The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  Fabio, still hugging himself against the chilly air, juts his chin out. “Do you l-l-like M-Madmartigan?”

  Anna tilts her chin down. “Ooh, I’m really scared,” she says, imitating someone else’s voice. “No! Don’t! There’s a-a peck here with an acorn pointed at me!”

  Fabio’s arms come down to his sides. His eyebrows rise, a smile spreads on his bearded face.

  “Peck, peck, peck, peck, peck!” he cries, also doing a voice.

  Anna smiles.

  Caleb frowns. “What just happened?”

  “Willow,” replies Anna, shrugging.

  Caleb frowns. “Willow?” He shakes his head. “Willow what? What willow?”

  “It’s a movie.” Anna’s forehead wrinkles. “Val Kilmer? Warwick Davis?”

  “Nah, don’t mind him.” Fabio waves the issue away. “The big guy’s got a head stuffed full of NFL playbooks and Calvin Klein royalty rights, but he’s all right. Usually.” Fabio crosses the distance before Caleb can warn him away. The little bro extends his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Anna.”

  They shake as more shadows detach from the scrub.

  Predator shadows.

  “What’s this?” asks Caleb, his gaze sweeping the dark, suspicion cementing in his gut.

  The shadows come into the light. A bobcat. A coyote. An African lion. A gut-weakening heat phases through Caleb as his tongue grows pasty with terror.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” says Anna, her tone light. “Caleb Montana, Fabio Jimenez. I’d like you to meet Mufasa, Wile E., and Bob. You already know Clark. These are our escorts.”

  The idling engine shudders and stalls.

  “Maybe the wheels got tired?” offers Shmuel and a fresh wave of anger crests over Wang.

  “I will not become a zombie! I’m going to be filthy rich! I’m going to be so filthy rich, I lose all respect for myself! This is not how it ends for the Wanginator!”

  The pig snorts, and Wang cranes his neck to peer around the seat back. That ham sandwich is chewing on a Listerine cap! Shmuel opens it for him, and Spy Pig tips his head back, opens its mouth. Wang turns back around and shudders.

  “Maybe we can call Danny and Leo,” offers Consuelo. “Ralph or Christine? I mean, any one of the Dudes ought to be able to—”

  “Our walkie-talkies are out of range,” says Wang. “And you know we can’t use cell phones. Nostradamus monitors all that shit.”

  “Dude,” says Consuelo. “We’re fucked.”

  Wang grips the steering wheel and peers straight ahead. Blocking their exit from the Ready Lanes, zombie silhouettes lurch in fits and starts against the backdrop of blinding headlights, dragging their feet and closing the distance between them. He glances in the rearview mirror.

  “They’re behind us too,” he says.

  “There must be over a hundred,” Consuelo replies. “Maybe two hundred.”

  Wang extends a shaking hand toward the glove compartment, not daring to look away from the approaching zombies for a second. He reaches inside. Papers. Pens. Bong. He pats around, searching for the cold comforting steel for which he so desperately longs.

  “Whatcha doin’?” asks Shmuel.

  “What the fuck’s it look like I’m doing?”

  “You wanna get high now?”

  “No, I don’t wanna fucking get high now!”

  Frustration boils over. He wrenches his eyes from the approaching danger and takes a hasty inventory of the glove compartment.

  “What happened to my gun?!”

  “I put it in the gun safe?”

  “You fucking what?!”

  “I put it in the gun safe?”

  “Shmuel, you idiot! You never, ever put a gun in a gun safe!”

  “The gun is for what’s in the safe,” offers Consuelo in duh tones. “It’s not what’s in the safe.”

  Shmuel blinks, raises a finger, then blinks again.

  “How the fuck am I supposed to shoot a motherfucker if the gun is locked inside a motherfucking gun safe?!” asks Wang.

  “ATTENTION WANG, SHMUEL, CONSUELO, AND PIG!” hundreds of zombie voices shout in unison, and Wang releases a shiver.

  “I told you he’s a spy pig?” says Shmuel.

  “WE ARE NOSTRADAMUS!”

  “God-dammit!” Wang punches the steering wheel. No gun. Nowhere to go. He turns the keys in the ignition, pumps the gas. Nothing.

