Intuition: The Premonition Series

by Amy A. Bartol

  “Y’all didn’t do any of those things, Red,” I say, watchin’ her duck her head and look away from me. “I’m serious. Y’all haven’t done this to me.”

  “Then who did it, Russell?” she whispers so low I can barely hear her.

  “Hey, that’s Henry to you, Lillian,” I reply, ignorin’ her scowl. “Red, this is somethin’ that was meant to be long before I met ya at Crestwood. Ya think ya did this?” I ask her, lookin’ at her and seein’ her nod. “Well, then, yer stupid and arrogant,” I reply.

  “Thanks a lot, Hank, I feel so much better now,” she mutters.

  “Naw, ya are. If ya think yer capable of doin’ all this alone, without the help of Heaven, then yer foolish. This is meant. I feel it. I have a mission here, and like it or not, it involves ya. I have no idea yet what we’re supposed to be doin’, but I’m sure it’s gonna be comin’, whether we want to deal with it or not and it’s gonna be messy, and ugly, and painful,” I say, lookin’ at her like she is the child and I’m the adult. I am the adult. I’m thousands of years old, and unlike her, I remember every one of them.

  “Our only mission, Hank, is to survive long enough to see tomorrow. Then tomorrow, our mission will be to survive until the next day. One day at a time,” she says pessimistically.

  “Okay, you go on thinkin’ that and see where ya get,” I reply unsympathetically “Meanwhile, I’ll be lookin’ out for the signs that are comin’.”

  “Do you need a crystal ball for that? I could pick one up for you,” she says with sarcasm.

  “Naw, I just need ya. That’s it,” I reply easily.

  “So you’ll go to school then?” she asks me in a rhetorical way.

  “We’ll see,” I reply, not givin’ in to her bossy attitude.

  “I’m going to work on you until you agree,” she says, like she’s tellin’ me somethin’ I don’t already know.

  “Yes. I know,” I reply, ignorin’ her again. She is torn up inside. Raw, I think as she sits quietly, watchin’ the scenery goin’ by outside. She looks so sad that I have a feelin’ I’m gonna be promisin’ her anythin’ in a little while just to see if I can ease some of her pain.

  Dusk is upon us when we pull into Mackinaw City. I can hardly stand when the bus comes to a stop at the depot. I put my hand out to Red to help her out into the aisle, and then I take our bags and place my hand on the small of her back as we walk off the bus. I’m so relieved to be off that hunk of metal I can shout it to the world. But, lookin’ at Red, she looks ill.

  Watchin’ in shock, Red bolts from the depot, runnin’ in a fraction of a second ‘round the corner of the buildin’. I spring forward, tryin’ to follow her, panickin’ as I wonder what is happenin’. When I round the corner, I find her clutchin’ a garbage can and heavin’, but since she hasn’t eaten anythin’ today, she isn’t throwin’ anythin’ up. After a while she stops and uses the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

  “I have to go back, Russell,” she whispers to me when she can speak. “I can’t feel him anymore,” she says, clutchin’ her stomach like it aches. “He’s going to think I betrayed him. I have to go back,” she says again, and her whole body is shakin’ like a true junkie.

  “Y’all didn’t betray him and he won’t think that ya did. He’ll know why y’all did it. I left him the paper ya used to convince me to come with ya. He’ll know. He’ll see,” I whisper back.

  She groans again and heaves some more with the same result, except this time, her hands crush the sides of the metal garbage can where she is holdin’ on to it. I look ‘round to make sure no one is nearby to witness it, not like I can do anythin’ to stop her. “He is probably way past panic by now. What is he going to do when he can’t find me?” she asks, starin’ at me with wild eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I say, wantin’ to help her, but not knowin’ how. “But at least, if that Pagan shows up, y’all won’t be there to make him a traitor. They’ll see that he isn’t helpin’ ya and he’ll be safe.”

  She nods then, standin’ up a little straighter. “We don’t stand a chance, Russell,” she whispers to me, lookin’ grim.

  “My name’s Henry and I say we do. You are one huge ass kicker, Red, and when I get my wings, I’m gonna make sure every fallen angel I meet ceases to be. Now, straighten up and let’s go before we attract unwanted attention,” I order, takin’ charge. She’s a mess and the sooner I can get her to the car the better. Takin’ her by the elbow, I ask, “What are we lookin’ for?”

