by David Beem
“No more fortune cookies,” I say. “No more jumping through hoops. We don’t work for you. In fact, Mary and I were having a romantic moment on the beach until you hijacked it, which is a total dick move, by the way. Now, I don’t know why you couldn’t simply tell us getting ripped out of the Collective Unconscious hurts, but—”
“Edger—”
“—this is how it’s going to go from now on. You’re going to tell us what we need to know. You already know how this little mystery of yours ends, so you’re going to tell us now and save us all a little time, and then we can skip to the part where the planet reverts back to normal and Nostradamus goes to Supernatural People’s Court and Judge Beetlejuice can sentence him for something ridiculous like, oh, uh, I don’t know, bad fashion sense!”
“This is not going to be easy for you.”
“Easy for me? In the first week since coming here for these little chats, I was shot at, drugged, kidnapped, and tortured. And it’s only gotten worse. Which part was the easy part?”
“I am not your enemy.”
“Prove it.”
“I am. Edger, sometimes it is not what one gives but rather the way one gives it. I am trying to protect you from your own influence. Empty your cup so I may fill it. Sun Tzu teaches us, when you know yourself and your opponent, you will win every time. When you know yourself but not your opponent, you will win one and lose one. However, when you do not know yourself or your opponent, you will be imperiled. You, my friend, know neither yourself nor your opponent. You rush to finish this quest like it is an inconvenience rather than recognize it for the catastrophe it is. Because of this, you will lose. And then we will all lose.”
“Then tell him what he needs to know.” Mary pushes between us. “Tell us how to defeat Nostradamus. Tell us now.”
“You are not ready.”
Mary’s frustration surges through me. “You’re playing games. But I am not playing games. Tell us.”
Bruce’s eyebrows rise. “You. Are not. Ready.”
She springs forward and seizes his wrist, twists his elbow toward his stomach—
Bruce flips sideways, breaks free—
Mary’s roundhouse kick sweeps up—
He guides the kick with his right arm, sweeping the foot away and allowing her strength to send him into a roll. Chains erupt from the white expanse and latch on to Mary’s wrists as Bruce’s roll finishes on his feet.
I lunge for Bruce, but cold metal shackles form around my wrists, and I lurch back.
“Enough,” he says. “Mary, when the time comes, you will be ready. Edger will not.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she snaps.
He takes a centering breath before answering. “It means for Edger to become immortal, he must annihilate a soul. It means to beat Nostradamus, you must do more than level the playing field. You must attack where the enemy least expects.”
Chapter Nineteen
Our chains vanish. Bruce gestures with an open hand to the white park bench, which is noticeably longer than when it was just him and me here. Longer to accommodate Mary. I shouldn’t be surprised by that, or the chains. I’m dreaming, but not dreaming, as he explained the first time we met. Back when Mikey had the Zarathustra serum injected into my arm. Back when I thought all I was doing was restoring power to the Eastern Seaboard and finding an artificially intelligent cow. Ah, how times were simpler then.
My white dress shoes make no sound as I cross. Sit. I stick my finger into the knot on my tie and work it loose. When it’s undone, I drag the tie out and fling it away. I know I can do this by magicking it into nonexistence, but I’m sick of how all this works, and doing something normal for a change feels like a win.
Mary glares at Bruce, and by the anger rolling off her, she’s less ready to make peace than I am. “You want Edger to kill someone.”
“I do not want Edger to kill anyone,” he replies. “I do not want him to rip a soul from the Collective Unconscious. Such an act is unnatural. But I do not anticipate outcomes. I am showing you the tools, teaching you to think like a warrior, and trusting in nature to take its course.”
“I’m a warrior,” she replies. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Do you?”
“Edger is tenderhearted. You said attack where the enemy least expects. Nostradamus would never expect him to inflict the kind of suffering you forced us to witness.”
“What was that?” I ask, following Mary’s train of thought back to the station: Nostradamus’s soul death. “We know he didn’t die that night. We know his consciousness was ripped out of the Collective. And the guy in the bar, he shouldn’t have known anything, but he did. What aren’t you telling us? You haven’t given us all the data.”