  “WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!” the zombies chant. “PREPARE TO BE ASSIMILATED!”

  “Fuck you!” yells Wang, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You’re nothing but a Star Trek rip-off, you goddamn Frenchie bastardo!”

  “NO! NO!” yell the zombies. “YOU HAVE IT ALL WRONG!”

  Wang’s head ticks back. He looks over his shoulder at Consuelo. “Quick: How do you say bastard in French?”

  Consuelo shrugs.

  Wang sticks his head out the window, yells, “Fine! You’re a Star Trek rip-off French bastard, then!”

  “NO!” the hundreds of zombies yell in unison. “WE ARE NOT QUOTING STAR TREK! WE ARE QUOTING THE SEVERED CYBERMAN’S HEAD FROM SERIES FIVE, EPISODE TWELVE OF DOCTOR WHO, FROM THE EPISODE TITLED ‘THE PANDORICA OPENS’!”

  Wang sits back in his seat, flummoxed, and for a long moment, everyone just sits listening to crickets.

  “Pandorica Opens?” mutters Wang.

  “IT WAS THE ELEVENTH DOCTOR!” yell the zombies.

  “Eleventh doctor, eleventh doctor…” Consuelo scratches his soul patch. “Was that David Tennant?”

  “No, no, no.” Wang shakes his head. “You don’t know your doctors at all. It was Christopher Eccleston.”

  “You guys are going backward?” offers Shmuel. “David Tennant was the tenth doctor? Christopher Eccleston was the ninth?”

  “No,” replies Wang, “Christopher Eccleston was—”

  “ARE YOU READY FOR ASSIMLATION YET? TONY HAWK HAS TO PEE, AND RESISTANCE IS FUTI—ER—WELL, TONY HAWK HAS TO PEE!”

  “There—there they almost said it!” cries Consuelo. “They almost said it! They’re lying! A real Doctor Who fan would never mix up Pandorica Opens with the Borg. What a poser!”

  Wang waves over his shoulder for Consuelo to shut up. “Tony Hawk?!” he yells. “What’s that got to do with anything?!”

  “WE CAME IN A RATHER LARGE GROUP, SEE?!” the zombies shout in unison. “NOT ALL OF US HAD A CHANCE TO GO BEFORE WE STARTED CHASING YOU!”

  “They were about to say resistance is futile!” Consuelo wags a finger. “What a dick. Dicks, I mean. This hive mind shit is confusing.”

  “Shut. Up,” says Wang over his shoulder.

  Shmuel sticks his head out the passenger window and yells, “Was the eleventh doctor Matt Smith?”

  “THAT IS CORRECT!”

  Shmuel sits back in his seat, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

  “I knew that,” says Wang, even though he totally didn’t.

  “Whatever.” Consuelo folds his arms and sits back in his seat. “They can pretend they know what they’re talking about, but the cyberman clearly said, ‘You will be assimilated,’ not ‘Prepare to be assimilated.’ It’s obvious they think we’re fools.”

  The thrum of a skateboard swells. A zombie in a helmet and elbow and knee pads rolls past, hand frozen midwave.

  “Hi. I’m skateboard legend Tony Hawk.”

  Tony Hawk rolls to a stop between the van and the Mexican-side zombie army, hops off his board, pops it, snatches, and tucks it under his arm. Then he walks to the concrete barrier, unzips his fly, and assumes the position.

  “That’s Tony Hawk?” asks Shmuel. “The Tony Hawk from YouTube’s Ride Channel?”

  “Give him his own show, video game line, a dozen or so endorsements, and all of a sudden, he’s ‘skateboard legend,’” says Consuelo. “Is it me, or are these athletes getting kinda uppity?”

  Wang sticks his head out the window. “I see he had time to put on all his safety gear! Nerd!”

  “TONY HAWK’S UPPED HIS SAFETY—U
P YOURS!” yell the zombies.

  Shmuel buckles his seat belt.

  Wang punches the wheel and slams back into his seat. “Shmuel, you fuck! That goddamn bastard just sloganed us!”

  Shmuel unbuckles his seat belt.

  Consuelo snickers. “Up yours. Ha.”

  “Nobody slogans the A-Team!” yells Shmuel out the window. He makes a fist, stares at it like he doesn’t know what it is, then shakes it out the window at the zombies. He pulls his arm back in and smiles at Wang, starts to buckle up again, then rests his hands at his sides.

