Step.
Step.
Step.
It took forever to get to the McDonald’s, and then I remembered that what I really wanted was Burger King. I looked up. There. It was a little farther away-too far away-on the other side of the big rest-area lot. Still, it was worth the extra effort. McDonald’s fries their hamburgers, but Burger King flame-broils.
(13)
The glass door opened itself, welcoming me into the cheerful golds and reds of the “restaurant”’s sit-down area. It was as bright and frigid as high noon at the South Pole. I counted ten patrons sitting in four groups, although since one of the groups had five people and nobody was sitting alone, there must have been something wrong with my math. I decided not to let it bother me. They were of varying ages but all of them were paste-white, overweight, and dressed up for Halloween as-among other things-Warcraft orcs, Dormammu from the Doctor Strange movie, Little Fat Mermaids, Seven Death from the Neo-Teo game, and hydrocephalic vampires. At least it was the best possible night of the year to be a fugitive. Most of them looked up, stared, and then went back to chewing their cuds. The Force is with me, I thought. On my way to the counter I tried to disguise my limp and nearly stepped on a discarded plastic fork. Watch yer step, I thought. Fork in the road. The sort of boy behind the counter looked just like Kaspar Hauser, Animal Boy of Nuremberg. He had slow sloe eyes, a pretty big spatter of acne, and a tag in his ear with a barely visible microphone wire curling out of it toward his mouth. There was a black chunky woman in the back, by the drive-by window, who didn’t even look up.
“We’come to Burger King, we’re cookin’ up s’m grea’ Vegatamales™ today, may I ta’ y’r order, plees?” Kaspar asked, not giving my gory “costume” much of a look. His voice was like Butt-Head’s without the wit.
I managed to flop my torso onto the counter and drag my legs up after it.
“Uh, I’m sorry, you cain’t go back thur, guy,” Kaspar stammered out.
“I’ve been severely injured,” I said. “You’d better call the police and paramedics.” I let myself down on the other side, leaving five thick red drops on the counter, and half walked and half fell into the food-prep zone.
Hefty Black Woman didn’t look around. “Any Vegatamales™ with that for today?” I heard her ask into her microphone.
“Uh, sir? ’Scuse me!” Kaspar said.
“I have to perform an emergency medical procedure,” I said. Remember, he’s probably illiterate, I thought, noticing that he had a pictoglyphic keyboard like the ones they make for lab chimps. Use short phrases and simple action words. “I’m a doctor. I’ve been in an accident.”
He stared.
“Please call nine-one-one,” I said, just to give him something to do.
I looked around. Two prep tables, steamer, chopper station, refrigerator, freezers, sinks, combi oven, mixer station. Nice layout. Reflexively, I took two blood-sticky steps toward the first-aid kit, which was hanging in its undoubtedly OSHA-mandated spot on the wall over the first worktable, but then I remembered I was past that stage. Go to Plan Wum. Fast methods for fast times. I got some napkins out of a dispenser and blew my nose into it as hard as I could. From the way the blood sprayed out I guessed the wound was on the right side. Good. There was a straw dispenser by the mixer station and I dispensed two. Luckily for me they’d switched from plastic straws back to presumably greener paper ones.
“Sir, I cain’t let yuh back here,” Kaspar said. He was pressing a button that he must have been told to press if anything happened outside his competence zone. I staggered forward to the big deep fryer, pulled off my hat, and set it down on the control panel. The unit had four wide bins, one with a big drift of French fries tanning under a red lamp, two others holding big empty frying cages with detachable handles, and one covered with a square lid with a big knob in the center. I lifted it off. It was full of about six inches of polyunsaturated vegetable oil that I figured would be around three hundred and fifty degrees. A Panthalassa-size ocean of pain.
