Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

The thought of Rick wanting to kill himself made Mike's stomach turn. Even in the darkness, he could see the ghostly white of the gauze bandage as Rick folded his arms across his chest.

  No wonder we live in a world of fantasy, thought Mike. Reality is so fucked up sometimes; maybe it's the fantasies that keep us sane. So we lie. We lie to ourselves. We tell ourselves everything’s fine, but it's not. But is that really wrong? Can it be wrong to believe, to trust, to love? No, Mike decided, we do what's necessary to survive.

  Yeah, you and all your friends, his thoughts continued. One of 'em tried to kill himself. One of 'em is locked in a loony bin. One of 'em needs to get wasted just to make it through the day. You're all so fucked up you don't even know...

  “Stop it,” Mike told himself out loud. Karen sighed again and drew in closer to him, searching for warmth. God, I love you, Karen, he thought, and he had never felt it more than at that moment.

  Rick snapped out of his daze and turned to Mike. “You fallin' asleep, man?”

  “No,” Mike said. “Just thinking too hard, I guess.”

  “I'll drive if you want.”

  “Naw, I'll be fine.”

  Rick nodded and returned to whatever it was he'd been looking at outside.

  Inevitably, Mike began to think about death and loss. How easy it is to lose, and to be lost. That's exactly how he felt: lost. More lost than anyone could know. Nothing is forever, he suddenly realized. Not love, not money, not society's silly little dreamland, and certainly not this clump of dirt and water we call Earth. Nothing. So why the hell are we here, then?

  He lit another cigarette. That was all he could do to keep himself busy, to keep himself from thinking until his head throbbed.

  Thirty minutes later they passed a blue and yellow sign that read: Welcome To New Hampshire, and Mike felt as though a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders. They were out of Massachusetts, and hopefully their problems wouldn't follow them over the border. It was a slim hope at best, but it was better than nothing.

  Mike rolled down his window a few inches, letting the cool northern air fill his lungs and dance through his hair. Maybe, he thought, things will work out just fine. Maybe this is what we needed, a chance to be together. Maybe.

  He tightened his arm around Karen, thinking of how much he loved her. If all went wrong, she would still be his dream come true. Although Mike had loved Lori like a sister, he silently thanked God for not taking Karen from him. He said a silent prayer for Lori, in which he told her how much they all missed her. He also told her to watch out for Rick, because Mike was still worried about him. For some reason that escaped him, Mike was certain Lori could hear him, and that she was not as far away as it seemed. It was a warm, comforting feeling, as if he had an angel on his side. Right now, he thought, I need an angel. We all do.

  He managed to drive for two more hours, watching the road, thinking of the body, before he finally had to stop at a rest area to vomit. He returned to the car half-sick, with the vision of the dead girl still lingering in the wastelands of his mind.

  “You okay?” Rick asked, as they pulled back onto the highway.

  “Yeah,” Mike answered. “I'm fine now.”

  Another hour of silence passed before they came upon a sign reading:

  Willow's Creek/Potter's Bluff Exit 10 Miles.

  “Almost there,” Mike whispered, and he glanced warily at his best friend. But Rick, with his head resting against Karen's shoulder, was now fast asleep. By the expression on his face it didn't appear to be a comfortable sleep, but nevertheless, Mike thought it would do his friend some good.

  Just a few more miles, and their many problems would be far behind them...at least, for a little while. As the land became familiar to him, rolling upward into hills and climbing into steep walls of granite, Mike remembered the times he had traveled to Willow's Creek with his family. Although he had been only eight or nine the last time he had seen Uncle Jack, he could picture the man quite clearly.

  Uncle Jack was a rugged-looking man, his features rough and well-defined. He was in his mid-40s the last time Mike had seen him, and time had already begun to carve deep lines that redefined his jawline, and forked out from the corners of his eyes. His eyes! They were as blue and honest as the clearest summer sky. And they always seemed to...well...to glow. They were almost like the eyes of a child, a child who was looking upon something he had never seen before. Something new and exciting. Uncle Jack had always had a most peculiar way of looking at the world.

