Paul twisted his ring and watched the landscape slide by, the untended cornfields lit by the blue of the undercarriage lamps. Once at speed, the van ran quiet. “How long’s he been doing that?”
“Unknown.”
“Hundreds of years?”
“We really don’t know. Long enough to attain the level of power he now enjoys, which is considerable. He did it in secret at first, preying on those whose absence wasn’t noticed. He had influence, and his victims’ assignments never made it to us. We only realized what was happening when he no longer needed to hide it. Many came to him willingly. And soon he didn’t need to convince anyone anymore. He was too strong. He took what he wanted.”
They passed a sign for exit twenty-four. It didn’t say what one would find there.
“How far is twenty-five?” Paul said.
“There’s no guarantee that there is one. When you were in New York, what street came after Forty-second?”
“Depends on which way you’re going. North, Forty-third.”
“Not here. Not even if it was there the day before. What comes next might not even be a street at all. The landscape forms itself for your Journey.”
Glowing animal eyes reflected the lights back at Paul through gaps in the corn. “Why is he after me?”
“Because he’s after everyone and everything.”
Really, Paul had no idea if they were animals at all. And it was probably safer to assume that they weren’t friendly. “Why is he so strong?”
“There are only guesses, and he’s not about to tell anyone, certainly. But the real answer probably lies somewhere between Newtonian conservation of energy and Gödel’s incompleteness theorems.”
“What?”
“He exploits the contradictory state of The Commons. Everyone here is in-between. They are—and are not. It’s about the Journeys that never happen. The energy doesn’t know where to go, and Brill captures it. The universe doesn’t care, ultimately, so long as the energy exists somewhere. But it matters to us.”
The universe didn’t care. That Paul understood. One kid gets stomped in an alley while another plays tennis in his back yard. The first has only a picture of his mom; the second has only bad things to say about his.
“The Commons exists in paradox,” Porter said. “This sentence is false. If that’s true, then it’s also not true. That’s what Brill exploits.”
“Vizzie said I was a rabbit who died under a bad sign.”
“Rabbit’s not a term I use. Neither should you. Believe, and trust your belief. We might get lucky and catch Brill with his attention elsewhere.”
“He said they went all-out heart of darkness on me.”
“On someone. Take this in the spirit in which it’s meant: I doubt Brill is losing sleep over a skinny kid in a van. Whomever he wanted on that bus, let’s hope he found them. Not because we wish such a fate on anyone else, but because we wish a better one for you.”
“At least this skinny kid wanted to go back and help the others. According to Rain, the Envoys aren’t big on that lately.”
He couldn’t see Porter’s jaw tighten, but he swore he heard it. The gray man turned to him in the low light of the dashboard. “You’ve made it this far because of me. Don’t you think that I would have taken everyone on that hill with us?” He turned back to the road. “I look old to you. I’m older. I do what I am able to do. And I am alone.”
Paul let his head fall back against the headrest and looked up. Stars floated past overhead, their light dimmed by the moon roof’s tinted glass. “Does that include helping her?”
“If Rain’s Envoy abandoned her, as she says, then she must find the end of her Journey on her own—if it even remains viable. But she knows how to handle herself. We have a vehicle because of her, and we need all the friends and firepower we can find.” He paused. “And since you can’t take your eyes off her, I’ll help where I can.”
Paul started to protest, but Porter waved it off. “People decide their fates here. Do you believe there’s no room for human feelings—that we forget how to love?”
“It’s not love.”
Porter drove on in amused silence. Suddenly, the only thing Paul had to worry about was whether Rain was really asleep.
At daybreak, Porter turned off the highway and into the parking lot of a truck-stop diner.
Across the asphalt, a phalanx of tractor-trailers in a range of colors, customization, and road-worthiness surrounded a cargo scale. A painted sign, a veteran of many cycles of fading and touch-ups, advertised coffee, beer, ammo, and fireworks.
“If this place is built on my thoughts, then maybe my world’s pretty scary after all,” Paul said, reading the sign.
“As long as nobody’s using those simultaneously,” said Porter.
Inside, the Envoy bought them breakfast. Paul polished off both his and Rain’s bacon after he was unable to convince her to eat more than a few bites.
He finished his toast while Porter went to the men’s room. Around the diner, their fellow patrons ordered and ate.
At the counter, a truck driver used his one good arm to mop the yolk from his plate with a piece of pumpernickel. His other arm was a slot-machine handle.
Periodically, customers and even a waitress or two approached him and apologized for interrupting his meal. They gave him some change, waited while he swallowed it, and pulled his handle.
Amusement-park sounds blared from a speaker in his back. His eyes flashed rolling patterns of red, blue, and yellow as the players gazed into them with hope. When the eyes stopped, some of the players yipped or cheered and walked away happy. Others were upset by what they saw.
One man accused the trucker of cheating and had to be led away by the manager. A woman with a mass of tangled power cords for hair returned to her table in tears, sparks flying from her plugs as they collided.
At the adjacent table, a man-sized pillbug dined solo.
In a booth sat a wooden robot made of matchsticks. He’d wanted another spot, but the waitress insisted on seating him as far from the entrance to the fireworks store as possible.