The deal about cautery is that even though it’s too tricky to recommend generally, it’s always been effective. If you just stick a hot poker in an arrow wound like in a John Wayne western, all you’ll do is burn away the healthy skin from around the hole and make things worse. It’s more something you use for interior wounds, on organs like the liver that can’t be stitched. Or you use liquids, like in the American Civil War, they used hot tar. Obviously there are better options now, and the instruments that do still come in military field medical packs are a lot more advanced. Still, even these days, in Pakistan, for instance, a lot of Marines, and maybe most of them, carry about ten sets of strike-anywhere matches in their Bug Out Bags, duct-taped together in bunches of ten and twenty. And if the worst case comes to pass in the absence of a medic, they light up a bundle, stuff it into the wound-even a bullet entrance or exit-and, if they’re still conscious after that much pain, pull it out when the heat’s gone. This has saved a lot of lives by controlling bleeding when the medics were a long way off, or when, like I did, one had a reason not to go to the hospital.
Okay. Entering the World of Pain. It’s always just an angstrom away, on the other side of the Carrollian looking-glass.
“Uh, I’m sorry,” Kaspar said, “we’re not allowed to let cus’mers behin’ the cou’er, um, even for emer’e’cies.”
“Just give me a second,” I said. I screwed the straw as far as I could up into my right nostril. “Don’t upset yourself.”
“Sir? Sorry, I cain’t let yuh do that.”
“Did you get nine-one-one?” I asked. I took a deep breath, bent down, and snorted a blast of hot oil up into my sinuses. It was like a Grucci chrysanthemum shell went off in my head, those same silver brocades and the water-drum boom from the report component, while I, or rather not so much I but my more basic selves, my amphibian and insect brains and the flatworm brain way down in the gut, were all sure that that I was dead. People think stubbing a toe or breaking an arm or getting zapped by a stun gun is painful, but it’s not in the same league, game, arena, or continent. You stay sane through those things. With this, for some time it wasn’t me there at all, just a mad snarling vicious thing, and then when it was me again, there wasn’t room for any thought other than the surprise that I was alive. At some point I noticed I was still screaming, and after I’d made myself stop I noticed I was writhing around on the floor. Some of the oil had dripped back into my throat and I thought my throat would swell up so that I couldn’t breathe. I should order a milkshake, I thought. Later.
“Uh, sorry, sir, but I can’t let you back here. There’s a public telephone by the restroom.” Kaspar had his hand on my shoulder. I took it and used it to pull myself up. I looked at him. My vision must have tunneled in because I had to move my head to see his name tag, which said his real name was Herb.
“Herb, I appreciate your concern,” I rasped. My voice sounded like Karl Malden playing Satan. “And I know you have to follow proper management procedure to run this restaurant efficiently.”
Okay, next item. Head wound. I eased toward the back of the kitchen. The grill. “But if you get in my way, as soon as my team of security professionals get here, and that’ll be in about two minutes, they’ll torture you and your co-worker to death with a Makita cordless circular sander. After that they’ll take your IDs and look up your families and kill them, too, if they live anywhere in the area.” I got a quarter-inch of paper napkins out of a dispenser and folded it into a mitt in my right hand. “So, Herb, seriously, please, make this easy for me. My way right away. Right?”
I stood in front of the flame broiler. There were two big iron grates, with patties charring on the right one. The left one didn’t look hot, so I just whisked the burgers away and lifted up on the iron grate. Too heavy. Takes two hands to handle. I folded a second paper mitt, crouched, and pushed up. The grate rose up. I stood up and poked through the layer of volcanic rocks that covered the heating elements. The bigger the better. I pick
ed up the largest lava stone I could find in my left hand. The napkins smoked but didn’t catch fire. I pressed the smoother side of the rock into the wound in my forehead. This was a different order of pain, colder, more like diving into liquid nitrogen. It wasn’t easier to deal with, though. My body knew it had to get away, so much so that I thought it would split into two pieces like it was tied to two cars going in different directions. I could hear my head sizzling like Canadian bacon. I screamed again, I think even louder.
“Sir? Are you hurt?”
No, I thought. I’m fine, can’t you tell? I turned. I could only see a little bit of him, just his face and hat, like I was looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. I pushed past him and staggered to the exit door on the side with the drive-thru window. There was gray stuff around him and a smell that shouldn’t be there. Oh, hair, I thought. Yes. The front section of my hair, short as it was, was on fire. Evidently I’d spattered oil on it and the rock had ignited it. No problem. I patted it and it went out, I think. The pain rose again and I screamed again. Whoa. Okay. It’s out of my system. Damn, that was a whopper freakout. I took a quick look back over the counter at the eating area, expecting to see Grgur walk in the front door. He wasn’t there. Neither were any other new visitors. ES must be having problems, I thought. Well, don’t fuck a gift horse in the mouth, et cetera. Okay. As I’d learned from No Way back in the day, drive-throughs are the fugitive’s best friend. Let’s go car shopping.
