow couch, but with a pair of large, padded reclining seats in the center of its floor space. All these surfaces were a pale shade of orange, pleated, and adorned with a black crosshatch pattern, which resembled a cartoon spiderweb. A small console stood between the recliners.

Overhead hung a single glass knob. Dorrie suspected it was a security camera or a microphone, possibly both. Everything smelled of warm plastic and citrus air-freshener. There were no windows.

“Kinda dark in here,” Dorrie observed.

L-Len spoke to the ceiling dome in a commanding tone. “Keep Moving,” she said, “show what’s outside.”

Immediately, the interior of the KRYKit lit up, tall screens on its walls displaying an unbroken 360-degree image of the open brown fields to the left and right. The picture was so detailed and immersive that it seemed as if the walls of the car had opened all around them, but when Dorrie reached out toward the image, her fingertips touched the smooth, unyielding vinyl surface of a simulation screen.

“It’s showing us what really is outside around us right now,” said L-Len. “But the Keep Moving module can also simulate just about any other environment you’d prefer.” She said loudly, “Keep Moving, show me Paris, France.”

Immediately the display changed to a view of the streets of Paris, its gray, centuries-old historic architecture interspersed with modern steel and glass. The silhouette of the Eiffel Tower loomed on the horizon.

Dorrie grinned mischievously and called up to the microphone, “At night!”

The display screens flickered blank for a split second, then returned to the same view of daylit Paris.

“It can do that, but it has to hear my voice,” explained L-Len. “Mine is the only one it’s been programmed for. Now have a seat.”

Dorrie straightened out the folds of her kilt and sat on a recliner. It was solid beneath her, but she felt its foam spreading, adjusting to her body. She lowered her hemp tote bag and her two wineskins onto the car’s floor and swiveled herself up fully onto the chair. It was instantly comfortable, molding itself to her shape and providing solid support for her head and lower back.

L-Len sat down beside her on the other chair and clipped a large-size rectangular personal phone into a slot on the console between them. She logged onto it by pressing the tip of her thumb against the security pad at the edge of its darkened screen. The phone recognized her and opened to its display menu. L-Len selected Navigation.

There was a loud beeping sound and a pop-up window superimposed itself over the screen, flashing a warning about something Dorrie could not quite read. She thought she saw the phrase “essential firmware updates” blinking in it. L-Len impatiently closed the warning screen, which required pressing her thumb to the security pad again.

“It’s always trying to update to Keep Moving 2.3,” L-Len grumbled. “Can’t afford the downtime for that right now. Last one stewed for nearly six hours and I couldn’t use the car that whole time.”

She pressed Navigation once more. A sub-menu offered various standard choices, but she scrolled quickly down through them and tapped User-Defined. This brought up a list of seven maps. The first six had checkmarks beside their now grayed-out titles, but the last was unchecked and stood starkly in bold letters: Osprey’s Roost.

When L-Len tapped it, the phone projected a topographical map into the air between the car’s two recliners. Property boundary lines, longitude and latitude, acreage measurements, and elevation data were superimposed over the line drawings.

“So… you ready?”

Dorrie fumbled in her tote bag and withdrew a paper map. She unfolded it carefully. It was old, frayed along the crease lines, with a few torn edges and small pieces missing. Meticulously, she compared a section in its upper left corner against the hologram from L-Len’s phone. Eventually, she nodded. “Ready.”

L-Len tapped her phone. The holographic view was replaced by the flat monochrome image of a real estate contract. “Got the paperwork ready here. One touch of your personal bio-met’s in that blue square at the bottom, and the sale is completed. Osprey’s belongs to you.”

Dorrie smiled. “I still need to see it first.”

L-Len smiled and closed the image. She reclined back on the chair and spoke upward at the ceiling dome. “Keep Moving, take us to the lower southern border of Osprey’s Roost.”

The KRYKit made a humming sound as it retracted its ramp and sealed its portal. Images of Paris vanished from the wraparound display, replaced by the natural view of the actual exterior. The car moved.

The surface of the recliner gently squeezed Dorrie, holding her in place. She refolded the map and restored it to her bag.

The KRYKit’s operating system spoke. It had a pleasant, soothing, artificial voice with what Dorrie assumed was supposed to be a British accent. “Estimated travel time to Osprey’s Roost is three hours, twenty-seven minutes,” it said.

The car rose higher above the roadway and picked up speed, its display screen images accelerating to a blur.

“Is it safe for us to be traveling this fast?” Dorrie asked.

