Red Twilight: Long Distence Runners

Chapter 7

Back to the Front

El jumps out of the truck and walks around the outside, calling to his partner who is already getting into position to execute his orders. "Start counting aloud as you're walking!" El throws open the trailer. Furious, he wh.i.p.s box after box as he makes his way to the front of the truck.

Lacerti yells, "Thirty-six!"

El calls back, "Thirty-two?" He places his hand on the back of the trailer, feeling the cold wood. "There is a false back to the wagon!"

Lacerti hops into the truck to help El out. Lacerti punches one corner, causing the wall to partly cave in. El takes it by the base, and the two soldiers remove the wall of the storage vessel.

The two stare in shock for a moment, taking in the contents of the newly discovered compartment—three large refrigeration units each attached to a suspension chamber made of crystal and each housing a bestial creature that is both human and canine. The first is a female with red hair and orange fur as well as other fox-like characteristics (sharp ears, diamond-shaped nose, and a fluffy tail), ruffle 5'10", second, a male, same fur brown hair, black patches on his nose, ears, tail, and around his wrist about 5'8", the last female has white fur and hair with a yellow strip that starts under her muzzle and ends at her crotch, 5'5".

"What in the . . . ?" El starts.

Lacerti finishes his thought. "Hell are we looking at?"

"Three packages, improperly wrapped, human cargo. I would call this a deal breaker. What do you think, LT?"

Lacerti tips his head, examining the living cargo. "Any idea what they are?"

El walks forth, picking up a clipboard he spots on the wall. "I know a guy that works for 'navy intel.' I remember him telling me about what he called the 'indispensable sciences of the next generation.' Liquid oxygen suspension. The idea is that you put someone to sleep, drop them in a box like these, and they stay there in a semiconscious state till you wake them up. They don't age and are just shy or impervious to harm while in the deep freeze. He told me they were having a little trouble with the waking up part."

Lacerti looks concerned. "What kind of trouble?"

El flips through the pages in the file on hand. "That during waking the bodies of the test subjects kept falling to pieces." Lacerti scoffs as El talks. "If they were frozen in pieces, it was fine. You could unfreeze a body part, reattach it, and it would work almost sixty percent of the time without fail." El and Lacerti share a quick laugh.

"Looks like they have names. The white one in the center is called Karin, the one on the left Nile . . ." As El is listing off names, Lacerti reaches for a shotgun hidden inside his coat's inner pocket. El hearing that sound doesn't need to look to know what is happening; the old soldier drops his papers and withdraws his "Jackal." Karin, the white-tailed fox, has opened her eyes.

El whispers under his breath, "Tell me I'm not seeing this." He starts to pass toward the icy capsules. The liquid oxygen seems to boil therein; Karin's hair starts to flutter upward. The gun in El's hand begins to pull down; El struggles to hold it steady, but it is impossible. Its mass increases one hundred times; no human could hold on. He grunts as the gun drops.

Light erupts from the chamber in which Karin sleeps in; the glass cracks. Lacerti grabs El and thrusts him back behind himself as the chamber explodes. Karin floats out gliding through air as if it were water. Lacerti understands at once that this creature does not belong in this world. Karin need not speak; her thoughts are simply broadcast into the minds of the recipients. Discard your weapons and step away from us or . . .

Lacerti holds his shotgun in one hand, stepping into Karin, demonstrating

Valhallan courage. "Or what?!"

Karin lowers her head slightly as she reaches into Lacerti's mind, taking control of his body. Lacerti struggles against the attack as his own hands turn against him. Lacerti's gun tucks itself under his chin. Lacerti grips his hand and wrestles with himself.

El, who has been lying on the ground stunned, looks up and desperately grasps the situation. Can this thing be real? he asks himself. El's gun "the Jackal" is on the ground ahead of him. It quickly dawns on him that Lacerti will die without his help, and without Lacerti, he doesn't have much time left either. El thinks about grabbing his gun. Karin reacts to his thoughts, turning to face him.

