by A. R. Braun
“Your what?”
She ignored this. “I’ve got enough rounds to pump some perverts, but I need a good night’s sleep first.”
“I didn’t say anything about killing people. That’s a sin. Just messing them up. Killing the Antichrist is murdering a devil.”
Scout snickered. “Just kidding.”
“Good girl. I’ll watch the 10:00 p.m. news to see if there’s any report about them looking for you, which I’m sure they are. You’re not nervous are you? Being a fugitive is tough.”
Scout laughed. “After what I’ve been through with Mack and Lelila and the death camp? I know that execution vehicle’s guillotine is coming for me sooner or later. I’m just happy to be doing some damage till that happens.”
“You’re a good soldier. It’s important that you stay strong. Wanna talk to Tim?”
Scout sighed. “No, he’s had a tough day, and I don’t think anything I say will cheer him up. Just be there for him, okay, Bill?”
“Will do. You have a good rest. If they barge into your motel room, wing ‘em.”
“Gotcha. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. And Scout?” There was a brief silence. “You’re a hell of a kid, you know that?”
Scout never realized it before, but because of what she’d been through with Mack and Lelila, as well as the death camp and meeting Walter Emmett Velvet, she’d become strong—brave—not naively willing to trust anybody, a kind of Wonder Woman she’d never been before. This revelation thrilled her. “Thanks. Goodnight.”
She didn’t even disrobe in case she had to run. As she lay down to sleep, she smiled.
Before, I was a coward. Now, I’m a hero.
***
Scout woke in the morning to birds chirping and the sunlight blinding her through the open windows. I was so tired I didn’t even close the drapes. It’s a miracle I wasn’t caught and brought to “justice.” She looked at the Rolex Velvet had bought her. It was eight a.m. She eased herself off the bed and headed for the bathroom to take a shower.
There’ll be no continental breakfast here.
Figuring the chancellor had given up reading her mind with her thoughts of being another person, or her thoughts blank, she relaxed. The minute amount of water coming out of the shower nozzle made her curse, but the hot water felt wonderful. I’m gonna have to get my hair cut—to the collar—and colored black or blond. I’ll need to get some new clothes, maybe a pair of flip-flops. She stayed under the water until it turned cold. What the hell. I don’t have high school anymore, and college is out now, as well as a summer job.
When she came out of the shower clad only in a towel, her cell phone rang. She looked at the watch again: 9:00 a.m. She’d stayed in there for an hour.
Good for me.
“Ello, ello, ello?”
“Scout, it’s Bill.”
She sat on the bed, making sure her hair stayed in the towel on her head and pulling the towel on her body well over the vagina. Why, she didn’t know. Oh yeah, the goddamned curtains are open. She bounded up and closed the curtains.
“What’s goin’ on, Bill?”
“Trouble.” He sighed over the phone, a heavy breath. “Have you turned on the news?”
“No.” Scout flicked on the TV and made herself watch the BBC.
“Velvet survived, and they know it was you. There’s a manhunt going on.” He sighed again. “Get a ticket for the states and come back right away.”
“Hold on.” She turned up the sound. A smart-looking blonde reported the story.
“A false member of the Satanic Army shot Chancellor Velvet in the head with a derringer, then fled the scene. Thankfully, the chancellor is in good condition at Royal London Hospital. Another satanic miracle! The woman on the run is an eighteen-year-old American named Scout Marshall. She is being sought for attempted murder of the chancellor and impersonating a satanic soldier. If you see this woman, avoid her—she’s armed and dangerous—and go to a phone and call the number on your screen. They’re offering a $50,000 award.” She turned to the handsome, short-haired announcer to her right. “I hope I see the bleedin’ woman myself.”
He chuckled. “You and me both.”
Fifty thousand? How flattering.
She remembered the scripture she’d been taught as a child, from the Revelation of Saint John the Divine: “… his deadly wound was healed …”
“Oh, Jesus Krispies,” Scout said. “How am I gonna get to the salon to change my appearance?”
