[A bit of an abrupt end, but there's more to this section than will happen in just a few words, so I'll use tomorrow and get it posted by the evening. Outlining makes for longer sections, it seems.]
It wasn't much more than a ten minute walk from the subway station to Divine Chuck's apartment building. Atty spent the trip chattering about what kind of crazy things people do in subway stations--like the lady who came through dressed as a muffler, and the guy who came back every week to count the tiles, making sure the station hadn't shrunk any--so Bradley didn't have to say much. He mostly nodded, laughed, and acted like it was perfectly normal to be walking through the streets of Seven Cities, Wisconsin, with an angel. Everybody does it at least ONCE in his life, right? And he certainly wasn't going crazy. Crazy would be hanging out with a vampire, or something like that. And there was no way vampires were real. No way at all. Bradley leaned back slightly and looked at Atty's back again. Nothing. Just a rattling guitar case.
He tuned back in to what the angel was saying. "So Chuck told him that no, he didn't need life insurance, and he sent the guy out of the station so fast, the air popped behind him. Which kind of proved the guy wrong."
"I'm sorry," said Bradley. "Proved him wrong how?"
"Didn't you hear the first part?"
Bradley shook his head. "I got distracted."
"That ruins the whole joke."
"Sorry."
"No problem," said the angel. "The first part of the story was this insurance guy claiming he could sell life insurance to God."
Bradley blinked. "Oh, right. And Chuck is God."
"No-no-no." Atty shook his head vigorously. "Not THE God. Just A god. Big difference. You really have been distracted, haven't you?"
"Just slightly. It's not ever day that you meet a guy with wings."
"Probably happens more often than you think," said the angel. "We don't usually wear our wings on the outside, though. Calls too much attention to ourselves. We try to keep a low profile. Fewer questions that way. Less government regulation."
Bradley smiled. "What would you call THAT department? The Angel Licensing Bureau?"
"Divine Association Management and Metaphysical Interface Team. Which shows that someone in Washington has a sense of humor."
"I don't get it."
"The first letters of the words are D, A, M, M, I--"
"I get it now. This is a real thing?"
"Went defunct a few decades ago. Most magical and inter-dimensional relations are managed by secret organizations and agencies. It's a weird system, but works better than trying to use a bunch of red tape to tie up a dragon."
"Many dragons around?"
"Real or metaphorical?"
"Either. No, wait. Real."
"Not very many real dragons around, no."
"That's good to hear," said Bradley. He followed Atty as the angel turned and walked through the door and into the lobby of an apartment building. "Is this where Chuck lives?"
"Right at the top," said Atty. "Sixth floor, great view of the lake between buildings."
Bradley looked around the lobby. It was small. One wall was the elevators (two) and mailboxes (twenty, maybe?), while the other wall was a message board and the door of the supervisor's apartment.
"This isn't very fancy."
"Divine Chuck isn't a very fancy god. Never went in for the flashy stuff."
"But he IS a god, right?"
Atty grinned. "You don't seem very convinced. I just sprouted wings, called up a sword of flame, and turned two creatures to ash, creatures you'd never seen before in your life. What do I have to do to convince you that my boss is a God?"
Bradley rubbed his hands over his face. "Maybe he could turn water into wine."
"Why?" asked Atty. "You drink?"
"No, actually."
"Neither does Chuck, so what's the point?" He punched the up button with a stiff finger and leaned against the wall between the elevators. "Trust me, Bradley. Chuck's a god, and I'm one of his angels. The world is an amazing place."
"Yes, it is," Bradley agreed.
The doors opened, they climbed in, and Bradley sat with his back against a fake-wood panel. In an elevator with an angel. Sounded like that should be the title of a song, and it probably was. A country song. The doors opened again, and he followed Atty down the hall toward the front of the building. The angel knocked on the door to an apartment and pushed it open.
"Chuck? You in?"
"Living room!" yelled a voice from somewhere inside.
"Come on," said Atty, smiling back at Bradley. "Nothing to worry about. Bradley's nice."
"Sure," said Bradley, and he stepped into the home of a god. It looked surprisingly like a normal apartment. "He likes hats."
"Yes, he does."
"That's a big hat rack."
"There's a lot more in the bedroom," said Atty. "Also, he loans them out obsessively, so I think he has a couple dozen more on heads around the city."
"Does that have anything to do with being a god?"
"Nope. That has everything to do with liking hats. Come on in. You should meet him."
Bradley followed down a short hallway and into a room big enough for a pair of couches, big TV, easy chair, and a table settled in one corner. The table was covered with a jigsaw puzzle, mostly finished, that looked like lots and lots of bubbles. The wall away from the windows was covered in art that looked original and like landscapes. One couch was covered by Olivia, Bradley's downstairs neighbor. She was holding a notebook and pen. Also, she was looking at him.
"Bradley?"
"Olivia?"
"Chuck?" said Atty, faking surprise.
"Atty?" said the man on the other couch, appearing equally unshocked and equally amused. He was wearing a baseball cap with the word 'FLEX' across the front. He looked somewhere in his thirties, an average kind of fit, and a bristly moustache like he never made it out of the 1980's. "Are we all done saying names now? I'd like to meet the guy that my angel's brought around. You mind, Olivia?"
"No, that's fine" said Bradley's neighbor, looking unattainably good and curvy in jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a cat looking slightly insane. Bradley found that slightly disappointing. Cute girls weren't supposed to wear cat t-shirts. He didn't like cats.
"Hey, nice shirt," said Atty, looking at Olivia. "I love cats."
'Thanks," said Olivia, smiling a little more brightly than was necessary, Bradley thought. He looked back at Atty. Ugh. The man really was good looking, and the guitar case over the shoulder was appealing in an urban-renegade sort of way.
"Hi," said Chuck. He'd stood up and walked over to Bradley and was holding out his hand. "I'm Chuck."
Bradley shook. "I'm Bradley Shupak. Nice to meet you."
"My pleasure," said the god. "So why did Atty bring you over? Something to do with the disturbance in my temple?"
"How did you know about that?"
Chuck let go of the handshake and looked back at Olivia, grinning. "Do I say it, Olivia, or do I let you?"
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you go ahead, Chuck. Your kind enjoys saying it so much."
"That's fine with me." He turned back to Bradley. "It's because I'm a god."
Bradley glanced at Olivia. She looked skeptical, but amused, and Chuck just looked happy. Atty didn’t look like anything. He’d wandered off down the hall somewhere, and Bradley heard the mixed sound of machinery and crackling ice that is the universal sign of an automatic ice machine.
“I think I’m lost,” said Bradley.
“Come sit down, and we’ll try to get you un-lost.” Chuck waved Bradley over to the easy chair and dropped himself back onto his couch, adjusting his ball cap with both hands. Bradley sat down on the edge of the overstuffed chair. It looked comfortable—it felt comfortable—but he didn’t want to slouch back into it. He was afraid he might look ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous to worry about looking ridiculous, but he had to choose one or the other, so he stayed on the edge of the chair.
“So, Bradley, what brings you here? Besides Atty, that is.”
Bradley rubbed his hands together between his knees. “I don’t know, really. This morning I woke up and my nose wasn’t stuffy—I mean, that’s not—this isn’t—what does a god DO exactly?”
Chuck smiled and Olivia laughed. “Yes, ‘Divine’ Chuck,” she said. “What IS it that you gods do, exactly? I’m not sure I’ve seen a single one of you do an honest day’s work.”
“That’s not fair,” said the god. “What about Standing Appointment?”
“Fine,” she said, spinning her pen on her notebook. “So ONE of you has an honest job, if you can call selling hot dogs ‘work.’”
Chuck leaned over to Bradley conspiratorially. “Clearly, our grad student here has never had to stand on her feet for ten hours. She should give Stan a little more credit.”
“So why don’t you tell us what YOU’VE done today, all-powerful god,” said Olivia.
“Not all-powerful. Only somewhat powerful. Powerful within my means, you might say. Speaking of which, Atty!”
“What’s up?” called the angel from the kitchen.
“How were the offerings from the faithful today?”
“I left the case on the floor in there. Didn’t you see it?”
Chuck peeked back over the couch. “Good take?” he called.
“Decent.”
“It looked like plenty of money to me,” said Bradley.
“It’s not about the money,” said Chuck, facing back front. “It’s about faith.”
“They have to believe in you?”
“No, not in me, specifically. In doing good. And they have to act on it, of course. It’s not enough just to think that good is good and bad is bad. You have to do something about it. That is faith. They give it to me, and I am faithful in return.” He turned to Olivia. “What did I do today? I cured two incipient colds—that’s a good word, ‘incipient’—prevented seven robberies, nudged a budding romance along, and gave my angel the power to destroy an emissary of evil. At least I hope it was an emissary of evil. That’s always impressive. Atty! Did we destroy an emissary of evil this morning?”
“Not so much,” called the angel. “More an elemental force than actual evil. Definitely a threat, though. Think of it as pest control.”
“Pest control,” muttered Chuck. “Necessary, I guess, but not especially glamorous.”
“I don’t know,” said Olivia. “I admire a man who can kill a cockroach.” She was looking toward the kitchen when she said it.
“You do, do you,” said Chuck, looking thoughtful. “At least tell me they were big cockroaches, Bradley.”
Bradley thought of the smell, the weight of the Ipthakorian pressing down on him and the cold tile against the back of his head. “Yeah. Big ones.”
“Hmm.” Chuck met Bradley’s eyes and seemed to understand. “I’ll take it. So now that you know a little more what a god does, do you have any other questions, Brad? Can I call you Brad?”
“Actually, I’ve always preferred Bradley.”
“Really? That doesn’t seem to fit you. I don’t see you as a ‘Bradley.’ Am I losing my touch?”
Bradley thought about letting it go—no need for Olivia to know his real name—but something in his heart wouldn’t let him stay silent. It was wrong not to give that respect to a god in his home.
“That’s my middle name. My first name is something else.”
“Aha! Tell me. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Practicality. My name is Practicality.”
Olivia laughed, the short ring of a bell.
“You find that funny?” asked Chuck.
She shrugged. “It’s just that Bradley never struck me as the practical sort. More the kind to follow his instincts on some kind of wild goose chase.”
“Is there anything more practical than that?” asked Chuck, smiling.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 10
[Managed to finish the entire section. Rae seems really nice. (She's the angel who worked for Forgotten Zed, if you'd forgotten.) Also, we are reminded of the hints of a broader conspiracy in this chapter. Do you remember those hints? From the very first chapter?
[No?
[I'm pretty sure they were there. Maybe I'll have to go back and actually read what I've written.]
