Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight!

by Неизвестный

  Peter shrugged. He did that a lot. “You’re the head honcho.”

  “That’s right. So get to bed early tonight. And set an alarm—I doubt the motel has a wake-up service.”

  Peter nodded his assent, and Alex turned back to the people in the next booth. “Excuse me. If I wanted a guide, someone who really knows these mountains well—I mean, after the search party’s done, of course—is there someone you’d recommend?”

  The man didn’t even have to consider the question. “Robbie Driscoll,” he said. “Don’t you think, Mae?”

  “Yes,” his date agreed. “Robbie’s the best. Just look for Driscoll’s Outfitters, here on Main. It’s, what, four doors from here.”

  “Driscoll’s,” Alex repeated. “Thanks. Thank you very much.”

  “Enjoy your meal,” the man said. “The pork chops here are the best I’ve ever had.”

  Alex forked a chunk into his mouth, and he couldn’t disagree.

  Ellen waited until both men were looking away, then shifted her grip on her steak knife and brought it back above the table. As soon as Peter had bumped into the big man, she had snatched it up and been ready to move. She had known a guy like him in Miami—fuck known, she had been with him, and shading the truth from herself wouldn’t do her any good. He was a city guy, not a mountain man like this dude, but physically aggressive men shared enough similarities for her to recognize one: the way his chin ticked up when he spoke, the tightness at the back of his jaw. She had watched the man’s hands when Peter got in his face, his fingers poised to clutch a knife or a gun or to curl into fists. Peter wouldn’t have had a chance, and even Alex’s interference wouldn’t have helped.

  Hence the knife. She was out of her comfort zone here, and it didn’t pay to take chances.

  Ellen was a survivor. Her father had died when she was a child, and her mother had dealt with that loss by becoming addicted to a variety of pharmaceuticals. When she went to prison, Ellen went into the system too, and a series of foster homes had taught hard lessons. She had figured out early in life that she would always be small and not strong, but that if she latched onto someone who was powerful she would be protected. Once in a while she took a beating—men who liked to punch weren’t always particular about whom, where and when—but never more than one.

  Eventually she had figured out that power didn’t only come from physical strength; that, in fact, lasting power emanated from less flagrantly obvious sources. Wealth, for instance. Influence. That newfound knowledge had led eventually to Peter, a man she believed to be on the cusp of doing big things. This documentary of Alex’s was just the beginning, the project that would take Peter to the next level.

  She wanted to be with him on that ride. If that meant being ready to knife someone who might hurt him, then that’s what she would do.

  Just the same, she was glad it hadn’t come to that yet. With luck, it wouldn’t.

  She would be ready, though, just in case. She always was. Survival demanded no less.

  He was underground, in the dark. The walls were close and the lights had flickered and then gone out, and the air was thick with choking black dust. He had fallen to the ground when the earth shook, carrying with it a noise that seemed to come from everywhere at once, from all around him and deep inside, first a ferocious boom from the mine bump as the support pillars collapsed, then a rumbling that seemed like it would never end, but that stopped abruptly, leaving behind only the patter of rocks falling from walls and ceiling, and the screams of the lost and injured.

  Lost? That was him. When he regained his feet—lucky to be alive, he knew that much; doubtless some of the shafts and rooms had collapsed entirely—he didn’t know which way was which. One direction might lead him out of the mine, to safety and breathable air. The other would take him deeper in, where his chances of being caught in a secondary cave-in or explosion would increase with every foot he traveled. He fought back against the panic that tore at his throat, trying to think, to reason.

  But it was no use. The world was pitch-black; he couldn’t see his hand an inch from his face. The dust gagged him, and he stumbled along, coughing and spitting and vomiting, with no clue where he was going. For all he knew, he could have passed into seams long since closed off by the company but opened again by the tremors.

