Merged

by Jim Kroepfl

  She scowls. “Lake thinks she’s too good for you.”

  “That’s not true. And, it’s none of your business.”

  Anna picks at a hangnail until it bleeds. “I can watch you paint?”

  I shoot my eyes to the ceiling. “Do we have a deal?”

  She makes a locking motion in front of her lips. For the first time ever, her gaze isn’t filled with challenge.

  “I’ll let you know the next time I start working on something. Promise.” And I will.

  I think we end on okay terms, but who knows what she’ll do after she re-spins our conversation a few dozen times.

  Orfyn

  “The parking lot is too visible,” Stryker says as we conceal ourselves in the shadows outside the back door. “We need to try our luck in the old garage.”

  “What garage?” I ask.

  “It’s about a quarter mile away, hidden behind some trees. But there’s a camera on the roof that will capture our getaway.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I like to get a feel for what I’m dealing with, just in case.”

  With my artist eyes, I see the fine details that most people never notice. I suppose that a guy who’s trying to stop gun violence pays attention to the things put in place to maintain order.

  “Is that why you wanted me to bring paint?” I ask.

  “You’re smarter than you look, Art.” He flashes me his grin.

  I remind myself this is Stryker’s version of a compliment.

  He takes the lead, and we stick close to The Flem’s ivy-covered walls. When we reach the end of the building, he signals, and we dash across the yard until we reach a bunch of tall, scraggly bushes.

  “Head to the big oak,” Stryker directs. “Go!”

  We’re hopscotching our way from shadow to shadow when I hear pounding feet behind us.

  “Someone’s coming after us,” I whisper.

  We dart left, toward a strand of birch trees. Adrenaline surges through me like a tidal wave, even though we’re not doing anything wrong … yet.

  “Wait!” A girl’s voice calls out.

  Did Anna follow me? Then I realize it’s not her. “It’s Lake.”

  “Why did you tell her about tonight?” Stryker accuses.

  “I didn’t!”

  We wait for her to catch up.

  “I saw you guys from my … my window,” Lake says. “What are you doing out here at night?”

  Stryker says, “We need to leave for a couple of hours.”

  “Does this have something to do with Marty?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Then I’m coming.”

  “Lake, we’re taking one of their cars,” Stryker says. “You don’t want that kind of trouble.”

  “I get to decide what kind of trouble I want.” The moonlight shines on her determined face, reminding me of a Roman statue.

  “Fine,” Stryker says, as if Lake hadn’t already made the decision for all of us.

  We follow Stryker to a line of trees, and as we get closer, I spot the old brick garage. He points to the left corner of the roof. “The camera is mounted there. Make a wide arc and approach from the back. Then climb up and put your paint to good use. Got it, Art?”

  “Me?”

  “It’s your mission. I’m just the driver.”

  This is the time he chooses to be the sidekick?

  I never got caught painting in the alleys, and I’m not about to let it happen now. I zigzag from tree to tree, then make a break across the open field—which is when I spot a bobbing light. I drop to the ground. Someone with a flashlight is heading straight toward me. I say a quick prayer that he can’t hear my thumping heart. I’m not sure if it was God’s doing or my dark clothes, but the Not-A-Guard, as Lake calls them, passes within feet without noticing me.

  I wait until he’s out of sight, then make my way to the back of the garage. It’s only one story, but the walls have to be ten feet tall. The gutter running along the corner is too mangled to hold my weight, and there’s no doorway or window sill to use as a foothold.

  As I’m slinking around the building, looking for a way up, I stumble upon a metal barrel in the tall weeds. I roll the rusty barrel to the wall and carefully stand on it. I feel its lid start to give way and leap up, grabbing hold of the roof’s edge as the barrel crumbles beneath my feet. It’s not lost on me that with Stryker’s height, this would’ve been a cinch.