Side door. EXIT. Right.
Step, step Whoa. Who are you?
A dude-who I guessed was the Manager on Duty, finally alerted by the panic button-had strode in from somewhere in the back and was blocking my exit. He was big, blond, about thirty, and, as seemed to be de rigueur, somewhat overweight. I noticed I still had the lava rock in my left hand. He said something about how I had to stay where I was and wait for the police.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, keeping my eyes on his eyes. I pressed the rock into his paunch. It sizzled. He emitted a high, shrill scream, almost louder than the ones I’d just produced myself, and his body recoiled, although, I guess reflexively, his right arm threw a sort of halfhearted haymaker punch. I just crouched under it-it wasn’t coming fast enough for me to claim that I ducked-and I edged around him. There was a three-AA flashlight hanging in its own OSHA-mandated spot next to the first-aid kit, and I took it as I left the food prep area. Damn, if I’d known pain like this existed I would have crawled back into the womb and lived there for the next eighty years. Although it had made me forget about the cold.
“Sir, excuse me?” Herb asked somewhere behind me. I looked around. My vision seemed to have opened out a bit, and I could see that he was still back at the grill station.
“You’ve been great, Herb,” I said. I went out. The patrons looked up to watch me leave, but only one or two of them stopped chewing.
(14)
The car at the head of the drive-thru line-a first-generation Equinox in Navajo Nectarine-had its window down, I guessed waiting for the rest of its order, and I edged forward to where I could see the driver.
A woman. Young. Plain. White. Fat. Bewildered by life.
Perfect.
Okay. Plan Um.
I held up the flashlight in that underhand cop style and flicked it on.
I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, but actually I have a pretty deep voice. “Police emergency!” I said, in as authoritarian a basso as I could manage while also reining in my chattering teeth. I flashed my American Malacological Society membership card. “License and registration, please.”
She obeyed. The license said she was Miss Kristin Dekey, 24, of Winter Haven, not that I cared, but I felt I had to look at it long enough to seem official. I tried to hand it back but she was fumbling in the between-seats thingie for the registration. The woman in the passenger seat blinked at me. She looked enough like her to be her twin sister, except all crackers look alike to me, so who knows. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” Kristin was saying, “I’m sorry, I have um, I have a proof of insurance, here, I’m not sure, the registration, I’m not sure where the registration is, is this going to be enough to, I’m sorry-”
I took the piece of paper. Pretending to look at it used up twenty seconds, but when you’re impersonating, it’s a good idea to get the subject used to the idea that you’re who you’re pretending to be before you tell them to do something unfamiliar. And the best way to do that is to put them through whatever rituals are most familiar. If you do it right, even if you’re, say, a five-foot Chinese teenager in a Gothlita dress-or if, like me, you’re covered in blood and your hair is smoldering and there’s smoking bloody charcoal scab all over your face-by the time they sign the report they’ll swear you were six foot six, wearing a full police captain’s uniform, and looked like Clint Eastwood.
I gave the paper back and took out the larger of my still-jammed phone. “One Adam thirteen,” I said into it. “I am in pursuit of suspect in a civilian ve hic le, over. Ma’am, you and your passenger must exit your ve hic le.” As normals usually do, she obeyed. Her vehicle mate took longer but also got out. Instead of both backing up, though, they sort of sought each other out and met in front of the car, standing there like they were going to confer about something. I got in and leaned over the open door.
“Ma’am, for you own safety, please step away from your vehicle.” She did. I said the same thing to her twin. Her twin did the same thing. Then, she thought of something.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“Hey, are you really a policeman?” Kristin got it together to ask, too late. I got in the rest of the way, slammed the door, reached over and slammed the passenger door, found the thingy that locks all the doors, locked all the doors, got the thing in gear, and took off.
Ahh. Freedom. I Oh, hell, I thought. I’d left my hat back in the kitchen. I thought of going back for it, realized that was ridiculous, and then got worried that just the fact that I’d considered it meant I wasn’t thinking clearly. Focus, Jedface.