  When Mike was very young, Uncle Jack once told him that if you listened close enough, you could hear the mountains whispering to you. Giants, Uncle Jack had called them. He said the mountains were sleeping giants, buried and forgotten by mankind. He told young Mike that it was the giants' duty to watch over the land and its creatures, to make sure that everything was going according to God's plan. But as hard as he tried, Mike could never seem to hear the giants talking. For Mike, they were defiantly silent. Still, he believed in Uncle Jack's story, because Mike knew how strongly Uncle Jack had believed in the story himself.

  When his thoughts slowly shifted back to reality, Mike wondered what his parents were thinking after all that had happened back in Hevven. Did they know yet? Had they come home to the sound of sirens and the flashing of lights? Surely they must know by now. He wished he could have told them what had really happened at that old place on Roller Coaster Road, but that was almost impossible now. Mike and his friends were on their own. Whether they liked it or not, they had come too far to turn back.

  They were on the run.

  So Mike followed the highway and his memories, and they led him back to a familiar place, to a postcard-perfect town called Willow's Creek.

  A place where sleeping giants were supposed to live.

  ~Eleven~

  Rick Hunter awoke with a violent jerk, as if from a nightmare.

  Squinting into the bright light of the Friday morning sun, his vision was fuzzy at best. Purple and orange spots danced before his eyes. The warmth of the sun continued to beat down upon him as he tried to sort reality from the dream world, and he found it was all a blur. The very last thing he could recall that was real (at least, he thought it was real…it had seemed real enough), was talking to Mike as they sped along the highway. The others had been fast asleep, and he guessed he must have joined them in dreamland shortly after they had crossed the border into New Hampshire. Upon awakening, he thought his memories—the dead (hacked) body, the naked girl chained to the ceiling, the police standing at the front door of the Swart's house, and the killer with the evil jack o' lantern grin—were little more than remnants of a dream. But as his eyesight slowly returned to normal, Rick looked out of the passenger window of Mike's car, and he knew that he'd been wrong.

  Ahead of them, buried beneath a fine weave of rust-colored pine needles, a narrow dirt road wound its way through a dense forest of evergreens and birches. Above the trees, swathed in a fine white mist, row after row of mountains surrounded them, their stony faces glowing proudly in the rising sun.

  All around them: trees, trees, and more trees. They were driving through a natural tunnel, the branches low and densely woven.

  Disturbed by Rick's sudden movements, Karen yawned and slowly opened her big brown eyes. She ran her fingers through her hair and brushed it away from her face with the kind of slow, unconscious grace that only women seem to possess. Her deep red lips were parted, as if she was about to say, You wouldn't believe this crazy dream I was having! But these words never came, for she quickly realized that the crazy dream was real.

  Mike glanced over and grinned at her confusion. He rubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray before she could see it. She didn't care for him smoking, and there was no need to argue. Not here. Not now. They had enough to worry about as it was, that was for sure.

  The others were still fast asleep in the back seat, but judging by the way the T-bird was bucking up and down on the rough road, shaking them about like rag dolls, they
were due to awake at any time.

  Twenty minutes earlier, while the others slept, Mike had begun to feel a not unpleasant chill of déjà vu creeping over him. Above the trees, he had seen the battered shell of the Northville paper mill standing like a sentinel on the otherwise uninhabited outskirts of Willow's Creek. Beyond the paper mill, up and over the Maple Street hill, he had soon found himself looking down upon the minuscule center of The Creek, glittering hopefully in the rising sun.

  At the bottom of the hill, Mike had turned east onto Main Street, where the houses and stores crowded the sidewalks like spectators waiting for a parade. Among them, Atkins' General Store, a lopsided shanty of weathered gray shingles and maroon trim in desperate need of a fresh coat, was a welcomed landmark. Slowing down, he had caught a brief glimpse of the “I Love New Hampshire” and “Don't Take New Hampshire For Granite” T-shirts hanging in the dark windows (the superficial keepsakes of tourists everywhere), along with a variety of fishing gear, and the same neon Schlitz sign he remembered from his youth.

