GODWALKER

by Unknown

“Umm, come with me Fred…”

  Fred’s years had stretched out his time from arousal to orgasm considerably, but getting with Kate had been so unexpected and emotionally overwhelming that he was fighting his ejaculation already. He concentrated furiously on her, her, making it all go her way, pumping into her hard (even though it kind of strained his knees), whispering in her ear about how much he loved her, how good he wanted her to feel, how beautiful she was, and then he pulled almost all the way out.

  “Nooo,” Kate moaned, writhing lower on him, and just the tip was inside, just enough to keep her open and yearning and incredibly frustrated, he was poking it and moving it enough to give her a taste but it couldn’t put her over the edge, couldn’t give her fulfillment.

  “Please,” she whispered. “C’mon Fred, please. Oh please.”

  “You want it?”

  “You know I do, c’mon, please, please…” and Fred was amazed that it was him she wanted so much, that he had the power of relief for this woman who looked so beautiful to him that he could hardly believe she was real.

  “Okay,” he said, and plunged in has far and as hard as he could.

  “Yesssss!”

  “Uhhh,” he moaned, his jaws slack, thrashing in and out of her as hard and fast as he could, and he felt all her muscles tightening beneath him, his cheek pressed on hers he felt her facial muscles lock and then they both fused, exploded, sizzling, consumed. For a moment there was no bad past between them, no mistakes, no race, no age, no woman or man, no “him” or “her” but only a single, only a shining moment, only an “us.”

  Then the moment passed and they were separate bodies again, sweaty and flushed and a little sore, but filled with good feelings and, momentarily, both very happy.

  * * *

  Walter Stelke had been up for hours when the Mundys were waking. He hadn’t slept well after dropping them off, even after a hot bath and a massage from his wife. Kathleen Stelke was a big woman whose husband liked his backrubs hard, but last night she’d leaned into him with her not-inconsiderable weight and still hadn’t been able to work out all the knots in his muscles.

  This morning he’d gotten to the office bright and early—wouldn’t do to have Trevor Lee beat him there, no sir. Walter wanted to be there if anything came in and, sure enough, something did.

  Glancing between the smeary fax and his computer screen, Walter dialed the LAPD and, after a half-hour of explaining himself over and over, got to talk to Captain Reed Rutledge.

  “Thanks for taking time to talk to me, Captain Rutledge. You must be a busy man.”

  “Anything for a fellow officer. What do you need?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me something about Carl Foechs,” Walter said, pronouncing it to rhyme with ‘dukes.’ “That’s F-O-E-C-H-S. Am I pronouncing that right?”

  “You can pronounce it ‘fucks’ for all I care. What’s that bastard done now?”

  “He was killed in our town here.”

  There was silence from the other end of the line.

  “Captain Rutledge?”

  “Well shit.”

  “Somehow you don’t sound surprised.”

  “Carl was… hell, I don’t want to bad mouth a dead ex-cop. Even if he was a dirty cop.”

  Walter adjusted the phone and started taking notes.

  “He was dirty? What did he do?”

  “Carl Fuechs was on the LAPD for eight years, and he had a pretty good career. He worked on the SWAT team for the last three years, and then he got caught in a couple dirty deals. I’m not privy to all the details. I know he was stealing stuff out of the evidence room. Confidentially, I heard he was involved with a fifteen-year-old girl. You know, sexually involved.”

  “Do you know what he did after he got the boot?”

  “He worked as a bodyguard for a man named Karol Grimes, a heroin middleman in Las Vegas. After Grimes got kacked—on Fuechs’ watch, no less—Carl kind of disappeared. How’d he die, anyhow?”

  “Someone carved through his face and cut out part of his brain.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Does that sound familiar at all? I mean, do you think it might be someone who knew him back in… Los Angeles?” Walter thought about saying ‘L.A.’ but somehow felt it would be too familiar.

  “No. It’s not ringing a bell.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard about Los Angeles, but a guy getting his brain pulled out through his face? Something like that would stand out.”

  They talked for another fifteen minutes, going over Carl’s training and history, but all the time Walter was a little distracted because he kept thinking “Two in the heart, one in the head.”

