THE PARADISE PILL

She stood by the garden gate, breathing in the fragrant scent of honeysuckle. Joan recalled how, as children, they would pinch the stems off the tiny white blossoms and taste the drop of nectar hidden inside. The memory brought a sad smile. It seemed like a million years ago.

Grace clutched her mother's hand anxiously. "I haven't seen Grandma in a long time," she said.

Joan looked down at the seven-year-old and winked. "Me either, baby. Come on. Let's surprise her."

Joan lifted the latch and slowly opened the weathered gate, hoping that it wouldn't squeak and give them away. Luckily, it didn't. Grace grinned, looking as if she were on the verge of giggling. Her mother raised a finger to her lips and signaled her to hush. The girl with the rusty red hair and hazel green eyes – both traits that were hauntingly reminiscent of her father – nodded and remained silent.

The garden was brilliant with a rainbow of blossoms and blooms. Crocus, azalea, hyacinth, and purple iris. Sunflower shown as bright and yellow as the warm, summer sun and cornflower matched the blueness of the pure, unpolluted sky above. The vivid hues nearly hurt their eyes. Joan hadn't seen such vibrant colors since before the Burn.

Suddenly, she felt disoriented and unsure. Don't think about the Burn. It doesn't exist here.

They found Grandma in the center of the garden, weeding around a cherub fountain made of white-washed concrete. She wore her favorite sun hat and the gardening gloves Joan had given her several Christmases ago. She hummed "Blessed Assurance" as she worked. A mockingbird sang from high atop a towering oak nearby, as if accompanying her in cheerful harmony.

The two stood behind her for a moment, then Grace spoke up. "Grandma?"

The elderly woman turned, her eyes widening in surprise. "Land sakes alive!" she said. Rising to her feet, she embraced both with a smothering hug. "Where did you two come from?"

"We traveled a long way," Grace told her. "And we sure are hungry. You wouldn't have some lemonade and cookies would you?"

Grandma shucked off her gloves. "Better yet, it's almost suppertime. Come on in and we'll fix up a meal that you'll never forget."

"Fried chicken and mashed potatoes?" asked Grace. "Real ones, not the kind you make out of a box?"

"You got it, Gracie Mae!" laughed Grandma with a smile. "And we'll have us some fried green tomatoes and squash casserole, too. And chocolate chip pecan pie with homemade ice cream for dessert."

"Yippee!" cheered Grace, jumping up and down.

Grandma turned and looked at Joan. "I've missed you, daughter."

"I've missed you, too, Mama," she said. "I'm sorry we've been away for so long. I just had to find a way to get back."

"Well, you're here now. That's all that matters."

After supper, they sat on the front porch of the little farmhouse in the dark of late evening. Joan's sister, Crystal, was there, along with her husband, Stu, who sat on the porch steps, picking his guitar. In the yard, a girl and two boys ran, laughing, catching fireflies and imprisoning them in quart mason jars.

"Don't you want to go out and play with your cousins?" her mother asked her. Both sat on the porch swing, hand-in-hand.

"I've got a big old jar in the pantry with your name on it," Grandma told her. "You could catch lightning bugs till your heart's content."

Grace looked up at her mother. "You know I can't do that. That would make the magic go away."

The joy of that day had almost made Joan forget. "Yes… you're right, baby." The two's fingers entwined even tighter, refusing to let go.

Then Grandma turned in her rocking chair and stared her daughter in the eyes. "Uh, daughter…"

Please, don't, thought Joan. Don't ask me the question.

"Where's Hank? And little Daniel?"

Aw, Mama… why did you have to ruin it all?

The pain came to her in a flash, along with images that the human mind should never have to process. Her husband and teenage son at the hands of maniacs; screaming, calling for God's mercy as their skins were slowly peeled away.

The night grew suddenly darker, the porch light and the winking star-scape of lightning bugs fading into choking blackness. Beyond the porch it began to rain. Hard, driving, relentless.

"No, Mama," Grace protested tearfully. "It was too soon."

"I know, baby," said Joan, near tears herself. "I'm sorry." She turned to her mother. "Good bye, Mama."

