The Trashman

by William Alan Webb

  “Go on boy, help yourself.”

  “Like hell. Hurry up and eat,” he said. I heard the words in my mind. “Then get dressed. We’ve gotta get out of here, pronto.”

  I nodded, not surprised. I’d reached the hallucinatory stage of starvation, so my dog telepathically talking to me made perfect sense. I laughed a little.

  “Goddamn, Artie, I’m not kidding. Get your ass in gear!”

  “Who the fuck are you to call me Artie?” I said, trying to muster enough energy to put outrage into the words. I failed. “Nobody’s ever called me that.”

  “I’ve called you that your entire life!”

  My earlier laugh turned into a giggle.

  “My dog’s my dad,” I said. “Orange rhinos, lizard-men, blue orangutans, and my father is some mutt I rescued from beside the highway. My dead father, that is. Sure, why the hell not?”

  I did as he said, though, ignoring my own defiance to play along. If I was delirious, then I might as well enjoy it. I chewed the dark bread soaked in consommé with more enjoyment than it deserved, washed it down with water, and crawled to my pile of clothes.

  “Hurry up,” he said.

  There were so many things I’d taken for granted in my life, such as the role thumbs played in simple tasks like getting dressed. The food gave me a slight bump in energy, but it wasn’t enough, and when one minute dragged into two and two into three, Nathan growled in disgust.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “Doing my best, buddy.”

  He was watching me in a half-crouch, head low and tail high, as if ready to pounce on anybody who came through the door. Now he whirled and stood next to the toilet hole.

  “They’re coming. We’re almost out of time.”

  “What’re you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Forget dressing, get over here, now!”

  “But—”

  “Now!”

  Something beyond giving in to my delusion compelled me to obey. I was filled with urgency, and in my emaciated state it took a second to understand that my warning sense had returned. People were on the way. People with ill intent.

  “Fuck!” I said, crawling on hands and knees toward the narrow shaft.

  “Yeah, genius, exactly. Now move.”

  The warm stench rising from below no longer bothered me, but leaning forward on my palms, and with panic rising through my fuel-starved brain, I wasn’t too far gone to figure out that I couldn’t fit in a six-inch square hole.

  “When I tell you, dive into the shaft.”

  I laughed at the absurdity of it all. I was closer to dead than alive, I could feel Dona Salvatorelli’s bully boys coming to beat me, and now my dog was telling me to jump into our toilet.

  “Sure, why not?” I said.

  Nathan stood with his front legs braced apart on either side of the shaft. His jowls fluttered backward, like when a dog sticks its head out of a car window, and he made weird motorboat sounds. I found the whole situation hilarious.

  As I hung my head, laughing, the shaft widened until it was big enough for me to slide into head-first. I didn’t, though, because that was the funniest part yet. Even as my neck hairs stood up anticipating danger, I couldn’t stop giggling.

  The cell door clanged open and two guards wearing black coveralls rushed inside carrying tasers. Both glowed bright red. After a warning growl, Nathan leaped at the first one through the door. His teeth closed on the man’s wrist, ripping through both the ulnar and radial arteries. Gasping in shock and pain as blood gushed out of his torn arm, he dropped the taser and it bounced across the room, stopping when it bumped my left knee.

  Muzzle dripping blood, Nathan turned to the second man but never got the chance to strike him before the prongs of the second taser struck his flank, dropping him where he stood. Seizures wracked his body as 50,000 volts short-circuited his nervous system. Not satisfied with immobilizing his target, the guard held down the trigger and kept the current flowing, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

  Watching Nathan twitching in agony wiped out my fatigue and my hysterical laughing. A switch in my brain flipped, and, despite my physical state, I once again became a Shooter. It took both hands to aim and trigger the taser, but the effort paid off. Even without thumbs, I still hit what I aimed at, plus I got lucky. I aimed for his chest and one prong struck his neck and the other his lower lip. He collapsed in a screaming heap.

