CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the large office that once belonged to the Headmaster when this place was a school, Wilhelmina stared at the file that was laid out before her on the grand oak desk. Everything was handwritten as it had not been created before the end of the world. The name at the top was ISABEL NOBLE.
It wasn't supposed to be her. It was supposed to be a man named Derek with the same last name. His file was useless; there wasn't much information in it and nothing pertaining to Isabel. A lot of basic facts were missing from Isabel's file, yet it was still stuffed. Every day since the apocalypse, Wilhelmina had been adding to it; nit-picky details such as every time Isabel defied her, or which days she did and did not speak. Pointless, perhaps, yet all of it spoke to her character.
There was a section that was blank and unlabeled. It was the only section Wilhelmina was interested in as it would truly tell her what Isabel was. Human wasn't the word. There was something more to her; something threatening. And Wilhelmina Venable would not be threatened.
A knock echoed throughout the office. Ms. Venable calmly collected the papers, storing them back in the manila folder. "Enter," she said, knowing exactly who was calling upon her.
"A Gray said you'd be in here," Isabel explained, as if she needed to. "You knew I'd come and find you, didn't you?"
"I do prefer a more professional setting for conducting business." Ms. Venable remained seated, hand on her cane. A finger tapped lightly in rhythm on the top of it.
Isabel contemplated turning around and just leaving. She could get out of this. Hell, maybe she could leave the outpost altogether. Surely the fact that she was a witch provided some protection against radiation poisoning? No, that didn't sound right. That was wishful thinking, not factual.
"Well?" Ms. Venable asked expectantly. "Go on." She knew Isabel was going to say something to her, certain it would be her agreeing to an alliance.
"What kind of school was this place?"
The question hung in the air, Isabel awaiting a reply and Ms. Venable unsure of what to say. "It was a school for boys―" Ms. Venable started.
"What kind of school?"
Ms. Venable stood up from the chair, clearly not pleased with Isabel's demanding tone. "I don't see why it should matter―"
"Sit down," Isabel ordered.
It was as if Ms. Venable was hypnotized, unable to resist. She followed Isabel's command, sitting back down in the chair. She stared up at the young woman, perplexed. What she found even more perplexing was the look of fear in Isabel's eyes. How odd. Whatever power Isabel had, she didn't like it. What did she possess that frightened her so?
"You are a curious girl, aren't you? You could be something more than a helpless Purple, yet you go along with the charade," Ms. Venable said, remaining in her seat. But even with Isabel now standing over her, she was the one in charge. "We can be something more."
Isabel knew that Ms. Venable wasn't referring to anything other than being the ones in charge of Outpost 3, but that didn't stop the small flutter in her stomach. And why shouldn't she feel this way? Ms. Venable was a woman who took charge and could offer safety. With the end of the world, those were the most attractive things.
Ignoring Ms. Venable's offer, Isabel once again asked, "What kind of school was this?"
"An all boys school," Ms. Venable answered, "named Hawthorne School. That's all I know."
Hawthorne… she knew that name. Isabel knew that name from somewhere. Was it because it was somewhat common? Or maybe it was a historical name that she couldn't quite place. She couldn't focus enough to try and come up with the answer. Her mind was far too distracted at the moment.
"I answered your question. Now you answer mine," Ms. Venable said, tilting her head to the side slightly. She dared to stand up again, always using the cane for support. She took a step towards Isabel, and though she wasn't much taller, Isabel felt like Ms. Venable was towering above her. "Will you join me?"
What if she said no? Would she be shot and eaten? Isabel knew she couldn't risk even thinking about opposing. "What would we even do? Rule the outpost and then the world?" she asked, somewhat sarcastically.
"If you'd like." Ms. Venable's response was dead serious, which surprised Isabel. "A reset button for the world has been pressed, Miss Noble. We may do whatever we want to it."
"''""'''"""''""
Dear Moira,
I'm sure you know I feel kind of stupid doing this. Writing a letter you'll never get is so pointless. But I guess I just need someone to talk to. I tried writing to Constance and the words just weren't coming. I even tried writing to Dad, but it was the same problem. I feel like they won't understand what I'm trying to say.
Maybe you won't either, but I have a feeling you will. Would. Whatever.
It's been… I don't even know how many months since the nukes went off. Maybe three? Four? The end of the world is awful; nothing like what they show in movies. We aren't going out to hunt for food, or fighting zombies.
I'm at a place called Outpost 3, and we never leave. And the woman who runs it insists on keeping up a Victorian/Edwardian aesthetic. I feel like I'm living out a PBS period piece. Or maybe HBO fits better with the amount of violence happening. Yeah, we aren't hunting zombies but the amount of hostility and bloodshed… okay only one guy died so far, but that's one more body than there should be.
There's so much I wish I could explain about that. But I won't because I know exactly how you'd react anyway.
I miss home. Who knew that a place filled with the living would be lonelier than a place filled with the dead?
Tell the house I'm sebbg.
Isabel stared at the page in her notebook, the word "sorry" smudged into a nonexistent word because of a tear.
She closed her eyes, trying to imagine Constance telling her that she was being silly for crying. She had done the right thing, sparing her own life. But she couldn't hear it. And for a brief moment, Isabel panicked, thinking she had forgotten her mother's voice. Then it came into her head, crystal clear:
Isabel, it's time to go.
The pipes burst and her eyes flooded.
She didn't know how long she cried for. She didn't care. She let herself sob; four months of pent up sorrow finally released.
Four months of regret.
Four months of safety because of the alliance she agreed to with Ms. Venable. And though she had not done anything yet, there was this awful feeling in the pit of her stomach that one day, Ms. Venable was going to ask something horrid of her. Not to mention that there seemed to be no prospect of rescue. Outpost 3 was not meant to be home for the rest of their lives, but there was no contact from anyone on the outside. There were more outposts, but they were all silent.
