by James Maxey
Ap burst into laughter, snorting as he wiped tears from his eyes. "Shit," he sighed. "Is there something seriously wrong with me that I find this mildly arousing?"
Skyrider shook her head. "I've gotten a good look at his junk. The porn industry suffered a tragic loss the day that man picked up a Bible."
Pit found it highly disrespectful that they were laughing so hard while Sunday's body lay in front of them. On the other hand, they'd both completely forgotten about him. Biting the tire would pop it, and catch their attention.
So he bit his left hand off at the wrist. As usual, there was a half-hearted trickle of blood, then the wound dried up. He jammed his right hand into his mouth and felt around the pile of junk. He'd always been able to pull out the stuff he'd eaten, though he sometimes spent an hour or more pulling out crap before he found what he wanted. Luckily, one of the last things he'd swallowed in that vault in Columbus had been a gold brick. The thing weighed about thirty pounds but was still small enough to wrap his fist around it. He lunged to his feet as he pulled his hand from his mouth.
Skyrider had her back to him. Ap's eyes went wide. The kid opened his mouth to scream a warning but Pit was already in full swing. She spun and Pit drove the gold bar just below the edge of her helmet into her throat. The Kevlar collar gave some padding, but it felt to Pit like he flattened her trachea against her vertebrae. She dropped to the gravel on one knee, clutching her throat.
Pit vaulted onto the bed of the pickup, then lunged for Ap.
"Ghost mode," the kid yelped.
Pit flew right through the boy, scratching his face up as he crashed into the gravel.
"Stonefist mode!" The kid screamed, as Pit rose to his knees. He fell back down as Ap punched him just above the ear. He rolled in the gravel, cursing, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" It felt like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer.
"Spike-toe mode!" the boy shouted. The tips of his black boots tore apart as sharp shafts that reminded Pit of little rhino horns tore through the leather.
The boy drew his leg back. With a loud grunt, he kicked Pit in the nuts, the spike toes digging in all the way to Pit's left kidney.
"Sweet merciful Jesus," Pit wheezed as he fell, curling into a fetal ball.
"Web mode!" Ap shouted. The stars in front of Pit's eyes were just starting to clear when the boy began to spit on him, in long sticky strips that draped across Pit and clung to the gravel around him.
Luckily for Pit, the kid couldn't spit all that far, and gravel is a piss-poor base to try to stick someone to. Pit rose up on his left elbow, lifting up the gravel without effort, and whipped his right arm out to grab Ap by the ankle.
"Ghost---" Ap screamed, but it was too late. Pit jerked his leg toward his mouth and took it off at the ankle.
Ap shrieked in utter terror as he fell, blood spurting from his severed limb.
"Stop being such a crybaby," Pit grumbled as he dragged himself forward, then shoved another six inches of the kid's leg into his mouth. This time, he'd just keep sucking until he reached the kid's lungs. After getting punched in the head, the last thing Pit needed was this piercing high-pitched screaming.
"Ghost mode!" Ap cried. "Ghost mode!"
Pit's fingers lost their grip on the boy's leg. The boy was still sitting before him, his eyes staring in horror at his mangled limb, but Pit's hands passed right through him. Pit groaned as he sat up.
The boy was sobbing, but for some reason he had stopped bleeding. Maybe he just didn't have blood in ghost mode.
"Aw, don't take it so hard," said Pit, holding up the stump of his left forearm. "I've lost lots of limbs. You ain't gonna die." Then, he remembered that it wasn't to his advantage to comfort the kid. "I mean, you are gonna die, if you turn solid again. Next time, I'll bite off your head."
"Exit," the boy sobbed. "Exit!"
And then he wasn't there. Pit furrowed his brow. He knew this command. The kid had just been snatched back to safety by Rex Monday's space machine. What the hell? Were these three super-powered goons working for his old boss?
