by Ryder Stacy
“We’ve got enough to pay for the meal here.” Rock smiled. “Thanks to my trapper friend here.”
“I didn’t say you looked that poor, stranger. We trust people here. Lots of folks swear by our food. We’re just one big happy family at Joe’s. Ain’t we?” she half-yelled over to some of the customers seated on the stools.
“Yeah sure,” a couple of truckdrivers nursing their cups of steaming black coffee muttered back from a few feet away. Rock wanted to ask the big semi-drivers just what the hell they were hauling out here in the middle of nowhere and where it was going. But he didn’t feel like getting into a barroom brawl. Asking too many questions in a strange place when you’re outnumbered twenty-to-one by a bunch of anachronisms wasn’t a good idea. They’d just eat without questioning where the food came from and get out.
The waitress returned several minutes later with their steaming plates of food. She slammed them down on the counter and then handed them each a glass full of a dark liquid. Archer’s meal disappeared in six quick bites washed down by the bubbling beverage.
“Here’s your orders, mister,” Shirley said, looking askance at Archer. “The Coke’s on the house—comes with the dinner. Say, you guys got something to trade of course for your meals. We deal in barter here—tobacco, pelts, ammo, stuff like that’s OK. What do you got—before I order another round of T-bone for your hungry friend?”
“Well, we’ve got some gold coins,” Rock answered, taking a bite of the juicy burger and a sip of the legendary Coca-Cola which he had never tasted before. “Will that do?” Rock rolled a twenty-ruble gold coin from his Russian Emergency Pack across the table. The waitress’s face twitched.
“Put that away mister. Guys around here get plenty jumpy when they see loot like that. I don’t know if I have enough change for something that big.”
“We’ll be ordering some food to go—you have things to go, don’t you?” the Doomsday Warrior asked, taking a big mouthful of the deliciously greasy fries.
“Mister, for a double-eagle gold piece, you can have all the food in the place. Where the hell did you blow in from anyway?”
“From up north,” Rock mumbled between bites.
“North—incredible,” Shirley said, her eyes widening. “How far, Pritchyard Junction?”
“No, Lake Superior.” Rock said it a little too loud. The chatter stopped around the diner. A tree-sized man rose from his nearby booth and came walking over.
“You shitting liar, mister,” the tree said angrily. “There ain’t no north—not since the big tornados of 1989.”
“Tornados?” Rock asked incredulously. “You mean the all-out nuclear war?” Shirley gasped, dropping a plate on the countertop.
“Mister,” the tree said slowly between clenched teeth. “You start rumors like that—that there was some damned nuke war back then—and I’ll have your hide. Stories like that cause trouble around here. We call ’89 the year of the big tornados.” He squinted his eyes at both of the freefighters. “Get me?”
Rock was mad for a split second, but then thought better of it. “Yeah—we get you.” The big man smiled.
“Well now, that’s better—ain’t it, folks? The fella made a little mistake. Now it’s all right. Hey, folks, get back to eating. Anyone got a nickel for the juke?”
Rock remembered the anthropology lectures by Dean Keppel back in Century City. “Never buck a local superstition, Rock, it could mean your life. People like to be affirmed in their beliefs—no matter how bizarre it may appear to you.” So the folks around here didn’t even believe there had been a war. So be it. He slapped Archer on the back to relax him. The big freefighter was still glaring over at the table of the tree ready to have a go at it. But the second helping of steak appeared in the nick of time and Archer dug in.
“Eat hearty, my friend—we have lots of credit here.” Archer did—and then ordered again.
Seven
When they’d finished eating as much as they could possibly stuff into their stomachs, both men felt exhausted. Rock wished he could get a bath and just sack out for the night—without half-naked panther women tying him up, or flaming balls of lightning on his tail. The waitress noticed Rock’s weariness and suggested the Three Little Bears Motel just down the road about a hundred yards.
“You have to watch carefully,” she said. “The neon sign’s been out for years. But they got good clean rooms and—” she leaned forward so as not to be heard by the other diners—“back behind the office is a little room where a gambling man and his friend could find some high-stakes players. If there’s more where that twenty piece came from.” She winked. “Just tell ’em, Shirley sent you. After you check in and all.”
