by Leah Cutter
“I think I got it,” I told him. Was he really that fucking concerned with my social skills? Dude had no idea that I could talk with people a hell of a lot easier and better than he could.
Also, fuck if I was going to recruit for him.
I had other questions I needed to ask the girls.
Ξ
Because I figured what the hell I asked Josh for cab fare to my first “assignment.”
He not only volunteered to pay for it, he got me set up on an app that the company used to call those independent cabs.
“You only have enough money on your account to charge two, maybe three rides a month,” he warned me.
I doubted I’d stick around for longer than a month. It was still a sweet deal, not to have to take the bus everywhere.
The night had grown much darker while I waited for the cab to arrive. The driver turned out to be a little Ethiopian guy, Hakeem. I mean, he was tiny. It would have taken two of him to make up one of me. He barely came up to my chest when he opened the car door for me.
He drove a really nice black town car. With the driver’s seat pulled way up.
Could he even see over the steering wheel?
Hakeem didn’t complain or look askance at me when I asked him to take me to the northern warehouse district in downtown Minneapolis.
If Josh and the other recruiters used this service, the drivers were probably used to going to sketchy areas.
After we’d pulled away from the river road and were climbing back towards civilization, Hakeem said, “Excuse me. Miss?”
“Yes?” I asked. I’d turned off my phone when I’d gone in for testing. There were a couple messages, but I figured they could wait.
“You are American miss, yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” I told him slowly. He obviously was looking for something from me.
“Can I practice my English on you, please? Unless you have business on phone,” he said.
“Sure,” I said, sliding my phone back into my pocket. What the hell. It would probably be more interesting talking with Hakeem than anyone on my phone.
So we spent the ride talking about what I did, being a post–cog, how his Aunt Genat could tell events before they happened, that he was still studying to be a doctor in this country, why I had no husband.
It surprised me how easy he seemed to accept that I was a lesbian.
“Babies are the blessing of god,” he said seriously. Then he caught my eye in the rearview mirror, and winked. “They are also much work. And expense.”
Did he figure women were lesbians just so they didn’t have to have kids? It kind of made sense.
As I was getting out of the car, Hakeem asked me for my card. “So I can call you. Give you business.”
“I don’t have a private business,” I told him. “I just work for other people.”
“Ah. You should, though,” he said. “You are much friendlier than the others I drive. Much better with people.”
He drove off leaving me melting on the sidewalk after his lovely AC and wondering.
Could I start my own business? I didn’t think I could. I didn’t have the money, the connections, or the patience to deal with the bullshit paperwork.
It didn’t matter, however. I was still shilling for the man at that point. Maybe sometime I could look into it. If it was even possible.
In the meantime, I needed to find some girls to talk with. Not to ask about drugs, no. I knew that was a dead end.
But to ask about their geekiest clients. See if any of them knew about the Old Ones.
Ξ
It wasn’t as easy to find working girls as it once had been: Like much commerce, their business had moved to the internet.
However, I still found a couple of down–on–their–luck girls working near the 94 bridge in north downtown. I remembered that Angela used to work there, particularly during the winter, as the bridge blocked a significant portion of the artic wind.
She frequently had to chase away homeless bums; however, she just considered that part of the cost of doing business.
The two working tonight were both older girls, tall and willowy, like former basketball players. Neither of them had much to speak of in the way of tits, but I still bet they’d be fun to tag–team.
The darker one wore a gold afro, like she was in some kind of movie production about 1970s hookers. She also had on a white bolero jacket with a yellow tube top and sprayed–on brown short–shorts.
The lighter colored one had soft brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. I bet she charged extra for a john to be able to pull it. She was in the briefest of halter tops, red and blue striped, with white shorts.
Both of them would have been prettier with ten pounds on them, some muscle and curves. But they’d been on the streets for too long, or had started off addicted to crack or something worse and were here to earn enough for their habit.
At least it was dark enough to mostly hide the track marks that marred the inside of their arms.
“Hey,” I said, coming up to them. I had my cigarettes in my hand, ready to offer them.
The one in the afro looked me up and down, then sniffed deliberately. “I can smell the cop on this one, Charlene,” she said with a deliberate sneer.
Well fuck. So much for Josh’s plans for me recruiting.
But then again, I wasn’t really here to recruit for Josh.
I shrugged. “Post–cog, actually. Not a narc, not working for vice. Working on that asshole who keeps setting off the bombs.”
The girls nodded at that. Possibly a shade warmer than they had been two seconds ago.
I continued, trying to be businesslike, instead of being friends with them (which honestly, seemed like a better bet given the way Charlene’s eyes were already glazed over. She needed another hit. Badly).
“You’ve heard the asshole’s letters, the ones he releases after another of his fucking bombs goes off?” I asked, shaking out a cigarette for myself then offering them to the girls.
Both shook their heads. Charlene now with her arms wrapped around her bare belly as if she was cold.
I didn’t have to have any abilities to see that she wasn’t doing great.