He limped around the truck, his legs wobbly as Jell-O. He'd been kicked in the nuts lots of times, but, Christ, this kid had practically neutered him. Skyrider was gone, probably snatched away by the space machine. Servant might be back any second. Pit didn't really have time to wait until he was feeling better. He reached his right hand back into his mouth and felt around until his fingers closed around the handle of a gun. He pulled it back out, carrying the regeneration ray. He tossed aside the blue tarp. Sunday's limp and lifeless form made his throat tighten. Her torso was all jumbled up, as if every rib had been broken. He leaned against the side of the truck to keep his arm steady as he aimed at her. He pressed his lips together and tried to ignore his various pains as the lights danced across Sunday's body. The time dragged by with tortuous slowness as the machine announced each stage of her reconstruction.
At last, the gun was done. He stuffed the ray back into his mouth. Sunday's body was restored. It looked like she was merely sleeping, but there was no movement at all in her chest. Was she breathing? Pit crawled into the truck bed, lying on her as he pressed his fingers to her throat. No pulse.
"Wake up," he cried, crouching over her. He raised his fist and drove it into her ribs right under her left breast. He knelt down, placing the stump of his arm under her neck to tilt her head up. He took a deep breath and placed his mouth on hers. Fortunately, he had to actively try to devour things, otherwise his mouth was just a mouth. He sealed his lips to hers and pinched her nose shut, blowing air into her lungs. He did this three times, then straddled her, preparing to push on her chest.
She turned her head.
"Sunny?" he asked.
Her eyelashes fluttered open. She looked around, her eyes glazed. She finally focused on him. She sat up. Their faces were inches apart.
"You're alive!" he cried, and fell upon her, grabbing her by the back of her neck and planting a huge kiss on her mouth. Then, his body tensed up, as he anticipated vaporization.
He drew his face back from hers.
Her eyes were wide, frightened.
"Was I dead?" she whispered.
"Looked like it."
She nodded, took a deep breath, and slowly the fear drained from her face. She looked at his broken nose. "Well, your new look didn't last long."
"We'll use the ray on it later," Pit said, lifting himself off of her. "Servant could be back any second."
"Right," she said, as she took his extended hand to help her rise. "Where's the Harley?"
"Flattened, remember?" Pit said as he limped to the door of the truck. "You know how to hotwire a vehicle?"
"No," she said, as she scooted toward the edge of the bed.
Pit laughed at he looked at the steering column. The keys were in the ignition!
"This must be a safe neighborhood," he said. "Get in."
Sunday supported herself on the edge of the truck as she walked gingerly across the cold gravel to the passenger door. She got into the truck and looked down at Pit's crotch as she fastened her seatbelt.
"Oh god," she said, her face turning green as the dashboard lights came on. "What happened?"
"You shoulda seen the other guy," Pit said. He threw the truck into gear and lurched backward onto the road, then put the truck into drive and stomped the gas. The truck tires squealed to hold onto the asphalt as they raced down the curvy road. Sunday grabbed the dashboard. "I'd rather not die in a car crash!"
"We can't be near here when Servant comes back," Pit said as he jerked the truck around another curve.
His words proved prophetic. At that exact instant a white blur flashed into their headlights. On pure instinct, Pit gunned the motor. Half a second later they each had a face full of air bags as Servant slammed into the grill, shattered the windshield, then bounced over the roof. The big man slammed into the truck bed, grabbed the blue tarp, then slipped out into thin air. Apparently, his force fields really were kind of slick. Pit continued racing forward blindly
until he sucked down the airbag that obstructed his view. The truck was still running, but white steam was pouring from under the hood. The check engine light came on, as well as a little red thermometer next to it.
"Keep driving," said Sunday, unbuckling her seat belt. "Try to get at least a mile away. Two or three if the truck can make it."
"What are you. . . ?" he never got to finish his question. She pushed her door open and jumped out.
Pit remembered to shut his eyes. When he opened them, it was as bright as midday. The truck seemed to be losing power. Pressing the petal to the floor only produced a top speed of sixty, then fifty, then forty. He kept driving without glancing into his rear view as flaming magma began to rain down around him. Trees each side of him suddenly exploded into flame. The temperature in the truck cab grew unbearable. He reached for the AC button. The second he pressed it, the engine seized up. He threw the truck into neutral and rolled another half mile down the mountain before he reached a slight uphill grade and drifted to a stop. He got out and looked back at he mountain he'd just come down. Was it just his imagination that the mountain now looked significantly shorter? It was hard to tell with all the smoke. Every tree in the area was on fire.