  * * *

  Leslie had checked in late at the Sleepy Teepee, and he woke up uneasy. He’d had a disturbing dream in which his penis had come off in his hand and turned into a brilliant white butterfly, flapping away from him. When he’d chased it, a man with no face and bleeding wrists had stopped him. When the man had touched Leslie, breasts had appeared on his chest.

  What jerked him out of the dream was a mystic shockwave, impacting on senses that normal people simply did not possess. Leslie felt it when adepts made their exchanges, performed their ceremonies, pressed their lips to the world and drank in power.

  He’d felt a surge the other day—something potent and strangely pure—and he felt it again, wrenching him awake with its strength and, more terrifying, its proximity.

  He was familiar with the sensation of his parents charging up, and he knew the scurrying, fuzzy feel of leashed chaos (even though he’d never been able to cage it himself). This was something different, though just as powerful. And it felt close.

  Although he did not know it, the Freak was two doors down, making its first sex switch of the day—this time from female to male. Looking in the mirror, it decided white skin was essential for this region. It bumped its height up half an inch—still short for a man, but not short enough to be memorable. Its hair stayed the same dull brown and the same limp texture, but it decided to part it on the left today. It wasn’t in the mood for a beer gut, deciding instead on well-defined veins and muscles on darkly tanned arms. Looking in the mirror, it nodded. It checked the bandage on its arm (because only time could heal the injuries it inflicted on itself) and started pulling on jeans, work boots, a flannel jac-shirt. There was no grease under the nails, but otherwise it was a reasonable facsimile of a midwestern blue-collar man.

  Ten minutes later it opened the door and started walking towards its Lexus (which was hardly a blue-collar car, but oh well). Out of the corner of its eye, it noticed the flutter of a venetian blind. It kept its head still and its body moving, but its eyes flicked left and focused, wondering just who was looking at it.

  It didn’t see anything much—a vague form, a hand, a single eye—but what it felt made it turn abruptly and walk straight at the door. Like Leslie, the Freak had an unusual compliment of senses. The one it had used had no name. Unwitting avatars called it “gaydar,” and Fred Mundy had jokingly said it was “sex-ray vision.” To the Freak it was just knowing, and that was how it had suddenly known its watcher was another Hermaphrodite.

  It knocked on the door, expecting no response and getting none. With a frown and a thought it made its cells loose and watery, resistant to injury (though not impervious). Then it braced itself, put a hand on the knob and pushed hard enough to splinter the cheap doorframe, ripping the deadbolt mounting out whole. But it hadn’t shoved suddenly, hadn’t damaged the door or swung it open, so now it peeked inside.

  Nothing.

  It stepped to the side and pushed the door all the way open—alert, ready to dodge anything that might emerge.

  Nothing did, but it could hear sounds of effort in the back of the room. It ducked its head in, out, quick as a lizard’s tongue-flick, but it saw no one within.

  Worried that the defensive spell might run out before it actually started fighting, it walked
it and saw bare feet cycling madly, framed in the bathroom doorway. Puzzled, the Freak looked in and saw a man in pajamas trying to crawl out a small window over the toilet. Vaguely, the Freak wondered why this room had a bathroom window while its own did not. With a small shrug, it reached up, grabbed the legs and pulled slowly backwards. As the man in the window struggled and drew breath, the Freak said, “Scream and you’ll hurt.” It gave the legs a little tug for emphasis, and then the man was clinging to the windowsill with both hands. The Freak gently lowered his legs until they were on the floor and stood back, ready.

  The man turned and looked, apprehensive.

  “Joe Kimble, I presume?” the Freak said.

  The man’s face turned red and his brows surged down over his eyes. “No, dammit, I’m not. I’m not Joe Kimble. I’m Leslie fuckin’ Mundy, but you probably don’t give a crap about that because Leslie Mundy isn’t important and doesn’t matter. Sorry to disappoint you, but Joe Kimble’s was in jail the last I heard, so take your duke ass over there if you want to talk to him. He’s the important one, after all. He’s the godwalker.”