“He’s given us enough.” Mary tilts her head. “Nostradamus is transferring his consciousness. That’s the answer to our mystery. In order to transfer his consciousness, he has to start ripping innocent people’s souls out of the Collective Unconscious. Empty the body, then fill it with his own soul. That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? Annihilating souls.”
Bruce nods.
“Holy shit,” I say, too astonished—no, too pissed—to watch my language. “It isn’t enough you want me to kill someone. You want me to kill their soul?!”
“You don’t listen,” says Bruce. “I do not want you to kill any—”
“Yeah, I heard. Then you said you were showing me the tools.”
“Edger. Shut up. Think. You’ve got one shot. One. If he catches even a whiff of you coming, it’s straight to nukes. Or worse.”
“Tell that to my sniper rifle,” says Mary, and at the same time, I say, “Worse? What’s worse than nukes?”
Bruce frowns. “When Nostradamus took your blood and recreated the Zarathustra serum, he seized his advantage. He has all your abilities, but also the secret of immortality. And don’t forget, he has the artificial intelligence, InstaTron Tron. This gives him omniscience over the living, whom he arrogantly controls like puppets.”
“This is thinking like a warrior?” I say. “Explaining the obvious?”
“A warrior does not go into battle to fight fair. A warrior cheats. He stacks the odds to his advantage.”
“I get it. He can do anything I can do, he’s immortal, omniscient, and commands an army of billions. You made your point. We’re doomed.” Bruce raps his knuckle on my head. “Hey—ow!”
“Forget about pride and pain! You will graze his skin, and he will smash your flesh. You will smash his flesh, and he will break your bones. You will break his bones, and he will take your life! A warrior does not concern himself with escaping safely. He lays his life before his foe. And make no mistake: Nostradamus is a warrior. He is a warrior who has cheated death for over four hundred years.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” I ask, rubbing my pulsing head and looking to Mary for support, but her gaze has gone inward.
“Even the odds,” she mutters. “He’s out of your league. Bruce is saying you’ve got to cheat.”
“Stop right there,” I reply. “I am not annihilating a soul.”
“Edger, listen,” she says. “A mortal facing an immortal is at a disadvantage. But he’s already got two other big advantages: InstaTron Tron—”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “God, that name sucks.”
“—and Planet Zombie,” she finishes. “Strategically, the only thing you can do about his Tron-Tron-given omniscience or the zombies is beat Nostradamus, so that’ll be your last step. But until we can do that, your first mission is to even the odds. Become immortal yourself. He won’t be expecting it, and that will give you an advantage.”
“My mission? What about our mission? What about finding these rebels? I thought that’s what we were supposed to be doing.”
“I thought so too,” says Bruce, his psychic sense broadcasting his smug opinion of what we were up to before he brought us here.
“What?” I ask. “We’re not allowed fiv
e freaking minutes to—”
“No,” he replies. “There are seven billion people on the planet who cannot think for themselves. They cannot kiss with their own passion, love with their own hearts, or witness the setting sun with their own eyes.”
“Laying it on thick.” I expel a sigh, but it’s just lame reflex. He’s gone and done it. He’s Yoda’d me back onto the path and shamed me right. I’m on the wrong side of this, and I know it. I was ready to chuck it all for an island and Mary. My mouth twisting to the side, I peer up at her from my spot on the bench. Even if I didn’t know her every thought in here, I can still see it in the tightness of her lips and the steel in her jaw. I’m stuck in this. I’m really stuck. I slump back into the seat, and Bruce peers in silence over the oh-so-fascinating white landscape of my stupid subconscious mind.
Bruce. Bruce Friggin’ Lee.
I shake my head. “How can you ask this of me? You’ve got to know there are limits. There are things I cannot do, Bruce.”
“There are no limits,” he replies. “There are only plateaus, but you must not stay there. You must go beyond.”
