by James Maxey
Jenny shivered, holding Bullet tightly to her chest. “Is it always this fucking cold?’
The reverend gave her the stink eye, then said, “It’ll hit 100 by afternoon. Let’s get on over to the house. Kracker will have coffee waiting for us.”
This turned out to be accurate, even if Kracker didn’t put in an appearance himself. As we went into the kitchen, the coffee maker was gurgling as the last of the hot water dripped from the filter into the pot.
The house, while no means small, struck me as a relatively modest affair for a guy who had his own jet. It was just a single story with adobe walls and red clay shingles for a roof. The kitchen itself was notably Spartan, the counters free of clutter.
“I don’t want any coffee,” said Jenny, sounding weary. “What I really need is sleep.”
“Kracker’s got the guest bedrooms fitted with fresh linens,” said the reverend.
“Kracker certainly has gone domestic,” I said. “Making coffee, changing sheets.”
The reverend shrugged. “It’s not like he personally lifts a finger. He’s got about a hundred little robots crawling around the house taking care of chores. Just watch where you step if you get up in the middle of the night to use the john. Some of his bots have sharp edges when you step on ‘em. Still, beats what I used to worry about stepping on.”
“Which was?” I asked.
“Scorpions,” said the reverend, pouring coffee into a ceramic mug. “And once, a rattlesnake.” His mug had a happy face and read, “Smile if you love Jesus.”
“I think I’ll skip the coffee as well,” I said. “Which way to our room?”
“Your rooms,” he corrected me.
“We just need one,” said Jenny.
The reverend gave a bemused smile. He peeled off his mask, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Sorry. I didn’t know you two were married.”
“We’re not,” said Jenny.
“Then, while you’re staying here, you’ll need two rooms,” said Stacey. Now that his mask was off, I instantly made the mental switch in his name. I’ve been at the superhero biz too long.
Jenny adopted a pleasant tone as she said, “It’s okay. Harry and I are a couple. We sleep together all the time.”
“I’m sure you do, outside these walls” said Stacey. “But I’m responsible for what the Lord sees under my roof.”
Jenny’s eyes went hard and she said, “This is bullsh—”
“Fine,” I said, cutting her off. “Whatever.”
Jenny gave me a look that had about the same impact as a punch from McGruber.
“Let’s not fight,” I said, with a sigh. “Right now I need sleep more than I need an argument. It’s just for one night.”
“You planning on going somewhere tomorrow?” asked Stacey.
“I’ve got cash,” said Jenny. “We’ll get a hotel room.”
“Nearest hotel’s a good three hundred miles away.”
I held up my hands, indicating surrender. “We’ll talk about it after some sleep, okay? I’m so tired it feels like someone’s scooped out my brains and filled my skull with oatmeal.”
Jenny set her jaw. I could tell she was giving in, and I could also tell I was going to pay for this later.
Ten minutes later, I was stretched out on an old queen sized mattress, feeling every spring beneath me. There was a big crucifix on the wall above the bed and a painting of Jesus next to the door. The window was open, letting in the cool night air. I thought about scorpions and snakes and wondered what kept them from crawling into the room.
To my complete lack of surprise, Jenny climbed through the window.
“You’re lucky you didn’t trigger an alarm,” I whispered.
She shook her head. “I asked my bedside lamp to turn off any alarms.”
“You what?”
“Kracker probably has the whole house wired. Though I never met him, he doesn’t strike me as a prude. I mean, the man records sex tapes for a hobby.”
Then, as if the words she said had meant nothing at all, she pulled her shirt over her head and popped off her bra.
“If you’re right, he probably has cameras in here,” I said, rising up in the bed, looking around the room at the lamp, the crucifix, the beady eyes of Jesus.
“I need to be with you,” she said, in a low, sultry voice. “You aren’t saying no.”
“No,” I said as she peeled out of her jeans. “Definitely no to the no.” I patted the bed next to me.
