by S. G. Browne
I do one final run-through in my head, hoping that all of my various identities are on the same page. As far as I can tell, everyone’s in agreement. Still, I have this nagging feeling that there’s something I’ve overlooked, but I don’t have time to worry about the details now.
I take a deep breath and depress the button on the handheld remote to start the first detonators on their countdown. It’s not until that moment I realize I set all of the wireless timers for one minute instead of ten.
CHAPTER 66
I’m running as fast as I can, breath bursting out of my mouth in white clouds and disappearing into the cold December night. White LED parking lights illuminate the ground as I race across the asphalt toward the back of the perimeter fence, toward the extension ladder leaning against the chain links and the razor wire.
My arms and legs pumping like pistons, my expression set and determined, I’m Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible. Or Minority Report. Or The Firm. Except I’m not running from Wilford Brimley or the Precrime police. And I’m wearing Nikes instead of Kenneth Coles. I always wondered how Tom Cruise could run so fast in oxfords. No one has ever run better in movies than him. You ask me, he should win a lifetime achievement award for Running in Films.
The next thing I know I’m James Bond, my theme song playing in my head, the thrill of being the world’s greatest secret agent surging through me. Mostly Roger Moore, with a hint of Sean Connery and Pierce Brosnan, but no Daniel Craig or Timothy Dalton.
More than a hundred yards behind me across asphalt and commercial landscaping, the protesters march back and forth, singing Christmas carols. I glance back to see if anyone sees me, if I’m being followed, looking for any signs of General Orlov or Hugo Drax or Mr. Big. The next thing I know, I’m tripping over my own feet and stumbling to the ground. When I get back up, my palms are raw and bleeding and my left pant leg is torn open, my left knee throbbing. I could use some hydrogen peroxide and some sterile gauze, maybe a nice hot bath with some essential mineral oils.
So much for James Bond.
Right now, it feels more like I’m channeling Miss Moneypenny.
I take off, sprinting away from the building, the clock ticking down in my head. No James Bond. No Ethan Hunt. No theme songs to give the scene some ambience. It’s just me, myself, and I.
The protesters sing “Silent Night” as I close in on the fence, less than twenty feet away, and I think I’m going to make it. But just before I reach the fence there’s a whump and a flash, the night suddenly bright and glowing and hot behind me, the sound of glass and concrete and metal exploding up and out, and I’m thinking I should have really double-checked the timers.
The concussion from the blast lifts me off my feet and throws me into the ladder and the fence, chain links and razor wire collapsing around me. Hot air roars past, sucking the air from my lungs. My head hits something hard and metal. Something else slices into my right leg. My left arm gets caught in the ladder as the extension safety disengages and two metal rungs going in opposite directions slam down on my arm, snapping it at the elbow.
I let out a scream as another explosion sends debris raining down on the asphalt around me and lights up the night. Not that it needs any more lighting. What’s left of the building is already engulfed in flames. Fire and smoke billow out of empty windows. Half the building is gone. Voices shout out, some of them in shock, others in celebration. Someone keeps shouting “That’s right!” over and over again. Several others are singing “Deck the Halls.”
Or at least that’s what it sounds like. But I’m not sure I can put much stock in my ability to process information at the moment.
When you’re wrapped up in razor wire, your left arm broken and your back blistered from the heat of an explosion, blood dripping from a head wound and the curtains of a concussion closing across the screen of your thoughts, you tend to lose your ability to think rationally.
I lie on my back with the ladder on top of me and stare up into the sky filled with heat and smoke, my head and arm throbbing, tears pouring out of my eyes. I know that in spite of my injuries I need to get up and get moving, but extracting yourself from storm fencing and razor wire when you’re pinned to an extension ladder isn’t as easy as it sounds. The trick is pushing up on the top rung of the ladder with your good arm while pushing down on the bottom rung with your broken arm, all while trying to keep the razor wire from slicing into your femoral artery.
From what sounds like the bottom of a well, I hear the protesters shouting, some of them cheering and applauding and singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” at the top of their lungs.
It’s good to know someone’s in the holiday spirit.
I reach over with my right arm and grab a ladder rung and pull, pushing down with my left arm in the opposite direction and screaming until I’m finally free. Then I’m rolling over and cradling my arm, passing out for I don’t know how long. When I regain consciousness, I’m curled up in a fetal position in a tangle of chain-link fence. I have razor wire wrapped around my right leg. Something warm is running down my face. My back feels like it’s on fire.
I push myself up and see blood pooled on a dented NO TRESPASSING sign. My breath comes out in short, ragged puffs of smoke as I try to figure out a way to untwist myself from the fencing and razor wire.
