Dead Sky

by Weston Ochse

  Boy Scout held out a hand. “Enough. Later on, the details. What’s the plan?”

  “I figure they have all the roads blocked, so if we want to get out, we go up.”

  “The helicopter is their ride?” Boy Scout asked.

  “Was their ride,” McQueen corrected.

  Boy Scout grabbed the glasses and tilted them up. “And these? You sure they work?”

  “We’re in the middle of field testing them,” McQueen said with a smile.

  “Then why are we—” Boy Scout stopped and stared. “You mean we’re the ones field testing them? So we could just see one of the fuckers dancing and end up in a fugue somewhere? I’ve played that game before and I don’t like how it ends.”

  The dervishes had tricked them before, making them believe that they needed to stay in a fugue in order to get back to their own reality, when in fact Boy Scout and his team had been used to try and attract just the sort of beings he was hosting. He remembered the field of dead bodies, hundreds, perhaps thousands of them—each body representing a human who had been tricked and forced to fugue until their bodies gave up. As healthy as McQueen was, he’d almost died in the fugue, his body feeding on itself as it tried to survive. And all of it from the dervishes, who had the studied ability to dance in such a way to cause the human mind to flip, sending the viewer into an immediate trance.

  And to think everyone thought the dervishes danced to be nearer to their god.

  “Ready?” McQueen asked.

  Boy Scout nodded and glanced at Preacher’s Daughter, who did the same.

  “You want to lead?” McQueen asked.

  “This is your show.”

  McQueen moved forward and checked his glasses. “Glasses on. Stay on my six.” Then he was off at a slow jog toward the sound of gunfire.

  Boy Scout hesitated only a moment, his muscle memory kicking in. He was soon close enough to McQueen to count the hairs on the back of the man’s neck. Although Boy Scout didn’t look, he could feel Preacher’s Daughter doing the same behind him. He checked to make sure his glasses were flashing, then pulled his pistol from his chest rig.

  They broke free of the brush and onto the wide expanse of grass. Two dervishes remained standing. One was dancing, the other laying down covering fire. The dancing dervish wore a long dress with a conical hat that allowed his movements to be accentuated, drawing the eye, making one look in wonder. Monks and nuns lay on the grass where they’d fallen, dead or wounded from one of the nine-millimeter bullets that had been sprayed across the grounds, or by trance, their minds and bodies no longer in synch.

  Behind and to the left of the dancing dervish stood an old Blackhawk style helicopter, its blades whirling.

  One of the monks who had been firing back was attempting to crawl away from the dervish with the Uzi, who was clearly stalking him.

  McQueen opened fire, breaking into a sprint and aiming at the dancing dervish.

  Boy Scout opened fire as well, his target the dervish with the Uzi.

  Preacher’s Daughter ran for the chopper.

  Boy Scout’s first two rounds missed, but he saw the next two hit as the man reeled back as if punched. But as he turned, the small-barreled submachine gun swung towards Boy Scout. Instead of diving out of the way, he gritted his teeth and kept firing, catching the man in the arm, hand and then the Uzi, the force of the rounds from his Walther slamming the dervish back and back and back.

  Rounds whizzed by his face and ear, but Boy Scout never deviated as he ran towards his target. He’d spent six months exiled from the human race, living in and out of the dappled shadows of his mind because of men like this. If only he had every one of them at the end of his pistol and an unlimited supply of ammunition. But with one pistol and one target, he settled for firing all ten of the Walther rounds, the last one at point blank range into the dervish’s look of surprise.

  Then Boy Scout turned and sprinted toward the chopper.

  Preacher’s Daughter was almost there when it started rising off the ground.

  He nearly shouted as she took two running steps and leaped to grab a skid, both arms, and then a foot hooked over it before the ungainly-looking aircraft roared up, turned and twisted away, soon gone from sight.

  Boy Scout’s mouth fell open as he realized he might never see her again. She’d been like a daughter, a partner as good as any he’d ever had—better in fact.

  McQueen skidded to a stop beside him.

  “I counted three. One was already dead. I got mine and you got yours.”

