Red Twilight: Long Distence Runners

Chapter 9

Crossroads

Interstate 66 is one of the longest and harshest roads in the country. Marin and I have been riding on it for the better part of a day. Marin hasn't spoken a word, even made a sound, since she took the wheel. Marin is the coldest person I've ever met. Her focus, her steely gaze, only now can I truly see how inhuman she is.

"Marin, you're really not going to talk to me this whole trip?" She fails to acknowledge me. "For two days you are going to sit there and not make a sound?" Nothing. "You're not going to eat, sleep . . ." Still not a word. "Do you want me to put in some tunes?" It seems hopeless. "Want to pull over and have s.e.x?"

Marin looks at me. "I'm not talking to you. What makes you think I want to reproduce with you?!"

"Eureka!" I can't help but laugh out loud; finally she speaks. I cheer triumphantly.

Marin lowers her head and covers her eyes briefly, knowing she has been duped. Not that I wouldn't, mind you.

"Blake, Richard, let me mind you, we are not friends. We are not partners. I am here to do a job just like you are."

"And why can't we be friends?"

"Connections are weakness. Your enemies will employ every tactic to stop us, including the use of violence against one another in an attempt to distract us from our goals. We can't afford that."

"Victory at all costs, ah?"

"Yes, victory at all costs. Your life, my life, expendable."

"That's it. You're off my Christmas card list."

"You were going to mail me a Christmas card?" Marin seems genuinely moved by the statement. I wonder if Marin has ever had a relationship in her time on this planet. "Why do you care about me?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"Most do." I think I get it know; Marin is who she is because someone or something hurt her, scared her so bad that the only escape she can find from her fears is in this ridiculously stoic persona.

It's like the story of the warrior sparrow from Hindu folklore. A cruel Shogun was disappointed in the farmers from his homeland and so sent his Samurais to punish the farmers. The farmers seeing the approach of the feudal lord and knowing the anger that he would bring took their children and hid them, the youngest of which was called Sparrow. She was hidden in the well. Sparrow sat quietly till the fighting ended, then sat for ten days more. No one would come looking for her, not her mother nor father, nor even her brother and sister. Twenty more days, and Sparrow called out to Buddha. "Why will you not let me die?" she called in prayer till at last a response came.

A walking monk heard the cry in his passage; he looked down the well and saw a girl of age not so different from his own. "Maybe you're not ready," he yelled down. The monk reached into the well and took Sparrow by the arm, lifting her back into the sun-backed world.

The walking monk was only a boy, but he was a worldly man; he was a master of calligraphy and familiar with the dancing sword, even claimed to have seen "the legendary monkey stick fighting."

The sparrow wished to learn everything that the walking monk could teach her. The time in the well changed Sparrow forever. Sparrow grew to be a women lovely enough to allure anyone she could wish, but her mind was twisted. Never would she allow herself to be touched by human hands. Her every thought and dream was that of revenge.

The walking monk tried to turn her from this path, but Sparrow had chosen her destiny. She wished to fight; she wished to kill and ultimately to die in a duel against her enemy. The walking monk pleaded with her, begged her, and prayed for her to change her mind. The walking monk led Sparrow far from her homeland across the East Coast and down the silk road to meet every priest, wo-jin, and monk he knew to try to teach her humbleness and grace.

The walking monk was disappointed; Sparrow chose death. On the eve of her seventeenth birthday, Sparrow walked into the court of the shogun and in fiery rage killed seventy-seven of his guards, then turned her knife on herself. She called upon Wo magic (to be Wo is to belong to the Wo-jin); as the blade pierced her heart it too pierced that of the shogun's.

The walking monk found Sparrow lying amongst the ruins of a city her Wo magic leveled. He kneeled before her and whispered, "Have no fear, Sparrow, as you close your eyes. You were born in fire as you wish to die in fire, and so flames can never harm you as I will never harm you. I will reach into the well once more and rescue you again as I have done before, not once, not twice not even a dozen times, but always."

Sparrow was cursed to die fighting ten thousand and ten times, and the walking monk had sworn to save her and so had cursed himself to live seventeen thousand and seventeen years as a child. The walking monk can never die and Sparrow will never live. And that is the path they have chosen for themselves.

Sparrow was a phoenix in a human skin. Perhaps the monk when touching the phoenix in its hour of death was drawn into its lifecycle of birth and death, some part of the bird imprinted onto the man.

I'm lost in thought for some time. Marin takes me by the arm to draw me back to reality. "I want to talk about the job." I look to her. "How do you know the Gekks brothers are in Minnesota?"

"I asked Joe to look into it for me."

"There is a Watcher assigned to cover the Gekks?"

"It turns out that after the boss lady read my journal and learned that they had encountered El Driver she sent out a dozen men to track him down."

"Von Richton? So you're going to turn him in then? I bet the bounty is huge."

"Not a chance. You see breaking into military compounds and assassinating government officials it turns out are both federal offences, so I need the help of the only criminals I know if I want to live to tell the tale here."

"You know these low-lives?"

"I know them. They don't know me. What is Von Richton's interest in El Driver anyway?"

"Apparently El is four hundred years old. The way I see time, that makes him a teenager but for you humans that is bordering on impossible."

"Fay have a twelve-hundred-year lifespan?"

"Even knowing they're in Minnesota doesn't amount to much."

"They'll be at the Mayo Clinic."

"How do you know that?"

"Snake is selfish, greedy, and violently obsessive. Larry is dying, and as far as Snake knows, that is the only place he might find help."

Marin turns to look at me, a soulful look on her face. "And what sort of asshole is this guy?"

"The type that lives as if he has nothing to lose." And that is the worst kind.

* * *

I pick up a newspaper on my way into the hospital. I feel it's a good way to "keep face" as it is sad. No one walks into a hospital as if they owned it, not even those that do. My senses tell me something is wrong right off the bat. I move slow. I look into a mirror as I pass under it. I think someone is following me. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. I hold my breath a moment as I wait and watch the reflection—not a dammed thing.