Lacerti acts on instinct more so than concise thought; in unison, all three know what must be done. All three know just how they're going to pull it off. El dives for the Jackal, Karin burns with power, commanding his heart to stop beating, Lacerti with the split-second delay between the order and the reaction snaps one arm out and wraps his hand around Karin's head. With her eyes covered, her mind-bending magic is interrupted; she stands frozen in his grip, it would appear.

* * *

Most magic must be activated manually with signs and seals or activation words. Karin's mind bending is different; most of her spells are elective, but some are passive and involuntary (like breathing—you can choose not to breath, but you don't think about breathing). Karin can see surface thoughts passively, and she projects her thoughts as naturally as most of us speak, but most terrifying of her powers is the ability to read and copy living memories whenever she makes physical contact with someone for the first time.

Karin's mind is deep and powerful. It's easy for her to take in mass sums of data and sort through it in only a matter of moments. But Lacerti's mind is strange, enigmatically expansive. Lacerti's living memories span thousands of years and every country; there can't possibly be another mind like his!

El sees the two standing stunned; Karin and Lacerti see something very different. A thick white fog has walled them from the material world, and they emerge in the psychic realm. Karin turns into a ghost and floats away from Lacerti's grip. In all his lives and in all his experience, this is unlike anything he has seen before. "You know what I am, don't you?" Lacerti asks. Karin nods. "Then in return you know what you are." She shakes her head.

In the psychic realm, you see yourself and others in the form of your perception, a body that exists within one's mind. Lacerti sees himself as a primeval titan warlord wearing glowing white armor and a fur cloak; his hair flowing red passes his shoulders. With his beard braided, it swings around his belt and his skin is tattooed with endless patterns of ink and war scars; his image as a warrior is one to make Thor envious as he shows his true colors, that of a Nordic war hero. Karin is a near negative to him; she is tiny by comparison and she looks as young as he is ancient. She is a flawless beauty to contrast his scars. He's clad in ancient titan armor; she wears a red velvet coat buttoned to the neck in high fashion with skintight rubber pants. He is battered as she is pristine, one frail but both indomitable.

Karin's eyes refuse to choose a color as she confronts the Herculean mammoth. "You are a son of Zeus?" Lacerti shakes his head. "Am I?" He shakes his head again.

"We are something from a darker time, something older than the Olympians gave birth to us."

"I know who gave birth to me. Even if I have never seen her face-to-face, she is not a god or demon. So what are we to do now?" Karin asks.

"We could kill each other," Lacerti proclaims almost in a joking tune.

"Teach me."

Lacerti glares, attempting to follow the white fox's logic. "You just attacked me."

"You attacked. I responded."

"That's not the way I saw it."

"You saw wrong."

Lacerti considers his possibilities; he is justified in killing this fox, but the grace of ages guides him toward different ends. She is young and arrogant; he is old and reserved. In time, she will come to understand what they are, but today mercy will teach more than war.

"Is time passing while we're here?"

"Detached from physical form, we are moving at ten times our normal speed and our thoughts are passing between us at an accelerated rate. Take your hand off my head and I will not erase you."

"I expect you will explain all of this. Some of us aren't mind readers." Lacerti looks eruptible. "How do we get out anyway?"

"You sent us here when you touched me."

"I've never done that before."

"Likely you never will again."

* * *

El's gun finds his hand; the old soldier takes aim, but he freezes . . . Lacerti and the strange fox beast seem to be frozen, both asleep standing up. El inches forth to examine the situation more closely. He stands alongside his partner and snaps his fingers—no response; he whistles—no reaction.

Lacerti's eyes open. "El, we're letting them go." El need not ask why; he lowers the Jackal.

Karin floats away from Lacerti as he softens his grip. "Open them," she speaks into Lacerti's thoughts. Lacerti commences to do so.

The three foxes free, El heads back to the driver's seat of the truck. Lacerti follows with a look of protest. El and Lacerti stare at each other; in silence, they converse till finally El breaks the stillness. "No, they're not coming with us."

"It's ten miles into the next town. They have no clothing and no—"

El cuts him off, "I don't care. We have walked three times that distance barefoot."

