Endurance

Besides, death isn’t so bad.”

“How do you know?”

Cam took off one of his leather gloves and showed Kelly his wrist. It was covered with scars.

“After my friend died, I killed myself.”

“You mean you tried to kill yourself,” Kelly corrected.

“No. I succeeded. I was actually dead for two and a half minutes before they revived me.”

Cam held out his arm, so Kelly could touch it. They scars were creepy, but kind of cool, too. She ran a finger across one, surprised by how bumpy it was.

“What did it feel like?” she asked. “To die?”

Cam shrugged, tugging his glove back on. “It was like going to sleep.”

“It wasn’t scary?”

“There are a lot scarier things than dying, Kelly.”

“Like what?”

Cam stared at her. “Like living.”

Kelly decided she liked Cam. She liked his straight talk, and how open he was.

He’s also kind of cute.

“We’re going this way,” Mom said. “C’mon, Kelly.”

Kelly began to follow.

Cam thinks I’m brave. How do brave girls act around cute guys?

Without second-guessing herself, she reached out and took Cam’s hand.

When she felt him squeeze it back, Kelly wasn’t as scared as she was before.

# # #

As expected, Letti’s room was empty. Florence found the secret entrance in the back of Letti’s closet, and considered going in.

Not yet. I should check all the other rooms first.

Florence was still shaken up by what she’d done to the Sheriff. After witnessing suffering, misery, and man’s inhumanity to man on six continents, Florence would have bet her life she’d never do something so atrocious.

And yet, she’d done it without even hesitating.

Because they have my family.

It put things into perspective. In a big way.

If I’m ready to throw out my ideals and morals for the people I love, why did I spend so much of my life helping strangers?

For the first time ever, she understood why Letti was so mad at her for missing her husband’s funeral. The realization was like a splash of ice water in the face.

I blew it. I’m so sorry, Letti. I’ll make it up to you. I swear I will.

Exiting the Grover Cleveland room, she crept quietly down the hallway and moved one door over to Lyndon B. Johnson.

Never did care for LBJ. Let’s see if anyone is home.

She put her hand on the knob, and found it to be unlocked. Moments ago she’d double-checked the Sheriff’s Colt revolver, and made sure there were two bullets left, one under the hammer. Florence held it at her side and went into the room fast, putting both hands on the gun so it couldn’t be knocked away.

There wasn’t a bed. No desk or dresser, either. The room had an eerie, pink glow to it, coming from three china cabinets along the rear wall.

Florence had seen some things in her day. Some terrible things.

This was one of the worst.

Back when she was a child, a travelling carnival came to town. Her father paid a nickel extra so they could get into the freakshow tent. Florence cringed at the sight of deformed people, some of them real, some fake. A human torso. A woman with bird feathers. An ape man. A fellow who stuck skewers through his cheek and tongue. A woman who ate glass. But the thing that stood out the most in her juvenile brain—the thing that scared her more than anything else—was a jar.

“It’s a pickled punk,” her father had said.

Florence later learned that was a carny term for a baby with birth defects, preserved in formaldehyde. That particular child had four legs and a harelip.

Florence now faced an entire wall of deformed babies in jars, lit from behind. Traces of blood in the preservation fluid made the jars give off a soft, red glow.

My God. There are dozens of them.

Babies with multiple limbs. Babies with no limbs. Some had organs on the outside. Some had feet where the arms should be. Some had flippers like seals. Some were completely covered in fine hair. Some were tiny, their umbilical cords still attached, no more than embryos. Others filled their jars completely, their malformed little bodies crammed inside.

There were misshapen heads, distended bellies, twisted spines, shrunken limbs. Every way the human genome could be perverted was on display.

There were even a few that looked perfectly healthy.

Before Florence tore her eyes away, she noticed a commonality among them all. The overwhelming majority were females. Each jar had a handwritten label, listing names and birthdays.

They’re all named after First Ladies.

You poor, poor things.

Florence wondered how many of them died naturally and how many were killed on purpose. She brushed a tear from her eye, then left the room quietly, as if she might disturb them.

After taking a moment to compose herself, Florence pressed onward. The Warren G. Harding bedroom was next. Again, the door was open. Florence went in fast, entering a dark room. She paused, listening.

Snoring. Loud snoring.

Florence felt for the light switch along the wall, flipping it on.

“Ma?”

The man on the bed was massive. His head—double normal size—looked eerily similar to the Elephant Man’s from that black and white movie, his forehead bulging out in large bumps, his cheekbones uneven and making his mouth crooked. His torso and legs were also malformed, twisted and lumpy, as round as tree trunks.

Proteus Syndrome, Florence knew. She’d seen it in South Africa. His body won’t stop growing.

But unlike gigantism, where a person grew in relative proportion, Proteus meant that different parts grew at different speeds. The overall effect was like making a figure out of clay, then squeezing some parts and adding more clay to others.

“You ain’t Ma.”

Warren—Florence assumed that was his name—rolled out of bed with surprising speed. His bare feet, swollen as big as Thanksgiving turkeys, slammed onto the floor.

He had to weigh over four hundred pounds, and his gigantic head lolled to the side when he stood up. But Warren was able to walk.

And he was walking toward Florence.

She raised her pistol. “I need to know where my family is.”

He moved closer. With each step, the floor shook. He wore a bed sheet wrapped over his shoulder like a toga.

“Youse pretty.”

Warren stuck out his tongue, licking his huge, flabby lips. A line of drool slid down his crooked chin.

“Don’t come any closer.”

“Youse wanna make babies with Warren?”

Florence aimed at his head.

“One more step, I’ll shoot.”