Fatal Green

by The Brothers Washburn

  Granny had already won a considerable amount of money from J. R, but J. R’s pride would not let him give up. J. R had bragged about how good he was at pool. He said if he wanted, he could make a good living as a hustler. In truth, he wasn’t bad, but he had lost every game to Granny. Certain he would eventually win, J. R kept coming back for more abuse.

  “Has anyone seen J. R lately?”

  “No,” a yawning agent answered. “I just walked by the front door. He wasn’t at his post and the front door was open. I looked out but couldn’t see him in the dark. He didn’t answer when I called. He’s not in his room either.”

  Just then, another agent strolled in, the sandwich in his hand attesting to the fact that he had just come from the kitchen.

  “Was J. R in the kitchen?” Granny asked.

  His mouth full, the agent shook his head and mumbled, “No.”

  “The idiot! He’s supposed to be on guard.” Granny swore under his breath.

  A quick reconnoiter failed to locate the missing agent. “What did we say about going out at night alone?” Granny asked the room.

  No one answered; they weren’t the ones who had left the mansion.

  Granny quickly organized search parties into groups of three. Night was not a good time to be out searching for a lost agent. The rat had the upper hand, but Granny armed the agents with powerful flashlights and large caliber weapons.

  Granny had only confronted the rat once and that was in daylight, while saving the girl on the dirt bike. However, he had interviewed Agent Allen and Cal and knew what they knew. It was clear that standard issue guns and rifles did little more than slow the rat down, but a strong, bright light could stop the rat in its tracks.

  Of course, the rat could choose to extinguish the lights at any time, but Granny thought he might have come up with a solution to that problem.

  * * *

  The taste of human flesh was good, so very good. It was a glutton for this meat.

  The muscles no longer quivered. Its prey had died, bled out. But the meat was still fresh.

  “Wait!” It heard human noises. It saw human lights. More strange ones had left the mansion, coming out in groups. No doubt searching for this foolish one.

  It would not face so many armed strange ones, not all at once, not while it feasted.

  Grabbing its meal by an arm, it dragged its prey out of the street into the shadows. It would not be cheated of this feast. No, it had waited too long.

  It had barely slipped into deep shadows, by an abandoned house, when it felt the wind shift and the air divide. A crack opened in the night right where it had fed moments earlier.

  Some creature was transitioning. How could this be?

  Its muscles tensed. It filled with rage. Its enemy came. It would not abandon its feast!

  * * *

  Granny set up three teams of three and one team of two. Granny and Agent Kline made up the team of two. Mr. S stayed behind to guard the mansion. He would call for help on his radio if trouble showed up.

  Granny hollered to the agents as they split up, “Do not separate, stay together! Do not go into abandoned buildings or dark shadows looking for J. R If he can’t hear you call and come out to you, then it’s too late for him anyway. Stay in the middle of the street and check in with me by radio every five minutes. If you find him, or see the rat or anything strange, radio in at once.”

  After the teams headed out in different directions, Agent Kline turned to Granny. “Do you smell that? Like dead bodies and rotten eggs all stirred up together?”

  Granny nodded. “Yea, the plant is sure putting out the stink tonight.”

  “No, that’s not the plant. I smelled that once before, when I saw that monstrosity of a rodent in the mansion, down in its dungeon. The rat is close by! My nose is not wrong.”

  Shining their heavy-duty flashlights in front of them, the two men scouted down California Street. As they rounded a corner, the air in front of them shimmered and ripped apart. Agent Kline lost his balance, although the ground wasn’t moving, and he stumbled backward but did not fall.

  “A transition. We’re having a transition,” Granny stated matter-of-factly.

  “No kidding,” Agent Kline muttered under his breath.

  Where the night gloom had rent in two, a huge undulating, green cylindrical body appeared—the Mojave Green snake. It slithered rapidly away from the duo.