  I knee-walked to where he’d fallen, my finger locked on the trigger, still pumping voltage into his writhing body, unable to avoid the spreading puddle of blood from the first guard. Through his pain he reached out and grabbed my upper arm, and I responded by biting the back of his hand until he let go.

  Once beside the second guard, I had to figure out how to kill him. It wasn’t necessary for our escape, not if the toilet hole was as wide as it now appeared, but Nathan lay still and he would not go unavenged, not on my watch. I struggled to my feet and, releasing the taser, balanced against the door with my hands while slamming the heel of my right foot repeatedly into his nose. The other one waved at me with his left hand, trying to knock me off my feet, until I crushed his wrist using my heel. I kicked him a few times and gouged his eyes out with my forefingers for good measure.

  Back on my knees, I was too weak to lift Nathan, so I pushed him toward the hole. Horrified, I realized its width had shrunk. Whatever kaval opened it was fading. With the last of my strength I pushed Nathan into the darkness and dove in afterward, barely sliding down into the utter blackness of the narrowing shaft.

  I hadn’t believed that Heaven was in my future, not since three days after my tryst with Lee Ann Donnergan when I caught her doing the same thing with Donnie Hughes underneath the bleachers in the gym. Me winding up in Hell, on the other hand, seemed likely.

  But I didn’t think either place had rolling meadows of maroon and garnet grass waving in fresh breezes off a forest green ocean under a royal blue sun in a white sky, though. And, while Heaven might have an ambient citrus scent, it seemed unlikely that Hell would. Sulphur, maybe, but not citrus. The place smelled like a candle people lit in their bathroom during a Christmas party.

  I lay on my back in that strange field of grass and watched the sun arc across the sky. While time still had no real meaning for me, I had a feeling that suns weren’t supposed to move that fast. It’s hard to say how long I lay there, it felt so good I would have stayed that way forever. But when twilight came on another scent tickled my nostrils: meat.

  Cooked meat.

  Beef, maybe.

  I peered over the grass and saw the back of a man seated at a small table, with a camp lantern for light, and three moons in the now dark purple sky. He called out over the roar of the nearby surf without looking my way.

  “It won’t stay hot forever.”

  Hunger descended on me like Vegas hookers on a big winner at the craps table. I was wearing my dirty clothes with no shoes or memory of dressing. Getting to my feet wasn’t easy with only stubs in place of my thumbs and big toes, but the feel of the soft, cool grass underfoot made me reassess the possibility of the place being Heaven. Then, tottering in place, I held up my right hand to examine it in the moonlight.

  Stubs?

  The amputations had been flush, no stubs left afterward, and yet there they were. Walking still wasn’t easy, although I could tell that balancing was easier.

  I sat in the chair opposite the man, drooling at a well-seared T-bone steak, creamy mashed potatoes with a crater of butter in the center, a side salad with Italian dressing, toast, and vanilla ice cream topped with hot fudge and the whipped cream stuff that comes in a can, which I prefer to the real thing. I cut a triangle of juicy beef and only examined my host as I chewed.

  It was like seeing a reflection in the chrome bumper of a ’73 Chevelle. You recognized yourself, only with slight distortions.

  He had my height and build. Silver moonlight—the moons were actually silver colored—glinted in eyes the same color as mine. The full head of bla
ck hair also mirrored mine, except for the gray creeping up his temples. He’d already finished his meal and was leaning back, sipping coffee and smoking a cigarette. A white aura surrounded him, which I didn’t understand; I’d never seen one before.

  “Thanks,” he said after I’d eaten half the steak.

  “Sure,” I answered, having no clue what he meant and not caring with uneaten food on my plate. He said nothing more until I finished everything and slurped the first mouthful of coffee I’d had in…Well, in a long time.

  “It was good?”

  “If that was my last meal, you nailed it.”

  “Not your last meal,” he said. He lit another cigarette and looked away, out to sea. Deep lines creased his face. “You don’t recognize me?”

  “Of course, I recognize you. You’re my father, which means we’re both dead, and, against all odds, flames aren’t licking my flesh while a horned guy with a pitchfork laughs.”

  He chuckled. “It’s been a while, son.”

