Max Ryker- The End Begins

by David Wayne

  “You’re an idiot sometimes, Max.” I watched her struggle to hold it in, but she lost the fight and burst out laughing.

  There was something about her when she laughed—it rang true. The way she found genuine joy in simple things. She could squeal with delight from finding a walnut tree, dancing around like a cornball and singing a cereal jingle. She didn’t care what others thought of her; instead she followed her heart. She was sharp as a razor yet a minimalist, insisting her life remain uncomplicated. She didn’t care if we reached Atlanta in a week or a year; it was all the same to her. I envied that kind of internal tranquility. The battles that raged inside of me would never allow for that kind of serenity. I’ve seen and caused too much death and destruction. I’ve never known any different; it’s my normal. For the first time, I wondered what life would be like once I dropped her off in Atlanta. The thought disturbed me.

  “You almost look as if you’re self-reflecting, Max. That can’t be, can it?”

  I ignored her.

  “You going to miss me when I’m gone?” she asked.

  Zing! I hated when she knew what I was thinking and then asked a blunt question about it. One of these days, I’d figure out how she did it.

  “Maybe. A little, I guess.” It was a weak reply, but the best I could do as a hip shot.

  “Would it hurt to admit it?” she fired back.

  “I just did.”

  She put on a whiney voice. “I just did. Maybe a little, sorta, kinda...”

  I gave Whitey a kick, wanting to get out ahead and away from her, but it startled the horse, and he bolted forward a few steps, knocking me back. No way was I going to fall again, so I whipped my arm backwards, just in time to catch myself. Unfortunately, the maneuver had the effect of slapping the horse hard on the ass, and it took off running—at full blast.

  “Ohhhhhh,” I yelled, leaning forward and trying to hold on—but there was nothing to hold on to. When I fell backward, the reins flipped on top of the horse’s head and I couldn’t reach them. The padding began sliding side to side, so I squeezed my legs together, which helped stabilize me. Every time I reached out to fetch the reins, Whitey would veer, almost throwing me off. For some reason, the horse was freaking, maybe because I was flailing and yelling on his back. He moved into a full gallop, and I didn’t know how to slow him down. It was starting to feel pretty good, blasting through the high grass. A full gallop is an easier ride than a slow one—smoother and less bumpy than a trot. I yelled out, “Yeehaw,” and briefly threw my hand up, making a triumphant fist. My confidence waned as I spied a wood fence directly ahead. I reached again for the reins, determined to steer around it. Looking left to right, I was faced with a bitter reality. The fence was continuous; there were no openings—we weren’t going around it, we were going over it!

  I braced myself for what appeared to be a three-foot jump, which I would take at a full gallop—while holding on to nothing. I felt Whitey tense just before he sprang. In mid-jump, I went air bound, floating a good foot above the horse. I braced for a forward tumble. I heard myself scream, “Help,” and closed my eyes. I heard hooves hit the ground with a loud clump, followed by my balls getting smashed on Whitey's neck bone. I bounced to the left and would have fallen off, but he cut hard at just the right time, scooping me up and saving my ass. I leaned hard right, overcompensated, and started to tumble off that side. Then he cut hard again, scooping me out of midair. He stopped a minute later to drink from a small creek.

  I jumped off, ran over by some bushes, and puked my guts out. I was washing my face in the cool creek water when Sister trotted up. She jumped down and ran over, placing her hand on my back, leaning down close to my face.

  “Max, are you okay? I thought for sure you were going to crash once I saw you heading for the fence.”

  I cupped more water in my hand, taking a big, deep gulp. “Who me? Nah, I was just taking old Whitey for a little spin, kicking the tires. Now he knows who’s boss.”

  “Yeah, you looked like you were having a blast.” She threw me my cowboy hat, bonking me in the head. “Here, Lone Ranger, you lost this while you were joyriding.”

  Chapter 45

  I awoke to an arduous throbbing in my groin and inner thighs. It was close to unbearable. Sister was just opening her eyes on what had become her two thirds of the tent. Anything less and I was elbowed, pushed, and yelled at all night.

  “Oh, man, I’m hurting,” I groaned.

