by David Beem
That’s him? That’s Nostradamus?
“Yes,” she whispers.
His face, though. His face!
I sneak around the back of the Lexus. Nostradamus turns his back to me and sets the gas canister back on the shelf.
Come on, turn around!
A knock comes from the frame of the open garage door, and I startle-fall through the trunk of the car. Climb to my feet. Dust myself off before realizing I can’t get anything on me here.
“Renny,” says a man standing in the open garage door. Nostradamus—no, Renny—looks up from his riding mower. The sunlight dips beneath the brim of his cap, and my face and skin tingle as I get my first glimpse of him. Stubble, flecks of gray. Kind eyes with thick, turned-down eyebrows, like they were built to look innocent. His smile is a thin, wriggling line across his face, going up on one side and charmingly down on the other.
This is the asshole who killed my dad?
The man in the doorway holds up a letter, and Renny’s smile opens up, teeth and everything.
“Boston?” asks Renny.
The man with the letter—his name is Tom—shakes his head. “Notre Dame.”
Renny’s head tilts back. “Oh, man. Did you open it?” He strips off his gloves and crosses to the front of the garage.
“Jill’s not home yet,” Tom says, pulling the letter out of the envelope. “Just don’t tell Marcie. She’ll tell Jill, and next thing, I’m sleeping at your place tonight.”
Renny shakes his head. “Lips are sealed. But I’ll get the bed made just in case. Thanks for sharing this with me, Tom.”
I hate him. I hate him!
Mary’s hand surfs the small of my back. Her forehead pinches with worry. As one, we turn back to the spectacle unfolding.
Tom pauses before opening the letter. “Well. You’ve watched him grow up. You’ve financed his research. You’re like an uncle to him. Hell, you’re like a brother to me.”
The two men share a moment, Renny’s head tilting to one side. Tom grins and snaps the letter open. Renny sidles in next to Tom and reads over his shoulder. Dazed, Mary and I join them.
“Dear Michael,” Tom reads aloud. “The committee has reviewed your application materials, and we are pleased to offer you enrollment in the Bachelor of Computer Science program at the University of Notre Dame!” Tom’s voice hitches at the end as he lowers the letter to accept a high five from Renny. I search Mary’s face, but she’s as dumbfounded as I am.
“Bachelor of Computer Science at Notre Dame,” I say. “That’s my program.”
“2009,” she says. “That’s the year you got your acceptance letter from Notre Dame.”
“Can I be there?” asks Renny. “When you tell him?”
“Oh yeah,” says Tom. “Mikey wouldn’t feel right if you weren’t.”
The name is like a sledgehammer to the gut. Mary processes it instantly, I can sense it, how the pieces are falling into place for her.
“What time do you wanna do it?” asks Renny, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “So I can make sure Marcie’s there too.”
“Yeah, let’s say five.” Tom shakes his head. “Man. Ha! How many people with the last name ‘Dame’ go to Notre Dame, do you figure? I mean…what’re the odds?”
Renny shakes his head too. “‘Our lady,’” he replies. “That’s what it means, you know.”
Tom frowns. “What what means?”
“Notre Dame,” says Renny. “It means ‘our lady.’ It’s Latin. Nostra damus, I think.”
“Huh,” says Tom. “See? You’re a wealth of information, Renny.”
My lungs seem to flatten as I collapse to the dusty garage floor. Mary’s hand is on my back, her other hand on my shoulder, in a reverse of how it was only moments ago, before everything I thought I knew about Mike Dame was turned on its head.
HISTORIC DILDOS AS CHRONICLED BY HERODOTUS (C. 484—C. 425 BCE)
They came from outer space. Not in the carnal nor strictly literal sense, but rather in how they’re hurling from a high altitude at maximum velocity. They’re green, they are on fire, and they’re barreling across the border into Mexican airspace.