  With a passing view of its face, Agent Kline noted that the pool cue no longer stuck out of the snake’s head, but the one eye was gone. Mr. C had done it lasting damage when he punctured that eye with the cue. That act of self-defense had turned out to be very effective.

  Rising up high on its long, limbless torso, the snake hissed into the shadowy darkness. Granny placed his hand on Agent Kline’s shoulder, as if to restrain him.

  The gesture was unneeded. Agent Kline clearly had no intention of following the snake.

  “It sees something in the dark. It’s after something else,” Granny whispered.

  He spoke quietly into his handheld radio, giving their location.

  “All agents converge on us immediately. I repeat. All agents converge on this location.”

  A loud, angry hiss tore through the night. The sound had not come from the snake.

  * * *

  Its hair stood on end in ragged clumps. Its dagger-sharp teeth were bared and dripping slime. Every muscle was taut like a tightly wound spring, ready to explode.

  It hissed again, standing over its meal, warning away the intruder.

  Even more than the strange humans it sensed gathering nearby, it hated this overgrown reptile, this voracious serpent. Its oldest memories were of hate for this snake. This treacherous reptile that pursued it from the old time through the new time, that threatened it always.

  All its years, this snake had been its mortal enemy.

  Claws extended, the rat reared back, prepared to pounce on the enemy. The enemy’s head moved high above its own, swaying back and forth, preparing to strike.

  The rat lunged forward, as if to make the first strike, but feinted at the last second. The enemy struck too, not a feint, its poison-filled fangs coming perilously close, but the rat eluded the strike. Before the enemy could resume its position, it made a real offensive attack.

  The rat felt reptile skin tear under its green, slimy teeth as it ripped skin and scales off the enemy’s neck. So intent was it on its enemy, it ignored the hated lights now shining on the battle.

  * * *

  The special agents gathered with Granny as directed and stared with amazement and not a little trepidation as a battle raged between the two giant monsters. The snake was larger, but fought only with a primal instinct honed by decades of experience in attacking and killing prey. With true animosity, the rat fought with a predator’s instinct to preserve its own life and with a significant amount of primitive logic that the snake did not have.

  Over and over, the snake struck at the rat, and the rat bounced aside, sometimes just barely out of the way, counter-attacking when it could, clawing and biting at the snake’s scaled body. The battle would have been fascinating if it had not been so horrifying. Both monsters were man-eaters, and the winner of this fight would likely turn next to come after the agents themselves.

  Feint and parry, strike and bite, the snake kept attacking the rat, who sprung away, only to dart in to bite and claw the snake. The rat had the upper hand, giving more damage than it got, but just one successful strike by the snake, one bite with fangs and venom, and the rat would be dead.

  The snake pushed in tirelessly, trying to corner the rat, coming dangerously close. Moving like a mongoose, the rat stayed just out of reach, taunting the snake. The snake hesitated, raising its head high, slowly swaying back and forth in a hypnotic manner, tasting the air with its tongue.

  The rat also swayed,
almost imperceptibly, matching the movement of the snake. The remaining eye of the snake stared coldly, fixed on its intended prey. The rat’s eyes shifted quickly back and forth. The reptile fought with emotionless resolve, it expression never changing. The rodent, with its curled lips, bared teeth and panicked eyes, exuded hate and fear.

  Once again, the snake struck, but instead of moving backwards, the rat jumped to the blind side of the snake. As it reared back, the snake lost sight of the rat with its remaining eye, and the rat took advantage. Pouncing onto the snake’s neck, it wrapped its legs around the scaly torso as if it were climbing a tree, claws and teeth finding sure purchase.

  The snake went into a frenzy, dropping its head to the ground, rolling and squirming, trying to dislodge the rat. The rat dug its claws in deeper and bit harder with its razor sharp teeth.

  The snake frenetically spun along the ground, scattering the audience of agents in a mad dash in all directions as they tried to avoid becoming collateral damage. Reptile and rodent banged against an abandoned house. The wall bent and old asbestos siding tiles flew in all directions.

