SecondWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  The jarring blow and instantaneous collapse of his target confirmed his accuracy. He should have felt relieved—that the attacker was dead, that Adler hadn’t actually betrayed him—but all he felt was dizzy. Miller leaned over and held his head.

  Adler crouched beside him and placed a hand on his back. “Are you okay?”

  Miller opened his eyes. The room spun a little less. “You had me fooled.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you were going with him.”

  “I wanted to be an actress when I was in college,” she confessed.

  “Could have made a fortune,” Miller said with a grunt. “Actually, you could have been the first woman in the major leagues with that swing.”

  “I was terrified.”

  Miller pushed himself to his knees. He kept his eyes closed to minimize the nausea. But he could do nothing about the throbbing pain emanating from his head and rolling down his body in sickening waves. Adler held on to his arm and helped him stand.

  He opened his eyes and looked at Adler. “You did good.”

  She looked back at the two dead bodies. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

  Miller knew what she meant. He’d met many soldiers who felt guilty about what they did. Even if they saved lives, they likely took a few in the process. Adler fought to save the world, but had aided in the taking of a life.

  Another life.

  They’d left a trail of death in their wake.

  And for someone new to the business of war, adjusting to carnage took time. Unfortunately for Adler, time was short and adjustment a luxury. Sirens rang out in the distance, growing louder by the moment.

  “We need to go,” Miller said. Moving as fast as he could without falling over, he snatched up the small notebook and pistol taken from the man in the canoe. He handed the pistol to Adler, who took it without comment, and turned his attention to the fresh corpse.

  “Did he say anything useful?” Miller asked as he searched the body.

  “After I missed my first two shots, he taunted me,” she said. “Forced me to scream and then fired a shot.”

  Miller shook his head. He’d been lured into a trap and if the man had shot him instead of knocking him unconscious, the trap would have worked. “Why didn’t he kill me?” he wondered.

  “I think he wanted to question you,” she said. “He knew our names.”

  “We’re on the list,” he said.

  “List?”

  “I found a hit list on the other shooter. Our names were recent additions.”

  The sirens grew louder still and Miller guessed they’d reached Huber’s road. They had maybe two minutes before the place swarmed with police who might or might not be friendly. He took the assault rifle and a second Walther P38 from the dead assassin. “What is it with these guys and old weapons?”

  Miller stood and stumbled to the back door.

  “What do you mean?” Adler asked as she helped him walk. “Where are we going?”

  “To the canoe,” Miller said, and they started across the grass. Miller pointed to his clothes. “Grab my clothes. The phone is in my pocket.”

  Adler let go of Miller’s arm and retrieved the clothes. He stumbled, but remained upright and mobile. “All of their weapons are World War Two relics, like they want to be authentic SS soldiers.”

  “Strange,” Adler said as she jumped from the grass to the beach and helped Miller down. “I noticed something, too.”

  “What?”

  “The way he spoke—” she said, then paused to think. “It sounded, I don’t know. Language changes over time. Certain inflections and words are more common during different time periods. They can define the way a generation speaks.”

  Miller knew what she meant. He imagined that he could peg the time period of any movie from the past seventy years just by listening to the dialogue.

  He reached the canoe and pushed it into the water. They put the weapons and his clothes in the canoe. Standing in waist-deep water, Miller held the boat steady as Adler stepped in and sat down. After she was in, he flung himself over the side and landed on the bottom of the canoe, too exhausted and dizzy to move. The bobbing of the boat didn’t help any, and he fought to stay lucid. “You paddle,” he said. “Take us along the shore. Get behind the trees.”

  Adler picked up the paddle and got them moving. She struggled at first, but quickly found her rhythm, stroking twice on one side and then twice on the other.

  Once they were behind the tree line, Adler stopped paddling and looked at Miller. “He sounded old.”