Rae walked into THAI FOR FIRST, saw Luther, and waved. He waved back from the table he'd picked, in clear sight of the door so she wouldn't have to look around much. She walked over and Luther watched. While angels don't understand much about romance, he certainly could understand beauty, and Rae was beautiful. It was one part her shape and form, and one part her style. Luther wasn't sure where in the last several centuries their paths had split so dramatically, but where Rae was fashionable, Luther was fastion-un-able. He glanced down at his own rumpled slacks and button-down shirt. Also wrinkled. Maybe he could call his style 'classic' and get away with that. Or maybe he could pretend to be a math professor.
"Good to see you, Luther." Rae leaned down and gave him a hug, which he returned. She sat at the table and took a drink of the water had ordered for her. "No ice," she said. "That's sweet of you to remember."
Luther shrugged and took a drink of his carbonated lemon stuff. Of course he would remember that she didn't like ice. Once again, he may not know much about romance, but he knew friendship. "You would have done the same for me."
"No I wouldn't. You like ice."
Luther cocked his eyebrow at her, and she smiled.
"Also," she went on, "I wouldn't have known to order THAT drink for you. What is it?"
"No idea, really. It has some Asian name, and I'm rusty on those languages. Never worked out that way."
"You don't have to speak the language to know the name of a soda. How many people through the world know 'Coca-Cola?'"
"Everyone, but that's not a fair comparison."
"Why's that?"
"Coke is American."
Rae snorted and flicked water at him. "If I didn't know how long you worked in Europe and Africa, I'd call you a chauvinist."
"I'm glad you appreciate my humor. You know what you want?"
Rae flipped open her menu and looked down at it. "Wings," she said. "I want wings."
"They don't serve wings here."
"Not what I meant."
"I know." Luther reached over to tap on her menu. "Try the C8."
"What's the C8?"
"It has chicken."
"Anything else?"
"It's made with passion."
"Passion and...?"
"Cashews. And it tastes really good."
"Fine. I'll have the C8."
"Good," said Luther. "Because I ordered the C8 and the C3, and I wanted to eat the C3, so I'm glad it worked out."
Rae closed her menu and looked at him. "I've missed you, Luther."
"What do you mean? We may not spend too much time together, but it's not like we've been total strangers."
"Yes, we've seen each other, but I've missed YOU. This is the first time I've seen you play with someone in over a hundred years."
Luther blinked. "I was playing, wasn't I?"
"Most definitely."
"I didn't realize it. It doesn't seem like I should be."
"Why not?"
Luther chuckled. "It's been so long, I guess. And I've got plenty of reasons to NOT play."
"But you don't work for Mr. Pity-Party anymore," said Rae. "That's a reason to celebrate."
Luther see-sawed his hand in the air. "Mixed blessing. You want the list of things to worry about? Forgotten Zed is dead--which is a depressing rhyme--and we have no idea where his faith has gone. I'm out of a job. You're out of a job. No wings for anyone. And...I think that's it. Just those."
"You forgot to mention the Five Dark Men," said Rae.
"What about them?" asked Luther, suddenly more serious.
"Rumor is that they're in town."
"That's absurd! They haven't set foot outside Brazil since the Forties."
"Apparently, now they have. Also, it's not actually the Five Dark Men anymore. It's now the Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women."
"You're kidding."
"Wish I were. Seems they've become a PROGRESSIVE cabal bent on world domination."
"That's distressing."
"It is."
"And hard to say."
"Also true."
"'Five Dark Men' was ridiculous enough, but that was the 1800's for you, and then after that, tradition is tradition. But 'Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women?'"
"You don't have to convince ME, Luther. I was happy not having to say their name at all for a few decades. I thought they had their noses bloodied enough in the war that they'd still be wound licking."
Luther tipped his drink from side to side, thinking. "Guess you can't keep a good cabal, down, huh?"
"Guess not."
"Think they had anything to do with Forgotten Zed?"
"I'm worried about the possibility, of course," said Rae, turning at an angle in her chair and crossing her legs. "Killing a god is exactly the kind of thing they'd try, but they're not the sort that would keep quiet about it after. I'd expect a war to have started already if they had the power."
Luther grunted. "It hasn't even been twenty-four hours. Give them time."
"No, thank you. I don't think we should."
Luther cocked his head. "Are you saying we should go after them?"
She leaned forward. "At least try to find out who offed Zed, yes."
"But we have no wings."
"Wings, no, but brains and connections, yes. Those we have aplenty."
Luther sat back and crossed his arms. "I may have a brain, but I'm not so strong in the connections department. I'm not you, Rae. I wasn't working for one of the Big Eight."
"Stuff it, Luther. You know you've got respect enough in our circles to move mountains, and I mean that literally."
"Since when?"
"Since forever, but you've been too busy worrying about your failures to notice your successes. A lot of people appreciate what you've been doing over the years."
"Even with a deadbeat god for a boss?"
"Especially with a deadbeat god for a boss. People like you, Luther." She was looking him in the eye as she said it, and she was sincere. No lie there. After a few centuries of watching people, he could tell.
"Thanks," he said.
She leaned back, shrugging. "You're welcome, but you'll be even more welcome if you'll help me. Zed's power shouldn't be on the loose. Either someone picks it up who we can trust, or we break it down into nothing."
"I'm not sure I like that second idea."
Rae grimaced. "Sure, Pompeii was bad, but it was better than the alternative."
"Probably better," Luther protested. "Neither of us were there, and history is written by the victors."
"Even so, if the Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women have the power, better to bury a city in ash than let them run around with it."
Luther reached out and started tipping his glass again. "I think you're right."
"I know I'm right."
"Yeah."
They sat in quiet as the waiter appeared. They sorted out which dish went where, they agreed to enjoy their meal, and the waiter left them.
"Fine," said Luther.
"What's that?" asked Rae.
"I'll help you."
"Wonderful," she said, removing her fork and spoon from the folded napkin. "I have a few people I can talk to about the Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women. Do you still have connections at the Fifth Agency?"
Luther's brow furrowed. "Not sure. I knew a girl who worked there, but last I heard, her job wasn't so secure. Then I got distracted and lost track of her."
"You okay calling her up? The Agency sent in a team to Zed's apartment, but they weren't people I recognized. Better to get connected with a familiar face, don't you think?"
"Absolutely. And yes, I'm okay calling her up. Very nice girl, though a bit of a workaholic. Japanese parents."
"Americans can be workaholics, too, Luther."
"She is American."
"Then why did you bring up her parents?"
"I'm just trying to somehow extract myself from my unintentional racism. Is it working?"
"Only mildly."
"My, oh my," said Luther, pulling out his own spoon. "Doesn't this look good?" He dug in and scooped up a mix of rice, chicken, and something that looked like a potato. Probably was, but he couldn't remember the ingredients of this particular dish, and there was at least one fruit that liked to disguise itself as a small potato. Rae laughed at him and scooped up her own bit of food. They both took a bite. Luther chewed. Then chewed more. Then swallowed.
"Did you want to have the C3?" he asked. "We can trade."
Rae politely spat her mouthful into her napkin and placed it next to her plate. "I'm not sure it would do any good. This is terrible. I thought this place had good food."
"It does. Did, at least. I ate here two weeks ago."
Rae licked her lips, looking thoughtful. "Does it taste funny to you?"
"By 'funny' did you mean 'repulsive?'"
She shook her head. "Funny as in...funny."
Luther picked up a bit of carrot with his fingers and nibbled at it. Still awful--remarkably, bizarrely awful--but he tried to taste PAST that.
"You were right: this tastes funny."
"What is that flavor?"
"Sadness."
"That's not a flavor."
"If they can make sunshine bagels, they can make sadness curry."
"They make sunshine bagels?"
"Yeah. Bagel shop near here. It's not on the menu so you have to ask."
"Crazy."
Luther nibbled at the carrot again. "This is more than just sadness."
Rae leaned in and sniffed at her C8. She nodded. "There's something supernatural about this."
Luther looked back at the kitchen, then slumped in his chair. "No wings," he said.
"We still might be able to help," Rae protested.
"Worth a try," he agreed. "At the very least, I can call Atty to come down. I think he gets off his shift soon."
Luther hopped up and moved around to Rae's side of their little table. As she rose, he pulled her chair back for her.
"It's been a while since that happened, too," she said. "Joking around AND getting a lady's chair. This is a momentous occasion."
Luther stepped up and offered his arm, which she took. "Let's hope it stays very mildly momentous, at least for the sake of whoever cooked this food."
"Agreed."
Arm in arm they walked toward the kitchen. Their server intercepted them.
"Can I help you?"
"We need to talk to the chef," said Rae.
"I'd be happy to let him know. He could come out as soon as he has a moment."
Rae's smile was unperturbed. "I'm not sure that will work. We really need to see him where he works."
The waiter shifted his wait uncomfortably. "If you have a complaint, I can get my manager. Honestly, I have to admit that his cooking is a little off today, so I can understand, but I don't think I can let you back into the kitchen."
"Why not?" asked Luther. "People are always charging through kitchens in movies."
Rae glanced at him sideways and pulled him ahead around the waiter. "I think the poor young man is referring to health code regulations, or some such thing. Do you have your food handler's permit, Luther?"
"I let it expire."
"I did, too, but don't let that bother you," she glanced back at the waiter's nametag as she brushed by, "John. We won't touch anything. We're here to help."
"Not that we can do much," muttered Luther, and he coughed as Rae's elbow met with his ribs. "Sorry. Yep," he called back to the following waiter, "here to help."
More protests followed them, and someone dressed like a manager started closing in from the other side, but it wasn't in time to stop Rae and Luther from pushing through the kitchen door.
"Oh, dear," said Rae.
"I think I should call Atty," said Luther, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. "You'll keep people out of the kitchen?"
"On it," said the angel, and she turned back to firmly lead the manager and waiter out the door. They probably tried to resist, but Luther knew exactly how tough Rae's body was under those classy clothes. He had a few minutes at least.
He held down the speed-dial and listened as the call went directly to voice mail. Luther didn't bother waiting to hear what to press for more options. He cut off the call and looked at the creatures who were looking back at him. If you could call what Ipthakorians did 'looking.' One was crouched on the counter, one leg wrapped around the shoulders of the chef. The other creature hung from the racks of pots and pans over the stove. Surrounded by their malevolent attention was a slightly overweight man in his early thirties, stirring some kind of curry that probably tasted like it had given up on life--and when curry gives up on life, you know you have problems.
"Hello," said Luther.
The chef looked up at him and went back to stirring.
"You're looking tired. Anything I can do to help?" Luther wondered about the answer to that question. WAS there anything he could do? From the looks of things, the Ipthakorians had been feeding on this guy nonstop for some time. Their skins were radiant, more red than gray, like fire peaking through the cracks of ashes. Actually, the amazing thing was that the chef was still standing at all. Losing that much energy to creatures like this was enough to kill at least one normal person. What made the chef that powerful? And if he had that kind of power, why was he letting small-fry like Ipthakorians chew on him?