  The Freak blinked, smiled slowly and then said, “No, I’m the godwalker.”

  Hearing the raspy voice, Leslie’s face instantly drained from red to paper white. All the strength went out of his legs and he sat down on the toilet lid, hard, his hands raised.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he whispered.

  The Freak couldn’t decide if it was pleased or peeved that its reputation had gotten so obviously frightening.

  “Why don’t we come out of the bathroom and have a chat?” it suggested. Leslie nodded, still scared, but he stumbled to his feet and inched past his uninvited guest, careful not to touch the Freak.

  Quickly—but not hurriedly—the Freak sat down on the bed. Leslie inched his cautious way into a chair next to the dresser.

  “So, you’re also on the path of the Hermaphrodite,” the Freak said. Its expression was pleasant, open, but the harshness of its voice made it hard to tell if it was small talk or an accusation.

  “Uh… yes. I am. But not very advanced,” Leslie hastened to add.

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You felt the ripples when I… awoke… didn’t you?”

  Leslie nodded. “Yeah, but… I’m thinking of quitting.” He didn’t realize it was true until he said it.

  “Really? How come? Too many bohunks kick your ass when they found out about the Crying Game?”

  “Uh no, I just… I’m not sure I can take it anymore.” The Freak was quiet for a moment, and Leslie added, “I never really wanted to. It was my parents’ idea.”

  The Freak rolled its eyes. “Crap,” it said sympathetically. “Some cut-rate Svengalis trying to live out their dreams through their kids? That sucks when they’re just pushing you to play football or learn the piano.”

  Leslie shrugged, eyes still wide, but he tried a joke. “At least I never had to act out as a plea for attention.”

  The Freak didn’t laugh.

  For a second, they were quiet.

  “So. What do we do?” The Freak asked

  Leslie took a deep breath.

  “Why,” he asked, “Do you possibly think I’m a threat to you?”

  “All kinds of reasons.”

  “Look at me!”

  “I’m looking.”

  “I’m nothing! I, I’ve got no power and you… you’re…”

  “I’m what?”

  “You’re the Freak. I mean, you’re it, aren’t you? Pretty much the apex of the whole occult underground movement. No one’s more feared. No one’s more envied. You just, everything anyone hears about you, you just come in and rip people’s lives to shreds and then, then change and waltz away with a new face and…” Leslie sank back in his chair, voice sinking with despair. “…and you never get caught. And you never have consequences. And you never pay.”

  “I never pay? I never pay?” The Freak laughed loud and harsh. “I pay every day and I have paid for decades and I will pay until I die—unless this world dies first.” It said that last like it was a real possibility.

  “Do you?” Leslie leaned forward, and the Freak saw an awful fascination on his face. “You do, don’t you?”

  “I pay. There’s always a price, for the wish to come true. You have to know that, right? There’s always a price.”

  “And what’s yours?” Leslie whispered, eyes getting wider.

  “I pay the flesh,” the Freak replied. “I pay the pain. I pay in fear and in being feared, I pay with the loneliness that comes from no trust…” It leaned back and barked out another mirthless laugh. “I pay by not being able to afford mercy.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “Look at this from my point of view,” the Freak said, hands wide, a sarcastic smile on its features, and then Leslie grabbed a lamp and threw it.

  The lamp was in midair while Leslie bolted for the exit, and he probably wouldn’t have made it. Even if the lamp hadn’t been plugged in behind his own chair, so that the plug didn’t come out and the cord wrapped around the chair, swinging around to land right under his feet—he probably wouldn’t have gotten away.

  He stumbled, then tripped, and would have fallen headfirst into door if the Freak hadn’t been their first. Arms, gorilla-strong, wrapped around Leslie, jerked him up like lifting a sack of groceries, and slammed him back down onto the bed. Leslie struggled, but the Freak was on top of him with a hand over his mouth, his right arm pinned in a grip so strong he couldn’t even shift it, couldn’t even make it move, the Freak’s legs clamped around him tight and he was stuck.

  Leslie tried to twist, weakly, but he gave up quickly.

  “You don’t fight too good, do you?” The Freak lifted its hand a bit, ready to clamp down on a scream.

