"Yeah?"
"In the club you guys go to..."
"Yeah?"
"Did they, I mean are they, their fathers --"
Badiel laughed. "Nah. Some, but not most. The girls that hang out there, they just want a taste of the other side." He leaned towards Gil. "And listen, kiddo. They do more than hold hands."
Gil blushed and looked away, his mouth suddenly dry.
"Yeah," Badiel continued. "And more than that. They watch Earth, and get some interesting ideas. Blow your mind."
"Like what?" Gil could hardly hear himself.
"Like kissing. Like touching. And we talk about things that Pops would rather we didn't."
"Like what?" This time, Gil just shaped the words with his mouth, making no sound.
"Like... oh, like evolution."
"We're not supposed to talk about that!"
"Right. They want to keep the whole idea hushed up, because it's a threat to their whole scene. But people talk. It's an idea that kind of floats around, waiting to be noticed. A dirty little secret, but right out there in the open.
"Like when that postman and the barber started hanging out together; everyone noticed, but no one wanted to put a word on it, no one wanted to say what they were doing."
"The postman and the guy at Blissful Cuts? What about them? They're just housemates." Gil suddenly gasped. "You mean they -- they --"
"Yeah, sure. Only no one wants to say anything, 'cause that kind of thing isn't supposed to happen, see? Not with humans, and certainly not with angels! And the same thing with evolution. People aren't supposed to notice, or talk about it."
Gil licked his lips.
The last student scurried into the school as the final bell rang.
"I'm talking freedom," whispered Badiel. "We go where we want, think what we want, do what we want."
"But it's not given to us to be free," said Gil. "We're not humans. We were created to follow, to praise, messengers and witnesses. In school, they told us that --"
"My dad and his friends found that they could do more. They found freedom."
The sun shone, the school sat before them on its manicured grounds, and Gil felt the grass underfoot. But something had changed.
"But they lost," Gil said, "and now look where they are."
"Yeah. The mistake they made was trying to take on Pops directly, trying to replace Him. But even if they had won, it would have been the same old boring scene, just with a new boss. Our rebellion isn't political or military. That's not our scene. So we slip between the cracks."
"I'm not like you. I got to get to school."
Badiel smiled. "Yeah, school. The principal's going to want to talk to you. Then he'll call your parents. And I guess you have classes with your sweetie, too, huh?"
Gil took a step towards school, then looked back at Badiel, his face twisted.
"The trick with school," said Badiel, "is to show up often enough so they don't expel you. Eventually they leave you alone more and more. Then you can do what you want."
"I don't know --"
"The bell's already rung, Gil. Hop on back. I'll give you a ride to your bike."
And Gil hopped on.
"Hey, Gil."
It was Beebee, one of Hathi's friends. She sat at an outside table at the malt shop, with some of her school friends. Gil and the other Rebels were parked on the curb, revving their engines while they drank sodas, occasionally exchanging a straw for a cigarette.
"Hey." It was a hot day, the sun blinding on the cloudtops, but Gil kept his leather jacket on.
Beebee smiled a knowing smile. "What you guys been up to, huh?"
"Beebee!" A redhead friend said, putting a hand on Beebee's arm. "Don't talk to them."
Beebee play-slapped the arm away. "Oh, it doesn't hurt anything, Thelina," she said. "It's just old Gil." She kept smiling.
Gil slouched, resting his forearms on the handlebars. "Not much, Beebee baby," he said. "You looking for a spin?"
"Maybe."
"Beebee!"
"Where you going to take me, Gil? Huh?"
"A place you've never been before, sister. Hell, I might even bring you back again afterwards."
"Did you hear that?" Thelina asked Beebee, careful not to look at the Rebels. "The language! If my father ever found out I even overheard talk like that, he'd just--"
Badiel was on his bike next to Gil. He revved his engine. "Can it, sister. Every cat's gotta find his own style, dig? No one holds down the Rebels. We do what comes naturally."
"'Naturally'!" gasped Thelina. "We were created to serve, not to ... to ... blaspheme!"
"Maybe you were created, sis," said Badiel. "The Rebels, we figure we crawled out of the muck, like the people down there."
