MUSHROOMLAND, COLUMBIA.
“I have an idea.” The Pillar pulls the knife back, facing the Executioner. I let out a wheezing breath. “Why would I deny you the pleasure of cutting her fingers yourself?”
My eyes spring open from my vision about Lewis Carroll in my school bus, and then I watch the Pillar hand the knife over to the Executioner, who welcomes the idea immediately.
“Like old days,” the Pillar says to the Executioner, who nods like a child, holding the knife and staring at my hand. “Remember those?”
“I was beginning to worry you forgot about the old days.” The Executioner smirks. And again, that little secret between those two is driving me crazy. “I’m impressed you still remember vividly.”
“Since we’re all happy now,”—the Pillar sips his drink then tucks in his cigar for the bazzillionth time—“I don’t see why you won’t tell me about who cooked the plague.”
The Executioner laughs, struggling to grip my hand. “Why do you really want to know that, Senior?” His men hold me still now. “You don’t really want to save the world, do you?”
“I’m aware that your men here will not get affected by the plague,” the Pillar says. “All Mushroomlanders are immune to this stuff. But think about it. Who will you sell drugs to if the world dies in the plague?”
The Executioner raises his hand from the knife as if he had been too stoned to think about this. “Well, you’re right,” he says. “But this plague isn’t about people dying. It’s about something much bigger. A higher concept.”
“Higher than death? I’m impressed.” The Pillar laughs. “But when did we ever care about high concepts, whatever that means? Come on, Executioner, tell me. I promise you I will get back in business and work for you.”
This one seems to catch the Executioner’s attention the most. “You will do that? Work for me again, like in the old days?”
“I swear on all the mushrooms in the world.”
The Executioner sighs. “Look, I don’t know who cooked the plague. But I know that someone was asking for it about two years ago.”
“Go on.”
“Someone paid lots and lots of Wonderland money, asking for a specific plague. Under no circumstances am I allowed to tell you what the plague really does to people.” This confuses me. There are people in this world even worse than the Executioner? “What I can tell you is that the Wonderlander who’d been asking for the plague had a meeting at the Dodo to pick it up two years ago.”
“The Dodo Company?” I ask.
“Not the company. The place.” The Executioner talks to the Pillar. “You still remember where that is, right?”
“The Dodo. How could I forget? The most obvious Wonderland location on earth, which no one even considers,” the Pillar says. “But I’m curious about this man asking for the plague. Was it Lewis Carroll?”
“That, I can’t tell you,” the Executioner says, turning back to me, the knife glinting in the moonlight. “I think the Dodo information is enough. And now that you’re back to working for me, let me enjoy cutting this slave’s fingers and marking her as mine.”
“Of course.” The Pillar bites on his cigar. “Go ahead.”
Stranded, I close my eyes, not knowing if I can take the pain. Time seems to slow down. I can hardly breathe, unable to shake myself loose from the soldiers. Waiting for the pain is even worse than the pain itself.
But then I hear some kind of swoosh.
A scream.
Shotguns.
The soldiers let go of me.
When I flip my eyes open, I see the Pillar’s cigar stuffed into the Executioner’s throat.