"Help me up," he said as he reached out to her. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the excruciating twist. As Maura pulled him to his feet, the dull throb exploded into a pain that painted a brilliant display of fireworks on the inside of his eyelids and sucked the wind from his lungs. When it was finally over, he stood next to the day bed, resting a hand on its tarnished brass headboard in an effort to protect the crippled leg.
He waited for his vision to clear before taking the cane Maura held out to him. He thought about the bottle of pills in the cabinet next to the booze, his stash reserved for the really bad days but then remembered why Maura had come for him. No, he wanted a clear mind today. He didn't want to miss a single detail.
"How did the ticket sales go?"
"We broke our record for the third time in a row," Maura replied.
"Good," P. T. replied. The news lessened the pain. "Let's go bleed the suckers." The famous line of his namesake came to mind: "A sucker is born every minute." Thank God for that. It was about the only thing that made his life bearable.
Maura did not move.
"What is it?"
She hesitated before answering. "Claudia is here."
"Oh." P. T. was momentarily lost for words. "You sold her a ticket, didn't you?"
"Of course not. She's been a friend of yours since before I was born."
"We've known each other for that long," P. T. corrected her, then decided it wasn't worth arguing about. "Okay, never mind. Anything else?"
Maura squared her shoulders and fixed her dark eyes on his. Before she spoke, he braced himself again.
"I've decided to go with her at the end of the show today."
He stared back at her, consciously keeping his jaw muscles relaxed so as to not give away the effect her words had on him.
"O . . . kay," he finally replied. "Can we go now?" He leaned more heavily on the cane, preparing to take the first step towards the door.
"There is one other thing."
He stopped, the impatience and anger tightening the spring in his neck. He remembered the jack-in-the-box someone had given Maura as a child. Had it been Claudia? He often felt like the toy when he was around Maura. One more turn of the crank and the song would be done, the taut spring would snap and his head would flip off his shoulder and bounce around the room.
"I spoke to the bugbats."
"You what?! After all the times I've told you to stay away from them. How dare you defy me, young lady? I won't stand for it, you hear? I won't stand for it. Stay away from them."
He took a menacing step towards her with his good leg. One corner of her mouth twitched slightly but otherwise, she didn't flinch.
"They speak English," she continued in a calm voice. "They're the first ones out of fifteen pairs that have come to us who know how to speak our language."
It took P. T. only a second to figure out what her statement meant.
"So you've been defying my orders from the very beginning, is that right? Been trying to talk to them from the very start, despite what I told you."
"Father, that's not the point."
"It is too the point." He fought to maintain control. Why would she not understand how dangerous aliens were? Couldn't she see what they'd done to him? Left him a mere shell of a man, with even less of a family.
"How many times have I told you? You can't trust them. They're dangerous. Look around you. They've just about destroyed Earth. Your precious ocean out there that you're so hot to run off and study is still too warm to support much life. They don't think like us, they don't share the same emotions. They're . . . they're . . ." He twisted away from her, ignoring the searing pain in his hip, considered smacking the daybed with his cane for effect, then thought better of it. What did it matter? She'd never understand.
"They're not like us," he finished, suddenly too tired to fight.
"How do you know what they're like?" Maura asked. "You haven't been near an alien in almost twelve years. The angels . . . I mean bugbats, are different. They're not like the ones you remember.
"Do you know what they told me, Father?" Maura circled around in front of him, her face aglow with excitement. "They told me they mate for life. This pair has been together for almost a hundred and fifty years. Isn't that incredible?"
"And you believed them, right? What else did they tell you? Did they tell you to run off to the oceanographic institute with Claudia? Is that where you got that lamebrain idea? What else did they say?"
Maura opened her mouth but before she could speak, a middle-aged lady with graying hair and weathered complexion stuck her head in from the front porch. "Is this a family squabble or can anyone join in?"
Claudia had aged considerably in the three years since P. T. had last seen her but her tongue was as sharp as ever. He glared at his daughter, wondering how she had become so skilled at winding his crank with her words.
"Go on, finish collecting the tickets. I don't want any freebies out there. No tickee, no showee. You understand?" His eyes flickered to Claudia who promptly held up a five-dollar bill.
"I can see it on your tombstone. 'Here lies P. T. Wolverine -- Undaunted to the end. Undaunted asshole,' that is."
He waved the two of them away with his cane. "Get out. I'll be there in a minute."
When he was finally alone, he hobbled over to the medicine cabinet and pulled out the half-empty pint of bourbon. He poured himself a full jigger, drained it then poured another. Good riddance to her, he thought as downed the second one. He'd be better off without her, just as he had been when Evelyn had disappeared to save the world from the aliens. Life with women was too damn complicated. Who needed it?
He stuck the bottle of pills into his pants pocket, grabbed a pair of binoculars off the coat rack, slung them over his shoulder and limped to the front door.
Show time, he thought as he flung the screen door open. It slammed against the outside of the cabin and would have smacked him in the face except for his quickly deflecting it with the cane. Time to watch the bugbats die.
