by David Beem
“You awake?” Mary’s hand caresses my thigh.
I close my eyes. The two halves of soul-stars continue rending apart, though upon closer inspection, they’re connected at the bottom like they’re on a hinge. They’re bright pinpricks forming an odd checkmark shape, and opening wider still.
What’re they doing?
“Edger.”
The mottling colors on the backs of my eyelids phase in. The pain is too overwhelming. My eyelids phase immediately back out. The soul-stars are shrinking into the distance. I’m being swept away into the darkness on some kind of psychic riptide.
“Edger!”
Fabio will be okay. He used to talk about writing a social media program and making his billions. When I’m gone, he’ll see life is short. He’ll write his program. He will. He deserves it. He’ll leave the Über Dork and do something real with his life.
The blackness is an infinite void. Cold and scary. I don’t want to go, but I’m going anyway. The riptide is strong. It’s got me good.
Kate. It all just fell apart. One day, we were on top of the world. The next, boom, Caleb, and it’s over. Did she ever love me? I can’t say. She traveled. Went places. I loved that. I wanted to go places too. We went somewhere together once. Doesn’t matter. I’m checking out.
The soul-stars are in one long line now, a chain of souls, stretching toward me. They can’t reach. I’m too far out. The riptide is carrying me farther.
“Almost there,” says Mary, her voice far away. “Oh, hang on, Edger—please!”
InstaTron Tron. Zarathustra. This great experiment. I’ve failed that too. I go to the next world knowing about the human tribe waiting for me. That’s something. I go to join them, another link in the long chain of people who tried to do things and ran out of time.
A chain. The chain of lights. It’s stretching, straining to reach. Is it gaining on me?
I twist and turn, repositioning to face the chain. The brightness is blinding and swells brighter still. I latch on…
I’m jerked from the darkness. Lights streak by. Cool air on my face. I’m in the car. We’re slowing down. The highway wind dies, and the pounding of my pulse replaces the noise in my ears.
“You’re awake!” says Mary. “Oh my God, I thought you were…”
I’m sticky and uncomfortable without the wind from the road. My shirt is drenched in cold sweat. I’m shivering.
“Hold on. We’re almost there. Oh God. You’re so pale. I hope your dad is there. I hope this works… I hope…”
I sway left and right as the Jag turns through town. My breathing is finding the rhythm it does before sleep. My eyelids are heavy. I collapse into Mary’s lap. I want to go back to the dark…
A flash of light—a skull-splitting thunderclap. Hot air blasts over me. The seat belt digs like a knife into my skin, reeling me backward into my seat. My eyes pop open. The Jag skids to a halt. A two-story apartment building is on fire. The walls are gone. Only the frame remains. Fire and rubble. Overturned cars. Half a building and a clear blast radius nearly to the Walgreens across the street. No other landmark left to say this is the place I used to live.
“Oh my God,” whispers Mary, her hand covering her mouth.
Gran… Shep… Dad…
Amidst all that crackling heat, the cold darkness swallows me.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
DJ Junky Buttz is cranking “Rocket Scientist” loud enough to be heard by outer space aliens, and going by the way the ceiling is flashing like the mother ship from Close Encounters, message has been received. Which is good, Wang figures, since the song is basically about rock stars signing tits and gyrating their bionic pelvises. Aliens should know what they’re getting themselves into. Wang knows he sure the fuck would.
He is seated on a black leather couch next to Shmuel, bound in twine as before. Across from them, Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, still dressed in his Green Bay Packers uniform, shoulder pads and all, though without his helmet, sips from a martini glass with at least eight garnishes sticking out the top. His silent, predatory gaze scans the dance floor.
A pair of long, bare, female legs goes by. Despite his current predicament, Wang’s gaze follows. Straining against a tight miniskirt, which he can only surmise has been sewn amidst a fabric shortage crisis in a Bangladeshi sweatshop, the swinging hips above said bare female legs are hypnotic and, Wang knows from experience, very dangerous. This is because, any second now, Sex Legs is likely to catch him staring and reciprocate with a stinging slap to the face.
He knows his time is short.
His eyes are like an attention-deficit-disordered weasel. Legs to hips. Hips to breasts. Breast one to breast two. Back to breast one. Back to two. Neck—not so fast!—legs, hips, and another hasty examination of breasts one and two is made—and, lastly—face.
