Similarly, he customized the underwear and tunic to where he felt comfortable and appropriate around Lixa.
Lixa.
They had spent some time together, but mostly Zax was always in the room. He tried hard to read her—what she really thought about him.
From as early as he could remember, Tarik had always wanted to be accepted. That’s why he was so well-behaved during his time on the rebel base. He didn’t want to be considered a freak. Again, every time he looked in the mirror it was hard for him to think anything other than that.
Did Lixa see him as an equal? Whenever she had the drop on him with the railgun and thought he might be a Skink, she seemed to have a prejudice against another species. Of course, it might have had nothing to do with prejudice without reason. The Skinks had doomed the Nu-Man species to an early death. And, technically, the rebels and the Skinks were at war, even though the Skinks might not be fully aware of who they were at war with and to what extent.
Tarik didn’t want Lixa to see him as a freak. He found himself to be on his best behavior around her so as not to give her any opportunities to dislike him.
Zax had shot him a few eye rolls when he may have laid the sweetness on a little too thick. The last thing Tarik wanted was for his friend to call him out in front of Lixa. If she saw the two get into an argument, she might automatically take Zax’s side; Nu-Man nature being what it was.
The shirt was the last item he washed in the sink. He used a small folding table as a clothesline and placed a fan close by. Parts of the clothing draping down bent to the artificial wind.
There were several chairs in the safe-house for them to sit on. The chairs were light but very sturdy to accommodate Nu-Man weight; made from some compound of Skink design. Three chairs were pushed against a table in the kitchen. Zax and Lixa had a box containing food on the counter and were going through the selections.
“Hey Tarik, you ready to eat?” Zax asked.
“Sure. How about some of that roasted lamb like we saw in the city? I’ll go gather some wood from outside and start a fire,” Tarik said as he stepped over.
Lixa stopped and turned a discerning eye toward him.
“Let’s see here…” Zax fumbled around in the box. “Here you go, a container of cat food, Lucky Lamb Recipe.”
“There’s cat food in our supply box? Someone actually thought we’d have a cat here?” Lixa asked.
“No, I’m kidding,” Zax said. “Tarik likes to be a smartass. So, I like to smartass right back at him. However,” Zax turned the container around so Tarik and Lixa could both see it, “it is a container of salmon. I’m sure a cat would have no problem eating this.”
“Meow,” Tarik said.
“Uh, does that mean you want the salmon?” Zax asked.
“Meow, meow,” Tarik said and held out his hand.
“You two make a very strange couple,” Lixa said.
“Living for twenty-five years on a base out in the middle of nowhere limits my forms of entertainment,” Tarik said. “Zax and I have been close for the last several years. He’s my best friend.”
“Yeah, and Tarik is my favorite pet,” Zax said.
“Favorite pet? Go clean out my box, then,” Tarik said.
“He does tricks, too,” Zax said.
“Are we going to eat or are you two going to carry on all afternoon?” Lixa said. She held a pouch of corned beef and a box of crackers. After she had placed them on the table, she asked, “What does everyone want to drink?”
“Vita-water orange, if you have it,” Zax said.
“Vita-grape for me,” Tarik said.
“All we have is orange,” Lixa said.
“That’s fine,” Tarik said. He looked over on the counter and saw a stack of disposable plates. He walked over and counted three from the stack, and took them to the table.
Lixa placed the bottles of Vita-water on the table and sat down. “Thank you,” she said when Tarik handed her a plate.
Zax took his and immediately tore into his pouch of chicken.
“You’re welcome,” Tarik said to Lixa. “You’re welcome,” he coarsely told Zax.
The food pouches were large, nearly a foot long and ten inches wide. It took a lot of calories to satisfy a Nu-Man. Each pouch contained a spork, knife, and a thin napkin, along with small packs of salt and pepper. The protein portions took up most of the self-heating food container. Two hard crackers were included. There were two side dishes. One was a starch of some type and the other a green vegetable. Tarik had potatoes Au gratin and spinach, of which was to his liking.