"And some, like Badiel, ain't crawled too far out of that muck," another Rebel said, laughing.
"Evolution!" Thelina looked around the table for support. "You heard him! He's talking about evolution! Like animals!" Now even Beebee was shifting in her seat, averting her gaze.
"Hey, guys," said a quiet voice. It was Hathi, carrying a burger and a soda towards the table. The breeze pressed a strand of hair against her cheek. Gil's breath caught in his throat.
"We're just leaving, Hathi," said Beebee, gathering up her purse.
"Don't go, cats!" said Badiel. "We'll be extra good, I promise."
"Hathi?" Beebee tugged on Hathi's arm, but Hathi, her food forgotten in her hands, just looked at Gil. Gil smirked at her.
"Hathi, come on," said Thelina.
Hathi, as if sleepwalking, put her food down on the table. "You guys go on ahead," she said. "I'll catch up with you later."
"Why--!" And then even Thelina was speechless. She tugged Beebee away with her. Beebee managed glance behind her, her eyes wide on Gil and Badiel, her mouth open.
"Hey, cats," said Badiel to the other bikers. "Let's hit the road. We're cramping Gil's style."
By the time, Gil registered the words and thought to protest, Badiel and the others were roaring off down the street.
Gil and Hathi were silent for a moment. He scowled down at his handlebars, and she looked at him and then away, then back at him, like a moth to a nightlight.
"How've you been, Gil?" she finally said.
"Cool. Real cool." Now Gil scowled into the sky.
Hathi licked her lips.
"You sure look different," she said. "Your hair. Those clothes. You have a new, I don't know. Confidence. My lord, I hardly believe--"
"'My lord,' Hathi? Pops is dead, sister. Maybe you didn't hear."
"Oh, Gil, to hear you talk like that--!" she laid a finger on the handlebar of his bike.
"If it bums you out, just clear out." He kept his gaze on the sky.
"No, it's not that..."
"Humpf."
"Oh, Gil!" Suddenly Hathi was on her knees before him as he sat on his bike. "Take me back! That Dori, he would never dream of -- I mean, Gil, just take me with you! I want to wear leather, and smoke, and swear, and take drugs and talk about evolution!"
Now Gil looked at her.
The words "Hell with you, sister!" were on his lips. "Hathi?" he said instead.
"Gil."
"I don't believe I'm hearing you talk like that."
"Gil, we girls, we want to rebel, too! Even more than the guys, I think sometimes. Guys always have more things they can do, while we girls -- Oh, Gil! I was looking for a way to break out, you know?" She lay a hand on Gil's thigh, another on the tire. "This is what I need, Gil!"
Gil started his bike with one clean kick.
"Hop on, Hathi," he said, his voice gentle, almost amused. "Let's go have some fun."
THE END.
Tim McDaniel teaches English as a Second Language at Green River College, not far from Seattle. His short stories, mostly comedic, have appeared in a number of SF/F magazines, including F&SF and Asimov's. He lives with his wife, dog, and cat, and his collection of plastic dinosaurs is the envy of all who encounter it His author page at Amazon.com is https:/
/www.amazon.com/author/tim-mcdaniel
THE TINDER BOX APP by Garth Pettersen
(With apologies to Hans Christian Andersen)
It had been only two weeks since Sergeant Napoleon Bonappetit had received his discharge from the U.S. Marines and the transition was hell. It was as if he were some alien being from another time and place left stranded on a planet full of boring and benign creatures that for some reason resembled him. Two arms, two legs, two eyes, two ears--sure they looked like the real thing, but it was all a freak show. His kind--his buddies, he'd left back in Iraq. If that whole scene hadn't got so weird, he'd still be there instead of here, which was weirder still.
And that's probably what gave him the idea--the freak show--of revisiting the old carnival. His Harley 850, stored in his aunt's garage, had only needed a battery charge and some fresh gas to put him back on the road. So there he was speeding down the 401 in the purple light of sundown, the wind caressing his military hair stubs like a long-fingered lover, and making his eyes water as if his heart were broken.
Maybe that old carnival isn't even there any more, he wondered as the green exit signs flashed by. Finally, one said BLAKEMORE, and he steered off.