  “How old?” he asked. The man in the boat looked to be in his midtwenties. The man now dead in Huber’s living room couldn’t have been much over thirty, right around the same age as Adler. His speech pattern shouldn’t have been all that different from hers. But something about it had rattled her.

  She looked up at the sky, paddled twice more, and stopped again. The words were hard to say, but she forced them out. She motioned to the collection of World War II weapons on the floor of the boat next to Miller’s feet. “As old as those weapons.”

  32

  After taking the canoe a mile along the shore without seeing any sign of police or men with World War II weapons, Miller sat up. The dizziness and nausea had faded, but his head pulsed with pain.

  “Got any painkillers on you?”

  Adler pulled the paddle out of the water. “I think so.” She rummaged through her purse while the canoe drifted forward, past a string of tall pines lining the shore.

  “Found something.”

  Miller noted how the “somesing” sound of her voice no longer grated on him. In fact, after everything he’d been through over the past days, her voice, like Arwen’s, kept him thinking straight.

  “It’s ibuprofen,” she said. “You want two?”

  “Make it four.”

  She tsked and said, “You’re going to melt your liver.”

  “Odds are I’ll be shot first so it won’t matter much, will it?” Miller took the pills and popped them into his mouth. Unlike the macho men in movies who could not only swallow pills dry, but roughly chew them first, Miller couldn’t take pills without a drink. He dipped his hands into the lake and drank. The water was gritty but felt cool and refreshing. When he leaned back up, Adler was staring at him, a look of disgust frozen on her face. “Once again, I’m more likely to get shot before I die from dysentery. This isn’t Oregon Trail.”

  “Oregon Trail?”

  “A video game. Forget it.” Miller turned toward the shore. The trees suddenly gave way to a long public beach. The beach wasn’t crowded, but there were more than a few people sitting on the sand and enjoying the water. Good for them, Miller thought. While much of the nation had taken to looting or holing up in their homes, these folks had continued on with their lives, refusing to live in fear. He wondered if they would do the same if they were in the city instead of New Hampshire, or if they knew the world had only five days left.

  For a brief moment, Miller realized he was still dressed in just his boxers. But then they passed by an overweight shirtless man standing waist deep in the water. The man held a beer in a bright orange cozy and had enough hair on his body to be mistaken for a yeti. Miller glanced at the other beachgoers and saw more skin than clothes. No one would notice his lack of clothing.

  The fat man raised his beer at them as they glided past him. He gave a nod and said, “Live free or die.”

  Miller grinned and gave the man a casual salute. He liked New Hampshire. He looked back at Adler. “Take us to the far end of the beach. We need to find a new car.”

  Adler took up the paddle again. “Thank God. My arms are killing me.” Sweat dripped down her forehead and she’d undone the top few buttons of her blouse so that a hint of cleavage showed.

  Feeling self-conscious again, Miller gathered up his clothes.

  Adler noticed his haste. “Don’t worry. You’re not that bad on the eyes.”

  Miller smiled as he slid slowly into
his pants, trying not to tip them in the process. “Thank you for choosing the Love Boat,” he said as he picked up his shoes. “We hope you enjoy your—”

  Adler stopped laughing when Miller’s grin disappeared.

  He stared at the boat shoes in his hands. At some point they’d stopped being Scuba Dave’s shoes and become his. But there was blood on them now and he remembered, in fresh detail, where they came from. He pursed his lips and sighed.

  “What is it?”

  The boat slid onto the sandy beach and they were embraced by the cool shade of the nearby trees. “Back when I was sixteen, I somehow managed to get a girlfriend, and one day after school we found ourselves alone at my house. I don’t think I’ve felt so nervous and excited since that day. It took us thirty minutes to work up the guts, but then we were on the bed. Half naked. I’m rounding the plates like a son of a bitch.” He looked up at Adler. She stared at him with a single raised eyebrow and an unsure smile, no doubt wondering how hard he’d been hit. He continued, “I stand, drop my pants, and then, wham! The front door closes and my mom announces that she’s home.” He held the shoes up. “These shoes are like my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “A wet blanket.”