For nearly twenty minutes, I stalk the halls looking for Snake. I know he is here; I saw his car in the lot. I swear as I glance at the windows going into various rooms there is a shadow looming over my shoulder that isn't mine.

I see Snake. He is napping on a bench in "the red room." I start to walk forward; the door across the room bursts open. Snake jumps to his feet; a group of pseudo cops rush the room in militia-like formations. I clutch against a wall to keep out of sight. "Snake!" I call out. A soldier shoots Snake in the c.h.e.s.t. Snake faints. It's not a bullet; it's a dart. It's just like the one Von Richton shot me with!?

I want to know what's going on here. I need to know what's going on here. This lot are a bunch of trained fighters, but they are trained to fight each other. I'm something wholly different. I take my first strike, quick and quiet. I kick his gun out of his hand, knee him to make him kneel, then finish him off with a hammer strike. The soldier eats dirt and never sees me.

I focus a moment on my "aura sight." This lot all have a faint gray light about them. I see that light most every day; gray light signifies someone whose free will is oppressed, someone following orders. No need to kill, only debilitate. I can search their minds after the battle to see who they are.

I steal the gun of the soldier I dropped. I run, ducking to the next in line. I stomp on the back of his knee. He falls over; I crack the rifle over his head to see to it he doesn't get up. The third sees me; that makes things more difficult.

A kick to the ribs stuns him, another to the arm makes him drop his weapon. A jab at the c.h.e.s.t and he is on his back. Stealth is no longer on my side. The rest of the team has zeroed in on me. I can't keep quiet anymore; things get nasty. The armed forces drop out the cartages of sedatives and load them with cold lead. I hate it when I get shot at.

I summon psychic fury. A telekinetic blast sends weapons flying and throws their welders to the ground. I lose myself for only a moment in the passion of the fighting. I lift my advisories into the air and consider the possibility of crushing them into goo. That's when the impossible happens.

Someone manages to sneak up on me! No one, I don't care how quite you are, can sneak up on me. Every half-sentient creature I've encountered larger than a horsefly casts energy like a flashlight. I can spot a raccoon in the middle of the night from four hundred paces away in a tree, but I can't see this guy?!?

A doctor gets the drop on me. He grips me by the back of the head and thrusts me into a wall. I fall to my knees; I'm seeing stars. I gain my bearings just in time to see a six-foot tall fossilized monster marching at me, looking like a walking tower or monument out of a Hebrew fairytale from my perspective of lying on the ground. His hair glows like steel; his skin shimmers like bronze.

I summon up my strength. I thrust my hand at him, scampering to my feet. A wave of influence flies between us. I got him; this guy is fast but not fast enough to outrun a thought . . .

I am of course wrong. His hair blows about. His clothing flutters as if pushing against gale force winds, but the man refuses to halt his advances. His hand raises; his aura at-last becomes visible but only around one arm. It is black and blue; it looks displaced flickering like flames.

Something happens, something I assume only I can notice. Everything is bathed in gray light outside myself. The world around me freezes in place. I don't dare ask why. I run. I grab Snake, throw him on my back, and run as if my life depended on it. The distortion lasts not more than a handful of seconds, then it is gone. I smell smoke; I hear the crackling of fire. I don't care to know where it is coming from, but it is no doubt time to leave. I thank my good fortune; I don't know if it is God or the devil that has taken a likening to me, but I thank whatever saved me for the backup.

* * *

Snake's vision is fuzzy; as it clears, life homes into crystal clarity. He is in his car, on an open road. The horizon shows daylight, but the streets show nighttime gravel—shadowy streets, hazy trees, and white skies. Larry is in the backseat, not sick and crippled, but strong and healthy, the way he always is in his memories.

Snake examines his surroundings, dazed by the abstracts. Larry leans over the seat and places his hand on Snake's shoulder to assure him of his presence.

Snake looks at his brother as he drives down the impossible road. "Where are we?"

Larry shrugs. "I don't know." Larry shifts his glasses closer to his nose

"Somewhere in between you and me, I guess."

Snake squints. "What do you mean?"

"Look around you. Have you ever been here? Is this really? Or is this real for you?"

"This is a dream?"

"Yes, a lucid, horrifically graphic hallucination, wherein you are going to confess your love to your brother who is most likely dead and you in the form of me will forgive yourself for your shortcomings as a human being, which is utterly meaningless but somehow will give you the strength to go on in life even if as a self-hating Shiite turned pagan in the presence of a absent god."

"You know the most disturbing part of this is that you are acknowledging yourself as a dream." Snake struggles to remain snide even to his inner voices. Snake takes a deep breath, choking on his own tears. "I'm responsible. I'm the older brother. It's my job to protect you."

"I know, and I also know you will chase the ones that hurt me barefooted into hell to avenge me."

Snake wipes his face on his sleeve. "Yes, I will."

"Snake, that's not what I want. This is the inevitable ending to our lives. We both knew that. The three stars burnt into our palms meant this exactly. Remember . . ." Larry counts out his fingers as he lists the symbolism of his branding mark. "Prison, hospital bed, and death." Larry reaches out to embraces his brother. "Now let me tell you what I do want . . ." Snake not wanting to hear his brother's voice further shakes his head and fights the dream, struggling against himself, fighting to find reality.

* * *

Snake leaps into awareness in a world no more familiar to him than the one he had struggled to escape. Still drowsy, he sits up and takes in his surroundings.

He is in a twin-bed hotel room. The floor is a fading red; there is a bedside table piled high with pizza boxes and cupcake wrappers. There is a bathroom to his left with the lights on and the door half opened; ahead of him there is a TV stand and tube that might be older than he is. There is a clock on the table as well; it looks to be half past eight. As his head rolls off to the right, he sees an armchair, old and broken; sitting in it is a red-haired man with a tan overcoat waiting for him, slouched forward.

Snake scrambles backward, half aware of his surroundings, and reaches for the gun in his inside coat pocket. The red-haired man remarks, "Your gun isn't loaded." Snake reaches into his other pocket and pulls a second gun. "That one isn't either." Snake reaches behind him, dropping his first gun to draw a third.