  Time had passed—he had no way of knowing how much—when he heard another tunnel burst. He couldn’t tell if it was ahead of him, behind, or in a shaft that was parallel or adjoining. His face was slick with dust-caked blood and he was weak, stumbling often, panic ebbing but being replaced by a sense of futility. The shafts could be filling with mud and debris that would drown him before he had a chance to die of hunger. Either way, he would never see sunlight again, never take another breath of clean air.

  Then the man was there, as he always was. His name was Jared Flannery, and he could see Flannery, as if the miner had his own perpetual glow. He was blackened from head to toe, but his ruddy brush of a mustache stood out, and green eyes shone like lanterns. This way, man, he said, though his mouth didn’t move. Come on, this is the way out.

  And he followed Flannery, willingly, only once in a while fearing that Flannery was some sort of mine sprite, a Tommyknocker or other creature here to lead him into certain destruction. Flannery seemed to know the way; he was confident, at least, and he kept up a running patter as they moved through the shaft. This is the way, won’t be far now, this way to the surface, boss.

  He didn’t know why he should trust Flannery, but he did. And they did seem to be going up, mostly, and the air did seem to be clearing a little. He was still scared, terrified, but he started to allow himself to believe that there might be a way out, that escape was possible, if not likely.

  And then Flannery stopped, and there was a door behind him, and he put his hand on the door handle. This is the way, boss, Flannery said, this is it, right through here.

  But as he drew closer to the door, something behind it made a noise. Another bump, he feared, another collapse, but no, it wasn’t that. It was on the other side of that door, and it was a growling, deep and resonant and fierce. Not just growling, but snapping and slavering, and he knew that if Flannery opened that door, they would charge, all teeth and claws and ripping, tearing, and as Flannery pulled down on the handle and the door started to gap open and light, blinding light with shadows moving in it started to leak through he said “No Flannery don’t open it don’t let them in I won’t I’ll do—”

  Alex woke up thrashing, sheets and blankets wrapped tightly around him, binding him. Sweat covered him like ice water, and he was shivering, his teeth clacking together.

  The dream was always the same, and yet it wasn’t. It varied in its details; sometimes Flannery took him to a great shaft from which he could see light, at a distance that seemed like a miles-long, impossible climb. Twice, he had taken him to a place where light fell on a signpost, and the sign read “Silver Gap.” Sometimes Flannery led him around in circles and then abandoned him, though always with a promise to fetch help and come back.

  The dreams, though—and no one else knew it, surely not Peter and Ellen—the dreams were why they had come. He had been looking for some sort of redemption. The idea of a documentary had been itching at him, and he had seen that sign: Silver Gap. He looked it up and found out about Silver Gap, Colorado, and learned about the bark beetles, and the fairly direct link between their spread and the blister rust infection that was killing whitebark pines all over the western states, and his plans had crystallized almost at once.

  Now, he was here. And instead of going away, the dream was back, worse than ever. Before, at the end of the dream, scary as it was, there had been some hope. But this one, tonight, had offered none. There was only one way out, Flannery seemed to be saying. Through that door. And when he opened that door…

  Alex shivered again, got out of bed, flicked on the overhead light. There were no bedside lights, no bedside tables. He sat on the edge of the bed in the bare room, wrapped t
he blanket around himself, and waited for the dawn.

  “Your Flame” is an original Poem from Alex Ness

  YOUR FLAME

  Candle meets flame

  Reason is lost

  Obsessed it becomes

  With all it is not

  It burns to present

  The perfection it sees

  Beyond hot

  Burns brilliantly

  I am that candle

  You are that flame

  Let me be released

  From this captivity

  Call my name

  Let me be free

  Consume me

  Let your flame melt me

  Burn me down

  And in that fire

  Let me be redeemed

  d’être amoureux d’une princesse, on doit devenir reconnaissants

  Unedited excerpt from Masters of the Universe written by Chris Samson, based on a story by Chris Samson and Michael Peterson

  June, 1985

  11:28 pm

  “I hope he’s okay.”

