by Pete Hautman
“How’s that leg?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Check it out.” Ronnie leaned forward and pulled up the left leg of his jeans. From the knee down it was metal and plastic. “Works better than the old one.”
“Let me guess. You were in a high-tech hospital in the future.”
“You know about that? Yeah! Changed my life. They fixed me up and sent me back. Did something to me so I don’t want to get high no more, too. Cost me a kidney, though.”
“So now you’re like a teetotaling bionic jerkwad?”
Ronnie laughed. “Same old Kosh. Listen, I made some bad decisions. You know how it is.”
Kosh thought of all the times Ronnie had talked him into doing something stupid.
“Yeah, I do. Sort of your specialty.”
“Anyways, I’m sorry. I’m done with all that. I’m a new man.”
“Right.”
“Seriously. I’m done with the Lambs. I don’t know how I ever got involved with them. I think about it now, it’s like a nightmare.”
Kosh wanted to not believe him, but Ronnie really did seem different.
“Do you know where they are?”
Ronnie cocked his head. “The Lambs? Why?”
Maybe not so different — still looking for the angle.
“I got business with them,” Kosh said.
Ronnie thought for a moment, then said, “If I was you, I wouldn’t mess with those guys.” His eyes went to Kosh’s fists, and he reconsidered. “Tamm showed up here a week ago, trying to convince me to join up again. I told him to take a hike. They’re off in Wisconsin someplace, living in some big old barn. If I wanted to live in a barn, I’d live in this one.”
“Wisconsin’s a big state,” Kosh said.
Ronnie dabbed at his nose. “Tamm said it was off Highway 88, on something-or-other Hill Road.”
Kosh felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
“Blank Hill Road?”
“That sounds right,” Ronnie said.
Several years ago, Kosh had sewn a hundred-dollar bill into the lining of his jacket for emergencies. He tore the stitches loose and used the bill to pay for a tank of gas and a burrito in Winona. He stopped at a sporting goods store and bought a pair of cheap binoculars, then headed across the river to Wisconsin with Arnold Becker’s double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun balanced on the console beside him. He ate the burrito as he drove, chewing and swallowing mechanically.
Kind of sad, he thought, if my last meal is a microwaved gas station burrito.
He drove up Highway 88 toward Blank Hill Road. He had driven that route hundreds of times, but now everything looked eerily unfamiliar, as if reality had slipped a cog. All the colors were too bright, the edges of things too sharp and focused. Was everything more vivid because he was seeing it for the last time? Would Emily be proud of him?
Not Emily, Emma! He was getting them mixed up in his head. “Emma is not Emily,” he said aloud. He thought back to the last time he had seen Emily — the real Emily — and felt his gut begin to churn. It wasn’t the burrito. He’d been, what — seventeen? And Emily had been only a couple of years older. Too young to have their hearts ripped out and stomped on. But that was what had happened.
HOPEWELL, 1997 CE
“KOSH?” IT WAS EMILY, HER VOICE SHAKING.
“Yeah?” Kosh gripped the phone, sensing that something was horribly wrong.
“It’s Greta. She’s — I think she’s having a heart attack. Oh my god, her face is all red!”
“Did you call an ambulance?”
“Yes!”
“Is she breathing?”
“I think so, yes. Dad’s with her.”
“Do you know CPR?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Oh, please, Kosh, can you come?”
Kosh was already pulling his boots on. Seconds later, he was on his bike. He kicked the starter a dozen times. Nothing. In a fury, he jumped off and kicked the bike, denting the gas tank and knocking the bike onto its side. With a roar of frustration at the unjust universe, he went back inside for the keys to Adrian’s Mustang.
The ambulance was there when he arrived. Greta was on a gurney in the kitchen. The paramedics were putting an IV line in her arm. She looked scared. Hamm was hovering over them, ignoring the paramedics’ pleas to give them room to work. Emily stood with her back to the stove, white-faced, gripping the oven door handle with both hands. Kosh put his arm around her shoulders.
“We were just sitting down to eat,” she said, her voice small. “She just crumpled up.”