“All that shit about retribution for our sins?” the one with the golden afro asked.
“That’s only what’s been disclosed to the public,” I told them. It was pure bullshit. I had no idea what was in the full content of the letters.
“The other parts, however, mention the Old Ones,” I said, taking a lovely drag of my cigarette to calm my nerves. I wasn’t that addicted, but it still felt like it had been fucking forever since I’d had a hit.
The girls both shrugged at that, as I assumed they would.
“I’m looking for the nerdiest client you’ve ever had,” I told them. “Coke–bottle glasses, dweebish nervous laugh, maybe was still a virgin by the time he found you.”
The girl with the afro nodded suddenly. “You need to talk with Alice,” she said. “She’s, where, up on Lake street right now?”
Charlene shrugged.
I figure if it didn’t have to do with negotiating a fee for services, Charlene wasn’t likely to be very talkative until she got her hit.
“Alice specializes in the geeky ones,” the woman continued. “She tries to keep up a regular list. Says they don’t ask for much, come really quickly, and don’t know the street prices for anything so they always overpay.”
“Got it,” I said. “What does Alice look like?”
“Curly red hair, fake glasses, big tits,” Charlene said, suddenly speaking up. “She’s a nerd, too.”
“Really?” I asked. All the better. I’d much rather work with someone like that.
I thanked the girls for their time and headed back up Hennepin. I wished I could call Hakeem, have him drive me to the next place.
But the heat of the night and the Minneapolis bus system were the best I could do.
I rode an almost empty bus up toward Lake Street. I figured she was probably east
on Lake, past Nicollet, close to where the old Sears building used to be. It used to be a nice middle–class neighborhood, but had fallen on hard times, the big houses subdividing and the yards turning to dirt with the slumlords ruling the streets.
The driver kept all the lights on in the bus. I could barely see out. Instead, I kept catching sight of my own reflection in the window.
There I was. All alone. Late at night. Chasing some monster. Or God. Or non–man. Or impossible dream, of a rich girlfriend or the perfect job.
I’d become the type of asshole I’d always sworn I wouldn’t become. I’d stopped calling my friends, stopped hanging out with them. Just because of the new girlfriend.
I vowed to change that.
Plus, I missed that freak Hunter more than I’d realized I would. Even when we hadn’t been talking, I at least always knew I could find him, could count on him.
Maybe being a blood brother did mean something.
Whereas Sam and I…who knew where we stood, where we were going?
I’d have to try to talk with her. See if we could clear the air. Maybe make some plans. Hold on, instead of each of us careening down our own separate roads as we had been.
If there was still an us in a few days.
Ξ
I spent far too much time traveling up and down Lake Street with no luck. No one would even admit to knowing a prostitute named Alice.
Had the first pair of girls lied to me? It wouldn’t have surprised me. But they’d seemed to know too many details for them to just be making it up.
Finally, I decided the hell with it and took the next southbound bus, heading back toward downtown. I would have to get up too fucking early to get to the Jacobson Consortium.
I knew that there would be lie detectors in my future. At least I’d be able to honestly tell Josh that I’d tried to talk with the girls. That they’d smelled cop on me.
As I walked the last couple of blocks to my place, I pulled out my phone. I was surprised that Sam hadn’t at least tried to call me. We hadn’t made any plans, but we also hadn’t not made plans. I figured she’d at least be curious about how my first day at Jacobson Consortium had gone.
I started swearing as soon as I swiped it on.
I’d turned the sound off when I’d started taking the PA tests earlier that afternoon. I’d meant to turn the sound back on earlier, when I was in Hakeem’s cab, but I’d forgotten.
There were four voicemails waiting for me. As well as half–a–dozen text messages.
I had a shift that evening at Chinaman Joe’s? Since when?
I didn’t remember scheduling myself for today.
But Laura now also worked on the schedule. Had she changed it, and not told me about it?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I called the shop. Laura picked up.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I started off with. “I’m really, really sorry. But I didn’t know I had a shift tonight.”
Laura’s sigh came through loud and clear. I could see her shaking her head.
“Cassie—Chinaman Joe came by tonight. He’d wanted to talk with you about something.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say.
“Look, we covered for you tonight, but you’re going to have to come in Wednesday night instead,” Laura said.
“Wednesday? Okay, sure—no, wait. I can’t,” I said. That was the night of the parade. That was when Poseidon oversaw the parade.
If the god Poseidon was here, on earth, in this timeline, would it mean the prison where Cthulhu was trapped would be weakened?
“I’ve already arranged to take the kids that night,” Laura told me seriously. “And no one else can take the shift.”
“We’ll figure something out,” I said.
Because I would have to go and save the world that night.
Even if it meant losing my job.
Chapter Twelve
Hunter deposited another stash of the ghost tripper drug in a small alley near where Cassie lived. He based this location on a six–base clue, because Cassie had six letters in her name, and it was three blocks by three blocks away, it was the sixth stash, it was the twenty–fourth of the month and he deposited it right at midnight.