Hugging a pillow tightly to her body, Isabel lay down. Her muscles ached as her body shuddered and heaved.
Her chest felt heavy, and she breathed deeply to try and get herself to calm down. She didn't even notice when she drifted off to sleep until she found herself no longer in Outpost 3.
She was back in the Murder House. It had been a while since she dreamt of this place. In fact, it was a while since she had any sort of dream. Isabel wasn't surprised though. She felt a sense of belonging. This wasn't an ordinary dream, and she was meant to be here.
Again, the place was devoid of ghosts, but not entirely empty as it had been before. The furniture was replaced, and a comforting fire crackled in the living room. There was no baby with goat legs. No Rubberman. No infantata.
Isabel looked down at her forearm to see the scar, now barely visible after years of healing. It could only be seen if one was really looking for it. Sometimes she forgot it was there altogether; forgot about the time the demon baby in the basement decided she was a snack.
There was no evil here.
But there was something here. Not evil, but something formidable.
She went into the kitchen, and started making herself a cup of tea. A part of her knew it would taste like nothing. If only it were that easy to dream up such a comfort. But the act itself of drinking tea was enough.
Much to her surprise, the mug at least felt warm in her hands. Isabel had been expecting nothing, or for it to be cold and therefore make her miserable. The taste was weak, but it did taste of tea. That didn't seem right. This was a dream; she shouldn't be able to taste anything, or feel the warmth of the mug. What was doing this?
The presence, Isabel decided. Whatever was here with her was allowing for this. She stared down at her tea with trepidation, wondering if the presence really was malevolent and poisoned the drink. Isabel took another hesitant sip. No, not poison. Or maybe it was and she would drop dead any moment. She drank anyway because honestly, that whole "you die in your dream, you die in real life" was absolute bullshit.
And if she did die, would that really be so bad?
"No, I suppose you wouldn't be afraid of dying," a soft-spoken voice chided.
It came from somewhere, but Isabel couldn't see the source. There was no one around. Her feet carried her instinctively to her father's… her study. She opened the door, revealing a pale woman in a black dress with lively red lipstick. Isabel remained in the threshold. This woman was not a foe, but she was certainly no friend.
"I didn't call you," Isabel said to the Angel of Death.
"No, you didn't."
"I didn't know you could visit dreams."
"It isn't something I do often," Shachath answered. "Only when necessary." And this was very necessary.
Deeming it safe, Isabel entered the study. She took a gulp of her tea. "You must have been busy what with this whole end of the world thing." Shachath didn't respond. "Right, not here for small talk. What's up?" So casual; so unworried. The Angel was no friend, but she was a familiar face. And in a time of crisis, that was welcomed.
"I've come to warn you of about the end of days."
"Uh… little late for that," Isabel pointed out.
"Do you really think this is it?" Shachath chuckled, shaking her head. Humans were so naive, witches even more so. "I would have thought you'd be more clever. This is only the start."
Isabel stiffened. No, there couldn't possibly be more, yet she knew Shachath spoke the truth. "There aren't any more bombs to set off."
"No, there aren't," Shachath agreed. "Mortal warfare is over. He is coming."
Though Shachath didn't make an explicit statement, the image of the baby with goat legs flashed in her mind. That was the "he" who was coming. Isabel noticed that her mug of tea had vanished, and that the house was devoid of furniture once again. It was just her and the Angel of Death.
"What is he?" Isabel asked, already knowing the answer in her heart. Shachath didn't respond; her coal black eyes said enough. "Well, I guess I should feel honored that the Angel of Death paid me a personal visit to warn me about the Antichrist." There was a pause, the word tasting funny on Isabel's tongue. "That's what's coming, right? The Antichrist?"
"Oh, but he's so much more than that."
"What do you mean?"
"Tread carefully. As much as you wish for me to kiss you, you must stay alive. They're depending on you."
"Okay, what does that mean?"
Shachath smiled sympathetically. She came close to Isabel, cupping her cheek and allowing her thumb to gently caress Isabel's bottom lip. The girl who had quite literally been to hell and back. "Someday you'll know my affection," Shachath promised. "But right now it's time to wake up."
Isabel's eyes shot open in a cartoonish manner. She slowly sat up, muscles aching from the position she had fallen asleep in. Her notebook containing her letter to Moira was on the ground; she had kicked it off the bed at some point.
She gently touched her lips. They were as cold as death. Smiling softly to herself, Isabel got up from the bed and left her room.
It was the middle of the night still; the entire outpost was asleep. The floor she traversed upon was as cold as her lips. On tiptoes she crept to the main drawing room. It was peaceful; the radio had been turned down low but not off. Never off.
Isabel turned up the volume a little bit, finding the tune not so maddening but more comforting in this moment; a voice that wasn't a Purple bemoaning how it was a tragedy they were so rich. She lay on the sofa, basking in the calmness. Honestly, if she was alone in Outpost 3, maybe the end of the world wouldn't be so bad. She had books to surround herself with; she would never be bored.
She could practice magic if she was alone. That would keep her entertained. She didn't used to like using her magic, but if she was alone and couldn't hurt anyone and had nothing else to do, then why not practice some spells?
She never did figure out what this place used to be, Isabel realized. She sat up, the name of this place coming back to her: Hawthorne. What was the significance of that? Hawthorne School… maybe it only sounded familiar because it reminded her of Miss Robichaux's Academy―
The song suddenly switched to static, the Carpenters cutting out. Isabel stared with a frown, wondering what was going on. She stood up from the sofa and as she walked over to the radio. As she reached it, music started playing again, but it wasn't "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft."
Isabel's heart stopped as the familiar beat of "Gold Dust Woman" filled the room.