“She’ll be okay,” Kosh said, hoping it was true.
“I know,” Emily said, though she clearly didn’t believe it.
Hamm rode to the hospital with Greta in the ambulance; Kosh and Emily followed in Adrian’s car.
“She said she wasn’t feeling good,” Emily said. “This morning she was complaining about twinges in her chest. I just thought it was being old. She and Hamm are always saying how creaky they are. I should’ve listened.”
“It’ll be okay,” Kosh said, because he didn’t know what else to say.
Emily fell silent, sitting hunched forward, her red-rimmed eyes fastened on the back of the ambulance. Kosh kept the car dead center in his lane, arms stiff on the wheel, concentrating on driving perfectly. He had never driven Adrian’s Mustang before. It wasn’t as nice as he had thought — just a clunky econobox with some fancy details. The ambulance was traveling at a sedate sixty miles per hour, with no siren. That was a good sign. If Greta had been dying, they’d be going faster. He opened his mouth to share this thought with Emily, then thought better of it. He glanced at Emily and cleared his throat.
“About another ten minutes,” he said.
Emily nodded. Her face was drawn and brittle. Even so, she was as beautiful as ever.
They were at the hospital all night. Hamm would not leave Greta’s side. After the first hour, when the doctor assured them that Greta would live and that it was a minor cardiac event — something called angina — Kosh and Emily went to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a bite to eat. They talked about little things. Neither of them brought up that Kosh had been avoiding her. Later, they brought Hamm a turkey sandwich, then went to the hospital lobby and sat on a sofa and pretended to read magazines. Sometime around midnight, Kosh noticed that Emily’s People magazine had fallen to her lap. Her eyes were closed. He put his arm around her and cradled her head on his shoulder, and for several hours they did not move.
When Kosh woke up, his arm was dead. He gently pulled himself free and replaced his arm with one of the sofa pillows. Massaging his arm, he went down the hall to Greta’s room. Hamm was slumped in the visitor’s chair, head back, snoring. Greta was snoring too, though not as loudly.
Kosh went back to the lobby. Emily’s eyes fluttered open. She saw him approaching and she smiled. An instant later, she realized where she was, and why, and sat up.
“Greta’s fine,” Kosh said quickly.
Emily relaxed slightly.
“They’re both in there snoring to each other.”
Emily laughed. The sound of it echoed through his bones.
By the end of her second day in the hospital, Greta Ryan declared herself “fit as a fang-dang fiddle” and convinced the doctors to send her home, much to the relief of her harried and abused nurses. Kosh was surprised and amused to see Greta, the sweetest, gentlest woman one could ever hope to meet, become a hospital-bed harridan. As they walked her out to the car, Greta looked over her shoulder with contempt and said, “Those girls don’t know which side their bed is buttered on!”
Kosh, worried that Greta was having a stroke, looked at Emily.
Emily said, “You’re always saying that. You don’t butter bed.”
“Somebody should tell them that,” Greta snapped.
It was getting dark by the time they got back to the house. Greta ignored the doctor’s prescription for bed rest and immediately set about cleaning the kitchen. Emily
had cleaned it that morning, but apparently not to Greta’s exacting standards. Kosh and Emily tried to help, but she shooed them off. Hamm, exhausted by his two-day vigil, put up a feeble protest, but she sent him away as well.
Kosh and Emily went outside and stood awkwardly on the front porch. Moths and other night insects flitted around the dim yellow porch light. A light, cool breeze came out of the west, bringing with it end-of-summer smells and the promise of fall.
“I guess I should get going,” Kosh said. “I got a busted bike and a pickup to fix.”
“Kosh . . .” Emily was staring at something behind him. Kosh whirled. For an instant, he thought he saw a small cloud, about the size of a person, hovering off the end of the porch. But when he looked at it directly it seemed to be no more than a wisp of condensation, or a cloud of gnats. Kosh blinked, and it was gone.
“Did you see it?” Emily said in a small voice.
“I’m not . . . sure,” Kosh said. The skin on his forearms prickled, and he became aware of his heartbeat. “I saw something.”