  Boy Scout turned to the other man. “Are we sure? What about the guards?”

  “Two dead. One ran. Another was wounded and trying to crawl to safety.”

  “One ran away?”

  “That’s what the wounded guard said.”

  “Sure don’t make help like they used to,” Boy Scout said.

  De Cherge exited the monastery carrying an old pistol in his left hand. He glowered left and right as he stalked towards them. Several other monks followed behind him and began to go from one downed member of the monastery to the next, probably assessing if they were dead or tranced.

  A moment later, de Cherge snarled a command in French, then switched to English. “Why did you bring them here?”

  “You knew the danger,” McQueen said. “We reached out. You offered. You even took money.”

  “Had I known—”

  “Had you known what?” McQueen asked. “Don’t go getting self-righteous on us now that what we were afraid of happening actually did. They found them through your emails about the fight.” He pointed at the abbot’s chest. “You were the one who caused them to come.”

  “I want you to go,” de Cherge said, gesturing to the driveway and the road that wound towards the Rim of the World Highway.

  “De Cherge—” Boy Scout began, but was cut off by a chopping of the pistol.

  “Don’t. Do not say you are sorry. That’s all you have been since you came.” He cursed in French. “You need to find another reality.”

  “I intend to.”

  Just then the chopper returned.

  All of them spun towards it, watching it flare over the trees before landing where it had taken off only moments before.

  Boy Scout had thought her gone. Maybe dead. “Do you think?” Boy Scout asked.

  McQueen raised an eyebrow. “Had you any doubt?”

  Boy Scout had had a dozen doubts, but he shouldn’t have. Trust in the team… always.

  “Come on,” McQueen said, grabbing Boy Scout’s wrist. “Let’s get out of here.” He glanced at de Cherge and gave the man a nod. “Let’s change your reality. “

  Boy Scout allowed himself to be tugged away and was soon jogging beside McQueen. When they reached the chopper, they climbed inside. Preacher’s Daughter sat in the right-hand seat, her pistol to the head of the man in the left seat.

  “Either of you know how to fly this thing?” she asked.

  They both shook their heads.

  “Then it looks like it’s you and me for a little while more. Besties,” she said, grinning dangerously. She poked the gun firmly into the side of the pilot’s head. “Let’s get out of here and don’t even think of crashing this thing or I’ll shoot your pecker off before you ever hit the ground.” She adjusted the aim of her pistol accordingly, then gave the same dangerous grin to Boy Scout.

  “Ready, boss?”

  He nodded.

  She turned back to the pilot. “Okay, Buzz Lightyear. To infinity and beyond.”

  The chopper wobbled, then lifted into the air. In seconds they were over the trees and past the highway, San Bernardino a thousand feet below.

  Chapter Seven

  Twentynine Palms

  “WHERE ARE WE going?” Boy Scout asked.

  “Twentynine Palms. There’s a man who’s been looking for us and I think it’s about time we make introductions.”

  “Who’s been looking for us?”

  Lore glanced at McQueen, who took over.
<
br />   “Seems someone with half a brain actually went to the cistern and investigated. They found the bodies and some other strange things they couldn’t explain. While the military officially believes our story that we were captured by Al Qaida and managed to escape, no one ever put everything together. Turns out now someone has—some Army lieutenant named Poe.”

  “Since when are we worried about a lieutenant?” Boy Scout asked.

  “Since he belongs to a unit no one has ever heard of and one I can’t find any information on. I even tried to go through Government Supply Agency and do a backdoor search through acquisitions, but his unit doesn’t use GSA.”

  “Everyone uses GSA,” Boy Scout said.

  “Exactly. Hence my concern.”

  “What do you think he is?” McQueen asked.

  “My guess? Some sort of X-Files meets SEAL Team 666 dude.”

  “Both great shows,” McQueen said. “I streamed them in rehab, although Triple Six never really lived up to its hype.”

  “Says you,” Preacher’s Daughter said. “The SEALs have a dog, though. Mulder and Scully never had a dog.”

  McQueen rolled his eyes. “I bet you loved Lassie and cried when Old Yeller died.”