"You here to complain about the food, too?" asked the chef. "Fine. Get in line. You and every other lunchtime prima donna out there. It's the same food I make every day, but now something's 'wrong with it.'" His voice dipped heavily into sarcasm. "Besides, it's not like it's my fault that man went to the hospital. If you're allergic to peanuts, you shouldn't be coming to a Thai restaurant. Don't they teach that in Peanut Allergies 101? Basic stuff, people."
Luther was lost. "I'm sorry. Who went to the hospital?"
"Sure, come back here just to mess with me. That's classy. I feel bad enough, all right? What are you, some kind of reporter? Going to put this all over the newspapers? Go ahead, shut down this place and ruin my career, all because some idiot can't go to a burger joint where they never heard of a peanut. Or classy food, for that matter."
Rae stepped up next to her friend. "What is he talking about?" she murmured.
"I have no idea. I just asked if I could help. No answer from Atty, by the way. You know another angel close?"
"What about Standing Appointment?"
Luther shook his head. "He goes solo. Borrows angels sometimes, but no regulars. The Little Saint is close, right?"
"Yes, but I don't have his number. Britaenelia still work for him?"
"I think she went to South America."
"Darn it. Because I have HER number."
Luther ran his hand down over his mouth. "I usually call Atty when I need a phone number."
"That's inefficient."
"Yes, but simplifies my life. He's my phonebook."
Rae stared at the Ipthakorians and the chef whose tirade had trailed off into tired mumbling.
"How is he still alive?" she asked.
"No idea. There's something going on here that isn't obvious. You have connections with Rochelle and Rachel, right?"
Rae nodded. "I might be asking them for a job, even though we all have names that start with 'r.' Tacky, but better than being wingless."
"You call them, and I'll call my friend at the Fifth Agency. This is weird enough that some extra brains wouldn't hurt."
"Got it," said Rae, reaching for her phone.
That was when the Ipthakorians panicked. The creature draped over the chef released its grip and was scampering around in strange, loopy circles, bounding from ceiling to floor, wall to wall. Rae and Luther backed up to the door of the kitchen as plates and dishes were scattered around, a knife holder and all its knives sent flying. The chef, seemingly oblivious, kept stirring, even though the curry in the pan was beginning to burn with an acrid smell. The one hanging from the ceiling suddenly launched itself toward the back door, ripping at the heavy metal with its powerful arms. A gap opened with a screech of twisting steel, and the creature surged out through the hole.
On top of all that, an immense, bass growl shook the entire building, the kind of bass that was a techno-lover’s dream. Luther felt it most in his elbows for some strange reason. A crunching noise accompanied a high pitched scream from just outside the door, followed by a heavy impact against the side of the restaurant. The sink near the window started spraying water and the Ipthakorian still in the room became even more frantic.
"Borthont?" said Rae.
"Probably," agreed Luther.
"What do you do about a borthont?"
"Call forth the Sweetest Scents of Spring?"
"I have some Ralph Lauren in my bag."
"Close, but not likely very effective."
"Other suggestions?" asked Rae.
"Run? Running's an option."
"Fire!" yelled Rae, back through the door. "Fire in the kitchen! Call 911! Get out of the building!"
She may not have had wings, but a few hundred years of authority had done wonders for Rae's stage presence. The heads of the manager and waiter disappeared from the window on the kitchen door and there was a general commotion along with the sound of the front door opening and closing, ringing the bell that hung from it over and over.
"Good idea," said Luther. "Now how do we get the chef out of there?"
They both watched as the Ipthakorian continued to scamper. With its odd trajectories, thick tail, and sharp claws, jumping in to get the muttering, stirring chef would be a serious risk, and while angels live a long time, they weren't immune to bodily harm. They just usually had the power of a god to back them up.
But there was a bit of a pattern to the creatures frantic scampering. If he moved in just a bit closer, Luther figured he'd have a shot at pulling the poor man away from the creature that had been feeding on him. Then they could implement the backup plan for dealing with a borthont: sprinting until they passed out.
"I got this," he said.
"You sure?" asked Rae.
"I think so. Call up the twins and get us some help. At best, we'll just be stalling with something like a borthont, but at least we can save this guy."
"Got it. Be careful, Luther."
"Of course."
He turned and watched again, round and round, one, two, one, two, he could go in right--
The wall to the kitchen ripped apart under the impact from a horn the size of a Vespa scooter. Luther pulled back from the scattering drywall and debris, and that hesitation was all it took. Two quick snaps of its neck, and the brothont's head--looking rather like a depressed Tyrannosaurus Rex--had snatched up both the frantic Ipthakorian and the chef. Gone. Swallowed. On the stove, the pan of curry spun in place and stopped. Another bass roar.
"Oh my," said Rae.
"I guess we CAN’T save that guy," said Luther.
[No?
[I'm pretty sure they were there. Maybe I'll have to go back and actually read what I've written.]
Rae walked into THAI FOR FIRST, saw Luther, and waved. He waved back from the table he'd picked, in clear sight of the door so she wouldn't have to look around much. She walked over and Luther watched. While angels don't understand much about romance, he certainly could understand beauty, and Rae was beautiful. It was one part her shape and form, and one part her style. Luther wasn't sure where in the last several centuries their paths had split so dramatically, but where Rae was fashionable, Luther was fastion-un-able. He glanced down at his own rumpled slacks and button-down shirt. Also wrinkled. Maybe he could call his style 'classic' and get away with that. Or maybe he could pretend to be a math professor.
"Good to see you, Luther." Rae leaned down and gave him a hug, which he returned. She sat at the table and took a drink of the water had ordered for her. "No ice," she said. "That's sweet of you to remember."
Luther shrugged and took a drink of his carbonated lemon stuff. Of course he would remember that she didn't like ice. Once again, he may not know much about romance, but he knew friendship. "You would have done the same for me."
"No I wouldn't. You like ice."
Luther cocked his eyebrow at her, and she smiled.
"Also," she went on, "I wouldn't have known to order THAT drink for you. What is it?"
"No idea, really. It has some Asian name, and I'm rusty on those languages. Never worked out that way."
"You don't have to speak the language to know the name of a soda. How many people through the world know 'Coca-Cola?'"
"Everyone, but that's not a fair comparison."
"Why's that?"
"Coke is American."
Rae snorted and flicked water at him. "If I didn't know how long you worked in Europe and Africa, I'd call you a chauvinist."
"I'm glad you appreciate my humor. You know what you want?"
Rae flipped open her menu and looked down at it. "Wings," she said. "I want wings."
"They don't serve wings here."
"Not what I meant."
"I know." Luther reached over to tap on her menu. "Try the C8."
"What's the C8?"
"It has chicken."
"Anything else?"
"It's made with passion."
"Passion and...?"
"Cashews. And it tastes really good."
"Fine. I'll have the C8."
"Good," said Luther. "Because I ordered the C8 and the C3, and I wanted to eat the C3, so I'm glad it worked out."
Rae closed her menu and looked at him. "I've missed you, Luther."
"What do you mean? We may not spend too much time together, but it's not like we've been total strangers."
"Yes, we've seen each other, but I've missed YOU. This is the first time I've seen you play with someone in over a hundred years."
Luther blinked. "I was playing, wasn't I?"
"Most definitely."
"I didn't realize it. It doesn't seem like I should be."
"Why not?"
Luther chuckled. "It's been so long, I guess. And I've got plenty of reasons to NOT play."
"But you don't work for Mr. Pity-Party anymore," said Rae. "That's a reason to celebrate."
Luther see-sawed his hand in the air. "Mixed blessing. You want the list of things to worry about? Forgotten Zed is dead--which is a depressing rhyme--and we have no idea where his faith has gone. I'm out of a job. You're out of a job. No wings for anyone. And...I think that's it. Just those."
"You forgot to mention the Five Dark Men," said Rae.
"What about them?" asked Luther, suddenly more serious.
"Rumor is that they're in town."
"That's absurd! They haven't set foot outside Brazil since the Forties."
"Apparently, now they have. Also, it's not actually the Five Dark Men anymore. It's now the Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women."
"You're kidding."
"Wish I were. Seems they've become a PROGRESSIVE cabal bent on world domination."
"That's distressing."
"It is."
"And hard to say."
"Also true."
"'Five Dark Men' was ridiculous enough, but that was the 1800's for you, and then after that, tradition is tradition. But 'Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women?'"
"You don't have to convince ME, Luther. I was happy not having to say their name at all for a few decades. I thought they had their noses bloodied enough in the war that they'd still be wound licking."
Luther tipped his drink from side to side, thinking. "Guess you can't keep a good cabal, down, huh?"
"Guess not."
"Think they had anything to do with Forgotten Zed?"
"I'm worried about the possibility, of course," said Rae, turning at an angle in her chair and crossing her legs. "Killing a god is exactly the kind of thing they'd try, but they're not the sort that would keep quiet about it after. I'd expect a war to have started already if they had the power."
Luther grunted. "It hasn't even been twenty-four hours. Give them time."
"No, thank you. I don't think we should."
Luther cocked his head. "Are you saying we should go after them?"
She leaned forward. "At least try to find out who offed Zed, yes."
"But we have no wings."
"Wings, no, but brains and connections, yes. Those we have aplenty."
Luther sat back and crossed his arms. "I may have a brain, but I'm not so strong in the connections department. I'm not you, Rae. I wasn't working for one of the Big Eight."
"Stuff it, Luther. You know you've got respect enough in our circles to move mountains, and I mean that literally."
"Since when?"
"Since forever, but you've been too busy worrying about your failures to notice your successes. A lot of people appreciate what you've been doing over the years."
"Even with a deadbeat god for a boss?"
"Especially with a deadbeat god for a boss. People like you, Luther." She was looking him in the eye as she said it, and she was sincere. No lie there. After a few centuries of watching people, he could tell.
"Thanks," he said.
She leaned back, shrugging. "You're welcome, but you'll be even more welcome if you'll help me. Zed's power shouldn't be on the loose. Either someone picks it up who we can trust, or we break it down into nothing."
"I'm not sure I like that second idea."
Rae grimaced. "Sure, Pompeii was bad, but it was better than the alternative."
"Probably better," Luther protested. "Neither of us were there, and history is written by the victors."
"Even so, if the Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women have the power, better to bury a city in ash than let them run around with it."
Luther reached out and started tipping his glass again. "I think you're right."
"I know I'm right."
"Yeah."
They sat in quiet as the waiter appeared. They sorted out which dish went where, they agreed to enjoy their meal, and the waiter left them.
"Fine," said Luther.
"What's that?" asked Rae.
"I'll help you."
"Wonderful," she said, removing her fork and spoon from the folded napkin. "I have a few people I can talk to about the Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women. Do you still have connections at the Fifth Agency?"
Luther's brow furrowed. "Not sure. I knew a girl who worked there, but last I heard, her job wasn't so secure. Then I got distracted and lost track of her."
