by Mark Tufo
“So, then I guess it comes back to us, the bedraggled few who have no place, no home, and no time to call their own.”
“You’re going back to where it all started.” He was smiling, so I figured he didn’t mean some existential thing like the dirt.
“The Hill?”
“I’m having Indian Hill revamped to look more like homes than a military installation. There will be minimal guards and they’ll be there to keep curiosity seekers out, rather than you guys in. But Mike, I need you and your people to stay there.”
“I’m not going to say anything, Paul, but how in the hell are you going to keep this quiet? Someone, somewhere, is going to leak this.”
“Mike, no one is going to believe it. I’m sitting across the table from you and I’m still thinking this is some sort of elaborate prank you’ve pulled off. People don’t just manipulate time and create copies of themselves.”
“I’m not a fucking copy. I’m the one that got on that ship!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He put his hands up in a placating manner. “I can’t even manage the terminology; how will anyone else?”
“So that’s it. We’re just going to be thrown in a dusty box like some old toys and never used again?”
“Mike, at least for the time being that’s the way it has to be. What kind of mind fuck would it be for your wife out there, caring for your son, if you showed up at her doorstep?”
“Can’t imagine anyone dealing with two of me.” I had calmed down.
“Let’s get a little distance from what’s happened; let the world settle and brush the ashes off, and then we’ll get you integrated back in. Someplace else–someplace where you won’t be so easily recognized. Fair enough, man? I promise you that will be my main mission in life, to treat you all as the heroes you are.”
“Paul, I need you to do something for me.”
“More?”
“Lot of upswing on this one. I’ve got a unique individual, here. His condition most likely won’t be replicated. It’s my Lieutenant Pender.”
I told Paul the entire story about what he’d done and what he was now capable of. He was intensely interested in the kid and had him taken to a cutting edge medical facility. If the Rodeeshians thought they’d been prodded, Pender had absolutely been medically violated.
I went to visit him the day before he was to be promoted and placed back in the military.
“Hey, Pender, I said, coming up to him.”
“It’s Jack now.”
I looked strangely at him.
“Seemed weird to have two Peter Pender’s running around.”
“So, Jack?”
“I wanted Mad Max but the general didn’t approve; plus, it’s already taken. How do you think Mad Jack sounds?”
“Yeah, I’m sure that will look good on your name plate.”
He smiled, though it was a sad one. “I looked in on my other self. All seems to be going well with Becky.”
I wanted to tell him congratulations, but that seemed out of place. This Pender, or Mad Jack, would never hold her in his embrace, kiss her soft lips, enjoy the rest of his life with her. He was a shadow to that life. I was all too aware of that feeling.
“There will be a missus Mad Jack someday.”
“You think?” he asked.
“Sure! Women find smart very sexy.” That seemed to lift his spirits somewhat.
“And you, sir?”
My Generaling days are over. I’m going to retire, MJ, maybe grow fields of cannabis and roll around in it.”
“I could make you some incredible nutrient mixes, sir.”
We’d been up on the Hill for two months. Paul, true to his word, had made the place damn near a resort. The first week, maybe ten days, were awesome. We vacationed hard, and by vacationing hard, I mean drinking, and not some ship-distilled alien fruit poison, either. It was a way to unwind from the stresses we had all been under, and it was fun, it really was. But after that, well shit, me at least, I was growing more melancholy by the minute. My life was out there. My son…every time I thought of him a sob would catch in my throat. Sure, there was a huge part of me that was thrilled that he was out of danger from the aliens, that he was not going to have to endure an extended split from his parents, from us, them, I mean. But, oh fuck, did I miss the boy. I missed having a life with a purpose. All of us here were ripened fruit destined to rot on the vine.
It was three a.m. and I was sitting outside, lying on a lounge chair, looking up at the sky, a glass of vodka in one hand and a cigar in the other. My head was screwed on so wrong I was actually longing for space again. I was beginning to understand the “call of the sea” mariners used to mourn back in the day. Hated it and longed to be home while out on a voyage, but boy oh boy, life on land just never held the same appeal again. There was a creaking sound as the chair next to me was being occupied.
“Hey, BT.”
“You didn’t even turn.”
“The chair talked. Pretty much begged for mercy when you sat.”
“I can’t for the life of me figure out why I hang out with you.”
“Limited options.” I reached down into the box and handed over a cigar.
“This a Cuban?” BT had sat back up. “Holy fuck, it is! I’ve never had one.”
“Well, be prepared to be blown away. One of the perks of being a forgotten hero.”
BT didn’t say anything to that, maybe didn’t even hear me. He’d cut the end off and in between puffs he was sighing with delight. I hadn’t thought such a thing possible any more.
