by C. F. Waller
“Bee can go,” he waves me off. “I’ll nap while you’re gone,” he asserts, pretending to yawn.
“I think you said you were going to drink, not nap,” I argue. “Might be better if you were clear headed this afternoon.”
“I’ll go,” Bee interrupts. “Leave him to his indulgences.”
“Are you sure,” I ask, watching her stuff her blade into the long purse and heft it on her shoulder.
“Quite so,” she replies, her demeanor stiffer today. “But I need something to eat first.”
“We can get something on the way out,” I suggest, opening the door for Bee.
She and Dorian stop and whisper a word or two before she slips past me into the hall. Watching him as I pull the door closed, he tilts sideways and bends from the waist, watching me until the last possible moment. Like a giant toddler. Moving down the hall, I worry a bit.
“Seems like he’s indulging an awful lot,” I toss out, thinking he may be harder to control. “Is he always a big drinker?”
“Not particularly. He’s got a lot on his mind.”
“Don’t we all,” I utter aloud.
“Some more than others,” she answers without looking back. “Some more than others.”
Rahnee picks us up in one of those retro looking Dodges covered in stripes. It’s a two door vehicle, leaving Bee and I wedged into the back seat. Lucky for us, it’s only a few minutes to the location, which is almost close enough to be seen from the ship. The gravel parking lot is as long as several football fields. There are a half dozen ragged looking cars scattered about, but for the most part, it seems deserted. One long side of the lot is bordered by container boxes. Mostly red, but the occasional blue one dots the stacks, which are at least three containers high, but no more than five. There are only two gaps that face the lot. As we drive by the first one, Rahnee explains that she and Decker will leave their car here and enter via this gap. Driving along the wall of steel for another hundred yards, we come to a second gap.
We pile out and Bee and Rahnee share a word off to one side. I nod at Decker, but he rolls his eyes and shrugs, indicating that it must be girl stuff. I’m not buying that as I know that these two met before back in New Orleans.
Rahnee leads the way and I count five turns before we come out into an open area. The space is slightly larger a basketball court with our entrance and the one Rahnee and Deker will use on the left side, but on opposite ends of the court. On the right, there is only one entrance roughly at center court, but bigger by far than ours. It’s bigger so a container mover can get through. The giant forklift would be about that wide.
“Decker” Rahnee barks, “you and Bee go through the big gap and have a look. Make sure they didn’t block the gap with containers.”
Bee eyes us sternly, seeming to sense that she’s being given a task just to get her out of the way. It is just busywork so Rahnee and I can talk in private and she knows it. Bee pauses as if to say something before she follows Decker out the large gap. Rahnee arches her back, leaning to make sure they are gone before talking to me.
“You will bring Bee and Dorian in through the gap we just came in. Decker and I will come with Rhea through the other small gap on the far end,” she explains. “The large center gap has a wide service road on the far side once you pass a dozen rows of containers. We figure that’s perfect for Shelly to come in and hide. It gives her the perfect angle for the shot as well as a way to get the truck with the boxes in.”
“But, we don’t actually know if she’s here.” I suggest.
“No we don’t, but she’s turned up the last two times.
“What about the rest of it?” I ask, scanning around the dirt and gravel surface. “I mean, what do you anticipate?”
“You bring them in and stay by your gap. We will send Rhea in through ours and then hang back. When Rhea crosses the middle we anticipate Shelly will take a shot from there,” she says, pointing at the large gap that Decker and Bee just walked through. “Once that battle royal starts, I will walk down the side of the wall and do Bee and Dorian. All you have to do is keep them from escaping out the gap.”
“Sounds simple,” I nod.
“Let’s hope so,” Rahnee offers, continuing to share her opinions.
