Black & Orange

by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

  “Paul,” she stated matter-of-factly, “between the two of us, we’ve done a great deal of damage.”

  He grunted, but not in agreement. Cars sped by and their colors shifted and blended as they went. He shook away the distraction and pressed toward ninety-five miles an hour. Paul’s eyelids dipped. He had to make it without taking another rest, at least before leaving the state. No matter what happened, there was one thing left to be certain about. For good or ill, today or tomorrow, when they got there, his life would be transformed forever.

  FORTY-TWO

  Martin had to run into the Church eventually. The waiting was killing him though. His adrenaline was up, his gut was sour, he was in bad shape. He’d eyeballed the neon sign for almost twenty minutes now. It said Spyglass Saloon and there was an oblong seafaring instrument bent in the neon framing the name. His brain registered this, but he didn’t think about it much.

  Put yourself out there and they’ll come... your job is to get them far away. Wait for them.

  But the waiting was so atrocious.

  If this went on too long he’d have to go back to the train yard. What good would he do? He searched for the cold spot to build a mantle. It was dead there, dried to dust. He wondered if in all his ambition he’d sterilized the part that brought mantles. Oh well, fuck it. He didn’t need mantles anymore. He just needed to be seen—and keep his wits. After one beer and some pretzels to settle his stomach, that might give him time to decide where to go, or it might give them time to find him. Either way.

  Either way...

  He kept the Wrangler unlocked with keys in the ignition.

  Inside the bar, laughter burst to the corners. Two men, who might have been brothers, sat elbow-to-elbow with a gangly guy with a mess of dreadlocks spilling down his back. There were a few lone drinkers at round tables, deep in the neon shadow and excluded from the conversation, at least speaking roles anyway. A bristly man moved the claw of a toy machine left to right, hoping to add to the growing pile of stuffed kolas and superheroes at his feet. Two turrets of quarters rested on the deck of the machine. His shirt said in bold red letters, Fuckin’ A Right! and there was a bottle of micro-import beer “A” NUMBER ONE pictured underneath.

  Martin passed. “Quite a stash of animals there.”

  “They’re for my granddaughter.” Skunky beer wafted off his breath.

  “Good luck with the rest.”

  Just off the bar, Martin took at seat at a round table. A young fair-haired woman with bulging gray eyes slinked up. Two braided pigtails swung at hip-level and she had to move one out of the way to slide over a napkin. “How ya doing?”

  “Great. I’ll take a dark Heineken.”

  “Those are really good, but we don’t have them.” She batted her eyes with a flare that would have suggested cynicism had she something like that left. “Newcastle maybe?”

  He went for his island alternate. “Red Stripe?”

  “In the bottle?”

  “Perfect.”

  She went to a small refrigerator under the margarita blender and the Jagermeister dispenser. The three compadres down the way began shouting again, one barked like a dog, and the man in dreadlocks waved his hand. “You crazy-ass muthafuckas, tell ya.”

  One of the cherubs stopped hooting. “The fuck? Crazy? What’s that shit?”

  Dreads took a dignified sip of something that looked like soda.

  The man’s look-alike punched his shoulder. “Shut up Berty, you fuck-knuckle! Go put something on the juke.”

  Berty laughed it off, for the sake of laughing it off, and Martin watched as he stumbled off to an MP3 jukebox near the unisex pisser. The other two began an all new conversation, muffled over a Jeff Healey song. Martin couldn’t hear what was said but it didn’t matter. As much of a dive as this place was, it had done the trick. He was ready to go out again and fight. Being around ordinary folks (well...) made everything less real. Plus, the Redstripe had begun to work a little magic of its own.

  “Any pretzels?” he asked the barmaid.

  She shook her Swiss Miss locks. “Cheese popcorn.”

  “Bring it on.”

  The salt and cheese flavor complimented the beer. Martin really wanted to stay and listen to the slobbery jokes and watch the man in the corner win more stuffed animals. It would have been perfect if Teresa was sitting here next to him, the two person army. It would have been perfect if they could have spent this entire night here, and all the days that lead up to this day, anything to take the edge off their duty.