  She reaches into her backpack then, pullin’ out an orange locker key. I locate the locker and when I open it, there are two sets of keys inside and a letter. I take the keys and hand the letter to Red. She reads the letter, and then looks up and says, “Jeep Cherokee Sport, four-door, white.”

  “Sweet,” I say, and mean it. I was afraid I was gonna have to cram my body into some little hatchback, and after gettin’ out of that bus, a Jeep Cherokee sounds like a little slice of Heaven. “We’ll have to send Ryan a fruit basket.”

  I nudge Red toward the parkin’ lot and we locate the Jeep with little trouble. I open the passenger door for her and help her in the car before roundin’ the car and gettin’ in the driver’s side. I start the engine and let the car warm up while lookin’ at Red. It’s decision time again. I know this is one of the weakest moments she’s ever gonna have, but we have to discuss whether to press on or turn back. We have to do this together, or not at all.

  “Who are we, Red?” I ask her, lookin’ straight out the windshield.

  “What?” she asks, like she is numb.

  “Are we Evie and Russell? Or, are we Lillian and Henry?” I ask in a gentle tone. I wait for her to respond, watchin’ as people walk by the car, laughin’ in their happy human existences.

  “We’re both,” she says in a monotone voice.

  “No, we’re not. We’re one, or we’re the other,” I say patiently. “So you decide now, so I’ll know which way to head, north or south.”

  She is quiet for so long I begin to think that she is incapable of answerin’ me. “I’m Lillian Lucas and you are Henry Grant,” she says stiffly, and there is so much sorrow in her words she is almost chokin’ on them.

  “Okay then,” I exhale deeply, puttin’ the car in reverse and backin’ out of the parkin’ space before headin’ out to the highway. I turn north and we are immediately crossin’ the huge Mackinaw Bridge that connects the Lower Peninsula of Michigan with the Upper Peninsula. It’s mad cool and I can’t stop myself from askin’, “What Lake is this we’re drivin’ over?”

  “It’s Lake Michigan,” she murmurs as we both marvel at the majesty of the suspension bridge that seems to float in the sky above the beautiful blue water below us.

  “Yeah? Well, it is beautiful. I can’t wait to see Lake Superior. Is the swimmin’ good?” I ask and see her lips twitch in an almost smile.

  “Yeah.” she says. “If you enjoy being a Popsicle.”

  “It’s cold then?” my brow arches as I smile.

  “Cold is an understatement. You’ll need angel skin to enjoy it if you try to swim now. Lake Huron is warmer,” she says informatively. Payin’ the toll on the other side of the bridge, I follow the signs west toward Escanaba. We plan to continue to head west toward Iron Mountain and from there we will travel north to Houghton.

  We drive for a while on a two-lane road that winds through a few touristy small towns, and then all of a sudden, the road opens up near the water and the sun is settin’ on Lake Michigan. I can almost believe that I am lookin’ at an ocean instead of a lake. It is pristine; the sand is almost white as the beach spreads out before us with wild tumbled stones spikin’ through the breakers, lookin’ as empty as the day it was created. Not a soul is roamin’ ‘round near it. I can’t believe that there aren’t mobs of people out there enjoyin’ its beauty. “Where are all the people, Red?” I ask her, stunned.

  “People don’t know,” she says, lookin’ at the water. “It’s so wild, untamed. I expect most peop
le like their water warmer and a little more to do—more tourist stuff.”

  “Yeah. People are crazy,” I reply, watchin’ the water on and off until it disappears behind thick pine trees. As we drive on, I become aware of the fact that we haven’t eaten at all since breakfast. “You hungry?” I ask. She shakes her head no. “I keep seein’ these signs for pasties. Do you know what they are?” I ask.

  She smiles a little, and then says, “It’s meat and potatoes wrapped up in a dough and baked in an oven. There are different kinds. You can get them with cheese and vegetables in them too, but they’re traditionally meat and potatoes.”

  “That sounds good. Let’s stop and get some. I’m starvin’,” I say.

  I pull over at a small cinderblock buildin’ whose sign says, “Fresh Pasties.” We both come in to use the bathroom, but then Red heads right back out to the car as I order several kinds to go. The girl behind the counter is chatty and keeps askin’ me where I am from because of my accent. I tell her I’m from Alabama, even though I don’t sound a thing like someone from Alabama. She can’t tell ‘cuz we all sound the same to her. Takin’ the food back out to the car, I get in and hand Red a pasty that is wrapped in tin foil and a bottle of water. She takes it from me, but doesn’t look like she is gonna eat it.