"We're soldiers. They're civilians. And children."

"I'm going to leave them. If they live, good for them."

"You can't leave them here. They're kids."

"Watch me." El turns on the truck and starts to pull forward. Lacerti stares El down, watching as the three foxes become distant in the mirror. El stops and looks at his partner again. "I hate you." He hastily pulls back, coming to a halt only a foot away from where he left the foxes.

El leans into Lacerti, standing eye to eye with the giant. "This is against the rules and you know it."

Lacerti whispers back, "This is an isolated incidence, one shot deal."

"We have rules. There are good rules made for good reasons . . ."

Lacerti interjects, "Look at them. Aren't they adorable?"

"You had best be joking about that. Protocol, you remember Protocol, don't you?"

"We're already stopped a bit too late for second thoughts."

"It is a tradition that we drive alone. We have been doing it that way since our great-grandfathers' fathers started the pilgrimage . . ."

"That's not a hundred percent true . . ."

"Everyone loves to break the rules." El leans back in his set "Even me. Game time." He slaps Lacerti. Lacerti nods, understanding what El wants.

El leans out of the window and looks behind him where the foxes seem to be awaiting instructions. "Here is what is going to happen," El calls out. "You are going to come with us as far as 'Vern.' Two of you will hide in the topper, one of you at Lacerti's feet. None of you will talk, especially not you." He points at Karin. Nile laughs at the prospect. "If you make a noise, my friend makes a noise." He points at his Jackal. "And he can make a lot of it. You will eat what we give you or you will not eat and you will sleep where we tell you. If any of this is not acceptable, you will be on your own. We will find you clothing. If that is unacceptable, you don't have to wear them. That is of no interest to me."

El steps out of the truck and looks at the kids, then at Lacerti. Lacerti follows suit. El waves inward. "White tail, you will be in front. Follow Lacerti's lead. You two come around this way and climb around behind the driver seat. You will see a ladder. That will take you into the overhead. There is a stack of blankets and a roadside recovery kit. You will stay there till told to do otherwise." The kids don't protest. All three quietly do as told.

* * *

El turns the truck around and starts on his way back down the East Coast. El remains as methodical as ever for the first half of their trip. He stops twice on the first day of the drive—once to buy ch.i.p.s and juice for himself and his passengers, once to use the washroom at a truck stop.

The latter stop is tense; El waits outside the truck stop till his is the only truck in sight. That is a long and painstaking endeavor. When the station is clear of all prying eyes, El calls to his cargo, "Boy, you and Lacerti will be the first to go in. You have fifteen minutes to shit, shower, and shave. That is three times as long as you should need. When you come back, Red, White, and myself will go in . . ."

Nile speaks up, "You're going to watch us go to the bathroom?"

"Yes. You will also have fifteen minutes. If you are not finished within the allotted time, you will be dragged out. I don't care if you are in mid-lather, I will drag you back out to the car. Whatever you do, do not be seen. If someone sees any of you, it would likely result in panic, and panic would lead to a body count that might become quickly unacceptable. If I have to start making people disappear, this ride will suddenly become much more difficult." El reaches over and slaps Lacerti, seeing their opportunity. Lacerti nods as he reaches into the overhead. He picks up the young fox-boy and tucks him under his arm. The two of them make their way into the rest stop's bathroom.

* * *

The rest stop's bathroom resembles that of a high school shower room: large, dark, and only one way in. There is a water pipe that jets out of the center of the room with four showerheads. Which is a ridiculous concept seeing that there are almost never multiple people utilizing them; in fact, in near countless years as a "driver," Lacerti can't seem to recall the last time he has even used a public shower. At worst, he wants to wash blood off his face and out of his beard; for that, dunking one's head in the sink seems to do just fine.

As a warrior, one learns a number of survival techniques; look for vulnerabilities in your surroundings, identify threats, search for improvised artillery, and you learn how to apprise circ.u.mstances, like whether or not you're in a strategically dangerous position, if you're at risk of ambush, and when you are most likely to find yourself off guard or in a place of weakness. The place where you are at your most compromising condition would be in the bathroom, wherein you are most literally going to be caught with your pants down. If you've paid heed to your training whatsoever, you know to get in and out as fast as humanly possible.