In two big booths closer to Paul and Rain sat a gang of skinheads in matching leather jackets. They appeared to be human. Certainly, their mean streak was all too familiar.
They alternated between finishing their omelets and taunting two customers sitting a couple of tables away. A few of them gave up on eating altogether and focused only on the harassment.
One of the targets of the abuse had his back to Paul and the skinheads. Because he was wearing a fedora and a trench coat with the collar up, it was difficult to tell much about him. He may have been blind; Paul could make out a large pair of what looked to be Wayfarers on him. He also, perhaps, had been in an accident. He was extensively bandaged—and large.
With him was a compact, bald Asian man in sandals and a saffron hooded robe. Paul figured him for some sort of monk.
“Hey, scrap,” one of the skinheads said to the little man, his tone as unfriendly as he could make it.
The monk ignored him and peered into his soup with fierce intensity.
“Scrap. You know I’m talking to you.”
“Here, scrappy, scrappy,” said another skinhead. It was the call of someone luring a cat within boot range.
The two men tried to act like the skinheads weren’t speaking to them, but only the bandaged one succeeded. He dipped his sandwich into a gravy boat that looked comically tiny next to his sizable hands. The monk just kept glaring at his soup, as if warning its alphabet noodles to spell out a different message—or else.
Paul knew the scenario well. He’d been in the monk’s place too many times.
Anything the monk said would hasten what was coming, and he was a slightly built man up against bad odds. The bandaged one was big enough that anyone taking him on would only do it with numbers on their side. There were fifteen or twenty skinheads at the tables—more than enough to offset the size advantage.
“Scrap!” the first sk
inhead screeched. His eyes closed to slits when he bared his teeth, like the mongoose in a documentary Paul had watched in the New Beginnings TV room.
The skinhead flung one of his fries. It landed in the monk’s soup, spraying his face with broth. The little man didn’t blink.
A third skinhead—all arms, chest, and shoulders and the size of an offensive lineman—guffawed.
That was how the set-up worked. Mr. Little starts the fight; Mr. Big has an excuse to finish it. The one with the mouth never throws a punch.
Paul knew it. And hated it.
Soup running down his cheek, the monk seethed, but wouldn’t wipe it away. He said something in sign language to the bandaged man, who shook his head.
Paul gave the skinheads the hard stare.
“Don’t,” Rain told him.
The second skinhead dredged a fry through a puddle of ketchup and launched it. It arced through the air—red and sloppy, splattering patrons who knew enough to stay quiet—and hit the monk’s chest with a blot like a silenced gunshot.
Following suit, the first skinhead grabbed a whole handful of fries, swirling them in the ketchup until they dripped like they’d been gutted.
“Hey,” Paul said.
The skinhead looked over at him and Rain, pleased to have additional victims for the next round.
“Leave them alone.”
“Paul,” said Rain.
All of the skinheads turned their attention to Paul except the big one, who had eyes only for the bandaged man and the monk.
“Better listen to your mommy, Paul,” said the skinhead with the bloody fries. He gave Rain a quick up-and-down.
The diner grew quiet.
The one-armed-bandit trucker drained his coffee cup and left without paying, the sleigh bells on the door a shrill announcement of his departure.
The manager made a visual note of the lack of cash on the counter, frowning.
The matchstick robot left a handful of bills on his table and headed for the fireworks store, which was his closest exit. No one moved to stop him.
The big skinhead swatted the girl sitting next to him on the shoulder, his eyes never leaving his two targets. She grabbed her coat from the seat and slid out of the booth, unleashing him.
Standing and removing his jacket, he limbered his neck up and stretched, flexing his fingers and letting everyone get a good look. He was steroid huge—a cartoon.
The mongoose skinhead got up, too. They marched toward the monk.
The bandaged man stood to greet them, fast and smooth for someone so big.
The two skinheads slowed. The muscleman skinhead was huge, but the man in the bandages was a head taller and wider still in his trench coat.
And not fat wide. Big wide.
The bandaged man was no burn victim. He was a mummy—a giant mummy.
The big skinhead hung back, studying his opponent. His friend stepped forward.
Paul had seen the big-skinhead type before, too. Strength and mass won him all of his fights, but he’d probably never gone up against someone his own size—or the mummy’s. Still, his eyes showed no doubt; he was sure of himself.
“Easy, Tut,” the wiry skinhead told the mummy. “We just want to commune with the Lama, here.”
The monk pondered his soup, alone at the table. Paul half-expected the liquid to boil.
“What is it you wish to tell him?” the mummy said. “I will relay it.”
“Is he deaf?”
The mummy didn’t answer.
“Well, whatever he is, he’s more my size.”
“You’re better off with me.”
The little skinhead appraised the monk, snickering. “Aren’t those guys supposed to be all about peace and love? He looks like he’s gonna blow his radiator cap.”
“We’re working on that.”
The temperature in the diner rose ten degrees. There was a swift, though by no means tidy, exodus as others got up and left. Not all of them bothered to pay.
The wait staff left with the customers. The manager, who had bigger problems now, slipped a cell phone from his pocket and crept into the kitchen.