  I pull myself up, but when I stand on the ancient slate tiles, they crack in protest, sounding as loud as a sonic boom—at least, they do to me. I freeze, expecting to see Not-A-Guard returning to nab me, but the only sound I hear is my own heavy breathing. I get down on my hands and knees, splaying as wide as possible, then crab-crawl across the roof. By the time I reach the back of the camera, I’m layered in sweat and covered in decades of rotted leaves and who knows what else. I’m sure I smell terrific, too.

  I grab my tube of black paint, squeeze a dab on my finger, add a hefty gob of spit, and smear it on the camera’s lens. Just enough to make anything seen through it blurry, but not enough to make anyone think it’s anything more than grime. Only then do I allow myself a moment to catch my breath.

  I whistle softly and soon hear running feet approaching me. I’m more relieved than I’d ever admit that it’s only Stryker and Lake.

  “Mission accomplished. Help me down.” I hang off the roof’s edge, and Stryker reaches up, taking the weight off my fall.

  “Nice job,” he says. “If the art thing doesn’t work out, you can always lead a life as a cat burglar.”

  Thanks for the confidence, Stryker. And what’s a cat burglar, anyway?

  As we approach the door, he asks Lake, “Do you still have Jules’s keycard?”

  “No. I left my room for a bite to eat and couldn’t find it when I got back.”

  I catch Lake’s eyes. “Jules must’ve told them you had it.”

  My belief in her good intentions drops a few more notches.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Stryker says. “There’s no card reader.”

  I test the handle, and it’s locked. I’m debating whether I should try to kick in the door when Stryker saves me the embarrassment. He pulls out his wallet, selects a credit card, and slips it between the door and the jamb. After he wiggles the card and jiggles the handle, the door opens.

  “Care to tell us how you learned to do that?” Lake asks Stryker.

  “I’ve met my share of locked doors.”

  Stryker turns on the flashlight he thought to bring and reveals an old pickup truck next to a van with The Flemming Academy, Since 1902 on its side. As we approach the truck, a mouse skitters out from underneath, scaring the crap out of me. For the record, even Stryker jumped.

  “We need to find some keys,” he says, rubbing his hands and eyeing the van.

  Lake begins searching the garage, Stryker scours the vehicles, and I rummage through the tiny office. I can’t help but notice a calendar with a picture of a girl in a bikini, doing an admirable job of representing July 2002.

  I rejoin them. “Nothing. Anyone know how to hotwire a car?” I joke.

  “I do,” Stryker says.

  Lake and I turn to look at him. Should I be surprised anymore?

  “The van will be the easiest,” he says while opening its rust-pocked driver’s door. “Find me a Phillips-head screwdriver, wire cutters, and electrical tape. And work gloves, if you can.”

  Lake and I collect what he needs, even the gloves. Stryker takes off the plastic casing around the steering column and tosses it on the ground. He spends a moment studying the tangle of wires, then cuts two red ones and wraps them together.

  Country music blasts from the radio, shortening my life by a year or two. I lean into the van and turn off the noise threatening to destroy our plan.

  Lake pulls out a piece of gum.

  “Battery still works,” Stryker says calmly. He strips another
wire and holds it as if it’ll explode. “Just a precaution, but I wouldn’t be touching this van right now.”

  Lake and I lurch away.

  Stryker touches the bare wires against each other. Sparks fly, and the engine rumbles to life. “One more step.” He grips the steering wheel and starts jerking it to the right and left, grunting with each turn.

  “Careful,” Lake says. “You’ll break it.”

  “That’s the point.” He yanks the steering wheel hard, and it lets out a sharp, metallic snap. He turns the wheel easily in both directions and flashes his Stryker-smile. “The Flem Van, at your service.”

  Orfyn

  We peel out of the garage, narrowly missing a tree, since we don’t have the headlights on. Stryker swerves, and the Flem Van’s tires skid over the gravel. I death-grip the passenger door, and Lake looks like she’s seriously regretting her decision to come along.

  “Bjorn raced stock cars when he was young,” Stryker says as he whips us around another corner. “I may be channeling his love for speed.”

