Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Wrath of Isis

by P. T. Dilloway

  When the bus came, they were the only two on board—along with the cello. Tim offered to carry it for her, but she refused. “You think a woman can’t carry her own instrument?”

  “I was just trying to be polite.”

  “Or to get into my pants.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “You don’t like Asian women, is that it? Or I’m just not attractive enough?”

  Tim felt his face turn warm from embarrassment. “No, nothing like that.” He sighed. “I got out of a committed relationship not that long ago,” he said, although it had been nearly three years since Sylvia had died. Three years he had spent mostly in prison, without any women who weren’t made of paper—or imagination.

  The woman deliberately sat three rows behind him with her cello; she buckled it in like a child. He wished he’d brought something to read, but the only thing he’d had in the motel room was the Gideon Bible and Book of Mormon. Corwin City didn’t have a bookstore, which meant the only places to buy books were the grocery stores and pharmacies. That still would have been preferable to staring at mile after mile of tree-lined Thruway.

  He leaned against the window to look at the scenery, when the young woman sat down next to him. “I can’t sleep,” she said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  She held out her slim hand to him. “My name’s Renee Kim.”

  “Tim Cooper.”

  “That sounds familiar for some reason.”

  “So does yours.”

  “Maybe we met in a past life.”

  “I doubt that.” Tim patted his jacket and thought of the picture of Sophie in there—the picture that had been of Renee. “Some friends of mine have a baby named Renee.”

  “I bet she’s cute. All babies are. Then they grow up.” She sighed and then said, “I lied earlier. I’m not going to Boston to meet my trio. I’m going there to run from them.”

  “Why would you do that?” He saw her wince and said, “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”

  “The trombone player—Roger—and I were more than just bandmates, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I caught him playing a duet with someone else, so now I’m going home.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “We’d been together for six years. Since we were in college. And the stupid jerk throws it all away just like that.” Her eyes had begun to tear up. Tim wished he had a handkerchief to offer, but he hadn’t gotten around to buying any of those yet. “That’s why I was so short with you earlier. It’s not your fault. You seem like a nice guy.”

  “A lot of people don’t think so.”

  “Really? That’s hard to imagine.”

  “You remember the Boy Genius?”

  “That a TV show or something?”

  “No. That’s what they called me. It was in all the newspapers and everything.”

  “I must have missed it.”

  “It’s not important,” Tim said. He supposed he should have realized sooner if the rest of everything connected to Rampart City had disappeared, the RAT Bombings would have disappeared as well. Did that mean his record had been expunged? For that matter, did he still exist? Ray had certainly thought so, as did Renee. But really, if he wasn’t from Rampart City, then was he supposed to be an entirely different person?

  “Are you feeling all right?” Renee asked. “You’re sweating.”

  “Oh. I’m just a little warm.”

  “So where are you heading?”

  “Warrensburg. Then I’ve got to find a ride to—somewhere else. My hometown.”

  “Well, I guess we’re both crawling back home with tail between legs.”

  “Not exactly. My sister is sick.”

  “Oh, shit.” Renee blushed. “You must think I’m such a bitch by now.”

  “No, I don’t think that.”

  “You just don’t know me well enough.” She leaned across the seat to kiss him. He pushed her away gently; she dropped back into her seat with a sigh. “I’m sorry. It just seemed like that was the moment. You know, like in the movies that would be when the two lonely people who meet on the bus kiss each other.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’d like to, really I would. It’s just that I’ve been trying to get over this woman.”

  “You catch her in bed with someone else?”

  “No. She died.”

  Renee shook her head. “I am such an idiot. I should go back with my instrument.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “You really loved her then?”

  “Yes. More than anything in the world.”

  “What happened? Did she get sick?”

  “She was murdered,” he said. He figured this wasn’t far from the truth. She might have given her life to save the city, but she wouldn’t have needed to do that if not for Harry Ward—if not for Tim. “It was my fault.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I put her in the situation. I was responsible.”

  Renee put a hand on his arm. “I’m really sorry about trying to kiss you. It was stupid.”

  “It’s all right.”

  They sat in silence for the rest of the way; Renee eventually fell asleep with her head on Tim’s shoulder. He thought of when Sylvia had done that during a movie. He hadn’t watched the rest of the film; he’d sat there and watched her sleep so peacefully while he stroked her hair. He stopped himself before he could touch Renee’s silky black hair. It would be wrong of him, not just because he was about to get off the bus and never see her again but because she would only be a flimsy substitute for Sylvia in his mind. No one could ever replace her—no one.

  The bus stopped at Warrensburg at four in the morning. He shook Renee gently to wake her up. She blinked her eyes a few times and looked around as if she didn’t know where she was. “Oh, shit. How long have I been out?”

  “A couple of hours. We’re at my stop.”

  “I see. So I guess this is goodbye.”

  “I guess so.”

