“Where are you going with that?” the human said and then waved his stun cannon.
“Damaged. Below standard. No room.”
“No doors open. Lockdown. Comprende?”
“Damaged. Below standard. No room.”
“You stupid-ass bugs. Fuckin’ hurry—or I’ll leave you out there.”
Secure-seals whooshed, the ram-proof door opened, and the Harijans trundled them into an alley. Copter blades thudded and the torso of John Wayne sparked in a grove of American flags. The Harijans had moved to unload the substandard laundry into one of the building’s molecular incinerators when they tipped the cart over.
“Run,” one of them said, and Clearfather and the old man did just that—out into the Baghdad-smelling ruins.
CHAPTER 2
The Curse of the Brubakers
They cut through an alley strewn with cat skulls and empty cans of Olde English 800. Even in boots the old bastard was quick—and he knew where he was going, which was a good thing because it would’ve been easy to get lost with fire crews and riot squads running everywhere and the stilt-legged drones called Storkers picking their way through the mess.
Clearfather felt ill with shame and woozy from the physical pain but there was no time for self-pity. Building façades were still falling down as they ran past fountains full of suitcases and dead birds. Out in front of the blasted Johnny Cash Country Grill, gulls quarreled over the remains of a frat boy who’d been mauled by an Irish wolfhound protecting one of the hunchbacks from Camelot. Waves of disgust and horror threatened to swamp Clearfather’s resolve as they limped past roulette wheels and rotting dolphins—he imagined Bob’s wife, Kayleen, combing the streets trying to save what animals she could.
The old man finally led him down a narrow section of what was left of Little Saigon. At the end of a lane they came to a cheval-de-frise of razor wire and Pokémon dolls. The old man found a piece of fishing line and pulled. It drew aside a section of the knife-edged metal and he wormed his way through the barricade. Clearfather followed bare-kneed and, once through, saw the silhouette of the surviving section of the Holy Roller looming like a carbonized sea horse in the searchbeams. There was a smell of water and he realized the old man was pulling at another line, dragging a paddleboat toward them.
“This is the back of FunForAll, the park with the Holy Roller and the Wyziwyg,” the old cowpoke said in a low voice. “C’mon.”
Clearfather climbed into the walrus paddleboat, and the old man shoved off. Cars had fallen in the water—and a crashed Dragonfly copter. They pedaled as quietly as they could for a small island under one of the hardest-banking turns.
“It’s not much,” the old-timer announced when they arrived.
Clearfather didn’t know what to say. This man had saved his life twice in as many days and if he lived on a dirty little hummock of saw grass under the world’s biggest roller coaster, at least he wasn’t Vitessa.
The searchlights and spotfires lit up the sky. Above their heads, supported by long tiki torch poles, was a fine mesh of camouflage netting that blended in with the saw grass. The old man led him to a wigwam of scrounged timber atop a dredging platform. Pieces of roller-coaster track and signs that said REMAIN SEATED and KEEP YOUR ARMS INSIDE THE CAR were visible. Inside, Clearfather found a bunk made of offcuts, a small fuel bead oven flued with harvested metal, and a very expensive Japanese field kitchen that he suspected was stolen. The walls were insulated with life preservers, which he presumed had been filched from the paddleboats. Covering them was a collection of historical TV Western memorabilia. It reminded him of Mr. Meese’s baseball shrine, and he felt a stab of deep remorse. Were Dr. Tadd and his father safe?
“Not bad on a budget, eh?” the old man chuffed and clicked on a battery lantern.
Clearfather tried to nod, noticing a smattering of pictures of a young boy and a girl among the faded cowboys.
“My name’s Winchester Brubaker,” the man announced. “Named for the legendary Winchester Rifle.”
“I’m . . . Elijah Clearfather.”
“But I want you to call me Marshal—as in Marshal Stack Dixon.”
“You’re a marshal?” Clearfather asked, glancing at the cowboy nostalgia.
“I was. Why don’t you try to find some clothes in that trunk. I’m going to have a swim in the lagoon and freshen up. Then we’ll have some grub.”
