by Mark Tufo
The strangest one yet was a worker stuck in the pane of glass. The top third of his body was outside of the diner, facing the doorway. The light of life had long since passed from him, but not from the frozen face besieged with pain and fear—or maybe it was a severe case of gas that had been inflicting him when he’d been melded to the establishment. The glass around him was intact and had no problem holding up his weight. A small bell above the doorway signaled our arrival. We were greeted by the bottom third of the employee, whose lower parts were turned a severe 180 degrees from the rest.
“Like being stuck in a window pane isn’t enough.”
I had to turn away. The inside was not wholly unpleasant—there was the baked-in smell of bacon grease and butter, but also an underlying smell of spoiled milk and trash that had sat too long and was only going to get worse. A purple motif graced the entire dining room. From the countertop to the table tops and even the swivel vinyl barstool seats. Cookie—yeah, that was his name, proudly displayed on his shirt in purple embroidery—was hanging from the ceiling in the barely visible kitchen, between the low hanging heat lamps and the high order counter; I could only see his torso. When I approached and ducked my head to see more of him, I was shocked to see that he had done himself in, an extension cord wound tight around his neck and a turned over chair by his feet. His left eye had completely vacated his skull and his hands were firmly entrenched in the cord, like at the very last moment he’d had a change of heart, but not the strength to remove himself from the situation he had placed himself in.
“Oh Cookie, what have you done? No one can make pleak like you.” Trip was devastated upon seeing the man in that condition.
“This was a mistake. Let’s get out of here.”
As we were leaving, Trip pulled a menu off of a table and opened the two-page, heavily laminated booklet, as if he’d done it a thousand times before. He pointed to an item halfway down the first page.
“House specialty: three pleaks soup.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Sometimes it feels like we already are,” Trip said, his head hanging low as the bell once again sounded, only this time in our departure.
“How, Trip, how are you traveling through dimensions? And if you are, can you get us back?”
“His boyfriend left him, but he said he was going to be all right.”
“Cookie? You talking about Cookie? He didn’t do that because of how this place is?”
“How this place is? Are you talking about because the price of pleaks has gone up? That man is a legend! He put pleaks on the map! Before that, there was only pleak sauce, and nobody used that, NOBODY!” Trip screamed.
I hugged him; he seemed on the edge of hysteria. Plus, I wanted to make him stop shouting. Just because we didn’t see anybody around didn’t mean that they weren’t there. I could just about feel the eyes of night runners upon us. It had not struck me just how many lairs they could possess within the city. If we were still here when it got dark, we were going to be in some serious trouble. There’s an unwritten code among men, a certain duration of a comfortable hug. Too short and it means you two are still mad at each other and you were forced to make contact under the watchful gaze of a mother, sister, or significant other. Too long and, well, there’s just an awkwardness that ensues. Now, I’m not talking about lovers, they can do whatever they want. I’m talking about two men who may or may not be related and are not in a relationship with each other. So when Trip pulled me close as I was about to release, well let’s just say I was resisting. I tried to exact myself, gently at first, but he wasn’t letting go. An outside observer might have thought we were wrestling.
“How are you so fucking strong?”
I’d finally broke free when he reached up and literally grabbed the side of my face. Like he had a whole handful of cheek, hurt like hell. I was balling a fist to put one right in his nose. Crazy fucker or not, you can’t just grab someone’s face and not expect retaliation. But the ripple wave hit us before I could swing. It was instantly dark, patrols of night runners were perched on seemingly every street corner looking for a meal. Must have seemed like we’d dropped from heaven, the way Trip and I just showed up.
“Would it have been worse if I’d traveled on my own?” I asked as I swiveled my rifle around to the front.
“Ever heard of a Bledgrum?”
I told him “no” as I sighted in the nearest runner.
“You will.”
And I fired. The only advantage I saw in night runners was that they were similar in physiology to humans, meaning a shot in the chest was a very effective way of dealing with the threat. Sure, they were faster and smarter, but in a way, easier to kill than zombies. The head, when you’re scared, or at a distance, or when they’re moving around from side to side, can be a difficult target, plus you have to deal with the psychological effects of blasting someone’s head off. The devastation a bullet wreaks on the human skull has a detrimental effect on the one that sends the round as well. Don’t let all those books and movies fool you, it really starts to fuck with your mind—there is nothing fun about watching someone’s brains splatter.
Whereas a shot to the chest, which can be just as deadly to humans and night runners alike, does not incur all the same emotional baggage. Yes, there is stop in its forward momentum and a plume of blood that spreads out from the wound, but it’s different. It is not as visceral, if that makes any sense. This one had not stopped with the alacrity I had hoped for, so I sent another round his way, crashing through his chest plate and ripping through a variety of vital organs. His hand went to his stomach and he toppled over. His friend spared not a glance as he hopped over the newly deceased; his eyes were locked on mine. My first shot hit him mid-chest, on the left, easily cracking several of his ribs; if he cared, he didn’t let me in on it. The next hit center mass; he was dead before he hit the ground.