"You okay calling her up? The Agency sent in a team to Zed's apartment, but they weren't people I recognized. Better to get connected with a familiar face, don't you think?"
"Absolutely. And yes, I'm okay calling her up. Very nice girl, though a bit of a workaholic. Japanese parents."
"Americans can be workaholics, too, Luther."
"She is American."
"Then why did you bring up her parents?"
"I'm just trying to somehow extract myself from my unintentional racism. Is it working?"
"Only mildly."
"My, oh my," said Luther, pulling out his own spoon. "Doesn't this look good?" He dug in and scooped up a mix of rice, chicken, and something that looked like a potato. Probably was, but he couldn't remember the ingredients of this particular dish, and there was at least one fruit that liked to disguise itself as a small potato. Rae laughed at him and scooped up her own bit of food. They both took a bite. Luther chewed. Then chewed more. Then swallowed.
"Did you want to have the C3?" he asked. "We can trade."
Rae politely spat her mouthful into her napkin and placed it next to her plate. "I'm not sure it would do any good. This is terrible. I thought this place had good food."
"It does. Did, at least. I ate here two weeks ago."
Rae licked her lips, looking thoughtful. "Does it taste funny to you?"
"By 'funny' did you mean 'repulsive?'"
She shook her head. "Funny as in...funny."
Luther picked up a bit of carrot with his fingers and nibbled at it. Still awful--remarkably, bizarrely awful--but he tried to taste PAST that.
"You were right: this tastes funny."
"What is that flavor?"
"Sadness."
"That's not a flavor."
"If they can make sunshine bagels, they can make sadness curry."
"They make sunshine bagels?"
"Yeah. Bagel shop near here. It's not on the menu so you have to ask."
"Crazy."
Luther nibbled at the carrot again. "This is more than just sadness."
Rae leaned in and sniffed at her C8. She nodded. "There's something supernatural about this."
Luther looked back at the kitchen, then slumped in his chair. "No wings," he said.
"We still might be able to help," Rae protested.
"Worth a try," he agreed. "At the very least, I can call Atty to come down. I think he gets off his shift soon."
Luther hopped up and moved around to Rae's side of their little table. As she rose, he pulled her chair back for her.
"It's been a while since that happened, too," she said. "Joking around AND getting a lady's chair. This is a momentous occasion."
Luther stepped up and offered his arm, which she took. "Let's hope it stays very mildly momentous, at least for the sake of whoever cooked this food."
"Agreed."
Arm in arm they walked toward the kitchen. Their server intercepted them.
"Can I help you?"
"We need to talk to the chef," said Rae.
"I'd be happy to let him know. He could come out as soon as he has a moment."
Rae's smile was unperturbed. "I'm not sure that will work. We really need to see him where he works."
The waiter shifted his wait uncomfortably. "If you have a complaint, I can get my manager. Honestly, I have to admit that his cooking is a little off today, so I can understand, but I don't think I can let you back into the kitchen."
"Why not?" asked Luther. "People are always charging through kitchens in movies."
Rae glanced at him sideways and pulled him ahead around the waiter. "I think the poor young man is referring to health code regulations, or some such thing. Do you have your food handler's permit, Luther?"
"I let it expire."
"I did, too, but don't let that bother you," she glanced back at the waiter's nametag as she brushed by, "John. We won't touch anything. We're here to help."
"Not that we can do much," muttered Luther, and he coughed as Rae's elbow met with his ribs. "Sorry. Yep," he called back to the following waiter, "here to help."
More protests followed them, and someone dressed like a manager started closing in from the other side, but it wasn't in time to stop Rae and Luther from pushing through the kitchen door.
"Oh, dear," said Rae.
"I think I should call Atty," said Luther, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. "You'll keep people out of the kitchen?"
"On it," said the angel, and she turned back to firmly lead the manager and waiter out the door. They probably tried to resist, but Luther knew exactly how tough Rae's body was under those classy clothes. He had a few minutes at least.
He held down the speed-dial and listened as the call went directly to voice mail. Luther didn't bother waiting to hear what to press for more options. He cut off the call and looked at the creatures who were looking back at him. If you could call what Ipthakorians did 'looking.' One was crouched on the counter, one leg wrapped around the shoulders of the chef. The other creature hung from the racks of pots and pans over the stove. Surrounded by their malevolent attention was a slightly overweight man in his early thirties, stirring some kind of curry that probably tasted like it had given up on life--and when curry gives up on life, you know you have problems.
"Hello," said Luther.
The chef looked up at him and went back to stirring.
"You're looking tired. Anything I can do to help?" Luther wondered about the answer to that question. WAS there anything he could do? From the looks of things, the Ipthakorians had been feeding on this guy nonstop for some time. Their skins were radiant, more red than gray, like fire peaking through the cracks of ashes. Actually, the amazing thing was that the chef was still standing at all. Losing that much energy to creatures like this was enough to kill at least one normal person. What made the chef that powerful? And if he had that kind of power, why was he letting small-fry like Ipthakorians chew on him?
"You here to complain about the food, too?" asked the chef. "Fine. Get in line. You and every other lunchtime prima donna out there. It's the same food I make every day, but now something's 'wrong with it.'" His voice dipped heavily into sarcasm. "Besides, it's not like it's my fault that man went to the hospital. If you're allergic to peanuts, you shouldn't be coming to a Thai restaurant. Don't they teach that in Peanut Allergies 101? Basic stuff, people."
Luther was lost. "I'm sorry. Who went to the hospital?"
"Sure, come back here just to mess with me. That's classy. I feel bad enough, all right? What are you, some kind of reporter? Going to put this all over the newspapers? Go ahead, shut down this place and ruin my career, all because some idiot can't go to a burger joint where they never heard of a peanut. Or classy food, for that matter."
Rae stepped up next to her friend. "What is he talking about?" she murmured.
"I have no idea. I just asked if I could help. No answer from Atty, by the way. You know another angel close?"
"What about Standing Appointment?"
Luther shook his head. "He goes solo. Borrows angels sometimes, but no regulars. The Little Saint is close, right?"
"Yes, but I don't have his number. Britaenelia still work for him?"
"I think she went to South America."
"Darn it. Because I have HER number."
Luther ran his hand down over his mouth. "I usually call Atty when I need a phone number."
"That's inefficient."
"Yes, but simplifies my life. He's my phonebook."
Rae stared at the Ipthakorians and the chef whose tirade had trailed off into tired mumbling.
"How is he still alive?" she asked.
"No idea. There's something going on here that isn't obvious. You have connections with Rochelle and Rachel, right?"
Rae nodded. "I might be asking them for a job, even though we all have names that start with 'r.' Tacky, but better than being wingless."
"You call them, and I'll call my friend at the Fifth Agency. This is weird enough that some extra brains wouldn't hurt."
"Got it," said Rae, reaching for her phone.
That was when the Ipthakorians panicked. The creature draped over the chef released its grip and was scampering around in strange, loopy circles, bounding from ceiling to floor, wall to wall. Rae and Luther backed up to the door of the kitchen as plates and dishes were scattered around, a knife holder and all its knives sent flying. The chef, seemingly oblivious, kept stirring, even though the curry in the pan was beginning to burn with an acrid smell. The one hanging from the ceiling suddenly launched itself toward the back door, ripping at the heavy metal with its powerful arms. A gap opened with a screech of twisting steel, and the creature surged out through the hole.
On top of all that, an immense, bass growl shook the entire building, the kind of bass that was a techno-lover’s dream. Luther felt it most in his elbows for some strange reason. A crunching noise accompanied a high pitched scream from just outside the door, followed by a heavy impact against the side of the restaurant. The sink near the window started spraying water and the Ipthakorian still in the room became even more frantic.
"Borthont?" said Rae.
"Probably," agreed Luther.
"What do you do about a borthont?"
"Call forth the Sweetest Scents of Spring?"
"I have some Ralph Lauren in my bag."
"Close, but not likely very effective."
"Other suggestions?" asked Rae.
"Run? Running's an option."
"Fire!" yelled Rae, back through the door. "Fire in the kitchen! Call 911! Get out of the building!"
She may not have had wings, but a few hundred years of authority had done wonders for Rae's stage presence. The heads of the manager and waiter disappeared from the window on the kitchen door and there was a general commotion along with the sound of the front door opening and closing, ringing the bell that hung from it over and over.
"Good idea," said Luther. "Now how do we get the chef out of there?"
They both watched as the Ipthakorian continued to scamper. With its odd trajectories, thick tail, and sharp claws, jumping in to get the muttering, stirring chef would be a serious risk, and while angels live a long time, they weren't immune to bodily harm. They just usually had the power of a god to back them up.
But there was a bit of a pattern to the creatures frantic scampering. If he moved in just a bit closer, Luther figured he'd have a shot at pulling the poor man away from the creature that had been feeding on him. Then they could implement the backup plan for dealing with a borthont: sprinting until they passed out.
"I got this," he said.
"You sure?" asked Rae.
"I think so. Call up the twins and get us some help. At best, we'll just be stalling with something like a borthont, but at least we can save this guy."
"Got it. Be careful, Luther."
"Of course."
He turned and watched again, round and round, one, two, one, two, he could go in right--
The wall to the kitchen ripped apart under the impact from a horn the size of a Vespa scooter. Luther pulled back from the scattering drywall and debris, and that hesitation was all it took. Two quick snaps of its neck, and the brothont's head--looking rather like a depressed Tyrannosaurus Rex--had snatched up both the frantic Ipthakorian and the chef. Gone. Swallowed. On the stove, the pan of curry spun in place and stopped. Another bass roar.
"Oh my," said Rae.
"I guess we CAN’T save that guy," said Luther.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 09b
[Here's the end of the scene. A quick nap, and then we'll start on Section 10.]
He took the bagel, took a bite, and chewed.
“This is good. What kind is it?”
“Rhubarb and sunshine.”
“Like, sun-dried rhubarb?”
“No, but that’s a good idea. I’ll have to mention it.” Atty was still stretching, working on his calves.
Bradley took another bite and talked around it. “Where do you get a rhubarb and sunshine bagel?”
“The place just up the street.”
“I didn’t see that on the menu.”
“You have to know to ask for it.”
“Right.”
The singer did a few toe-touches with one hand, the other keeping the guitar case from falling off his back, then stood and took a deep breath. Bradley felt the rush of air around him as a subway train screeched and rattled into the station. The doors opened, a few people stepped off, and even more stepped on. Then they were almost all gone, some into the earth, some back to its crust, and except for a man with his iPad and a woman with her hiking backpack, Bradley and Atty were alone.
Except for the creatures.
“I don’t think we’ll get a better time,” said Atty. “Shall we do this?”
“Yeah, sure. What do I do?”
“You have enough bagel in you?”
“Plenty, though it tasted good enough that I’m wanting more.”