The clothes he found were theme-park castoffs. He pulled together an ensemble that made him look like something between a Pony Express rider and a buccaneer. Outside he heard the swimming strokes of the man and thought again of Mr. Meese in his tank—and the devoted Dr. Tadd—praying that they’d survived his wrath. Oh, Kokomo, he felt his heart cry . . . suddenly he was dizzy with longing for her . . . and for Wilton . . . even the Man of Steel.
The Marshal returned, wrapped in a Yosemite Sam beach towel. He went to a cupboard, brought out a bottle of Yukon Jack, and took a swig. “That’s better,” he said and held up the bottle.
“No thanks.” Clearfather sniffled. “I’ve been on a lot of medication.”
“I’m hip,” said the Marshal and threw down another splash.
From another trunk he produced underwear, a white western shirt, dark pegged trousers, and a Lee J. Cobb black string tie. Neatly dressed, he turned on another lantern and proceeded to open cans of food while singing softly in a rich baritone . . .
Boot Hill, Boot Hill
How lonely you’ve made me
You’ve taken all my friends
Their voices still I hear in the whisper
In the sigh of the cold, cold wind . . .
As he sang, Clearfather tried to distract himself by inspecting the memorabilia-lined walls with the help of the extra light. Many of the pictures showed a man who looked like the Marshal but huskier, posed with Hollywood legends like Glenn Ford and James Arness. Others showed a man Clearfather took to be a young Marshal, on the boardwalk streets of a frontier town.
His host and rescuer heated up cans of chili con carne and poured the contents over steaming rice. They ate in silence, listening to the sirens and the rumbling of the loaders echoing over the lagoon.
“Well,” said Clearfather as the Marshal sterilized drinking water. “I guess you want to know why.”
“Son, I think there are things we’re just not supposed to know about. Maybe you’re one of ’em. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to help you.”
Clearfather smiled. Outside a flamingo landed with a shwoosh. “So . . . you . . . live here?” he said. “Must’ve been loud.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” the Marshal replied. “But the rides were so constant, it was like the sound of the ocean. I think the noise has helped keep me young. That and the mischief.”
“Mischief?”
“Stealing stuff from under their noses,” the Marshal chuckled. “I’m kind of an urban myth among the security staff.”
“Why do you call yourself Marshal? Were you some kind of star?”
“A star’s something you never stop being,” the man replied, wiping his mouth. “Not in the old sense. There was a time when stars had class and dignity. They set an example. They were heroes.”
“You mean actors . . . who played heroes,” Clearfather said.
“You know what Jack London said about inspiration?”
“Who?”
“He said, ‘Light out after it with a club—and if you don’t get it, you will nonetheless get something that looks remarkably like it.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Most people don’t. The point is, you are who you think you are—who you believe yourself into being. If you can’t think who you are, then you can only be what somebody else thinks you are. And who can you trust to think you right?”
“I see what you mean,” said Clearfather. “So . . . who . . . are you?”
“Well,” said the Marshal, rolling a joint. “Let’s go out and sit by the water. I haven’t had so much silenc
e or male company in five years.”
In the distance M-20 fire mingled with a Beach Boys song. They dragged two worn director’s chairs through the saw grass and sat under the severed spine of the roller coaster that stood like a new mathematical symbol. In the fanning beams, when fish rose, the slow circles wrinkling the water made it seem as if the stranded machines were coming to life.
“I am, as I said, Winchester Brubaker,” the Marshal began, which struck Clearfather as a name only slightly less unlikely than his own. “But I’m still Marshal Stack Dixon. Just like my daddy was Tristan Brubaker and Marshal Jim Badge.”
“I’m sorry,” Clearfather said. “I’ve never heard of any of those people.”
“That’s the Brubaker Curse,” the Marshal sighed, blowing smoke rings to rival Bean Blossom. “Daddy was cast as Jim Badge in Frontier Lawman, bringing Truth, Justice, and Fairplay to Abilene, Kansas, the wild and woolly end of the Chisholm Trail. Frontier Lawman was set to be the biggest new show of the 1962–63 season.”