  The rat was finally dislodged. Scurrying to its feet, it assumed an attack position, but the snake had had enough. Turning, it slithered away from its foe. Agents again hustled to stay clear, but the snake ignored them as it glided away.

  The night air bent and split again, opening a view into the other world, the one without paved streets and sunburnt houses. Through that split in the night, the snake slid, moving out of this world and into its own. The crack healed itself with a clap of thunder. The Mojave Green was gone.

  A few of the agents heaved sighs of relief, but Granny yelled, “The rat! The rat! The rat is still on this side! Quick! Gather together, standing back to back with lights searching outward.”

  Lights shined in every direction as the agents anxiously tried to put eyes on the rat again.

  Agent Kline expected all their flashlights to go out at any second. But the lights didn’t flicker, and the agents did not find the rat. Taking advantage of the snake’s precipitous retreat, the rat had quietly slunk away with most of the remains of its precious feast.

  However, the agents did find J. R. Or what little bits and pieces were left of him.

  VIII

  Mr. C labored for breath as he sat in his wheelchair behind a stainless steel table in a small, sterile room, set aside for him in the hospital. He waited for his brother and that young kid, California Gold Jones. What a stupid name, he thought. Someone should slap his parents.

  The pain in his chest and back was excruciating; his head throbbed. None of this improved his bad disposition. At least, it helped him forget the pain he normally felt in his legs and feet.

  Truthfully, he should be dead. He knew that. The giant fangs of the Mojave Green rattlesnake had pierced him all the way through, letting almost all the venom squirt out the other side of his body. If all that neuro-toxic venom had been injected into his torso, he would have died in seconds. As it was, each breath he took was nothing less than an agonizing miracle.

  Mr. C preferred to think the reason he was still alive was a result of his own stubborn will and mean personality. There was no room for death in his current plans.

  A U.S. marshal brought in the kid and sat him down at the steel table opposite Mr. C. The kid was shackled by both wrists to a chain around his waist. A separate chain shackled his ankles.

  “Take the chains off,” Mr. C grumbled angrily. “This young man is not a danger to anyone.”

  “Sir, this is just standard procedure,” the guard replied stiffly.

  “If I wanted to know your standard procedure, I would read your policy manual. Now, don’t be obtuse. Get those chains off of him!”

  The guard produced a ring of keys and removed all the shackles.

  At that point, Mr. S walked into the room and took a seat next to the prisoner, opposite Mr. C. Without looking at the guard, Mr. C jerked his head in the direction of the door. “You may go.”

  The guard opened his mouth to protest, but clenched his jaw as he apparently thought better of it. He left the room with a sullen expression, closing the door behind him.

  Mr. C turned to Mr. S. “When is his next hearing?”

  “In about four weeks. The judge will then reconsider the issue of bail and set a trial date.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time. We better move right away.”

  Mr. S leaned across the stainless steel table and furrowed his brow as he studied Mr. C more closely. “I know we keep having this conversation, but I still say not yet. It’s too early. You’re not ready. You need time to rest and get better.”

  Mr. C hung his head, clinging tightly to the arms of his wheelchair, somewhat short of breath. The concern on Mr. S’s face deepened as he reached out to rest a hand on Mr. C’s shoulder.

  “Should I call for the nurse?”

  “Of course not!” Mr. C’s head flew back up, but he did not resist the gentle hand on his shoulder. “If anything kills me, it will be your incessant coddling. The best way for you to help me is to listen to what I am saying. Don’t fight me on this!

  “My medical condition is all the more reason to move as soon as possible. I’m not free of the effects of the snake’s venom. I could be dead in weeks, or,” he hesitated, “even days. I may not have a medical degree, but I can read my own charts. I know my prognosis is not going to improve—at least, not in this world.”

  Mr. S started to respond, but Mr. C interrupted. “Let’s not debate this in front of our young friend here. Let’s take care of the business at hand, and we will continue this conversation later.” He turned his whole body, with a grimace, to face the young man in the blue jumpsuit. “Now, Mr. Jones, tell us again about the flash flood you and the other kid, uh, Sebastian, were caught in.”