  “It has. Death seems to agree with you, Dad.”

  The tip of his cigarette glowed as he took a deep drag. “Have a smoke.”

  “Since I must be dead, too, why not?” The pack on the table turned out to be my brand and the lighter beside it turned out to be my Zippo. It’d been gone when I woke up in the cell and now it was back. Of course, using a lighter required flicking a wheel to create a spark, which isn’t easy without thumbs. But the stub, which looked longer than a few minutes earlier, was sufficient to generate a flame. After lighting the cigarette, I clicked it closed. “This thing gets around.”

  “Feel better?”

  I considered the question. “I do,” I said, every bit as surprised as I sounded. “I never thought death would have so many perks. I feel rested, full, content, I even feel stronger. I figured I’d have thrown up dinner already. Starving people shouldn’t eat bloody rare steaks for their first meal, or so I’ve heard. But if this is Heaven, it’s not the way I pictured it.”

  “It’s not Heaven, Artie.”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “What should I call you then?”

  “I go by Steed. Not Arthur, not Duncan, and sure as hell not Artie. Just Steed.”

  “You remember that’s my name, too, right? It could get confusing.”

  “Yeah, Dad, but we’re dead. I figure God and his inner circle probably know the difference.”

  “As it turns out…we’re not.”

  “We’re not what?”

  “Dead.”

  “I don’t usually have time for existential debate, but why not? I’ll play along. So, what do you mean we’re not dead? I know you are. You were in the Senate chamber when it took a direct hit; I’ve watched the security videos a hundred times. You were there, Dad. The whole place was a fireball. Nobody got out of there alive.”

  He lit a third cigarette from the smoldering butt of the second.

  “Son…I’ll call you son. Does that work for you?”

  Although I was nearing 40 years old, for reasons I didn’t understand, I answered with the tone of a petulant teenager.

  “I guess.”

  “So, yeah, I was there when the planes hit the Capitol Building. It was close, son, damned close. I got lucky. Like you, back then, I knew I had powers, but I didn’t know what they were or where they came from. I’ve since learned all that stuff. I was the only gatandi in the building at that moment, so there was enough kaval available to hold open an escape route, kind of like I did back there in the cell.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nathan, the dog? That was me.”

  “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “I get that it’s a lot to take in all at once. That’s why I couldn’t tell you before, otherwise, you’d never have been able to grasp the realities. In case you haven’t noticed, the world is more complex than you might have imagined.”

  “I have, yeah. So, catch me up.”

  “Show me your thumbs.”

  I held them up and was shocked they had grown beyond the first knuckle.

  “Are you doing that?” I said.

  “Hmm? No, that was Venus. I fetched her while you were sleeping and, after I explained who I was, she put it in motion and then left again on other business. We are in this place because here, time moves twenty-five times faster than on Earth. Your wounds will heal in hours rather than weeks, but our lives also pass at the same rate. One day here is nearly a month in our timeline. Your beard has already grown an inch. The instant you’re whole again we’ve gotta get back.”

  “But Dona Salvatorelli said that Venus died.”

  “C’mon boy, think. Dona Salvatorelli was lying.”

  I growled at him, not with my mouth but with my stomach. I was hungry again, even though I’d only just finished dinner.

  “Your stomach thinks it’s been five hours,” he said, smiling. He held up a hand and a dark figure crossed the grass holding a silver tray. In the pre-light of dawn I recognized the blue colored fur and simian lope.

  “Merkus?”

  “Andrew, sir. Merkus is my cousin.”

  “I’ve heard good things,” Dad said. “Maybe I’ll get to meet him.”

  Andrew laid out plates heaped high with scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, hash browns, grits, toast, and fried tomatoes, along with grapefruit juice and coffee.

  “Lunch is a bacon cheeseburger and fries. I’m given to understand it’s a favorite.”

  “Yeah, of anybody who doesn’t think green beans are a protein.”

  We kept up the conversation between forkfuls of egg. Another talent of mine was the ability to be angry with more than one person at a time, and the heat on the back of neck was starting to rise like a mercury thermometer on a hot August afternoon. I held it in check for the moment, hoping for a good reason for all the heartache, and kept the conversation light.