  “Are you serious about channeling?” I ask, every muscle tense as we tear down the road.

  “I’m still deciding,” Stryker says, as easy-going as if we were all hanging out in Lake’s rose garden instead of roaring away in a stolen van.

  Am I channeling Bat? I have started playing classical music while I paint.

  Out of the darkness, Lake says, “Can we stop somewhere for cigarettes?” Then, “I don’t know why I just said that.”

  I hear crinkling and then smell peppermint.

  “We’re all a little tense, Lake,” Stryker says.

  “All part of the fun of stealing a van to bring a life-altering program back to the secret brain lab to keep Marty from becoming a zombie,” I add, trying to make her smile.

  Stryker catches my eye in the rearview mirror, letting me know I’m not the only one who’s worried about her. He told me he tried talking to her like we agreed, but he didn’t get far. I’ll try when we’re alone—and if she ends up mad at me again, I still have to do it.

  We finally get to Jersey, then Bat’s neighborhood. The homes on his block feel like the kind where families have dinner together and share stories about their day. The yards are mowed, brightly colored flowers line the walkways, and kids’ bikes lie in the driveways, waiting for the next carefree summer day of exploring. I always dreamed about living in a place like this, and of being one of those kids. Instead, a corporation intent on changing the course of mankind has adopted me.

  Fate can be surprising.

  Bat couldn’t remember where he put the spare key. Knowing him, he “hid” it under the doormat. As we walk up to the house, I see a high-tech panel next to a door without a doorknob, which looks totally out of place.

  Stryker studies it while I grin at the doormat, which proclaims, Live Long and Prosper.

  “It’s a palm reader,” Stryker says.

  Lake beats me to the punch. “How do you know that?”

  “My dad had one installed to keep me out of his home office.” When Lake raises her eyebrows, he adds, “Long story.”

  “I don’t mean to sound insensitive here,” I say, “but Bat’s palm is buried six feet in the ground.”

  Stryker grabs my hand and pushes it against the panel’s black screen.

  “That’s not going to—”

  “Welcome, Kevin,” says the security panel … in Bat’s voice.

  A chill runs through me, and Lake chews her gum fast enough to dislocate her jaw.

  Stryker smirks at me. “Kevin?”

  Hearing my name is startling, but hearing it said in front of Lake and Stryker—in Bat’s voice—is beyond freaky. It takes a few seconds before I can answer, “Another guy in another life.”

  Stryker gives me a nod, making me feel like he understands, which I didn’t expect.

  I lead Lake and Stryker into Bat’s home, and the hairs on my arms rise to attention. The living room is exactly like the one in my dreams: worn couch, rose-colored wallpaper with flowers, the photo of Bat’s mom on the mantel.

  Stryker surveys the room. “Not what I’d expect from a gaming tycoon.”

  “Shut up,” I snap. “You don’t know what his life was like.”

  Stryker looks like I sucker-punched him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “It reminds me of my Grandma Bee’s house,” Lake says. “It feels like home.”

  I smile my thanks to her. “Bat said it’s in the basement. The stairs are over this way.”

  I head down the hallway and am confronted by another high-tech door. Next to it is a screen six inches square with a glowing orange line moving from top to bottom. I place my hand on it and nothing happens.

  “It’s meant to scan something,” Stryker says.

  Questions about Stryker’s old life swirl through my mind like van Gogh’s stars.

  We start holding up different things in front of the screen, but nothing works.

  “He wouldn’t give you access to his house, but not the bathtub … I mean, basement,” Lake says.

  “He’d probably use something he could keep on him,” Stryker says while opening a drawer crammed with blue First Place ribbons and Certificates of Achievement.

  We try the ribbons. We try photos off the wall. We even try my eyes, which only turns everything orange for a few blinks. “Bat’s never without his grape soda,” I joke.

  “Go see if you can find one,” Stryker says.