The red-haired man sits back and hold his hand forward. A revolver flies from the strap on his leg into his hand. "Want to bet on whether or not this one is?"

"Who the f.u.c.k are you!?"

"That would be complicated," he responds as he lowers his gun in good grace and withdraws from his pocket a needle with three prongs. "Ever see one of these before?"

"Answer the question, dirt bag!" Snake yells.

"Let's take a moment to examine which of us is a known murderer . . . Sigh, I'm acquainted with your brother . . ."

Snake cuts him off, "Bullshit."

"Will you lower your weapon please? You're making me uncomfortable." Snake leans in and stands atop the bed; he starts to shuffle to the door.

"OK, padre, here is what's going to happen. I'm going to pop on out that door." He picks up the keys off the nightstand as he moves. "And you're . . ."

The bathroom door opens; a green-haired women steps out, a sniper rifle in hand prepped and ready. Snake turns his focus on her; she lines up her shout. The red-haired man projects his will to steal Snake's guns; the green-haired one steps into Snake and uppercuts him with her rifle.

* * *

Snake is on the ground for some time after Marin's assault and understandably so. Marin isn't afraid to die. She's said so much already, and she is certainly not afraid to kill. She holds nothing back. Marin is a small woman. I wouldn't expect too much from her. I think she expects that, as does Snake.

I do him the favor of wrapping his head in a wet towel. I wish Snake weren't the asshole he is right now. I have an inquiry, and I think he has the answers. But I'm not a mind reader. Even if I were, I don't think a doped-up junkie with his bells all scrambled could give fair info.

I decide it is time to call Tail; I've been on radio silence for some time already. Too bad, I'm not calling to check in. The phone rings four times before Tail's voice becomes clear over the line. "Operator." "Tail," I reply.

"D.i.c.k!"

"Are we going to really going to go through this again?"

"Blake, what do you need? (And) where are you?" She didn't stop to take a breath between questions, but for simplicity of recording, I thought it best to change that here in my journal.

"I'm three blocks from nowhere, in a trucker's hotel looking after a homicidal menace. But I did find Snake on the other hand." Tail laughs with me on the remark.

"I need to know. Where do the Von Richtons buy their drugs from?" "Why?" Tail seems to fail in grasping the question.

"Snake was drugged with the same shit Von Richton pumped me full of."

"INT-23, wasn't it? It is licensed to 'Karingson lads' and distributed through

'CCI,' I think."

"Claw Company International? Distributed to who?"

"Officially . . . nobody. You can't buy it in America and it is illegal in Europe."

I roll the dart between my fingers as I take in Tail's input. I can hear her typing as we talk. "So were the hell is this shit coming from?"

"Best guess? Mission Six, Central Intelligence Agency, Tri-edd, guys like us . . ." Tail trails off, naming dozens of agencies and organizations many of which I assume to be fictitious.

"So then you have no idea?"

"There are no credible genius stories here. We know where this drug was made but nothing after that. And due to INT-23's evil step-sister, I don't think we ever will."

I ponder Tail's statement. "Sounds to me like you found something."

"Yes, a man going by the pen name of 'Letter N' published an article in a British tabloid telling a tale about a drug called 'WIS Bata Zero.' It looks to have the same principles as INT-23 with the notable exception of the effects never wear off. And further more . . ." She is reading the article softly to herself and summarizing for me as she goes. "WIS Bata zero impairs the upper brain, blocking the development of memories. In high doses, this even causes the inflicted to lose the ability to distinguish fantasy from reality, in effect bringing dreams into the wakening world of the victim." I think to myself what that might imply. To some, this might turn your world into a p.o.r.no that never ends; to others this would result in an unending nightmare but regardless it's still a one-way ticket to a padded room.

"It drives you crazy?"

"Completely and totally," she states thoughts, words with seriousness than I have heard out of her yet. "Blake, you were given a lethal dose of INT-23, and you came back. You were lucky. Don't get shot again."

"So this WIS stuff, it's covering the dealer's trail?" It's not really a question; I know the answer already. "Karingson lab . . . ? That sounds familiar."

"I think I have mentioned him before. Marks Karingson was my father, twenty percent or so at least."

I feel this is important; I want to know more. "Tell me about Marks." "Marks is the coolest man in the world . . ." Tail recalls her youth.

* * *

Most of Tail's childhood was spent living in a cage—a glass box five feet wide by eight feet long and six feet tall, and that room was placed inside a larger box twenty feet by ten feet by twelve feet, most of the outer space filled with cameras and instruments used to monitor her vitals from a distance. A balcony hangs over her room filled most every day with a dozen and a half men looking down at her, writing down things Tail can only imagine. She is eleven at this time. She can vaguely recall a room even smaller that she was in before, and then there were a lot more people watching her.

Tail is not human, but she is not an animal either; that much she has guessed all on her own. Tail comes to find that it is somehow fun to watch "them that are watching her"; day to day faces change. Sometimes it is younger men that stand in the room overhead staring at her, others it is old men, but they all seem the same somehow—all but one. A man that is young as he is old, he stands just a bit taller than anyone else that is watching; his shoulder seems just a tiny bit wider and his back slightly straighter. Every inch of this strange man is more human than human.

Maybe he is "superhuman."

All the strange man's friends dress in white and blue and carry books under their arms all day. They all wear the same wire frame glasses; they all lean on the glass peering at her, mouths dr.a.p.ed open, and have the same plain haircuts. Tail's "superman" dresses in black; he doesn't need glasses. His eyes can see far and clear without them. He also doesn't need to carry his books. He remembers everything, just like the cameras outside; his hands are free to play with a tiny fluffy animal that rests on his shoulders day and night with him, and his hair is long and flows proudly like a cape behind him. Tail doesn't know her "superman" yet.

Tail lives like a monk; she eats food that is little more than vitamins and grain. Her food is slid under her door every day at: six, noon, and then six again, and water flows freely into a dish mounted on one of the walls kept full and clean by an unseen hand. Every day the lights turn off at 10:00 p.m. The blinking lights of the monitors in the conjoining room frequently keep her up. It's never quiet. Beeps and clicks, scratches, and growls can be heard at all times from her bed.