“I miss Los Angeles. Not the way it is now, I mean. It was a strange city, cruel, even, but it was my city. You know what I mean?”
“I do. The thought that I’ll never be able to walk in Boston again, go to Fenway Park, Faneuil Hall, walk the Freedom Trail…just can’t fathom that it’s gone forever.”
There was a long, comfortable silence as we enjoyed each other’s company and the cool fall night.
“What do you think is going to happen to us?” he asked.
“I think I want to travel when we get the authorization to leave here. I’ve been to other worlds and have yet to see my own planet’s ‘seven wonders,’ or however many still exist.”
“Can I come?” He sounded hopeful and slightly pathetic. BT was definitely in the same place I was.
“Of course, man. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Mike, can I talk to you?”
I sat up. “Damn, woman! Just how much ninja do you have in you? I didn’t even hear you coming.”
“I’ll head out.” BT stood and gave Tracy a hug. A look passed between them. I had a sneaking suspicion that whatever she was going to tell me, he already knew.
“You’ve been here for an hour, you couldn’t say anything?”
He shrugged and smiled.
“You’re a traitor to your gender!” I called after him. He flipped me off.
“Just going to rip the band-aid off,” she said the words and then just stared at me.
“Okay, well now I’m officially freaked out.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Is it mine?” The first thing out of my mouth should have been the last, or even better, not at all.
“You’re a dolt.” She smiled as she sat down on the end of my seat.
I hugged her. “I love you,” I whispered the words into her ear as I pulled her in tight. She leaned in closer.
“I can hear your mind cranking right now. I don’t think we just made another Travis.”
I don’t know what I felt; part of me was destroyed. I wanted the boy back in the worst way, but another was happy that the baby would not go through what his parents had. I’d felt like a third of something, knowing we could never be whole. At least, that’s how I saw it. Tracy seemed to be dealing with it a lot better, at least she had been for the last couple of weeks. “Wait, how long have you known?”
“I’ve been having morning sickness for a couple of wee
ks, but I wasn’t completely sure until I saw the doc this morning.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Maybe if you weren’t so mired you could have picked up on the clues. “
“True. If you have an eighteen-pound baby I’ll know it’s not mine.” She laughed as I looked to the way BT had left.
Seven months later, we had a beautiful bouncing baby daughter. We named her Nicole and she captured my heart a half second after she joined the world. After mom and daughter fell asleep, BT came and grabbed me for a celebratory drink. Honestly, I just wanted to stay in the room with my new family, but his stupid, shit eating grin and boisterous demeanor demanded my attention.
“Oh shit–I have to take a piss,” he said as he pushed me through the doors into the bar.
“What are you, seven?” I was looking at his departing form before I swiveled back around. My heart ramped up, thrumming blood into my extremities at an accelerated pace.
“Dee?” I was at a run before the words finished coming out of my mouth. “Oh fuck, man,” I sobbed into his chest.
“This is not our normal greeting, Michael,” he smiled, though he hugged me tightly. “You have done well.”
“Why did it take so long for you to come here?” I wiped my eyes.
“I just found out two hours ago, and this is how long it took the shuttle to get here. Do not blame Paul. He felt his reasons valid for keeping this a secret from me, especially because of how close we are. I died a valiant death, did I not?” he asked proudly.
“You did, buddy, but I thought it was going to be the end of me.”
“You are a most incredible human, but that the world now has two of you? I believe I shall have to pray extra hard. I saw the footage of my funeral; it was very touching. I have brought notes for you…for next time, should it become necessary,” he finished in all seriousness.
“I’m never doing that again, old friend. Dee, Tracy just had a daughter. Would you like to see her?”
The world continued to spin, it was a year after the birth of our daughter that we were relocated to a coastal town in Nova Scotia. Drababan made weekly visits and we’d no sooner moved into our new home when Tracy hit me up again with the pregnancy issue. Another boy. This one we would name Justin. I would forever have a longing for all that I had lost, but we were forging a new path and I was loving it. Tabor and a few of her kind would visit occasionally, usually in the dead of winter. They were adapting exceedingly well. It is worth noting that without the effects of genetic tampering, they were beginning to lose the toxicity in their venom and were slowly losing some of their size. Tabor was happy, in some aspects, that her kind would return to the animals they once were, but was also saddened that they would soon lose their ability to speak to other creatures, and possibly not be able to hand down their history. Even in Victory there will always be Defeat.
“Can you get President Talbot on the line?” Physicist, Colonel Peter ‘Mad Jack’ Pender asked of the Air Force Captain stationed at the Mauna Kea Observatory in Hawaii.
After being forwarded past two aides and one press secretary, a bedraggled and tired President Talbot answered the phone.