“Do it yourself,” Bill answered. “Go to a nearby convenience store and buy scissors and some hair color, then get a cab to a private airport with small planes and beat feet. Use your powers of persuasion. Some sunglasses would help, too, and spray-on tan.”
Now Scout sighed. “That’s a negative. You’ve gotta have at least a little tan to use that stuff. I’ve got nothing but freckles. I burn.”
“God be with you, kiddo.”
Feeling as if she were involved with espionage, she raised a brow. “I’ve gotta go. A lot to do today. Over and out.” She broke the connection.
Rising up, then parting the curtains, she didn’t see any execution vehicles or suspicious activity, just a couple of old buggers stumbling to their cars. Across the street, about 200 paces to the right, a gas station waited like a mirage. She hadn’t seen it last night.
Time for a makeover.
She finished drying her hair—difficult without a hair dryer—dressed and headed out the door, keeping a lookout for the devil’s military.
***
Scout wasted no time picking out a pair of scissors and blond hair color, plus a big pair of sunglasses, the kind Lady Gaga would wear. Woo! I’m gonna be a blond babe like Gaga! Now if I could only tan. She bought a cheap outfit from the limited clothing selection they—thankfully!—had.
She showed her RFID chip to the cashier, paid for the items and hurried across the street. Once inside, she cut her hair the best she could—it didn’t look too bad; she could’ve been a beautician—and put on the plastic gloves. She mixed the dye, shook it up and applied it to her hair. She sat on the bed and waited a half hour for it to soak in, then she washed her hair in the shower. When done, she flicked on the news.
Walter Emmett Velvet lay smiling in a hospital bed. He stared at the camera with a goofy look in his eyes like Mr. Rogers. The crowd of people in the room clapped. He raised his hand and the sound muted. “Yes, yes, I’m quite all right. We can thank our Lord Satan for that.” He chuckled along with the guard, standing by the bed.
Then he frowned and furrowed his beetle-brow, staring at the camera with crazy eyes. “Scout, did you think you could fool me with bullocks servitude? Our efforts to track you using your chip and cell phone have failed, but rest assured, we will find you and execute you posthaste, you God-dog worshiper.
“I know you’re about to take a flight to America.” He snickered. “It won’t work. My men are stationed all over every airport in London and the surrounding area. Give yourself up. It’ll be easier that way.”
Scout harrumphed. “Blow me.” She turned off the TV.
After she dried her hair and was satisfied with the color—and, oh, how the blond kind burned her head!—she threw on a cheap pair of shorts and a tee shirt with 00 on the front, plus a pair of flip-flops (the clothes from the gas station) and called a taxi.
When the cab honked, she hurried to it and told him—in her best British accent—to take her deep into the country, after showing him her chip.
She almost squealed with excitement as she rode. Here she was an international spy or a double agent, just like in the movies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Scout looked at the boats traveling on the Thames River, then watched the highway signs for towns in rural areas as she and the cabbie crossed the London Bridge.
Should I ask him where a private airstrip is or should I keep quiet? Being a citizen of London, he’ll know what I’m trying to do.
She had the window open, be
cause, for some reason, the driver didn’t believe in air conditioning. The blast of air was a relief when the cab got going, but sweltering when he had to halt at a light or stop sign.
“Know where you’re goin’ yet, lady?” the bald, rotund cab driver asked as he glanced in the mirror.
“Blimey! Just keep drivin’. I’ll bleedin’ tell you when to stop.”
You think the guy would be glad to have a huge fare.
Then he answered, as if having read her thought, “Don’t get me wrong, love. I’m grateful for the generous fare, but I like to know where I’m goin’.”
She wondered if he really could read minds like Velvet. No, it couldn’t be. It was just a lucky guess.
Hmm. I can’t whip out my cell. They’ll be able to track me. She sighed. Now it’s time to find out if they can track me with the fake chip. She kept her cell turned off. If she could bring up Yahoo! Travel, she’d be able to find out where the nearest airstrip was.
I’m gonna have to ask him. Wait! I changed my appearance! They’re looking for a lanky redhead, not a girl with blond hair to the collar. Same build, though. Hmm. Think this through. Don’t fuck it up.