But her mother was gone. Now she remembered. They had found her remains a long time ago, lying in the overgrown flower garden, her bloody bones scattered by the fountain, picked clean of flesh – whether by animals or human beings, they had no idea.

Joan Porter awoke in a cramped closet, wedged between a dank plaster wall and a rusty water heater that hadn't worked in years. It was dark in the closet and cold. As Joan returned to her senses, she felt Grace's hand in her own. It was soft and warm. She sighed in relief.

"Mama?" the child asked after a few minutes. "Are we back?"

"Yes, darling," Joan said.

The two sat in the closet for a long time, holding one another, listening to the roar of the downpour outside. It had rained without ceasing for seven days now. And in a place like New Orleans that was a dangerous thing.

"Mama? How come we both dream the same dream every time?"

Joan reached inside the pocket of her sweat pants and felt the plastic bag that held the tiny purple pills. There were only two left, but their presence comforted her. "It's hard to explain. Something chemical, I think. It's just how the drug works."

"It was nice seeing Grandma again. And the cousins."

Joan felt her spirits begin to sink. "I'm sorry you couldn't play."

Grace squeezed her hand. "That's okay. It was fun just to watch."

They continued to sit in darkness… until the closet door rattled with a flurry of heavy-handed knocks. "Joan! Open this damn door… now!" a man's voice roared from the other side.

Joan scrambled over and disengaged the bolt lock she had scavenged from a hardware store down the street and installed herself. It was the only shred of privacy that the man had allowed her and her daughter to have. Immediately, the door was wrenched open and pale, gray light intruded on their three by four foot sanctuary.

Mike stood there, dressed in his heavy gray rain-slicker; the type that protected you from the corrosive acid that fell from the sky. The lanky man held a pump shotgun and carried a brace of .45 pistols in his belt. He reminded Joan of someone out of an old western movie… an outlaw who lived on the run, which, pretty much was what Mike truly was.

But, then, who wasn't an outlaw these days?

Behind him stood his sidekick, a man Joan only knew as Bristol. She despised the hulking fellow with the tattooed face and scraggly brown beard. She didn't like how he looked at Grace. Joan had vowed never to leave her daughter alone with the man and, so far, she had kept her promise.

"What the hell are you doing in there?" Mike snapped. "Get your ass out here." As Joan and Grace stumbled from the closet, Mike tossed a canvas bag to the woman. "Cook this up. And don't burn it like last time!"

"Yes, Mike," she said in a submissive tone that angered her deep down inside. Joan opened the bag and found a dead cat inside. Its fur was gone and its ugly pink skin was covered with burns and scar tissue. From the amount of bullet wounds in the animal, she guessed that Bristol had dispatched it with his M-16. "Where did you find it?"

"In an alley over on Canal Street," Mike told her.

"Yeah, it was perched on top of a dumpster just as pretty as you please," said Bristol. "A frigging cat for God's sake! I haven't seen one in two years and there it was, like manna from heaven."

Grace reached out and stroked its head. "Poor thing."

That nasty expression gleamed in Bristol's eyes as he leered at the little girl. "I got something you can pet on, sweetheart."

Joan turned to the man she had been with for six months now. "Mike!"

"Aw, Bristol was just joking around," Mike assured her. "Like I told you before, he's harmless."

"Just keep him away from Grace," she said.

"Aw, I wouldn't bother little missy," Bristol said. "I wouldn't hurt a hair on her pretty head for anything in the world."

Joan glared at the big man. "Just keep your distance."

"Will you two just shut up!" Mike growled. "Fix up that cat and cook these, too." He took a can of pork and beans out of his slicker pocket and tossed it to her. "We'll have us a real feast for a change."

"Hot damn!" declared Bristol. "We gonna eat us some pussy tonight!"

"Bristol!" Joan snapped.

"Sorry… I mean kitty cat." Bristol winked at Grace and licked his lips. Then he and Mike went into the dining room of the abandoned restaurant to drink and play cards, leaving the womenfolk to prepare the meal.