Light flickered behind the dark haze. Sunday suddenly dropped from the smoke. Her hands and forearms went dark and she grabbed Pit beneath his armpits. They shot up into the sky.
"You can't fly and carry me!" he shouted.
"If Skyrider can fucking carry passengers, I can fucking carry passengers," she growled. They punched through the roiling smoke into a clear night. Pit noticed their path through the sky was still weaving back and forth, but it was certainly nothing like the vomit inducing spin she'd put Servant through earlier.
He shouted above the wind, "What happened to the big guy?"
She was panting as she said, "I kept my distance. Since he couldn't fly, I tried melting the asphalt to trap his feet but he kept jumping free. He threw a couple of big rocks at me, but I melted them. So, I decided to melt the mountain top and drown him in hot lava. He swam to the surface a couple of times, but I think I got him."
"Did he ever turn naked?" Pit asked.
"That . . . is the oddest thing . . . I've ever . . . been asked," she said. She was really straining to breathe now. They were dropping lower and lower over the tree line.
"You doing okay?"
"Not really," she said, as they inched even closer to the ground. "I got kind of dizzy . . . when I cooled off to pick you up. That a lake . . . up ahead?"
Pit Geek strained to see through the flickering radiance surrounding them. He did see a dark patch on the ground ahead that might be water.
"Hold onto . . . your ass," she mumbled. "In case of . . . a water landing . . . your seat . . . flotation---"
They hit the water at a shallow angle, bouncing along it like a stone before they sank. Pit pushed his head back above the surface and gasped. Sunday bobbed up next to him barely ten feet away, face down. He swam toward her and turned her limp body over, so that she now faced the sky. She coughed. "I can't believe . . . that worked," she whispered.
As Pit kicked his feet around, he realized that his toes kept hitting bottom. He stopped flailing and stood up. The water only came to his nipples. It was ice cold, which numbed the pain in his groin. He cradled Sunday in his arms and said, "Shore's this way."
He carried her onto a bank covered with pine needles. Behind them was a row of log cabins. No lights were on anywhere.
"This kind of looks like a boy scout camp," he said. "Looks empty."
She pushed against his chest, indicating she wanted to be put down. Her legs were rubbery as she started stumbling toward the nearest cabin. "Empty or not, we're sleeping here. I'm not feeling so hot."
Pit glanced back toward the glow on the horizon. The mountain she'd set on fire had to be at least fifty miles away. They'd really been moving.
Sunday melted the lock off the cabin door. Inside looked like a meeting room, with the whole back wall being one enormous stone fireplace. A green cloth banner above the mantle read, "Christ is King."
Sunday dropped to her knees on the big rug in front of the fireplace, then collapsed face down. Pit climbed up onto the fireplace and tore down the banner. He draped it over her like a blanket.
He saw a chalkboard next to the door they'd come in. He walked to it and saw a stick of white chalk in the tray.
"What are you doing?" Sunday whispered.
"Don't trust my memory," he said. "Wanna write something down."
In rough block letters he wrote, "FRANK MACY. STICK-M-UP KID."
He moved to the window. "I'll keep watch," he said.
"If they find us, they find us," she murmured. "Get some sleep."
Pit moved back to the rug and sat down.
"Lie down," she said.
He lay down.
She pressed herself against him, laying her head on his good arm, draping an arm and a leg across his body.
"I can't sleep without a pillow," she said, her voice soft and distant.
Five seconds later, she began to snore.
Found a black boot today with a foot inside of it. It has to belong to Ap. I found it next to a wallet that has a license in it that expired in 1972. Andrew Kermit Bergman. Lived in Tampa. Was I in Florida during that time?
All the strata have been jumbled up. So much for the hope I could crawl from one edge of my memories to the other and find a coherent path.
