by Darr, Brian
The first team was what The Magician liked to call “dead weight” because they were the dangerous, but annoying, group. He wanted them as far from himself and Chameleon as possible, and simply sent them into the woods, where they projected The Troll would have gone.
The group consisted of The Gambler, The Weatherman, and The Poet. The Gambler didn’t look like much on first glance, but he was destructive and sadistic if alone with his target. He just wouldn’t be trusted to find The Troll alone, which was why he was traveling with company.
The Weatherman was slow and needed frequent breaks because of his weight. He slowed the group, but if The Troll found himself in the same radius, The Weatherman’s remote controlled manipulation of mother nature would be inescapable. The Poet stepped in as leader of the trio. He talked constantly, and led them through the woods, trying to track disturbed areas.
The group didn’t get along well, and The Poet was the only one who understood that they were the outcasts, which left him more determined. When The Troll’s name was dropped by Iris, he did his research and spent two nights reading as many message board posts as possible, disgusted by how just about everything The Troll hated, personified who The Poet was. He hated approaching The Moderator and asking to be a part of the hunting crew, but he genuinely wanted to see The Troll die. His traveling companions would have to step aside if and when that day came.
They were as mismatched as any trio could be. The Gambler was withdrawn and only grumbled complaints. The Weatherman couldn’t focus on anything except for his tired flabby legs and the next meal time, and The Poet aimed to be a smart sophisticated leader. He preferred this crew though because he needed men who would follow and come along for the ride. Of the three, The Poet was highly influential and knew if they were all in one place, it would be he who wrapped his arms around The Troll’s neck while the others stood back. The only challenge was in being the first group to find him which is why he tried to be efficient. They tracked their way through the woods, but as the sun began to set, he lost the trail. He considered the possibility that a wild animal had caught him, or maybe Coach, Mortician, and Acrobat, but he wouldn’t stop until he knew for certain. He tried to think like The Troll—of course he would head west, but he’d stop from time to time to eat, sleep…
When they exited the woods, he contacted a friend at Circular Prime and asked him to map the area. He was able to determine that there were three nearby towns. Of course, The Troll wouldn’t have a map and would need to know the lay of the land, but the best thing he could do was follow the population—anywhere where The Troll would find help.
They walked along the tree line for a while, trying to pick up the trail, but found nothing. “He’ll have to pass the river,” The Poet finally said.
“I need to eat,” The Weatherman said, panting. “Talk to The Moderator and get us some transportation.”
The Gambler was seemingly exhausted as well. His bottle was empty and as he sobered up, he wore down.
“We’ll go to the nearest town and I’ll leave you there and head to the bridge.”
“You can’t go on without us,” The Weatherman said.
“You slow me down,” The Poet said.
“Troll needs to rest too. He’s going to be in town somewhere, probably asking for help. He’s not even out of state yet. We have no reason to hurry.”
“We will find him first,” The Poet said. “Before any of the others.”
“Don’t make this personal,” The Weatherman said. “It’s just a job to restore order. We need to root for each other.”
“No,” The Poet shot back. “I want to find him before anyone else. Contact Circular Prime and find out if there’s any strange crowd movement through Psi.”
The Weatherman reluctantly obeyed. He turned to The Gambler in search of a mutual ally, but he was muttering to himself. He wandered off instead and pulled hand-held device from his pocket to do his research.
The Poet was left alone, standing outside the trees and looking into the distance. He thought about the barn, the helicopter, The Pilot, and the three missing bounty hunters. The Troll really was more than he seemed to be, and it excited The Poet. He wanted to meet him face to face more than ever.
A mile from where The Poet stood, The Coach and The Mortician emerged from the forest, both tired from the journey and discouraged they didn’t happen across The Troll. They contemplated in the same way The Poet did, looking in all directions, unsure of which way to go.
The Coach led The Mortician, who stopped along the way to observe dead rodents, birds, anything lifeless so he could look in their eyes and wonder what the last thing the creature saw or thought was. The Coach only swore up a storm, frustrated at the course of events at the barn. Though he seemed to aggressively lead the charge, The Mortician was the truly thoughtful one of the two.
Once a doctor, The Mortician built his fascination on the trauma of seeing so many die. He’d witnessed hundreds of people suffer when Psi froze their minds, and initially he was filled with regret and shame for what they had done. He had always been a close friend of The Moderator and they set him up with the best trauma therapist they could find, who changed his way of thinking. The Mortician learned to accept death, and thereby became fascinated by it. He studied corpses with scrutiny, but questioned what it was that really left a body to make the difference between awareness and nothingness. Eventually, the attitude adopted was that he wanted everyone and everything dead so they could all be on one side together. He endorsed murder, but because he believed it was a sympathetic act. He was out to do The Troll a favor: To take his life.
“Who are you?” a small voice asked. The Coach stopped swearing and they both turned to find a gawky teenager on a bicycle.
“Get out of here,” The Coach said.
The teenager didn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off The Mortician, who in turn, couldn’t take his eyes off of him.
“Are you wearing makeup?” the teenager asked, withholding a laugh.