As Joan lit a fire in the fifty-five gallon drum they used as a stove, Grace sat on the floor and stroked the dead cat. "Mama… he scares me."

"Don't worry about him," her mother assured her. "He isn't going to bother you. Bristol's like a big old teddy bear. A filthy teddy bear with most of the stuffing out of its head, but just a harmless old teddy bear."

Grace didn't seem convinced. "Sometimes, the way he looks at me… makes me feel… well, kinda dirty and sick in my tummy."

Joan said nothing in reply. She knew what Bristol was; she knew what the tiny pink teddy bears tattooed across this forehead and cheeks meant. His intentions toward her daughter were undeniable. But she had made Mike promise her that Bristol would never lay a hand on Grace and, so far, he had kept his promise. Bristol was big enough to break Mike in half, but he was scared of him for some unknown reason and would never consider crossing the man.

"Sweetie, I need the cat now," she said tenderly.

Grace gave it up easier than she expected. "Go ahead. It was wet and cold anyway. But I ain't gonna eat it."

"You don't have to. You can eat some of the beans."

The two lapsed into silence as Joan began preparing the meal; gutting and cleaning the cat. They had stopped worrying about radiation or disease a long time ago. Just the need to eat and survive made those considerations unimportant now.

As Joan worked, she thought of her former life. It made her ache down deep in her soul to think of those bright, cheerful days as a pastor's wife at the little rural church just outside of Little Rock, Arkansas. Joan had been a Sunday school teacher, choir director, and leader of the lady's mission group. Her love of life and of God was so strong there was nothing she couldn't accomplish.

Then the Burn came and all that fell apart. She and her husband, Hank, had prayed diligently and faithfully, but God almost seemed to have turned a deaf ear to them and they received no answers. Then, one night, Hank had lurched up out of bed and informed her that the Lord had sent him a message in a dream. They were to go to New Orleans and minister to those in need. Joan hadn't been as optimistic about her husband's new-found calling, but she was his wife and had been raised to follow her husband, no matter how foolish his intentions might seem.

The Big Easy had been a cesspool of evil unlike any Joan could have imagined. Joan had feared for her family, for the safety of the children, but Hank had ignored her protests, saying that the glory of God came before all else. He had begun to preach on the streets, expounding on salvation and the virtue of the Gospels, and, for a while he seemed to be reaching the people. There were those in the city who had grown weary of the drugs, the violence, the rampant sex in the streets, performed in the open without discretion and shame. They yearned to return to how life had been before the Burn, when murder, rape, and cannibalism had been taboo and unacceptable. Hank's street congregation had grown from dozens to hundreds and, for a while, it truly seemed that God had a hand in the renaissance of decency and morality.

Then came the night that the T&D invaded one of Hank's meetings, interrupting him in mid-sermon. The gathering had scattered, for they feared these infidels above all others. Torture and Devourment… that was the religion that they preached; torture porn was their scripture and raw flesh was their sacrament. Joan and Grace had hidden from sight and watched in horror as Hank and their son, Daniel, had been stripped of their clothing… then of their flesh. Joan could still hear the horrid shrieks of her loved ones, as well as the unimaginable noise of skin being peeled, inch by inch, from moist, throbbing muscle. Then father and son had been devoured alive. Joan had clamped her hands over young Grace's ears and prayed for the deaths of her husband and son…. but it was a long time before her prayers were finally answered, longer than she could have ever imagined.

For weeks afterward, she and Grace had lived in the dark alleyways and abandoned buildings; both near starvation, unable to fend for themselves.

Word about them got out on the streets and she soon knew that all hope was lost. A woman and a small child alone was fair game. Soon, hunting parties of cannibals and sex fiends were scouring the city, searching for them. Joan had hooked up with Mike by accident and necessity. Having nothing more to trade for his protection but her own body, she had given herself to him. They had been together for three years now. There was no love involved in their relationship, if you could call it that. To him Joan was nothing but a lay when he got the urge. In exchange, she and Grace ate and lived… something that wouldn't have happened if they had remained on the streets much longer.

Joan drove the depressing thoughts from her mind as she continued preparing the meal. She skewered the cat on a long iron rod and roasted it over the fire, then opened the beans with a rusty can opener.