Things I do remember eating:
The hood ornament off a Jaguar.
A diamond ring with the woman's finger still inside it.
A hatchet.
A scented candle.
A little clay cat.
A Coleman lantern.
A can of tomato soup, unopened.
A beer mug.
I wasn't always a killer or a thief. For years I just drifted around, carefree in my stupidity. I gravitated to out of the way dives where, for five bucks, I'd swallow a beer mug, or a queue ball, or, as noted, an unopened can of soup.
And then there was Tijuana.
Chapter Eight
* * *
Kissing the Grim Reaper
SUNDAY WRINKLED HER NOSE as she crept back toward wakefulness. What was that smell?
She opened one eye. Her nose was practically jammed into a man's armpit. She opened her other eye. Why was she sleeping on someone else's arm? And why was she cold? Why did her bones ache?
Right, right, right. She'd fallen asleep with Pit Geek. They'd crash landed in an ice-cold lake then fallen asleep on a rug. At some point, he'd removed his leather jacket and draped it over them. Given that it was sopping wet that had done more to chill them than warm them. Her only other blanket was a canvas banner.
She sat up. Pit was snoring. His shirtsleeve had a dark stain where she'd drooled on his arm. She rubbed her eyes. Daylight streamed through gaps in the shutters covering the windows. Dust danced in the sunbeams gleaming on the pine floors. She wrapped the banner around her to fight the chill.
She knew she could solve the problem of the cold in a heartbeat.
Except she couldn't. Something bad had happened to her last night. She'd never pushed her power so far, never tried anything as ambitious as melting an entire mountain. At first, letting go like that had been liberating. But later, when she'd cooled down to pick up Pit, she'd felt as if all her life's energy was draining out of her. Ordinarily, using her powers required concentration, but wasn't physically demanding. Her father had said that the heat and light she commanded weren't coming out of her, but from the sun. It was free energy, channeled through the tiny wormholes she summoned into existence around her.
He'd never said where the energy to open the wormholes came from.
She rubbed her arms. Her bones felt like they were full of needles. Her pale and bloodless skin was covered in goose bumps.
She'd died last night.
She remembered the truck tire catching her in the gut. Remembered the way her rib
s had snapped and knifed into her lungs. Her mind went black at the moment she fell toward the trees, but then there was a vivid image she couldn't shake. She'd opened her eyes while she was on the ground. She couldn't move her legs, and she couldn't summon her fire, and she was coughing, and coughing, and drops of blood were spattering her eyes.
A black cloud had moved in from the edges of her vision and she'd stopped coughing. Everything had gone quiet, and then she'd been dead.
Now she was alive.
She looked at Pit. His broken nose had popped back out, and was almost back to normal. He was still missing a hand, though the stump had healed over with new pink flesh. She couldn't bring herself to look at his mangled groin.
He'd had the regeneration ray. He'd used it on her instead of fixing himself. Would she have done the same?
She stood up, careful not to wake him. Maybe he was just used to being hurt. The whole time she'd known him, he'd always been healing from some new bullet hole, or worse things. And he did heal quickly. It was one of his powers. He didn't need the ray. He just needed time. He'd only used the ray on her because he needed her help to escape Servant. It was a simple logical strategy.
Or maybe he . . . maybe he actually cared for her.
She walked from window to window, peering through the gaps in the shutters. There was mist over the lake. Nothing but trees on the other side of the water. She could barely see the front porch of the next cabin over from the window on the side wall. That was probably the cabin with the king sized beds covered with goose-down comforters.
If Pit cared for her, it was just a sex thing. He was constantly making his clumsy advances, passing them off as jokes, but she knew that he wanted her. Maybe he thought by saving her life she'd be so indebted to him that she'd let him paw and slobber over her to satisfy his animalistic male craving to dominate her.
She sighed.
It was her father who'd been a rapist. Maybe it was time to stop projecting that trait onto all men. She'd just wrapped her nude body across Pit Geek like he was her personal body pillow and he hadn't laid a finger on her.