He scrambled back to the hut and returned a few moments later with the Yukon Jack and an old kid’s lunch box with a thermos inside.
“The old man was on a lunch box. He was ready to round up desperadoes and open shopping markets. He’d bought my mom a house in the Hollywood Hills.”
“What happened?”
“A young whippersnapper of a network executive canceled the show at the last minute. Said there was too much competition. Said the tide was turning on the Western—they wanted to cut their losses.”
“What did your father do?”
“He rode his horse into the little prick’s office and lassoed him. Hauled him around the old Universal lot kicking and screaming and finally dumped him on the lawn of the Leave It to Beaver house. Then he rode back to the Frontier Lawman set and dug in for a standoff with studio security. He was stoked with live ammo so they called in the LAPD SWAT team, who shot his beloved palomino and then tear-gassed him. Dad spent the next two years in a mental institution in the San Fernando Valley. When he got out, his agent got him a gig at Knott’s Berry Farm, working with a rodeo clown who’d been kicked in the head. Second day on the job, Dad drove down La Cienega and put a can of Dr Pepper on his agent’s head and told him he was going to shoot it off if he didn’t find real work for a real marshal.”
“What did the agent do?” Clearfather asked.
“Soiled his pants. Next day he got a restraining order. Dad disappeared after that. That’s why I set my sights on becoming a marshal, too. And I made my dream come true thirty-five years to the day after my dad went missing. I got the role of Marshal Stack Dixon in Star City, an attempt to resuscitate the Western with a science fiction theme. The premise was aliens land during Wild West days and begin taking over the townspeople’s bodies. But some—like the heart-of-gold gal who runs the brothel, and me—are immune. The only person who knows the truth is a wandering gunslinger named Spark Riles, who’s wanted for murdering my brother—which resulted in my marriage to my brother’s old sweetheart, although her body’s now been taken over by an alien and I’m in love with Katie, who runs the cathouse and saloon.”
“That sounds a bit complicated,” Clearfather said.
“That’s just what a little weasel of a producer named Purkiss said!” the Marshal snapped and whipped out a Heckler & Koch P9 and took aim at a fruit bat that he’d spotted hanging from the underside of the roller coaster. A bullet barked and the flying fox tumbled out of the manga-colored air into the water, sending furrows out among the junk.
“That’s the Curse of the Brubakers. Canceled on the edge of stardom. Then I forgot that I was a marshal—a hero. Thought I was an alcoholic. Convinced everyone else, too, including my wife and two children, Quanah, named for the half-breed Comanche chief Quanah Parker—and my beautiful Pilot. My wife died years ago of breast cancer. Pilot died in an anthrax attack in the Holy War. My son Quanah, he designed the Holy Roller right here.”
“Really? Does he . . . know . . . about you living here?”
“I wouldn’t want my son to know I was living on an island under his world famous-roller coaster!”
“But wouldn’t he want to know you’re alive—and all right?”
“Never be too sure what folks want to know about their past,” the Marshal said and plugged another bat. “And now we better be hittin’ the hay. I think my stay on the island is about over. They’ll start cleaning out the lagoon soon, and I sure as hell don’t want to be here then.”
Clearfather thought a minute. His money was gone—he’d left it back at Noah’s Park. He had nothing but borrowed theme-park clothes and faint memories—memories of dreams and horror and sorrow and more blood on his hands than any lagoon could ever wash clean. And still he was determined.
“You don’t happen to have a car?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t think so, would you?” the Marshal cackled. “In fact, I do have vehicular capability—if a building hasn’t fallen on it. Why do you ask?”
“I need—a ride. Bad. And I don’t have any money.”
“Where to?”
“South Dakota.”
“South Dakota! Shit. Sacred heart of the Sioux Nation.”
The Marshal was about to pop off another bat when a searchlight lit up the remaining curve of the Loop of Faith. Clinging to the rail was a bald eagle—the first one the old man had seen in fifty years. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Clearfather asked.
“Damnedest thing.” The Marshal sighed, but when the light sliced back the bird was gone. “You know—I think I just got a Message.”
