The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel

by Erik, Nicholas

  “Then I didn’t. What’d you find?”

  “You’re a cool customer, getting shot like that and thinking about that video. I don’t know about you sometimes, man.” I should have done like Isaac said, not told Monk anything—but just because he’s irritating. He unzips the bag and runs his hand through it. “Oh, that’s beautiful.” He kind of moans. I walk over and look in, expecting to be overwhelmed by opulence.

  Broaches, bands and earrings, crisp bills of all sorts—colored foreign ones along with standard greenbacks. A couple strange ones, huge as legal sheets. Says they’re issued by the New London National Bank.

  “Another joker,” I say, yanking them from the pile. They aren’t a joke; I know the truth.

  “I don’t think so, Damien, I don’t think so.” He’s done a little digging.

  “Care to share?”

  “Where’s Isaac,” he asks, looking about, “haven’t seen him in a damn minute.”

  “Running late.”

  Monk raises his eye at this, but doesn’t have a response. “You know my daddy died not three days after he worked that case, right?”

  “Yeah, I do seem to recall that.”

  “Seems strange, don’t it?”

  I put my feet up on the bar and lean back.

  “That a drug addict died of a heart attack? Nah.”

  “Hey, asshole,” Monk says, pushing me a little, enough to almost send me crashing over, “that’s still my old man.”

  “And he was such a junkie that you could’ve gotten high just drinking his piss.”

  “Yeah, but he was a pro. Knew his drugs.”

  “That’s a unique perspective on the matter.”

  “You know, I think I’m going to drink somewhere that isn’t filled with assholes.” Monk heads out the door and leaves without telling me what he’s found. Just like that. And then he comes back, yanks a couple bills from the bag without saying anything.

  And then he’s gone again.

  I don’t stop him. I’d rather be alone. I already know what he’s going to say: that the circumstances, the coincidences are all fishy.

  “Good luck finding a decent man in this town,” I say when he’s gone, and then I sit back down. I run my fingers through the bag. Passports. Must be Mitch. Poor bastard saw too many spy movies, thought these could be sold on some black market or another.

  I flip through them. One’s newer than the others, with crisp foil letters and a picture recent enough to be considered modern. Janice Kaye, still pretty, but older than I thought—36, if one should believe the US government. Wait until she’s been in Riverton for a few more years. Time will catch up with her yet. It always does.

  I toss them and the other useless crap in the bag and put it all in the oven, crank the heat. This smells awful, but hell if I’m going back outdoors. On the table I’m left with a collection of heirlooms, a stack of gold bricks, a black book and the switchbox.

  The device looks like a little walkie-talkie or AM radio, but not quite, more like a rejected design than anything retailers would ever stock. I flick the power switch on top and three sets of numbers flash across the tiny screen, followed by an asterisk. And another set, and then another.

  I shut the bizarro radio off and the red lights fade from the display. It won’t do anything on its own; I need to find someone who knows what to do with it.

  The book seems more interesting, but whoever it belongs to used some sort of code. I figure it’s Henderson’s, but the first entry starts with “Henderson _ not _ today _ says _will_.” I stop after that, because it makes no sense with half the words missing. It must have a mate, but the missing piece ain’t here; maybe Henderson’s got it. Should make for a useful bargaining chip. The Sheriff’s name is all over it, and your name doesn’t show up in a black book when you’re on the level. I hear insurance is a good a thing. My fingers begin to beat a furious tattoo against the laminated wood while my wanders, thump-a-thump, thump, louder and louder.

  And then the light is sucked out of the room and I’m surrounded by darkness. I get up, but I stumble about and crash into almost everything in the damn bar before I make my way outside.

  There’s a lone person on the road, perched atop a chopper, chrome trim gleaming. Helmet on, decked out in leather, I can’t make out a face, or even if it’s a chick or dude. But we look at each other for a moment—whoever it is, they want to be seen—and then the vandal grips the throttle tight and roars off.

  I head around back and find a pair of thick bolt cutters on the ground, left like a calling card. The generator’s screwed.

  “What a goddamn prick.” I head to my truck and grab a flashlight out of the glovebox. Using it makes me feel like I’m searching for something in the shadows—like the hot co-ed in a horror movie, right before her guts get blown all over the screen—but it’s better than bumbling around.

  There’s a little safe behind the counter, and inside is a paltry amount of cash—not even enough to take out of the till—a couple important papers and a 9mm pistol. The .45 I dropped might be nice to have—could stop an elephant with that thing, maybe two—but I can’t go back now, no matter how much I might want to.

  I get another message from my unknown friend, demanding that I head to the El Dorado for a face-to-face encounter.

  I’m reminded of the horror flick, aware that I could be the new star in the sequel to someone’s snuff film. I guess it works out well enough, though—I want to visit the El Dorado anyway, blunt my nerves and racing mind with a few pours of whiskey and the delightful ambiance.

  More than a few. It’s been a hard day’s work, and I think a celebration is in order. The secret to spiritual enlightenment and freedom from the tyranny of your captors is simple.

  Catch a bullet.