  Less than a block away, he had also recognized the dutiful brick facade of the Willow's Creek Public Library, as well as the humble white countenance of Our Lady Mary's Catholic Church, where Mike and his family used to go to pay their respect to God. Behind the simple white church was a small cemetery, where the mossy statues of angels contemplated the quiet morning amidst a maze of decaying gravestones and wrought-iron fences. So distant were the memories of hot summer days as a child in his Sunday's best, looking up at the statue of Christ above the pulpit, listening to the grownups sing like angels, that Mike had suddenly felt as if some greater power had beckoned him here. Why else would he be returning after so much time?

  If Karen and I ever get married, Mike had promised himself as he drove along, it will be in that church. This is where we'll raise our family. This is where we'll find happiness ...if we manage to get out of this mess. Shit, don't think like that. Gotta think positive. Everything's gonna be fine...

  Continuing down Main Street he saw Jasper's Arcade, The No-Name Bar And Pub, and the Lil' Sunshine Restaurant, still there after all those years, although Rocky's Soft Serve Ice Cream had been converted into Art's Bait and Tackle, and the old Five-And-Dime was now Anne's Used Books. Still, there was not a single fast food restaurant, or shopping mall, or stadium-sized movie theatre in sight; only the humble country establishments that gave Willow's Creek the placid charm of a Norman Rockwell painting.

  Now they were almost at their destination, and Mike's mind was simmering with memories, his heart beating more rapidly with every inch they traveled. He wondered if his uncle had left anything behind, something Mike could keep in remembrance of those long-lost summer days spent at the cabin, something more than a child's scattered memories.

  “Almost there?” Rick's voice crackled. He licked his lips, hoping it would help some, but his tongue was as dry as sandpaper.

  “Just a few more minutes, I think,” Mike told him, and flashed a weary smile in his direction. He motioned with his eyes. “How are they doing back there?”

  Rick turned just as Max was opening his eyes. He nodded at his friend. “What's up?”

  “Not much,” answered Max, yawning.

  “They still sleeping?”

  “Yup. Are we there yet?”

  “We'll be there soon.”

  “Cool.”

  Eventually the road broadened, and sunlight began to trickle down through the gaps in the treetops. Mike drove the Thunderbird through an aperture between two enormous cedars, and moments later they emerged from the forest tunnel and found themselves at the uppermost corner of a wide, sloping meadow.

  Lou woke up just as Mike brought the T-bird to a halt. Ahead of them, the rutted dirt road wove its way across the meadow. At the end of the dirt road, flanked by several small evergreens and hunkering in the shade of an enormous oak tree, stood the fabled cabin they had come so far to find. From their vantage point at the edge of the forest, their view was less than impressive—one corner of a farmer's porch, two upstairs windows, the top of a stone chimney—but it was enough to get their attention. The view beyond the cabin, however, was nothing short of spectacular.

  The meadow dipped down to touch the banks of a lazy river, which shimmered like mercury in the newborn sun, and then rose up again to form a jagged cliff that hovered precariously above the water below. In the distance, where earth and sky became one, majestic mountains poked their crowned heads through the morning mist.

  As they continued farther down the overgrown driveway, the two-story cabin emerged from behind the drooping limbs of the massive oak. Thick veins of ivy crisscrossed the stone and mortar foundation, rising up in places to scale its weathered walls. Even with the boarded windows and mossy shingles it was still a delightful little place, and the deep shade that fell from the old oak tree only added to its charm.

  Finally, Mike put the transmission in park. Their journey was over. Without waiting for the others he got out of the car, his legs and buttocks tingling with pins and needles. The others followed his lead.

  Once outside they stretched and yawned, exhilarated by the sudden chill of the mountain air. Karen went over and stood beside Mike, resting her head on his shoulder. Rick shrugged off his denim jacket and tossed it back onto the front seat. Inhaling the fragrant mountain air, he looked at the cabin and the valley that stretched before him, deeply saddened by the thought that Lori was not there to share the beauty of this place. Lou surveyed the countryside with his mouth hanging ajar. It reminded him of a Tolkien novel, the kind of secret place where Hobbits dwelled. After some consideration, Max lit a cigarette.

