by A.R. Rivera
It Starts With M and Rhymes With Turder
Generations in the making, my father wrote in his final letter to me. I read that and struggled with the meaning like I did with every other clue he gave. He very rarely explained himself, and when did, the answer he offered only brought more questions.
As I listen to Abi explain how my brief interaction with that native boy altered the course of my existence all I can think about is my father’s letter.
He told me to go through that box. To read every page. And I foisted the responsibility onto Eli while I practiced my survival skills, which ended up coming in handy on more than one occasion.
My father often spoke about feelings of regret. He wanted to make sure that I lived my life with as few as possible. Will I regret doing as Abi insists? Or will my regrets come about because listening to her was a mistake?
“Every version of Daemon must die.” She repeats. When I answer nothing, she goes with her justification.
I’m staring at her, seeing her lips move and hearing her words, and straining to understand her. She’s not making any sense.
“. . . The reason he tried to kill you. It’s why he murdered your father.”
Shaking my head, I ask her to go back and repeat that last bit.
“God knows how many versions of Daemon are already doing the same thing. Every version of all you Springer men is in danger because he is out to slaughter your lineage. The same way his line was ended, he wants yours to be, too.” She’s breathing hard, talking excitedly and shaking her little fist at me. “Listen to me, G. That man is dangerous. He will stop at nothing until he’s wiped you, your father, and all your alternates off the face of the earth.”
I can’t help myself. “Shouldn’t it be faces and earths?”
Abi huffs a frustrated sound. “No, it should be knees in balls.”
She’s funny. If we weren’t in the middle of talking about what we’re talking about I’d laugh my ass off.
“My father left me a letter.” I offer this serious story instead of the planned sarcasm. “In it, he compared his situation to inheriting a house. He said he had to change the house completely without compromising the integrity of the structure. He said that he failed and that now the metaphorical house was my problem.”
“Huh.” Abi crosses her arms, thinking. “What if Daemon is the fortified structure in this metaphor?”
“Then I can’t huff and puff and blow the house down.”
“Maybe your father was the one who couldn’t.”
“Geez. Enough with that already.” Back on my feet, I walk over to the dark curtain that guards the back door. Shoving it aside, I notice the first colors of dawn on the horizon. “I’m going to do what I set out to do, which is finding the man that killed my father. Anything more... I have to think about.”
Turning, I give her a moment to survey me. My Abi always said that I have the ‘scariest angry-face.’ I hardly ever reached that fuming phase, but when I did she’d drop whatever we were doing and leave me the hell alone before I said something we’d both regret. Not the most mature way to handle my temper, but it worked for us.
So here, in this dimly lit living room with Abi-Two, I stare at her and say nothing, giving her the time to take in my disposition. The heated skin and wild eyes.
Then, the most frustrating thing in the world happens. Abi doesn’t walk away. She glares back at me and sets a hand on each of her hips. “Don’t pull that shit with me, G. I don’t take that ‘run away’ face from my husband and I’m not about to take it from you.”
When I don’t relent, she scoffs. “Grab your things. It’s time for your Abi to get you back.”
Only a few minutes later, the sun is well on its way up and I’m weighted down with my gear and a fresh water bladder.
My mini-fit has passed and I’m back to feeling grateful—even though this has been the strangest, most mind-bending visit so far.
With both hands holding tight the straps of my backpack, I rest my lips on her forehead. “Thank you, Ab.”
She smiles weakly.
“You know you’re too good for either of us, don’t you?”
She nods and gives a quiet, “Hell-yeah, I do.”
“Any advice on where I should do this?”
Her thin smile broadens, the remnants of her irritation with me float away. “My G likes to use the alley behind the Sherriff station.”
I like the way she emphasizes the possession. “Sounds perfect. But, I’ll need directions.”
I have nothing but the utmost respect for law enforcement. If that respect were mutual, maybe the idea of using their stomping ground to open a wormhole would be less appealing.
“What’s funny?” Abi glances from the drivers’ seat.
“Nothing.” I’m smiling because she is.
On the way to this unknown Sherriff station, I switch between the view of her flawless profile and the brown and green landscape of a small town called Westlake. Abi says she and G decided to move up here a few years after they were married.
I told Abi that I wanted to walk, but she insisted that the Sherriff station was too far and grabbed the keys to her truck. I shouldn’t have listened. Being here, so close to her and not having her, yet being the one she wants most is torture.
“How many sets do you have so far?”
A tension sets into my chest and shoulders. “Not enough.”
She shakes her head. “You have a lot to learn.”
“Teach me, Yoda.” I joke, pulling at a lock of hair like it’s my string to her puppet. But then I remember the things she’s taught me so far and regret my request.
She keeps her gaze on the narrow roadway. “I get the feeling you’re one of those who prefers to learn from his own mistakes rather than someone else’s.”
“That such a bad thing?”
Her brow furrows as she stares ahead. “Not always, but in this case it is, G.” She lets the address hang there. “What other kinds of worlds have you seen?”
“A place far in the future where the sun moved so fast it was no more than a burning blur. Another that has dinosaur-like things swimming in the water. I wasn’t there for long, thankfully. Then another plane where it had to be the eighties, but I was in too much of a hurry to check the date.”