“I’m going to assume that because it’s four in the morning, Jack, that this is important.”
“Sector 7, quadrant J22. We are getting an anomalous signal, sir.”
“Thank you, Jack. Sorry, Mad Jack,” Mike clarified when Peter cleared his throat. Please put the Captain back on the line.” Mike pulled the phone away from his ear as an obviously nervous Mad Jack dropped it hard. “Captain Tannon, I want the entire world at Defcon2, alert the Guardian, the Defender, and the Sentinel. Whoever is out there is going to wish mightily that they had forsaken this little corner of the universe. And, oh yeah. Find me Mike.”
Author’s Note
Mark’s Journal Entry 1
Well, it’s been a hell of a ride and I can’t thank you enough for staying on for the entire expedition! As many of you know, (or don’t), I started writing Indian Hill 1 way, way, I mean way friggin back, when I was a wee lad of eighteen. I had taken a creative writing course in college, Freshman year, not especially because I fancied myself a writer, but rather it fit into my schedule and I needed the credits. It wasn’t my favorite class; I wasn’t really a fan of the professor and the class time was crack o’ dawn every morning, which did not fit into the particular lifestyle I lived at the time. But she awakened something in me. Part of the requirement for this class was that we had to make a journal and write in it every day. Could be fiction or real life; didn’t matter–just had to write something. Out of this sprung the desire to write a full-fledged science fiction novel.
I wrote two-thirds of a book before I pretty much forgot about it. I stuck it in a box and shuttled it around the country with me, never bothering to look at it again. It was twenty odd years later I found myself in the garage, looking for the doohickey that would fix that one thing that was wrong with my car. I just absolutely knew I had it, so I grabbed a beat-up dusty, old box high up on a shelf because apparently, this is where doohickeys are stored. What I pulled out were curled up, yellowed, old handwritten pages on college ruled paper. I could barely make out the chicken scratch of my prose. For three hours, I did no car repairs or anything else. I pulled up a stair and read, and read, and read until I got to the last page and actually said: “Well what the fuck happens next?” I turned that last sheet over and over, hoping magically, that there was more written. I think I thought on it the rest of that day. The following morning, I began to write the conclusion to that first book and then immediately flowed right into the second. Took me about six months to write that second book, much better pace on that one.
I even started the third one, but stopped about half way through. Tracy had read the first book and thought we should attempt to get it published. I was not so keen on the idea; I kind of had an inkling where we were headed. At this point, it was the early days of self-pubbing and we knew absolutely nothing about it. We headed down to Barnes and Noble and bought a book on how to get published, which had a big fat list of agents and publishing houses. She sent off hundreds of queries and manuscripts; we were draining what little savings we had just trying to get the book in someone’s hands. It got to the point where just going to collect the mail created anxiety within me. For a while, I kept the rejection letters; don’t know why. It truly started to hammer away at my confidence. I’d never written those books to get published, but when you have so many people tell you that you don’t really have what it takes, that takes a toll. I think Tracy saw what this was doing to me and mercifully stopped the whole process. She started learning about the self-pubbing trend, so we published Indian Hill 1, on our own. It was self-edited, big mistake, and we used some crappy stock image for the cover.
But I’ll tell you, that was one of the coolest days in my life, to see that book available on Amazon, even if no one bought it, (which was damn near the case–sold three in seven months). In the meantime, I began to write Zombie Fallout, and that seemed to strike a chord with folks, and slowly, but surely, readers began to migrate over to see what Indian Hill was about. By this time, we had an editor clean the book up and a cover artist do a new cover. When I began to see an audience for the series, I figured I had better conclude it. In my head, it had always been a trilogy; that was just kind of a big thing in the sci-fi community when I had started writing it. I was happy with three; it had turned into an entertaining series, and I thought I’d given it the ending it deserved. But then a funny thing happened; you guys wanted more.
I was reluctant at first, but caved fairly quickly and started plotting out the second trilogy. By this time, I felt like I was hitting my stride as an author. Books four, five, and six were a blast to write; some characters really came into their own, whether you loved or hated them. The action was intense and fast-paced, bringing BT into the mix to play off of Dee was like a dream come true for me. Even as I was writing six, the supposed ending to the serie
s, I realized I needed to write one more book, (the one you just read), to tie everything up. I will always love this series, as this is what cracked open the door in my brain to begin this thing called writing, which I so adore. Is it truly the end? I don’t know. If you guys are reading this, you know I don’t end things all that well. For now, let’s just call it a hiatus. I love you all, and I appreciate all of your support through the years and you first three…sorry about the editing!
About the Author
Visit Mark at www.marktufo.com
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