“The sunshine does that. Here’s the plan: You keep about four feet behind me, I descend on the Ipthakorians with the Wrath of Divine Chuck, and then you go home.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“I was expecting something more complicated.”
Atty shrugged. “It will be complicated, but mostly for me. Don’t worry about it. Any angel gets skills if he lives long enough. And most of us do.”
“You’re an angel?”
“Yep. More explanations later, but we’re short on time. People will be coming for the next train soon, and Chuck frowns on people dying in his temple. Shall we?”
“I just follow behind?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay.”
“Off we go then.”
Atty turned and started walking with confidence down the platform. Bradley had lost sight of the creatures—Ipthakorians?—but thought that the one hadn’t moved from behind the sign. He had no idea where the other might be, but Atty didn’t seem concerned. In fact, he seemed almost cheerful. Cheerful and shimmery. That was new. Something like glowing feathers was painting itself into the air around Atty’s shoulders and back. Spreading out to either side, the golden glow looked quite a bit like wings, and they smelled of snow-melt. One feather dripped away and floated back, toward Bradley. He reached up to touch it, and it melted around his fingers and away.
Then the feathers snapped into sharp contrast with the air around them and Atty surged forward, a song coming through his voice that made Bradley think of the dark and cold space between the Sun and the Moon, where starlight is perilous and cuts at the mind like shattered glass. It was a frightening enough image for Bradley, but apparently it was worse for the creature it was aimed at. A wordless scream ripped from behind the sign where the Ipthakorian had hidden, and the creature leaped across the tunnel toward the tracks. Its crooked arms and claws struck the wall in the middle of a perfume ad and the creature clung to the face of a beautiful woman, gripping her with disturbing intimacy. With another screech it scurried down the wall, racing for the darkness of the tunnel.
“Not likely,” muttered Atty. His wings snapped out, striking rays of sunlight from the tile floor of the station, and he was gone. No, there he was, in the air between the creature and the tunnel. Between his hands, like the opening of a door from some glorious heaven, a crack appeared, dripping liquid gold. The light splashed against some unseen form in the air, filling a glass in the shape of…a sword. That was definitely a sword, and, based on the cowering that the Ipthakorian was doing, the creature had a good idea about what that thing was as well.
In the middle of gazing in fascination at the blade taking shape in the air, two things occurred to Bradley at roughly the same time. The first was that he was no longer four feet behind Atty. The second was that he had no idea where the other Ipthakorian was.
Maybe it was a noise, or a subconscious sense of the bizarre that had woken up in Bradley along with whatever else was changing inside him—or maybe it was just the smell (sawdust and vomit)—but suddenly Bradley knew where the other creature was. Behind him.
Fear and reflex combined, and Bradley’s knees went rubbery. He dropped straight down, landing on his bottom with a thump, and a gray mass of limbs and hair shot over his head and down at an angle, crashing into the ground and ripping grooves in the tile with its claws. Bradley had always laughed as a teenager when their dog had tried to make the turn in the kitchen as it raced from the living room toward the front door. Once, when Yoshi—the dog—and thudded sideways into the open fridge, Bradley had snorted milk all over his sister. It was a good memory.
The Ipthakorian had better traction than Yoshi. It was a heartbeat before the thing was lunging back along the platform. With a leap, the creature hit Bradley in the chest with its front paws, slamming his head back into the tile and sliding them several feet over the ground. Up close, the smell was overpowering, and going eyeball-to-eyeball with something that didn’t have any was causing all sorts of cognitive dissonance.
Bradley had decided long ago that, if he was ever attacked by a wild animal—or even a dog—he would go down fighting. Not only that, if the thing was smaller than he was, he was going to win. He wasn’t a violent person, and though he’d never been out marching for pigs’ rights, he had no desire to hurt animals personally. Even so, push-comes-to-shove, he was going to give as good as he got.
So Bradley implemented his Angry Dog Defense Plan, rocked his body sideways for leverage, and punched the Ipthakorian where its nose should have been.
It was more effective than he had planned on. Another one of those odd sparks leaped out from the area of his stomach, up through his chest, down his arm, and straight into the salivating creature. The Ipthakorian froze, its tongue hanging out part way, and slowly started to topple sideways.
It didn’t make it to the ground. There was a flash of summer, and the creature burst into rainbow-colored ash.
“Sorry about that,” said Atty. “I got caught up in the moment. You okay?” The wings and sword were gone, and all that was left was a thirty-something man with a guitar case strapped to his back.
“Well enough,” said Bradley. “I cracked my tailbone pretty solidly, and I think adrenaline is the only thing keeping me from finding out exactly how much the back of my head hurts.”
Atty crouched down close to Bradley’s head and looked in his eyes. “Doesn’t seem to be any unusual dilation. Might not have been as bad a thump as you thought.”
Bradley remembered the jolt, the way he felt it all through his head and into his jaw. “It was pretty bad.”
“Let me see what I can do,” said the singer. He started humming, and Bradley could smell something sweet and herbal.
“How do you do that?”
Atty stopped humming and gently touched the sides of Bradley’s head. “Do what?”
“The smells and the wings and the sword and everything.”
“ I’m and angel.”
“An angel angel?”
“Well, I don’t work for Him, if that’s what you mean.” Atty illustrated by pointing up to someplace past the ceiling. “Most angels don’t work for the Big Guy, and I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. Can you imagine the pressure? The Fate of the World is a big deal.”
“I can imagine,” murmured Bradley, suddenly mellow. His head was feeling better. So was his tail-bone.
“The fate of a subway station is about right for me,” said the angel. “Help people out on the way through, make their lives better, gather up their offerings of faith for Chuck, keep the whole thing running. Did you know that, as far as we can tell, no one commuting through this station has had a sick day in seven months? As a team, we’re rather proud of that.”
“Even through flu season?”
“Especially through flu season. It was tiring, but we pulled it off. Chuck threw us a party after. The Standing Appointment let us use his corner, and you won’t find better hot dogs anywhere.”
“Hot dogs,” said Bradley, skeptical but still mellow.
“I figured you’d say that. Not your usual hot dogs. These are hot dogs the way they were meant to be. These are the ideal hot dog that Plato imagined must be out there, the perfect form of a hot dog that teaches you what a hot dog should be.”
“But…they’re hot dogs.”
“Okay, Mr. Skeptical, I’ll take you there. Just as soon as—” Atty stiffened, and Bradley suddenly felt less mellow. “Something else is coming,” said the angel.
“Something bigger,” Bradley agreed. Atty was looking at him. “What is it?”
“I wish I knew what was going on. I’m sensitive to some things, but I’ve had to practice to get there, so I mostly pay attention to threats and dangers. Point is, I look at you and I see a whole bunch of not much, but if you have a Mulp coming through the tunnels for you, you must not be the usual type of magical sensitive.”
“What’s a Mulp?”
“A large mouth with legs.”
“See, I knew asking the question was a bad idea.”
“Why did you ask it?”
“The same reason people in horror movies walk into dark rooms, probably.”
“Well, don’t worry, Bradley. I already know what’s behind that door, and we’re not going to open it. Let me help you up.”
“Thanks.” Bradley got to his feet and brushed off his bottom. There was only a memory of pain, then none at all. “And thanks for fixing me up.”
“It’s my job. Besides, the bumps really weren’t that bad.”
Bradley wondered what the man’s idea of a bad bump was, but decided to not argue. Instead he looked down the dark tunnel where he could feel the approaching hunger of the Mulp. “So how does a person escape from a mouth with legs?”
“Most people run,” said Atty. “My method for facing serious trouble is a bit more effective, though: I talk with my boss.”
He took the bagel, took a bite, and chewed.
“This is good. What kind is it?”
“Rhubarb and sunshine.”
“Like, sun-dried rhubarb?”
“No, but that’s a good idea. I’ll have to mention it.” Atty was still stretching, working on his calves.
Bradley took another bite and talked around it. “Where do you get a rhubarb and sunshine bagel?”
“The place just up the street.”
“I didn’t see that on the menu.”
“You have to know to ask for it.”
“Right.”
The singer did a few toe-touches with one hand, the other keeping the guitar case from falling off his back, then stood and took a deep breath. Bradley felt the rush of air around him as a subway train screeched and rattled into the station. The doors opened, a few people stepped off, and even more stepped on. Then they were almost all gone, some into the earth, some back to its crust, and except for a man with his iPad and a woman with her hiking backpack, Bradley and Atty were alone.
Except for the creatures.
“I don’t think we’ll get a better time,” said Atty. “Shall we do this?”
“Yeah, sure. What do I do?”
“You have enough bagel in you?”
“Plenty, though it tasted good enough that I’m wanting more.”
“The sunshine does that. Here’s the plan: You keep about four feet behind me, I descend on the Ipthakorians with the Wrath of Divine Chuck, and then you go home.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“I was expecting something more complicated.”
Atty shrugged. “It will be complicated, but mostly for me. Don’t worry about it. Any angel gets skills if he lives long enough. And most of us do.”
“You’re an angel?”
“Yep. More explanations later, but we’re short on time. People will be coming for the next train soon, and Chuck frowns on people dying in his temple. Shall we?”
“I just follow behind?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay.”
“Off we go then.”
Atty turned and started walking with confidence down the platform. Bradley had lost sight of the creatures—Ipthakorians?—but thought that the one hadn’t moved from behind the sign. He had no idea where the other might be, but Atty didn’t seem concerned. In fact, he seemed almost cheerful. Cheerful and shimmery. That was new. Something like glowing feathers was painting itself into the air around Atty’s shoulders and back. Spreading out to either side, the golden glow looked quite a bit like wings, and they smelled of snow-melt. One feather dripped away and floated back, toward Bradley. He reached up to touch it, and it melted around his fingers and away.
Then the feathers snapped into sharp contrast with the air around them and Atty surged forward, a song coming through his voice that made Bradley think of the dark and cold space between the Sun and the Moon, where starlight is perilous and cuts at the mind like shattered glass. It was a frightening enough image for Bradley, but apparently it was worse for the creature it was aimed at. A wordless scream ripped from behind the sign where the Ipthakorian had hidden, and the creature leaped across the tunnel toward the tracks. Its crooked arms and claws struck the wall in the middle of a perfume ad and the creature clung to the face of a beautiful woman, gripping her with disturbing intimacy. With another screech it scurried down the wall, racing for the darkness of the tunnel.
“Not likely,” muttered Atty. His wings snapped out, striking rays of sunlight from the tile floor of the station, and he was gone. No, there he was, in the air between the creature and the tunnel. Between his hands, like the opening of a door from some glorious heaven, a crack appeared, dripping liquid gold. The light splashed against some unseen form in the air, filling a glass in the shape of…a sword. That was definitely a sword, and, based on the cowering that the Ipthakorian was doing, the creature had a good idea about what that thing was as well.