I listen and nod. My plan changes at the point Rahnee comes down to kill Dorian and Bee. When she does, I will gun her down with the .45 she left in the car. Then I’ll send Bee and Dorian back to the car while I light up the whole place with the thermite grenades. My hope is that this disables the Immortal queen or worse, buying us time to get away. If Decker hangs back in the other gap it could be a problem, but my guess is that he will run to Rahnee’s aide when I put her down.
“Is Arron coming with you guys?” I ask, trying to find out where the other person will be standing.
“In a perfect world no, but I haven’t figured out how to keep him away yet,” she explains. “He might try to stop us from killing his friends.”
“Shoot him, fill his pockets with rocks and drop him in the ocean. By the time he floats up we will be long gone,” I advise her.
“Look who’s the bloodthirsty killer now,” she points out, wearing a surprised look.
“You’re a bad influence on me.”
“Are you sure it’s me Dom?” she asks, narrowing her eyes and glaring at me as if to determine my motive.
“He’s your problem, so do what you want,” I shrug. “Just make sure he’s not in the way.”
“Check that,” she snaps, still watching me with suspicion. “Oh, leave the car unlocked and put your keys over the visor. Decker and I will do the same.”
“Why would I do that?”
“If this goes sideways we don’t know who will be running out of which side. If any of us make it to a car alive, they should have the keys,” she tells me.
“That’s fair,” I reply, having no intension of doing it.
Decker wanders back in followed by Bee. Once they see us, their course changes to intersect with ours. A dust cloud follows them, reminding me of Pig Pen from the Charlie Brown Christmas special. They report the drive is clear and we walk back out to Rahnee’s car.
On the way, I ask Rahnee how she knows which way to turn as it’s a maze of red walls. She tells me that she spray painted the bottom lip of the containers with red spray paint. It’s the same color as the walls, but just enough of a different shade of red that it’s easy to see. No one else who might chase us will think twice about it.
After a silent ride back to the ship, Bee and I crawl out of the backseat at the dock. Checking my watch, I see its five after twelve. Rahnee nods and tells me to be at the gap by 4PM.
“And if Shelly doesn’t show?” I ask before she can pull away.
“You run and I’ll cut the queen down. I can’t kill her but I can slow her down.”
“That leaves you in a tight spot,” I point out, leaning on the roof of the car as I peer in the passenger window. “Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide if Raggedy Ann doesn’t show.”
“This is what the queen wants. Not doing it is a death sentence for all of us,” she explains. “This way maybe we get lucky.”
“And you’re dragging them in there under false pretenses and gunning them down?” I ask in a whisper, glancing back at Bee already walking up the gangway. “You can live with that?”
“In my line of work, you’d be surprised by what you can learn to live with,” she says flatly, giving me a deadpan glare.
I don’t answer and the car peels away, leaving me wobbling as I lose my leaning post. When I turn back, Bee is gone, having disappeared onto the ship’s deck. I stride up the wooden planks with butterflies in my stomach.
“If it goes down like she says, I’ll be fine,” I think out loud. “If not, this is going to be a white hot smoking tire fire.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Arron Wessker
At first, I am worried that if we leave the plane and go into the terminal we won’t be able to get back. Without some sort of pape
rwork we might run into trouble. I’m not even sure whose plane it is and how we got permission to land here. Rhea doesn’t seem to worry about anything as she plows ahead of me into the terminal. Shoes being a requirement inside, she replaced hers, but the cuffs of her slacks are dirty and worn. She’s had enough of nibbling on fruit and is looking for something more substantial.
The Long Beach Airport isn’t a huge hub and the food choices are slim. We wind up sitting in a place named the Vine, Wine, and Beer Bar. There are only a half dozen seats at the actual bar with another thirty more at tables. Flat red paint covers the walls, the shade of brick. Small cornucopia shaped baskets hang here and there, plastic grapes hanging off the rims. The idea that this is Tuscany’s version of a Burger King gives me a chuckle.