L-Len grinned. “We’re not going as fast as it looks. It’s a simulation. Have you never seen the adverts?”

“I saw an ad,” Dorrie admitted, “but hated how they used that old song by The Beatles, turning ‘Ticket to Ride’ into ‘KRYKit to Ride.’ Sounded like the Beatles were actually singing that. Creepy.”

L-Len shrugged. “They probably used Voice Gym to change ‘ticket’ to ‘KRYKit.’ Anybody can use Voice Gym. I’ve even got its free starter version on my phone. I punked my last girlfriend by switching around words on messages she left.”

“Must have truly endeared her to you.”

L-Len waved her hand dismissively. “Wasn’t interested in getting tied down in any extended relationship. Don’t have any family. Don’t want to build one. I love being free and indie.”

The KRYKit reached the highway, merging smoothly into rows of fast-moving traffic on the main thoroughfare. Its bright orange contrasted starkly against the dull grays and blacks of the single passenger sedans and suburban mini-vans, and the smoky whites and rusty reds of the tractor-trailers.

“Want a drink?” asked L-Len. Without waiting for an answer, she told the car, “Keep Moving, serve us pom-vod. Two glasses, chilled.”

A small portal opened on the center console with a slight mechanical whirring sound. A purple glow spilled from within as a metal tray rose, bearing two translucent drinking vessels, accompanied by a gust of cold air and a pungent fruity smell. Lightly ruby-hued liquid swirled within the glasses, spears of ice rotating in a ghostly dance below the surface. Between the two drinks sat a reddish fruit pod.

Dorrie sat up. “Is that a pomegranate? A real one?”

L-Len nodded. “Part of the presentation, a decoration for effect. Here, try some of this pomegranate vodka. It’s my favorite.”

“No thanks.” Dorrie reached down and collected the two wineskins she had placed on the car’s floor. “I brought some grape wine that I made myself and some well water, which you’re welcome to.”

L-Len waved a hand at her. “No water! Join me in a pom-vod!”

Dorrie picked up the pomegranate and held its ruddy husk appreciatively in her hand. “May I have this?” After L-Len nodded her assent, Dorrie tucked it into her bag beside two hearty bunches of her grapes. She pulled the cap loose from one of her wineskins and took a quick sip.

L-Len picked up both glasses of pom-vod. “More for me, then.” She proceeded to take a generous gulp from one and then from the other.

Dorrie put the cap back on her wineskin. One deep swig of its sweet berry taste was all she needed. She hoped L-Len would exercise similar restraint.

She was disappointed.

***

The KRYKit carried them uneventfully over the silver ribbon of busy roadway for more than two hours before Dorrie sensed something strange in its movements. She was certain it had turned sharply to the right, despite the screen image to the contrary.

With much persuading, she convinced L-Len, who had been drinking glass after glass of pom-vod, to temporarily disable the car’s Keep Moving display so they could see what was really happening.

“Ishhh okay,” L-Len slurred.

They discovered that dense smoke from a wildfire had closed the northbound highway. The KRYKit was detouring over surface streets.

“Ishhh okay,” L-Len murmured as she reached for another glass of pom-vod.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Dorrie asked.

L-Len scowled. “You’re sh-shounding like my bosh.”

“Like who?”

“Like my bosh.” L-Len cleared her throat. “My boss. Always sc-scolding me. But I won’t hafff to wurry about her mush longer.” She took another sip of pom-vod. “Bosh gave me sebben properties, um, seven properties, to shell. To sell.” She burped, briefly covering her mouth. “Seven hardest ones to sell she could find. An’ I sold six of them show far. So far. Yours will be th’ last.”

“That’s only if I do buy it,” Dorrie countered. “Still need to see it.”

“Contrast, um, contract—contract’s ready to go, right on my phone.”

“You showed me that.”

“Once I shell you Oz-Oz –”

“Osprey’s Roost.”

L-Len grinned. “Right. Once you buy it, whiff my commission from the shale, I start my own company. No more killjoy bosh telling me to shop drinking. I already turned in my notice thish morning.”

“Good for you,” Dorrie said, speaking with a forceful tone she hoped would bring the speech to a merciful conclusion.

Fortunately, the car itself intervened. “Destination Osprey’s Roost,” announced the overhead voice, “is now approximately thirty minutes away.”

“I have to go,” L-Len announced.

“Go?”

Gesturing at the back of the car, L-Len grinned and whispered, “Ladies’ Room.”

To Dorrie’s astonishment, L-Len rose and stumbled toward the rear of the KRYKit. A section of the web-like pattern on the wall opened to reveal a small restroom like those on commercial airliners. A faint scent of disinfectant wafted from it.