She decided to go for it. If he knew she was the fugitive, he wouldn’t be driving her. “Do you know of a private airstrip for a bird like me?”
He nodded. “There’s one in Canterbury. Solid. They’ll take ya. They’ll even teach ya how to fly, love.”
“Brilliant. Do take me there.”
So he doesn’t even suspect me. This is hella exciting. Call me Jane Bond.
***
He drove her into a small airfield full of wan planes and dropped her off at the office. Scout was glad to see a cell phone tower not too far off in the distance. She paid the hackie in Velvet Dollars and climbed out. One world currency, just like they said in church. She’d heard on the radio when the cabbie first took off that America was using the Velvet Dollar now. She wasn’t surprised.
Scout walked in, proud of how sleek she looked—her purse over her shoulder—and she endeavored to put a strut in her walk. She cruised up to a stocky man with a full head of gray-black hair. The open air kept her comfortable here.
“Ello,” he said.
“Ello, ello, ello,” Scout answered.
He snickered.
“I’d like to book a flight.”
“I’ll take her,” came a bass voice from behind her.
Scout wheeled on him, making sure her hair bounced in time, just after she’d turned, like a Pantene commercial. She smiled, showing teeth, pulled down her sunglasses and even gave him a wink. “Much obliged, sir.”
Possessing a rock-solid build, the young man had a shock of short red hair. He waved her out the door. “Come on, lovie, got just the plane for ya. You travelin’ or learnin’ to fly?”
She kept up with him, swaying her hips all the while. She licked her lips as she looked him over. “Travelin’, deary.”
He put his sunglasses on. The sun bore down on them like a bully. “I got a piper cub over ‘ere ain’t doin’ nothing. You’re payin’, I’m flyin’. Where ya headed?”
“America.”
He stopped and turned his head slowly her way, a grimace on his face. “America? Don’t really go that way, love. We’d have to get clearance to land there. You’d have to have your passport.”
“Already got it.” She made herself rub his arm. “You’d take your big, bad plane to America for me, wouldn’t ya?” she baby-talked. She pulled up her shorts a bit, as well as her shirt. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Beads of sweat erupted on his forehead and his eyes widened. His brows rose.
“Is that a British snake or are ya happy to see me, mate?”
Practically drooling, he nodded. “America it is.” He started walking again and she strutted along with him. “Whereabouts?”
“Mowquakwa, Illinois.”
“For this kind of trip I’ll need the Piper Warrior.” He led her over to a white plane with a propeller in front and opened the door for her.
Just like that, it was set.
***
Scout had to pay him up front. It cost her damn-near all her money. She flirted with him the whole way, even letting him stroke her leg.
“Blimey,” she cried. “Keep your eyes on the sky.”
“Where’d you get that scar on your cheek, lovey?”
The insane thing was, Scout couldn’t even remember at first.
Oh yeah, Mack’s window.
“Get in a catfight?”
She winked at him. “You betcha, ya gallant bloke.”
He snickered. “Rarrrrrr.”
He got clearance on his radio to land at a private airstrip just outside of Mowquakwa in Tomahawk, a suburb.
He leered at her. “How about a layover in a hotel room, li-ul miss pretty one?”
She whipped out her derringer. “How about your face blown off?”
Don’t have an answer for that, do ya, wise guy?
“Rarrrrrr,” she mocked, then debarked.
The plane took off slowly, moving away from her. He closed the door as the machine cruised down the runway. Scout heard him say, “Cheeky bitch” now that he was a safe distance away. Laughing, she hurried to the office and called a cab.
Damn. If I’m gonna be into espionage, I ought to have a sweet ride.
No time for that, though, especially since she was almost out of money. She showed the gray-haired hackie her microchip and gave her Bill’s address.
It’s good to be home.
***
Scout realized she was having more fun than she’d ever had in her life as she walked up the concrete walkway to Bill’s house. The raging heat made her sweat and feel dizzy. It was too hot for June. Global warming? Well, the world was coming to an end. She couldn’t wait to get inside. She rang the doorbell and nobody answered. She pounded on the door and still no answer.
