by Stark, Ken
“I can understand that,” Mason told him, honestly.
“When I was barely out of my blues, I arrested a man who'd killed his wife and baby. Carved them up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Blood fucking everywhere. No one could take a step in that shitty little rat-hole without stepping in the stuff. So, you know what I did, Mace?”
Mason shrugged.
“What I did was, I got that fucker to confess, I booked his ass, and then I threw my shoes in the garbage. I signed on to that shit. My wife and daughter didn't. Well, maybe Barbara knew a little of what she was getting herself into, but Rebecca never had a choice. And worse, she never knew the man I used to be. The only father she's ever known was the man I'd become – the man this world had already turned me into. While all the other fathers were taking their kids to birthday parties and having little fucking tea parties, and reading bedtime stories, Rebecca's old man was out in the streets, rubbing elbows with garbage.”
Suddenly, Mason felt almost sorry for the old man. Not much, but enough that he felt obliged to tell him, “Becks never minded, you know? She was worried about you getting hurt, but she was always proud of you. In fact, you were kind of her hero.”
Hansen gruffed a laugh. “Oh, shit! That must have pissed you off to no end.”
“Now that you mention it...” Mason harrumphed. “But honestly, Gary, you did a good job. You raised her right. The only mistake she ever made was falling for the wrong guy, and she remedied that mistake rather decisively.”
“Well, I suppose she could have done worse,” Hansen admitted, though not without obvious discomfort. “But you're giving me too much credit. Barbara raised our daughter. I just stuck my head in from time to time. Thankfully, though, we were of a mind when it came to children. The last thing we wanted was to raise an elf.”
Mason searched his lexicon database and came up empty. “Uh, elf?”
“That's what me and Frankie called them. ELFs. Entitled Little Fucks. Back then, we'd come across one every once in a while. After Frankie died, that's all I ever saw. Entitled little fucks. Society owes me... My mommy told me I was special... Jesus! We raised a generation of entitled little fucks. Pussies. Weaklings. And where are any of those ELFs now? Christ, maybe Darwin had it right all along.”
“So you're saying that parents should have been tougher on their kids? Spare the rod and spoil the child? Seriously?”
“Oh, don't get your ovaries in a knot, Princess. All I'm saying is, we didn't do that generation any favors by putting them on a pedestal. Believe me when I say, no one ever loved a child more than Barbara and I loved our little girl. We showered her with love, but we also taught her that the world wasn't going to be handed to her on a silver platter. She could be anything she wanted to be, and we'd support the hell out of her, but she'd have to work for it. She'd have to work hard. She'd have to have a mind of her own, and she'd have to use it.”
“And the first thing she does is fall for an asshole.” Mason forced himself not to laugh. “A wise man once told me that no father will ever like any man who dates his little girl. It must have pissed you right the fuck off when you saw the kind of loser your little girl picked.”
“Now that you mention it...” Hansen gruffed, but he couldn't hide the hint of a chuckle. “Oh, I could've given you a chance, I suppose. I should've known that Rebecca was too smart to fall for anyone as completely worthless as you appeared to be. Uh, no offence and all.”
Mason said nothing. Once again, Hansen wasn't saying anything that he hadn't already heaped upon himself.
“Yup, she could've done worse,” Hansen said again. Then, he actually reached across and gave Mason a genuine pat on the shoulder. One that might not even bruise. “Mace, you're doing a noble thing, taking care of your friends at any cost. In my book, that makes you a good man.”
“You sure, Gary? At least you had an excuse for turning into an asshole. I've been an asshole my whole life.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Hansen almost-chuckled again. “But if it takes an asshole to keep his friends alive in this clusterfuck, then you just go ahead and be the biggest asshole the world has ever known.”
“Biggest asshole wins the prize?” Mason quipped, joylessly.
“They usually do,” Hansen returned, matter-of-factly.
“So, it's down to survival of the fittest?”
“It’s down to survival, period!” Hansen gruffed, loudly enough to earn him a somniferous, “Qué es...” from Alejandra. But he stroked her hair again and hushed, “Nada, querida. Vuelve a dormir...” and she quickly fell back to sleep.