"Mama… sing to me," said Grace, sitting on the floor, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. "Sing ’Jesus Loves Me’… like you used to do."

"Baby… you know how mad it makes Mike when I sing. Let's not get him riled up tonight. Okay?'

"Will you sing to me later? When we're alone?"

"Yes," said Joan feeling incredibly sad and tired. "I promise, sweetheart."

Grace sat there, silent for a while. Finally, she asked the question. "When will we go next?"

Joan thought about it. "I only have two pills left." To achieve the proper effect, she usually took one and gave Grace a half. "Maybe tomorrow. Where would you like to go next?"

Grace thought about it. "How about the fair? With rides and games and cotton candy and gooey caramel apples?"

"That sounds like fun," agreed Joan. "Okay, the fair it is." She forced a bright smile for her little girl. "We'll go to the fair and have a wonderful  –"

Abruptly, a sharp pain shot through Joan's abdomen, doubling her over.

"Mama? What's wrong?"

Joan closed her eyes and breathed in deeply before she could answer. "I – I just got a pain… in my stomach. It's nothing, baby."

From the doubt in the child's eyes, Joan suspected that Grace knew that she was lying. The pains had been getting worse, especially over the past few days. She had tried to conceal the growing swell of her belly from her daughter, wearing a floppy LSU sweat shirt to cover it. But she was certain that Grace was aware that something was wrong.

Joan focused on her work and tried to drive it from her mind. And she tried not to think about the pills, either. Only two left, which meant that she would have to go out and find him. But it was necessary… for both her sake and Grace's.

Although she was ashamed to admit it, the Paradise Pill was the only key to Heaven that Joan truly had faith in these days.

The county fair was a flurry of wonderful sights and sounds.

Colorful lights decorated the rides, glowing in neon brilliance of red, blue, orange, and green against the night sky. The music of a calliope played, while the barkers on the midway touted the challenges of their games, and the laughter and thrilled screams of those around them lifted their spirits. Their bellies grumbled hungrily as the delicious scents of popcorn, hot dogs, and funnel cakes filled the air.

Joan clutched Grace's hand tightly and smiled down at her. "Are you ready to have some fun?"

"You better believe it!' said the girl with a big grin.

Together, they headed into the swirling commotion, skipping and laughing, the sawdust beneath their feet making them feel as though they were walking on clouds.

Joan and Grace rode a half dozen rides in a row; the carrousel, the Tilt-a-Twirl, the Scrambler, the Haunted House, the swinging pirate boat, and that giant slide that you ride down with a tow sack beneath you. Afterward, they ended up on the midway. They threw darts, tossed rings, and shot water into a clown's mouth until its balloon head exploded and Grace won a huge brown teddy bear nearly as big as she was.

Later, they sat at a picnic table eating corndogs with mustard and deep-fried Twinkies. "Are you having a good time, baby?" asked Joan.

"The best!" the little girl told her. "I just wish that… well, they could be here. Danny loved the Scrambler so much."

Suddenly the colorful lights seemed to lose some of their brilliance and the music and sounds of the fair grew softer, more distant. Joan squeezed her hand. "Remember, Grace. We can't talk about them… can't even think about them… or the pill doesn't work. It's a chance to forget… if only for a little while."

Grace nodded. "Yes, ma'am." As she drove the thoughts of lost loved ones away and her smile brightened, the fair cranked back up full force. "Hey, you wanna ride the Ferris wheel?"

Joan matched her smile with one of her own. "Why not! Come on!"

Soon, they were secured into a bucket seat – Joan, the teddy bear, and little Grace – and were riding the big wheel upward into the night sky. The fair below them was like an ocean of light. They laughed as they made several spins, dipping earthward, then shooting up toward the heavens once again.

It was during their fifth pass, that something went wrong. They were at the very top, when the Ferris wheel came to a grinding halt. Their seat rocked to and fro, and for a scary moment, Joan thought they would flip out of their restraints completely.

"Mama?" asked Grace. Her voice was frightened. "What's happening?"