  “Except for the lack of girls, this place is starting to feel more like the Heaven I’ve always pictured. The colors are a little off. Where’s mom?”

  That gave him pause. “Hopefully, she’s waiting for both of us in the real Heaven, assuming there is such a place.” Dad must have seen my anger because he broached the subject head on. “I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know, son, I truly am. Especially after your mother’s death, I wanted to. But I vowed revenge against those who struck our country, and that was easier achieved if everybody thought I was dead.”

  “But we got ’em all dad. That’s why I resigned from the Army and joined LifeEnders in the first place, to go dig ’em out and avenge your death. And we did.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “You—”

  My newly reconstituted brain slotted a memory into my consciousness that fit the input of his words, and I instantly knew the truth of it.

  “The brickyard…you were Hunter.”

  He nodded.

  “And Diesel before Hunter, and Dozer before him. I’ve always been there.”

  “So, you’re, what, some kind of shape-shifter? Like a werewolf?”

  “Nothing like a werewolf,” he said, with too much haste.

  “Okay, a shape-shifter-not-like-a-werewolf?”

  “It’s complicated, but that’s close enough for now. As you’ve learned, the ability to manipulate kaval is a talent you either have or you don’t, and it affects each of us in different ways. I knew very early on that you had inherited my talents, but it took a while for them to manifest enough for me to recognize what that meant for you.”

  “Shooting, throwing things with pinpoint accuracy, my internal warning system, the auras—”

  “Auras?” he said, genuinely perplexed.

  I explained about them and could tell that it was news to him.

  “I’m beginning to see what she wanted you so badly for,” he said. “Very few gatandis have three major abilities, very few. And of the ones who do, they generally have many more than three. Dona Salvatorelli recognized that inside you. Under her tutelage—hers and Blong Cha�
��s—you could become extremely powerful.”

  “Blong Cha?”

  “The old guy who cauterized your wounds. He is a Hmong sorcerer from way back, 17th century or before. Nobody really knows. Some say he’s the most powerful gatandi in the world. It was Blong Cha who first understood the workings of kaval enough to tutor a pupil, and the first pupil he selected was Maria Ginevra Regio Salvatorelli.”

  “Are you part of SAD then?”

  “No. They’ve never heard of me, and I don’t know that much about them, either.”

  “Then how do you know all of this stuff, like discovering the Balance?”

  “When people think you’re a dog, they aren’t very careful about what they say around you.”

  For the moment, I felt content and at peace, even wistful, and wistful isn’t usually an adjective used to describe one of my moods. I didn’t believe any of it, not really. This was a weird version of seeing your life flash better you when you die. Or maybe that’s how it always happened, like pickling your brain in mescaline. Who really knows?

  “A few minutes ago, you said that you and your buddies killed those responsible for 9/11, but that’s wrong; they’re not all dead,” he said.

  With my chin propped on the heel of my left hand, I played along, partly because what else could I do, and partly because Andrew promised to put a slice of avocado on my bacon cheeseburger lunch. “You people only got the planners and foot soldiers. You missed the ones who made the whole thing possible.”

  “Lemme guess, Dona Salvatorelli.”

  “You doubt she’s capable of something like that?”

  “No, but where’s the profit? If Dona S. told me one thing that’s true, it’s that she’s a businesswoman first, last, and always. Besides, what would a Mafia family contribute to a bunch of terrorists? Especially since Mafia hoods are usually Catholics; why would they help a bunch of Islamic radicals? Sorry, I don’t see the connection there, Dad. I just don’t.”

  He shook his head in obvious disappointment.

  “Remember that story she told you about the Knights Templar giving her grandfather the bloody nail, the one from the True Cross?”

  “Sure, it’s bullshit. There were thousands of artifacts back then. If you combined all the nails and slivers of wood supposedly from the True Cross of Christ, you could build a city. That’s even assuming the whole Templar story is real, which I strongly doubt.”