  “Me too,” Jim nodded, looking out the window.

  The road was dark now. They were on I-80 now, and they’d be there for a while. This would take them up to Syracuse and then, around midnight, after three and a half hours of driving, they’d be halfway to Buffalo. Out of the city, on the highway, Josh had a sense of deja vu as he drove down the same highway that had taken him out of Northampton at night. He was still racing against the daylight, still struggling to make it to his destination before the sun rose, but this time it was different.

  He wasn’t running away.

  “They didn’t say anything on the phone about what it was?”

  “No,” Jim shook his head. “Just that it was his leg.”

  Josh scratched something between his nose and his eye. “That’s fucked-up.”

  “I know.”

  Josh glanced in the rearview mirror. There was another car traveling a healthy distance behind him. The car’s headlights bounced off the mirror and shone in Josh’s eyes. “I mean I just hope he’s okay.”

  “Me too.”

  He looked back to the road. His own lights blazed on up ahead. He went under an overpass, passing between the concrete walls and pillars. He was in the shadow of the overpass now and his lights seemed even dimmer. Darkness on top of darkness. “I mean how bad could he be hurt?”

  “Dunno. Bad.”

  “You ever been hurt?”

  “What, wrestling?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jim shook his head. “No, not yet.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It’s gonna happen, though.”

  “What, really?”

  “Oh definitely.”

  Josh snuck a look at Jim. A car on the other side of the highway rushed past him. “You’re so sure?”

  “Oh bound to happen, man. Can’t not happen. I just hope it’s something I can recover from.”

  “Like Dale?”

  “Yeah, I mean he could have a broken angle he could have a torn Achilles Tendon. It could be anything with the leg.”

  “Could it be bad?”

  Jim looked at Josh in the darkness. His face was lit by the dashboard light, with a trace of illumination coming from the headlights in front of them. “I dunno, man. It could, yeah.”

  12:04 am

  “I met him at Star Wars.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, that’s where it started. Didn’t have anyone else to sit with and I wanted to play a video game in the lobby.”

  “That’s how you met?”

  “Yeah.” Josh looked in the mirror. “I didn’t even know he was still in middle school. I thought he was in high school. He was that big.”

  “Yeah.”

  A slight pause. “I thought he might’ve been retarded.”

  “What?” Jim’s voice suddenly rose to a falsetto.

  “Serious, there was just something off about–”

  “Get the fuck out,” Jim said, laughing

  “No, really,” Josh was laughing a little bit too. “Just he was so closed off and all his answers…he was just so…”

  “I can’t believe this,” Jim said his shoulders convulsing from the laughter.

  “No, I just–”

  “Does Dale know? Does he know you thought he was retarded?” Josh swallowed lightly, didn’t answer, and shrugged. “He doesn’t, does he? Oh my God. This is great.”

  “Hey, I was fourteen. What can I–”

  “You thought your best friend was retarded. This is just great.”

  “Yeah, well…” Josh smiled. The road looked just the same as it had when the conversation had started. Some trees pushed back from the road. An endless pavement of grey concrete in front of them with staggered white lines like a chopped-up snake. “It was ‘cause of his brother.”

  “His brother?”

  “Yeah. You know. Tommy.” He looked at Jim. “He ever talk about him?”

  “I know that’s where he got the ring name.”

  “Tommy Archer.”

  “He said Tommy died in Vietnam.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know more than that. It doesn’t come up in conversation a lot.”

  “Yeah. I think he’s better. He’s definitely better than when I first met him.”

  “Good.” There was a quick pause as Josh looked back at the road then the rearview mirror. The car was coming up in the left-hand lane. It would pass him soon enough. Its headlights were streaks, twin comets racing closer and closer as the hum of the engine growled in his ears. “How’d you meet him? I mean, I know it was at the school but, like how’d you start?”