  She reached into her purse and fumbled around until she pulled out a business card that had the name of her former band, the Trumpeting Swans. “This is my cell phone number. You ever want to talk, you can give me a call.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He tucked the card into his pocket along with the letter and photograph. He shook her hand gently and smiled at her. “I hope you get to Boston all right.”

  “I hope your sister is all right.”

  With that they nodded to each other and then Tim hefted his knapsack over his shoulder.

  ***

  From Warrensburg, the problem was to find a way to the site of Rampart City. Short of stealing a car, there was no way to drive himself there. He left the bus station and went out to the main road to try to hitch a ride. There weren’t many rides to be had at four in the morning in Warrensburg.

  He had gone two miles on foot before the truck pulled up. It was a red tractor-trailer with an unmarked gray trailer. Someone had painted a gray Wil E. Coyote on the side of the driver’s side door. The truck stopped in front of Tim and waited for him to walk up to the driver’s side door. The driver wore a straw cowboy hat and a thick gray mustache. “Where you heading, son?” he asked.

  “About a hundred miles southeast.”

  “What’s that way?”

  “My hometown.”

  “I’m going to Sharonville. That’s about ninety miles that way.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.” Tim went around to the passenger’s side of the truck; he scaled the handholds along the side to pull himself into the cab. He had never ridden in a truck like this, only in Sylvia’s pick-up.

  The driver held out his hand for Tim to shake as he got the big rig underway. “Name’s Sam, but they call me Old Coyote.”

  “My name’s Tim.”

  “You know it’s dangerous to hitch at five in the morning,” Old Coyote said.

  “Yeah, but it’s kind of an emergency. My sister’s sick.”

  “What’s she got?”

/>   “Not sure yet. Might be cancer.”

  “That’s rough. So what exactly is this place you’re going to?”

  “Rampart City. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

  Old Coyote scratched his mustache as he thought. “Seems familiar somehow. Probably drove through there a few times. I been hauling stuff in this neck of the woods for thirty years now. Been from one end of the country to another. Even got all the way down to Mexico.”

  “Wow,” Tim said, too tired to manufacture much enthusiasm.

  “How long you been out there?”

  “I got off the bus an hour ago. Walked for a while. Not many people out at this time of morning I guess.”

  “No, I reckon not.” Old Coyote looked over at his dash. “Tell you what, I’m a couple hours ahead of schedule. I could take you to this town of yours. This Rampart City.”

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  “It’s no problem.” Old Coyote turned on the radio to a country and western station. Tim didn’t know country music well enough to know the song. He leaned back in his seat and wondered what he would find when he got there. Would the city be there still or would it be replaced by the ocean just as it was in the atlases and on Google?

  Old Coyote began to talk about his last run through this area, when there had been an accident that had backed things up for three miles. “Got off the highway and wandered around these little country dirt roads for a while,” he said. “But I got my load in on time.”

  “That’s good.”

  “You can sleep if you want. I ain’t going to do nothing to you. I know you people are scared of that these days. Used to get a lot more hitchers back when I first started. Then people started getting afraid that they’d wind up chopped into pieces or getting poked in the ass.”

  Tim smiled at this; for the last two years he’d worried about that constantly. He was in good enough shape where he could take care of himself reasonably well despite that he wasn’t affiliated with any of the various gangs. His first week in the joint someone from the Aryan faction had tried to corner him in the exercise yard. Tim had used a few moves learned from Sylvia to lay out the man, despite that he’d been six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. That had given him enough credibility that he was generally left alone.

  “It’s not anything personal,” Tim said. “I’m not really sleepy.”

  “You been in prison, son?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Just got the look about you. What’d you do?”

  “I sold something to someone who used it to do something very bad.”

  “Drugs?”

  “More like computers. Robots.”

  “Robots? You some kind of rocket scientist?”

  “I used to be—sort of.” Tim flashed his Speedy Oil jacket for the driver to read. “I’m a grease monkey now.”

  “You ever think about driving a big rig?”

  “I’d have to keep it in the state. I’m on parole.”

  “That’s tough. I been in the joint myself. Stole a car back when I was eighteen. I already had a couple of juvenile arrests, so they put me in the big house. How long ago you get out?”

  “About two months ago.”

  “You getting ready to go back in yet?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Tim said. He knew others had trouble to adapt to life outside prison, but he hadn’t found much comfort in prison life. “I don’t think I want to go back there.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  When they first saw it, Tim thought it was an optical illusion from the morning sun. As they passed through the little town of Sharonville and got closer, though, he began to realize it wasn’t just a trick of light. The city really was gone.

  In its place, Tim saw a black fog so dark it looked solid. “What in tarnation is that?” Old Coyote asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Tim said.

  “Must be some kind of forest fire or something.”

  “Maybe,” Tim said, but he knew that wasn’t it. For one thing, the fog didn’t appear to be rising into the sky like smoke. It remained anchored from the ground to blot out the sky. The closer the truck came, the larger the wall of fog appeared, and the more solid.