She disregarded my guidance and climbed on top of me, straddling me. She hadn’t showered, and the full scent of our crazy night clung to her, the sweat of all the fighting and running, the stink of scorched clothing, and beneath it all, the faint, barely detectable scent of perfume. Jenny never wore perfume.
Val. She smelled the way Val had smelled. The scent had clung to her following their ride together, only a trace, something a human nose could never have detected. Val. I pulled Jenny to me, pressing her face against my neck, so that she wouldn’t see the look in my eyes. Now that she was gone, I knew, I knew. I loved her. I’d always loved her. How was I going to live without her?
Chapter Six
Dying Free
I WOKE UP MIDAFTERNOON. Jenny wasn’t beside me. My head throbbed as if it had been used as a bongo the previous night by a couple of atomic supermen. I sat up, staring dully at the sun seeping through the curtains. The room felt way too hot to fall back asleep.
As low as I felt physically, I felt even worse emotionally. Val was gone. As bad as it was knowing I’d never see Val again, I was even more worried about what was going to happen with Jenny. I could never tell Jenny how I really felt about Val. But keeping my mouth shut, holding onto the secret, that couldn’t be good for us either. She would eventually suspect something. Hell, she already suspected something. Was it better to come clean? Or should I keep quiet?
Someone had placed a cotton robe next to the bed. To my surprise, it fit me. Maybe Kracker had some kind of robe-making robot. I limped out into the hall, dropping to all fours to take some of the strain off my aching joints.
In the kitchen, Jenny was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and eating toast. She had her eyes fixed on her phone.
“Aren’t you worried the Legion can trace your phone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I ditched the one the Legion gave me before I ever went to the press conference. This is a burner phone picked up at a convenience store. Should be safe.” She tapped the screen and held it toward me. “You should see this.”
“Do I have to see it on an empty stomach?” I asked. “I could eat a fucking horse.”
“No cussing,” she said with a smirk. “And, you’re in luck. Stacey’s got bananas.”
I gave a grim smile. I look like someone who should like bananas, which makes me want to not like them, but, screw it, they’re delicious, and I needed the potassium to help my muscles recover. I grabbed the whole bunch of them from the counter and started going through them one by one. As long as my mouth was full, I had an excuse not to talk to Jenny about what I was feeling. If I was going to talk to her about what I was feeling. Honesty was the best policy. Silence was a virtue. There’s a problem with getting all your wisdom from fortune cookies.
“Golden Victory was on the news this morning,” said Jenny.
“Talking about me?” I asked.
“Talking about us,” she said.
I took the phone. A YouTube clip was cued up. I pressed the red arrow.
Golden Victory wasn’t wearing his uniform. Instead, he wore a conservative suit. He’s an older guy, gray hair, with a relatively unremarkable face save for blue eyes that are kind of hypnotic. He has this deep, calm voice that’s a perfect blend of authority and modesty. I listened impatiently as he said what I expect him to say, that I’m a suspect in the murder of Cut Up Girl, that the full resources of the Lawful Legion will be used to bring me to justice, yadda yadda.
Todd Jackson, the host, hits him with the question I wasn’t sure
anyone would dare to ask: “Since you’ve mentioned Cut Up Girl, how do you respond to the allegations laid out in her recently released book, The Butterfly Cage? Is it true that the Lawful Legion maintains a secret training facility for super-powered youth who are held against their wills?”
Golden Victory smiled gently. “I think it says a lot that the book was self-published. No reputable publisher would touch it. I haven’t read it myself but I assure you that the book is a work of fiction, marketed as a so-called true story in a desperate effort to boost sales. It’s well known that Cut Up Girl suffered severe financial difficulties related to her alcoholism.”
“But her story was verified by your teammate Big Ape and someone who called herself Screaming Jenny, who claimed to be on a covert team associated with the Legion.”
