immune system is compromised. The airborne toxins of the twenty-first century are going to gang up on me, and it's a battle I'm already losing. I'm rotting, slowly and surely.
If I could get back to Arcadia, Mother could heal me, but I'd have to convince the Grove to let me return to her embrace. I have no idea what has happened to the others. Did any of them survive? I've had more than a few nights to reflect on what happened during the last hours of the mission, and I'm not sure who fucked who. I can't be sure that Talus and Nigel haven't poisoned the Grove against me.
Even then, Mother might still reject me, even after I make the journey back home.
I get wearily to my feet, dust off the worst of the dirt stains, and go looking for something to eat.
One problem at a time. Start small; work your way up. An old soldier's rule.
* * *
The first house I break into doesn't have a landline. The second has an old rotary phone, and the resident is on an equally antique phone service plan. I can't even get an international operator. I settle for stealing a change of clothes from the master bedroom closet and a half-gallon jug of unfiltered organic apple juice that I find in a small refrigerator.
The next house I stumble across is a tiny cabin nestled in the vee-shaped clearing. The land to the north has been cleared and converted to a vineyard; on the east and west, the forest comes in close to the house. It's fairly isolated, and I know better, but it is too tempting. The apple juice has taken the edge off my hunger, but my skin still itches. I can almost feel the poisons swirling in my blood.
There's only one person in the house, an elderly caretaker, and he wakes up when I bite him, but it is easy to hold him still. Afterward, I close his eyes and pull the heavy covers up over his face.
I should burn the house down, but that is liable to draw unwanted attention more than cover my tracks. I'll just leave all the doors open when I leave. Maybe there are enough four-legged predators on the island that they'll find the dead body.
The phone works. I dial a memorized number and a computerized voice tells me the call is subject to international charges, and I quietly tell it to proceed. The line clicks, a surprisingly analog sound for a digital connection, and then I hear the ghostly echo of a harpsichord—just a few notes. One of Callis's original compositions. Just enough to let me know that I'm being recorded. I speak quickly, outlining my situation, and I end my request with the ritual words used by Arcadians. When I am done, I hear a series of clicks and then the line goes dead. No confirmation necessary; I know my message will be heard.
I hang up the phone and raid the refrigerator.
Ten minutes later, as I'm polishing off my third piece of honey-slathered sourdough toast, the phone rings. As it is the middle of the night and since I'm expecting the call, I answer the phone.
“Hello?” I say around the last bite of toast.
“Hello, Silas.”
I swallow, clearing my mouth. “Hello, Callis.”
“It's been a long time since you've needed rescuing,” he says.
“It was the other way around last time,” I remind him.
“Was it?” he muses. “I don't remember.”
He says it offhandedly, but the fact that it might actually be true strikes a sour note in our conversation, and neither of us say anything for a moment.
“We haven't heard from your team,” he says after clearing his throat. “There's been a lot of attention.”
“I'm out of touch,” I say. “I fell overboard…” I realize I don't even know the date. “What happened?” I ask instead, figuring I'll get the news straight from him.
“Where are you?” he asks, and I know he's asking about the security of our conversation.
“I'm in a two-room house in the middle of Kangaroo Island,” I point out with a laugh. “I'm the only one for a couple of kilometers in any direction. It's pretty fucking secure.”
“Nothing is secure,” he says. “Your mission was compromised. Maybe from the beginning. Maybe from this end. I do not know how deep the infection goes.
“What infection? I thought this was an isolated mission.”
“As did I, but there is something amiss, something that goes back into our roots. Why was the reporter there?”
My hand tightens on