The truck slows as we pull into the parking lot of a convenience store. “G, listen to me.” She turns, setting one hand over the top of the steering wheel, the other on my knee. “The odds are against you. He is way ahead of you. He’s been doing this longer, his stones are stronger, and he’s a lot faster than you are.”
“Is this, like, your twisted version of a pep-talk? Because I got to say, I’m disappointed with you, Abi-Two.”
One eyebrow lifts at the nickname, sharpening the stare she’s giving. “You have to play it smart. Get focused. Go back to your home dimension and learn all you can. Find out how Daemon carries his stones. Oh, and did you know they can hold charges?”
This juicy tidbit makes me lean forward. “Yes, I’ve seen them do it, I just can’t control it.”
“My G was totally shocked when he found that out.”
“How did he make them do it?”
“I don’t know, but he’s talked a lot about learning to concentrate. Focus your thinking and I’m sure, they’ll teach you.”
I almost laugh. It sounds ludicrous. If recent experience has taught me anything, it’s to put no limitations on the Threestone, but I can’t bring myself to actually say it out loud. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She offers an arms-only hug, which I take and reciprocate. “It was nice meeting you.” She doesn’t laugh as I intend. “Abi,” her name is a whisper as she pulls back.
“You guys are two different people. I shouldn’t be so sensitive.” Her eyes shimmer with tears she won’t allow to fall.
“He’s got to be the better one if he got you.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” She pauses.
“Yeah?”
&nb
sp; “Is she... like me?”
I nod, affirming. “My Abi is very much like you. Too good for me and she knows it. Hey, can I ask you a question?”
There’s a heat in her gaze when it meets mine. “Travel-related.”
“What do the lines mean?”
Abi’s eyes widen and I know she’s confused even before she asks, “What lines?”
“Around the gateway. They’re not always there, but sometimes there are lines, almost like cracks in a windshield. They were around the funnel in New York and the one I used to come here.”
“On this side?” She adjusts herself in her seat.
“I only see them on the way in. I thought it was a fluke, but both times the gateway was huge.”
She covers her mouth with her hands.
“Has G ever mentioned seeing them?” It’s weird how I can just talk to her, ask her things about the travelling and tunnels that no one else on the planet is supposed to know. And be so casual even when asking about a different version of myself.
“No, but when G gets back, I’ll ask him. He’s probably some place that’s slower like you were.”
I nod in agreement even though I’m half-convinced she’s saying this to avoid considering alternatives. But then I never told her about Doyen’s androids. And really, there isn’t anything to tell beyond my own suspicions.
“How many more of us, well me, are there?”
“You’re the first I’ve seen.” She says and I recall her saying this once already.
We’re sitting in the parking lot of a gas station near the Sherriff station, talking ourselves into awkward repetition.
“You said Eli is helping you, too?”
“Yes, I mentioned him.” Looking out the window at the little hut where the station clerk stands staring at us, I tell her “You’d make an excellent travelling companion. You’re very well informed.”
“G, you need to tell Eli everything. You limit his ability to help when you hold back.”
She notices my hand lingering on the door handle.
“Don’t let anybody see you in the alley. Get close enough to absorb the power without getting caught on the cameras.”
“Thanks, Ab.” I take the cue and hop out of her truck.
“Hey,” She calls and I look back.
“She’s tougher than you think, you know. You can trust her.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say, hoping it’s true.
I give my last farewell to Bear in the truck bed. He wags and whines as I pet his head and thank him for the hospitality.
At the edge of the parking lot, I go against instinct and turn to catch one last glimpse of what might have been, but they’re already gone.
The back of the Sherriff station is two or three blocks down. I move slowly, keeping an eye on the lamp posts and corners of buildings, searching for cameras.
The sides of the alley are lined with overflowing, stinking dumpsters that remind me too much of my trip to New York. I keep to the middle of the lane until a garbage truck turns into the alley ahead and stops, blocking me.
The mucky green mechanical arm reaches out and grips one of the cans. I work behind a dumpster and pop out on the backside of the truck. As I cross the alley, the high-pitched screech of a back-up beeper wails its’ warning. I must be suffering residual effects from that ancient world, because before I know it, I’m somehow pinioned between the back bumper of the truck and a boxy metal dumpster. I yell my displeasure and bang on the side of the smelly truck. Instead of the truck moving forward, it lurched further back. The sudden pinch on my torso surprises me. The minute space is too tight to yell again.
The mechanical arm of the garbage truck is hovering over my head. I’m staring at it, wondering at the idiocy of this driver when a set of prongs set close together at the bottom of the truck shift up, pointing at my waist, making me yelp. The prongs shift again, pressing closer to me. Scraping, and pushing deeper. Plunging deep inside until I feel a painful, unnatural snap. Like something breaking.
I wail. What the hell is happening?
Then there’s another pop and I can’t breathe.
My cries are garbled by the deep, dark red running down my lips from the truck skewering my midsection.
The last thing I see as the dull metal stake rips into me is the bald-headed driver with a scraggly beard.
I try to say his name, but haven’t got breath.
Part 6