  For the first time Cal spoke, “You mean Lenny?”

  Mr. C sighed, causing him to grimace again. Any movement around his punctured ribs was extremely painful. “Yeah, yeah, Lenny, Sebastian, whatever! That other knuckleheaded kid!”

  Mr. C put a strong emphasis on the word “other.” “Your tall, skinny friend, the kid that is still in the other world. Tell us again about the flash flood you both went through . . . and survived.”

  Cal straightened in his chair and glanced around the barren room, white, antiseptic and claustrophobically small. Mr. C wondered if Cal searched for listening devices. The room had been cleaned of all possible surveillance and electronic devices. It was clean in more ways than one.

  Cal’s face was guarded as he finally folded his hands on top of the table. “I’ve already told you everything that happened over there. You know, my story isn’t going to change.”

  Mr. C’s hand lay flat on a stack of notepapers piled on the steel table. He scrunched the top paper into a wad as his hand slowly curled into a fist. Exasperation painted his face.

  Cal leaned back in alarm.

  A fluorescent light above Mr. C’s head flickered randomly and buzzed unceasingly. He had refused pain medication so his mind could be clear for this interrogation, but the pain was doing nothing to aid his patience.

  He heaved a deep, agonizing cough into a handkerchief, glancing at it to confirm his spittle and sputum were still pink in color. Through practiced willpower, he forced the tension out of his body. He forced his brain to ignore the buzzing noise. Slowly, he relaxed his face and released the paper from his grip. With a conscious effort, he looked up and did not sigh.

  Both Mr. S and the kid watched him closely.

  “Young man,” he said, “are you stupid? Do you like being in federal custody?”

  “What?” Cal straightened, startled by the abrasive personal attack.

  Outside the sterile room’s closed door, the deep voice of the U.S. marshal suddenly boomed out from the hospital hallway threatening to put some unseen person into handcuffs. Fema
le voices, probably nurses, could then be heard laughing softly, before fading away down the hall.

  Neither Mr. C nor Cal broke eye contact.

  Forcing himself to stay calm, Mr. C repeated, “Do you like being in federal custody? Do you like lockup?” He leaned forward slightly. “Kid, do you enjoy being in prison?”

  “Uh, no. No, I don’t.” Cal looked confused. The answer seemed obvious.

  “Young man,” Mr. C spoke slowly. “I am this far,” he held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, “from sending you to prison for the rest of your natural life.

  “And if I want, and do not doubt it, I will send you away without a trial.” He shrugged slightly. “I will send you to some dark hell hole in some abandoned corner of this world where you will not only be forgotten, but totally and utterly forsaken.”

  Mr. C’s hard, unblinking eyes bore deep into Cal, who shifted in his chair nervously. Above them, the fluorescent light flickered and continued to buzz.

  “Do not trifle with me. Do not play stupid games with me. Do you understand?”

  Cal gave a tight-lipped, solemn nod, eyes slitted as if he were facing down a monster. Mr. S placed a hand on Cal’s shoulder, but removed it as Mr. C brusquely waved it away.

  “So here it is. Listen carefully, because I’m going to cut you a deal, and you will have only one chance to take it or leave it. You will answer every question I ask. You will tell me everything you know, saw, or heard. Everything! You will tell me stuff you forgot you knew. Understand?”

  After a brief pause, Cal straightened and nodded.

  Mr. C leaned closer. “You will go back to Trona with us, back to that blasted mansion, and when that blasted clock strikes twelve, you will go back to that alternate world to be our guide.”

  Cal swallowed hard and jerked his head again as he resolutely said, “Okay.”

  “No!” Mr. S protested, slapping his hand down on the steel table like he was pounding a metal drum. “You know that is crazy. A trip through dimensions could kill you!”

  Ignoring the objection, Mr. C still did not break eye contact with Cal.