  Tony Hawk zips his fly, sets his skateboard down, and kicks off. He glides past the window again, this time performing a two-finger salute. “Safety is no accident.”

  “Whatever, nerd,” replies Wang and, in the rearview mirror, Tony Hawk hops off his board at the US-side zombie army behind them.

  Shmuel nudges Wang’s arm. “Betcha didn’t think we were gonna get to meet skateboard legend Tony Hawk today, huh? Woo-hoo, livin’ our best life, woo-hoo…”

  A thumping, more felt than heard in the bottom of Wang’s skull, grows nearer. The zombies turn their gazes skyward as one.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The soul-stars shower the nighttime, carrying Mary and me back to our bodies by the campfire, still locked in our kiss. The taste of her still fresh, we ease apart, our eyes opening together. The intimacy makes it easy to imagine we’re still sharing a consciousness. There’s a limitlessness to a first kiss. Knowing another human soul from the inside out is a magic of its own, independent of soul-stars, mind-melds, or sharing a Netflix account. She closes her lips, and our eyes meet.

  “I totally kissed you into the sixteenth century.”

  She begins to turn away, but I grab her by the waist and pull her back. Her hand on my chest stops me.

  “Wait.” She scrutinizes my face. “How does it…work?”

  “Well, first we press our lips together. And then I thought maybe we’d—”

  “Hang out with our old pal Bruce Lee some more?” she finishes in a sarcastic tone. “Maybe relive an excruciatingly violent soul death or two?”

  I release her waist and sit back in the sand. “Mood killer.”

  Our hopes and dreams live in you, says Bruce, like he never left. Will you honor your ancestors, or will your judgment sweep us into the ash heap of history?

  I roll my eyes. Ash heap of history? You stole that from Ronald Reagan.

  Well, now, says Ronald Reagan, and the shock of meeting the 40th president straightens my spine. I don’t mind lending things to Bruce Lee, here, heh-heh. His character is his collateral. But, son, your country needs you. Hell, the whole world needs you. There comes a time in a man’s life when he answers the call of duty. Now, are you gonna take the call, or aren’t you?

  Oh man, I say. It’s not enough I’ve got one legend in my head making me feel guilty all the time.

  You should be thanking me, says Ronald Reagan. Tickets for my guilt trips come at no charge. Now… I know there are some jelly beans around here somewhere. Where’d they go? Nancy!

  His presence recedes into my subconscious mind, and I sit back in the sand again.

  “You’re talking to them.” Mary’s eyes scan mine. “Aren’t you?”

  “I just met Ronald Reagan.”

  Her head tilts. “That’s pretty cool.”

  “Not when I’d like five freaking minutes to make out with my girl, it isn’t.”

  Ah, making out with the girl, says Herodotus, the ancient Greek Father of History. It has been said, ‘We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine,’ and it’s good this has been said, because otherwise—

  Whoa-whoa-whoa! I say. Hello? Nice to meet you?

  French kisses are not French, he replies. And french fries are Belgian.

  It’s just Grand Central Station in my brain tonight, huh?

  There are three staples to a civilized society: schools, libraries, and doors on bathrooms.

  Okay, random?

  Making out could technically occur in any of these three categories, and, indeed, has. There is a long tradition of people doing so. Eros and Psyche, for example, often made out in the bathroom, in the stacks of the libraries, and in or behind schools to get away from Psyche’s jealous sisters—

  Wow. So great. It’s an honor to meet you and everything, but I’m really not in the mood tonight.

  Neither is Psyche. Eros is drinking again. He and that caveman Elvis impersonator have—

  What I meant is, if there isn’t going to be a point, then—

  Ah yes, the point. And that is just this: The point is there is no point for schools, no point for libraries, and no point for doors on bathrooms. There is one person on the planet to make all the points for us. He tells us what to think, where and when to pee, and where and with whom to procreate. Which, by the way, is another thing people used to do in schools, libraries, and bathrooms. Nowadays, it’s all conga lines and Mario courses. Did you know, the invention of the conga line is actually—

  Mary’s hand on my arm issues a static shock and drives Herodotus back into whatever part of my brain he came from. I stand and turn away, frustration burning like a meteorite.