  I sigh heavily, not wantin’ to have this conversation now, but resolvin’ to get it out of the way, I say, “Y’all have to eat, Red. I’m sorry it’s not oatmeal, but it’s the best I can do for now.”

  “I’m not hungry, Hank,” she murmurs.

  “Well, pretend that ya are and get it down ‘cuz I need ya and I can’t have y’all starvin’ yerself ‘cuz yer sad. I hate to admit it, but yer stronger than me and I’m gonna need yer help if we get spotted by an angel,” I say, reasonin’ with her before I take a bite of my food and smile ‘cuz it is delicious.

  Chewin’, I watch her take a small bite of her pasty and chew it slowly, mechanically. I manage to eat three pasties in the time it takes Red to eat a half of one, but I don’t rag her yet, since she looks like she is really tryin’ to eat it.

  Neither one of us speaks again until we reach Escanaba. I keep watchin’ the gas gauge on the car go down, knowin’ we are gonna have to stop for gas. With no credit card, we will have to pay with cash and that means goin’ in the gas station. The feelin’ of unease settles in my stomach. Maybe I can find a full service station or one that doesn’t have a convenience store attached to it, I tell myself, scannin’ the streets for somewhere to fuel up. I know it’s stupid to be afraid of somethin’ as ordinary as a gas station, but the thought of goin’ in one of these places now, after bein’ in the 7-Eleven with fallen angels and watchin’ them dismember those people, makes me feel like ice is formin’ in my stomach.

  It’s dark out now, and since the fuel light is indicatin’ that I have run out of time to find a full-service gas station, I pull up to a self-service pump and get out to pump the gas. After stickin’ the nozzle of the pump in the tank, I walk back to the driver’s side door and stick my head back in the car. “I don’t suppose we have anythin’ other than cash to pay for the gas?” I ask as casually as I can. She shakes her head no and I grimace. “Shoot,” I mutter, rubbin’ my sweaty hands on my jeans. She’s pale, too. “God, we’re a pair, aren’t we?” I ask, tryin’ to smile at her as the pump keeps tollin’ the price of our gas like it is tickin’ out the last few seconds of my life. “We’re both terrified of florescent lights and snack aisles.”

  “I hate the glass refrigerators and the coffee machines as much as the snack aisles,” she says, attemptin’ humor.

  “I bet ya do,” I reply, ‘cuz Buns had told me how Alfred had thrown Red through the glass door of one of the refrigerators in the 7-Eleven before he had dragged her over to me. That’s how her wing was broken. Reed had to re-break it when she was unconscious ‘cuz it had healed wrong. When I asked Buns how she knew that, she told me that one of the souls told her how it all went down. The souls would know ‘cuz they were there, too, I think, shiverin’. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle this one,” I say as the pump clicks off, tellin’ me that my time is up. Just then, somethin’ funny moves across my back and I look over my shoulder to see what is touchin’ me. Nothin’ is there.

  I shut the door softly and turn to remove the nozzle from the tank. Dread is eatin’ me alive as I screw the cap back on the tank and shut the latch. I walk ‘round the car toward the double doors. Sweat trickles down the side of my face when I push weakly against the glass door, starin’ at the ground as I enter the store.

  “Ahh, hell,” I mutter as I imagine blood stainin’ the floor. I have to hesitate just inside the doorway to steady myself as the room spins on me like a freakin’ tilt-a-whirl. I clench my teeth, tryin’ to focus on movin’ forward toward the clerk. There are a couple of people in line at the counter. I walk by them, pacin’, so that I won’t just bolt back out the door.

  “Did ja see da baseball game o’er at da high school there, Joe?” The clerk asks his customer, not even botherin’ to ring up the items on the counter. He is makin’ small talk like they’re at a tea party or somethin’.

  Joe leans on the counter like he is settlin’ in and says, “No, how’d da boys do, eh?”

  As I pace down the aisle near the back of the store, a shootin’ pain tears up my back, makin’ me clutch the top of the snack shelf near me. Lookin ‘round the store, I panic even more ‘cuz I’m nowhere near the front door and escape.