He dragged himself through the crowd, the metal shield of his right shoe stirring up a cloud of dust as it dug a shallow trench in the sun baked soil. The crowd, larger than any of the previous fourteen spectacles, split apart several yards in front of him. Everyone knew to keep their distance from P. T. on show days.
He paused at the foot of the ramp that led to the observation deck of Tracking Tower 404, craned his head back, groaning under his breath as the taut muscles of his neck resisted the movement. He stared at the top of the parabolic cone 200 feet above him. The tower was well highlighted by the slate gray background of a dense cloud cover. Perfect conditions for a spectacular show, P. T. thought.
The base of the tower was built into the shear rock face of one of the highest cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. An observation deck jutted out from the cliff about thirty feet from the base of the tower, making an ideal spot to view the show. Only paying customers earned a choice spot on the deck. As P. T. started up the ramp of the deck, he looked from side to side to be sure everyone he passed wore the circular day-glo orange patch that served as their ticket. Apparently, Maura had taken his warning seriously. No freeloading bums today.
The tower had been part of an early warning system designed to detect low flying missiles that frequently strayed off course from the two alien armies that had used Earth for their battles. The towers had functioned fairly successfully in the early days of the war when most of the fighting had remained out at sea before the war escalated to include the entire planet.
Maura joined him at the top of the ramp, falling easily in step beside him. He leaned towards her to make it easier for her to hear his orders over the chatter of the crowd.
"You take the left side when the gambling starts and I'll take the right. You've got to move quickly. Half of our profit is made or lost in those ten minutes."
"I'll be a money-grabbing mamma," Maura replied. He couldn't be sure whether she was joking or being sarcastic. "I'l
l make you proud."
"Where are the bugbats?" he asked, deciding to ignore her snide comments.
She pointed ahead and to his right where the crowd was the thickest. He prodded a couple of people with his cane to wake them up and pushed his way through the crowd with Maura following in his wake. As he neared the knot of people, the crowd split and before him stood the bugbats.
An involuntary shudder danced up and down his back, made worse by the strong musk smell that polluted the ocean breeze. Momentarily shocked to see how far the melding had progressed, he remembered the argument that had delayed him.
The female, about four feet tall, stood in front, her fur-tuft leathery wings spread to either side. Just behind her with his face resting on the top of her head, stood her taller mate, mimicking her pose. Already the two bodies blended so well together as to look at first glance to be a four-eyed bugbat, but P. T. knew the upper two orbs were all that remained of the male's facial features. Soon it would be almost impossible to tell where the female stopped and the male began. When the melding was complete, the real show would begin.
"Where's the . . .?" but before he could finish the question, Maura handed him the bullhorn. "Get ready. I'm opening the betting windows a few minutes early to accommodate the crowds."
"You're so thoughtful." Maura turned her attention to the crowd before he could think of a retort.
He normally waited for the bugbats to finish melding before taking bets but he recognized most of the faces on the deck today and knew they were familiar with the game.
He lifted the bullhorn to his mouth and flipped the switch. He tapped the bell of the horn to be sure it was on and was rewarded with ear piercing feedback. He flipped the switch off, then back on.
"Listen up, folks." P. T. waited for the crowd to quiet down before continuing. "In a couple of minutes this pair of bugbats will provide you with quite a show. It'll be even more entertaining if you have a little something at stake. So, place your bets, folks -- sea or sky. That's your choices. Sea or sky."
He bent down to Maura and whispered in her ear. "What's it going to be?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't feel like playing today."
"Come on, this will be the last time you'll be here. What's it going to be?"
She pondered the question for a moment as she studied the bugbats. She gazed into the sky and finally said, "They're definitely sky."
"Okay, I'll take sea." The game was always the same. Maura always picked sky, which was fine. He never really lost. If Maura was right, then the next time a pair of bugbats arrived on the scene, the crowd was sure to be larger. Besides, either way he enjoyed the distinct pleasure of watching two more aliens destroy themselves. In this game, he never lost.
The only problem, he could never predict when or from where the bugbats would come, although lately they'd been showing up at his place more frequently. He'd been told some of them came from the north, up around the Seattle Spaceport. Others were rumored to have traveled from as far south as the L. A. site. P. T. had never bothered trying to find out. It didn't much matter to him where they came from as long as they kept showing up on his doorstep to entertain the growing crowds.
Within moments, people waved fistfuls of money in his direction. P. T. pulled out his hand-held computer and watched as Maura followed his lead. The two computers were outdated models but still the most expensive items P. T. owned. Maura, moving to her station, disappeared in the crowd and P. T. turned his attention to the waving arms in front of him.
He grabbed the money, counted it quickly, then stuffed it down his shirt, punching in the amount, the ID number on the person's badge and which way they were betting. It didn't really matter to him what bet they made. The house received a straight 20% off the top and the betting was always close to even. He waded through the sea of gamblers, plucking only the thickest wads of bills. He had discriminating taste, well polished by the other fourteen episodes.
For a moment, the bugbats were forgotten as people clamored to place their bets. Suddenly, someone shouted, “They're moving."