He clenches up, turns his head away, and braces himself.
The slap doesn’t come.
He opens an eye. The tall brunette is still there. Her gaze goes up and down, taking in the fact that he and Shmuel are tied up. Her lips purse. She smirks. Wang’s eyebrows go up. His cheeks tighten. He can hardly believe his luck. Kidnapped, tied up, and here’s a girl who likes it rough!
His gaze performs another involuntary breastal analysis before reflexively springing back up. But now the brunette is eyeing Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. Her eyebrows lower.
“HEY!” she yells, raising her voice against the music. “DON’T I KNOW YOU?!”
Yourmajesty frowns. “DON’T DYE YOUR POO?!”
“I’M OLGA!” She extends her hand. The Green Bay Packer glances at Wang, who nods, then takes her hand, pulls her closer, kisses her knuckles, and screams romantically into her ear.
“YOURMAJESTY!”
They separate. Olga blushes and waves it away. “OH, YOU SMOOTH TALKER!”
“IT’S NICE TO MEET YOU!” screams Yourmajesty.
Olga’s forehead wrinkles. “YOU HAVE LICENSE TO BEAT FOOD!?”
“WHAT!?”
“LEAK LICE EAT CHEW?!”
“HUH!?”
Wang blinks, then frowns. He leans in close to Shmuel.
“OKAY, LISTEN!” he yells. “CAN YOU GET THIS KNOT BEHIND MY BACK?!”
“WHAT!?” Shmuel yells back. “HOW’D YOU GET SNOT ON YOUR BACK?!”
Wang rolls his eyes, then shifts in the couch to show Shmuel the knot before glancing over his shoulder and making sure Shmuel is paying attention. Shmuel nods and scoots closer to Wang. They turn around so they’re back to back. Shmuel’s fingers tickle Wang’s sides before locating the knot, tugging this way and that, and inadvertently jerking Wang around on the sofa. Yourmajesty’s gaze sweeps from Olga to them. A flash of suspicion passes across his face. Thinking quickly, Wang works his shoulders like piston rods to the beat. Ain’t no thang, he thinks. Just a Wang-Wang gettin’ his groove on bae-bae. And, for a moment, no one says anything as lyrics pound down from oversize speakers. Something about Telemundo chicas being hot like solar panels.
“PITS ICE SEAFOOD?!” yells Olga.
“THAT’S THE ONE!” shouts Yourmajesty.
Wang’s knot comes free just as the football player slides his massive hand beneath his arm. Wang’s heart kicks into overdrive. Flop sweat drips off his face and neck.
“I was just—ah—just…”
“COME ON!” yells Yourmajesty, nodding at Shmuel to stand as he lifts Wang to his feet. He smiles at them both. “OLGA KNOWS THE NOSTRADAMUS AGENTS WE’RE MEETING! ISN’T THAT WONDERFUL? WE’RE GOING UPSTAIRS TO GET EVERYTHING READY FOR ZARATHUSTRA’S TRAP! AND AFTER WE CATCH HIM, WE CAN GLOAT!”
Wang tries to smile, but it only happens on one side. Afraid it might be coming off as more of a sneer, and lacking any better plan, he goes for opening his mouth and blurting the first thing that comes to mind.
“YOU’RE A TERRIBLE SUPERVILLAIN! DADDY AND OTHER DADDY ARE VERY DISAPPOINTED IN YOU!”
“YEAH!” Shmuel screams. “YOU HAVEN’T EVEN MADE THE STANDARD SUPERV
ILLAIN SOUL LILLY QUEEB?! EVERY SUPERVILLAIN MAKES A SOUL LILLY QUEEB?!”
“IT IS VERY LOUD IN HERE!” shouts Olga.
“SOLILOQUY, DUMBASS!”
“THAT’S WHAT I SAID?”
“WHO’S GIVING HEAD?” shouts Olga.
Yourmajesty frowns.
“COME ON, DUDE!” shouts Wang. “THINK GENE HACKMAN IN SUPERMAN! I MEAN, EVEN YOUR VOICE IS TOTALLY WRONG!”
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH MY VOICE?” asks Yourmajesty.