I spun to deal with the next threat; Trip grabbed my shoulder and spun me hard. My rifle raised high up. Night was gone, daylight flooded in. People—there were people everywhere. Normal strolling in the park on a Sunday afternoon people. Businesspersons in suits. Hippies playing music and busking for change. Mothers and fathers taking their children for a stroll. Frisbee players and cab drivers, Sunday school teachers and pharmacists. And there I was, dirty as Pig-Pen after a day of chimney sweeping, holding a rifle high up in the air like a terrorist.
“Act cool man, act cool,” Trip told me.
It felt like the entire world had stopped to look at me. Trip had backed up a couple of paces, like he didn’t want to be associated with me.
“You’re an ass,” I told him as I slowly brought my weapon down and shouldered it.
Any and all signs of the night runners I had killed were gone. The street was clean and smelled of fresh rain. And there we were, couldn’t have stuck out any more if we had been deposited into the streets of 1750s France.
“We should go,” Trip urged at the sound of a distant siren.
Sounded like a blend of the traditional American and strange European. People were pointing, the smart ones were backing up. They had guns here, that we knew; but maybe they didn’t brandish them about in public.
“District administrators are coming, you two should leave!” A young boy called from a window above us. He ducked his head in when I turned to look.
“Yeah, and you’re the fucker who called them,” I said under my breath.
Trip pulled me along; we weren’t quite running, but we were making good time. Around a corner, then another, then down an alleyway that I wouldn’t have known existed if he hadn’t led me into it. We stayed in the shadows, and a minute later, a bright yellow car with strobing green and blue lights sped past. It would have been difficult to miss the neon lettering on the side that said Indian Hill District Administrator, Car Twelve. If we got picked up, there was no chance we weren’t going to get locked up. I had no identification, and a story that, unless you lived it, was wholly unbelievable.
&nbs
p; I’d been living so long under the shadow of an apocalypse, how in the hell was I going to act in a civilized manner? And for how long? If I hid my rifle, which I needed to do if I didn’t want to go to prison, how long was it going to be until we shimmered back into a nightmare?
“Trip, is that you?” I wheeled around at the question. A man dressed in a suit and tie was leaning against a door, smoking a cigar, peering at us through a haze of smoke.
His slicked-back hair screamed used car salesman, but he didn’t have that nervous demeanor that betrayed his desire to make the sale before you figured out what he knew and you didn’t.
“Who’s your twitchy friend?”
The guy mockingly put his hands up halfway. Certainly a citizen of the seedier underside of society, or the rifle and the man wielding it should have scared him a bit more.
“Twitchy’s here?” Trip looked genuinely excited until he realized the man was referring to me. “Oh, that’s Ponch, we’re like mothers from another brother.”
The man took another puff and held out his hand.
“Hey Ponch, my name is Fourth, and any friend of Trip is a friend of mine.”
“Really?” I asked as I shook that hand. “Wouldn’t have figured that.”
He laughed. “The sirens for you?”
Lying was a possibility, but I might as well have been in the kitchen with chocolate all over my face and a destroyed birthday cake.
“Most likely, although I did see a lady jaywalking.”
“I like you Ponch, you two should come in.”
He moved slightly so he could pull the handle to the door. Trip was already on the move. I wasn’t so sure. It was the wail of another siren that got me moving.
“Gonna have to ask you to leave the rifle with me, though.” He smiled, could have just been me, but boy did he have a lot of teeth, kind of like a shark.
“Been through a lot lately Fourth, I’d kind of like to hang on to it.”
“Sure, sure, you’re just going to have to stay out here then.” There was the screech of tires stopping suddenly, and close. I reluctantly handed over my rifle.
“Thought you might see it that way,” he said, still grinning.
The corridor we were led into was dark, a small set of LED lights was tacked to the floor on the side to illuminate the way.
“This a strip joint?” I asked Trip as we walked.
“Better; way, way better.”
Knowing Trip like I did, I thought perhaps this was a Phritos factory or…
“Holy shit,” I whistled through my teeth as we came out on a small parapet and were looking down on what seemed like an acre of pot plants.
“I’m home.” Trip was crying.
“You a cop?” Fourth asked as he looked over my weapon. He released the magazine and pulled back the charging handle, catching the chambered round deftly in his hand. He smelled the barrel. “This has been fired recently.”
“Not a cop.”
“Soldier?”
“Once upon a time.”
Trip was descending the stairs three at a time.
“You’re going to need to start talking, I’ve got scanners telling me cops are looking for two very suspicious people who fit your description, and I’m wondering if I should do my civic duty.”
“So, you know I’m not a cop or a soldier. And, um, not for nothing, but is turning me in such a good idea?” I was still looking at his forest of weed.
“No one said what condition you were in when I found you.”
“Fair enough, but you’re going to think I smoked a fair amount of your product when I tell you what’s going on.”
“Try me. Remember: I know Trip.”