  “Ah, da boys did good. Da Eskymos were down for a while, but they fought back, doncha know?” the clerk says slowly as he scratches his chin, watchin’ the expression on Joe’s face.

  Another shootin’ pain strikes me and it registers in my head that the pain is comin’ from inside of me, not outside. Seein’ that I’m near the bathroom, I manage to turn and run to the door just as a grotesque poppin’ and crackin’ sound resonates in my ears. I slam the door closed behind me, gaspin’ as somethin’ punches it’s way out of my back. It knocks all the wind out of me. I lock the door before I spin ‘round to see my jacket and shirt lyin’ in tatters on the bathroom floor. Lookin’ in the mirror directly across from where I’m standin’, I see my reflection and nearly shout, “LORD! What are ya DOIN’ to me now?”

  Bright red wings are spreadin’ out ‘round me like a matador’s cape. I just stand there, starin’ at myself in the mirror, not believin’ what I’m seein’. “I’m a Seraph all right,” I say under my breath to my reflection as I shake my head. My wings aren’t as big as Reed’s or Zee’s, but they are definitely much bigger than Red’s. I try to move my new crimson appendages, but they won’t budge at all.

  “Ahh, naw! Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw…” I say, panickin’ again as I realize the situation I’m in. I’m locked in a convenience store bathroom, in the middle of an escape from the angels, in the heart of the U.P., at night, with Red waitin’ outside all alone for me to come out, and somewhere in Heaven, there are freakin’ Cherubim, laughin’ their asses off while countin’ out my sins.

  Turnin’ on the faucet, I run my hands under the cold water, splashin’ it on my face while tryin’ to calm down. Everyone is always tellin’ Red that her wings won’t go back in when she’s panickin’ or worrin’ ’bout somethin’. I just have to relax, I coach myself as I jump ‘round, tryin’ to work off a little bit of the adrenaline coursin’ through my body. After ’bout fifteen minutes of pacin’ the bathroom, I am beginnin’ to calm down a little, so I grasp the counter in front of me with both hands, bowin’ my head as I concentrate really hard on tryin’ to move my wings. I look up hopefully, but they are still there in the mirror when I catch sight of my reflection.

  “Damn. Okay,” I say, lookin’ up at the ceilin’ helplessly. “I can use a little help here, please.”

  Immediately there is a knock on the bathroom door and Red’s shaky voice sounds from behind it. “Hank, you in there?”

  Scramblin’ over to the door, I unlock it. I open it just a little and pull her through the
doorway by her arm. Then, I slam it shut behind her, lockin’ it again.

  Her face is as white as milk, probably from her struggle to enter the store, but I can tell that is nothin’ compared to the shock of seein’ me with wings stickin’ out of my back. “Russell, you’re a freakin’ angel!” she gasps as her hand shakes while she reaches out to touch my wing that flutters on its own when her fingers make contact with it.

  “Yeah, whaddaya know?” I breathe, ‘cuz I had no idea how nice it would feel to have her stroke my wing like that. “Slight problem, though. I can’t get ‘em to go back in.”

  Her brow wrinkles. “Uh oh!” she breathes, understandin’ my problem immediately. “Okay, this has happened to me a couple of times, too. Let me think for a second,” she says, while she continues to pet my wing in a comfortin’ way. “I would tell you to relax, but I know that doesn’t help at all,” she says, thinkin’. “Wait here a second, I’ll be right back.” She unlocks the door. She is gone and back in less time than it takes me to exhale.

  “Here,” she says, handin’ me a bottle of whiskey that is still sealed.

  “Where’d this come from?” I ask as I break the seal and put the bottle to my lips, takin’ a deep sip and feelin’ it burn down my throat.

  “I just knicked it from behind the counter,” she replies, and I choke a little on my second sip. “Don’t worry, he never saw me take it.”

  “Yeah, but the Cherubim are makin’ another notch on your naughty side,” I retort, takin’ another sip of the whiskey.

  “I’ll risk it,” she says in true troublemaker fashion. “I left money on the counter.”

  “So, this whiskey is supposed to get my wings to go back in?” I ask as I chug a little more of the liquor and feel it burn a little less than before.

  A look of hesitation crosses her face. “Not exactly,” she says. “It’s kinda a two part thing. Just keep drinking, and then I’ll show you the rest in a few minutes,” she adds cryptically. “What happened?” she asks.