"I don't know, baby." The lights below them grew dark and the sounds faded into silence. A drop of rain hit Joan's forehead, then another. "I think it's ending."

"But it's too soon!" cried the girl. "There was so much more to do!"

As the rain began to fall at a steady pace and the night grew ever darker, Grace looked over to find that Joan was gone. Someone held her hand, but it did not possess the comfort and security of her mother's grasp. A furry, hand-sewn paw sprouted claws. They anchored deeply into her young flesh, drawing blood. She was horrified to find that it was the teddy bear – three times bigger than before – who clutched at her, refusing to let go.

"Look at us, Gracie," said the bear in Bristol's gruff voice. The head of the plush animal burst open in an explosion of cotton and blood, giving birth to the man's leering face; sweaty and tattooed. His eyes burned with that hungry expression she feared so badly. "Way up here… all alone. Where no one can see what we do… and no one can hear you scream."

Joan awoke to find Grace's fingernails bearing painfully into her hand. The child's palm was clammy to the touch. She shook the grogginess from her mind and, in the gloom of the closet, saw that her daughter's eyes had rolled back into her head. Only the whites showed, jittering wildly in some accelerated form of REM.

"Oh God, no!" She pried her daughter's fingers loose and knelt over her.

"Grace… darling, listen to me. Come out of it. Please… you're almost there."

The seven-year-old bit down hard on her lip. Blood spurted, splashing across Joan's right cheek. A pitiful sound emitted from Grace's throat; a mixture of horror, agony, and defeat.

Please, Lord, the woman prayed, for the first time in a long time. Bring her back to me. Don't take her yet!

Then Grace was past the portal between nightmare and reality. She sat upright with a loud gasp. Her eyes returned to their proper position, pupils fixed and tears welling above her lower lashes. "Oh, Mama!" she cried.

"I'm here, baby," Joan cooed softly. She embraced her child and felt her shudder violently. "You're back. Back here with me."

Grace sobbed into her mother's shoulder. "It… it began to rain… and you were gone… and he was there… on the Ferris wheel with me!"

Joan didn't have to ask who he was. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, sweetie..."

"He… he hurt me, Mama! He put his…"

Her mother pressed her closely; partly to comfort her, partly to smother the terrible words she might utter. "Shhhh! Quiet now. It wasn't real, baby. It didn't happen."

"But it could," moaned the girl. Her crying slowly lost its momentum.

Limply, she lay in her mother's arms.

Yes, Joan was well aware of that frightening fact. But that was not what disturbed her most at the moment. Something had gone horribly wrong with tonight's trip. The pills weren't working the way they should; weren't lasting as long as they once had. She had suspected that when their trip to Grandma's farm had been cut short. Usually a normal dose lasted six hours, but lately they were waking up in half that time. And now, from the looks of it, Grace's blissful dream had changed into a nightmare… and without the mental connection between mother and daughter that the drug once promised.

She glanced at a wind-up alarm clock that sat on top of the water heater. The glow-in-the-dark hands showed the time as one-thirty in the morning. Slowly, Joan pulled her little girl to her and covered them both with an old army blanket. They had four or five more hours to sleep before Mike and Bristol would come demanding their breakfast.

Joan lay in the darkness and listened to her daughter's breathing. It finally slowed and grew steady as slumber took her. Just sleep, angel, she thought, stroking Grace's sweat-dampened hair. But don't dream. You've suffered enough for one night.

A few minutes later, Joan joined her in sleep. But it was a fitful one, totally devoid of the serenity that normally followed a Paradise trip. Once or twice the sharp pain in her abdomen woke her – a nagging reminder of the one she would seek tomorrow – but, somehow, she ignored the discomfort and managed to drift away again.

The following afternoon, she set off into the ruins of the French Quarter, in search of Stivers.

She left Grace locked in the kitchen closet, as she always did when it was necessary for her to venture beyond the restaurant on her own. Joan had armed herself with a butcher knife from one of the utensil drawers, donned thigh-high waders and one of the gray slickers, and headed out into the rain.