The fox is nervous, almost stuttering in the shadow of Lacerti; he struggles to try and take the opportunity to speak with his hosts. "I . . . I . . . gather that your name is Lacerti," the boy stutters.

Lacerti grunts in agreement at first, then shakes his head. "Lacerti is a title, early

Latin, means 'power of the body.' My name is Mattimeto Whitewolf of Blight."

The boy soaks himself as he speaks, "What is Blight?"

Lacerti turns his eyes to the sky, remembering lives long past. "Blight was the name of a town in Norway during the Judean age 3000 BCE."

The boy keeps his back to Lacerti, talking to him over his shoulder. "Can you tell me about your home?"

Lacerti turns his eyes down, hiding from oceans of voices calling to him from the past. "That would be a long story, kid, and we don't have time for it today. How about you instead?"

"What?"

"What's your name? Where are you from?"

"Jude. At least that's what my sisters call me. Dad calls me Ra."

"Which one do you want me to call you?"

"I like Jude."

Jude, Lacerti thinks to himself. "The Beatles" Paul McCarthy's eldest son was also named Jude, wasn't he?

"I was born in New York 1997 CE."

Lacerti turns in ponder; the kid is only four years old, but looks like he's twice that. OK, granted it is difficult to judge the age of a non-human, but nonetheless it's pretty brazen the differences between a kindergartener and a near pubescent boy. Lacerti sees nothing but bares the fact in mind. "How many sisters do you have?"

"Two older. I don't know how many younger. My dad kept me separate from them."

"Nile and Karin are your sisters?"

"Nile, yes. Karin, no."

"Are you human?" Lacerti can't resist the question; the answer is simply too titillating.

Jude is shocked by the inquiry; his voice squeaks as he protests, "Of course, I'm human! What do I look like?!"

"Do you know what a lycanthro is?"

Jude steps into Lacerti almost threateningly, his voice still squeaking in nervous anticipation. "I'm just as much man as you are!" He places his hand on Lacerti's stomach and thrusts his weight into him violently. The ninety-pound fox boy finds himself embarrassed when he knocks himself over as his tiny body cannot move the possibly six-hundred-pound mammoth that is Lacerti.

Lacerti laughs hardily and picks Jude up, tucking him under his arm like a sack of potatoes. "I think we're finished here." Jude struggles with the titan, but he is helpless.

* * *

El marches the girls into the showers. He moves swiftly and with discipline. Karin and Nile are clearly comfortable around each other. Nile pokes at Karin and whispers things to her. EL keeps his back turned to the girls, respecting their privacy to the best of his abilities, but a man is a man and curiosity can get the better of anyone. He can't help but peek.

Nile stands close to Karin; she intentionally raises her voice for El to hear. "So what do you think of our host?"

El doesn't hear Karin's reply.

Nile speaks again, "I think you're right. He is cuddly, isn't he, in that rouge sort of way?"

Karin playfully shoves Nile; Nile throws a handful of water at her in return.

"Beats the hell out of the nursery too. I still miss Dr. Karingson." She sighs.

El's interest is peaked. "Red, do you mean Marks V. Karingson by chance?"

Nile looks confused. "Do you know him?" Nile steps into El and grabs his shoulders.

El shudders in her grip briefly but still struggles to keep his focus. "Marks Karingson is a war hero. He fought in the battle of Hiroshima. He was in the head of 'Team 108 AL.' It was heavy artillery unit. Mission was a goddamn mess. General Karingson's team got cut off from the invasion force in a pincer attack. They dug out some trenching, laid down some separation fire. The attack lasted three weeks. Karingson's team was assumed KIA till the smoke cleared. They found Karingson and his unit standing deep in enemy territory, no guns, a barricade made up of broken armaments, and the general himself standing atop a pile of two hundred Japs. Karingson held the line armed with little more than his knife for days on end. Some soldiers whisper still about how Marks Karingson was almost single-handedly responsible for the Alliance's victory that day. I think he is amongst the greatest American hero to live.