  She awoke cheery, like she’d been awake for hours. “You just need to walk it off,” she said, sitting up, ready to get moving. “People don’t realize how riding a horse can make one slightly sore.”

  “Slightly? I’m in acute pain over here. I can’t move.”

  “Oh, Max, don’t start crybabying already. It’s a beautiful day, life’s ahead—let’s go enjoy it.” She started crawling out of the tent, her posterior jacked up in the air as she ducked under the tent flap. I felt like giving that puppy a good, hard smack and saying enjoy this! I didn’t indulge. After an MRE breakfast, we went to get the horses. Mine was gone.

  “Where’s Whitey?” I asked, looking around the grazing area where we had left them last night.

  “He’s gone, looks like.” She was angry.

  “Hey, don’t you dare get mad at me. I told you last night we needed to tie them up. You said no, they won’t go anywhere. They live on a farm, surrounded by a three-foot wooden fence, able to leave at any time, but they chose to stay. You were wrong, and this is your fault, so don’t you—”

  “No, this is your fault, Max. The operative word is the horses choose to stay. Obviously, Whitey hates you and chose to leave. Now, because of your resistance to bonding, we’re back to walking when we could be riding.”

  “Now there’s a good one. I didn’t bond with an animal, so now we’re walking?”

  “That’s right. These weird phobias hurt you in many ways. This one just happens to be obvious. Not all of them are. So, today’s lesson—being commitment-phobic is not good,” she said, nodding along with her words.

  Commitment-phobic with a horse? That was way too touchy-feely for me to draw a parallel to. I started loading our gear onto Blackie; at least we wouldn’t be toting the heavy stuff. She grabbed my arm.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

  I looked at her, then our gear, and then the horse. “I don’t know, making spaghetti dinner. What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m loading up so we can head out.” I pulled my arm from her grasp and attempted to continue my work—but she stopped me again.

  “No way. That’s not how it works. Blackie’s not a slave, she’s a partner. She allows me to ride her and I appreciate it. But she’s not going to trudge along, carrying our heavy load like a servant. Besides, she wants to stay with her friend, Whitey.” I watched her unload our bags, whisper in the horse’s ear, and then swat it softly on the rear, causing it to run off into the meadow.

  “Isn’t that just freaking great, Susan. Here’s an idea, let's carry our own stuff and let the animal ride off so it can be with its friend.” I picked up my gear, throwing it across my back—very aware of the intense pain between my legs.

  We walked quietly but swiftly, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Mine had turned to our destination. What would we find in Atlanta? I had no contingency plan if we found chaos and, for some odd reason, didn’t feel inclined to make one. We didn’t discuss the future much, and to the extent we did, Sister was satisfied taking a wait-and-see approach. She preferred living in the now.

  Houses started to dot the landscape, most sitting far off the dirt road. Mainly farms with lots of acres between them and their neighbor. Usually, only the rooftops were visible through the trees; a mailbox next to their driveway was the only other sign they existed. Occasionally, but rarely, we saw smoke billowing from a stone chimney, the occupants apparently deciding to stay put in the country rather than head for the big city. I was beginning to wonder if that wasn’t indeed the wisest choice.


  As the day wore on, we saw fewer farms and more houses—which tended to show up closer to the road. We discussed checking one out, perhaps staying for the night. Sister was pro, I leaned con. I felt it was a good way to get dead, as in shot. She argued if we ran into people, they’d be more likely to invite us in for dinner. I didn’t share her optimism. I marveled at our inherent differences. The recent abduction was the most extreme experience of her life, but an anomaly—a rare set of bad circumstances. For me, taking out three thugs and saving one life didn’t even rate an entry on my resume, not even as a footnote.

  Living these last years in Birmingham was the closest I’d ever come to settling down or committing to anything. I’d almost bought a little red wiener puppy but had backed out. Who knew when I’d have to pack up and split at a moment’s notice? I had enemies—ruthless ones. I pictured a fast exit that left a poor little hotdog trapped in the house, eventually succumbing to starvation.