  He smiled and finished his beer. He had to tell her the truth someday about what happened at the hospital. Teresa deserved that much. What if I never got the chance? What if the Church had found the train yard already? Fighting the impulse to order another cold one, he tried for eye contact. The barmaid saw him and he raised a pointer finger. She nodded to give her one second while she poured two tumblers of Hennessey over ice.

  The door opened. Sunlight hit the dark wooden floor of the saloon in an orange blade. Martin glanced over his shoulder and tried to swallow a knot of popcorn in his throat.

  It seemed his waiting was over.

  Chaplain Cloth strolled inside as though he’d been in the saloon a thousand times before. He passed the old man at the toy machine. The man didn’t bother looking over, too immersed in fluffy treasure. Cloth pointed a twiggy bone-colored finger. “The giraffe in the back.”

  The man grunted but remained focused. Chaplain Cloth’s snowy lips cut in a fierce smile as he walked to Martin’s table.

  “I don’t want any company.”

  “Sure you do.” Cloth sat down. The table was small, so Martin could smell his mealy breath. Cloth laced his fingers together and dropped his hands on the table. “Let’s just sit and be the old friends we are, have a drink, maybe two, and then you can take me to the Void where you’re hiding them. I know you’ve come here to draw us away from Teresa. She’s ill. You want to protect her. Good for you. You’re a good person Martin.”

  The barmaid swaggered over. “Nice face paint—oh and those contact lenses. Hell, are you in a parade or something?”

  “Or something,” Cloth answered, not looking at her.

  “What will you have?”

  “A screwdriver sounds nice.”

  Martin tried for a mantle. Empty. He looked to the door, to the possibility of running. Cloth would tear him apart though. The timing had to be right. He had to distract him.

  “Stop testing my patience.” Cloth’s orange eye glowed to magma and his black shimmered like boiling tar.

  “You took Tony last year,” said Martin. “Do you actually believe we’re going to let you get another?”

  Cloth took a long, hard, deranged look at him. The barmaid came back surprisingly soon and put the screwdriver down. The sound of it on the table made Martin jump.

  “Thank you, dear.” Cloth twisted the glass up for a casual sip. He smiled. “Not bad.”

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  “You know your bullshit,” Cloth replied, setting down the drink. “Just jump right into the razor blades and drink the fire.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you think I care whether the Old Domain gains admission to this world?”

  Martin shrugged his sore, heavy shoulders. He couldn’t tell yet if this was working out for the better—if he could lead Cloth off, he might die for it, but he’d also save Teresa and the Hearts.

  “That is a scrap humans can fight for. I am the way to balance, where beginnings and endings have no cause.”

  “We won’t let you have them,” insisted Martin.

  Cloth went on, as though he hadn’t heard. “All this inane tongue flicking. Have you ever thought about what human beings really are?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Your ancestors were furry little reptiles that hid underground and cheated their way out of extinction. Do you even want to understand what that means? All nestled together, eating stolen eggs from mightier crea
tures, fucking each other and reproducing incessantly, there in your burrows... Love was conceived to address your constant fear. Even with limited intelligence, you couldn’t imagine returning to the belly of the universe. What a striking legacy of denial! You humans have made the Day of Opening all about your attempts to cope with denial.”

  “I dressed as a zombie cowboy for three years straight. Don’t know what that says about my denial.” Martin picked up Cloth’s screwdriver and brought it to his lips. He was right. It wasn’t bad.

  Discord fluxed through the white face. “You know, when this started the gateway was the size of a particle. There was no interference with the yearly sacrifice. Progress was slow. My patience had to last thousands of years. Back in that time the Heart of the Harvest grew everywhere. I need only choose the greatest among the billions. I am the offspring of something natural, Martin. Don’t you see? My fingerprints have smudged all the window panes of time.”

  “Were you ever a living thing?”

  “I recall passion,” replied Cloth. “It’s always passion in the beginning of creation, isn't it? Flesh, blood, bone and brain have no place in the outer dark.”

  Martin’s hand poised on his gun.