  “A wet blanket?”

  “You know. Like when— Forget it. We need to go.”

  “I think I understand,” she said, and took the shoes from him. She gave them a once-over, shrugged, and then tossed them over her shoulder. They hit the water with a splash and floated away.

  “What?” she said when Miller just stared at her.

  He pointed to the woods. “I don’t know how far we have to walk, do you?”

  She shrugged. “You’re tough.”

  Miller smiled. He wouldn’t admit it, but being free of those shoes was a relief. At first he thought they were a good reminder of what the enemy intended to do to the world. But their repeated attempts to kill him kept their lethality on the forefront of his mind. He said a silent thanks to Dave, wrapped the guns in his shirt, and headed for the woods.

  The half-mile walk over a pine-needle-covered path actually felt good on his bare feet. The dirt parking lot filled with jagged rocks, not so much. But he quickly found a vehicle that would suit their needs.

  The black pickup truck had a sticker of Calvin—from the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip—peeing, a set of rubber “truck nuts” hanging from the rear hitch, and a bumper sticker that said YANKEES SUCK. While none of these things made the truck desirable, they did ease Miller’s conscience about stealing it. And the toolbox in the bed made it possible.

  “Hop in,” Miller said. He opened the driver’s side and placed the shirt-wrapped weapons on the seat. Then he headed for the back and opened the toolbox.

  Adler looked around nervously like a true first-time thief. “What if someone shows up?”

  “I’m a Navy SEAL, remember? And we have guns.” He paused. “Of course, if skinhead Nazis show up, be sure to let me know.” A moment later he found what he needed and joined Adler in the truck’s cab.

  He placed a flathead screwdriver in the ignition and held it tight. “Give me a little room,” he said, raising a hammer. Adler leaned back and Miller gave the screwdriver two hard whacks. He gave the screwdriver a twist and the truck roared to life.

  He hopped out of the truck and patted the driver’s seat. “Slide over. You’re driving.”

  She complied, but asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Research,” he said. “But first I need to castrate this truck.” Walking around the back, Miller kicked the oversized rubber testicles from the back of the truck and then got into the passenger’s seat. He closed the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure that out. For now, let’s just get out of here before Bubba comes back.”

  The truck rumbled out of the dirt parking lot and onto a narrow paved road. Miller took out the iPhone and flicked it on, but before he could get it to work, Adler hit the brakes.

  “Shit,” she said.

  Miller looked up and saw two police cars ahead. “Don’t slow down!”

  Adler flinched. “You don’t want me to ram them?”

  “No. Just don’t act nervous.”

  “But they’re looking for us.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  When they were twenty feet from the squad cars, an officer stepped forward and raised his hand, motioning for them to slow down. The officer, who couldn’t be over twenty-five, approached the passenger’s side. Miller relaxed when he saw the officer’s dark black hair and Hispanic facial features. Racial profiling probably wasn’t the best idea—people could be bought—but he doubted there was a good reason for a small-town Hispanic police officer to be on the take. He rolled down the window and leaned out casually. “Something going on?”

  “There was a shooting across the lake,” the officer said. “You folks didn’t see anything … weird? Or hear anything?”

  “Heard the gunshots, I think,” Miller said. “Thought they were fireworks at the time.”

  The officer gave a slight nod, and then leaned down. “How ’bout you, miss?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Miller heard the same thing the officer did. “Nothsing.” Adler tried to mask her German accent, but failed miserably. At first, Miller wondered why she bothered, but when the officer stiffened and stepped back, he understood. Being white and German in a country on high alert for Nazis made Adler a potential enemy. Everyone was profiling.

  “Could you step out of the car,” the officer said, hand moving to his hip.

  “Don’t do that,” Miller said. “Please.”