Muddy water washed around her shins as he made her way along Rampart Street. She kept her face well within the oversized hood and her hands shielded within the folds of the sleeves. Over the years the aftereffects of The Burn had severely altered atmospheric conditions, turning "acid rain" into precisely that. If not protected properly, no one had a chance in such a driving downpour. In only a few minutes, the upper layers of their epidermis would melt away, exposing the raw muscle and bone underneath.

Joan checked several abandoned buildings that Stivers used for manufacturing and selling his wares; crack, meth, Ecstasy, and, of course, Paradise. None of the places looked as if they had been occupied for days or even weeks. She finally located him in an old funeral home on the corner of Bourbon and Kerlerec.

Wading through eighteen inches of water, she entered the structure, passing through the lobby and viewing rooms. All had been ransacked and stripped of their furnishings and fixtures. Joan heard a sputtering roar somewhere within the building and knew that she had found the right place. She made her way through the funeral home until she reached a back room that had once served as a display room. Six caskets – decorated with graffiti and gang signs – floated in the stagnant water. Their lids stood open, telling her that they had been used as makeshift beds the previous night. Beyond the coffins, a narrow staircase led to an upper floor. 

"Stivers?" she called up to the gloom at the top of the stairs.

There was a long moment of silence, then his voice answered… a harsh, high-pitched whisper. "Who is it?"

"Joan. Joan Porter."

Again silence. Then "Come."… followed by a peal of snickering laughter.

Joan shuddered and closed her eyes. She gathered her nerve, then ascended the steps.

For years she had heard rumors of mutation; of people evolving into something less than human after being bit or attacked by radiation-infected animals. Joan had thought it to be nothing more than an urban legend – like something out of a bad science-fiction movie – until she had come across Stivers. He had made a believer out of her… in more ways than one.

When she reached the top of the steps, she found that Stivers had covered the windows with heavy black paper, shutting away the outside light. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she studied her surroundings. The upper floor had been turned into a small lab. A dozen hotplates were connected to a gas-powered generator. Each held a ten gallon pot of boiling chemicals. The fumes made Joan light-headed. There was no telling what Stivers was concocting.

"Where are you?" she asked, raising her voice above the noise of the generator.

A shadow separated from the darkness of a far corner and stepped forward. The man – or thing – known as Stivers was short, lean, and slightly hunched, but that was all that was distinguishable about him. He was dressed in a long, black overcoat with a hood much like the one on Joan's raincoat.

His face was hidden deep within the hood and only the moist gleam of his eyes could be seen. He wore black rubber gloves; partly due to his work and partly to conceal his hands. The slender fingers were abnormally long – a good seven inches – and seemed to be pointed at the ends.

"I came for my…"

"Yes," rasped Stivers. His breathing was harsh and labored. "I know what you came for."

He walked over to four cookie jars that sat on a table and motioned to her to join him. He lifted the head off one that bore image of a grinning monkey and dipped his slender hand inside. It emerged with a plastic sandwich bag containing a number of tiny purple pills. He tossed them on the table top.

Joan took a couple steps forward. She counted the pills through the plastic and eyed him suspiciously. "There's only ten. You usually give me fifteen."

"It's a matter of supply and demand," Stivers told her. Inside the shadows of his hood, his face – long and malformed – twitched. "Supply is low, while demand is high. My stock is limited."

"So make more," Joan told him anxiously.

"The materials to make it are in short supply, too," he told the woman, watching her carefully. "I may have to stop manufacturing it entirely."

The thought of no more Paradise made Joan's heart sink. "No, please… you can't."

Stivers chuckled softly. "Be glad you've got your ten. Who knows… we may not even be here tomorrow. The dykes may burst and flood the entire city. Like God did in Genesis… because the world had grown so utterly wicked." His eyes sparkled within the hood. "Do you think I'm wicked, Joan?" 

"No," she lied. She considered the defective pills she and Grace had taken during the past few days. "They're not working right. Not lasting as long as before."

"Like I said, materials are limited. I've had to cut the ingredients to make it last. Sadly, you take what you get."

Joan stepped forward and reached for the bag of pills.

Stivers laid his long-fingered hand over her prize. "Payment, please."