In the middle of gazing in fascination at the blade taking shape in the air, two things occurred to Bradley at roughly the same time. The first was that he was no longer four feet behind Atty. The second was that he had no idea where the other Ipthakorian was.
Maybe it was a noise, or a subconscious sense of the bizarre that had woken up in Bradley along with whatever else was changing inside him—or maybe it was just the smell (sawdust and vomit)—but suddenly Bradley knew where the other creature was. Behind him.
Fear and reflex combined, and Bradley’s knees went rubbery. He dropped straight down, landing on his bottom with a thump, and a gray mass of limbs and hair shot over his head and down at an angle, crashing into the ground and ripping grooves in the tile with its claws. Bradley had always laughed as a teenager when their dog had tried to make the turn in the kitchen as it raced from the living room toward the front door. Once, when Yoshi—the dog—and thudded sideways into the open fridge, Bradley had snorted milk all over his sister. It was a good memory.
The Ipthakorian had better traction than Yoshi. It was a heartbeat before the thing was lunging back along the platform. With a leap, the creature hit Bradley in the chest with its front paws, slamming his head back into the tile and sliding them several feet over the ground. Up close, the smell was overpowering, and going eyeball-to-eyeball with something that didn’t have any was causing all sorts of cognitive dissonance.
Bradley had decided long ago that, if he was ever attacked by a wild animal—or even a dog—he would go down fighting. Not only that, if the thing was smaller than he was, he was going to win. He wasn’t a violent person, and though he’d never been out marching for pigs’ rights, he had no desire to hurt animals personally. Even so, push-comes-to-shove, he was going to give as good as he got.
So Bradley implemented his Angry Dog Defense Plan, rocked his body sideways for leverage, and punched the Ipthakorian where its nose should have been.
It was more effective than he had planned on. Another one of those odd sparks leaped out from the area of his stomach, up through his chest, down his arm, and straight into the salivating creature. The Ipthakorian froze, its tongue hanging out part way, and slowly started to topple sideways.
It didn’t make it to the ground. There was a flash of summer, and the creature burst into rainbow-colored ash.
“Sorry about that,” said Atty. “I got caught up in the moment. You okay?” The wings and sword were gone, and all that was left was a thirty-something man with a guitar case strapped to his back.
“Well enough,” said Bradley. “I cracked my tailbone pretty solidly, and I think adrenaline is the only thing keeping me from finding out exactly how much the back of my head hurts.”
Atty crouched down close to Bradley’s head and looked in his eyes. “Doesn’t seem to be any unusual dilation. Might not have been as bad a thump as you thought.”
Bradley remembered the jolt, the way he felt it all through his head and into his jaw. “It was pretty bad.”
“Let me see what I can do,” said the singer. He started humming, and Bradley could smell something sweet and herbal.
“How do you do that?”
Atty stopped humming and gently touched the sides of Bradley’s head. “Do what?”
“The smells and the wings and the sword and everything.”
“ I’m and angel.”
“An angel angel?”
“Well, I don’t work for Him, if that’s what you mean.” Atty illustrated by pointing up to someplace past the ceiling. “Most angels don’t work for the Big Guy, and I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. Can you imagine the pressure? The Fate of the World is a big deal.”
“I can imagine,” murmured Bradley, suddenly mellow. His head was feeling better. So was his tail-bone.
“The fate of a subway station is about right for me,” said the angel. “Help people out on the way through, make their lives better, gather up their offerings of faith for Chuck, keep the whole thing running. Did you know that, as far as we can tell, no one commuting through this station has had a sick day in seven months? As a team, we’re rather proud of that.”
“Even through flu season?”
“Especially through flu season. It was tiring, but we pulled it off. Chuck threw us a party after. The Standing Appointment let us use his corner, and you won’t find better hot dogs anywhere.”
“Hot dogs,” said Bradley, skeptical but still mellow.
“I figured you’d say that. Not your usual hot dogs. These are hot dogs the way they were meant to be. These are the ideal hot dog that Plato imagined must be out there, the perfect form of a hot dog that teaches you what a hot dog should be.”
“But…they’re hot dogs.”
“Okay, Mr. Skeptical, I’ll take you there. Just as soon as—” Atty stiffened, and Bradley suddenly felt less mellow. “Something else is coming,” said the angel.
“Something bigger,” Bradley agreed. Atty was looking at him. “What is it?”
“I wish I knew what was going on. I’m sensitive to some things, but I’ve had to practice to get there, so I mostly pay attention to threats and dangers. Point is, I look at you and I see a whole bunch of not much, but if you have a Mulp coming through the tunnels for you, you must not be the usual type of magical sensitive.”
“What’s a Mulp?”
“A large mouth with legs.”
“See, I knew asking the question was a bad idea.”
“Why did you ask it?”
“The same reason people in horror movies walk into dark rooms, probably.”
“Well, don’t worry, Bradley. I already know what’s behind that door, and we’re not going to open it. Let me help you up.”
“Thanks.” Bradley got to his feet and brushed off his bottom. There was only a memory of pain, then none at all. “And thanks for fixing me up.”
“It’s my job. Besides, the bumps really weren’t that bad.”
Bradley wondered what the man’s idea of a bad bump was, but decided to not argue. Instead he looked down the dark tunnel where he could feel the approaching hunger of the Mulp. “So how does a person escape from a mouth with legs?”
“Most people run,” said Atty. “My method for facing serious trouble is a bit more effective, though: I talk with my boss.”
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 09a
[This is not the end of this section. It's just all I have time to get written before I run out the door to go see a movie with my dad. I'll try to finish this scene up by tomorrow, and then we'll move onto the next and the next and the previous and then back to the next.
[Don't try to make sense of that.
[Oh! Did I mention that I'm starting to outline? I now have six major sections outlined. Don't get me wrong: they're not very precise outlines. For example, to set the mood for one section, I wrote "Tuck and Paul." But I think this is a good thing. My hope is that my writing will be more fluid (and frequent) when I'm not having to make up the story entirely as I go. Anywho, enjoy.]
Bradley walked, his hands in his pockets, his eyes over his shoulder. There was definitely something following him, and maybe two somethings. They kept to the shadows, few as dark spots were during the middle of the day. They lurked like grown-ups trying to give children candy, and it was hard to get a good look. In fact, every time he tried to really concentrate on the moving shadows, his eyes hurt.
Bradley, his eyes tracking behind him, bumped into someone hard. He backed up, ready to apologize, and saw that it was a post. His glance followed the post up and over to the sign that stretched across the stairs. Miller Station, the Loop Subway Line. He looked down the stairs that led into neon-lit semi-shadow and thought what an absolutely terrible idea walking down there would be. Enclosed space, lots of people, nowhere to go--Bradley had no illusions about running along the tracks, like in the movies--and two shadowy somethings following after. But something was nudging him down that way, and after the chance he'd had to help JoBeth, he wasn't feeling inclined to ignore that kind of nudging.
Bradley looked around again, smiling blindly at passing faces as he looked for...there one was, slipping under a parked car less than half a block away. For probably the first time in his life, Bradley reconsidered his general position on fire arms--he was opposed, usually--and he took a step into the belly of the beast.
Maybe he was being overly dramatic. In fact, once he was down the stairs and his eyes had adjusted, he realized there were even fewer shadows in the underground halls than there were on the street. Lights everywhere, from the glowing screens of ticket machines to the green and red signals on the subway entrance chutes. Was that what they were called? Narrow spaces, channeling people through one-at-a-time, very much like cattle in suits, skirts, and jeans. Bradley pulled out his monthly travel pass, 'moo'-ed quietly to himself, and swiped the card. A few more yards and a bit of the dance that always goes on in crowded spaces--you first, no, you, no, all right--and he was on the escalator, standing and watching the people around him, the way he always did.
Even with a lurking, predatory shadow or two following him, Bradley couldn't pull his eyes away from the mild crowd around him. White man, goatee, eyes round and bright, sloping his way into middle age but not unhappy about it. Two teenage girls, wearing tight enough clothing that they helped prove Bradley's theory that most people shouldn't wear tight clothing. A woman in a suit and blouse, smiling to something on an iPod with lips that made Bradley wish he were in on the joke. It was the rush of anonymity that Bradley loved, being among these people, being part of a group that demanded so little of each other. A bit of respect, little kindnesses, but no names and no needs, an intimate dance of here and gone with complete strangers that any moment might be friends--but not this moment, not now.
Was Bradley wrong to love the separation from the people around him so much? He liked people, went out of his way to be kind when he could, spending time with family, with friends, but not as much time as he used to. In fact, living alone now was a bit of a dream come true. A lonely dream at times, but still a dream. Home and alone, there was something to be said for that.
But now, almost to the bottom of the escalator, and very much not alone, he glanced back. There, on the roof of the tunnel, were those the shadows? They were dangerous, he was certain, but he didn't know how or why, exactly. Bradley said a quiet prayer that he hadn't put all these people around him at risk by coming here, stepped off the escalator, and kept walking.
Where was he going? He wasn't sure. Someone was singing. Nice singing, actually. Maybe he'd go that way. Over toward the east-bound track, other side of the cement pillars. He followed the man's voice through the crowd. Whoever was singing was a tenor, the kind that could handle all the high pitched pop songs that strained Bradley's voice when he tried to keep up with the songs on his MP3's and CD's. Darn tenors. What was wrong with singing something where mortals could sing along? Bradley sighed and followed the music that somehow cut through the rumble and clatter and echo of a subway station.
"I'll find you there," sang the man, "stay with you there, and we'll sing our song together. Our deep-sweet song together."
And then he stopped and Bradley was standing in front of him. A tallish man, good looking, clean and casual in clothing the way that Bradley had always admired and never felt he had the hope of achieving. He checked, and yes: the guy's belt matched his watch matched his shoes. He was in a class above.
The man was looking at him.
"Hi," said Bradley.
"What's up?"
"I liked your music."
"I'm glad." The man kicked the guitar case next to his feet and coins rattled in the bottom. "Contributions are always welcome."
"Oh. Right." Bradley reached for his wallet, then realized that the smallest thing he had was a twenty. "Do you give change?"
The man laughed. "Don't worry about it. I don't really do this for the money anyway."
"Why do you do it?"
"Would you believe it's for the love of music?"
"Sure I would."
"Great."
"Is it?"
The man looked puzzled. "Is it what?"
"Is it for the love of music?"
The man's mouth made an 'o.' "Gotcha. No, not exactly. It's just my job. I love it, but still: a job."
"But you said you didn't do it for the money."
The man was smiling again. "You're an unusual commuter. Most people don't take the time to really notice I'm here."
Bradley looked down at the reasonably significant amount of money in the guitar case. "They toss enough money in."
The singer shrugged. "Sure, they enjoy the music, but they don't notice ME. Not enough to stop and talk. I'm Atty, by the way."