This isn’t exactly how I saw things playing out.
Though to be honest I’m not sure what I expected to happen, but I was hoping for something a little different than this. Something easier. Something less painful. Something that included beaches and bikinis and rum drinks with tiny umbrellas.
Off in the distance I hear sirens. Through the smoke and the heat drifting off the burning rubble, lights flicker in the darkness. For a moment I think I’m looking into the night sky, at constellations I don’t recognize, at stars that no longer exist, burned out aeons ago, their light just now reaching us. Then I realize I’m looking toward the city, at the lights of Los Angeles, at the convoy of emergency vehicles heading this way, bringing paramedics and ambulances and medical assistance.
And I’m thinking I should probably get out of here.
When I try to move, the razor wire bites into my flesh and the curtain starts to drop again on my consciousness, so I slap myself once across the face. The slap doesn’t hurt compared to the rest of my injuries but it does the trick and keeps me from passing out.
Holding my left arm against my stomach, I reach down with my right hand and start to unwrap the razor wire from my leg. There’s a lot of blood. Not so much that I think it’s sliced through my femoral artery, but it’s more blood than I want to see coming out of me. Especially since I already drained a pint last night.
Although I manage to unwrap most of the razor wire from my leg without making things worse, several of the barbs have sliced their way under my skin to the point that I realize I’m probably going to do more damage getting them out than they made going in. Which I guess is the point. Once you get caught in this stuff, you’re not supposed to just get up and walk away.
My heart is pounding and emergency lights are flashing. If I don’t do something quick, someone is going to come along and find me here and I don’t think they’re going to throw me a party or give me a medal or make me a saint. So I take hold of the razor wire and close my eyes, then I hold my breath and count to three. Then I count to three again. Then I decide to give myself a little more time and I count to ten.
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .
Another explosion goes off and I flinch, pulling the razor wire free before I’m ready.
I black out.
The next thing I know I’m walking through some trees out behind the factory, my back warm and my left arm heavy and throbbing. Blood trickles from the scalp wound past my left eye. More blood runs down my leg into my sock, pooling in my shoe, so every other step I take sounds like I’m walking in mud.
I turn and look back at the fire and the chaos and the destruction I’ve creat
ed. Part of me doesn’t believe I was actually responsible for all of this, that I’m just dreaming or imagining everything in some altered state of consciousness. Except I realize there’s nothing altered about my consciousness. No other identities are in my head. There’s no VACANCY sign out front. I’m thinking as clear as I’ve ever thought. I’m the most me I’ve been in months.
I’m not Indiana Jones or James Bond.
I’m not Jim Morrison or Captain Kirk.
Truth is, for the first time since I can remember, I feel like myself.
I take several deep breaths as I look around at the city lights in the distance, bright and colored and blurry. Something swirls around me, drifting out of the darkness and falling to the earth. At first I think it’s snow, which doesn’t make any sense because it never snows in Los Angeles, until I realize it’s ash from the fire.
Part of me wonders how the hell I ended up like this. What happened to the path I started down?
But I guess that’s life. You start looking for answers and making decisions and creating inertia and before you know it, you’re twenty-seven years old and working for a bioengineering company, blurring the lines between fantasy and reality and blowing up buildings.
This definitely isn’t the future I envisioned for myself twenty years ago, though I don’t know for sure what I thought my life would be like. What seven-year-old kid thinks that far ahead? But I guess I expected something more. Something that mattered. Something that gave me a sense of purpose.
On the other side of the burning factory, the protesters are singing “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!”
As the ash falls to the ground around me like snow and the city lights twinkle in the distance, I can’t help thinking about Christmas—the lights decorating the houses, the brightly wrapped packages, the smell of a freshly cut pine tree, the sound of Nat King Cole singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
I look out at the city and think about all the children who are tucked away in their beds, dreaming of Santa Claus or too excited to sleep, looking out their windows hoping to catch a glimpse of a sleigh being pulled across the sky by reindeer, anticipating the magic and the joy of Christmas morning. I think about how my father denied me the thrill of believing in the holiday magic. How he robbed me of the excitement and anticipation of Christmas Day. How he ended my dreams of reindeer pulling a sleigh across the heavens.
I look up into the sky through the swirling ash and think about how I spent Christmas Eve wrapping my own presents, stuffing my own stocking, playing the role of Santa.
A smile touches my lips as a thought occurs to me that I’ve never had before. A thought that makes so much sense because it’s been there all along, waiting for me to find it, to discover it.
The role I was always meant to play.
Sometimes you don’t realize who you’re supposed to be until the moment comes.