Golden Victory shook his head. “Todd, by now your own reporters have certainly uncovered Big Ape’s well-documented history of substance abuse. He gained his bulk by using a drug called reboot, a sort of super-steroid that’s never been approved by the FDA. As evidenced by his assault on law enforcement yesterday, this drug has left him prone to dangerous emotional swings. I’m disappointed but not surprised that he would join with Cut Up Girl to try to embarrass the Legion. As for Screaming Jenny, the idea that the Legion has some roster of secret members is farcical. The Lawful Legion’s charter requires us to operate openly, in cooperation with authorities. All we really know about Jenny is she used to be involved with the drug gangs in Port City. I would hardly count her as a reliable witness.”
This seemed to satisfy the reporter, who didn’t ask any follow-up questions about the Butterfly House.
“So that’s that,” said Jenny, taking back the phone. “Golden Victory has said the Butterfly House doesn’t exist. For ninety-five percent of the public, that’s the final word on the subject.”
“Well, there’s still five percent on our side.”
“That five percent is the lunatic fringe who see conspiracies in every shadow. The Retaliator says they’re the reason he’s been able to keep his involvement with the Legion a secret all these years. These conspiracy freaks have a thousand pieces of good evidence proving he’s real. But they have a million pieces of evidence that are fake, or prove nothing, or are flat out crazy. The noise of these alternative facts drowns out the truth.”
“So the more these people believe the Butterfly House exists—”
“—the less the general public will believe it,” said Jenny.
“I can’t believe it’s that easy for them to get away with a lie,” I said. “I mean, we have the truth on our side. If we can find a legitimate reporter to tell our story—”
“Tell it where?” she asked. “The New York Times? Every conservative in America thinks that’s fake news. If Fox News touched our story, no liberal in America would believe it. The age of universal trust in the press is over.”
“It can’t be that bleak,” I said. “I mean, we’re a free country, built on a free press. That has to mean something.”
“Freedom means you’re free to choose what you don’t believe,” she said. “The truth is dying.”
“At least it’s dying free,” I said, shaking my head. I slowly peeled another banana. “You know, I rarely drink anymore, but, man, I could use something strong right now.”
“Good luck with that,” said Jenny. “Stacey’s a teetotaler as well as a prude.”
“I wouldn’t call Stacey a prude,” said a deep, familiar voice from the hall leading to the kitchen. I heard the whir of electric motors and turned my head to see Kracker roll into the room on his scooter. I hadn’t seen him since I’d left the Red Line but he looked as if he hadn’t changed even a hair. He was still morbidly obese, tried to hide his baldness with a three-strand comb over, and looked like he was wearing the same jogging pants and bedroom slippers I’d last seen him wearing. The only fresh element of his appearance was a black tee-shirt that read “98% chimpanzee.” I wondered if he’d worn it in my honor. Kracker continued the statement he’d begun in the hall. “I’d call our host old fashioned. A person with traditional values.”
“Like racism?” asked Jenny, eyeing the confederate flag bumper sticker on the front of Kracker’s scooter. “When I was looking over Stacey’s file, I couldn’t help but notice that most of the drug dealers Reverend Rifle has shot over the years have been Hispanic.”
“Considering he operates on the Mexican border, I’d consider it somewhat odd if he were taking down Canadians,” said Kracker. “I assure you, the good reverend doesn’t have a racist bone in his body. I’ve tried to persuade him to see the advantages of a more segregated society, but, alas, he’s stubborn.”
Jenny started to say something but I held up my hand. “He calls himself Kracker,” I said. “Arguing with him is a waste of breath.”
“Indeed,” said Kracker. “Especially since I win every argument.” He turned his eyes toward me, a sly grin on his face. I looked down at the half dozen empty banana peels on the table before me and felt heat rise to my cheeks, though I’m biologically incapable of blushing.
Jenny held up her phone and said, “For a man of superior intellect, you sure have an easy to guess wi-fi password.”