  “Know how they check if someone is a human and not an alien?” she asked, her smile getting ominous again. “They make them watch Old Yeller. Those who don’t cry get shot in the fucking head.”

  Boy Scout shook his head. “Easy, Lore. We’re all friends here.”

  She waggled a finger. “Don’t mess with dogs. I bet McQueen’s a cat person,” she said, as if it were the gravest of insults.

  Boy Scout sighed. “A couple things. One, there are no aliens. Two, everyone cries when Old Yeller dies. And three, there’s nothing wrong with cat people. That’s like getting mad at crazy people. They just don’t understand. Now back to the problem at hand. Who is this Poe guy?”

  Preacher’s Daughter pointed out the windscreen. “We’ll find out soon enough. He’s down there waiting on us.”

  “With handcuffs or a handshake?” Boy Scout said.

  “We’ll know in a moment.”

  “Hey, boss?” McQueen asked as they began to descend.

  “What?”

  “How do you know there aren’t any aliens? I mean, I’m only asking because we were most recently hooked up to some sort of ancient demon like we were lights and it was a battery.”

  And it was in this moment when Boy Scout felt he was truly back. Sure, he had a few mischievous travelers inside of him, and sure, he could be hijacked by one of them at any moment. But he was once again the Boy Scout he’d always been, previously destined to be a high school English teacher, a former US Army Ranger, now leader of a Tactical Support Team. Neither Narco, Bully, nor Criminal had survived Afghanistan. They’d need to rebuild the team. While they might never go back and provide diplomatic security for MANTECH, they still needed to be a cohesive unit. Their mission was still on, and would be until Boy Scout was free of his travelers and the dervishes were all killed or dissuaded from doing what they had been. That was going to be his life mission.

  “Easy now,” Preacher’s Daughter said to the pilot. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “I’m just going to land,” he said, his voice twangy with a Southern accent. “I can tell you now that I wasn’t involved in any of this. This man hired me to recover his missing daughter… said she was abducted by a cult.”

  “And you fell for it?” she asked.

  The pilot turned towards her for a brief moment. “Why not? Why would someone lie about that?”

  “Who did they say they were… the men who hired you?”

  “Didn’t say anything and I didn’t ask. Listen, I thought all of this was a rescue mission. I figured the man brought along backup.”

  “Didn’t you see the weapons?”

  “I’m telling you, he said they were going to rescue his daughter. I might like to fly under the radar and take a few shortcuts, but I’m not a criminal… mostly.”

  Preacher’s Daughter gave Boy Scout a look. “What do you want to do, boss?”

  “Check his credentials.”

  McQueen pulled his pistol free from his chest rig and held it chest-high, barrel pointed at a forty-five-degree angle to the ground. “Easy, chum.”

  “The name’s Noaks,” the pilot said. “Peter Noaks.”

  “Where are you from, Noaks?” Preacher’s Daughter asked as she pulled the FAA license from the book in the front.

  “Biloxi, Mississippi.”

  “Wallet?” she asked.

  The pilot pulled his wallet free from a zippered compartment in the leg of his flight suit and handed it to her.

  “What sort of name is Noaks?” Boy Scout asked.

  The pilot shrugged. “Been a family name for at least a hundred years or so.”

  Preacher’s Daughter read from his license. “Last name is Noaks, as he says. Peter K. Noaks. Lives in Long Beach. Helicopter is registered to Noaks Aviation at Long Beach Airport. How did they get hold of you?”

  “A man showed up at the hanger last night with ten thousand dollars in cash. Asked me to help rescue his daughter.”

  “I get that, but how did he find you?”

  “That I don’t know. My name’s known in certain circles. We’re usually able to get people where they want to go if they know how to properly incentivize their request.”

  “Do you charge extra for illegal stuff.”

  “Easy on the I word, ma’am. Fact is, we intentionally don’t ask a lot of questions. We like the ability to be agile at any time.” He held up a hand as he listened to his headset. “I don’t have clearance to land. No bueno on going to Twentynine Palms.”