HISTORICAL CHRONICLING OF FLAGRANT RECKLESS DRIVING (AND EVEN SOME RECKLESS FLYING BY OUR FRIENDS IN THE ANIMAL KINGDOM) BY HERODOTUS (C. 484—C. 425 BCE)
The sign reading MEDICAL MARIJUANA PROHIBITED INTO MEXICO shudders in the 112-miles-per-hour shock force. Flexing aluminum cackles in plumes of dirt and sand after the hum of the van’s tires fade into the desert highway. The shuddering wanes over a full twenty-three-second span, frightening the nearby desert creatures and violating a local noise ordinance until, at last, the sign returns to its relaxed, peaceful state. The chorus of nighttime critters rises anew. Glinting moonlight surfs the sign’s Highway Gothic font, and a coyote, sensing it should abide by its duly designated animal tropes, howls at the pale glowing orb in the starry sky. Then, a new, second set of headlights hits the sign. The muscular growl of a faraway engine crescendos, and a hush again steals across the creature chorus. The highway rumbles.
At this point, if this sign could think, its first thought might be: Crikey![8]
A close second thought might be: Throw a shrimp on the barbie and— Ace! Is that a Bugatti?![9]
The shockwave hits, this one far more powerful than the last. The Bugatti screams past at 220 miles per hour. The crystal twinning in the aluminum crackles, this time its two wooden posts straining backward in the alkaline crust along the highway’s shoulder.
Another car blows past. And another—and another. Soon, it’s a fleet of speeding vehicles, zooming past in tens and twenties, changing lanes in perfect synchronization, each at speeds exceeding one hundred miles per hour and transforming the stillness of the California air into the sort of eardrum-rupturing blood sport more commonly associated with the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, where monster truck drivers go to crush their exes’ repossessed cars.
The little sign strains against the nonlinear wave phenomenon forming a continuous pattern around its aluminum body, stretching backward against the bow shock, even as the posts labor against the parched earth. The rightmost post, being the one nearest the highway’s shoulder, snaps. The little sign pops up, twists, its rightmost post now broken in the middle, but with enough intact wood fibers it doesn’t fly away.
The last two cars in the pack are just these: a sombrero-shaped vehicle with a spring-mounted donkey piñata littering colorful confetti speeds past first. This car has the temerity to toot its horn, which is a mariachi band playing “The Mexican Hat Dance,” which is sadly spoiled due to the Doppler effect. And the very last vehicle to pass is a squad car, siren and lights on, and painted letters on its side which read: P. C. POLICE.[10]
The traveling merriment and siren fade, replaced again by aluminum quaking like constrained movie thunder. A random can of Coca-Cola bangs down the highway in the fleet’s wake, and the movie thunder relents. Two full minutes pass in silence before the first cricket issues a tentative, hopeful chirp. A tumbleweed crosses the road as a stray dog trots up. He sniffs sundry and interesting urine on the leftmost post, raises a leg, marks, then trots happily away.
And then, a new sound rises on the night air. An eerie glissando. It glides up and down in a mesmerizing timbre, rather like the sonic equivalent of the northern lights. The mysterious, ethereal tones grow nearer, carried on the back of the wind…
Beating wings dwarf the seagulls’ cries as a flock two hundred strong, buzzing twenty feet above the highway, shriek past with thunder to rival the United States Air Force.
At this point, if that lonely little sign could form a coherent thought, which would be saying something even if it hadn’t been a lonely little sign but, say, any random person standing on the side of the road that night, Australian or other, that thought would be: What. The Fuck.[11]
The leftmost post cracks in two, and the sign falls over, releasing a final, anticlimactic whump.
Chapter Twenty
“What. The fuck,” says Shmuel from the back.
“He’s coming in too fast!” yells Consuelo. “Loosen up!”
Wang scans the rearview mirror. The headlights are closing in, all right. He checks the speedometer. 125. He shifts in his seat, but the cramp in his shin from holding the pedal to the floor for the past twenty miles doesn’t abate. Palms slick on the steering wheel, he swallows the rising lump in his throat. A sign reflects his headlights back at him.