Several hundred onlookers track the anomalies’ trajectories at the prick of dawn. They’ve gathered in sweltering heat for reasons they barely understand. On the American side: a cadre of GMC trucks, sedans, and SUVs bedecked in welded sheets of scrap metal. Makeshift tanks, porcupine cars, and other Article 19 violations so flagrant, they’d make a hardened forty-year DMV veteran smash all her Trey Songz LPs. Among this postapocalyptic assemblage sits no fewer than fifteen catapults, each standing twenty feet tall and capable of hurling a Full Clinton of dildos per launch.[13]
On the Mexican side, a crack squadron of seagulls, a pig, and three bedraggled, weary travelers, whose stylings pay homage to their newfound avian patron saints, their hairspray-encrusted locks standing straight up above each ear, their scraggly bangs swooping down over their left eyes. And farther south from these travelers lies yet another anomaly: the Legendary Temple of Cock Block, which looms over the horizon like a magnificent erection.
The telltale whistle of incoming ordnance scatters the birds, the pig, and the three travelers. A Full Clinton of flaming phalluses land with a sloppy clatter on the desert track near where they’d been standing.
“Da fuck is that?!” exclaims the first.
“Fire demon!” exclaims the second.
“That fire demon sure has a lot of dicks?” yells the third.
As one, their gazes turn toward the assemblage on the American side, where the breaking dawn is only beginning to reach the fleet of armored vehicles and catapults. These are not your father’s soldiers of fortune. One might call them a cult, but only to disparage cults. This is the Church of the Ladder Day Dudes.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” cries Wang, and the desert grows still. Pressing a palm against the sore spot in his lower back, he lifts the bangs over his left eye with his other hand. He squints and peers across the border at the glimmering shapes on the far side. He turns and squints the way they came, where a tiny cloud of sand is rising from the horizon.
Zombies.
“Hello?” cries Shmuel, calling toward the Dude encampment.
A tumbleweed rolls past.
A seagull shakes, releasing a thatch of feathers.
The pig snorts.
Wang cups his hands over his mouth. “Hello?”
Consuelo’s head tilts back as he seemingly nods off on his feet. His once-fine Cucinelli dinner jacket, now stained to a nice shade of sand brown, drops to the hardpan. Consuelo startles awake, bends to retrieve the jacket, and drapes it off his finger over his shoulder. Wang scowls, trying to will Consuelo to look at him, but a gust blows in and lifts sand into their faces. Wang raises a shielding arm, and the wind vibrates the hair sticking up over his ears. When the wind ebbs, he thrusts his open palm out toward Shmuel. In response, Shmuel rifles through his messenger bag and produces a can of Aqua Net. Wang snatches it. He sprays over his newly styled locks, and the cloud of chemicals forms a bond strong enough to withstand hurricane-force winds. He coughs, then returns it to Shmuel, who returns it to his bag before leaning into the drifting cloud of hairspray, inhaling, swallowing, and wobbling. One of the seagulls eyes Shmuel sideways and trots to the side.
“…hello?” comes a distant cry. “Who is it?”
Wang straightens. “’Tis I! Grand Poobah, Head Soul Auditor in Chief! Doodiest Among Dudes!”
“And ’tis I?!” yells Shmuel. “Doodiest the Lesser?! Man-Baby Grand Poobah?! Weedmaster in Chief?!”
“And ’tis I,” mutters Consuelo, shifting his dinner jacket from one shoulder to the other. “Man among morons.”
“Shut up,” says Wang.
Wang cranes his neck, straining to catch a response, but the only reply is the whistling wind.
“Maybe Nostradamus got ’em,” offers Consuelo.
“With firepower like that
?” Wang gestures with open hands at the armored vehicles. “Even if we discount the catapults, Danny and Leo have an M242 Bushmaster roof-mounted chain gun, for fuck’s sake! Stole it from a zombified doomsday prepper out in Scripps Ranch before Nostradamus got all the good stuff locked up. We’re ready to rock and roll, baby!”
“Then what do you need dildo catapults for?” asks Consuelo.
“Style points! I want Nostradamus to know the kind of man he’s dealing with.”
“Shooting flaming dildos doesn’t send the message you think it does,” says Consuelo.
“It does, now shut up. I’m trying to think.”
“Maybe we should try the code phrase?” says Shmuel, and Wang claps the heel of his palm against his forehead.
“Of course! The code phrase! What was I thinking?”
“Code phrase?” asks Consuelo. “What code phrase? Just use the walkie-talkies.”
Wang cups his hands around his mouth again. “The situation! Has grown! Desperate!”
He, Shmuel, and Consuelo crane their necks.