  It’s not like I haven’t done plenty of good in my life. I foiled one terrorist plot in Chicago that saved at least a hundred lives—and that was all in a good day’s work. I’ve never killed for profit—I’m not an assassin for hire. But if I’m completely honest, it was never entirely for the good of mankind; it was just a job—like a plumber, except I killed terrorists rather than fixing toilets.

  Now I had the sister. No, I didn’t volunteer for the job, and yes, I had tried to avoid it. But when tasked with the chore, I’d risen to the occasion—and felt some measure of goodness for it. She was one solitary individual, so the math didn’t work for the risk. It was illogical but felt right. Had a few years out of the game softened me that much?

  I looked over, watching the determined strides and her focused trance on the road ahead. Maybe in some other life, where I wasn’t a trained killer and she wasn’t a nun—who knows? But that wasn’t our calling. We were two destined for another path, roads walked alone. In that respect, probably the only one, we were the same.

  Out of the blue, she slapped my arm. “Tag, you’re it. Now you must tell me a secret,” she said, laughing.

  “What are you talking about? I’m it?”

  “It’s a game. Now you have to tell.”

  I stared at the road, my previous thoughts evaporating. “Sorry, Sis, I don’t like games. Let’s play walk with no talk, instead.”

  “You don’t like games? What kinda weirdo doesn’t like games?” she asked.

  “The kind of person who's a grown-up? Perhaps we could discuss something relevant, something—”

  “So, my interests aren’t relevant?”

  “No, I wasn’t implying—”

  “Only the great Max Ryker’s wants and needs are relevant? That’s what you meant?”

  Deep breath and long sigh. “No, Sister, that’s not what I said.”

  “Then tell me a secret. I tagged you first. You’re it.”

  “I don’t keep secrets, and the few I do keep have to remain that way. That’s why they’re called secrets.” I looked over at her with my serious look. “It’s government stuff.”

  “Of course, a silly woman could never understand such serious matters. Shut up and spread, right?” She returned my serious look.

  “I hate it when you talk that way. You’re a Sister. Conduct yourself accordingly.”

  Without missing a beat, she snapped back, “You get awfully prim and proper when it comes to me, but let some loosey-goosey chickie come along, and it’s wham, bam, thank you, ma’am for Maxie. He gets to have all the fun. Sister Susan is but a pauper, a lowly wench to do the bidding of her Lord.” She stopped in the middle of the road, doing a low curtsy.

  “Maybe the devil's got a special seat for you down there as well, Sister,” I said, stifling a laugh. Damn right, I did like her being pure, not that she was—and Jenn did get my juices flowing a bit, but…it was fair…somehow. I spied a mailbox and decided that was my way out of the conversation, a diversion. “Hey, let’s follow that driveway and see where it leads.” I didn’t like it, but it would lead us away from this discussion.

  She was happy with that idea. “Yeah, let’s do. I need a hot bath.”

  Chapter 46

  The driveway was poorly maintained, full of deep ruts and large holes. I was hoping we wouldn’t be met with a shot of rock salt in the ass by some freaked-out country bumpkin afraid of strangers. The exterior of the house was just as unkempt as the yard. We banged on the doors and peeked in through the windows. It was empty. I was about to suggest moving on to another house when I noticed the dull blue Volkswagen parked under the open carport.

  “Hey, let’s check out the Beetle Bug,” I said.

  She ran over and jumped in the driver’s side. “Cool, the keys are in it. Get in.” She turned the ignition, and the sucker fired right up, puffing out a big cloud of thick, black smoke. The Beetle was loud enough to blow your eardrums—if it had a muffler, it wasn’t doing its job. She turned the key off, and a loud bang followed, causing me to duck and grab my weapon.

  “You’re a bit trigger happy there, aren’t you, kemosabe? A little backfire and you’re diving for the dirt.” She started laughing and then yelled, “Boo,” startling me again.

  “Very funny,” I said dryly. “You really are a riot. Scare a guy holding a gun, not smart.”

  She stopped laughing, reaching into the ashtray and holding something up in the air. “What’s this?”

  I smiled. “That’s a roach, Sis.”

  “Yuck!” she said, tossing it on the floorboard.