"The story goes on. Karingson returns home, well to friendlier territory anyway. Becomes a superstar in the Alliances. The Axis Powers began to see him and his team as the things nightmares are made of. The AP run their campaign on stealth. Karingson changed the rules. He employed tactics not seen in five hundred years. He wanted to be seen. He began to dress his elites in feral makeup. Karingson didn't even want his enemies to assume him human anymore. Psychology became his favored weapon. Even recommended setting loose sociopaths and employing radios as means of jamming communications, overwriting them with false signals."

Nile is perplexed by the concept of El idolizing a monster of this type, but does not speak. "I have to be honest. I don't know anything about stuff like that. Marks is a white-haired old man. He's a pharmacist as far as most of us know. Nicest guy in town." Nile is shaking her head in disbelief. "What you're describing is like a demon worshipper."

Karin feels the unrest and places a hand on Nile to pull her back.

El turns to face the girls. "The difference between a killer and a hero is this. A killer slays for glory, a hero kills in the name of the flag."

Nile look aggravated. "And what would that make you, El?"

At first it would seem that El is in no mood for this banter, but then . . . "Can a man be both?" he speaks softly.

* * *

The night is restless for El; he rests forth, lying his head on the steering wheel, squeezing his eye, struggling not to cry out in agony. Every moment that could have brought rest is disrupted by memories of wars—domestic and foreign. The nightmares faced in that godforsaken bar having proven, only to bring the old scars closer to the surface.

At first light El slugs Lacerti, calling out, "Hair of the dog."

Lacerti grunts and sits up pointing forward. "Make it so . . . ," he groans, only half aware.

Early still in the day, the party has found its way back in "Bram city." El whispers to himself, "This is where we met Charlie the other day."

El stops in front of the first boutique he can see. He looks back at the kids.

"Give me your measurements. Be truthful or you will not be happy."

Nile is the first to respond, "Teens size six."

El shakes his head. "This is North-Strum, not K-Mart. You will need to be much more specific."

Jude speaks up, "I've never been shopping for myself. I don't think I've ever been shopping."

El rubs his eyes and breathes deep to keep his focus. "Never mind, I'll guess." El steps out of the truck.

* * *

North-Strum offers a five-star shopping experience to its shoppers—bright lights, hand-crafted wares, branded names, if you're into that kind of stuff. The floors are hard wood and stained red. The ceiling is thirty feet above the main door which is made of blue tinted glass. El is to the point as always. He swiftly makes for the service desk.

A blonde girl stands at the desk, likely mid-thirties. She is dressed in a white formfitting dress and a suit coat to match. She is wearing an ensemble of gold bangles, tasteless in his opinion; her perfume smells like vinegar and petroleum. "I'll need a personal shopper," he explains briefly.

"I would be happy to help you with that, sir. What can I help you find?"

El talks like he moves, with a purpose. "Three full sets of threads. First: female 5'10", 34, 36, 32, c.h.e.s.t type 'c,' late teens, blouse white, solid, knickerboxers to match, skirt blue, knee socks striped, boots leather, 6.5, slim, heeled, 2" black Simi casual." The shopper is fumbling for a pen as El talks; El reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out one for her. "Take mine." Then he continues, "Second: female 5'5",32, 30, 32 c.h.e.s.t type 'b,' mid to early teen, blouse white soled, knickerboxers to match, skirt blue, knee socks striped, boots leather, 5.25, common, heeled, 2" black Simi casual . . ."

The shopper interrupts him, "Sounds like you're putting together some school uniforms. Need some Ascots to go with them?"

"Yes," El responds, pulling out a money clip. He holds out a twenty. "Don't interrupt me. Male 4'9", youth, 24, 24, 27, c.h.e.s.t type . . . negligible, full button-down top, off white, belt leather black silver clip 20/30, undershirt plain, boxers white plain, slacks, service blue, socks, white plain, boots low top, black 5.75 wide. Tie black plain. Tie clip, silver."