Up the ramp. On the off ramp, on the other side of the highway, my abandoned Barracuda was lit up with halogen light. Above it, a helicopter swept a second light around the car in a widening spiral. Hah, I thought. They’re way behind. Way.
Onto 400. Forward. Upward. Ad astra per atrocitas. I adjusted the seat and wheel to suitable positions for nonporkers. The highway straightened out and pointed the Equinox toward the burnt-orange glow over the No-Go Zone. My hands were still shivering and my teeth were still chattering, and I was tired and light-headed, but I wasn’t quite in shock yet, and if I held on to the four quarts or so I had left, and if I kept making adrenaline, I’d keep going for another few hours. Just need to be supercareful until I find a dealer… well, the last time I heard they were selling blood packets there, so they ought to be able to get factor IX too… and maybe some thrombogen, a few burn packs… top up the O negative… hmm, while I’m at it, pick up some Oxy or at least some Hydro, and a saltshaker of the old benzoylmethylecgonine. Maybe a Glock 36 and couple of Heizer DoubleTaps, and a few hundred rounds of HydraShok. And a papered ride, of course. I just had to stay ahead of the ES people. And the way I’d set it up I knew I’d manage it. Finally my paranoia was coming in handy. I’d set up four different legends, of varying degrees of detail and remoteness, and if I cycled through all of them over the next few weeks they’d never catch up. ES was top-shelf, but nobody’s resources are unlimited. Of course, they’d be using the Game to find me, but I’d be using it to stay ahead of them. And I’d be doing it better.
I passed a row of abandoned detoxification trailers and a tossed-aside ROAD CLOSED barrier. There were more cars here, all heading to the twenty-four-hour cop-free party zone. The fugitive’s first rule is that the more people there are around, the harder it is to find the one you’re looking for.
Past eighty. Hmm. There’s a slow-pokin’ cat. I passed him on the right. I voiced the car’s “radio” onto commodities news. The Dalian and Zhengzhou had b
oth just suspended trading. The fourth domino had tipped over right on schedule. Well, it’s out of my hands. Need to just sit back and wait.
EOE, I thought. Well, they deserve it. Factor IX indeed. They’d been planning to kill me for a long time.
And she knew it.
Marena was no damn good.
People were no damn good. Even dogs were no damn good. Even lichens were no damn good. I’d done the right thing. I was doing the right thing. I let myself feel a full blast of elation, not just the kind that comes after you make a narrow escape, but the deeper kind you get when you know your future’s assured. By the time I passed the abandoned checkpoint, I knew I’d make it. Mission good as accomplished. Fifty-two days left. Or, counting down by seconds:
Four million, four hundred and ninety-two hundred thousand and eight hundred…
Four million, four hundred and ninety-two hundred thousand, seven hundred and ninety-nine…
Four million, four hundred and ninety-two hundred thousand, seven hundred and ninety-eight…
Four million, four hundred and ninety-two hundred thousand, seven hundred and ninety-seven…
ONE
The Scorpio Carfax
Jaguara Skull with Jade Sphere
Recovered at the Ruins of Ixnichi Sotz
Curious Antiquities of British Honduras
By Subscription Lambeth • 1831
(15)
T he world had ended eight days ago, just as Lady Koh had predicted, on 4 Earthtoadess, 5 Vampire Bat, 9.1 1.11.12.17-or, in Gregorian terms, on May 1, AD 664. Or, at least, almost everyone here-and I really mean almost everyone, that is, the entire population of Mesoamerica and large swaths of North and South America-believed that it had. Today, the eighth in the new lineage of suns had just died at 289 degrees west by southwest, and still the light on the Altiplancie Mexicana, that is, the altiplano, the Central Mexican Highlands-was a disconcerting diffuse maroon, like they say daylight looks on Venus, hadn’t changed since dawn, and it was the same as it was yesterday and the day before. The faint path curved around a stand of scrub pines and up a gentle grade toward a line of wrinkled mesas. We hadn’t seen a living person for at least a thousand rope-lengths now-a little over four miles. And we hadn’t seen a dead one for least three hundred. At least not a whole dead one. Just a few odds and ends.
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