Clothing is a meaningless endeavor. When she turned nine, one of the white-coated men gave her a long white poncho. For warmth, it was useless; it's always 88.7 degrees in her room, and as for concealment, she knows that she has been photographed every day from every angle conceivable, so what is there to hide? So the poncho remains untouched, hanging from the doorknob to this day.

Life is tedious. Tail has spent an untold amount of time studying, measuring, and analyzing every diminution of her tiny world. She has listened to the men around her speak and has dissected their languages. Tail can not only understand them, she can speak as well; she has even chosen her favorite dialect from amongst her "teachers" and no one knows.

Tail even thinks that she can understand the alien symbols on the devices surrounding her room. She wants to move in closer and see. Tail collects the tools from her dinner plate; she folds and pinches them into a more useful form. Tail crafts a screwdriver and a pick out of a fork and spoon. After lights out, she hides herself within the poncho and uses her tools to break the hinges of her door and ultimately remove it.

For a short few minutes Tail is free, and with her freedom, she wishes for nothing more than knowledge of the next world outside of hers. The interments instruments filling the room become toys on a playground. She looks at every wire; she glimpses at every lens and monitor and she presses every button. That is where things go wrong.

Tail spots a button on the wall with strange symbols on it; the one that interests her the most is a quarter circle with a jagged line over it, which looks mildly reminiscent of the shape of her tails when she looks into the mirror in her room. Tail's eyes gleam in anticipation as she thinks, What might happen when I push this?

The drive for gratification is overpowering. She needs to know what happens when she presses the button. She pulls her hand back and with all her might and glee she thrusts forth to press it. An inch away, a large hand wraps around her arm, stopping her short. It is a powerful hand—a man's hand, gloved in leather; it is attached to a long thin arm covered by a black coat and leads up and into a narrow c.h.e.s.t and atop it a head, maybe two of them, with a face. The face is unknowingly familiar to her. "It is my mystery man!"

The older man with shining white hair speaks to her; he is the only person she can remember ever speaking to her. "I don't think you want to touch that. It will make a bad noise and in three minutes will be under water. She doesn't like water." He nods his head slightly off to the side, rubbing his cheek across a tiny animal mounted on his shoulders. The animal makes a low musical sound in response to the touch. Tail is stunned, fl.u.s.tered, and floaty; she tries to speak up, but the sound gets caught in her throat. He speaks again, "Hello, Tail. Do you remember me?"

"A-r-g-e . . ." Tail is speechless; she swallows hard, trying to contain her excitement.

"My name is Marks. I am your father, as it were. She is Nuku. She was born at the same time as you. Almost down to the second."

Tail finally manages a cohesive sound. "I've seen you."

"You speak." Tail nods.

"Do you recognize these markings?" He points at the symbols across the button she was reaching for.

Tail shakes her head.

"Hmmm . . . then you don't read, I imply. This is language. These are signs that connote sounds, the written word. I will teach you." He looks at the door. "But first, beyond this room you will find that the temperature sharply drops to 57.3. Without proper attire, you'll freeze your tails off out there."

The time spent with Marks was life-changing. Under his guidance, she would learn to read and write. Marks would share with her everything that is his, and under his wing she would find no more locked doors, alas but one: the large glass door on the ground floor of the "tower," the door that leads into an even bigger world.

Marks gives Tail clothing—cute girl clothes. Marks likes knee-length skirts and brightly colored blouses on her. He plays strange games with her, where he will give her a book or plug her into a machine and ask her questions or perform mundane actions. Scoring well in the games grants her a sugar cube and a rub between the ears.

Time and time again, Marks tell Tail as they play these games, "Your cognitive abilities far exceed anything I could have hoped for," and other pleasantries like "Your performances are bordering on perfection," and even once, "My, Tail, you are exquisite."

Tail enjoys her twelfth birthday in the spring. As part of her calibration (mind you, this being her first party), Marks reserves the cafeteria on the twenty-first floor. For the past four months, Marks has spent most every hour of his day with her, and for the first time, he feels it is time to give her music. He transforms the cafeteria into a ballroom.

Tail's first dance and banquet meal is there, alongside Marks Vigeta Karingson. The music that plays on the jukebox is that of a nature she has never heard. Brass and strings create a sound deep and heavy. Marks offers Tail a hand as he half bows to her. Marks takes her by the hand and leads her to the middle of the floor.

For the event, Marks has given Tail a long dress made of a black fabric that glistens in the light flashing white and gold. Marks has turned in his leather overcoat for a formal blue-black crushed velvet tuxedo; he has enriched his skin with a light powder, giving him a near vampire-like glow. He has an opal mask tucked into his b.r.e.a.s.t pocket, and his collar is buttoned high to complete the ensemble.

Marks wraps one hand around Tail's hand, the other around her waist. She climbs onto his feet to learn the steps as he leads her in dance. Tail is overtaken by unknown feelings; her skin feels warm, and her breath feels heavy. She feels as if her fur is glowing like her dress. She quickly learns the 'two step'.

Tail can't tell how long the music goes on or how long she has been dancing, but the fluttering in her c.h.e.s.t possesses her to lean on Marks and follow his lead inevitably; she lays her head on his c.h.e.s.t. The hand that had held hers finds the back of her head and holds her there; the other hand moves softly down and parts her fourth tail from the fifth. Tail's eyes squeeze shut; she finds herself short of breath. She half barks in excitement; Tail doesn't understand her reaction, only that she likes it whatever it is.

Marks wraps his hand around her fifth tail and rubs down it. In an adiomotor response her, tails rise; she growls in exhilaration. Waves of heat overtake her and she claws at Marks' back. The moment is shattered; Marks seems to change his heart. He steps away from Tail, holding her at arm's length. The lights seem to dim slightly as without a word he turns away from her and vanishes into the darkness of the tower.