  “How far out are we?” Boy Scout asked.

  “Five mikes.”

  “Find a place and set it down.”

  Preacher’s Daughter stared at Boy Scout a moment, gave the pilot back his wallet, and put the license back in the book.

  Within minutes, they were standing on a patch of sand next to a highway. Across the street was a store named Space Cowboy Books that had a wooden alien out front holding a sign that said WE’RE OPEN. Next to that was a trailer park. A Walmart parking lot unraveled on the other side. The helicopter with the mostly-not-a-criminal pilot named Noaks was roaring westward, probably back to Long Beach and his eponymous aviation company.

  “We going to use him later?” McQueen asked after looking around.

  Boy Scout removed his glasses, made sure they were turned off, and stowed them in his pocket. “If we need him.”

  “Do you think it was wise to let him go?” Preacher’s Daughter asked.

  Boy Scout nodded. “I doubt that the Mevlevi dervishes have their own air force. They’d need to find folks who work on the fringes for help. Guys like Noaks. If they can use him, then we can too. We’re off the grid for a while anyway. Without Criminal’s connections, we need to start making our own.”

  “What now?” McQueen asked.

  Boy Scout gestured toward the bookstore. “Let’s go inside and wait.” He checked for traffic but there wasn’t any. “Read any good books lately?”

  The bookstore turned out to be tiny. The owner sat in a corner wearing a well-used cowboy hat. He had a narrow but pleasant face and seemed to be in his early thirties. When he saw their combat gear, he raised an eyebrow but didn’t stray from his seat. Finally, he said, “Looking for a particular book?”

  “Got anything on Zoroastrian demons and how to defeat them?” Preacher’s Daughter asked.

  “Not sure I have—” Then he held up a hand and stood. He scanned two cases, then reached in and grabbed a thin, dog-eared title. “Try this one. It’s The Cosmic Puppets by PK Dick published by Ace in 1957.”

  Preacher’s Daughter’s smile fell. “Seriously?”

  The owner nodded. “It’s about a man who returns home only to discover that the town is missing things. Turns out there’s a war between two Zoroastrian demigods and they’ve altered realit
y in their attempts to outdo the other.”

  Preacher’s Daughter laughed hoarsely. “Sounds about right.”

  McQueen shook his head. “Please don’t tell me I’ve been spending all my time noodling around 4Chan, Reddit and the rest of the Dark Web and the answers are in that book.”

  Preacher’s Daughter glanced at him. “I doubt this is the cure, but there may be some clues it can provide. There’s not exactly a host of empirical articles on what we’re looking for. I know, because I’ve checked.” Then she grinned. “Oh, and you might want to take off your glasses. You look like a disco version of a professional wrestler.”

  McQueen reached up and felt the glasses, then removed them, also making sure to turn them off. He grumbled, “Maybe I wanted to look like the disco version of a professional wrestler.”

  “How much for the book?” she asked the store owner.

  The cowboy glanced at their armaments and shook his head. “It’s free. No problem.”

  Preacher’s Daughter thrust out a hip. “This isn’t a robbery. We’ll pay for this.”

  He grinned weakly. “Okay. In that case, it’ll be five bucks.”

  Preacher’s Daughter reached for her hip pocket and then froze. “I don’t have my wallet. I left it at the apartment. McQueen?”

  “I did the same.”

  “Boss?”

  “I don’t even know where mine is.”

  McQueen snapped his fingers. “We have it.”

  All three turned to the bookseller.

  “Can we borrow it?” Preacher’s Daughter asked.

  The owner looked from one to the other to the other. “You can really have it.”

  She shook her head firmly. “No. I want to pay for it. Problem is that I went sterile in preparation for a gunfight. Good news is the bad guys got shot to shit. Bad news is no wallets. I can come back later though with the five dollars.”

  His eyes narrowed as she told the story. “Seriously, I’m gifting you the book,” he said.

  She glared at him. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  He sighed, looked worried for a moment, then laughed. “Fine. You can borrow the book.”

  Then she smiled, turning to everyone. “See how things work out if you just have a conversation with people?”