“I’m afraid,” Rock said, “we’re dog-tired. We’ll probably just get some sleep and—”
“Game goes on twenty four hours a day,” Shirley continued, wiping the counter with a peculiar white towel made of bubbly white paper that seemed to absorb any spills quickly. “You can go in anytime. Someone will be there to take your money—or give you his. The game’s fair. The motel owner, Morrie Maliber, won’t have it any other way. It’s good for biz.”
Rockson thanked her kindly and the two freefighters slogged back out to the road. Archer had been given some pink liquid from a tablespoon by Shirley that seemed to have cured his indigestion after all those steaks and fries and donuts. Now all he complained about was, “Sleeeep, sleeeep.”
“Yeah, me too, pal. You and I will rent a nice soft bed for ourselves. Maybe three—two for you and one for me.” They walked down the dark road and easily found the motel deep set in a grove of pine trees with its paint peeling off and its sign—three bears sleeping in feather beds—half hanging from its hinges. The filthy khaki-clad Rockson and the pungent beaver-fur-jacketed Archer made quite a pair as they rang the bell to the office.
“Door’s open,” a voice yelled out from inside as a table lamp was switched on. The motel manager, dressed in a red lumberjack jacket, his head as devoid of hair as an egg, was yawning loudly. He eyed them suspiciously. “Can you pay?” he asked. “Up front.”
“Shirley sent us,” Rock said, rolling a shiny gold piece across the wood counter. The motel keep snagged it and quickly bit into the coin.
“Damned if it ain’t real.” He smiled broadly. “The name’s Maliber, Morrie Maliber, hospitality chief of the Three Little Bears. I got a nice double—big beds, shower and everything. And you probably know about our . . . parlor.” He pointed to a door which was open to the back room just a crack. Cigarette and cigar smoke drifted out amidst the sounds of cards slapping down on a table.
“Yeah, thanks,” Rock said. “But we have to clean up and get some shut-eye. Maybe later.”
“Well, sure, any friend of Shirley’s a friend of mine,” the manager said. “I’ll ring for the bellboy.” Maliber pounded a little bell on the counter, put a small round red hat on and came around the front. “If you’ll follow me this way, sir.” He led them outside and down a few yards to one of a row of small bungalos. The room inside was big and comfortable-wood panelled with pictures of seagulls hanging on the walls. It even had an ancient television set inside. “Sheets, towels, everything’s all ready,” Maliber said, waiting by the door with an expectant look on his face.
“Oh yeah,” Rock muttered, remembering the etiquette of old. He took out the smallest coin he could find, a five-ruble silver piece and handed it to the man. Maliber’s eyes lit up like pinball bumpers.
“Thank you, thank you very much, sir, and I hope you have a pleasant night.” He gently closed the door but they could hear him laughing out loud as he walked back to the office.
Rock tested the bed—soft as cotton and then walked over to the TV set. He knew it had to be dead but couldn’t resist turning the knob. It lit up—with a picture of John Wayne, lit from behind by a light bulb, staring out at him. A voice on some kind of record spoke out from the speaker. “Reach for it, pardner, or I’ll blast you to the sky. Reach for it, pardner, or I�
��ll blast you to sky.” The recording played over and over, skipping slightly on a scratch. Rock turned it off. Somehow he doubted that ancient TV had been quite like that.
He heard noises from the other room. Archer was already in the shower, humming his version of “Home on the Range.”
“Save some soap—and water—for me,” Rock yelled, flopping down onto one of the two massive beds made out of tree logs. The images of the diner kept sweeping through his mind like a mad dream. Just when he thought he’d seen it all, something would pop up to challenge any ideas he had about becoming jaded.
The water stopped and Archer came out wrapped in a towel that barely covered his midsection—with the three bears printed on it.
“You must be Poppa Bear,” Rock joked, rising and heading for the shower himself. He took a long one, washing off the grease and dirt of their last few days’ ordeal. When he came out he heard elephantlike noises from one of the beds. Archer was snoring like a buzzsaw. But Rock was so tired that the second he hit the cool white sheets he fell into a deep sleep—snores or no snores.