Marks and Tail never speak of that day again. From that point onward, he seems almost to avoid her. Tail can still feel Marks watching her. Even if they seem divided by a sudden unseen ocean, it would take Tail years to understand what had come between them.

From there on, life becomes a race for knowledge—talk to everyone, learn about the tower, learn about what "they do there, and learn about the outside world." Tail takes to defense; much of the "staff" lives on the premises. At midday she breaks into rooms, sneaking about, picking locks; she shows affinity for code breaking. She swipes odds and ends from the faculty: computer parts, her skateboard, software, hardware.

She learns about programming (she writes a program she calls ELIS (electronic librarian and interface system), it searches e-books for key words and sorts them using a dissenting value algorithm) and engineering. Things go on that way for three years; Tail is now over twenty. There is nothing left for her in the tower. Tail grabs her skateboard, computer, swimsuit, and a change of clothing, stuffs them in a bag, and jumps from a third-story window down onto the streets. Tail runs from her home and the man that she thought of as her father, looking for a new adventure.

* * *

"Blake, I loved Marks. He didn't love me."

"Tail, how long has it been since you were home?"

"Claw Co tower? Fifteen months."

"How old are you now?"

"Twenty-eight."

"How about when you left?"

"Twenty-four."

"You're aging at four times the human rate?"

"So . . ." Clearly Tail already knew what I was coming to know; Tail was fully grown at five and won't live to see thirty. So she lives day to day because she can't afford to do otherwise.

I almost think aloud, "I'm sorry," but it is pointless.

"About the drug, how long will the effects last?"

"In you? Three days. In anyone else maybe a week."

"Shit." My head drops to my hands; this is going to be a miserable couple of days. "Well, looks like I'm grounded then tell he sobers up."

"Blake, have you ever had phone-s.e.x?"

I'm about to respond, but then my senses detect Snake is coming to; it's time for me to go. "Tail, I'll call back soon."

Snake rolls out of the bed; one hand covers his eyes as he squeezes them together. His head is clearly spinning, but he looks calm, by comparison at least. I look up at him in concern. "Snake, how are you feeling?"

Snake slouches over; he lays both hands on the sides of his head as if to physically stop the spinning. "Like Puff the Magic Dragon just kicked my a.s.s. If I go to the bathroom, will the 'New Jersey Sniper' bust my balls again?"

I shake my head; I want to say, "If you're lucky." But there is no need to exasperate things more so.

Snake sluggishly shuffles toward the back; he pauses a moment. "That gun of yours, is it a replica of the Colt and Wesson Jessie James six shooter?"

"No, it is Jessie James six shooter. Jessie James was like me, a slayer."

Snake tries again to shake the stars out of his eyes. "Remind me to ask about that tomorrow." I didn't think he would understand.

Who was Jessie James? You might be asking. Right around 1960, the name was adopted by a film actor, but before that it belonged to a gunslinger. Jessie James was a desperado. Punching out bankers and knocking over trains was his nightly commute. But there was more to the man than just the legend. Jessie was also a card-flipper, the tipe I can relate to. His favorite game was three card stand; today we call it Texas hold am. The way the story goes, Jessie would never let a man leave the table so long as there were ch.i.p.s to be won once he started dealing card.

One day a stranger sat alongside him and made a deal. "We gamble for your mortality. You win you're immortal, you lose I take everything." And when the stranger said everything, he didn't mean his life. He meant everything that matters—his wife, his kid, his horses, and the clothing off his back. That is what the stranger took from Jessie; Jessie didn't like that one bit. He went in search of the stranger for a chance to win it all back.

He went in search of a mystic to teach him how to do it. He learned he would need a special gun; his gun would need to be made using very specific parts. The hammer would need to be Italian silver, the handle Indian redwood, and the barrel would call for nothing shy of lunarian steel (also called meteor steel), and only the most talented craftsmen alive could put it all together in the end, so he needed a hunter turned missionary; for this he needed Sam Wesson. The job cost seven hundred and fifty-five pounds in gold. I haven't got the slightest clue how much that is in today's economy.

Jessie had his revenge, and when he was done, he rode off into the night in search of yet another devil to hunt. Looks like once you're a slayer, you die a slayer.

* * *

Snake staggers to the bathroom, a drunken glaze to his eyes. Snake turns on the shower and climbs in, hoping that the cold will sober him. Snake is nearly in tears as he lies against the shower wall. He covers his eyes with his arm, collapsing into a heap on the ground.

A shadow falls over him as the lights half retreat from the room in a most unnatural way. The shadows come together into a visage familiar to Snake. Larry is stretched across the floor leaning on the bathtub. "Snake, I don't want this from you, and I don't want you to come looking for me."

Snake nearly starts hyperventilating as his eyes meets his brother's. The wall between wakening life and dream is getting harder to decipher. Snake knows he is awake and he knows Larry isn't here. But there he is, as he always is.

Larry rolls over to sit face-to-face with Snake. "Bro, let me tell you what I want." Larry places his hand on his brother's face and touches their foreheads together. "Go to Canada, throw my remains into the Mississippi on the way. Live out the rest of your life away from all this pain, all this death we are so close to."

Snake reaches out to embrace his brother, sobbing only to find his senses clearing and that he is lying on the ground hugging himself. Snake stands up filled to the brink with rage. His anger so hot his skin turns feverishly red. Snake thrusts himself against the wall, wailing with ferocious heartache. Snake cries out in a tizzy to the point of exhaustion. At long last, he finds a moment of clarity, concluding that it is time to find out who his mysterious host is.

He half dresses and heads back to the main room. Weak and tired, he looks at Blake. "OK, Double O Seven, what the hell is the game here?" Blake's expression is one of depth and hopelessness as he opens his mouth and inhales before answering.

* * *

Wright Von Richton walks out the back door of the mansion accompanied by a swarm of agents worthy of a royal procession; she walks, swinging her cane as she marches to the helipad. Her eyes are cold and filled with hatred. The roar of the engines is low and deep; the wind is heavy. To Von Richton's left is Joe Dove; to her right is her pet demon, England. Surrounding them are dozens of fellow Watchers awaiting final instructions before their senior most officers depart.