"Great, how would you like to pay today?" The shopper looks overjoyed at the request.

"Cash, small bill."

She nods as she looks over the list. "Is there anything else you will be needing today?"

"Yes." He places before her a bag containing the coat he had worn yesterday. "I purchased this at your location in St. Louis. I need it replaced."

The shopper lifts up the coat, examining it. "It looks like you were attacked by a bear!"

El reaches into his pocket for his money clip again, producing five more twenties; he replies softly, "Dogs. Don't speak again. I need everything in triplicates."

The shopper disappears into the depths of the store in search of El's request. She returns a time later pushing a cart filled with clothing and starts to describe to El what she has picked out for him. He holds up his hand to stop her.

"For your blouses, I was thinking something by . . ."

"Names don't interest me, so long as those boxes are filled with the items discussed. What is my total?"

"Six thousand five hundred eighty-two fifty and seventy-nine." El nods and starts counting out his money. "Would you like us to have someone carry this out to your car for you?"

"No, thank you."

El returns to the truck and starts distributing clothing. The girls look impressed, Jude less so. Jude looks at El. "Their outfits are more elaborate and colorful than mine."

"They're girls. They just are more complicated than you or I and remember what I told you" El starts to sound almost fatherly, but then . . ." If you don't like what I picked out, you don't need to wear it."

* * *

As the day goes on, El starts to look more relaxed, as far as relaxed goes for El anyway. El follows the rules; he drives till dusk, then looks for a hotel. He stops twice to eat. He pays for everything for the kids as well. For breakfast there are biscuits, eggs, and cheese from a commercial kitchen. For dinner there are two dozen tacos from a Mexican diner that they pass on the roadside. He keeps the kids hidden. The kids don't protest, seemingly understanding El's strange ways.

Arranging for a place to sleep that has basic comforts is a more difficult task than should be. He finds a hotel with rooms on ground level that's away from the expressway. El slips the kid in through a window.

"Nice digs," Nile expresses; it would seem that to date she has never slept in a conventional bed. The hotel is barely adequate; the floors are carpeted with thin red fabric that looks little burned, the walls are an avocado green with fading floral patterns. There is no artwork—only a bed, TV, bathtub, and toilet. "Everyone live this well where you're from?" She looks at El.

"Most of us can afford better, but it meets our needs," El replies.

Nile sits on the bed. "El, I want to thank you . . . for everything."

"Don't." El finds himself a nice place on the wall to sit. El is a man of routine. He does his best to never stray there from. He and Lacerti both reach into their overcoats and start withdrawing their arsenal; it's dark, they're safe behind walls. Time to maintain their equipment. "Lacerti, call Chase. Let him know that the deal is off. I want the Cuban and his Negro found by the time we're back in town." Lacerti nods.

Jude kneels before El, examining him. Jude places one hand on El's head as he is cleaning his gun and tips it back. El looks up, no signs of amus.e.m.e.nt in his exasperation. Jude rolls El's head, studying him.

After only a few moments, Jude releases El with a nod. El looks almost disturbed; El puts his weapons away, pushes his knees into his c.h.e.s.t, and lays his head back against the wall. His eyes turn down briefly. Karin has chosen a place on the wall across from him; she looks at him deeply, her knees up as his are, one arm wrapped around her legs, one hand resting under her muzzle. They lock eyes, seemingly struggling to understand what they see before them.

El's eyes squeezes shut; he forces himself to rest.

El's rest is interrupted quickly as Nile calls his name. "El! . . ." El's eyes snap open. "I want to talk." Nile is down on her stomach on the bed, her legs tipped up, arms under head. She looks almost as if she is smiling. Everyone else seems to be asleep. "I want to know more about you."

"You don't know anything as is?" he speaks in a whisper.

"Not true." Nile swallows a laugh. "I have a good Idea that you are a soldier. Likely fought overseas. Probably Vietnam, maybe Grenada, but I think Nam. You see, I think there is a lot that you can learn by watching the way someone walks."