Wang touches his middle finger to his thumb and shakes his hand at the Packer, doing his best movie director impersonation. “YA GOT NO BROADWAY, BABY! THEATER! LEARN TO ENJOY YOUR WORK! EVERY SUPERVILLAIN’S GOT A VOICE! YOU KNOW? HEATH LEDGER, THE DARK KNIGHT! WILLEM DAFOE, SPIDER-MAN!”
“SHARON STONE, CAT-BABE!” yells Shmuel.
“THAT MOVIE SUCKED!” yells Wang. Facing Yourmajesty, he adds, “THAT’S AN ABJECT LESSON IN WHAT NOT TO DO! YOU GOTTA GO FOR STYLE POINTS!”
Yourmajesty folds his big, beefy arms and stares down his nose at them.
“I MEAN, YOU’VE GOTTA BABE RIGHT THERE, DUDE!” offers Shmuel, his voice husky from all the screaming.
Yourmajesty glances at Olga. Olga’s gaze takes in every inch of Yourmajesty, lingering on those inches around the muscles, which tended to be all his inches. When she’s done, she smiles. Yourmajesty smiles back and then faces Wang and Shmuel.
“STYLE POINTS!” he yells. “MAYBE THERE’S TIME FOR ONE DANCE!”
Wang releases a sigh. Taking the dance floor, he’s butt-butted like a pinball in a pinball machine, jarring him all the way to his teeth; he disregards this, his mind spinning faster than ever on coming up with a better plan than stalling a sociopath super computer using little more than a pair of sexy legs.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Hazy dreams: Mary dragging me from the car. My arm slung over her shoulder.
Fire trucks, ambulances, cop cars, news crews, and at least two hundred people outside the blown-up apartment. The scrum is thick and hot as she hauls me—nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process—around a traffic cop. He blows a whistle, waving at someone or something out of range. The tone is like an ice pick to my eardrum.
I open my eyes. The light is pure pain. Mary isn’t dragging me anywhere. I’m lying on my back. Something is sticking out of my arm.
Head turns right. An EMT is handling an IV bag.
Head turns left. Heart monitor.
Snippets of a news broadcast creep into my consciousness. The ambulance doors fling open, and the world doubles in volume. I peer down the length of my body and between my feet. A news truck is parked outside. There’s a TV monitor in the back, broadcasting in split screen, with the field reporter on one side and the news anchor on the other.
“Okay, thanks,” says the anchor. “A tense situation. We’ll keep you updated. Stay tuned to Fox 5.”
Ambulance doors slam shut.
My eyes roll up and close.
“Hey.”
A hand strokes my arm.
“Edger?”
It hurts too much to keep my eyes open. Every beep of the heart monitor is a red-hot poker jabbing my brain.
“It’s okay.” Mary’s voice. She squeezes my hand. “I’m here.”
“Mr. Bonkovich, can you hear me?” asks a male voice.
I nod, and immediately regret it; my head’s like the marimba at a marimba concert.
“Your blood pressure is dangerously low. Are there any medications you’re allergic to?”
“No,” I say, and I’m stunned by how weak my voice sounds.
“Okay, we’re going to get you stabilized.”
I nod. My brain slams around on the inside of my skull. The rhythm in the heart monitor falters.
“Headache,” I whimper.
“Can you give him something for the pain?” pleads Mary. “Please?”
Rustling fabric. A small ting-ting-ting, the sound of what might be a ring falling to the floor, but the noise detonates like landmines in my head.
“Ohh…”
“Where’s the woman?” asks Mary, her voice coming from beneath me.
“What?” says the man. “Oh. Stepped out. Kind of busy. Just hang in there, Edge. I’m going to give you something now.”
A needle enters my arm. Warm fluid runs into my veins. The red-hot poker jabbing my brain is getting tired, the intervals between growing longer…
“Hey,” says Mary, her tone darkening. “Do you…know him?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then how did you know to call him Edge?”
“Must’ve heard you call him that. Excuse me.”
The beeping heart monitor flat-lines.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
So this is it.
I’m dead.
This isn’t so bad.
I’m at the Tree of Life, sitting on the bench. Bruce Lee is at my side. He’s got a long blade of grass hanging out of his mouth. He’s wearing overalls and a straw hat.
“New look for you,” I say.
“Been hanging out with Mark Twain a good bit since you’ve been busy dying.”
“Sorry,” I reply. “Didn’t mean to mess up the bromance.”