There was not much traffic. Only the odd car passed him, heading the other way. Wrong time of year. Carnival season's over.
The remnants of the old carnival sat dilapidated in a back corner of the town's fairgrounds, illuminated only by the crescent moon. He stopped his Hog outside the chain link fence, and turned off the engine.
Like everything else, this place has gone to shit.
Some of the old rides stood faded and immobile, as if frozen in time. Like Sleeping Beauty's fuckin' castle. The thought made him smile. This place hasn't been operational in years. Ripped canvas flapped in the gathering breeze over sideshow pavilions, and farther on the shape of a two-storey building provided background. And there, Napoleon could see a dim light.
Veteran of too many night watches, he couldn't let that one go. Wishing for a night vision scope, he pulled the Harley onto its kickstand, swung his leg off the bike, and pocketed the keys. A truck-sized gate broke the monotony of the chain link. Though seemingly secured, the padlock hung open. Napoleon removed the chain and forced the gate inward enough to enter.
To avoid the crunch of gravel beneath his feet, Napoleon moved off the roadway and automatically dropped to a crouch as he advanced. To his annoyance, twice he disturbed the silence by kicking rusted cans and stepping on old tin siding. Enough to get you killed in Iraq. He skirted past the aged carousel, the tilting Ferris wheel, and the staging area of the roller coaster. The light in the House of Horrors shone brighter now, and he saw the flickering glow came from a small window, nearly covered by the face of Frankenstein's monster on the façade, the light seeming to shine through the creature's left eye.
He quietly pushed through the beaded curtain that served as an entrance. The beads rattled, betraying him. He could just make out a hallway, but his hands found a panel missing to his left and through it a space with a stairway. At the top, a slash of light announced the bottom edge of a closed door. The stairs creaked as he ascended. Of course they do, he thought with a grin--it's a House of Horrors.
On reaching the landing, his fingers lightly felt for the doorknob. The moment his hand found it, a voice came from within.
"Enter if you will."
Whether it belonged to man or woman he knew not, but the voice startled him and he hesitated.
"What are you waiting for--the Solstice?" the voice asked, its tones sharp-edged.
Unused to hesitation, Napoleon turned the knob and pushed the door open. Like the stairs, the door creaked.
The brilliance from countless candles immediately consumed his attention. They were placed all over the floor and the furniture, which was as sparse as the candles were plentiful. The only spaces not taken up by tallow were occupied by a large pentacle drawn on the floor, and by a thick-bodied, be-robed woman with long grey hair who sat cross-legged before it.
"Do come in. I was hoping tonight was the night," the crone said. Her words would have sounded welcoming spoken by another, but this woman freeze-dried her syllables.
Napoleon noticed the depth and smallness of her eyes, which reflected the light like two deep-set rubies, and the rough texture of her pockmarked skin, somewhat akin to the hide of an iguana.
Finding his voice, Napoleon asked, "What is all this? And what do you mean you hoped tonight was the night? Do I know you?"
"I might ask what you are doing here. Trespassing, it would seem. As for myself and all this--" and she swept her arm, indicating the candles and the pentacle,"--this is how I…seek inner planes. The woman smiled, revealing crowded, but surprisingly white teeth. "As for hoping you might call…if not you, then someone else. No, you do not know me, but you'll do."
"I'll do for what? If it's for some ritual hocus-pocus, you got the wrong soldier." Napoleon could take looks of hatred from Iraqi insurgents or villagers, but the Wiccan woman unsettled him.
"Do you see that ladder?" she asked, pointing to a framework attached to the wall and leading down through a square opening in the corner.
He nodded.
"I am not as spry as I once was and I'm hoping you will fetch something I've lost."
"Go on," he said.
"Take that ladder all the way down."
"And why should I do anything for you?"
"Oh, you will be well paid," she said.
"How will I find my way? Do you have a flashlight?"
"Don't worry, I will turn the lights on for you. At the bottom, you will find a room with chests filled with Canadian loonies. But these are guarded by a Rottweiler with eyes as large as sand dollars. The dog will not harm you if take my shawl and throw it over the creature's head. You may take as many coins as you wish."