Emily breathed out shakily. “I’ve been seeing more of them,” she said.
Ghosts. She was talking about her ghosts.
She laughed. “Oh, I’m just being silly,” she said.
“You’re not silly.”
“Well, I feel silly. I’m just upset about Greta, and . . .” Emily cupped her palms around his right hand. “Thanks for being here, Kosh. I don’t how I could have gotten through it without you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Kosh said, embarrassed.
“You know what I mean.” She raised herself on her toes and kissed the side of his mouth. Clumsily, he moved to kiss her back, then realized what he was doing and jerked back. They stared at each other. Emily’s green eyes looked black in the yellow light.
“Silly Kosh,” she said in a husky voice. She put her hands on either side of his face and pulled him to her and kissed him full on the mouth.
TREMPEALEAU COUNTY, WISCONSIN, 2012 CE
BEHIND THE WHEEL OF RED’S VAN, KOSH LET HIS RECOLLECTION of that kiss linger in his conscious memory, then shook his head hard, casting it into the dungeons of his mind, where he kept things too sweet and painful to revisit. He pulled into an abandoned logging trail just south of his property and followed the bumpy, rutted, overgrown road along the ridge of a coulee, moving slowly, branches dragging noisily along either side of the van. Twice he had to get out and drag fallen limbs off the road.
About half a mile in, he was stopped by a fallen elm tree too big to move. He loaded two shells into the shotgun. Bird shot, but at close range it would stop anything. A few more shells went into his jacket pockets. He shouldered the gun and hiked up the trail toward the knob.
The knob was a relatively bare elevated hilltop that had once been an oak grove, but ten years back, the owner, a farmer named Emil Blatz, had logged it. Kosh had been sorry to see the oaks go, but the knob now provided a beautiful panorama of the valley including, on the far side, a view of his property. Most of the leaves had fallen, and he had a clear view of the back of his barn. He sat on a stump and focused the binoculars on the bank of second-floor windows, but saw only reflections. Shifting his view to the left, he saw a dark gray SUV parked next to the barn. He saw no sign of Emma.
Patience, he told himself. He raised the binoculars slightly to view the weathervane on the roof. If the disko was there, he couldn’t see it. Did the Lambs know about the disko? He had never mentioned it to Emma, but if it had shown up, they might have seen it.
Kosh returned his attention to the windows. A cloud had drifted over the sun, and he could now see indistinct shapes through the glass. He watched for movement and was rewarded by a figure crossing from the kitchen area toward the fireplace. Emma? He couldn’t be sure.
The smart thing to do might be to drive into town, call the cops, and tell them his home had been invaded. But he didn’t trust the cops. He could see it turning into a bloodbath, with Emma getting killed. Or maybe Gheen had spent the past weeks brainwashing Emma, and she was back to being one of them, and even if the cops kicked them out, she would stay with the Lambs. No, it was best to first find out for sure if she was there, get her to safety, and deal with the Lambs later.
He hung the binoculars around his neck, picked up the shotgun, and made his way down the steep hillside into the valley.
The local name for the valley behind Kosh’s property was Death Angel Hollow. Emil Blatz claimed it was named for the Death Angel mushroom, which grew in abundance locally. Kosh had always liked the name — it suited his somewhat morose world view — but on this day, he feared that it was entirely too appropriate.
It had been a few years since Kosh had explored the hollow. It was rough going, all fallen trees and slippery moss-covered boulders. Heavy rains often turned the bottom into a treacherous, muddy torrent. It was reasonably dry now, the forest floor covered by a carpet of fallen leaves, but he had to climb over several old log jams left by the spring floods. The far side of the valley rose steeply. Kosh made his way up the slope, grabbing on to vines and saplings when he could. Halfway up, he came to a rusty barbwire fence. Using the gun barrel to press down the top strand, he climbed over the wire onto his own property.
Standing upon his own land gave him strength. It flowed up from his feet to his legs, and filled his chest with a sense of ownership, pride, and power, overlaid with a seething anger at those who had invaded his home. Stay cool, he reminded himself. This wasn’t like confronting Ronnie Becker. These guys were armed, and he had to consider Emily’s — Emma’s — safety. As he neared the crest, he slowed. The barn came into view.