“No,” he said. “I have a wi-fi network your phone can’t even see. What you, ahem, ‘hacked,’”—he put air quotes around this word—“is a tar baby network I wanted you to touch. When you signed on, I collected every bit of data stored on your phone.”
“For all the good it will do you,” she said. “This is a burner phone. Every account on here is fake.”
“So you might think,” said Kracker. “But my algorithms could easily have deduced your true identity. You’ve had an unusual amount of searches for news about Big Ape’s escape. Data analysis of your search details would make it obvious you’re an actual witness to last night’s events. You were looking for certain bits of news that haven’t made the news.”
“Crap,” I said. “If you spotted her, then the Legion’s probably on their way here right now.”
Kracker shook his head. “The odds that they could breach my networks are infinitesimally low. While Jenny’s searches have been logged by sites like Google, they will show as coming from a sacrificial hotspot I’ve set up in Dayton, Ohio. I’ll let you know if any members of the Legion turn up there.”
“Shoot me a text if they do,” said Jenny. “We need to get moving.”
“Moving to where?” I asked.
She shrugged. “We’re near the border. The Legion is only authorized to act within the States and a few treaty nations like Canada and Japan. Mexico never signed on. The Legion can’t legally follow us there.”
“It would also be illegal for the Legion to assassinate Cut Up Girl,” said Kracker. “The law is their weapon, not their shackle.”
“Okay,” I said. “But we can’t hide out here for the rest of our lives.”
“You wouldn’t be hiding,” said Kracker. “Stacey and I can offer employment.”
“Employment?” I asked.
“I should let the reverend fill in the details,” said Kracker. “He is, after all, the leader of our little band of vigilantes.”
“There’s more than just the two of you?” I asked.
“There’s a vigilante on the eastern side of the state we occasionally team up with,” said Kracker. “Calls himself Gator.”
I scratched the back of my head. “There was a kid named Gator at the Butterfly House. He graduated only a couple of weeks after I arrived.”
“That’s him, though he’s long since broken free of the Legion’s brainwashing, and is now a free agent.”
I wracked my brain, trying to remember what I knew about the guy. “Didn’t he have some kind of lame superpower?”
“He could hold his breath a long time,” said Jenny.
“He doesn’t need to breathe at all,” said Kracker. “That makes him valuable on aquatic missions.”
“That’s right,” I said. “He’s the low budget A
quaman who can’t even talk to fish.”
“You’re pretty judgmental for an undersized King Kong,” said Kracker as he put his scooter into reverse. “Follow me.”
We followed, with Jenny’s eyes lingering on my face with an inscrutable expression before turning her gaze to the back of Kracker’s head. I wiped my lips, wondering if I had banana there. Maybe she was just as lost and confused as I was, completely unclear on our next step, and I couldn’t read her expression because she herself didn’t know what to think. Or could it be something else? Had she caught a glimpse of Val in my eyes, and was she wondering when I’d be brave or stupid enough to tell her what I was feeling?
Chapter Seven
Rifle Chamber
KRACKER WHEELED HIS SCOOTER into the hall bathroom.
“We’ll wait out here,” said Jenny, halting at the door.
“You should come in,” said Kracker. “I’ve got something impressive to show you.”
I poked my head into the door and found it implausible that the three of us could fit into the bathroom. Then the bathtub slid backward, revealing a steel grate about ten feet square.
“Hop on,” said Kracker, wheeling onto the grate.
We followed. I saw that the grate was over a really deep shaft, with lights far below. The grate started to descend.
“Rose Rifle had hidden elevators in her house,” I said. “Must be a family tradition.”
“Just a practical way to use the silo,” said Kracker. “During the Cold War, this housed an ICBM. In the nineties, the DOD decommissioned hundreds of silos. Stripped out all the gear and sold the silos on the private market. Stacey was starting to dabble in vigilantism. Figured the empty silo might make a nice base of operations, so he bought it and build the house over it. I’ve upgraded it a great deal, of course. Believe it or not, he used to go up and down the shaft on nothing but ladders.”