  “There’s not one, uh, incident, I guess you could say. He started less than a month after I did. You know how when you’re a kid and if there’s someone you know that’s like a grade or two older it’s like they’re a veteran.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “So Dale–”

  “It was like a status symbol too,” Josh said. “When you got with a girl that was even a grade above you because it was so–”

  “–so far advanced, right,” Jim said. “I think it was like at first, you know, he thought I had been there, like I was the pioneer. I got out to San Fransisco, set up a mining camp, and he sort of came along to make his fortune.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, the thing is when you’re a kid you think that gap is huge. Like you said, you’re in seventh grade and you make out with that girl in eighth grade you think it’s like ‘I just hooked up with a model.’”

  “Eighth grade, sure.”

  “You look back now, and it’s like we were both more or less the same age. That’s kinda how it was with Dale. It was just this gradual thing and it just kind of evolved because we...I think he was a little intimidated by the idea that he was, like, the new guy, and I was sort of hesitant to reach out because I’d just started out too. Once we started getting in the ring, though, I mean, I don’t know if there was an actual moment where we became friends, but I think we each wanted to work with the other. I was just glad there was someone else there who could deliver, like, a basic move like a fireman’s carry without falling over.”

  “You could tell that early?”

  “I could tell who had the talent to at least have a shot and who didn’t.”

  “You think you and Dale do?”

  Jim looked out at the road for a second. “When I started training to be a wrestler I was in a class of, like, twenty. By the time Dale finished his prelim stuff, by the time he got in the ring, we were down to about ten. When we graduated there were four of us. Me, Dale, Russ, and this kid Mya.”

  “Mya?”

  Yeah, short for ‘Jeremiah,’ it turns out. Kid was from the country somewhere, and I guess that’s where he headed back to.”

  “Where’s Russ?”

  Jim shook his head. “No idea, man. Probably working on his degree again, gettin’ an internship or something.”

  “Not wrestling?”
>
  “No. Doing something smart.”

  12:42 am

  “I don’t really watch wrestling.”

  “I noticed.”

  “So how do you know when you got a really good match? Like what’s the best match you ever had?”

  Jim moved in the chair. It wasn’t out of discomfort, but Josh imagined a kindergarten teacher gathering the students on the rug for storytime. “I haven’t really had any great matches to speak of. I’m just too new.” He looked out the windshield.

  “Yeah, but, I mean,” rearview mirror, “I’ve been drawing and writing comics for, like six years and–”

  “That long?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jim made a sound half-exhaling and half-whistling.

  Josh smiled on his left side so Jim couldn’t see it. “And I look back there’s stuff that I know is better. Even if it’s not great, it was the best thing I’d done.”

  “Right.”

  “So what about that?”

  “Hm. I was in Eerie, PA, right? And I was fighting Jumbo Jenko, and he’s the biggest guy I ever fought too. He’s just this three-hundred-fifty pound fat guy and we’re talking about the match beforehand. So, it’s tough to fight a big guy like that because I’m big too. If he was fighting a little guy or if I was fighting a huge guy it’s a David and Goliath fight, but he’s bigger than me, but not big enough for it to really work. There’s not a lot of story here. There’s no feud. There’s no real, uh, visual element. It’s just veteran against rookie.”

  “Right.”

  “So we talk about what we want to do. He asks me at the end if I’ve got any ideas.” Jim shifted back into the story, miming his thought process. “I look at him, and I go ‘I think I can spinebust you.’”

  “What’s that?”

  Basically he comes off the ropes towards me. I crouch, wrap my arms around his legs, stand up lifting him, and then just fall forward…” Jim mimed the narration as best he could in the car, “...boom, plant his back in the mat.” He smiled. “And Jumbo goes ‘I like it. Do it.’ And I’m sitting there like ‘are you serious,’ and he loves it. We go over it a little bit and we do it out there.” Back to miming. “So I’m exhausted and I’m mounting my comeback. I rock him with some punches. Boom. Off the ropes. Down. Lift him up, spinebuster straight into the canvas. Crowd goes apeshit.”