He reached out his hand, and Bradley shook it.
"Bradley. Nice to meet you."
"And you. So what brings you to the subway, Bradley?"
“Would you believe that I’m here to catch a train?”
“Sure I would.”
“Great.”
"Is that why you're here?"
Bradley glanced over his shoulder. "No."
He turned back to face Atty, who had followed Bradley's glance with his eyes. The singer's eyes widened, then he looked back at Bradley, then back to the subway tunnel again.
"Oh," he said. "You're one of those."
"One of what?"
"You see something back there, don't you."
Bradley looked around again. People shifting, the echo of indistinct conversation, the thunder of an approaching train, but no gray shadows. He shook his head. "Not at the moment."
Atty looked at the ceiling and smiled. "Okay, sure, not at the moment, but you know something is there."
"Two somethings. Yes. At least, I think there are two."
The singer nodded and bent down to fold up the guitar case. "There are two. If they are what I think they are, they always come in twos. Did this start recently for you?"
"What?" asked Bradley, staring at the case.
"Noticing unusual things. Seeing creatures that were never there before. Opening up to a world you've never known."
"Just this morning, actually. I'm sorry, I know it's strange to ask, but why do you have a guitar case? Where's your guitar?"
"Don't have one."
"You just bought a case?"
"No, the guy before me has the guitar. He just left the case for me. It's easier than having to empty out the money every time."
Bradley blinked. "He left you his money, too?"
Atty smiled. "I told you we don't do this for the money. Did you forget?"
"A job, but not for the money."
"Exactly. Look, I made all the money I could ever need seventy-five years ago, and it's mostly been growing since. It's not something I worry about." He picked up the case, still smiling, and swung it over his head, settling the nylon strap across his chest.
"Thirty," said Bradley.
"Two-hundred-sixty-three, but close."
"No one is that old."
"I am."
"You're crazy."
"No, but those things are, and they're coming closer, which I don't get. This is Divine Chuck's Temple. They ought to know better than to mess around in Chuck's place. Or with me." Atty raised his arms over his head and stretched side to side. "You must be having some unusual kind of awakening for them to be this gutsy. Hunger can do crazy things to a person. Speaking of which, you hungry?"
"I'm sorry. What? I was distracted." Bradley had caught sight of one of the creatures, skittering across the roof of the tunnel and hiding behind the blinking lights of a sign that tracked subway arrival times. It had a tail, and moved like it had joints where there weren't supposed to be joints. He could almost imagine the snap, crackle, and pop of cartilage.
"I asked if you were hungry." Bradley looked, and the singer was holding out half a bagel. "I broke it off, so you don't have to worry about germs."
"Why do I want this?"
"Because, as far as I can tell, you're about to be attacked by two Ipthakorians. Normally they like to stay out of sight and just latch onto your energy like leeches, but something is pushing these two to do things they'd never normally do. Now, I can handle this, but your part might involve some ducking, dodging, and other activities involved in keeping yourself alive. So take the bagel. You're going to need all the energy you can get, and you should never underestimate the power of a bagel."
"I never do," said Bradley.
[Don't try to make sense of that.
[Oh! Did I mention that I'm starting to outline? I now have six major sections outlined. Don't get me wrong: they're not very precise outlines. For example, to set the mood for one section, I wrote "Tuck and Paul." But I think this is a good thing. My hope is that my writing will be more fluid (and frequent) when I'm not having to make up the story entirely as I go. Anywho, enjoy.]
Bradley walked, his hands in his pockets, his eyes over his shoulder. There was definitely something following him, and maybe two somethings. They kept to the shadows, few as dark spots were during the middle of the day. They lurked like grown-ups trying to give children candy, and it was hard to get a good look. In fact, every time he tried to really concentrate on the moving shadows, his eyes hurt.
Bradley, his eyes tracking behind him, bumped into someone hard. He backed up, ready to apologize, and saw that it was a post. His glance followed the post up and over to the sign that stretched across the stairs. Miller Station, the Loop Subway Line. He looked down the stairs that led into neon-lit semi-shadow and thought what an absolutely terrible idea walking down there would be. Enclosed space, lots of people, nowhere to go--Bradley had no illusions about running along the tracks, like in the movies--and two shadowy somethings following after. But something was nudging him down that way, and after the chance he'd had to help JoBeth, he wasn't feeling inclined to ignore that kind of nudging.
Bradley looked around again, smiling blindly at passing faces as he looked for...there one was, slipping under a parked car less than half a block away. For probably the first time in his life, Bradley reconsidered his general position on fire arms--he was opposed, usually--and he took a step into the belly of the beast.
Maybe he was being overly dramatic. In fact, once he was down the stairs and his eyes had adjusted, he realized there were even fewer shadows in the underground halls than there were on the street. Lights everywhere, from the glowing screens of ticket machines to the green and red signals on the subway entrance chutes. Was that what they were called? Narrow spaces, channeling people through one-at-a-time, very much like cattle in suits, skirts, and jeans. Bradley pulled out his monthly travel pass, 'moo'-ed quietly to himself, and swiped the card. A few more yards and a bit of the dance that always goes on in crowded spaces--you first, no, you, no, all right--and he was on the escalator, standing and watching the people around him, the way he always did.
Even with a lurking, predatory shadow or two following him, Bradley couldn't pull his eyes away from the mild crowd around him. White man, goatee, eyes round and bright, sloping his way into middle age but not unhappy about it. Two teenage girls, wearing tight enough clothing that they helped prove Bradley's theory that most people shouldn't wear tight clothing. A woman in a suit and blouse, smiling to something on an iPod with lips that made Bradley wish he were in on the joke. It was the rush of anonymity that Bradley loved, being among these people, being part of a group that demanded so little of each other. A bit of respect, little kindnesses, but no names and no needs, an intimate dance of here and gone with complete strangers that any moment might be friends--but not this moment, not now.
Was Bradley wrong to love the separation from the people around him so much? He liked people, went out of his way to be kind when he could, spending time with family, with friends, but not as much time as he used to. In fact, living alone now was a bit of a dream come true. A lonely dream at times, but still a dream. Home and alone, there was something to be said for that.
But now, almost to the bottom of the escalator, and very much not alone, he glanced back. There, on the roof of the tunnel, were those the shadows? They were dangerous, he was certain, but he didn't know how or why, exactly. Bradley said a quiet prayer that he hadn't put all these people around him at risk by coming here, stepped off the escalator, and kept walking.
Where was he going? He wasn't sure. Someone was singing. Nice singing, actually. Maybe he'd go that way. Over toward the east-bound track, other side of the cement pillars. He followed the man's voice through the crowd. Whoever was singing was a tenor, the kind that could handle all the high pitched pop songs that strained Bradley's voice when he tried to keep up with the songs on his MP3's and CD's. Darn tenors. What was wrong with singing something where mortals could sing along? Bradley sighed and followed the music that somehow cut through the rumble and clatter and echo of a subway station.
"I'll find you there," sang the man, "stay with you there, and we'll sing our song together. Our deep-sweet song together."
And then he stopped and Bradley was standing in front of him. A tallish man, good looking, clean and casual in clothing the way that Bradley had always admired and never felt he had the hope of achieving. He checked, and yes: the guy's belt matched his watch matched his shoes. He was in a class above.
The man was looking at him.
"Hi," said Bradley.
"What's up?"
"I liked your music."
"I'm glad." The man kicked the guitar case next to his feet and coins rattled in the bottom. "Contributions are always welcome."
"Oh. Right." Bradley reached for his wallet, then realized that the smallest thing he had was a twenty. "Do you give change?"
The man laughed. "Don't worry about it. I don't really do this for the money anyway."
"Why do you do it?"
"Would you believe it's for the love of music?"
"Sure I would."
"Great."
"Is it?"
The man looked puzzled. "Is it what?"
"Is it for the love of music?"
The man's mouth made an 'o.' "Gotcha. No, not exactly. It's just my job. I love it, but still: a job."
"But you said you didn't do it for the money."
The man was smiling again. "You're an unusual commuter. Most people don't take the time to really notice I'm here."
Bradley looked down at the reasonably significant amount of money in the guitar case. "They toss enough money in."
The singer shrugged. "Sure, they enjoy the music, but they don't notice ME. Not enough to stop and talk. I'm Atty, by the way."
He reached out his hand, and Bradley shook it.
"Bradley. Nice to meet you."
"And you. So what brings you to the subway, Bradley?"
“Would you believe that I’m here to catch a train?”
“Sure I would.”
“Great.”
"Is that why you're here?"
Bradley glanced over his shoulder. "No."
He turned back to face Atty, who had followed Bradley's glance with his eyes. The singer's eyes widened, then he looked back at Bradley, then back to the subway tunnel again.
"Oh," he said. "You're one of those."
"One of what?"
"You see something back there, don't you."
Bradley looked around again. People shifting, the echo of indistinct conversation, the thunder of an approaching train, but no gray shadows. He shook his head. "Not at the moment."
Atty looked at the ceiling and smiled. "Okay, sure, not at the moment, but you know something is there."
"Two somethings. Yes. At least, I think there are two."
The singer nodded and bent down to fold up the guitar case. "There are two. If they are what I think they are, they always come in twos. Did this start recently for you?"
"What?" asked Bradley, staring at the case.
"Noticing unusual things. Seeing creatures that were never there before. Opening up to a world you've never known."
"Just this morning, actually. I'm sorry, I know it's strange to ask, but why do you have a guitar case? Where's your guitar?"
"Don't have one."
"You just bought a case?"
"No, the guy before me has the guitar. He just left the case for me. It's easier than having to empty out the money every time."
Bradley blinked. "He left you his money, too?"
Atty smiled. "I told you we don't do this for the money. Did you forget?"
"A job, but not for the money."
"Exactly. Look, I made all the money I could ever need seventy-five years ago, and it's mostly been growing since. It's not something I worry about." He picked up the case, still smiling, and swung it over his head, settling the nylon strap across his chest.
"Thirty," said Bradley.
"Two-hundred-sixty-three, but close."
"No one is that old."
"I am."
"You're crazy."
"No, but those things are, and they're coming closer, which I don't get. This is Divine Chuck's Temple. They ought to know better than to mess around in Chuck's place. Or with me." Atty raised his arms over his head and stretched side to side. "You must be having some unusual kind of awakening for them to be this gutsy. Hunger can do crazy things to a person. Speaking of which, you hungry?"
"I'm sorry. What? I was distracted." Bradley had caught sight of one of the creatures, skittering across the roof of the tunnel and hiding behind the blinking lights of a sign that tracked subway arrival times. It had a tail, and moved like it had joints where there weren't supposed to be joints. He could almost imagine the snap, crackle, and pop of cartilage.
"I asked if you were hungry." Bradley looked, and the singer was holding out half a bagel. "I broke it off, so you don't have to worry about germs."