  Keeping his hand on his sidearm, the officer reached his free hand up to the radio strapped to his chest. Before he could speak, Miller pulled a Walther P38 out from under his shirt and pointed it at the officer, just feet from his face. The man froze.

  “Toss the gun,” Miller said. “Now.”

  The man slowly drew his weapon and tossed it into the woods behind him.

  “What’s your name?” Miller asked.

  “Miguel Lewis.”

  “Officer Lewis,” Miller said. “Look—”

  Before Miller could speak again, a loud voice shouted, “Everything okay, Lewis, or do you need a real cop to come do your job?”

  A large white man leaned out of the second squad car. Jowls hung from his portly face. The officer took off his cap and stepped out of the car. Miller doubted the man could run fifty feet, and the walk to the truck winded him.

  Miller pulled his hand with the gun back in the car, and gave Lewis a look that said, “Not a peep.” Lewis gave a nervous nod.

  The heavyset officer bumbled up to the driver’s window. “Now what the hell is taking so long?” He stopped to look Adler over and grinned. Then he looked up and saw Miller’s face. The smile fell away and was replaced by recognition. And not the happy kind.

  Miller couldn’t see the man’s hands, but he could tell he was fumbling for his gun. “Don’t,” Miller said.

  “Barnes, don’t,” Lewis said. “He’s—”

  Barnes was a surprisingly fast draw once he found his gun. He whipped it up and squeezed off a round. Miller was a little faster, firing three rounds in the same time, and much more accurately—two to the chest, one to the head. Barnes fell away, dead.

  Miller spun, expecting to find Lewis taking action, but the man was nowhere in sight. A cough drew Miller’s attention down. Lewis lay on the ground, a wound in his chest. Miller flung open the door and knelt by the fallen man, lifting his head. He inspected the wound. There was nothing to do for the man. He was already dying.

  Lewis tried to speak, but only managed a gurgle before he died.

  Miller laid Lewis down and shook his head. How many of these assholes are there? he thought. Without another word, he stood, got back in the truck, and closed the door.

  Adler rubbed her ears, which rang from the gunshots, and looked a
t the body of the fat, dead cop. “Should we take their guns?”

  Miller rolled his head toward her and held up the German pistol. “This seems to work fine.”

  “But—”

  “Just drive,” Miller said. “Please.”

  Adler steered the truck onto the intersecting street and drove away from the two fresh bodies.

  As the woodsy air erased the smell of cordite from the truck’s cab, Miller leaned his head back. There was a lot to figure out, but they had a new problem to take care of first. His face was becoming a liability. And to a certain extent, Adler’s was, too. With every sleeper Nazi in the country taking potshots they might never make it out of New Hampshire, never mind find Milos “Wayne” Vesely, the mysterious last name on the hit list. “Stop at the first drugstore or grocery store you see,” he said. “It’s time to say good-bye to your pretty blond hair.”

  33

  Miller sat in the cab of the truck, elbow propped in the open window. He’d just eaten a cheeseburger and was waiting for Adler to complete her makeover in the fast-food restaurant’s bathroom. They had found a pharmacy in town where they bought supplies and changes of clothes. Now dressed in cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of cheap sandals, he looked like any other summertime local. He’d also shaved his facial hair into a goatee, trimmed his hair to a quarter inch, and donned a green John Deere cap. He completed the disguise with a pair of NASCAR sunglasses. Not even his mother would recognize him.

  With his stomach full and the pain in his head dulled by drugs, Miller switched on the iPhone and connected to the Internet via Wendy’s free wireless connection. He opened Safari and then did a Google search for “Milos Vesely.”

  The first return was a Wikipedia page about a Czech bobsledder. He opened it, scanned the contents, saw nothing of interest, and decided he’d found the wrong man. Heading back to Google, he scrolled through the rest of the top results. There were a slew of Facebook pages and message board entries, but still nothing that would make any of them a person of interest to Nazi assassins. Nothing he could see, anyway.