  I head to the kitchen. Like in my dreams, the fridge is filled with purple cans. Could that be it? I grab one and hold it in front of the scanner. When the door slides open, I have to chuckle at the way Bat’s mind works.

  I head down the orange shag stairs and when I reach the last step, I freeze.

  It’s all real!

  Monet. Degas. Van Gogh. I know everything upstairs looks the same, but I couldn’t make myself believe that hidden in Bat’s basement is a priceless art collection.

  “Holy Picasso!” Stryker says.

  “They’re not … what’s the word? Originals, are they?” Lake asks.

  I nod. “They’re the real deal.”

  The same nine screens as in my dreams are mounted on the far wall. But in this basement, there’s only one of the most comfortable chairs in the world. Bat was so alone. But now, in his second life, he has me.

  “Bat told me to turn on the screens when I got here,” I explain.

  “Where’s the remote?” Stryker starts searching.

  “I’ve never seen him use one.” I rack my brain, trying to remember what Bat does. He gets a soda from upstairs, plops down in the left recliner, and then the screens come to life. I sit in his chair, feeling like an interloper. It’s as comfortable as the dream version, but something doesn’t feel right. It’s not usually this quiet. Bat always has music playing.

  “Mozart, please,” I say. Classical music fills the room, and the screens light up.

  I gasp.

  In front of me is the electronic version of my painting, Take This Cup, with Christ, his twelve disciples … and Bat, sipping from a plain, clay cup.

  When you dream about something that feels impossible, and allow yourself to hope that it really exists, and believe it enough to steal a van with a beautiful girl, and risk your life letting a guy who thinks he’s a NASCAR driver bring you to New Jersey—well, even then, you’re still not fully prepared when it appears right in front of you.

  Bat gets up from the table. “You must be Kevin.”

  “You know me?”

  “Naturally.”

  He looks like my Bat, pink bathrobe and all. Except his eyes don’t have that magic that makes you believe anything is possible. “Are you the same Bat as in my dreams?”

  “He is the real Bat. I am a program with a more limited array of thoughts and feelings. But please let me say, I am very glad to meet you. It means the procedure was a success.”

  Stryk
er nudges me. “Dude, he’s hanging out with Jesus!” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

  I’m not sure if it’s all the masterpieces, Christ and his hockey player disciples having supper right in front of us, or the replica of my Mentor making polite conversation. Either way, this is the first time Stryker has ever referred to me as Dude.

  “That’s a painting of mine,” I say, as if that explains it.

  “It looks so real.” Lake steps closer to the screen.

  Virtual Bat stares at her like he’s never seen a girl before. Some things can’t get filtered out of a copy.

  “Virtual Bat, this is Lake, the Nobel for Chemistry.”

  “Hello, Bat,” Lake says, as if there’s nothing strange about this experience.

  Virtual Bat pulls back his shoulders and tightens the tie on his bathrobe. “You’re pretty.”

  Stryker slides me a look. I just shake my head.

  “Thank you.” Lake gives him a smile.

  “And this is Stryker,” I say, trying to salvage Bat’s cool. “Peace.”

  Virtual Bat holds up two fingers. “Peace back at you. Now, how may I help, Kevin?”

  “I’m Orfyn now.”

  “We thought you would choose that name.”

  The warmest feeling floats through me. I really do have a guardian angel … or two. One who seems as much man as computer, and one who probably acted more computer than man.

  I tell Virtual Bat about what Angus is doing to Marty, and our plan to insert Angus’s consciousness into Bat’s program. “Real Bat said it’s here.”

  “Yes. The prototype is in this room.”

  “Do you think it will work?”

  “In theory. This version has extensive capacity and an impressive range of sensitivity algorithms.” Bat rubs his stubbly chins, like my Bat does. “I estimate the current prototype could hold the memories and impulse patterns of twenty mature human minds.”

  “Then there’s the possibility to save those other kids, too,” Lake says.

  This isn’t the time to bring it up, but if her memory keeps getting worse, she may need to be next in line. Would she consider it?