Zax wolfed down a large portion of chicken and chased it with the two crackers. He took a swig of water, and then he reached for the box of crackers and pulled out a pack.
Lixa calmly cut into her corned beef and began eating, taking care to chew the meat sufficiently. Her gaze focused mainly on the table. She bit into her cracker and wiped her mouth with the napkin.
Tarik had eaten a mouthful of salmon. The fish had a fresh, delightful flavor that had him wanting more. It looked like Lixa had checked out from the table. He wondered what she was thinking about.
“The mission,” Lixa started, “do you…do you think your chances are good?”
Now Tarik knew. Fate had dealt everyone a hand they would have gladly folded and asked for a new one if that were possible. The reality of the situation was grim. The finish line of the race was just up ahead. Each passing second cemented to a reality of final consequences.
“We’re not going to fail,” Zax said without looking up from his plate. He continued to eat like the matter had been decided.
“Honestly, it’s hard to say,” Tarik said and then wiped his mouth. “One of the things we were hoping for was the element of surprise. After that Skink scout ship discovered the base, well, they might heighten security at the old nuclear weapons factory.”
“They have no idea of our plan,” Zax said.
“I hope he’s right,” Tarik said. “I also hope that if anyone is captured, well, I hope they’ll be able to keep our plans secret.”
“Nu-Mans are tough. At least, we rebels are. We won’t break. We’re put together a little different than the others. I guess the Skinks couldn’t engineer rebellion out of all of us,” Zax said.
“Rebellion was a big part of human nature. Human history had wars of epic proportion. Even chimpanzees would gather in groups against others and savagely attack each other. Rebellion is part of our genetic code,” Tarik said.
“I’m prepared to fight if I have to,” Lixa said. “Still…I’ve never killed anyone.”
“I hadn’t either, until yesterday,” Tarik said, thinking back to when he obliterated two Skink warriors, with a railgun, and the hand-to-hand melee with the other. His thoughts then shifted to the Skink citizen who came upon them later as they made their way to old-life.
“Yesterday was my first battle. Most of the rebels haven’t killed before,” Zax said.
Silence hung in the air for a bit. Lixa turned her head to Tarik, and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Tarik shoved the spinach around in the container with his spork. “Yesterday. Yesterday I fought four of the Skink warriors at the base and killed them all. That didn’t affect me much. I mean, I was fighting for my life. It was them or me. If things had gone just a bit differently, the last warrior might have killed me. But then something else happened. After we had escaped to the city, I saw a Skink citizen in real life for the first time. In a way, I think I felt the same way you did when you saw me. It’s not every day you meet another intelligent species. He came close enough to touch.
“I didn’t feel any hate for him, at that moment. He was oblivious to me, thinking I was some everyday security patrol. I wanted a chance to sit down with him. Ask him a million questions. Touch his skin and see if we could find a way to enjoy mutual respect. But there was no realistic opportunity for that. I had resolved that my contact with Skinks would only be me in my mech-armor, never to have that first
-encounter moment.
“But then later, when we were almost out of the city, another Skink citizen crossed our path and was suspect of the situation. He was seconds away from calling in a report when I created a ruse to distract him. I bought enough time to…end his life before he could give away our position.”
Lixa reached over and patted his left hand, which rested on the table. “You did what you had to do.”
“I killed him with my own two hands.” Tarik bit his lip and breathed in slowly. “He didn’t have a chance. In the blink of an eye, I snuffed out a life. He wasn’t trying to kill me. But…but I couldn’t…I just couldn’t.” He let his words die.
“You had no choice. There’s nothing to feel bad about,” Lixa said.
“Tarik, don’t you be going soft on me. You’ve got to stay focused. You can’t allow any distractions during the mission,” Zax said.