So I told him. What choice did I have? The grin never wavered or faltered, tough to gauge his reaction. When I was done, he pulled a perfectly rolled joint from behind his ear.
“Want a toke? You may need this more than I do.”
He lit it up and took a pull that drained nearly a third of the sweet leaf. He was handing over the bone when I declined.
“Lot of good times for a smoke; this isn’t one of them, Fourth.”
He shrugged. “So you’re trapped here?” He asked in that held-breath way of people who have just toked.
I nodded.
“And you think Indian Hill has the answers?”
I nodded again.
“This place is a lily-white haven for folks with too much money and no good sense. Doesn’t seem like the kind of place the military would use for secret operations. Now FreeTown thirty miles down the road, well let’s just say those poor bastards have been getting the short end of the stick for a good long while.”
“Hey Fourth!” Trip was trembling as he had his hand around a stalk.
“All yours,” Fourth laughed.
Trip did a little dance as he began to harvest buds the size of my hand.
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“So, this is where it’s going to get a little weird, man.”
“Oh, this is where it’s going to get a little weird?”
“For me, for me, all right? Ten years ago, Trip finds me in this very alley. I’m dead, or as near to it as a man can be. I had a needle with bad heroin still stuck in my vein. Trip pulled it out and dragged me inside here. Back then, this was an abandoned warehouse. For three days, he nursed me as I came back from the edge—and then dived off as I went through detox. I begged him to let me die, the pain was so great.” He was looking off into the shadows as he remembered those vanquished demons. “I was a sniveling, snot-leaking mess, I was covered in filth and sores, I stank of rot and ruin. He cleaned me up, brought me some clothes, and took me out for food.” He looked at me apologetically, as if he was sorry for being an addict.
“Got my own demons Fourth, don’t expect me to judge you.”
“He bought this building and gave it to me.”
“Damn. Listen, let’s go back to the whole not judging thing, but, umm...” I pointed to the weed.
“I know; listen, of all the drugs, this isn’t one I much cared for. But the condition of the transfer was that I grew as much weed as I could fit in here.”
“This legal?”
He laughed. “Hardly. I don’t sell it. I grow it, bag a little up, and throw ninety percent of it away. Then start the process over.”
“Okay, so I thought my story was going to sound insane.”
“He sends me cash every three months. More than I could make selling this stuff. He comes back about a year later after I’m clean and sober, and tells me to make this place into a huge Faraday cage. You know what that is?”
“Rudimentary idea; disperses electrical signals or something.”
“Yeah, that’s my understanding. Anyway, Trip says that in nine years’ time he’s going to show up with this crazy guy and that he’s going to need my help. I think he’s insane at the time, but hell if I don’t owe him just about everything. I’ve since married and I have two daughters. He comes every so often to grab a bud and some breakfast, then heads out.”
“Where is your family?” He must have sensed the alarm in my voice.
“No worries, I converted the entire top floor into a home and we’ve been living here for a couple of years now. About a month ago, he expressly told me to stay inside here until you two showed up.”
“You were outside.”
“Missus doesn’t like me smoking cigars inside.”
“You have a field of green down here.”
“You married?”
I nodded.
“Then you know.”
Couldn’t really argue with that. “They’re safe, then?”
“The girls are still sleeping. I think my wife is making breakfast if you want to come up.”
“Fourth, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here. This is too normal for me.”
“Then you need this.”
“Do you mind if I ask you how you got your name?”
He smiled. “Trip found me on th
e fourth of Julius; that was when I started my new life.”
“New life, new name.”
“Seemed right, plus who really wants to go through the world being called Denim Deneaux.”
“Your last name is Deneaux?” I stopped in my tracks.
“It was, now I use my wife’s last name.”
“Which is?” The surrealism was tangible.
“Yonts.”
Maybe I staggered or maybe he saw something in my eyes, but his hand shot out to steady me. What would I do if I went upstairs and this man was married to my Tracy, only in an alternate reality? I think I’d almost be compelled to kill him for sleeping with my wife. I trudged up those stairs, a ravenous beast clawing at my gut, threatening to chew its way out with acid.
“Trip, come on, Lacy made redberry pancakes!” Fourth called down. If Trip had taken the stairs three at a time to go down, he was doing four on the way up.
“Wait until you see this!” Trip had a gleam in his eye as he caught up.
“You knew?” I felt betrayed.
“Been here once or twice. This is going to blow your mind!” He raced past.
I hesitantly crossed the threshold into the largest studio apartment I had ever seen in my life. The kitchen was as large as my entire first floor at Little Turtle. A woman stood at the stove, her back to me. The shape of her form, the color of her hair, it was nearly spot on, but there were some differences. Hips maybe slightly larger, maybe an inch or two taller. When she turned, I gasped like a twelve-year-old girl seeing her favorite boy band for the first time. It wasn’t Tracy, but the familial resemblance was uncanny. Not quite twins, but definitely sisters. She took a second longer than she should have to look at me.