  Cloth gazed around in mock wonder. “I think I’ll put a song on the jukebox.” He hovered over the table a moment. “Don’t worry, I’ll try not to pick something ironic.”

  Martin carefully watched him go. Cloth probably wanted him to run. He wouldn’t take the bait. One of the lobster-faced men at the bar leaned back with wide arms balanced on a rotund belly. “What are you supposed to be? A demon? You the Devil?”

  Cloth turned. “The Devil’s just a cover song, friend.”

  The drunkards laughed as Cloth entered two quarters and typed in a song. A moment after, the chaplain dropped back into the chair. “Let’s not draw this out. I just wish to find the Hearts sooner rather than later. I will find them. That, you know.”

  Martin straightened. Heat flushed under the cold sweat on his neck.

  “I’ve felt you try to pull from the Old Domain several times now. You’ve no strength left. Teresa is dying. Other people will soon as well.”

  “Let’s take a walk outside then,” Martin suggested. “And talk about this a little more.”

  Cloth leaned back. “Nah, it’s sort of pleasant in here.”

  Outside the saloon, the children chorused:

  How wonderful is that blood yolk?

  How beautiful is that tendon pie?

  How bountiful is that seared polyp?

  How fanciful is that flea-bitten old rube?

  It’s dreadful to wait for feast time.

  The three men at the bar turned to the singing and shared looks of confusion.

  Martin realized something then.

  He wasn’t afraid. For the first time in almost twenty years, fear did not come into this. There was sadness. There was also helplessness: he couldn’t bring a mantle, he couldn’t draw his gun and he couldn’t call Teresa. The little bar had become calm, the men not howling anymore, everyone softly tasting their drinks. In better company it might have felt like the day at Fisherman’s Wharf with Teresa. Just strolling mindlessly through tranquil oblivion.

  “You’re not going to help, are you?” Cloth folded his arms. The orange kerchief bent sideways.

  “I really don’t see the need.”

  Cloth’s eyebrow knifed. “That so?”

  Styx came on: The Best of Times.

  “Irony was unavoidable, I suppose.” Chaplain Cloth laughed. His humor departed quickly and impatience resurfaced. “Tell me where the Hearts are. Tell me right now.”

  Martin gripped his gun, finger wrapping the trigger. “I’ve forgotten.”

  No sooner had the words come out, Martin heard a loud thump and a glass shatter. He dared not turn, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Dreads stand. The thin man spaced his hands evenly and then drove his skull into the bar. The two pudgy fellows pushed out their stools, cursing, not completely shocked; possible regulars at this bar and others, they’d seen some fucked up shit before and they’d seen it on a whim.

  Dreadlocks obscured the face. A growing puddle of blood shone on the wood under the blue neon glow.

  “John—what the hell?” The barmaid took a step forward and reached out, a golden braid hanging over her thin arm.

  John answered by slamming his head down harder. Several teeth lodged into the wood and one went spinning down the bar like a coin.

  “Good Jesus! Grab him, he’s havin’ a seizure!” She put her hands up to her mouth. Several drinkers had pushed up from their seats. The brothers tried to grapple with the flailing body.

  Martin’s mouth went dry. “Stop this.”

  “Stop what?” Cloth’s black and orange eyes were a dead luster.

  John’s head went down once, twice, thrice and then the fourth let out a crunch that must have sent skull shards into the brain because the body twitched and slid quickly off the stool like a greased worm.

  “Let’s end this day early. Process of elimination. You just tell me the Voids you aren’t using,” the Chaplain persisted.

  Martin couldn’t tell Cloth the exact location of the Hearts. No Nomad could. Even if he wanted to, the words would not form on his lips. He didn’t know if this was the Messenger’s doing or something in his biological makeup, but Cloth was trying to get around this.

  “I’ll tell you,” said Martin. “Okay? But let’s leave. These people—”

  Cloth drained half of his orange juice drink.

  The barmaid went bolt-straight and her huge eyes engorged even wider. Her braids whipped around her neck, crossed and knotted. Her hands shot up and worked at forming the knot. The braid noose yanked, clenched by an invisible hand. Up into the air she went. The ascent ended with a spinal snapping and the corpse dropped behind the bar.