The old bird's fallen out of her nest. "This is crazy," Napoleon told her.
"Nevertheless, you will find it true," she replied. "Remove the shawl as you move on to the next room. Here you will find chests filled with euros. Take as many as you wish, but the Rottweiler who guards this treasure has eyes as big as hubcaps. Again, throw my shawl over its head.
In the third room there will be chests filled with American greenbacks. The guard dog in this room has eyes as big as tractor tires. Use my shawl once again. Then in the last room, you will find my cell phone. I would have you bring it back to me. All else you can carry is yours."
Napoleon thought before speaking and decided to humor the crone. Dementia is a sad thing.
"Alright. Let's have the shawl," he said.
The witch removed a large piece of purple fabric from her shoulders and tossed it to him. He snatched it from the air and examined it. It was decorated with a large gold pentacle surrounded by smaller golden symbols: spiral, spider web, and key. Napoleon wound it rope-like and tied it round his neck. The shawl gave off an aroma reminiscent of lavender and moss. He stepped over candle flames and ascended the first ladder.
Napoleon expected a dog attack before he could step from the ladder, but the long climb down ended in an empty room illuminated by candles. The wall opposite him contained a large sliding door. He crossed to it, gripped the handle, and pulled. The door slid open with a dry squeal.
Napoleon heard the snarling a split second before he saw the Rottweiler. It was as the Wiccan woman had described--a very large dog perched upon a chest--but though the beast acted like its breed, it was different in one important way--the creature was made of highly polished brass.
"A bloody robot!" Napoleon said. And seeing the metallic creation preparing to lunge, the soldier untied the shawl from around his neck. The dog launched itself from the chest, but before it could sink its metal teeth into Napoleon's throat, he whipped the witch's shawl over the brass beast's head and stepped aside. The robotic dog hit the floor with a clang and the soldier fell upon it, pinning its head and shoulders to the deck. His fingers found a kill switch on the dog's side and pressed it.
Instantly all sound and movement ceased. Napoleon's mind replayed a similar take down of an Iraqi soldier. He recalled the smell of the man and the taste of the dust. He had dispatched that opponent just as quickly, but then he had used a knife.
Rising to his feet, Napoleon removed the fabric and examined the dog. "Nice piece of engineering," he muttered.
The chests proved to be unlocked and raising the lid of one, Napoleon saw they were indeed filled with coins. He examined one in the candlelight-- the face of the English Queen on one side and a loon on the other. "Canadian one dollar coin. Canadians have their own currency? Interesting." He filled his pockets with coins.
Before proceeding to the next door, Napoleon retraced his steps to the machine room and armed himself with a large pipe wrench.
The door to the second room swung inward on hinges. Napoleon entered ready to do battle. He held the wrench in the middle as one would hold a torch, and the shawl hung loose from the same hand.
This robotic dog loomed over him ominously, with eyes certainly as large as hubcaps. Between its rows of lathe-sharpened teeth, lightweight oil slathered. Its metal-plated flanks flashed in the candlelight like polished silver.
Napoleon's first few shuffling steps acted to confuse the monster. As the huge horror readied itself to pounce, Napoleon waved the shawl as a distraction. The dog's computerized eyes focused upon it and the enormous jaws opened wider. It launched itself with all the force of a Ram truck and clamped down on the shawl and wrench. But Napoleon stepped into the attack and drove the upright pipe wrench into the back of the robotic Rotter's throat, wedging its jaws open. Pulling his hand free, the soldier slipped past the beast's flailing head and karate-kicked the off switch.
The eye-lights flickered out and the massive metal monstrosity dropped to the floor like a naughty puppy.
"Bad dog," Napoleon told the tin can carcass as he approached one of the chests. Raising the lid, he beheld coins and paper notes. "So these are euros," he said viewing the images of European architecture. He emptied his pockets of the loonies and stuffed them with wads of the new currency.
"I'm starting to enjoy this op," he said to himself as he headed on to the next door. Empowered by his two successes he flung it open. And stopped.
9 Tales From Elsewhere 12 Page 8