“We all wear masks,” The Mortician said, stretching his vowels as he spoke slowly. “We’re all borrowing time until the last of the sand falls and our hour is up.”
The coach shook his head and turned away.
“Dude…” the teenager said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
The Mortician’s peaceful and slow demeanor suddenly changed and his eyes went wide and his eyebrows fell as if he was hurt. “You treat life as if it’s just a toy. You do not understand how delicate we all our—a pinpoint away from our own demise at any time.”
“Yeah, okay!” the teenager said, mocking him.
The Mortician’s dark eyes burned through the teenager and as the teenager started to say something else, he noticed The Mortician’s eyes and quieted himself.
The teenager was suddenly frozen with fear. He tried to say the words, but they came out in a clutter. “You’re…from…you’re…”
The teenager started to turn, but The Mortician's long arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder.
The teenager gasped as he lost the ability of his legs and they wobbled under him before he fell to the grass. The Mortician leaned down, keeping his hand on the teenager's shoulder. The teenagers veins turned blue and then the skin around them as the poison spread throughout his body.
The Coach went back to scanning the landscape as if this was a normal occurrence.
The Mortician turned him so he was facing upward and looked into his eyes, which transmitted the only sign of life left in his paralyzed body.
“I know you can understand me,” The Mortician said as he intertwined his thumbs as if forming a bird with both his hands and wrapped them around the teenager’s neck. “What to you is a joke is the very reason you don’t deserve this world. Your only contribution in our paths crossing was to belittle. Such negativity has no place in this world and so I must send you on to where you can live anew. We will meet again one day, and I do hope you have kinder words.”
His hands
tightened and the slightest whimper escaped the teenager and his eyes filled with tears. The Mortician leaned down and searched the teenager’s eyes, amused as the color drained from his face. After a moment, there was nothing. He sat there and waited until The Coach shouted for him to follow.
Together, they walked toward the nearest town.
“He was just sitting on-line when I met him,” The Chameleon said. The Magician scratched his head and did a final once-over of the barn.
“Alright, let’s call this a lucky break for our Troll for now,” he said, his usual flare returning. “Chameleon and I are going to hang back and watch the show. I need something from you,” he said, turning to The Mentalist.
The Mentalist was relaxed, leaning against the downed chopper. “I’m not going to chase this guy across country,” The Mentalist said. “I’ve got better uses of my time. Find me a nearby vehicle and I'll just get ahead of him.”
“I agree,” The Magician said. “You’re my safety net. I want you in Vegas. Stay as long as you want, pick up some girls, have some fun. If The Troll gets close to his destination, you’ll be there and so will large crowds of people. I’m sure you can make good use of the crowd if that happens. It's doubtful he'll make it that far, so get comfortable until we call you back.”
“Of course,” The Mentalist said, pleased with the direction. “Sounds fun.” He didn’t enjoy the chase. He hated to be out of his element—among dirt, weeds, and nature. He wanted to use transportation and sit at a bar, talk to a woman. He had no interest in hunting The Troll—only killing him if he had the chance, and even then, he’d just tap into some locals and use them like puppets to do the deed. Sitting and waiting in Vegas sounded just fine to him.
“Hang tight and we’ll get you a ride out of here,” The Magician said. The Mentalist nodded his approval. Almost all The Magician’s business was done. He walked a wide circle around The Pilot and stopped in front of his face. With the shake of his hand, a pair of keys suddenly appeared. He jangled them in front of The Pilot’s face. “There’s a hangar five miles south. If we give you another ride, you think you can keep it in the air this time?”
The Pilot snatched the keys from The Magician’s hand and walked past, headed in a straight line south. The Magician and The Chameleon watched as he walked farther away and got smaller.
“What do you think?” Chameleon said. “Are you bored with this yet?”
“This is the most fun I’ve ever had,” The Magician said. “The Moderator made a mistake though. I’ll tell you that.”
“Troll won’t get to Vegas,” she said with some reassurance in her tone.
“I know he won’t. He won’t be hard to kill at all. What I’m worried about is how all this will be perceived. The barn…the downed chopper. That’s not what we’re about. This shouldn't even appear this hard to the world.”
“They don’t have to see it,” Chameleon said.
The Magician turned to her, only to find she’d practically disappeared in front of his eyes. The grass in the field and the sunlight shined off her body, creating a blend of greens and blues on her surface.
“The longer he’s alive and it takes for us to broadcast and tell people he’s dead, the more people begin to wonder if we have control. The Moderator isn’t very happy right now, and when he’s not happy, he’ll demonstrate what he’s capable of. He shouldn’t have let our Troll do this.”
“Then let’s end it,” she said, stepping toward him, only her eyes visible, looking deep into his own. He stepped toward her and they met with a kiss. In moments, their hands were wrapped around each other and they were on the ground and their clothes were on the field.
Chapter 7
The Guide sat in Falconedge County Jail and sat where the sheriff had once conducted his business. There no longer existed any kind of police force, and the prisoners had died long ago, forgotten in their cells as the world around them adapted to a new way of life. The Guide stared at the skeletons of these men, ghosts of convicts that once sat behind bars.