Joe pants, winded slightly by trying to match Von Richton's stride. "When we land, the president is going to meet us at the Delpheno building, the private suite on seventeen."

Von Richton nods. "Good." She stops before the helicopter; her silvery yellow hair blowing around her body. Joe slips in as she addresses her underlings. "I'll be departing for six days. Mr. Dove and Mr. Gillard will be in charge." Joe hands his walking stick to England as he sits. England shifts into a doppelganger of the old man as the stick reaches hiss claws. "We are approaching a dark hour, my comrades, and these times of darkness call for unity, faith, and strength. I expect maximum effort from all of you. I expect initiation to continue to stride even in my absence. I need every hand on the streets till I return, regardless the cost."

A brown-haired man with a loose-fitting overcoat calls out, "And what of the Jesuit?"

"I will see us in hell before I accept their help! So help me God." Von Richton slams the door and disappears into the night sky.

The ride is routine; Dove leans into Von Richton, staring at the brooch between her b.r.e.a.s.ts. Von Richton removes her glasses, revealing to him her flashing pink eyes. Her skin is rosy, her smile is bright as she follows his stare down to her gold-plated platinum-lined "Iron Cross." "That belongs to my wife," Joe states plainly.

Von Richton reaches up with both hands and flicks her hair back, "Do you like it?"

"No, I don't like it. In fact I'm getting a little bored of you dressing up like her."

Von Richton sees the bitterness in Joe's eyes and the anger in his heart. "Lighten up. She has been dead for over twenty years now. Don't you think it is time you bury her? Besides, I would say it is about fifteen years too late for us to end our charade." For a moment, Von Richton sounds like the dark noblewoman so many know her as, but then something different comes forth. Von Richton leans forward out of her set and wraps her arms around Dove's neck, climbing into his l.a.p. Joe seems overwhelmed.

"I'm getting too old for this crap," he whispers to himself; he then looks at the pink-skinned woman atop him. "Can we win? Is there a end to this ridiculous game of keep away? I don't want to be doing this when I'm a hundred."

Von Richton whispers in his ear, "That sounds remarkably silly coming from a man that has been in a fistfight with two gods. You have luck enough to beat the devil. So long as you're with me, I believe we will win. We will cast every demon from this world and kill any god that tries to stop us." She f.o.r.c.i.b.l.y kisses Joe with her final word. Hungry, she rubs her h.i.p.s up his legs, playing with him to amuse herself. Even just grinding fabric against fabric, the warmth of a human body brings her all the exhilaration she needs to gratify herself.

* * *

Tail follows along with Charlit. "What's up, Doc? Where are we heading?"

"It's this fun little place we call 'the vault.' It's where we hide all the little alien things we don't know what are. That's where they have me working right know. It's my job to keep the place clean."

"Neat."

The vault is absolutely what it sounds like it should be—a steel door twenty feet tall with a wheel-shaped locking mechanism and an I-bar lying across it, secured by two comically oversized padlocks. All the locks come undone as Charlit approaches. Behind the door is a prison-like evidence room, fully outfitted with chicken wire around the windows.

Tail's eyes roll around the room. "Do you have any idea how silly this looks? We are like . . . sixty-eight feet below sea level in a bomb shelter . . . and you have shatter-resistant glass over your display case over there." Tail points out. Tail begins looking over a wide assortment of strange items. "How would you even pay for stuff like this?"

An elf child in a green coat with red hair and glasses answers, "Private investments, stocks, and patents. We own the rights to a handful of specialty products, royalties off them pay for a good deal of our expenses—liquid display television, electronic dictionaries, cyber glasses, vanilla, and corn oil," the young boy lists off in a charming Cagney accent.

Charlit adds on, "But truth be told, money isn't real. That is what economists have been struggling to understand for the last hundred years. How can money disappear? It wasn't there to begin with."

Tail taps a case, pointing at a bodysuit made out of what looks like paper-thin silver chain cut into diamonds. "That looks remarkably uncomfortable. What is it?"

"A gift from the Spider people of 'Orchid.' Husk sister of Tusken I think gave us that one," the elf boy explains.

Charlit elaborates, "It is a personal cloaking device."

"I have a pair of PJs. That look a lot like this."

Charlit laughs. "I would be willing to bet your nightgown isn't infused with

Uranium-235 with polygraph lead and nickel."

"No, mine is 60-40 cotton and nylon," Tail jokes around.

The elf adds to the remark, "Disappointingly, this is actually highly volatile. When exposed to copper and oxygen it triggers a cataclysmic event of rapid expansion. The uranium cell expels outward rapidly dividing, devouring all oxygen cells within 2,500 yards at the speed of light . . ."

Tail finishes, "Resulting in an explosion equal to a 350 megaton fission bomb!?"

The alien and the elf reply together, "Yes!"

Charlit carries on, "And that's why we're not allowed to remove it from the vault."

"So what are these 'things' anyway?"

"The Orchid you mean? They're a culture of hunters." The elf boy pulls out a mask seemingly made of steel with two long straw-like appendages coming out of the bottom, similar to a elephant's trunk, three growing out the back, and what looks like a hairdryer sticking out the front. "Silent killers, they favor stealth over power. They will use their cloaking armor to move in close to their prey." He lifts up a titanium spear with an ax head on one side and a trident on the other. "Impale their food, then decapitate it. They will then preserve the head as a trophy of valor and vomit on the body to cause it to rapidly decompose and drink the remaining fluids through these tendrils for sustenance." He points at the hairdryer as he speaks of vomit and the straws for drinking.

"Yummy." Tail looks mildly disturbed as the scholarly elf explains. "What is this thing?" Tail points at what looks like a flashlight cast in platinum with wing-like shapes coming out of the bottom forged in gold.

"Tell you what," Charlit slaps her on the b.u.t.t. "If you can figure that out, you can keep it. A knight from Leathander named Arcanine traded us that for three months' rations. As far as I can tell, whatever that is supposed to do . . . it doesn't."