“Survival at any cost?” Mason hushed, barely above a whisper.
“One man alone? Maybe,” Hansen hedged. “But a man looking out for his loved ones? Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Well, you might have to remind me of that from time to time, Gary. You know, just in case I start to get soft in my old age.”
“For as long as I can, Mace,” Hansen sighed, suddenly sounding as exhausted as he should be. “But for now, I need some shut-eye. I'm dying over here.”
“Fair enough,” Mason concluded the conversation, and thankfully so. But then, he felt a second pat on the shoulder and Hansen's voice returned, albeit slowed and softened with fatigue.
“Bravo Zulu, big man. Bravo Zulu.”
Mason understood the terminology. It was one hundred percent Navy. Bravo Zulu. In Navy code, it meant 'Well Done.'
Mason didn't know quite how to respond, so he went with his go-to and said nothing. But Hansen apparently had a few last words that needed saying before sleep took him completely.
“There were eight of you to start,” he hushed, barely awake now. “If we die on this rooftop, seven will leave. So, whaddya think, Mace. Was it worth it?”
Mason thought about it long and hard, and at the end of it all, the best he could do was quote a friend. “Every minute in this living Hell is a risk,” he said into the darkness. “What difference does it make if we risk our lives here or there?”
After some deliberation, Hansen allowed a simple, “Good answer,” and said no more. Soon enough, the old man's breathing grew deep and long, and Mason knew that he was nearly asleep. But not entirely, as it turned out. He managed one last, “Bravo Zulu, big man...” and then he really was asleep.
As Mason gazed up at that shining red dot, and at those millions of stars, and at the great spine of the galaxy just now peeking up over the edge of the world, his thoughts turned from the infinite and back to his own little corner of that tiny flake of sand.
Was it worth it? Was any of it? Was it worth keeping Becks and the others alive, just to keep them alive? Was it worth any of them surviving, knowing the kind of world they'd have to live in? The questions were unanswerable. But then Mack's face appeared in his mind's eye, and then Sarah's, and then Becks', and he knew...
Hell yes, it was worth it. Every hour or minute or second he was able to keep those incredible people alive was worth it. He was an asshole, yes, but he was the kind of asshole who would do whatever had to be done to keep Becks and Sarah and Mack safe, and that was enough.
As he gazed up at the heavens, at all there was, and all there is, and all there ever would be, he heard Hansen's last words ringing in his ears.
Bravo Zulu, big man, Bravo Zulu...
Well done.
CHAPTER XXV
There were dreams. Always, there were dreams. Most of the time, the freak show world of alphas and echoes intruded, bleeding one into the other. But, every once in a while, there was a different kind of dream. Not tonight, though.
Mason and Becks were together. His apartment. She was laughing, and so was he. They were happy, content just to be. And in a heartbeat, it all changed. Becks turned away for the briefest of moments, and when she turned back, it was with the cold dead eyes of an alpha. A foamy red spittle bubbled up at the corners of her mouth, and she suddenly launched herself at Mason. He tried to hold her back, but it was like trying to wrestle a mountain lion. A
double handful of claws raked across his face, and he howled in pain. Unable to see through the haze of blood, he propelled himself backward along the couch. But it was already too late. The claws tore his chest open, and he felt hot, acrid breath against his neck...
He bolted awake, one hand on his empty holster and the other at his own throat.
Jesus Christ!
The rooftop was still in shadow, but there was enough light from the rising sun to see that they were alone on the island. With most of the swarm having been lulled into a vigil state during the night, after the sounds of humans had ceased, it was almost peaceful. Mason took the rare opportunity to lie perfectly still for ten minutes or more, letting the last ghosts of the nightmare fade slowly and naturally away, then he sat up and took stock of the situation.
Addison was curled into a knot on one side, and Alejandra and Hansen were on the other. Ally's head was resting on the old man's chest, and he had one big arm around her. It was almost adorable to see. Less adorable was the service pistol in Hansen's other hand, safety off and one big, meaty finger inside the trigger guard. Not exactly safe, but these days it was better unsafe than sorry.