  I load the loot in the safe before I head out, grab some cigarettes—stale, but what the hell—and the gun. It doesn’t quite fit the holster, so I just tuck it into my jeans, lock everything up and head to the truck, where the sun is starting to peek out from beneath the gray sky.

  9

  A Dangerous Life

  Kristine was reading.

  That’s what I remember from the dreams. They can’t be real, because I only ever get three days with her—three days from when she pops up at the bank, shoots at me. But the dreams, those are a lifetime, the lifetime I see when I look into her eyes, feel her soul grab mine. And who can tell me that dreams aren’t real, premonitions of what will come when I break free from time’s grip?

  Isn’t it such a cliché, the chick of letters, the bookworm, the good girl student, with the bad ass? I think it is, and I haven’t even seen that many movies.

  But there we were, her brains, me brawn. I had brains once, heart too, but I traded them in for a gun and a shipping manifest and a couple gold bricks.

  It happens, even to the best of us. And I was far from that category. But there she was, reading, brunette hair shining in the afternoon light, me just watching her.

  “What are you doing,” she said, “I don’t like being watched.”

  “I like watching you, though.” I smiled. She looked like she had purpose; like the world was made so she could sit in that chair and learn.

  She put her feet up on the table and leaned back. The Lady—or someplace like it—was open, but no one else was inside. That wasn’t unusual, and it didn’t matter.

  “You’re killing me on the health code,” I said, and I knew it was a bad joke, but I didn’t care. You know the chick you can say anything to, and she won’t leave? I mean the dumb things, not vile or offensive stuff—because if she knew who I was, what I’d done, I don’t know if she’d stayed.

  Well, she did find out, and in the real world, she dies for it. But this was my dream. And in my dream, that was her; she was the chick I could say anything to. She just rolled her eyes, and went back to reading.


  And now, every time I’m surrounded by silence, I think of this. It brings me back, but not in the good way, not in that sepia-toned nostalgic fashion. No, in these memories, the pictures are burning, bloodied, ruined—and it’s all my fault.

  I didn’t get there in time; that was the problem. Or it was the drugs, maybe, or the booze, or maybe—and this is what I tell myself to make it feel a little better—it was just that I wanted to steal another moment with her, and it cost us both.

  But it’s simpler than that. She died because I am who I am. We all are, and we can’t help it. Fate’s cruel that way, kind to others. But I’m Damien Mitchell, and that makes me good at a couple things. And none of them make the world better.

  The dreams always turn into nightmares. They always do, at least for me. The Erasers come, and this part, this part is true; I’ve seen it three times. They come to mop up the mess that I created.

  I was the concierge, the person who led them straight to where they needed to go; they were the mathematicians’ pen, balancing the universe’s complicated equation so things didn’t get wonky. There wasn’t room for screw-ups in those neat lines, just precision.

  I was a screw-up. She was a screw-up.

  This was no life for screw-ups.

  I wake with a start, find myself on the side of the road. I pulled over; I don’t remember that. Maybe it’s from the pain, maybe it’s from being shocked back into reality after over thirty years of hearing the same song.

  I fish around in the glovebox and pull out a small packet of white powder, jam it up my nose. I got to find someone to stitch me up, make me semi-whole again.

  I remember the time I first did flare. It was like coke, sure—or any other upper—but it was better. They’d figured it out, there in the future; only thing is, it degraded during time travel, became unstable.

  It was safe in 2049, where it hailed from, the addictive qualities notwithstanding. But its colloquial name here in 2029, it lived up to it, burning you up from the outside. You burned bright, bright, bright, and then collapsed into nothing at all—like a tiny supernova.

  I can still hear her screams. All the way out here, in the desert, I hear them, like a bird having both its wings broken, realizing that it will never fly again.

  That it will never see again.

  Her screams echo across time, and I realize that they haven’t happened yet. It’s not too late—not this time. There are no sayings about fourth chances, no pithy proverbs or clever quotes. But there are ones about last chances, and I know this is mine.

  I have to find her, and I have to save her.

  And maybe, just maybe, I can save myself. I glance at my watch. Not everything will be different. I know when this ends. I haven’t broken the whole chain, just a link, perhaps a few. It’ll all end in two days—and I’ll either progress, or I’ll be flung back to the beginning.

  I floor it, chasing my dreams into the horizon, fleeing from the reality in the rearview. Because they can switch, one can become the other. They must.

  I’ve seen this reality three times. There cannot be a fourth.

  I rushed back, the dust streaming behind me, but it was too late. He was waiting. Despite the big metal suits, like some sort of techno-knight, the Erasers were stealthy, had to be stealthy.

  He just wanted me to see.

  He ended her with a .45 to the chest. Just as I got to the window, the timing perfect. But this Eraser made a mistake, an error, because she’d gotten him too. His dedication to theatre killed him. But I was still on the outside, looking in at the scene, scarlet streaks spattered across the diner.

  Bubbles of blood dripped from her mouth, in between little whimpers. There were no screams; there was no energy left for sounds, just enough for fear, for pain.