The woods were bordered by a raggedy copse of honeysuckle and prickly ash. Kosh concealed himself and considered his options.
The barn was only about thirty feet from his hiding spot. He would have to cross an open expanse of unmown grass to reach it. Looking up at the windows from below, he could see only the glare of reflected sky. Impossible to see inside. If someone was looking out he wouldn’t know.
He could wait until dark, or approach the barn by circling through the woods to the east side, where there were no windows. He decided to risk it. He broke cover, ran across the lawn to the barn, and flattened himself against the wall. A low hum, like a laboring refrigerator, was coming from inside. Staying close to the wall, he crept toward the west end. He peeked cautiously around the corner. The SUV was still there, and something else that nearly stopped his heart.
His Triumph, tipped on its side in a mud puddle next to the driveway. Outraged by seeing his bike treated that way, he started toward it, then saw a man walking from the barn toward the SUV.
Kosh raised the shotgun. A Lamb? The guy was dressed like a local: jeans, a heavy flannel shirt, and a seed cap. He wasn’t much older than Tucker, and as far as Kosh could see he wasn’t armed. Kosh lowered the gun.
The young man turned and looked directly at Kosh. They stood staring at each other for a few seconds, then the man broke and ran. Kosh started after him, then thought better of it. He didn’t know how many others were inside. Cursing, he turned and ran back into the woods.
TUCKER BURST FROM THE FOREST ONTO A TRAIL. His Medicant-enhanced legs propelled him at a tremendous pace, but not fast enough to lose the maggot. He rounded a bend and saw someone standing on the trail. A woman, her head shaven, carrying an ax. Before Tucker could veer away, the woman leaped into the air, straight toward him. Tucker ducked, lost his footing, and rolled. The woman flew over him and landed between Tucker and the maggot. She jabbed the handle of her ax into the maggot’s gaping mouth. The maggot came to a sloshing, jiggling halt.
“This is the Terminus,” said the woman. “You have no business here.”
The maggot shuddered. Its mouth slowly contracted around the ax handle, then puckered and began to roll inward. Tucker, gasping for breath, watched, fascinated, as little by little the maggot swallowed itself, gathering into a pink ball on the end of the handle. When it had reduced itsel
f to the size of a basketball — it looked to Tucker like a giant pink cake pop — the woman withdrew the ax and the maggot winked out of existence. The woman sniffed the ax handle, wrinkled her nose, then looked at Tucker.
“I assume you did not wish to visit a Boggsian crèche?” she said.
“No . . . thank you.” He heard footsteps pounding up the trail, and turned to see Lia running toward them. She stopped a few feet away, breathing heavily.
“Tucker Feye,” Lia said between breaths. “I have been looking for you.”
Tucker put his hands on Lia’s narrow shoulders and pulled her to him. She stiffened, then relaxed. The embrace lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to make their reunion real, and it held the promise of more.
Lia said, “Please do not go away again.”
“I won’t,” Tucker promised. “Only it wasn’t me that got kidnapped and swapped for a pitchfork.”
Lia smiled. “I had little choice.”
“The Yar Lia tells me you wish to return to your time,” the woman said.
“Awn says she can help us,” Lia added.
“Awn?” Tucker peered closely at the woman. She looked nothing like Awn. For one thing, she was young. No, not so much young — more like she was new. Her face was smooth and mannequin-like, as if she had just been pressed from a mold. Could this really be Awn?
“You don’t look like the Awn I know,” he said.
“I am not.” Awn’s mouth curved into an unpracticed smile. “Though perhaps I will become so. Your answer, therefore, is yes, and no.”
“Okay, you’re definitely Awn,” Tucker said.
“Told you,” Lia said.
Tucker noticed the disko hovering over the trail. “Does that disko go to Hopewell?”
“That is a local,” said Awn. “The disko you need is in the old city, atop the pyramid.”
“The same one we came out of? It’s gone.”
“It has returned.”
“Won’t it just take us back to Harmony?”