The woman felt sick to her stomach. This was the part of the transaction that she loathed.

"Payment, please…. or Paradise will be lost."

Joan knew there was no need to stall. Reluctantly, she pulled off her sweat pants and panties, and, lying atop the table, offered herself to the Devil.

She closed her eyes as he entered her. Joan didn't cry… didn't utter a sound. Sex was the only currency she possessed and, so far, it had kept her and her daughter alive.

From Sunday school teacher to whore in five years. She wondered what the Lord thought of her now.

It didn't take long. Stivers tensed and Joan felt his seed release, sticky and hot. He remained over her a moment longer, his rubber-clad hand gently tracing the bulge of her belly. "Mine?"

"Get off me, you freak!" she snapped.

"Hopefully, he'll resemble his father," whispered Stivers. And, for the first time, the pusher removed his hood and revealed himself to her.

Joan had suspected what he was, but to see it in the open was almost too much for her to bear. Apparently, the man named Stivers had been bitten by a rat. His head was narrow and cone-like, ending in a sharp point at his nose. Stivers skull was covered with fine gray hair and his ears – fleshy and misshapen – lay flat against the side of his head. Coarse whiskers sprouted from his nose and from his mouth ugly, yellow incisors protruded. A musky stench – like the sort common at a zoo – emanated from the creature, along with the acrid odor of piss.

"Handsome, aren't I?" he asked. The only thing human about him was his eyes. They twinkled at her, bloodshot and watery, just before he pulled the hood back into place.

"Just give me my pills and let me go," Joan said.

Stivers laughed and tossed the bag of Paradise onto her naked belly. "Get the hell out of here. I have work to do."

Joan slipped off the table, her inner thighs wet and slimy. She quickly pulled her clothing on and, sticking the pills in her pocket, started for the stairs.

"When Junior arrives, tell him that Daddy loves him," said Stivers.

Joan ran down the staircase, her heart pounding in her chest, leaving the mutant's squealing laughter behind.

Minutes later, she was outside again. She breathed in deeply, trying to rid her nostrils of the pusher's stink. The musky odor remained on her clothes, though. She wondered if Grace would notice it when she got back to the restaurant.

As she made her way down the street, spasms gripped her. She doubled over with the force of the cramping and had to steady herself with a streetlamp for a moment until it subsided. She thought of the abomination that grew inside her. Sometimes at night it felt as though it was kicking, clawing, attempting to escape her womb. With dread she wondered if there was more than one. Rats did have litters, didn't they?

She stumbled onward in the ceaseless rain, tears of frustration forming in her eyes. What was she going to do? About the horrid life within her… about Mike, if he were to find out… and, most of all, Bristol?

The downpour seemed to increase in fury. It pounded upon her head and shoulders, like a fist beating her down. She considered what Stivers had said. A scripture from Genesis came to mind. And I will establish my covenant with you; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth. I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.

Joan hadn't seen a rainbow since before the Burn.

She wondered if God, in his rage against the unrighteous, had finally gone back on His promise.

The next trip was unlike any Joan had experienced before.

She found herself standing in a garden a thousand times more elaborate and beautiful that her mother's simple patch. Lush plants and flowers of all colors and varieties covered the ground and, from tall marble trellis, dangled huge baskets of fruit, succulent and ripe. She recalled what she had read about the fabled Hanging Gardens of Babylon and wondered if this was how it had been.

Joan stood upon a pathway cobbled with golden stones, marveling at the spectacular garden around her. Further on, past an alabaster gateway, stood a tall mansion constructed of pure white marble, surrounded by blooming magnolia trees. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The air was incredibly clean and invigorating. Joan felt herself let go of all her worries and wants. Of all the places the Paradise Pill had taken her, this was the place where she belonged the most.

"It's good to see you, Joan," came a voice from behind her.

She turned to see a man standing on the pathway. He was dressed in a flannel shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed work boots. Joan knew who He was at once, but He didn't resemble the hundreds of religious paintings and images she had been exposed to since her childhood. No, strangely enough, His clean-shaven face almost seemed to be an odd, but comforting, combination of features she was familiar with; a mixture of everyone she had ever loved in her lifetime. He possessed her mother's smiling eyes, her father's strong nose, and her husband's mouth. His hair was dark brown and styled in a way similar to her son, Daniel.