  Silence remained with them for a few final moments before tiring itself, broken by the eerily beautiful cry of an unseen hawk.

  “Well, let's go check it out,” Mike said cheerfully.

  “What about her?” asked Karen, hugging herself for warmth.

  They looked back at the girl, who was still sleeping soundly in the back of Mike's car, her body curled into an almost fetal position.

  “We can come back for her after,” suggested Mike.

  “'Sides,” Max chimed in, “I don't think she's gonna be running any marathons. Not in her condition.”

  Mike took Karen by the hand and began to lead her toward the cabin. “How are you feeling?”

  “I'm alright,” she said, shrugging, as they stepped up onto the porch. She could tell by the look in his eyes that this place was special to him, so she did her best to conceal her worries about the events of the previous day. The killer who might or might not be hunting them down at this very moment, the police who would be searching relentlessly for them night and day, all for a crime they did not commit, and her parents, who would be worried sick about her. It was better to let those things rest for now.

  Mike guided her across the porch, where the floorboards cursed in bitter tongues beneath their weight, and to the cabin door. He paused, looking out across the valley, remembering so much of the childhood he'd left there. In the distance stood the green iron bridge that connected Willow's Creek to its neighboring town, Potter's Bluff. From where they stood, the bridge and the cabin were the only visible signs of civilization. He looked out across the greenish-gray mountains and the voice within his mind returned, except this time it was not alone.

  Are you making the right decisions, Mikey? his conscience asked of him. As he stared at the surrounding mountains, remembering what his Uncle Jack had told him long ago, Mike finally realized where these voices were coming from.

  It's the giants, he realized, with a blend of fear and fascination. They knew I was coming. What do you want from me? I'm doing what I think is right. Why are you bothering me?

  We're not bothering you, Mikey-wikey, the mountains (giants) answered. We're here to help. Uncle Jack is dead, his life is gone, you'll join him soon if the Hacker comes...

  “D'ya got a key?” asked Max, yawning into the side of his fist.

  “Naw...we'll probably have to
bust the lock,” Mike said as he approached the door, the voices still echoing in his head, while the floorboards continued to protest their arrival.

  Max bent over and scooped up a rock. “How's this?”

  “That'll do.”

  Max cocked his arm back, as if winding up to pitch a baseball, and swung the rock down in a graceful arc. “How about that?” he said, tossing the rock aside. “Pedro Martinez, eat your heart out.”

  Mike pulled the remains of the broken, rusted padlock from the door and dropped it to the porch. “After you,” he said to Karen, giving the door a push.

  She smiled at him as she crossed the threshold.

  Inside, the cabin was saturated with the smell of dust and pine. As the sunshine spilled around her back, a narrow staircase appeared before her, ascending into darkness. She stepped forward and looked to her left, scanning the contents of a spacious living room: a large stone fireplace, a sheet-covered couch, a round coffee table (actually a large wooden spool flipped on its side), and a faded imitation-leather recliner. The floor was made of clear-coated wood, with a thick oval rug in the middle. It wasn't the Four Seasons, but it sure was cozy.

  Mike stepped up behind her. The cabin looked smaller than he remembered it. He supposed he felt that way because he was bigger now, had grown two feet or so since the last time he'd been there, but it was more than just that; with all that had happened the night before, the world itself seemed smaller.

  After a brief inspection of the living room, Karen stepped away to the right, where she found herself standing in a small kitchen, complete with a sink and several cupboards. She ran her finger across the countertop and pouted.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Mike.

  “It could use a woman's touch,” Karen said, wiping the dust from her finger. She smiled at him with her eyes.

  “Come on,” Mike said, “I know it needs a little work. But once we get these windows uncovered, brighten up the place a little... “

  “I don't see a television, but I think it's the balls!” Max said with a grin, and flopped down on the couch. He crossed his legs on the coffee table. “Rick?”