  Kristine tried to talk, but nothing came out but more crimson. And then, the eyes; you can see it leave, the soul. I rushed inside, shoulder slamming the door, chimes ringing. I ripped my shirt from my body with no effort, placed it around the wound. I said nothing, because I wanted to believe that she could be saved.

  I knew the truth, and the helplessness boiled over into anger. I shook and I quaked, but the ground didn’t move, and no lightning bolts came from the heavens as retribution. Everything was silent, and her eyes were blank. I hadn’t even been here when she died; I was outside, looking in.

  She’d died alone.

  Kristine, she’d died alone.

  I flung myself at the armored freak, slammed my fists bloody against his iron corpse, but the sequence played the same way every time. The last time I ever see her.

  I’m done with dreams and memories. They’re too harsh.

  10

  Lost Causes

  I shake myself from my remembrances by turning on the radio. Five years ago, they’d left me a note announcing that I’d been fired, and would be a prime candidate for Erasure should I get any ideas about causing trouble. That was what they did to the problem cases: just boom, gone, whitewashed from time forever. Not a bad solution; send some unwitting bastard back to the age of William the Conqueror and he’ll start talking crazy and making trouble.

  I’d had plenty of vengeful ideas since then—even before Kristine was more than a shade in the depths of my mind. The switchbox, it’s just the first step—but Isaac and his Rapture buddies, I need them for the execution. Those metal monsters, the Erasers, they’ll be on me soon. I have to work quick—but first, I need to find Kristine, see where that path will wind this time.

  I know where to find her. And, at this point, I’m fine with heading to what could be my early demise. But I still need to make a stop, get patched up. I roll past the El Dorado, into the wasteland of outcasts—those who aren’t welcome in the double-wides and collapsed houses.

  No one lives here if they’ve got another option. Lucky for most, it never comes to that. But for a few, including Candice, this has been home for more time than I’ve spent on this mortal coil. The truck kicks up dust when I veer off the asphalt. Her trailer can be seen from the road—good for business, that—but it’s far enough where, if no one was looking, they might never notice it.

  But, since Candice is a whore, you can trust that people are always looking.

  I get out and rub my boots into the dirt. The dry cigarette crackles in my lips, burns harsh when I draw. Maybe they could market these. Riverton brand—sunburnt and past their prime.

  Her door’s got police tape covering it, one of those crime scene seals over the crack. A window’s open, too small to get in through.

  “Candice,” I call out, “you in there?”

  A dumb question, unless she’s taken to partnering with the local police for anti-prostitution outreach. I lean my head in the window too far, and I’m met with the putrid stench of decay. The place has been rummaged through. I don’t stop to inspect; something—or, more to the point, someone—died in there.

  And, seeing as how I haven’t seen old Candy down at the El Dorado as of late, I can only assume it was her that did the dying. Maybe that drug addiction snuck up on her.

  I shuffle back to the truck, smoke trailing from my fingers, and pause to glance back at the trailer. She’d have patched me up all right; she was good like that. Someone who beds everyone tends to become a bit of a Renaissance Man—or Woman.

  There’s a crumpled piece of paper stuck to a cactus near my truck. I pluck it off, find that it’s an old photograph. Candice and a little girl, not a few days old.

  I didn’t know the whore had a kid. I wonder where the little girl went; her smile looks sweet in the picture, like she don’t know that life is hard—even moreso for the offspring of someone who turns tricks.

  Makes me feel bad about Candice leaving this earth for wherever she’s headed; I never did employ her services, but she seemed about the only one who didn’t complain about Riverton. Just accepted it, got to whoring and got by as be
st she could. Which, even if she died and rotted out here, made her better than most.

  11

  Gold Rush

  Strobe lights pulse to bad ‘80s hair metal as the bitter whiskey glides down my throat. After a few hasty drags on a cigarette, I motion again, a man trying to disappear or be swallowed up in the vastness of the desert. I know how that story ends, but I pretend—or delude myself—that my tale will go a little different. Besides, I’m in pain, and a hospital isn’t an option.

  I’m waiting for this meeting. I don’t know what to expect.

  The girls on stage—and most of them aren’t much older than that—slink back and forth in front of a comatose crowd. Someone passing by the El Dorado might wonder how anyone ends up in an establishment such as this, on the edge of existence.

  I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.

  The current patrons must’ve grown tired of tits; two guys are passed out in their chairs, and that about does it for company. Soon enough, though, the morning crew will trickle in, eager to wallow away their disability and social security checks in transactions humiliating for everyone involved.

  “Say Diz, you heard anything about Candice,” I say to the barman.

  Dizzy shoots me this look like I’m well behind the times. “Cops pulled her out of her trailer a week ago. Been dead for at least twice that long.”

  “Shoot, that’s rough.”

  “A good woman is hard to find, but she was one of them.”

  “You a patron of her services?” Inappropriate, I know, but I can’t quite determine what’s right these days. Could blame that on the liquor. Or the flare. It’s a toss-up.

  “We had our discussions, nothing more.”

  “Do they know what killed her?”

  “Could be lots of people.” He shrugs. “Dangerous profession.”

  “People?”