Tarik brought the hand holding the spork down on the table. “I’m not going soft! I’m going to be in automatic mode when we attack the facility. Nothing is going to stop me from my mission.”
“Good, let’s finish up eating now,” Zax said and spooned pasta into his mouth.
Tarik and Lixa resumed eating, drinking Vita-water between bites.
Suppressing a burp, Tarik said, “What upsets me about killing that Skink is that it seemed like such a waste. A life gone, and we didn’t gain anything. We just prevented from losing what we had. If we’re going to kill, I want to advance the mission. I know this all sounds crazy to you two, but killing does have a way of messing with your emotions.”
“Yeah, I can tell, because the mission was advanced because you killed him. Don’t try to put a value on death. The odds don’t have to be even to justify killing. I’d kill ten Skinks without thinking if the only reward was a piece of candy. We’re at war. There is no good or bad. There is only victory or death.”
Tarik slowly nodded. “You’re right. You’re right. Thanks. Thanks for putting this in perspective for me.”
“Tarik, I’m not worried about you,” Zax said. “I’ve seen you in action. We’re going to win this.”
“I see that you’re finished, Zax. Are you going to have another?” Lixa asked.
“Maybe a little later. I’m going to let this one settle in my stomach a bit.”
“I’m finished, too. I’m ready for my Z-bar. Would you like yours now?” she asked.
“Sure, let’s get it over with.”
Rising from her chair, Lixa opened another box and pulled out a silver wrapped bar big enough to cover her palm. A Z-bar contained a special nutrient invented by the Skinks necessary for Nu-Man vitality. Their genetic manipulation of humans had its deficiencies from the beginning. The sasquatch-human hybrid needed the nutrient for health benefits. Going a month without the additive would bring complications.
The wrappers crinkled as Lixa and Zax peeled them back.
“You want some?” Zax said to Tarik and laughed. The big guy ate his in three bites and was done.
Lixa took her time in eating hers.
“I bet it tastes like it smells,” Tarik said.
“Try it and find out,” Zax said.
“You know I can’t eat that.”
“Why can’t you have a Z-bar?” Lixa asked.
“Uh, I was told I should never eat it. They were afraid that maybe I could have an allergic reaction and die. So, I’ve stayed away from it. I wouldn’t want to eat it anyway. It smells horrible.”
“Eh, you get used to it,” Zax said.
“Kind of like Hud’s cooking,” Tarik said.
The two shared a laugh.
“I miss the old guy,” Zax said.
“Me, too.” Tarik closed his eyes and smiled. “Me, too.”
Chapter 11
The Present
The porch boards creaked every time the rocking chair tipped forward. There was nothing better than a tall glass of whiskey to reward one’s self after a day tilling the fields. His boots remained on the ground just by the steps leading into the house. A Remington 870 shotgun propped against the façade near the back door.
Marvin ‘Dougie’ Douglas grew up on the east side of Detroit during the 1950s. The city boomed with the expansion of twenty-five auto plants built by the Big Three: General Motors, Ford Motor Company, and Chrysler Corporation. The GI Bill’s home loan guaranty gave soldiers who had survived World War II a chance to start life afresh in a modest home to raise a family.
Douglas lived just off Chandler Park Drive, in one of the cookie-cutter homes that averaged between seven to eight hundred square feet in size. Life had been much simpler then, and Douglas liked to keep it simple.
His dad had stormed the beaches of Normandy on June 6, 1944. His mother had told them that fact, once when she was sober in between bottles of vodka, as his dad never once spoke about his time during the war to him.
Douglas blamed the war for his dad’s obsession with working at the auto plant. The man seemed to prefer his time there than at home. Working sixteen hour days, six days a week, was the rule rather than the exception. The money was good. There was decent food to eat, but his dad was always on the frugal side, except when it came to cars. His dad’s greatest love in his life was his car, which he would replace about every two years.