L-Len took hold of the doorway to stabilize herself, then swiveled so she was facing back out. She waved idiotically at Dorrie as the portal closed, the black spiderweb pattern immediately covering the wall behind her.

Dorrie turned back to view the northbound road ahead. The country was less developed here, more hilly, with snow-capped mountain peaks visible in the distance. This was the sort of territory she had always yearned for, always dreamed of settling into some day.

She could easily afford Osprey’s. She was the sole heir to her family’s lumber fortune. Necessary funds had already been transferred to her account. Whether it would be possible to construct a modern house at Osprey’s remained to be seen, though, as the property was remote, far off the roads, and perched in high, treacherous, windy country.

A loud thump sounded from the restroom.

“L-Len?” Dorrie called out. “Are you okay?” She stepped back toward the car’s rear and knocked where she had seen the doorway, but the heavy orange padding dulled the sound. She was surprised and momentarily distracted to find that the black spiderweb pattern was stitched over the soft orange vinyl with some durable artificial material, rather than merely printed onto it, presumably as extra protection against the padding being torn.

Another thump came from within.

“L-Len?”

The door opened and L-Len, who had apparently been leaning on it from the inside, tumbled out. Dorrie intercepted L-Len’s fall and, turning in place as she supported the smaller woman’s weight, lowered her onto a section of the couch at the left of the bathroom. The door quietly closed and vanished as L-Len sprawled beside it. Her skirt was askew, and Dorrie noticed the two telltale pink wire leads of an S-Sim protruding from her black silk thong.

“L-Len, were you getting sex in there?”

Heavily intoxicated, L-Len grinned with delirium. “Ohhh, baby,” she cooed. “Faster, faster. Don’t stop.”

“You’re drunk. I mean really, really drunk.”

“Am not.” L-Len struggled to get to her feet, both arms swinging wildly.

Dorrie took a step back. “Be careful—hey, I think you should sit down.”

L-Len was fully upright now, but swaying. She threw her head back as if in ecstasy. “Faster, faster!” she shouted.

The KRYKit accelerated.

“Faster! Faster!”

The car continued to gain velocity.

Dorrie noticed with alarm that the images of the mountainous north country were passing more quickly. This was not another Keep Moving simulation. She felt herself pressed back against the cushions by G-force. This was real.

Astounded that L-Len was still standing, she cried out angrily, “Tell it to stop!”

L-Len leaned back, arms outstretched, eyes closed tightly. “Don’t stop!” she yelled. “Don’t stop!”

She fell. Slammed back against the wall where the restroom door had opened, she tumbled to the floor, landing on her head and pivoting on her neck. Something in her spinal column cracked with a sound like the snap of a wet carrot. She sprawled, limbs twitching spasmodically for a moment before settling to permanent stillness.

Dorrie had seen enough wild animals die to know the signs. L-Len was gone.

Fighting the G-force that weighed her down, she crawled over to L-Len’s body and made sure. No breath. No heartbeat.

Clearing her throat, then struggling to mimic L-Len’s voice, she called up to the ceiling dome, “Slow down. Resume normal travel speed.”

The car ignored her.

“Keep Moving, slow down,” she said, realizing with frustration how contradictory and absurd that sounded.

There was no response.

Dorrie looked up at the blurry images of the untamed countryside streaking past on the simulation screens. If only there was a real glass window she could break and, maybe, jump out of.

How long would the KRYKit go before it exceeded its solar charging? And what then? Would it seal itself? With no charge remaining, could it even open its door?

She was startled by the car’s voice.

“Approaching Osprey’s Roost,” it announced. “Distance to property line is approximately five kilometers. Leaving highway. Ascending to off-road altitude.”

With that, the KRYKit swooped up into the air. It banked to the right and rose dozens of meters above the trees, continuing at intense speed.

Dorrie’s heart beat faster. Peering down at the terrain—jagged rocks and deep canyons—she ruled out any notion of jumping, even were it possible.

If only she had a recording of L-Len’s voice. Maybe she could find a word or a phrase to play back that would trick Keep Moving into obeying.

Wait. She did have one—that message L-Len left on her phone.

Dorrie scrambled to fish the phone out of her bag. Her hands trembled as she gripped the smooth plastic surface of the little green oval and pressed her thumbprint on the security pad. Accessing her messages, she clicked on the one from L-Len and listened nervously as it played.