  I picked it up. “Not that kind of roach—a joint.” She gave me an odd look. “You know—reefer, Mary J, weed?” She was shaking her head. It wasn’t computing. “A marijuana cigarette butt?”

  “Oh, double yuck,” she said, crinkling her nose. “You don’t use drugs do you, Max?” Now she was suspicious.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. She cocked her head. “Well, I might have smoked a little bit of it in college.” Now she was frowning. “But I didn’t inhale, scout’s honor.” She didn’t seem to catch the Clinton joke, so I dropped the subject. I tossed the rather large roach on the floor, behind the driver’s seat, watching where it fell. I’d be sparking that dude up later, after she went to bed. I wanted to drive and find a better pad, but she convinced me to go inside the dump. The front door was locked, but the back wasn’t. Now there were some solid security measures.

  The inside was surprisingly clean. Glancing at the photos hanging on the wall, I could tell the occupants were old hippies. No big surprise considering the Beetle Bug and the weed. A black lacquer flat-screen hung on the wall, at least a fifty-incher. Underneath it was a new computer, with all kinds of peripherals attached to it. Next to that sat three huge stacks of albums, at least five hundred of them. It was an odd sight—flat-screen TV, high-tech computer gadgets, and old vinyl records.

  Over our MRE dinner, the excitement of driving tomorrow was thick in the air. Our feet were sore, and our legs ached. It was a welcome change. “It’s going to be a blast, driving that little Bug; I’ve never been in one, only seen them in movies,” she said.

  “Huh, you’re not driving tomorrow, I am,” I said, scooping up the last bite of fake cube steak and bland brown gravy.

  “Who died and left you the keys to the mansion?” she said.

  I stared at her.

  “It’s an analogy. I made it up. Besides, I found the car keys, so I’m driving. Next topic,” she said.

  “No, same topic. I’m driving because I’m the man, and the man drives. Next topic.”

  She popped out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box. “Max Ryker, I don’t know what century you live in, but being born with a penis doesn’t afford one entitlements. It may be the center of your universe, but to me it’s a just pee appendage. I’m the woman, and I should drive—because all the gas stations are closed.”

  I stared at her again.

  “Because when you get lost, we won’t have any place to stop and ask for directions? It’s another funny
I made up on the spot.” She laughed.

  We decided to resolve the argument as adults—using paper, rock, and scissors. She won.

  *

  I snuck silently through the living room, using the kitchen exit to avoid the squeaky front door. She’d turned off the lantern a half hour ago and would be sound asleep. Walking to the Bug, I started humming the old Brewer & Shipley tune, one toke over the line, sweet Jesus, one toke over the line. It’d been fifteen years since I’d gotten stoned, but I was out of booze and needed a buzz. Besides, puffing a little weed never killed anyone, at least to my knowledge.

  The problem was, I couldn’t find it. I shined my flashlight everywhere. Under the seat, between the seats... It was gone. I had purposely watched where it landed so that I could find it later. Then I noticed the note taped to the back of the seat.

  Mr. Ryker,

  If you are reading this right now, which I know you are, shame on you! I threw the nasty pot away, so you can stop searching for it. As always, I must mother and teach you: drugs are bad. Just say no!

  Now, go back to bed.

  In disappointment,

  Susan

  That damn woman. I was going to catch a little buzz, and now she pissed on my parade—just like the night I was going to get my brains banged out in the woods by that blond. I crumpled the paper in a tight fist and then froze, realizing my screw-up. Now that the paper was crumpled, she’d know I found it, which meant I was searching for the joint, which meant she had caught me. Did a guy ever catch a break? This mother-hen nonsense would have to stop. I was a grown man. I didn’t have to answer to anyone, hide anything, or walk on eggshells. I snuck back in through the kitchen door, as quietly as I could.

  I didn’t see the light under her door; it was the tiny bit sneaking through the doorframe that caught my eye. She was up and had a towel or something covering the floor crack. That’s when I caught a whiff. I was shocked.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! “Open the door, Sister.” I heard a window slide closed. I knocked again, jiggling the door handle. It was locked. “What are you doing in there?”