  Martin swung up his gun and fired into Cloth’s face. A mantle shielded instantly and the bullet caromed off and chewed a diagonal hole through the ceiling. The gun came out of Martin’s hand, struck by another force, an anvil on a pendulum.

  His hand rung deeply with pain. “They aren’t even in Colton!”

  “Ever stared down from an airplane to see the moist little chiggers winding around the grid?” The Chaplain looked like an eager wolf pawing for more flesh. “Tell me Martin, would you feel remorse gargling mouthwash and purging the bugs living between your teeth?”

  Round tables exploded around people fighting for the exit. Their necks opened in bloody screams as they collided with each other and fell to the floor. The brothers’ rosy faces detonated across the other end of the bar, yellow-red jelly scattering in a winding vertigo.

  Martin wanted to close his eyes. There was nothing left to do. No way out. No turning back. He reached once again for the cold place. Still empty. The Spyglass Saloon smelled of aftermath. The sole survivor, the old man near the toy machine, hyperventilated against a corner, stacks of toys a rampart around his feet.

  Martin shook so hard he had to grasp the edges of the table. “I’ll go with you. I’ll take you where she’s gone. But we need to go.”

  Cloth pulled something chirping out of his pocket. He placed the cell phone on the table and read the text cut into the hot blue light below. “My, my, technology!” He read the text to Martin. “‘New tire tracks have been spotted through an unlocked gate at the train graveyard, and there’s a partial Void in the area. Tracks indicate a jeep Wrangler.’” Cloth smiled brightly. “We have a winner, I think.”

  “Search it. You won’t find anything. I’m telling you, Teresa and the babies are long gone from this city. The Messenger is protecting them.”

  The black and orange stare became wet with disbelief.

  Something horrible started beneath Martin’s heart. Salty fluid poured then from him nose. Inside he felt his organs burst like water balloons, some squeezing shut under the pressure of murderous fingers, some dividing up with scalpel cuts. His bladder emptied into the front of his
jeans and warmth spread through his boxers. The pain ultimately canceled out, replaced by shock and terminal blackness. Cloth said nothing, but Martin could feel his eyes as everything fell away. There was something left to be thought, something about a person, a T word. He couldn’t grasp the idea, although he clawed the darkness to find it. It almost came but his lungs filled and he gagged. The lungs... the lungs...

  Teres—

  ~ * ~

  Chaplain Cloth watched Martin struggle for a few moments. When the Nomad died, his mouth opened to say something, like he’d finally acquired last words. The hazel eyes beseeched Cloth. The whites had blossomed into a nice scarlet from all the capillaries rupturing. Cloth reached forward and tore off the man’s necklace for a memento. Puka shells. How very earthy. He regarded Martin’s still, peaceful form for a moment longer. So much well-meaning meat. He kicked under the table and sent the corpse flying back in its chair. The table upended, screwdriver spilling sideways in an orange arc. Martin slammed to the floor. Blood pooled out from an opening in a busted upper tooth.

  Cloth put the necklace and cell phone in his pants pocket. He was whistling by the time he got to the door. The old man huddled near the toy machine hadn’t moved. Cloth bowed. Narrowing his eyes at the machine, Cloth leaned in and affirmed his suspicions. “Still haven’t got that giraffe, I see. He’s got the long neck. It should be easy.”

  The man quaked.

  “Just keep at it.” Cloth placed his fingers on the tavern’s door. “Eventually you’ll get the one you’re after. You just have to keep at it. Never give up.”

  Chaplain Cloth pushed the door open to the bright world. The gateway howled inside the building opposite. It was a big empty piece of the future there to behold. And his children. Bloody orange visages huddled obediently around the building’s grounds, Quintana’s power flooding their every thew, making them quake for the next chance to slaughter. Cloth took the crisp air inside his provisional lungs.

  The Hearts were his now.

  FORTY-THREE

  It would be dark in a couple hours and then the little gears of light that twisted through the cracks of the train’s door would go flat, become shadows. Teresa changed the third baby out of a soiled diaper. She scrubbed the bottom too roughly and the baby started bawling.