The vehicle that stuck out the most in Douglas’ mind was the 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible. The color was Larkspur Blue, and his dad would give it a quick wash every day after work before he would come in to eat supper, even if it was dark. Sundays involved a detailed cleaning and a fresh coat of wax. His cars always shined like it was on the showroom floor.
The rest of his dad’s money went toward buying US Savings Bonds and supplementing the income of the uncle who had raised him. He wanted to have enough money in the bank to live comfortably during the last years of his life, and not be like his Uncle Mitch.
Both of his dad’s parents died in an auto accident when his dad was five-years-old. Uncle Mitch, who wasn’t married or had any children of his own, treated his nephew as a son. Mitch had inherited an old farm near Mark Twain National Forest in Missouri and moved there after his nephew went off to fight in WWII.
Mitch wasn’t much of a farmer, and if it hadn’t been for Marvin Douglas’ dad sending him money, he would have lost the place to tax collectors.
Having a drunk for a mom wasn’t any fun for Douglas. Having a missing-in-action father meant he had to basically raise himself. School was boring, but the streets were full of opportunities. Marvin Douglas learned how to do exciting things, like shoplift candy and comic books from stores. One of the earliest skills he taught himself was how to pick locks on doors. It was easy back then. All you needed was a flathead screwdriver, and in less than a minute, he could wedge the tool behind the latch bolt and with a little technique, slide it away from the strike plate until the door would simply pull open.
Soon enough Dougie found himself teamed up with a group of like-minded kids. They called themselves the Stilettos. Each carried switchblade knives with six-inch-blades. They were a badass group who looked for trouble. Dougie quickly gained the reputation of drawing blood when anybody disagreed with him.
Years of success had at one point lulled him into a false sense of security. He eventually got sloppy on a good sized drug deal. The mishap bought him a twenty-year reservation at the State Prison of Southern Michigan.
When Douglas left prison, he was like a man landing on a foreign planet. The world had changed so much. There were no friends or family to take him in. In fact, if any of his enemies knew he was out, they were sure to come pay him a special visit that would terminate his life.
His dad had died of a heart attack when Dougie was twenty-five. He didn’t even bother going to the funeral. Why would he? He hadn’t seen or talked to the man in almost ten years.
His mother sold the house and moved away not long after. She left no forwarding address, and Dougie never heard from her again. He imagined she cashed all those savings bonds and moved to
Vegas. For some reason, his mother had a fascination with Sin City.
There were two things other than the paper bag of clothing and possessions that Dougie had when he left prison. One was the deed to his Uncle Mitch’s farm in Missouri. The other was twenty thousand dollars he had hidden in an ice chest in a remote part of a city park.
He was amazed and happy that the money was still there. He had constantly thought of some new construction unearthing the treasure and his nest egg disappearing forever. Dougie would even scan newspapers looking for such a story but never found one. If someone had found the money, they probably would have kept it secret. He knew he would have.
That didn’t happen. He had twenty thousand dollars in cash. When he checked on his deed to the farm, he expected to learn that it had been sold to collect back taxes. The only other entity greater at stealing than a thief was the government. Nothing was ever going to stop them from getting their money. But Dougie learned he still owned the farm. It seemed like the place was in too remote of a location for anyone to want it. All he had to do was pay the taxes and move in. So, he did.
The convict had learned in life that if you leave people alone, then they will leave you alone. Prison had kept him isolated from the rest of the world, and he grew to like that. What he didn’t like was being locked up with the dregs of society. He’d had enough of that, too.
Once he moved to the farm and made the house livable again, he was desperate for some entertainment. Dougie took advantage of a promotional deal and had a dish put in his yard and bought a subscription to satellite TV and the internet.
Prison had been good for one thing. He was allowed access to computers. For some reason learning how computers worked and how to search for things on the internet came naturally. He’d even had thoughts how his life could have been totally different had he gone off to school and learned a trade in computer science. He was an old man now, and shoulda-woulda-coulda dreams didn’t bring happiness.
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