  “What is it?” she asks, steering my elbows so I’m peering into the pale, crescent-shaped pools glimmering in her pupils. Something furry bumps into our legs.

  “French kissing isn’t French,” I reply, leaning over and petting the dog’s head. “And something about…Psyche…Eros. French fries.”

  The corners of Mary’s mouth turn down. “We never get a break, do we?” A log drops in the fire and casts a torrent of embers into the dark. I straighten, and she grabs my elbows and shakes. “We’ll figure this out. I’m not going anywhere.” I meet her gaze. She smiles. “Help me kill the fire. Then we can head up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “All I’m saying is, it makes sense,” says Mary, pacing in the high-ceilinged kitchen and forking another bite of mandarin oranges into her mouth from the plastic cup. “Hello? Earth to Edger?”

  Her redirect opens a lock on my dread.

  “I’m not killing someone,” I reply. “I am not annihilating a soul. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”

  “The entire human race is telling you to do this.”

  “Are they? You heard Bruce. He doesn’t want me to kill anyone.”

  “I don’t want you to either.”

  “Then why are you busting my chops?”

  My face tingles as she forks in another bite of mandarin oranges. How can she eat at a time like this? No, forget it. Best thing is to change the subject.

  “Tell me about the rebels,” I say. “For all we know, they’ve got an ace in the hole for us.”

  She pitches her weight to one side and sets her cup on the kitchen counter. “Okay. Sure. They’ve stayed hidden from Nostradamus. To do that, they must have cloaking tech. They could provide much-needed support, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But unless it rebalances the basic equation, we’re going to be right back where we started. There’s no way around the fact he’s holding all the cards. Sooner or later you’re going to have to address the problem of his immortality.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Edger, I want to believe there’s a way out as much as you do. But the rebels…we’re talking about a couple hundred people, tops.”

  “Before I kissed you into the sixteenth century, you were all about finding the rebels!”

  “That’s when we had no better choices.”

  “Better choices? Annihilating someone’s soul is a better choice?”

  “Fine. Better chance of success, then.”

  “What about my mom? What about your parents? What about—”

  The hair on my head tingles as I reach out through the Collective Unconscious. The harsh kitchen lights mottle and darken. I’m a disembodied camera hovering above a king-size bed in an apartment in La Jolla. Pine’s Place. It’
s after curfew. Gran and Shep are safe in their bed. Does he make them do conga-line potty breaks?

  “Don’t make this about family reunions,” says Mary, and my remote-viewing bubble bursts. “Don’t complicate a straightforward analysis. Billions of our ancestors have analyzed this. We’re talking history’s greatest tacticians, warriors, philosophers, intellectuals… The rebels can’t compete with that. What could they possibly have for us the dead haven’t thought of already?”

  Something cold and wet bops my hand. I look down, and the dog’s snout flips my hand up. Sighing, I squat and stroke her face and ears. Her soulful attention lessens my frustration. “I thought I understood right and wrong,” I say to the dog. “And we need to give you a name.”

  “Wendy. Her name’s Wendy.”

  “Since when?” I ask, standing.

  “Since now.”

  “Okay, then. Hello, Wendy.”

  “Edger, you do understand right and wrong. It’s one of the things I love about you. But you’re wrong about this.”

  “I don’t understand how you, or—or Bruce Lee, speaking as some kind of, I don’t know, dead person spokesperson—can see this as a viable plan. Since getting these powers, I’ve always had the impression our ancestors disapproved of wars and killing and politics and, you know, all the stuff. I thought being dead gave them the wisdom to see a better way. All these thousands of years of being dead, you think they’d come up with an idea for us on how to build a better future. This feels different. It feels…wrong.”

  Mary strokes my arm. “This has never happened before. The stakes are kind of unfathomable.”

  “I know, I know!”

  “Do you?” Her gaze hardens as she lets her arm fall to her side. “He’s immortal. He’s not going anywhere. When his body grows old, he’ll transfer his consciousness again into someone younger. And now children are being born under his control, developing without independent thought. That’s happening right now. Billions are prisoners in Nostradamus’s mind. If we screw this up, no one gets rescued. The human race as we know it is lost forever.”