“Dorrie, it’s L-Len with Northwest Properties. Got your two posts with the co-ord’s and directions to your place. I’ll come getcha Tuesday about 10 a.m. for a look at Osprey’s Roost. It’s a long ride up, but I’ve got a nice KRYKit self-driver with that new Keep Moving add-on, so we’ll be comfy. It’s smooth as glass, so those coastal winds won’t bother it. Too bad there’s no hotel or anywhere for us to crash up there but, no worry, we can always nap in the car. See you Tuesday!”

Dorrie frowned. If only L-Len had used the word “stop” or “slow” somewhere in that message.

She played it again, but paused it at “two posts.” What about “posts”—like “stop,” but backwards? What had L-Len said about something called Voice Gym?

Unlocking L-Len’s phone was a challenge.

After tense consideration, Dorrie decided it was prudent to leave the phone docked on the KRYKit’s center console, linked and providing route directions, rather than risk resetting everything by disconnecting it. To provide the phone’s security with L-Len’s thumbprint, she had to drag the dead woman’s body over to it. With much effort, she moved L-Len up with her back against a recliner, close enough to allow pressing her hand against the mounted phone.

Another issue: The phone would not initially recognize L-Len’s thumbprint, either because L-Len was dead or because her skin had been chilled from holding an iced drinking glass. Dorrie rubbed the tip of L-Len’s thumb with the flat of her own hand, hoping to generate enough friction to warm it up. Four attempts later, its temperature was finally sufficient for the pad to accept. The main menu opened.

The Voice Gym icon appeared at the bottom of the first screen. To Dorrie’s immense relief, tapping it launched the app with no further requirements. The app’s screen resembled a pizza cut into four uneven slices with different labels: “Record,” “Edit,” “Playback,” and “Save.” Holding her own round green phone up to this screen, Dorrie clicked “Record” in the Voice Gym app and started L-Len’s voicemail.

When the message played back, a transcription of it appeared on the Voice Gym screen. After it completed, Dorrie clicked-and-dragged a copy of the transcribed message into the app’s “Edit” section. She then separated the word “posts” from the balance of the text.

She had to turn “posts” into “stop.” Could she play it backwards?

Well, she decided, if a moron like L-Len could use this app…

She pressed two fingers against the word on the little glowing screen, one fingertip on the “p” and the other pushed tightly against the last “s.” She then rotated her wrist, as if turning an old-fashioned doorknob. The word flipped upside-down, blinked off the screen, and then returned as a mirror image of itself, displayed upright but completely backwards.

Dorrie clicked-and-dragged the reversed word into the app’s “Play” quadrant. She tapped on it.

L-Len’s voice chimed out from the speaker, but the word sounded more like “shtoap” than “stop” and it had a weird descending cadence, noticeable even as a single syllable, betraying its reversed origin.

Dorrie looked hopefully at the ceiling dome, but there was no reaction from the Keep Moving software. She glanced over at the car’s displays and watched the wild, mountainous countryside still flying past at breakneck speed. Despite her rising alarm, she was fascinated to see several large predatory birds circling in the air toward the west, apparently some of the region’s namesake ospreys.

Acting quickly, she cut and pasted the phrase “Keep Moving” from the transcription and added it in front of the mirrored “posts.” She played it back.

“Keep Moving, shtoap,” said the phone.

It sounded doubly stupid, but Dorrie replayed it anyway.

There was a brief pause, and then the overhead speaker answered quietly, “Unrecognized instruction.”

Dorrie swore under her breath. She scanned the transcription again carefully for something else she could use. The third time through, almost to the end, she spotted what she needed.

There it was: crash.

Dorrie took another long, deep breath, followed by a quick slug of sweet strong liquid courage from her wineskin, then took action.

She buckled L-Len’s corpse into the other recliner so it would not be flying around inside the car upon impact. She also minimized the Voice Gym app and, mimicking steps L-Len used earlier, brought up the sales contract between Northwest Coastal and herself. With the touch of a button, full ownership of Osprey’s Roost was now hers.

A twinkling chime from her own phone signaled confirmation of the transaction.

Then with trembling hands, Dorrie returned to the Voice Gym software and assembled two more edits from the transcription, a long one and a short one. When she was finished, she leaned back on the recliner and let its soft orange foamy surface grip her securely. Reaching over to L-Len’s phone, she dragged the longer edit into the “Playback” quadrant and tapped it.

“Keep Moving,” said L-Len’s voice from the orange phone’s tiny speaker, “crash… at Osprey’s Roost.”

There was a pause.

“Unconventional instruction,” answered the car. “Repeat command for confirmation.”