The elf boy hands her the tool; Tail looks at him. "Did you give me your name?"

"No, I don't think I did. It's Amerant."

"Thanks, Amerant." Tail accepts the gift. "Leathander?" Tail looks at Charlit.

"Did you see the white-feathered humanoids with the pink yellow plumage?" Tail makes an understanding sound. "They are the denizens of Leathander. They call themselves Taresours."

"Got it." Tail nods. "And what do they say this is?" "It is the side arm of a Surathein knight," Amerant explains.

"So what is a Surath that they should need knights?" Tail asks.

"Politicians, noblemen, scholars. The Suratheins are guardians that employ powers much like your Richard Blake's: telepathy, clairsentients, telekinetics, mind control," Charlit answers.

"And this is a secondary weapon in case mind control doesn't do the job?"

Amerant cuts in, "More like a third. Their secondary weapon would be two swords joined by an elbow somewhat like a Nogenata (Samurai twin-bladed spear)."

"It will take me the rest of my life to come to terms with all of this." Tail's phone starts ringing. "Whoops, looks like the big lady is calling. Gotta run." Tail pockets the unknown interment instrument and departs from the company of Charlit and Amerant.

Tail loses a good deal of time as she tries to find her next destination, a dungeon-like area in the lowest reaches of the estate. She thinks to herself as she is walking, This looks like where they brought me for—processing. I wonder why I'm back here.

Joe Dove approaches Tail, having tracked her down. Tail peers at him queerly; Dove is grinning just a touch too wide and is swinging his cane a little too far as he walks and is standing not quite straight enough. "Tail!" He wraps an arm around her. "The field guys just brought us something new to look at."

"Oh good, I get to pretend to be a paleontologist again." Joe pushes Tail along with him as he briskly walks into a laboratory. "This is where you had that 'Black Hole' with teeth yesterday." Tail looks about. "You got it really clean."

The window that Joe leads Tail to contains an insectoid with a flat head, no visible optical nerves, no audible; it has four functioning appendages and seemingly two more nonfunctional. It's hands end in scythe-like shapes and its mouth has three joints, allowing it to open larger than its head. It has four sets of fangs and the roof of its mouth is lined with scaled teeth that attach to muscles that roll side to side to grip and tear. It has a spined tail that has a pincer on it, not indifferent from a vice.

"Holy f.u.c.k!" Tail yells as the monster seems to feel her presences, and it jumps at the window to grab at her fruitlessly. "What the hell is that?! As if the name would mean anything to me I asked," Tail stutters.

"You think that is fun. Watch this." Joe presses a key on a remote he is carrying; a section of wall slides over to reveal a second room where a nearly identical monster is waiting. This second one lacks the scythes but has wings growing off its arms.

The two giant bugs walk toward each other, and as their bodies brush one another, they synergize. The first grows wings, the second an extra set of arms with bladed hooks. "Well, they're Xenon-co-dependent, likely hive-minded, obviously carnivorous. Maybe Mesozoic in descent. That first one looked like a blottodae, the other a culicidae, now they're both Anisoptera . . ." Tail starts talking to herself inaudibly.

Joe leans in uncomfortably close, planting his hand on Tail's h.i.p.s, whispering into her ear, "Do you think they're useful?" Tail spins to face him with a look of shock and panic as the voice was wrong; it was deep and growling, a voice like no human has. Tail's eyes leap side to side for a moment as she thinks hard about what the words she has just heard might mean.

"I'm going to go know." Tail dashes away.

Joe folds his arms, grinning as he watches Tail flee. "We will talk again soon, bitch," he growls. "Till then keep wagging those tails, baby," he whispers to himself, his attention turned downward.

Tail runs all the way back to her room; she slams the door behind her, still confused by what has come to pass. "That wasn't Joe, but how . . . how come I didn't sense it wasn't him? I know right away that von Richton wasn't . . ." She marches forth and yells at her computer, "Run newest wave files." Her computer complies and music begins to play starting with Aerosmith's "Dream on." Tail drops her new toy on the bed followed by herself.

Even when Tail was living in the tower with Marks, she was unnaturally adept at understanding concepts, even the ones bizarre in nature. Marks found that quantum physics suited his way of thinking and so passed his ideas onto Tail; she grasped easily. "The observer theory, the act of looking at something gives it absolute value in space, attachment theory, objects in space created simultaneously are inexplicably connected to one another, entwinement, the idea that objects are alienated from each other is subject to controversy. It is possible for two objects to occupy the same space simultaneously, and in fact multiple objects may even appear as one wall. Entwined hints at the apparition of mind sharing a single spark of notion."

Tail ponders obscurities to calm her mind as she begins disassembling the gift she acquired. She pulls out a set of electrician's tools and carefully begins prying the pieces apart. She stops partway down as things seem to become clear. "A nautical geometer?" She turns her head upside down, looking into the heart of the device with one eye. "A metronome? LED?" She rolls the head of the device in her hand. "A prism?" She find two pieces of quartz holding the pendulum still; carefully she removes them. "Light enhanced reverberation, photon drive?"

Tail looks inside the casing, finding an inscription: "The dawn 'I' bring onto the world atop a chariot fire." Tail pauses. "Dawn-bring-er, . . . Dawnbringer, a name maybe?" She reassembles the parts with the quartz removed, and as she rolls it in her hands, a blade forms out of white light. It narrows into a long thin Chinese's dancing blade. "Sweet!" Tail swings around her new toy for a bit, playing with it.

The evening rolls on; Tail is ready to call it a night when there is a knock at the door. Tail's ears rise as she make her way to the door. She hides her Light Bringer in her deep front pocket. She takes the handle and twists it halfway; the door jars open, pushing Tail back. Dove strides into the room, wrapping one hand around Tail's neck, forcing her head up.