Ally still had her machete, and Addison his Nut-Buster. Good. He had left his own SBD back in the Peterbilt, but he’d somehow clung onto a chunk of bloodied 2x4 during the escape. Not great, but it’d gotten him this far. So... not bad. The other three still had their sidearms, but if he remembered the previous night's events correctly, two of the three were empty. Only Hansen was still packing, judging by the one mag still in the double pouch on his belt. But his pockets were empty. So, thirteen rounds was all the firepower they had between them. That, plus whatever the old man had left in the clip. One, maybe two more. And that was it.
He climbed to his feet and conducted a rather more personal inventory.
His back hurt. Understandable. So did his neck. Also understandable. A twinge in his right arm, all the way up to the shoulder. Recoil from that damned cannon. A tweak in his left knee. He must've wrenched it during the melee, but no matter. Slight cramping in his legs. Beginnings of a headache. Early warning signs of dehydration, undoubtedly. He hadn't had a drop of liquid in over twelve hours, so it was to be expected. The others would be in the same boat. Hansen would have it worse. Addison, too. Ally was fitter and had less body mass, so she'd be a few hours behind.
He padded over to the edge of the roof as quietly as he could and looked down. Sure enough, the Peterbilt hadn't moved an inch. The Quad was still dark, but he could make out enough to know that Sarah and the others couldn't have had a very pleasant night. The swarm must have clawed away at Gloria for an hour or more before losing interest. Her sides were painted red all the way up to the windows, and at least one intrepid alpha had managed to climb onto Gloria's back to leave bloody graffiti all over the side of the cargo box.
A tiny hand suddenly appeared from the darkness of the cab and pressed against the windshield. Then, a tangle of red curls appeared, and Mack's little face appeared over the steering wheel. She looked up at him and smiled and waved, and Mason smiled and waved back.
He tried to count back the number of days since he'd first met that remarkable little girl, but it was impossible. Weeks, certainly. A month? Maybe. Maybe it'd been a month, but it couldn't be much more than that. And yet, it seemed a lifetime ago. In a manner of speaking, he supposed that it probably was.
Was it worth it? he heard Hansen ask inside his head again. This time, the question didn't even warrant an answer.
Dimly, he remembered Hansen saying something about not being the man he used to be. Well, he wasn’t alone in that regard. Mason wasn’t the man he used to be, either. Close, but not quite. And the catalyst for that change was that little green-eyed girl smiling up at him just now. But Mack had changed, too. And so had Sarah. And so had Becks. And so had they all. Whether it was for better or worse, only time would tell.
If he was still around in a dozen years, he might wish he could come back to this precise day and steer those individual trajectories a few degrees one way or the other. But with neither time machine nor crystal ball at his disposal, all he could do was hope.
Mack's lips moved, so he knew she was talking. More probably, she was whispering. Someone else was awake, then. Sure enough, Sarah's face appeared over the girl's shoulder, and she looked up. But, no smile this time. Just the pursed lips and furrowed brow of someone breathing a sigh of relief. Then, there came a flurry of hand signals back and forth.
All okay?
Yes. You?
All okay. Any way down?
Working on it. No rush. Wait there if you can. If not, go.
Mack delivered the final signal.
We're staying.
And that was it. Mason gave the OK sign, then quite against his nature, he put his fingers to his lips and sent down a kiss. To his delight, not only did they not laugh, but each of them echoed the gesture back, sending up kisses of their own. As they receded back into the shadows, Mack tucked safely in Sarah's lap, Mason turned his attention to the impossible.
Ultimately, there was only one way to get down. Nobody was going to like it, but there was no other way. Anticipating the reception his plan was likely to get, he sat cross-legged on the roof, wracking his brain until the sun grew hot on his back. Then, he reluctantly laid a hand on Addison's shoulder, rousing him from a deep sleep.
“Huh?” Addison grunted, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes and fishing his glasses out of the neck of his sweater-vest. “Dude, I was having the best dream! Selena Gomez was an Orion slave girl. Green skin, scanty panties... You couldn't have waited five more minutes?”