“I get those.” Clearfather nodded. “What did it say?”
“I think it said . . . to help you get to South Dakota.”
“You sure?”
“No. Yeah. Well, hell. I don’t know. But I got a good ear for the high white sound. C’mon. You can have the bunk. South Dakota’s a long way.”
They carried their chairs back to the hut. As the Marshal was rummaging around, setting up a bedroll, he slapped his head and went to find his buckskin costume.
“Here,” he said. “You had this in your hand when I found you. What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Clearfather said, pocketing the little white ball. “But thanks.”
CHAPTER 3
Area 51
For a while Clearfather lay awake, listening to the old man snoring. It was a peaceful, human counterpoint to the loaders piling and unpiling rubble, feeding the Goblins with pretzeled steel. Gradually everything went hazy and broke apart, and he slipped off into a soft cyclone of honeysuckle-smelling wind. He found himself curled up on a cot back on the summer porch at Aunt Vivian and Uncle Waldo’s house with his dog Lucky. It was a gentle, fulfilling dream . . . like a dose of forgiveness. He woke slowly, reluctantly, refreshed but yearning to be back in time. The only thing that puzzled him was that he couldn’t remember what kind of dog Lucky was.
The Marshal was up before dawn muttering about what to salvage. It was clear he had no intention of returning to the island. In the end he decided on the Frontier Lawman lunch box, photos of his wife and children, the silver marshal’s badge from Star City, a small pack of clothes, a box of freeze-dried food, a canteen of sterilized water, and his weapons, which along with the P9 included a Harrington & Richardson break-action 12-gauge and the Winchester .30/.30 lever-action carbine for which he’d been named. Clearfather had just the ivory ball and the clothes on his back.
The Marshal said a silent but emotional goodbye to his jerry-built home and then doused everything with oil and turned on the stove. He didn’t want his son to find out who’d been squatting on the island. His “vehicular capability” proved to be a 1953 Indian motorcycle, an eighty-cubic-inch Blackhawk Chief with telescopic front forks and a Princess sidecar painted an immaculate American red.
“This was the first thing I bought when I signed the Star City contract,” he said with fondness. “And I hung on to it when I’d lost everything else.”<
br />
The bike had been languishing in the back of a warehouse, which the Marshal was unnerved to find a Vietnamese wholesaler had started using as distribution center for his heroin network. The building was still standing but was filled with bodies, as the attack of the monster celebrities had occurred during a divvy. Blue Metal cartridges and trampled shrimp wafers littered the floor—along with plenty of dead presidents and spilled China White.
Clearfather didn’t know which surprised him more, that the bike started right up or that the Marshal seemed serious about riding it all the way to South Dakota. But he didn’t have any better ideas and even if the old man was a bit loony, under the hobo-hermit despair he could tell that there was a soul filled with honor and spizzerinctum. If anyone could get him to South Dakota, he figured it was the Marshal.
From the bag of clothes the old man produced a woman’s wig, which had blown off the Holy Roller, and a milkmaid’s outfit from the Jungfrau. “I think you should wear these,” he said, trying not to smile. “At least until we get out of the city. You’ll be less noticeable from the air. In case anyone’s looking for you.”
Securitors were out in force now but there was still so much wreckage, it was impossible to police all the arteries. A motorcycle, even an overloaded one with a sidecar, was a good way to navigate the urban wasteland. The Marshal stowed the rifle and shotgun in a leather scabbard mounted off the handlebars while Clearfather, in wig and milkmaid bodice, sat holding the P9 with an extra box of jacketed hollow-point cartridges.
A smear of gray-brown haze dulled the sun along with ghastly holograms of Condoleezza Rice. Dark Rain exchanges erupted along Zellweger—diableros hacking up camels or trying to rob trapped guests. The datacom buildings of Midshore and New Tel Aviv had all been leveled, and De Niro and Tarantino were still on fire. Half an hour later Clearfather spotted another of the mysterious old billboards peeking out of the looted pawnshops at the corner of Sean Penn and Pamela Anderson.
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