Joan was speechless at first. Then she muttered what had been foremost in her mind since arriving in this beautiful place. "Is this Heaven?"

"If that is what you wish to call it, yes," He answered.

"But… I shouldn't be here," Joan muttered. A great swell of shame and sadness filled her heart. "The things I did…"

"Out of necessity," the man told her. "That is all in the past, Joan. Don't you remember the pact you and I made when you were twelve? That will always stand."

Joan felt as though a great burden had been lifted from her. "Thank you." She looked past the alabaster gate, toward the huge manor house. "Who does that belong to?

The man laughed. "It's yours, Joan. I have prepared it for you." He walked toward her, his hand outstretched. "Come. Your family is waiting. They've prepared a feast in your honor."

An intense feeling of happiness and peace filled the woman and she reached out for him. It was then that she realized that her right hand was empty.

"My daughter!" she said, suddenly alarmed. "Where is she?"

"Grace is okay," He assured her. "Don't worry about her. She knows what to do."

The calm in His voice caused her to feel the same. Joan took His hand and, together, they left the garden and mounted a rise of golden steps to the white-columned mansion. On the porch, a dozen people stood anxiously, smiling and waving cheerfully. Her parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters, dear friends, her husband and son.

As she marveled at the beauty around her, a question came to mind. "Will everyone come here someday?" she asked.

For a moment, a great sadness crossed His face. "No," was all He said, before escorting her to the wondrous reunion that awaited her.

Grace had deceived her mother. She had only pretended to take the "piece of purple Heaven" Joan had offered her, afraid that their shared trip might end up like last time; like those last few horrible minutes with Bristol high atop the Ferris wheel.

The girl had dozed off on her own, but when she finally awakened, she found her mother's hand terribly cold in her grasp. "Mama?" she mumbled. Then the truth hit her. "Oh, Mama! No!"

A moment later, the closet door was wrenched open. Joan had forgotten to bolt the door from the inside, or perhaps had thought it unnecessary for this final trip. Mike and Bristol stood there, angry eyes glaring at her.

"What the hell's the matter?" growled Mike.

"It's Mama," cried Grace. "She won't wake up!"

Mike knelt down and laid a hand on the side of the woman's throat. He frowned and shook his head. "She's dead. Must've OD'd. I told her to stay away from that shit." He stood up and scowled. "Damn shame. She was good piece of ass."

"We'd better get moving," Bristol told him. "Word on the street is that the T&D's will be sweeping this area in a couple hours, and we don't wanna tangle with them." He stared at Grace and licked his lips. "Let's take the girl with us, Mike. She might come in handy."

"Yeah, I know what you want, you sick bastard," Mike said in disgust. "She's staying behind. I've got no time for babysitting." He regarded the girl coldly. "Sorry, kid, but you're on your own now."

"But that's such a damn waste…" protested Bristol.

The lanky man turned and glared at him. "I made her mother a promise… regarding you. All I can do for her now is keep it. Now move your ass!"

Bristol stared back at the man he had run with for years, a dark expression in his eyes. "Okay. No sweat. Let's split."

Mike closed the door behind him, leaving Grace to deal with her grief alone.

The child sat in the darkness and cried, holding her mother's hand tightly, refusing to let go. In the gloom, she studied Joan's face. There was a gentle smile upon her lips, as though she now possessed a peace that she had not known for a very long time.

Outside came the drumming of rain and the roar of water rushing through the city streets. Then, somewhere in the building, a staccato report of gunfire sounded. She recognized it as Bristol's M-16.

A moment later, his voice called out to her.

"Oh, Gracie! Uncle Bristol is ready to play."

She knew then what she must do. She released her mother's fingers and felt something drop into the cradle of her palm. Five tiny purple pills.

"I'm coming, Mama," whispered Grace.

Then, lifting her hand, she swallowed her fistful of Paradise.