I turn back around and continue to walk through the trees at the base of the Santa Monica Mountains, heading toward Griffith Park, excited about my future. After a few steps, I stumble forward and fall down. Pain flares up in my broken arm as I land on it and I black out again, coming to I don’t know how much later. Maybe seconds. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Except I still hear sirens and people celebrating, so I’m guessing I wasn’t out too long.
The protesters are now singing “Here Comes Santa Claus.”
Somehow I get to my feet. I don’t remember doing it but it must have happened because I’m standing up, my vision going in and out. I close my eyes hard, struggling to focus, and when I open them again, everything’s a little clearer. More crisp, like the night sky.
I take in another deep breath and hold it, filling my lungs with the cold December air, and then exhale. I do this a few more times until my head is clear and I feel like I can walk without passing out, which is about the best I can hope for at this point. Eventually I’ll need to find some medical attention, but not until after I get away from here. In the meantime, I have a lot of decisions to make.
The sirens grow louder and another explosion fills the night as I limp through the trees, thinking about what I have to do—making plans, calculating expenses, anticipating obstacles. I wonder if I should head north or if I can set up shop in Mexico. The labor would probably be cheaper south of the border, but I don’t know the going rate for elves. Or if I have to deal with a union.
Behind me the protesters are still singing, so I sing along with them.
“Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane . . .”
I wonder if I should grow a beard. If I need to gain weight. If there’s any real estate for sale in the North Pole.
I wonder if reindeer really know how to fly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Even though I write fiction, I do quite a bit of research to ground my stories in reality. For example, during the writing of Big Egos I read up on Carl Jung, Sigmund Freud, Buddhism, 1970s pop culture, Philip Marlowe, Jim Morrison, James Bond, DNA replication, remote detonators, Shakespeare, Santa Claus, Greek mythology, silverback gorillas, karaoke, Star Trek, obsessive-compulsive disorder, Starbucks, Pink’s Hot Dogs, the Formosa Cafe, Indiana Jones, donating blood, The Catcher in the Rye, Oscar Wilde, Philip K. Dick, countries that don’t have extradition treaties with the United States, and Elvis Presley’s favorite snacks.
Just to name a few.
However, I didn’t interview anyone or use any academic articles or text that required permission, so there’s no specific person or persons to thank for helping me with my research. Instead, I’ll thank everyone who compiled the information that enabled me to write this book. Whoever you are.
As for the less anonymous people I’d like to thank, there are a few of the usual suspects. My editor. My agent. My writing group. But I’d also like to acknowledge some of the unsung heroes—not for their help in the creation of this particular novel but for their own unique contributions to my success over the past five years.
Jon and Ann Bibler, Guy and Jenn Genis, Ed and Barbara Goff, Eunice and Greg Magill, Jeff Bibler, Shannon Page, and Lori Stein (aka Party Radar). Thank you for your hospitality and your generosity and for providing me a home away from home. I had keys made.
Alan Beatts, Jude Feldman, Maryelizabeth Hart, Nathan Spradlin, and Del and Sue Howison. Thank you for your love of authors and books. You complete me.
Bill Breedlove, David DeSilva, Jim Saltzman, Kelly Young, and JX Bell. Thank you for massaging my ego, listening to me complain, and supporting my habit. Man-hugs all around.
Clifford Brooks, Ian Dudley, and Keith White. Thank you for your insight and feedback on the early drafts of Big Egos. Does it work now?
Jennifer Seis (aka Miss Friendly). Thank you for your glimpse into corporate culture and for just being you. I owe you dinner.
The team at Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster. Thank you for all that you do to get me out there in front of readers. Without you, I’m just shouting in an empty room.
My editor, Ed Schlesinger. Thank you for your enthusiasm and your trust and for making me look good. Nobody does it better.
My agent, Michelle Brower. Thank you for finding me a home, giving me advice, and for just being you. You are marvelous.
My friends and family. Thank you for helping me to keep my own ego in check. I couldn’t have done this without you.
And finally, a big thank you very much to Elvis Presley, Raymond Chandler, Ian Fleming, Gene Roddenberry, J. D. Salinger, Jim Morrison, and Philip K. Dick. Without you and your creations, this novel would not have been the same.
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY DAVID DE SILVA
S. G. BROWNE is the author of the novels Breathers, Fated, and Lucky Bastard, as well as the novella I Saw Zombies Eating Santa Claus and the eBook short story collection Shooting Monkeys in a Barrel. He lives in San Francisco.
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ALSO BY S. G. BROWNE
NOVELS
Breathers
Fated
Lucky Bastard
NOVELLAS / SHORT STORIES
Shooting Monkeys in a Barrel
I Saw Zombies Eating Santa Claus
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Scott Brown
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First Gallery Books trade paperback edition August 2013
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