It’s crowded, but Rhea has a conversation with two guys with stools at the end of the bar. Their seats are highly prized real estate in this place, but she has them hypnotized almost as soon as she speaks. After a few minutes, they gladly give up their place. Once she hops up on her stool I am flagged over.
“Nice seats,” I whisper, sliding onto mine. “How does that work?”
“What can I get you,” a bearded bartender asks?”
“Wine,” she says excitedly. “Something red, expensive and red.”
“A Merlot?” he suggests.
“Perfect.”
“And for you Sir?” he asks, still staring at Rhea.
“Sam Adams.”
“How does what work?” she asks after he goes to fetch our orders.
“The Jedi mind trick,” I insist, pointing at the two guys standing as we sit in their seats. “These aren’t the droids we are looking for.”
“No trick,” she replies, turning this way and that in her stool. “I’m a friendly person. They like me.”
“They don’t like you,” I groan, nodding my head in their direction again. “They love you. They are just standing over there watching you.”
“It wears off,” she sighs. “All love, no matter how perfect, withers and dies.”
“That’s uplifting.”
“That’s just life, plain and simple,” she purrs.
The bartender returns with our drinks. Mine is slapped down on a napkin, while Rhea’s is presented in the bottle and he pours while we watch. Once he’s done, the bartender explains that the drinks have been paid for by the table behind us. Looking over my shoulder I see a foursome of women crowded around the table, their rolling carry-on bags at their feet. They wave and smile as Rhea acknowledges them, before turning back to her wine.
“Works on women too,” I whisper.
“Moths drawn to a flame,” she mutters, tipping up her wine.
“Work on all women?” I ask recalling Rahnee being unaffected.
“Mostly,” she purrs. “Some moths don’t seek the flame.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe they already found a flame they like?” she sighs, taking another long drink.
“Also explains why you don’t need money,” I offer, referring to her fan club.
“Money is a construction of man. The value of gold or silver is based on your perception of it. Honestly, it’s all rocks,” she groans dismissively.
“Pretty important rocks to us,” I reply, indicating mortals. “Everyone needs to eat.”
“Actually it’s your concept of money that starves most of the world. There is enough food and water on this planet to feed everyone. Enough resources to clothe and shelter every soul that has ever lived,” she lectures and then pauses. “The concept of money and the perceived value of rocks keep more than half of the people hungry and kills a good many more.”
“That may be true,” I argue. “But people have to have something to trade with. The world outgrew goats and oxen a long time ago.”
“At least people could eat goats,” she scowls, sipping her wine.
“Ever try any?”
“Goat?” she frowns.
I nod.
“Sure, but it’s not really about the goat,” she explains in jest. “A good wine choice can make or break any goat dinner.”
“This wine any good?” I ask, tapping my bottle on the bar.
“Dreadful,” she replies, taking a long drink and nearly finishing it.
“Doesn’t seem to be slowing you down.”
“Trying to stay hydrated,” she chirps and then rolls her eyes letting me know it was sarcasm.
I’m watching her and trying to absorb her commentary on money. At first it seemed outlandish and naive, but she does make some interesting points. I try to come up with something to illicit another opinion or at the very least a reaction.
“So tell me about the dinosaurs?” I toss out.
“Huh,” she utters, eyeing me in a confused way.
“Dinosaurs,” I repeat. “Did T-Rex really have feathers?”
There is a long pause, but then a smile blooms on her face.
“It’s so cute that you believe in Dinosaurs.”
“You don’t?” I ask.
“Of course not.”
“There are a whole bunch of bones telling me different,” I suggest.
“No, there’s not,” she replies in a stern tone.
“Museums full of them,” I point out, “assembled into skeletons for all to see.”
“Actually what you have is rocks shaped like bones assembled by people.”
“Fossilized bones or rocks, it’s still proof they existed,” I argue.
“And you’re sure about that?”
“It seems pretty clear.”
“Ever play with Legos?” she asks, her gaze returning to the passing crowd.
“Sure.”