"Kitsuna!" he roars; Tail staggers toward the large armchair in the room. Tail twists her body slightly and plants one foot hard into the ground; she rolls her shoulder and throws one arm over Dove's. Twisting in a quarter circle, she breaks free of his grip and in fact reverses the grip pinning his arm under hers. Tail leans forth to throw the elderly man over her hip, but the so called Watcher has both skill and luck as he grips her by the back of the head and thrusts her into the ground.

Tail snarls and jabs her elbow back into the monster as he lies atop her, rolling him off to the side. Tail rolls her legs up and goes to leap to her feet. Dove reveals his true self as he melts in a demonic metamorphose. Joe Dove is the demon England. In his twisted form as Tail stands, he grips her leg and her belt dragging her onto all fours. He laughs and extends his tongue in an unnatural way, slurping the side of her face.

One of England's hands shifts into a claw with nail-like fingers pinching her cheeks and holding her by the nose; he grips her lower belly with his other hand in a similar hooked fashion. England's neck stretches as he touches his face against hers; he whispers to her. His teeth are a flesh yellow and curl in like shark teeth; his breath smells of decomposition, and his voice is deep and groaning. "Kitsuna, I need you," he whispers, one clawed finger brushing over her crotch, creeping down, almost tucking between her legs, scraping the fabric of her jeans. "I am going to kill Von Richton. I need you to help me."

Tail wiggles her head, trying to look at the monster; he squeezes her nose in protest. "And why would I want to do that?"

The hand between her legs moves slightly down more; Tail growls and tries to push the demon off her, but his strength exceeds hers. "Humans are trash, but yet somehow they overpowered you and I, Kitsuna. We deserve revenge. We are powerful, we are everlasting, we are holy, we should rule over these monkeys, not wait on them."

"And what if I feel otherwise?" Tail starts to reach for her pocket with one hand. England snickers at her as he drills one finger into her scalp just enough to draw blood and starts to grope her lips through her pants. Tail's eyes shoot down, England's animalistic impulse being just what she had hoped for as a distraction. She drops the Light Bringer under her arm and activates it. The blade slides smoothly between her arm and her c.h.e.s.t and deep into his ribs. England falls off Tail, gasping. Tail leaps to her feet; flipping the blade about, she points it at him.

"Why, Kitsuna? Why not help me? Why forsake your proud name for the life of a dog?"

"Because I'm not Kitsuna. I'm Tail."

The monster lies at her feet for a long moment, both combatants considering their next move.

"How did I mistake you for Joe anyway?"

"I am a Baatezu. I can be anyone I want to be." Blood pours from the wound thick and black as tar hissing and bubbling as it oozes onto the floor; it has a ranking stench to match.

"Why are you calling me Kitsuna?" Tail's hand starts to lightly tremble under the weight of the mythical blade in her hand.

England takes notice; a curl finds his lip, and he chokes on a laugh. "Are you not Kitsuna? I had a cousin born in Canein, the seventh valley of ice in my homeland of Phlegethos. She looked just like you. Kitsuna is what we called people born there: with the wide eyes, the sleeky fur, the fluffy tails all nine of them. And most of all the lighthearted curl to your lip that hides your killer nature."

Tail is distracted; she fails to notice the blood has stopped flowing. The wound in England's c.h.e.s.t is mending, and neither of them seem to notice the visitor watching from the door.

"So that feeling me up gig, do people find that romantic where you're from?"

"Yes, back in Phlegethos that is how everyone shows their affections."

"Well, forgive me for not apologizing. What about those xenomorphs? That is your plan for them?"

England removes one hand from his ribs and it shifts into a jagged spear. He lunges up at Tail with a bloodcurdling cackle. With the slightest flip of her wrist, Tail knocks the spear away, and she stumbles off to one side to duck his next attack. England's other hand become a rake, swiping from the other side. He is back to his feet in the blink of an eye.

"Well, it seems you heal pretty fast." Tail giggles nervously. One claw reaches for Tail; she fumbling spins her Light Bringer and clips off two fingers. England comes in for yet another strike. Tail is nearly defenseless as she can find no solid footing.

The visitor from the door interjects; he is a short, plump-looking man with dark skin in an orange and black suit that only looks proper on a native African. He has a pair of glasses he doesn't wear so much as balance on his noise. He holds a silver ordainment between them, placing it to England's nose; the symbol is in the shape of a knife with two snakes circling it, facing one another. "I would say that is quite enough out of you," he commands the demon.

England looks even more bestial than ever; his eyes look a broken red, even narrower and more soulless than before. He stands hunched over, glaring at the holy symbol—hands bent into hooks, his gaze locked.

England tries to sidestep the old wizard; his opposition matches his movement, holding him at bay. This carries on for several minutes before England loses his patience and twists his coat about his body, vanishing through the door.

"I would say you just earned yourself some coffee." Tail looks amazed by what has transpired.

The old wizard tucks his hand in his sleeves, hiding the holy symbol. "Forgive me, I have been rude. My name is L. Gallard. I heard the commotion form my room and . . ." He motions to the door.

"Thank you," Tail cuts him short as he hesitates to finish his statement. "But how did you . . ." Tail makes a similar gesture of confusion.

L. Gallard makes his way into the kitchen, following Tail. "Mr. England is a demon as his name suggests, and so he believes that my little toy has the power to . . . send him home. Life in captivity is not ideal for anyone, but life as a beggar here is still better than the life of a prince where he was born."

Tail presents L. Gallard with a cup of coffee, then sets herself with a cup full of coffee beans "El, so what sort of world is England from? Is hell really hell?" L. Gallard holds up his hand to shush Tail.

"My name is not El, nor is it Al, or even Eli. It is L. Gallard, nothing less." He shakes his head and lowers his hands. "And thank you." He picks up his cup. "He is not from hell. He is from what we are calling a demi-plain. It is a mirror-like refection of a nether world. But yes, Phlegethos is that bad. It is a world of starvation where the weak plead for death and salvation, but never do they have it. Night after night, our friend England would die, but with the rise of the sun he would awake again only to live the same life of nothingness yet forth more."

"And what about the infamous Wright Von Richton? Where is she from?" Tail eats a fistful of beans, waiting for L. Gallard to respond, but he never will.