The doorbell to their cabin rang when it was already bright and sunny outside. It was Maliber, holding a tray of scrambled eggs and bacon. “Breakfast in bed. You might want to tip the bellboy, gentlemen,” he said, the absurd little hat perched on his head like a red bird’s nest. Rock found another small silver coin and pressed it into the motel manager’s meaty hand. “Thanks, mister. Checkout’s at 11:00—unless you want to pay for another night.”
“What’s the daily rate?” Rock asked. Maliber took his bellboy cap off again.
“Ten dollars each per night—plus five for the water.”
“Sounds steep,” Rock said, aware of his dwindling supply of gold.
“Mister, this here’s the only operating motel north of the Mason-Dixon line. You’re lucky as hell to find us.”
“Well, maybe I can win some of it back in the game room,” Rock said, grinning.
“That’s the spirit,” Maliber said. “You might. Then again . . .”
Rockson grabbed his plate off the tray just as Archer was about to consume it, having long since finished his. “Not so fast, pal,” the Doomsday Warrior said. “I may be smaller than you but I got to eat too.” Their clothes had been cleaned and pressed overnight and lay folded over an armchair by the window. “Never knew these leggings were brown, not soot black,” Rock remarked to Archer. “And that white shirt offsets your beard very nicely. Come on—we have to win some of that money back.”
They entered the back room where a card game was in progress. Five stone-faced men looked up as the two freefighters came in and sat down around the green felt-top table.
“We’re playing poker—five card draw,” the dealer said. “You know the game?”
“I’ve played a few hands,” Rock answered, putting his elbows up on the table. The men introduced themselves. The dealer was Handsome Jack, with black Stetson hat and bow tie, who looked as smooth as the red silk vest he wore. Next, Bart the Bastard with his thin mustache and dark leather jacket. “Watch out for him,” Maliber, who had come into the room, whispered in Rock’s ear. “He might have an ace up his sleeve—or a gun.” Then there was One-Eyed Swamprat, a goofily grinning toothless old man with lots of what looked like gold staples in his ears and almost pink colored hair, who seemed friendly enough despite his weird appearance. At the far end of the table were two beefy lumberjacks in blue jack shirts, who looked Rockson up and down coldly.
Handsome Jack took a drag of a rhubarb cigarette and dealt the cards like a pro, snapping them out at lightning speed around the table. The stakes were small at first but quickly grew as they downed coffee after coffee and the room filled with acrid smoke. Rock tried one of the cigs offered by Handsome Jack. “A mixture of rhubarb and swamp-grown tobacco,” giggled One-Eyed Swamprat, as Rock choked and blew out the wretched-tasting smoke. “Grewed it myself on pig manure,” Swamprat said, taking a deep drag.
“Great.” Rock frowned, guzzling a cup of the good hot brew. That at least was real.
With Rock’s PSI ability he could sense if the person who was raising had anything or was just bluffing. It paid off. A pile of gold pieces, watches, jewels and rings filled his side of the table. Handsome Jack looked more and more disturbed and at last took out a big silver-handled revolver, placing it on the table in from of him. “To keep it honest.” He smiled.
“Suits me,” Rock said. “I never cheat.”
“Mighty lucky fellow,” Maliber said. “But I’ve been watching him. He ain’t cheatin’, Handsome. Relax.” But the gun wasn’t removed.
Handsome Jack won a few rounds but Rockson thought he saw something flick down his sleeve several times. He placed his long-bladed Kreega knife on the table next to his cards. “To keep it honest,” he said between tight lips.
“Sure,” Handsome snapped. But there were no more movements down the sleeve. Soon the crew—except for Rock and Handsome—were out of cash and madly scribbling IOUs. Maliber’s lumberjack friend, who was apparently a cousin of his named Surefoot, was down on his luck that day and finally opened a greasy wallet from which he extracted a key. “Keys to my ’83 Buick Roadmaster, specially equipped for long hauls in hostile territory. Guess that keeps me in the pot—must be worth one thousand rubles at least.”
“I’d like a look at it,” Rock said as it was his twenty-ruble gold pieces that were being met.