“What code phrase?” Consuelo asks again. “Why aren’t we using the walkie-talkies?”
“Shh!” hisses Wang.
“The code phrase,” whispers Shmuel, huddling up with Consuelo. “We say: The situation has grown desperate? And then they say… Um.” He faces Wang. “Hey, what do they say again?”
“Shut,” says Wang, “up.”
“I don’t think that’s it?” replies Shmuel.
“…wha-at?” comes the Dudes’ response.
Wang takes a deep breath, cups his hands. “I said: The situation! Has grown! Desperate!”
“…wha-at?”
“Why aren’t we using the walkie-talkies?” whispers Consuelo.
“I think he likes the code phrases?” replies Shmuel.
“Oh, this is just stupid.” Consuelo breaks away from them and marches for the border.
“No, wait!” calls Wang.
A slap issues from the opposite side, followed by a descending whistle.
“Incoming!” cries Wang, pushing Consuelo out of the way, and their loyal flock of seagulls scatters into the sunrise. Spy Pig squeals as the Full Clinton of flaming dildos land in a barrage of sloppy thuds meters from where they’d been standing.
“What the hell?!” cries Consuelo.
“If they don’t answer ‘desperate times call for dildo catapults,’ they’re instructed to fire on anyone who approaches,” says Wang.
Consuelo stares at him, aghast. “That’s the code? Desperate times call for dildo catapults?”
“What?” asks Wang. “You disagree?”
Consuelo’s bottom lip sticks out consideringly. “This isn’t one of those living-your-best-life things, is it?”
“Do you think it’s possible they’re just fucking with us?” asks Wang, facing Shmuel.
“And waste the Full Clinton?” asks Shmuel. “That’s a lot of fuckage?”
“Over my dead ass,” Wang replies.
“I guess if you’re into that.” Consuelo shrugs. “Maybe the birds’ll help again.”
“Ooh, good idea.” Wang faces the seagulls. “Bird Leader!”
One bird breaks off from the rest, trots up, puffs out her breast.
“I hereby command you to keep those assholes from giving us the Full Clinton!”
Bird Leader tilts her head skeptically.
“Okay, okay. I hereby ask you to please fly over there and keep those assholes from giving us the Full Clinton!” Bird Leader straightens, raises a wing in salute, and lifts off. The other birds follow. Wang peers in the direction of the inbound zombies. The cloud of sand on the horizon is twice as close as before. “We need to hurry. Only the dildos can save us now.” He thrusts out his open hand. “Shmuel. Walkie-talkie.”
Shmuel rifles through his messenger bag, produces a Dora the Explorer walkie-talkie, and passes it to Wang.
“Oh, now we’re using the walkie-talkie?” asks Consuelo.
“Shut up,” snaps Wang. “I’m radioing instructions for Ralph, Danny, and Leo. We’re going to need a bird pen, netting, and a short-range pager to strap to that pig’s ankle.”
Consuelo flings his arms out in a show of exasperation and Wang speaks quietly into the walkie-talkie.
“I don’t wanna know,” mutters Consuelo, shaking his head. “It’s always one dumb plan rolled into another with him. He’s like a nesting doll, but for dumb plans.” Turning to Shmuel, he asks, “Is no one else going to mention the animals’ strange behavior? I’ll do it. Right now. These animals are acting really weird.”
“It’s because they can finally drop the act?” Shmuel replies.
Consuelo frowns. “Drop the act.”
“Yeah, they can finally drop the act?” Shmuel continues. “I think they were smart all along? But now people are mind controlled and stuff, and they don’t have to pretend they’re stupid anymore?”
“So what’s your excuse?” asks Wang, returning the Dora walkie-talkie. Shmuel puts it back in the bag.
“I think Spy Pig is a loyal and trusted companion? And I think he’s earned the right to a name? Instead of you always calling him ‘that pig’?”
Consuelo peers down at the little pig and shrugs. “Dude, this is so the last thing I even care about right now. So, yeah. I’m cool with Spy Pig.”
Wang’s mouth twists to the side. “Fine. Spy Pig it is. Spy Pig, welcome to the A-Team.”