Dare I try to use my cell phone and call ‘em? Nah, don’t. They’ll track me.
Scout thought about her 667 chip. They should’ve still been able to track her. It was the same chip. It’s just that it wasn’t their code. She’d be better off at a motel out by a cell phone tower to scramble the signal. She decided to do just that. She walked next-door to ask whoever to use their phone.
As she made her way up to the stoop, a bear of a man came out the door with flabby love handles and man-tits exposed since he didn’t wear a shirt. His twisted face—complete with jowls—along with his beady eyes, let her know she couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t turn on her phone, either, not till she got to the cell phone tower.
“Yeah?” he asked. It looked like his head of short hair was fighting to fall out, but not winning yet.
Rogaine.
“Can I use your phone?”
He harrumphed. “Got the chip?”
She nodded and showed him.
“Come on, then.” He opened the door, and as she craned her neck, she noticed he was watching her ass walk into a cozy living room ruined by too many empty beer bottles and pizza boxes. He had the new Guitar Hero video game on.
“You interrupted my solo to “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” he sounded off as he handed her the cordless. “No long distance.” He stomped into his small kitchen and came back with a beer.
Scout had memorized Tim’s cell and called him posthaste.
“Looks like you got home all right. I’ve got a Mowquakwa number on my caller I.D.”
“Sure did. Where are you guys? I pounded on your door.”
“We’re loading up on guns. Things are getting rough around here. My daughter called me. She’s marrying a ninety-year-old man for his money. Hey, Bill wants to talk to you.”
The obese man scowled at her as he drained his beer while he crashed on the couch. She stood in the middle of the living room, her legs beginning to tremble.
“Scout? You must have gotten back to Mowquakwa. Brilliant! How’d you do it?”
“Flirted with a pilot in a small craft
to get him to take me home. We had to stop and fuel up at one point in Maine. Then he tried to get me to go to a hotel room with him when I landed here, so I whipped out my derringer and threatened to shoot him.”
The man on the couch laughed, as if in on the joke.
“Amazing! Well, look, they’ll be searching for you, so you need to—”
“Get a motel room by a cell phone tower, I know,” she interrupted.
“Exactly. There’s one in the suburb of Wampum. It’s called The Rocket Ride. I’d get out there as soon as possible. They can track you by that chip. I’m surprised you made it out of England.”
Why’s it always got to be about riding some rocket? Perverts.
She moved to the far side of the living room, next to the sliding glass doors, the sun shining in so vehemently it almost blinded her. At least this guy’s air conditioning worked. “The private airstrip was next to a cell phone tower,” she almost whispered.
“Call a cab and have him take you there, pronto, then call me back.”
“Gotcha. Over and out.”
“What? Over and out?” Bill chuckled. “Oh, Scout, you kill me.”
“Spies like us.” She trained her eyes on the chubby man, now done with his beer.
“Spies like—? Ha-ha-ha, sure. Bye.”
Scout didn’t feel the need to strut anymore—especially in front of this guy—so she simply walked back over to hand him the cordless, then remembered she had to call a taxi. “Can I call a cab real quick?”
He hissed. “How many fuckin’ calls you gonna make on my phone, anyway?”
She sighed. “Just one more.”
“Well hurry up! And give me a five-spot afterward.”
Jerk.
Scout dialed her favorite taxi company, asking the shirtless man his address here. She relayed it to the cab company. Scout hung up the phone and handed it to him. She reached into her purse.
He laughed and waved her off. “I was just shitting you, Jesus.”
She noticed a wedding ring on a chubby left finger.
“By the way, I’m Bob. You can call me Bobert. The Mrs. always does.” He stuck out his hand for a shake.
She didn’t shake his hand. “Scout. You’ve got a Mrs.?”
Movement behind her, on the stairs. Scout turned and about fainted. A blond girl no more than eight or ten stood on the stairs. She wore a pink short-skirt and shirt, no budding breasts yet.