“Just because you build the Death star out of a random pile of Legos, does not prove the existence of the Force.”
“Excuse me?” I blurt out, astonished by the reference.
“Arron, Arron,” she croons. “The world is not as old as you think.”
“How old is it?”
“I can’t answer that,” she waves me off with a casual hand. “Try Genesis 1:1.”
“Genesis?”
“In the beginning,” she mutters, and then grows quiet.
She people watches in silence for the next hour, drinking a half dozen glasses of wine as she does. During this time, she orders a huge plate of pasta. She spins the noodles on her fork and inhales them as if she’s be fasting for weeks. I decline any food, but sit in awe as she orders a second plate and finishes it off with ease. When finally finished, she turns in her stool, putting her back to the bar and pokes at her tummy. It looks as if she’s swallowed a volleyball. Pulling up her blouse, she flicks her stomach with her finger, making a drum sound. When I don’t react, she elbows me and asks for more wine. I’m still nursing my second Sam Adam’s when she turns suddenly to me.
“What do you do for a living?” she blurts out. “You don’t talk about yourself much?”
“That would be a result of you either talking about yourself, or demanding I ask you questions,” I lecture, pointing my bottle at her.
“True, but then again you’re not exactly going down in history now are you?”
“And you are?”
“Come on Arron,” she sighs. “I am bloody history.”
Upon this announcement, she spins around, putting her back on the bar. I turn in this direction as well and watch people shuffling past. Women with strollers, men power walking with briefcases, nearly every one of them holding a smart phone in some way. One man spots Rhea and stares as he walks. He runs into a woman who’s text-walking, causing her purse to explode onto the floor. I wince, but Rhea smiles, enjoying it. For his part, the man keeps watching Rhea as he apologizes.
“Moths to a flame,” I sigh.
“What do you do?” she asks suddenly, crossing her arms as she views the parade of humanity.
“I was bartending when I met Dorian.”
“A mixologist then,” she replies in a condescending tone.
“I was ba
rtending, but not really a bartender. Just doing it while I get settled in Vegas.”
“How long have you been there?” she demands, turning her head my way.
“Seven years.”
“So you’re a bartender,” she grins. “No shame in that. It’s an honest profession.”
I don’t reply and she seems to enjoy my discomfort for a bit, before she proceeds.
“Do you have family somewhere?” she inquires. “Mother, father, siblings?”
“My mother and father died when I was young. No brothers or sisters, but I was in foster care so who really knows,” I admit.
“Remember them at all?”
“My parents?” I shrug. “I was a baby. I don’t remember a thing about them.”
“And you wonder why I don’t ask people questions,” she grumbles. “I want to slash my wrists after hearing the details of your bleak existence.”
“Thanks,” I grumble, shaking my head. “So why is it that you need to kill Bee and Dorian?”
“They got exposed,” she replies curtly. “Can’t have that as front page news.”
“Yeah, I get that, but why do you care?” I ask aggressively, trying to figure out a way to keep Bee and Dorian from the chopping block. “Are they somehow your descendants?”
“No, no, no,” she chuckles, waving me off with a hand. “Not from the same family tree.”
“I’d like to see that DNA comparison.”
“You wouldn’t understand it,” she shrugs. “Just trust me when I tell you that we are not the same animal. Apples and oranges, apples and oranges.”
“Both fruits?”
To this, she shakes her head and lets a smile pass over her face. It’s not her typical smile signaling she’s right and everyone else is wrong. It’s almost a sincere emotion.
“You think people will come hunting you if they get exposed?”
“Might peak humanity’s interest, but we aren’t really out in your world,” she says dismissively. “Short-timers are no serious threat to us.”
“Overconfident much?” I challenge her.
“Your empires rise and fall,” she lectures, waving a hand out at the crowd. “Babylonians, Egyptians, Romans, it’s all the same. Someday I will add Americans to that list as I have a conversation in Mandarin.”