Spy Pig sits back on his haunches, wriggles his butt, and smiles.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Caleb rubs his arms for warmth and scans the trees. A man in desert-themed camouflage peers down at him. The seventh sentry by his count so far. He’s sure there’d been more he didn’t spot, he wishes he knew how many more, but Fabio may as well have thrown in the towel for all the help he’s been since Anna showed up.
“I prefer ‘Tolkiendil’ to ‘Tolkienite,’” says Anna, their conversation pressing back into Caleb’s attention. “I’ve never liked ‘Ringer.’”
Fabio punches the air and skips a few steps. “I know! Ringer totally blows!”
“It sounds like baseball.” Anna laughs. “Or opera.”
“How about ‘Tolkienologist’?” asks Fabio.
“Totally different,” she replies. “Tolkiendil is a general Tolkien fan, but a Tolkienologist is one who learns Elvish languages and other Tolkienist trivia. It’s a different lane of fandom.”
“Which Elvish language do you love more?” asks Fabio. “Quenya or Sindarin?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly choose,” replies Anna, blushing. “Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded vín.”
“Oh, right! Um… Nîr tôl erin baded lîn.”
Anna claps her hands together. “Very good!”
Caleb suppresses a laugh and tunes them out. Ahead, Humvees with heavy artillery are parked in rows. Camo tents farther back. A smattering of tables, some people playing cards, others crisscrossing the camp purposefully. Sunlight pokes holes through the trees. Clark bounds away in his usual erratic route. The lion, coyote, and bobcat follow a more direct path toward what must be the command center. Caleb’s gaze lingers on Mufasa’s rich tan coat and magnificent mane. Anna can tell him until she’s blue in the face he doesn’t need to worry, and it wouldn’t change a thing. It’s a freaking lion.
A woman intercepts Mufasa. Tall, lean, shoulder-length blonde hair. Sidearm at her waist. Mufasa bends his front legs and lowers his head. The woman wraps her arms around his neck. Mufasa licks her face, and she falls on her butt. Mufasa steps to the side, apparently giving her room to get back on her feet.
“Anna,” he says, not taking his eyes off the woman. “Who’s in charge here?”
“Oh, her?” Anna replies, her gaze tracking his. “Don’t worry. She’s expecting us.”
The woman dusts herself off. She grabs Mufasa’s mane and gives him one last tussle before cutting a path to meet them. Two soldiers appear from out of nowhere to flank her. When she reaches them, she holds
her arms out. Caleb puts his shoulders back, but the woman pushes past him.
“Fabio Jimenez,” she says, beaming a smile. “You probably don’t remember me.”
“Mrs. Bonkovich?” asks Fabio.
“Please, call me Sarah.”
“It’s an honor, ma’am,” says Fabio, accepting the hug. “But—remember you? I’m sorry, Mrs. B, uh, Sarah… You’d already, um, died when I met Edge. I mean, we thought you were dead. Jeez. No offense.”
“None taken,” she says.
“You look great for a dead woman!”
Sarah dampens a smile, and Anna elbows Fabio in the ribs.
“What?” says Fabio. “She does.” Fabio shakes his head and turns to face Sarah again. “Edge. Poor guy. I met him in third grade after he’d gone to live with his gran. All he wanted to do at recess was play ‘family,’ you know? I felt sorry for him. I was ‘Brother.’ We kinda had the whole Berenstain Bears thing going on? Yeah. We weren’t exactly popular.” He focuses on Sarah. “Say. You wanna hear something weird, though? You’re exactly the way I imagined you. I mean exactly. But that was, like, what? Eighteen years ago. Isn’t that weird?”
“Yes,” says Sarah. “And no. I am older now.”
“But you look great.” Fabio bobs his head up and down, and Anna slaps his arm.
“You’re being pervy,” she whispers.
“Excuse me,” says Caleb. “I’m Caleb Montana. I—”
“Of course,” says Sarah, turning her smile on him. “And how long have you been working for my son?”
Caleb swallows before answering.
“With, ma’am,” he replies, clearing his throat. “And more your husband than son. But…about six years.”
“My husband.” Her right hand crosses to her left to finger the wedding band. Caleb’s forehead tightens. Does she know he’s dead?
“Ma’am. About Charles Bonkovich—”
“I know,” she says. “It’s one of the two pieces of news from the outside world to reach me.”
“Outside world?” he asks. “No phones? No internet?”