  The road they were on ended abruptly to leave nothing but a flat brown plain of dirt, as if someone had dropped a nuclear weapon to turn the area into a wasteland. Old Coyote brought the truck to a halt and stared in disbelief at the fog—if it could really be called fog. Tim wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but he knew that’s where he had to go.

  That was when the naked woman dropped out of the sky.

  Chapter 3

  Tim bolted out of the tractor-trailer before the woman hit the ground. He was too late to catch her; the woman’s body slammed into the ground about ten feet in front of him. He skidded to a halt, certain the woman was dead. No one could have survived a fall from that high up without a parachute or any kind of protection.

  To his surprise, the woman began to move. At first he thought the twitching in her legs was just a reflex, but then her arms began to move as well. She shifted the arms into a modified push-up position to lever herself up a few inches. Tim saw that like a cartoon, she had left a human-shaped imprint in the ground, but there was no blood.

  He rushed over to her side and took her right arm to help her sit up. As he did, he finally got a look at her face. He had seen this face a few times when he went to Agnes Chiostro’s house to visit Sylvia. It was Agnes’s wife. “Akako?” he asked to make sure.

  “Yes,” she said. She looked about her; her eyes focused on the wall of black fog. “She really did it.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Akako looked over Tim, at Old Coyote’s truck. Then she looked down at herself. She brushed her long black hair forward to cover her breasts.

  Tim’s face turned warm as he realized he’d forgotten his manners. He took off his Speedy Oil jacket and draped it around Akako’s shoulders. The jacket was big enough to cover Akako down to her waist, which still left her privates exposed. “Wait right here,” he said.

  He returned to the truck, where Old Coyote sat behind the wheel; he still gaped at where Akako sat. “Is she real or have I died and gone to Heaven?”

  “She’s real. I think,” Tim said, not sure if any of this was real or all part of some elaborate dream. He found his knapsack and rummaged around until he found a pair of pants. “I’ll be right back.”

  The pants were too loose for Akako, but at least they would cover her until they found something better. “Thank you,” Akako said. “I wish I could have brought something with me.”

  “From where?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Akako put a hand to her flat stomach. “Could we get something to eat? I’m starving.”

  “Sure. I guess.” Tim took her arm to help her to her feet. They made their way slowly back to the truck, where Tim stood on the ground to help Akako up. Old Coyote leaned across the seat to take her hand and help her the rest of the way.

  “Hello little lady. My name’s Sam. They call me Old Coyote though.” He tipped his cowboy hat to Akako.

  “I’m Akako.”

  “Pretty name. Chinese?”

  “Japanese. It means red.”

  Tim squeezed onto the passenger’s seat, grateful Akako was slim enough not to take up much room. “I think we should get going.”

  “I ain’t going into that,” Old Coyote said.

  “Let’s head back to Sharonville then. Akako’s hungry.”

  “I’ll bet.” Old Coyote began the laborious process to turn the tractor-trailer around, and put them back onto the road to Sharonville. Akako said nothing during the short drive back, but Tim could see her tremble beneath his jacket and pants. How had she managed to survive that fall from the sky?

  Old Coyote pulled into a truck stop and Tim held out his hand for the man to shake. “Thanks for all your help, Sam, but you should probably be getting on so you aren�
�t late.”

  “The hell with that,” Old Coyote said. “I ain’t leaving you or this pretty lady here.”

  “Look, Sam—”

  “I just saw a woman drop out of the sky and crash into the ground without a scratch. I think I deserve an explanation.”

  Akako nodded. “That’s fair, but I can’t promise you that the explanation will make anything easier to understand.” She put her hand to her stomach again. “Could we talk about it inside?”

  Old Coyote led the way for them; he held open the door to the truck stop’s restaurant. Over Akako’s shoulder, Tim saw the gift shop and then turned to Old Coyote. “Can you take her? I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The gift shop didn’t have ladies underwear, but it did have T-shirts and shorts. He picked out a medium-sized shirt and the smallest size of shorts. This took up most of the money he’d brought with him, but he doubted he would really need it. He would probably be dead before long.

  Inside the restaurant, he found Old Coyote across a booth from Akako, who leaned against the wall. “I ordered you a cup of coffee,” Old Coyote said.

  “Thanks.” Tim set the bundle of clothes on the table. “I’m not sure these will fit—”

  “I’m sure they’ll do fine,” Akako said. “Thank you.”

  He helped her out of the booth and let her rest against him as he walked her to the bathrooms. He hesitated at the door to the ladies room and wondered if she were strong enough to go in and change on her own. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Go back and order me a cheeseburger. A big one. With some fries. And a chocolate milkshake.”

  “Are you sure—?”

  “I haven’t had a decent burger in ten years,” she snapped.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  The waitress was already at the table when he returned. He studied the menu for a moment to find the cheeseburgers and ordered Akako the largest one they had. His stomach didn’t feel all that empty, despite the fact he hadn’t eaten anything in nearly twenty-four hours. “I’ll just have a bowl of corn flakes,” he said.

  Once the waitress had gone, Old Coyote leaned across the table. “So who is that girl? A friend of yours?”