  “I’m a pacifist,” Leslie wheezed.

  The Freak snickered.

  “I shoulda known,” it said. “You didn’t even try biting.”

  Leslie glared. “I was worried what I’d catch.”

  “Ouch! This battle of wits is at an end.”

  “Now you kill me?”

  “I might.”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  “I’m pathetic? I don’t know if you’ve noticed which one of us is on top and which one’s splayed out in the date-rape position. Just how am I the pathetic one?”

  Leslie was silent for a moment.

  “C’mon,” The Freak said, digging in its heels. “I really want to know.”

  “You’re pathetic,” Leslie said slowly, “Because you can’t tell if something really is a threat or not. Can you? And because you have to treat everything like a threat. And because you can’t let a threat go unmet. You’re a paranoid, and you lash out at everyone who might, conceivably, one day get in the way of your grand ambitions. You live out your fear, all the time, and in so doing you make it real. You have so much power… and all you’re doing with it is making your own life hell. And that’s why you’re pathetic.”

  “You’re either really brave or really stupid, saying that to me.”

  “I try to treat everyone honestly.”

  “That’s no way to prosper.”

  “I guess not. Are you going to kill me?”

  The Freak sighed.

  “The strong,” he said, “Know strength, and they respect it. If you beat a strong man, you can let him go. He’ll respect you. He’ll keep out of your way. But a weak man… no, to him you can’t show mercy. A weak man who gets away, it preys on him, and he knows only fear. Like you said. And no matter how much power he gets for himself, he’s always a weak man, and he has to get his revenge, has to pay back, has to make it worse. I’ve hurt you, pacifist. Now the question is, can I let you go? The question is, are you weak or strong?”

  Leslie swallowed hard, turned his head and closed his eyes.

  “Do it,” he whispered.

  He felt the Freak’s weight lift off of him.

  “Like I said, you sell yourself short. You don’t know your
strength. And all I know is my weakness.”

  Leslie opened his eyes, just in time to see the Freak’s hands plunge. One grabbed Leslie’s belt buckle and pulled it downward, and the second dove into the flesh of Leslie’s belly.

  “Forgive me,” said the Freak. Leslie felt an icy pain as its hard fingers dug through him, deep, and he screamed.

  * * *

  Jolene drove down the road. She had one hand on the wheel—the sore, bandaged left. Her right hand was down between the two front seats, three fingers and thumb around the massive handle of a .50 caliber Desert Eagle semiautomatic. It was a big gun, and heavy, but she would not put it down. The thought of its big bullets comforted her.

  Trying to sleep on the floor of the van the previous night, she’d kept going over Carl’s death. She hadn’t been able to stop herself, not with relaxation exercises, not with deep breathing, not until she’d self-medicated with something out of the small and illegal first-aid kit from a second, hidden glove compartment. But before she’d taken that little white pill, she’d pictured her enemy running at her, pictured her bullets slamming home and leaving little blood spots.

  Not big gaping holes like that gun was supposed to, but holes nonetheless. She’d made the thing bleed. If she could make it bleed enough, maybe it would stop. That was her plan. Get Bob, get Cage, get everyone the office had sent and go to town. She’d called in this morning and been assured that they’d be waiting for her.

  Her eyes flicked to the fetal compass, then back to the road. She glanced at it every few seconds. Compass, road. Compass, road. Back and forth, like her eyes were pacing. The safety catch on the gun was engaged.

  When she got to the town, she added a third corner to her glance. Road, compass—and then the direction it was pointing. Her eyes inscribed a triangle. She had decided she’d take the safety off when she saw it perceptibly turn—that would mean the thing was close.

  Her finger was outside the trigger guard, lying along the barrel. Her left hand hurt bad, but she ignored it.

  * * *

  Kate had taken the first shower, and when she came out, Fred had his knife out. It was open, and he was tossing it up in the air, making it spin edge over handle, then catching it. He spun it fast. The cuts on both hands attested to the risk he was taking, and that was what it was all about for them. Risk. He picked the little pulses of power, unaware that the Freak could feel it as he did.