He’d been waiting for almost a day and was about to give up on Iris and The Troll. He wished he hadn’t left her behind. The mission had always been everything to The Guide, but in the short time he knew Iris, he grew fond of her. He hated that she might have been caught by the bounty hunters—that she might be with The Troll.
He’d scavenged the precinct, tinkering with all things pre-psi. It was a building abandoned and forgotten, like so many others. After memorizing every picture on the wall, every cell and long dead prisoner within, he’d finally made up his mind to go back. He needed to backtrack and find Iris and hopefully Rainbow. The optimism that he felt after the trial of Surfer hadn’t been very long lasting. The Troll turned out to be a joke. They were attacked too quickly and Rainbow was lost in the shuffle. The whole game had just been more false hope for him. When it was over, his friends would be executed.
He fell into the sheriff’s seat and let his hands run over the wood, wiping dust with the movement. He wrote his old name, Joey, with his index finger and stared at it for a long moment.
Suddenly, the sound of voices and shuffling of feet as The Troll and Iris entered with The Acrobat between them, barely able to walk. At once, hope was restored and instead of asking a dozen questions at once, he was left breathless as Iris smiled at him with relief and wrapped her arms around him.
From behind, The Troll watched, annoyed by the sight. When Iris hugged him, he thought it was special. He reminded himself that she handed out hugs freely. So much for the thought of chemistry between them.
“There’s something you should know,” Iris said, finding The Guide’s eyes. “You’re not going to like it.”
The Guide listened intently, and before Iris could spill the beans, The Troll did for her. “Moderator’s her papa,” he said, shaking a vending machine with a few scattered snacks inside. To his frustration, they didn’t budge, and he wandered off in search of something he could use to break the glass.
As Iris relayed her story, they locked The Acrobat in a cell. He entered willingly, without any fight. His leg was useless and he was exhausted. It wouldn’t be long before the group got themselves killed, so he waited patiently.
She told him the same thing she’d told The Troll on their journey into town: The Moderator was a horrible father. He was abusive, power-hungry, self-centered, and bitter toward society. He was that way before Psi, and the monster inside was only fed when the bigwigs at Circular Prime tried to fire him. The Guide felt sorry for her. He wanted to protect her and restore happiness in her life.
The group spent the night at the precinct, allowing themselves to recover from the long walk. Iris and The Guide shared a cell and The Troll fell asleep on the desk. The Acrobat barely slept. He sat in his cell with his legs sprawled out, staring at the ceiling.
The next morning, The Troll awoke and heard chatter outside. The Guide and Iris stood in the entry, observing the town and brainstorming their next move. If not for Rainbow in The Troll’s pocket, he wasn’t sure they wouldn’t have been gone. I’m no longer needed, he thought, but could he blame them? He wasn’t exactly as gun-ho or passionate about their ploy, though he wanted to be. He liked them, and just as he’d thought of Wigeon so many times in the past and wished she was just a girl who was part of his world, he found himself wondering what life would be like if The Guide and Iris were able to live with Psi and be content. Of course, they probably felt the same way about him, but The Troll was the pragmatic one. Why fight and die rather than find a way to be happy within the world you resided?
He attempted to wedge himself into the conversation, but they were seemingly private. He pulled Rainbow from his pocket and for a moment, thought about just giving it to them and going into hiding, maybe transmitting and begging to go back to his life. He wanted to be on the boards, posting, antagonizing, interacting safely in a place where he could forget his role—forget The Surfer, The Guide, Iris, The damned Pilot and his damned icy gaze behind those da
mned sunglasses.
He quickly stuffed Rainbow back in his pocket as The Guide and Iris entered the room and shut the door behind them. The Acrobat shifted in his cell and pushed himself from the ground, awake and alert. Everyone was refreshed, ready to move, but first they needed a plan.
“We were talking,” Iris said. “We think we can get to the state line within the next few days, and if we can, The Guide thinks it will be much easier from there because we can use the river’s current and fashion a raft. We can make progress without expending so much energy, and probably stay away from the population in the process.”
“Or…” The Troll started, but trailed off. He had everyone’s attention before he could dismiss the thought. “If we have The Moderator’s daughter, why can’t she ask him to call this off?”
The tension was thick, and The Troll regretted asking the moment the words left his mouth. He already knew the answer, but couldn’t resist the knee-jerk way his mind always searched for a way out.
“Because we don’t want this to be called off,” The Guide said, enunciating his words.
“You guys are choosing a war over compromise.”
“There is no compromise with my father,” Iris said. “Haven’t you been paying attention to anything?”
“I don’t see the harm in trying. I thought he was somewhat reasonable.”
The silence was long. The only sound was The Acrobat pulling himself to his feet and approaching the bars, as if he was amused by the spectacle.
“I think this is the point where you hand over Rainbow and let us handle the rest,” The Guide said. “I appreciate you coming this far and helping Iris reach me, but between us, we have everything we need.”
“I’m not handing over Rainbow,” The Troll said, though his mind was spinning. What if he did?