Luckily, boxes had six sides. He put this one up high, attached it with wire to a light pole twenty–four feet above the ground.
Surely she’d see the symbolism and follow the clues? He wasn’t a post–cog, just a pre–cog. All he could do was see what might happen in the future.
He didn’t see her coming to this spot, no matter what timelines he searched.
But his gift had been wrong before. And it seemed to be wrong now. All his visions were so dark, with him so helpless, and just Cassie on her own.
She would come. If not to this stash, then to one of the others, despite the fact that he didn’t foresee her going to any of them. But he had to believe that she’d find them. Use them.
Save the world.
Hunter flowed down the light pole and crouched at the base of it. The ghosts hadn’t taught him how to get down, though they had taught him how to climb. They’d thought it was very funny to get him to climb up high and then need their help getting down, until he’d taught himself the trick.
From his spot low to the ground, Hunter looked up. The box was just a white dot on the brown pole. He’d placed it directly under the light, so it wouldn’t be easy to see from below.
He checked the alley. No one, not even the ghosts, had seen him plant his latest stash.
Cassie would see it, though. She had to take the drug in order to stop the non–men.
She didn’t want to. Hunter knew that. But she had to.
Couldn’t she see that?
Hunter couldn’t save her. His visions were clear on that, so much darker than usual.
He hadn’t been able to save her before. Loki had kidnapped him—him—and used him for his own foul deeds.
All Hunter could do was leave deposits of the drug for Cassie to find. To stumble across. For her own gifts to lead her there.
Or maybe the ghosts would….
Hunter shook himself, though he stayed where he was, crouched in the empty alley at the base of the light pole. The rank smell from garbage dumpster rose up to greet him. Urine, too, from the street kids who’d used this place for their needs.
The metallic taste of gunpowder flooded Hunter’s mouth—there’d be a shooting there in a few days.
Over his shoulder, Hunter saw the shadows of the coming event. It wasn’t definite. Some of the timelines showed the shooting, others didn’t.
Would it happen in this one? Hunter couldn’t know. It was too vague. Even taking more of the drug wouldn’t help him—some events were unpreventable. He still parted one timeline from another, searching for clues.
Not that he could save them. He couldn’t even save himself.
But maybe he could help.
Hunter came back to himself. Time had passed. He’d been lost in visions.
Anyone walking by would have been able to see him, there in the light. Unless they mistook him for a shadow. But he hadn’t been trying to hide, though he knew the cops were still looking for him.
He had to get back to Dusty. Since Hunter had put Ryan and the others in their place, Dusty had been relying on Hunter more as a bodyguard than as a seer.
That would be his final downfall. Because Hunter couldn’t be trusted. He knew that. He’d learned that after the army, with Josh, and the others.
At least he’d finally started having visions about Erik. Hunter had been right, the first time he’d seen Erik—there was more to him, much more to him. He was a dangerous man.
If only Hunter had had his visions sooner. He would have delayed Erik and his followers.
Now, it was up to Cassie to stop Erik. She was too stubborn to just let the world end.
God, he missed her. His one true blood brother.
For a moment, Hunter sagged
against the wall of the alley. Maybe when this was over he could try to train her again. He’d had some success with Erik and his gang. Though they’d cheated, switching between timelines to achieve his speed, instead of using his technique.
However, Hunter had a better idea how to break things down, now. He’d be more successful teaching Cassie the next time.
If she’d give him a chance.
Hunter forced himself up. He was going to have to create another stash. The seventh. Hadn’t God created the world in seven days? No, six days.
Hunter looked up. This had to be the stash that Cassie had found.
He’d still create a seventh, even though God had rested on the seventh day.
There was no rest for Hunter.
Ξ
Steve dreamed.
Cold night extends as far as Steve can see, to the horizon and beyond. The few stars that break through are tiny points, suffocated by the blackness. The world is empty. No daylight to hope for. No friends. No laughter.
Just a billowing blackness, that starts to coalesce, to gel.
To gibber quietly.
Steve turns to run, but there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The world is black, overwhelmed with the despair of the Old Ones. The bloody sacrifices they demand frequently turn the streets wet with blood.
Man won’t survive for long. Those who thought to rule are dead.
They were the first the Old Ones ate.
Still, Steve runs. He’s survived this long. Maybe he can live another night.
Live to dream a different dream.
With a choked scream Steve woke just before the tentacles of the Old One wrapped around his waist and pulled him back to its noxious maw, swallowing him in one giant gulp, feasting on not just his body but his soul.
And this was what Gary wanted to bring into the world? With Erik?
Were they nuts?
Of course they weren’t. They thought they could rule. Better to rule in Hell than rot in Heaven, or something like that.
But the Old Ones would eat them first. Steve’s dreams had shown him that again and again.
He wasn’t a pre–cog. His PADT hadn’t been so low as to be negative, but really, they were barely a blip.
Most people had the gene for paranormal abilities. Much more than ten percent of the population who had active abilities.