Василиса Чмелева – The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City (страница 9)

"Relax," Selena chattered nonstop, steering toward the repair shop while sharing cheese puffs with Oscar.

I had no appetite. All I wanted was to find out if the bike was ready.

"Who stockpiles weapons on a ranch in bulk?"

Oscar and Selena had been arguing the whole way about the credibility of rumors concerning the farmer named Vance.

"Farmers!" Oscar retorted heatedly.

"And who else?" Selena teased, amused by the kid's agitation.

"Dunno… Farmers' mothers!"

"Probably their wives too?" she giggled, refusing to let up.

Their pointless bickering was cut short when I noticed something ahead—or rather, the lack of it.

"Where's the repair shop?" I interrupted.

"Are we even in the right place?" Oscar asked, glancing at Selena.

She slammed on the brakes. The three of us lurched forward before rebounding back into our seats.

I jumped out of the trailer and hurried toward the empty lot while Oscar checked if his nose was still intact.

The breeze carried scraps of colorful tinsel and candy wrappers across the empty lot, while the scent of popcorn and cotton candy lingered in the air.

An old Jeep drove past me, and an elderly man leaned out the window.

"The circus left, but you stayed behind?" he joked.

"What circus?" I asked.

"The traveling kind," the man replied, pointing two fingers at the barren field. "They put on quite a show here—ran for almost a month. The last three days? Absolute spectacle."

"And those illusionists!" An elderly woman popped her head out from the back window, giving me a friendly smile. "Unforgettable!"

"What did they look like, these illusionists?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Father and son. Tall, long-haired gentlemen."

"I even won a pair of glasses from them!" the man announced proudly, holding them up.

Glenn's sunglasses gleamed mockingly in the sunlight, their gilded frames flashing—and in them, I caught my own reflection.

I turned away as the elderly couple hit the gas with a screech, leaving me standing in a cloud of dust.

The kid stood slightly behind Selena and stared at me in fear.

"You said you’ve known them for a long time," I hissed, turning to the girl and stepping closer.

"Yes," she answered curtly.

"Said you’d already fixed your van at their place."

"Yes, but listen, I’m bad with faces," the girl began. "Maybe it wasn’t them."

"I hope you’re not serious, Selena," I seethed. "Because I’m out of patience, and you—" I jabbed my finger at Oscar, who was pressing himself against her, "—I don’t know what you’re scheming or what you’ve dragged me into, but I’ve had enough."

"Constantin," Selena said, "I’m really sorry, I don’t know how this happened."

"We’ll fix it. Trust us," the kid replied.

Anger washed over me. I completely lost control and glared at the kid through the growing haze in front of my eyes. The word "trust" was already a red flag for me, especially coming from these two.

After blinking a couple more times, I found myself in a pub, leaning over a heavily drunk man, my fist raised above him.

"Has this happened before?" echoed in my head.

"Call the police!" someone shouted in the background.

"This guy’s completely lost it."

"He got hit too—that thug started it first!"

The voices of the unseen crowd blended with the sounds of broken glass and rock music. I looked at my bruised knuckles and back down. The man on the floor was gone.

My mind strained heavily, trying to show how I had gotten drunk from anxiety (but why?) in the pub and picked a fight with a stranger who had given me a sidelong glance. Apparently, I was also looking for an opponent—some way to unleash the negativity.

"But what pushed me? Did they actually call the police?" swirled chaotically in my head.

"Stop!" a woman's voice commanded sharply. "You don’t want this, Constantin. We don’t want this."

I began looking around, twisting back and forth, my body coiling through space.

"Who stopped me back then? Was I even with a girl?"

"Back with us, I see," Oscar said, pulling off his rubber boot and pouring the leftover water back into the lake.

"Where’s Selena?" I asked, staring blankly at the small footbridge where my own shadow flickered.

"She dropped us off and left right away—forgot already? Not surprising, though. In your usual style, you face-planted into the lake first thing. Maybe you should get a floatie, or, I dunno… armbands? Can’t exactly stretch a safety net over the whole lake."

I looked at the kid as he grimaced, pulling the wet boot back onto his foot, then wiped his palm on the leg of his coveralls. The coveralls, oddly enough, were completely dry.

"Oz," I said quietly, "tell me straight—what’s going on here?"

"What does it look like?" he shot back.

The kid’s eyes seemed older than he was. Only now did it hit me—his wisdom didn’t match his naive, childlike face at all.

"Am I dead?" I asked, fighting back nausea.

Oscar burst out laughing and stood up.

"Man, Constantin, you’re something else. If you were dead, how could we have had such a fun time together? Or do you think I’m dead too?"

"I don’t understand any of this," I said hopelessly.

"Yeah, no kidding," the kid shook his head. "You can’t even figure yourself out—no way you’ll get the rest. Alright, here’s the deal. You help me fix the roof and patch up the house before Grandpa gets back. And I’ll… gradually explain everything."

I looked at the kid, then at the lake (its calm surface stretching wide), then back at the kid—and nodded.

I’d already realized I didn’t have a choice.

Chapter 5

Summer was coming to an end. At least, that’s what Oscar had convinced me of, and the increasingly frequent downpours and dropping temperatures seemed to confirm it.

About two weeks had passed since I’d last seen Selena. Every night before bed, a bitter frustration gnawed at me—we’d parted on such a sour note. And yet, she’d only ever treated me with good intentions.

Oscar kept insisting the hippie girl wasn’t holding a grudge and might even visit again someday, but my memory—much like the relentless rains—kept tormenting me with fragments of the past. Reminding me how I used to snap at people, with or without reason, completely unable to control my emotions or stop myself in time.

Humility was never part of my communication skills.

After nights spent stewing in regret, I’d throw myself into work each morning, hoping to exhaust my body enough to escape the insomnia.

I’d fixed the roof—just in time before the rainy season. Patched every crack and hole in the cabin. Whitewashed the ceilings, repainted the walls, buying all the supplies I needed from the local hardware store… on credit. At this point, I’d lost track of how many people in the area I owed. Honestly, drowning in the lake would’ve been easier than tallying up my debts to the entire village.