The Tree of Life flickers. Heat and wind blast my face as the tree is replaced by an apartment building engulfed in flames. “Gran!” I leap off the bench and raise a shielding arm, the other reaching out, but the flames disappear as quickly as they erupted into existence, leaving only the Tree of Life and empty white landscape in the space where it’d been. My ears are ringing from the shock force.
“She’s okay, Edge,” says Bruce Lee, still seated on the bench. The long blade of grass sags from his clenched teeth. “Gran, Shep, Fabio, your dad. They’re all okay.”
“They’re alive,” I say, meaning to clarify. “As in, they didn’t die.”
“Correct.”
I expel a burst of air. Who would’ve thought the difference between dead and not dead could get so confusing?
“Oh my God.” My shoulders slump in relief. “I was so worried. How is it they weren’t home? That time of night—”
“Mary,” Bruce Lee replies, looking up at me brightly. “Mary got them moved into Pine’s Place. She’s resourceful, that one.”
“What?” I ask, before realizing I’m looming. I take a step back to open some space. But his gaze returns unconcernedly to the landscape beyond the Tree. In his straw hat and overalls, he could be sitting at the Mississippi River, tracking a passing steamboat.
“She sent movers?” I ask. “Today? She moved them out—packed everything and moved in a day? Let me get this straight. She’s all like, Hey, look at me! I’m snipering people! And I’m all like, Help! I’m falling off Qualcomm Stadium! Ah-hh! Fall-ling! And the whole time, she had the movers taking Gran and Shep to Pine’s Place, like, just another day at the office?”
Without taking his gaze from the blank landscape, Bruce Lee nods.
“Oh.”
“You’re upset?” He looks at me now. His eyebrows rise. “She warned you, Edge. Fabio warned you too. Bad guys will try to hurt the ones you care about. She stepped in and solved the problem for you.” He sits back again, puts his arms up on the bench back. His teeth make the long grass dance up and down.
I cross in front of him to join him on the bench. He’s right. Mary did try to warn me. And all I could do was worry about my Yoda underpants or whether my morning breath smelled like a Wookiee butt.
“Mm-hmm,” says Bruce Lee.
“Oh, shut up,” I snap. “Do you really have to listen to my every freaking thought?”
“Doesn’t feel decent, does it?”
“Are you punishing me?”
“No,” he says, screwing his face up. “It’s just the way it is. We’re all in each other’s heads all the time. I don’t make the rules. Hey. Between you and me, there’re some real weirdos in here.”
“Will they be okay?”
“Gran and the others? Yes. Why wouldn’t they
be?”
“Because…because I’m dead. And I can’t help them.”
“Dead? Who said you’re dead?”
“But I didn’t get my booster. And I heard my heart monitor flat-line.”
“Well, they got your heart going again,” he says, his face becoming semitranslucent. “And as for your booster, your dad snuck into the back of the ambulance.”
“Hey. What’s happening? Where are you going?”
“You’re waking up. Listen to me, quickly. You dropped the ring. Mary picked it up, but then—”
Chapter Eighty
The dream retreats. I open my eyes and marvel over the experience being as one would expect upon opening one’s eyes. I see stuff, and seeing stuff doesn’t feel like exploding heads. I release a sigh and sink into a pillow. I’m in a hospital bed. The back is raised.
“Mr. Bonkovich.”
I push up on my elbows, my muscles reluctantly complying, and lean on my side. A tall woman in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around her neck is standing in the doorway with a laptop under her arm. She’s about my age. Fit. Pretty, too, in an aggressive kind of way. Her dyed black hair is chopped roughly above her shoulders. Black mascara makes her already dark eyes darker. She crosses to a table by the window, sits down, and opens her laptop.
“Let’s see here. Brain scan checks out. Vitals good. Hippocampus showing good activity. Good, good. Well, congratulations, Bonkovich. Looks like the booster’s doing everything it’s supposed to.”
“Buh…excuse me?”
The doctor snaps her laptop shut. “I said you’re looking good.”
“Where am I?”
“Sharp Rees-Stealy.”
“Downtown,” I reply, and she nods. My head is struggling to boot. It’s stuck in the fog of my dream. I give it a shake, hoping to clear it. “Who are you?”
“Doctor Hamilton.”
“Who are you really?”
She shrugs. “Doctor Alexandra Hamilton, CIA, GSPOT division. I would’ve thought that was obvious.”