“Sorry, buddy,” Mason replied, somewhere between mildly amused and utterly appalled, “but unless you want to stay up here for the duration, we should get our respective shit together before the natives get restless again.”
“You know what, Mace?” Addison grumbled. “People might like you more if you woke them up with a blueberry muffin and a latte instead of doom and gloom.”
Mason ignored the comment and moved to rouse the others. But just as he was about to shake Hansen awake, Addison stopped him.
“Maybe you should let him sleep a little longer, Mace. He's an old man, and he's been through a lot.”
“We've all been through a lot,” Mason huffed.
“Again,” Addison shrugged, “stressing the word 'old.'”
Mason relented, and instead tapped Alejandra on the arm.
The only thing worse than a hungry Alejandra was a tired Alejandra. So, he withdrew his hand as if he'd just poked a sleeping bear, and on cue, the girl raised her head, wiped a line of drool from the corner of her mouth, and snarled at Mason and Addison both.
“What the fuck, man?” She looked down at a still-sleeping Hansen and dutifully lowered her voice. “Gloria still downstairs?”
Mason nodded.
“You got a way to get down?”
“I think so.”
“Am I going to like it?”
“Nope.”
“Figured.”
She peeled herself away from Hansen and took special care in laying his arm back down on his chest gently enough so as not to wake him. She made an attempt to wipe away a puddle of her own drool from his shirt front, and failing that, she climbed to her feet and began making her way around the entire perimeter of the roof as quietly as a mouse.
“Am I going to like it, Mace?” Addison asked, hitching his glasses high up on his nose.
Mason mulled it over. “No, but you won't hate it nearly as much as Ally.”
“And Hansen?”
“Let's just say that it will be a slightly less... respectable exit than he’s probably used to.”
“Uh oh,” Addison arched an eyebrow. “I don't like the sound of that.”
Mason left it there. Addison was a smart man. He could work through the math every bit as well as him.
Just then, Hansen sucked in a great lungful of air, startling Addison enough to m
ake him jump. The old man stirred and opened his eyes, and with a quick look to see Alejandra gone, he sat bolt upright and brought up his pistol. But the quick movement took its toll, and he was suddenly wracked with a coughing fit that he muffled as best as he could in the crook of his arm. When he could breathe at last, he looked to where Alejandra was still circling the roof, and he relaxed. He thumbed the pistol to safe, returned it to his holster, and used the crook of his arm to muffle another deep, phlegmy cough.
“Damn,” he said at last. “Still here, huh?”
“I know how you feel,” Addison joined him in a grumble. “I keep hoping that I'll wake up back in my one-room apartment, with the Buckholtzs arguing over my head, the stench of Mrs. Constantinescu's cooked cabbage filling the halls, and those bastard Tomlinson twins blasting their cartoons through the walls.”
Hansen regarded him as he might regard a two-headed cow, and said nothing.
“I'm just sayin'...” Addison mumbled quietly to himself.
Presently, Alejandra scampered noiselessly back and squatted down in front of them. “They're pretty quiet right now,” she hushed. “If we're gonna go, now's not a bad time. You got those Batwings of yours, Addy?”
“Ally, I told you. Batman has a Batwing. Singular. Man-bat has wings. Plural. It's an entirely different thing, see?” He looked to Mason and Hansen and added a quick, “But that's just comic books and not relevant to the situation. I'm surprised at you, Ally!”
She scowled at him and offered Hansen a jut of her chin. “And how are you doing, tamarindo? Still with us?”
“Barely,” he said, muffling another cough.
“Yeah, you slept pretty rough. You make a lousy pillow, old man.”
They shared a smile.
“I warned you.” Hansen shrugged.
“Cierto.” Alejandra shrugged back.
“Lo siento.”
“No seas.”
Hansen choked back one more cough and turned to Mason. “You got a Plan D in that big, fat head of yours, tough guy?”
Back to your old self, I see... Mason said silently, but aloud he only said, “Sort of.”