Dorrie tapped the long edit again.

“Keep Moving… crash… at Osprey’s Roost.”

She then dragged the short edit into the “Playback” field and tapped it.

“Crash,” said the phone.

She tapped it again. And again.

“Crash… crash.”

The images of the countryside blurring across the car’s displays abruptly slowed. Dorrie experienced a sickening sense of inertia, as if her body were being pulled backward while her mind continued to move forward. Her stomach churned, and she felt light-headed.

The KRYKit came to a dead stop in mid-air.

Dorrie gripped the sides of the recliner tightly, the smooth orange vinyl bulging up between her clenched fingers.

And then the bottom fell out.

At first, the sensation evoked memories of what she had experienced decades ago, riding in glass elevator cars as they descended from the highest floors of tall buildings.

The KRYKit smashed to the earth, bounced once, and rolled end over end three times before falling off the edge of a shallow ravine. It landed at the bottom, finally coming to rest on its side in a cloud of dust which the high winds quickly scattered.

***

There were four of them this time, their heads snagged securely in the tight web of the black netting. Dorrie was pleased.

One of these trout was exceptionally large, bigger than her own forearm, so she added it to her stringer. It would serve as an excellent addition to her evening feast. The others she carefully disentangled from the gill net and allowed them to swim away freely in the cold, clear water of the mountain stream. She could certainly catch them again another day, if necessary, unless an osprey took them first.

Dorrie smiled. Now, she thought, I’m the osprey.

She was continually amazed by the durability of the net. She had invested nearly two full days of labor in painstakingly unstitching the black nylon webbing from the upholstery of the KRYKit’s couch, but the effort had proven magnificently worthwhile. Since she stretched it across the stream, not a day had gone by without the option of fish for dinner.

After filling both a wineskin and a clay pot with fresh water, she waded out of the stream and sat on a hard, flat rock at the water’s edge. It was warm to the touch, baked by the sun. Her sandals would dry quickly here. From this high vantage point, she could see most of what she dubbed her “garden,” a series of deep divots in the rocky surface of the mountaintop. Each was low enough to be shielded from the high winds, but wide enough to catch the sunlight on its flat inner surface through most of the day. She carried water to them regularly in the big clay pot she made, but she planned to create irrigation channels from a point farther upstream.

The seeds she germinated from the KRYKit’s pomegranate did not disappoint. There were now three rows of pomegranate bushes sprouting from the earth in the closest divot. She knew it would likely be next year before she would see any harvest from them, but that was certainly on its way, although she expected her first crop of grapes would be ready much sooner.

The aroma of roasting osprey meat wafted down from her campsite. She realized the bird she left on the fire must be nearly ready.

Returning to camp always gave Dorrie a warm feeling. The wreckage of the KRYKit, now stripped of everything she could use externally, made a fine shelter. She had cast all its electronics, along with the black-box recorder and both mobile phones, out into the ocean during her one brief expedition to the coast. Much of the car’s sturdy orange upholstery she had adapted into a sling hammock that was wide and comfortable. She detached and moved its two recliners outside, positioning one beside the campfire and relocating the other up higher to a nearby ledge. From there she could lie back on it with an unobstructed view of the constellations glistening overhead at night. The S-Sim, fully charged by the still-functioning solar panel salvaged from the car’s roof, made those long nights even more pleasant.

The osprey lay across her modest cooking fire, spatchcocked on a grid of metal skewers she had pried from the door mechanism of the KRYKit. The bird’s skin was now deep brown and she knew its meat was evenly roasted, so she removed it from the coals to let it cool. She admired it as she cleaned and prepared her fresh-caught trout to take its place over her fire. L-Len’s silk thong had become an excellent additional slingshot.

As for L-Len herself, the young woman proved more useful to Dorrie in death than she had been in life. Stripped naked, limbs wired to a gigantic metal “X” made of the KRYKit’s roof struts, L-Len’s corpse hung at the entrance of the first arroyo near the base of the mountain, crucified on fragments of her own self-driver. The sun had burned and blackened her flesh, shrinking it so her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grotesque grin.

Around L-Len’s neck hung a signboard, fashioned from the cover of the car’s solar panel, on which were written a pair of words, their lumpy, drooling letters painted with a mixture of blood and pomegranate juice, baked hard by the weather. The irregular font seemed to emphasize the instructions they imparted.

As far as Dorrie knew, nobody ever ventured this far north to search for L-Len. Or, if they did, they obeyed her hideous human scarecrow’s grim two-word command.

And kept moving.