INTERNATIONAL BORDER 500 FEET.
“There it is! There it is!” yells Consuelo.
His headlights fall on the familiar concrete lanes signaling the United States/Mexico border crossing. Again, he checks the rearview mirror. The headlights behind them seem twice as close as last time. Terror hollows out his throat as he approaches the demarked concrete Ready Lanes at full speed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“You are required to fly straight down this trench,” says Consuelo, and Shmuel hums the “Imperial March” from Star Wars. “You’ll find a small thermal exhaust port, right behind the main port,” Consuelo continues. “Only a precise hit will set off a chain reaction.”
“Your name isn’t Edger Bonkovich, so shut up with the Star Wars already!” yells Wang, and he could swear that pig is Darth Vader breathing back there.
Concrete barriers explode past on either side with a whoosh threatening the integrity of his bladder. Those walls are squeezing in on him, but he embraces the tunnel vision and concentrates on the terminal point at the end, knowing a glance left or right spells certain doom.
Dozens of headlights flick on inside the Ready Lanes far in front of him.
His belly warbles.
His foot eases on the accelerator, and the cramp in his shin ebbs.
Sweat coursing down his face, he relents on the tunnel vision, checks the rearview mirror. Dozens of headlights have already entered the Ready Lanes behind them.
“It’s a trap!” yells Consuelo, using his Admiral Ackbar voice.
The pale glow on Clark’s tail fluff dims as he bounds over a patch of scrub and plunges into the shadows. Caleb lowers the canteen, drags the back of his arm across his mouth, and rubs his free hand briskly over his chest. His thin floral beach shirt isn’t insulating, but it’s still more than poor Fabio has in that swimsuit and flip-flops.
“M-man,” says Fabio, his teeth chattering and arms folded across his chest as he cracks yet another branch beneath careless feet. “S-s-super Goat r-really m-m-moves.”
Caleb raises his finger to his lips. He cranes his neck, listens.
The thick tapestry of night critters; the cawing of a distant owl; a faraway chat; a warbling poorwill. Frustration pools in his stomach. What he wouldn’t give to be armed. Almost as much as he’d give to have a nifty Z-ring like the Edge.
“W-we’re gonna l-lose him.”
Caleb raises an arm, blocking Fabio’s path. “If he’s leading us anywhere, he’ll wait.”
“S-so you’re s-s-starting to b-b-believe.”
Caleb peers again
at the spot where Clark vanished, where the purplish desert shadows are greatest. It could be a trap. Even if Clark had been trained to perform this task, who was to say the baby goat had led them somewhere they’d want to be?
His mouth compresses. “This was so stupid.”
“It’s not st-st-stupid. Have-ve s-some f-f-faith.”
Dim white fluff emerges from a lumpy shadow. It arcs in the air, disappears, then reappears and arcs again.
“Maybe we can shave him and get you something to wear, little bro.”
“No!” Fabio’s arms drop to his side, then quickly fold again across his chest.
A person-sized shadow detaches from the dark.
Caleb’s hand flies to the small of his back by instinct. The shadow flinches, and Caleb’s arm lowers empty-handed.
The shadow’s shoulders straighten. It steps forward, emerging through the purplish-black plane of darkness and into the pale moonglow. A young woman in a microfleece pullover, backpack, and tennis shoes. Clark bounds over to her and presses into her shins. She squats and strokes his long ears.
“I’m Anna,” she says. “Congratulations on finding us.”
Caleb’s head twitches left in confusion.
“Congratulations?” says Fabio. “Is there a p-p-prize?”
“No prize,” she replies. “But most people wouldn’t have the faith to follow a silly guy like Clark here into the desert.”
“Clark,” says Caleb. “We named him that. How do you know that name?”
“I know lots of things,” she replies. “I know Fabio’s favorite fictional character is Madmartigan. I know why you got Edger kicked out of school.”