The skinheads piled out of their booths to stand behind their cohorts.
Paul and Rain stayed put. Porter was still in the men’s room. What was taking him so long?
“I’ll ask you to reconsider,” the mummy told the little skinhead. “This will not go well for you.”
“You can leave,” the skinhead replied. “Tight-eyes stays.”
The mummy turned to Paul and Rain. “You two go outside.”
“We can help,” Paul said.
Rain gave him a look. Could they?
There was no time for anything else.
The little skinhead grabbed a plate and swung it at the mummy’s head.
The monk sprang up and out of the booth. His fist shattered the skinhead’s plate on its way through it, striking the mongoose’s forehead with gunshot force. Then it was back down at his side. There’d hardly been a blur.
Flecks of plate adorning his head and face, the little skinhead wobbled stupidly. A scarlet line appeared on his forehead, as if by magic. It split open. He dropped.
The big skinhead picked up a fork and stabbed at the mummy’s face. The mummy caught it with one of his enormous mitts, both flatware and hand vanishing into his grip.
The skinhead swung with his other fist. That, too, was halted and trapped.
The mummy squeezed. The moist crack and the skinhead’s scream came in unison.
“Go,” the mummy told Paul and Rain. “Now.”
The room erupted in skinhead rage. Leather jackets rushed the mummy and monk.
The big skinhead’s bulk may not have helped him any, but the mummy made good use of it. He effortlessly picked the muscleman up over his head like a bundle of bubble wrap and lofted him into his friends, who toppled under the weight of their champion.
The ones who chose to rush the monk were even less fortunate. The slight man in the robe couldn’t match his friend’s raw strength, but his adversaries’ defeat was much more viciously accomplished.
An orange dust devil of hands and feet, he was in his element when outnumbered. The air filled with the smack of knuckles and sandal leather on skin and bone, the thwap of tissue under assault, and cries of pain.
It all blended together, too rapid to register as discrete sounds. Blood and spit flew. Wrecked joints popped.
The monk knew what his attackers would do before they did. It was as if he’d been shown a preview of the brawl in his soup while being pelted with food.
The fight wrapped up faster than any Paul had ever seen or been in. The skinheads almost didn’t deserve what was done to them. They hadn’t understood what they were setting in motion.
There were only two left standing. One of them reached into his jacket and came out with a pistol.
Rain was impressive in her own right. Paul heard her chamber a round before he even realized what he was seeing.
Still, she had nothing on the monk, who threw a coffee cup and saucer in succession. The first disarmed the gunman. The second shattered his teeth.
The skinhead wailed and clutched his mouth, as if trying to keep something from escaping. He ran from the diner, his pain lingering in the air.
There was but one of the bad guys still upright—the girl who’d let the big skinhead out of the booth. She ran a petite hand over her buzz cut and took an inventory of her pals, who ranged from moaning to unconscious.
The fallen were blood brothers now. And a good deal of that blood would have to be mopped up.
The sound of an approaching siren grew louder. The manager had made his call.
Porter came out of the kitchen, not the men’s room.
The monk turned to face him, still in battle mode.
The Envoy surveyed the carnage without a flinch.
“Where were you?” Paul said. He didn’t try to conceal his annoyance.
“Shall we?” The gray man ignored Paul’s
question and motioned toward the door.
Paul and Rain got up to go.
Porter stepped over the fallen skinheads and made his way to his plate. He left a wad of bills under it—clearly more than what was owed for the meal and tip.
The mummy looked from skinhead to skinhead with sadness, then turned to the buzz-cut girl. He appeared to be prepping a fatherly lecture, perhaps one about her taste in friends.
Paul would try to pry his answer from Porter later. “Come with us,” he told the mummy.
The Envoy and the monk both looked at him, equally puzzled.
“They didn’t start it,” he explained. “And those guys would’ve been on us next.”
Porter shrugged. They all headed for the door.
Except for the mummy, who stayed put. He waited for the manager and his staff to reappear, along with the customers who hadn’t had a chance to escape before war broke out.
“My apologies,” the mummy told them. “Breakfast should be savored, not feared.” He tipped his hat to the shellshocked group. “There is always tomorrow.”
Paul intended to grill Porter as they left, but they stepped outside to face a Sheriff’s Department car in the parking lot. Its blue lights flashed, its siren drowning out any such attempt.
A rangy deputy got out, all badge, hat, and holster. He spotted Rain’s shotgun, still in her hands, and promptly pulled his sidearm. Ducking behind his car, he took aim at her across the hood.
“Freeze!” he yelled, difficult to hear over the siren. “Drop it!”
Paul didn’t think the guy was much older than him.
Rain half-obeyed. She stopped walking.
The mummy, bringing up the rear, moved closer to her, preparing to block a shot in either direction.
The monk eyed a golf-ball-sized stone at his feet and scrutinized the deputy, calculating.
Porter raised his staff.
The deputy was a raw nerve in a uniform. He might have lost his grip on his pistol had the car not been there to steady him.
They waited for him to realize that the siren killed all hope of conversation. They waited even longer for him to maneuver around the open door to turn it off, all the while struggling to keep his service revolver aimed in Rain’s general direction.
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