“Just take a look out the window there,” Surefoot said, pointing to the back of the room. Rockson rose and pulled back the yellow curtains and looked out behind the motel. It was a beautiful-looking machine. Red, with hardly any rust and huge thick-treaded tires. Some sort of chimney had been punched right through the roof and it appeared to have a square sheet of steel welded to the back. Rock closed the curtain and turned, sitting back down at the table.
“Does it go?” he asked.
“Go? Man, that thing will beat hell out of anything on the goddamned roads,” Surefoot said proudly. “Runs on alcohol, got the engine in the back seat and a two hundred-gallon storage tank. Got a machine gun—a .55—mounted in the front and that there inch-thick steel sheet on the back. Fuckin’ thing will stop a cannon. Also got an instant fuel-dump, which shoots all the alcohol out in case of an accident or something. Also got—”
“OK, OK,” Rock said, holding his hand up. “I believe you. All right, I’ll accept the car as equal to the stakes on the table. Deal,” he said to Handsome Jack. Rock watched him carefully. He noticed eye signals between Surefoot and Handsome during the game. They were working together to get Rock.
Sure enough, Surefoot threw a full house on the table—kings and queens. He reached out to rake in the fortune in jewelry and gold as the stakes had been raised and raised.
“Hold it,” Rock said. He threw down a royal straight, higher than a full house, and pulled the enormous pot, with the keys to the Buick along with it.
“Well, I’ll be a shit-eating rattler,” Surefoot said, jumping up and pulling a small pistol from his pocket. He stared over at Handsome Jack. “You pretend to be my partner and suck me into this. All the time you been working with this newcomer here, settin’ me up.” He cocked the gun, swinging it around at Rockson but suddenly felt the presence of Archer standing behind him with a raised fist, ready to slam the man’s head into splinters.
“Wouldn’t fire that gun if I were you,” Rock said. “My friend here can get pretty mean.” The rest of the players beat a hasty retreat out the door. Surefoot lowered his pistol and put it back in his waistband. He stared long and hard at Rockson, then exited. Rock pushed enough gold coins over to Maliber, who stood there frozen, to pay for their rent and water. Then he and Archer rose and headed outside. He suspected that Surefoot had something in mind—like shooting them both in the back, before they could get the car out of the lot. The two freefighters lugged their winnings—some skunkskin pelts, a bag of wrist and pocket watches, a half dozen leather-bound books, several bear traps and two pistols, along
with the loot over to the car. Rock walked around the freshly painted red vehicle. It had a chrome grill through which the muzzle of the .55mm machine gun poked. He stuck his head in the driver’s window and saw bucket seats made out of Fiberglas and a surprisingly sophisticated dashboard with dials and computerized systems checks. A joystick at the other side of the seat apparently controlled the machine gun with a red button on top for firing. But there wasn’t time for a complete investigation. He wanted to get out of there before they were attacked by the whole damned community. He wasn’t in the mood for taking on truckers, lumberjacks, cowboys, bobby-socked teens and god knew what else.
He and Archer climbed in as Maliber walked over to them, his hands at his sides to show he had no weapons.
“Just want you to know that I think you won every bit of this here car fair and square,” the motel-keep said, putting his hand out. Rock shook it and smiled.
“Thanks for the hospitality. I appreciate it. I’ll tell all my friends to stop by here if they’re ever up in this neck of the woods.”
“You do that, now,” Maliber smiled. “And come back yourself. You got to give us all a chance to win back some of this stuff.”
“Sure,” Rock shouted as he turned on the engine. The alcohol drive sputtered to life as a puff of black smoke shot out the chimney on top. The car shook with power. He put the roadster in gear and pressed the accelerator. The tires trailed rubber for fifty yards as they shot down the blacktop like a bat out of hell. Archer turned pale and groaned, “Slooow, Roocksoon, slooow, pleeeassse.” But Rock wanted to get out of there fast. He had a feeling . . .
Sure enough, as they hit the end of the lot and reached the dirt road heading south, two shots rang out from behind a tree, narrowly missing them as two holes appeared in the center of the windshield. They turned a bend in the road and were quickly lost behind trees. Archer kept growling and as soon as they were out of sight of the motel Rock slowed the car a little. It handled fine, but the going was bumpy and he wanted to get the feel of the wheel before he really opened her up.