El doesn't respond to the remark, but he does force back a smile of his own. He whispers back after a short delay, "Alexander Bell, you're quoting Professor Bell. 'We can learn much if only we learned to look not only see the things about us. A man's heritage is written on his face, his livelihood in his hands, and his mannerism can be seen in the lint adhering to his waistcoat.' Bell loved to perform Parle tricks, cold readings, mostly where he would take a man for an audience and guess at their work and breeding. He was remarkable spot-on."

When Nile speaks those words, El feels something he can't remember ever feeling before. It's frightening but somehow exciting; he tries to pay no heed. "What do you do for a living, El?" Nile crawls forward half a step, partly leaning off the bed.

"I'm a driver."

"What does that entail?"

El drops his head into his legs. "Sleep now, talk later." El closes his eyes again. He reopens them, feeling warmth on his face. He finds Nile's nose nearly pressed into his.

"Where did you meet Lacerti anyway?"

The inquiry narrowly avoids inspiring rage. El finds his feet and takes Nile by one ear. "You are absolutely incredulous, aren't you?" El takes three brisk steps to the bed, then places his hand on Nile's b.r.e.a.s.t, and shoves her onto her back. Nile laughs as she lies with her knees bent, her arms out in a vulnerable state. Playfully, she tucks her tail between her legs as if to hide herself beneath it, giggling calling attention to herself.

El rubs his head hard, his headache retuning. He looks up at Nile; she has noticed his change in expression and has leaned in, concerned. "Nile, once we are safe at my place, we can talk about whatever you like."

Nile places one hand on El's c.h.e.s.t to hold him up as he begins to look dizzy. "Do you get these headaches often?"

"No, they just started earlier this week."

She takes his arm maternally. "Here, come into bed with me." She pulls him onto the bed and lies behind him. She cradles the driver in her arms. El isn't the type that takes to leaning on others. But sometimes it is best not to protest.

There is a fundamental flaw in the way we build computers . . . . Computers can't feel love.

* * *

Vern is a town that from the outside is no different than any other. The streets are quaint; people greet each other as they are on their way. Everyone gets a smile and wave from their neighbors. But there is something about Vern you can't see. Everyone in the town is a gangster, and El is the don.

The Lay family has been in the driving business longer than anyone knows (aside from possibly Lacerti). The business has just gotten larger over the years. There was a time when one horse was all you needed to be a driver. Then came the times of carriages; suddenly it became necessary to have a partner for your own protection. Today, it is almost impossible to be a driver without a whole team of men for backup.

Police call them "street Warriors." The price for fighting them is too high for any office to take on. "You see a SW, you do what we do. Keep your head down," many men have said. What El and Lacerti must have done to earn the fanatical loyalty of them must have been unspeakable.

Why leave them alone? You know where they are send in the troop, right? The SW have their own system of law and order not so different from "the US marshals field operations manual" and a code of conduct to match. They only fight with each other; they only seem to kill criminals, and so long as the Feds keep their distance, no one ever seems to get caught in the crossfire. They are the most law-abiding group of criminals there has ever been, possibly best organized also—ranks, titles, three distanced uniforms, training regiment, and they work in shifts. El runs his town like a warden runs a prison; routines and discipline are always in demand.

Vern is on the southeast bank of Florida; El's house sits on a hill overlooking the town, but he is almost never there. He spends most of his time in the warehouses or at the pub. El never drinks; it just acts as his base of operations. That is the final destination for today.

Pulling into the Pub, three of El's SW officers are awaiting him: Sp. Double, office of communication; Sp. Chase, office Intelligence; Sp. Cobra Mp, office of detention.

El and Lacerti step off the truck in synchronicity. The SWs salute. El and his partner square their shoulders and mimic. "At ease, Warriors." El lowers his hand. Lacerti reaches into the truck and pulls out Jude first. Chase is first to notice the strange creature and exclaims with fear of the half dog, half man-beast. Double and Cobra have similar reactions, Cobra's accompanied by him reaching for his pistol. El looks up and orders him, "Keep it in your pants, Soldier!" The warriors compose themselves.

"Now!" El demands. "Gentlemen, I want status reports!"