Everyone turned their attention back to the bugbats, who had folded their wings against their bodies and were slowly waddling down the ramp towards the base of the tower. As soon as they reached the tower, the two bugbats, which could hardly be distinguished from each other by this time, started climbing up the rungs of the ladder that had been used to service the parabolic disc in years past.
As soon as they were above the height of the crowd, the flurry of gambling picked up and for the next ten minutes, P. T. and Maura had their hands full collecting as many bets as possible.
Finally, someone who had already placed his bet, shouted, “They're almost at the top."
Immediately, P. T. waved one arm over his head and shouted through the bullhorn, "The betting windows are now closed."
He glanced around, looking for Maura. He found her near the end of the observation deck leaning on a wooden box. From the box she removed a large burlap bag. From the bag, she pulled cheap pairs of binoculars which people grabbed as fast as she could pull them out. P. T. rented them for fifty bucks. Reasonable, he thought when you considered what they added to the show, even if most people didn't keep the glasses for more than half an hour.
As he watched his daughter, he felt a pull in his chest, as though a cord was being stretched to its limit. What would show days be without her, he wondered. Sure will cut into my profits if I don't find someone to replace her, he thought. Even so, whoever he found would probably steal him blind.
He pulled his own binoculars from their worn case and stuffed the case with the bets he had jammed down his shirt. He then trained the glasses on the bugbats as they neared the top of the tower. A hush fell over the crowd as everyone stared skyward. P. T. pushed through the crowd to the edge of the observation deck so he could get a clear view of what was about to happen.
Reaching the top of the cone, the bugbats climbed onto its surface, grasping its rim tightly with their birdlike claws. As they spread their wings, the crowd gasped as the ocean breeze threatened to blow the bugbats off the cone and into the crowd but the bugbats made the necessary adjustment to regain their balance.
P. T. wondered for at least the tenth time what the view must be like from the top of the tower, particularly looking straight down at the waves as they crashed among the rocks, spewing spray twenty feet into the air. I'll never know, he thought, and that's just fine by me. Let the crazy bugbats enjoy the view. He preferred staying closer to earth and watching them in their final moment of glory.
He placed the bullhorn against his lips and flipped the switch. "Watch closely, folks. It won't be long now." The crowd pressed forward growing suddenly quiet. Only the distant sound of the breakers far below disturbed the silence.
Their melding was so complete that even with the magnification of the binoculars, it was almost impossible to differentiate where the female stopped and the male began. They stood as one, wings outstretched, balanced precariously on the edge of the cone, wavering back and forth in the breeze. There was no way to predict for how long they would hold that pose. Some of the previous pairs had remained in such a position for only a few seconds, others for as long as five minutes, a few, almost half an hour.
P. T. preferred the shows that lasted for about five minutes. After about five minutes the crowd's attention wandered and many of them grew restless. The shorter shows didn't allow for quite enough buildup. P. T. imagined a drum roll and wondered if maybe he couldn't find an old drum or at least a recording of one. It would be a nice touch, he thought.
Two minutes, and still the bugbats held their position. At the three-minute mark, it appeared that they had leaned just a few degrees too far forward to recover themselves. The crowd gasped, then a gust of wind brought them back into balance.
Four and a half minutes. Any time now, P. T. thought. Make it a good show for us, buggies. Go out in style. As though on cue, the bugbats leaned forward further — then further s
till.
"There they go!" Someone in the crowd shouted. Others screamed as the aliens fell end over end, their wings flapping ineffectually through the air. The crowd gasped as one.
Bugbats didn't know how to fly in their melded state. That little fact is what made the show so interesting. They had only a matter of seconds to relearn flight or be dashed upon the rocks, their lifeless bodies washed out to sea by the churning currents. So far, six pairs of bugbats had turned the rocks and surrounding waters a brilliant fluorescent green as their blood mixed with the swirling tides. An interesting show, in and of itself, but nothing compared to the ones who mastered flying.
"Fly, you bug-eyed monsters, fly,” P. T. ordered under his breath, realizing as he did so, he was once again wishing against the bet he had placed with Maura. The bet really didn't matter, even if it was for fifty bucks. Hell, as hard as Maura worked during the show, she deserved the money, bet or no bet. Besides, P. T. loved the spectacle that followed a successful flying lesson.
Would these two make it? Come on assholes, you've been together a hundred and fifty years. You ought to be able to figure out how to fly together. Come on.
With less than seventy feet to go, the random flapping of the wings suddenly changed to a coordinated effort. With forty feet between them and the rocks, the bugbats had learned how to control their tumbling and slowed their descent considerably. They're going to make it, he thought. Yes, they're going to make it.
The crowd cheered them on. Everyone, no matter what their bets had been, wanted to see the bugbats fly. With less than ten feet to spare, they leveled out, skimming along the water's surface like one of the alien missiles of over a decade ago. Then, abruptly, they soared towards the midday sun that just barely shone through the thinning cloud cover.
The crowd gasped and cheered. "There they go,” P. T. shouted through the bullhorn. "Watch closely. Here it comes." But the noise of the crowd drowned him out.
Hunt Along the Iron River and Other Timeless Tales Page 7