"Why do I want this?"
"Because, as far as I can tell, you're about to be attacked by two Ipthakorians. Normally they like to stay out of sight and just latch onto your energy like leeches, but something is pushing these two to do things they'd never normally do. Now, I can handle this, but your part might involve some ducking, dodging, and other activities involved in keeping yourself alive. So take the bagel. You're going to need all the energy you can get, and you should never underestimate the power of a bagel."
"I never do," said Bradley.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 08
[I like Tuck and Paul. Quite a lot, actually.
[Also, Jonathan asked about what happens if Tuck and Paul actually DO kill whoever it was who got the powers of Forgotten Zed. The answer: I've got it covered.]
Tuck and Paul sat in the hallway on a pair of chairs that they'd liberated from someone's office.
"This has the potential to be awkward," said Paul.
"Awkward how?" asked Tuck.
"I don't know. Maybe I'm just thinking that, with the mess we left TWO HALLWAYS OVER, someone might have a few questions for us, two random guys in dark suits in the middle of the morgue."
"We're not random. We're here for a very specific reason."
"Yes, and it was nice of her to end up in the same building as our other corspe. Saves us travel time, though I'm still not sure why we're waiting in the hall, when she's in that room." Paul pointed across the hall to a closed door. "That room right there. And we could walk right in."
"But the medical examiner asked us to wait."
"That doesn't mean that we HAVE to wait."
"It's a professional courtesy."
"And it's stupid. Every minute we spend NOT finding the person who has become a god, that's another minute for him to become more comfortable with his powers and more invulnerable. You'll forgive me for thinking that might be a bad idea."
"Or her," said Tuck.
"Or her what?"
"It might be a woman who stole the powers. The case in point is across the hall."
"Which is where WE should be."
"But he asked us to wait."
"So help me, Tuck, I'm going to smack you."
Tuck smiled. "I got that joke. That was funny."
"It wasn't a joke."
"Yes it was."
"I can't talk to you right now." Paul sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
Tuck mused.
"I think I should be a TV writer," he said after a while.
"I'm not listening," said Paul.
"We could sell this as a screenplay," he went on. "Two hit men trying to save the world from the forces of evil. Bad guys crossing and double-crossing each other, death, mayhem, disturbing creatures. We'd be a hit, and it's not like this is the only story we'd have to tell."
Paul snorted. "Precious few romantic episodes, that's for sure."
"Your standards are too high. And I thought you weren't talking to me."
"I am now," said Paul, turning to face his partner. "Also, my standards are not too high. I just haven't found the right one. Besides," he sat back, "it's not my fault all the girls I get interested in are the wrong type."
"Demons are a type?" asked Tuck.
"Apparently. And I guess it's my type, but still: wrong type. Can't take a demon home to visit your mother."
Tuck grinned. "Your mother could handle it."
Paul smiled back, lopsidedly. "You're right, I think she could. Still, we're supposed to be the good guys, and dating demons seems wrong. Unethical."
"Not our image."
"Not at all."
"But possibly good for our street cred."
Paul looked at Tuck sideways. "When have you EVER worried about street cred?"
"I read it in a detective novel. Seemed like a good thing to have."
"Trust me, after we put several holes through that frog thing and its infernal master last Christmas, we have PLENTY of street cred. Too much, I might think. Hard to do our job if too many people recognize us. And, to change the subject, are Ipthakorians the only creatures who would like to feed off divine energies?"
Tuck shook his head. "No, definitely not. They're just among the fastest when it comes to moving between the worlds. There are Borthonts, Mulps, Vrigs, Prickiles, Dons, Froods, Back Lashers, and Pontificates. To name a few."
"'Yes' would have been enough of an answer for me."
"In that case: yes."
"So all the rest are just slower?"
"Slower and, in general, nastier. Ipthakorians show up first because, any later, and they tend to become the food."
"Let me get this clear in my head," said Paul. "If we don't move quickly, then not only are we going to get a nasty man with divine powers running around Seven Cities, but we are also going to have Bronts and Piggie-wiggies and Ponchos running around?"
"You need to read more," said Tuck.
"Fine, I didn't get the names right, but I have the general idea, correct?"
Tuck blinked at him. "You have a good point."
"I thought so."
"We're going in now."
"Finally!"
Tuck stood up, walked the three steps across the hall, and opened the door. "I'm sorry, Dr. Probst, but when I said we could wait, I was wrong."
The woman looked up from where she was doing something with a scalpel. She smiled directly at him, her eyes bright behind her safety goggles. Tuck noticed again how, in spite of her fantastically average features, the doctor's smile made her face animated and alive. Attractive. Perhaps he'd agreed to wait out of just a little more than professional courtesy.
"Gentlemen," said Dr. Probst, "I recognize that your time is important, and you're handsome enough that I would be glad to sit down with you immediately, but you're nearly half-an-hour early for the interview, and I have work to do."
"Interview?" said Tuck, confused--and slightly flattered.
"For the newspaper."
"We're not from the newspaper."
"You're not?"
"Very much not," said Paul, his voice catching. Tuck looked over at his partner, who, on close examination, was suppressing a laugh.
"Then why are you here?"
"For her," said Tuck, pointing at the woman on the table.
"For Jane?"
"Her name was Jane?"
"Jane Doe. No ID on her, and we still don't know her name."
"Of course."
"What do you want to do with Jane?"
"Examine her."
"That's my job."
"And mine."
"I still don't understand."
"Why don't I put her to sleep," muttered Paul.
"No!" said Tuck, more loudly than he intended.
"No what?" asked Dr. Probst.
"This is hilarious," murmured Paul.
"Dr. Probst," said Tuck, thinking quickly, "can we trust you?"
"Shouldn't I be the one asking that question?"
"She has a point," said Paul.
"An excellent point," agreed his partner. "I suppose it's my turn to do the explaining. I'm going to ask you that what I tell you here will stay in this room."
"I can't agree to that," said the doctor.
Tuck paused, his mouth open. "I suppose that's fair, too. Here, I'll tell you what we're doing here, then you decide if it isn't better to keep it a secret."
"That sounds reasonable. And, as nice as you two are being, please keep in mind that I do have access to several sharp objects, including an electric saw."
"I'm starting to like her, too," said Paul quietly, stepping back to lean against the wall.
"Too?" asked Tuck, looking over his shoulder.
Paul waved his hand, shooing off his partner. "Carry on, Romeo."
"Romeo was an idiot."
"Of course. How could I forget?" Paul looked smug, but Tuck was too flustered to figure out exactly why. He gave up and turned back to the doctor.
"Mrs. Probst--sorry, Dr. Probst--you're shaking your head."
"Not 'Mrs.' anything," she said. "And, depending on your story, Evelyn would be fine."
Tuck swallowed, creased his forehead, smiled in what he was certain was a forced manner, and soldiered on. "Dr. Probst. As we mentioned before, my name is Tuck, and this is my partner, Paul."
"Do you have last names?"
"Excuse me?"
"Or is Tuck your first name?"
"It's my--does that really matter?"
"I was curious."
"It's my business name. Can that be enough for now?"
The doctor shrugged. "Tuck suits you fine. Continue."
Idly, Tuck wondered how old the doctor was. Evelyn. It was a bit of an old-woman name, he'd always thought, but she couldn't be over thirty, and Tuck was only thirty-one. He wasn't entirely sure why that detail mattered--well, he knew, but he was repressing it, he realized--forget it. She was watching him expectantly.
"Where was I?" he asked.
"Tuck."
"Right. And my partner, Paul. We were hired by the Agency."
"Which agency?"
"The Fifth City Agency."
"What are they in charge of?"
"The Fifth City."
"Where's that?"
"Here."
She cocked her head at an angle--it was CUTE. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"There are Seven Cities, and we--the human world--are the fifth. And the Fifth City Agency attempts to maintain cosmic and magical balance in the Fifth City."
Her eyes were wider and her eyebrows up. "You've lost me."
Tuck looked back to his partner for help, but Paul had his hand over his face, his head bowed, sniggering. Fine. Tuck could fix this.
"Dr. Probst, nothing that I'm about to tell you will make any sense, but I'm going to tell you anyway because, as one professional to another, you deserve the truth. You will think I'm either insane or an idiot, but I'm going to tell you anyway, and I hope you'll listen with an open mind."
"I've opened a number of minds in my few short years as a medical examiner, so I'll try to take a lesson from that. Go ahead."
Tuck blinked. "That was a joke."
She smiled slightly and nodded.
"Right. Time to explain, then. You know that our city is called Seven Cities."
"Born and raised here," said the doctor.
"And you know the reasons it's called that."
"From the old Native American name for the place. I knew what it was in fifth grade, but I've forgotten."
"Exactly. I forgot it, too. But they called it Seven Cities for another reason. It's because this is the place where seven different worlds, with their seven different cities, all meet."
"What, some kind of cosmic, inter-dimensional metropolis?"
"That's a very accurate description."
Dr. Probst glanced at Paul and back to Tuck. "Is this a joke?"
"Yes," said Paul, still laughing.
"No!" Tuck shook his head as sincerely as possible. "This is very serious. And the human world, where we live, is the fifth world."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why the fifth?"
"I think there are reasons having to do with alignment of the different worlds along the pan-dimensional axes, but I haven't researched it thoroughly. Should I?"
Behind him, Paul snorted.
"No," said the doctor. "That can wait for later. And the Fifth City Agency deals with magical events in our city?"
"Right. And they hired us."
"And my Jane Doe was killed by magical means?"
"I have no idea."
"But she WAS magical?"
"At least temporarily, yes."
"Fascinating. So what did you want to do with her?"
"Look into the last five minutes or so of her life. Find out who killed her."
"You can do that?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I have Play-Doh."
Paul laughed out loud.
"Do you need to touch the body?"
"No. I won't contaminate any evidence."
"And when you find out who killed her, can I pass that information on to the police? Assuming that whatever you're about to do works, and you're not simply a cute crackpot."
"I'm not," Tuck assured her. "Not a crackpot."
"But you are cute?"
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
"Also, you can't tell the police yet. Later, sure, but not yet."
"Care to explain?"
"Because if you tell them, they'll start trying to chase down an extremely dangerous individual with powers beyond their comprehension, that could probably call down lightning to fry them where they stand. Unless he just sucked the life right out of them."
Dr. Probst rocked back. "That's a disturbing thought."
"Very."
"What are you going to do with him?"
Tuck swallowed and didn't say anything. The doctor looked at him, then at Paul, then back to Tuck.
"You're serious about this, aren't you."
Tuck just nodded.
"I'm not at all sure why I'm doing this," said Dr. Probst, "but I'm going to step back from the table and watch. If you manage to do something amazing, I'll think about starting to believe you. If all you do is mess around with a bit of Play-Doh, I'm calling for security."
"It's more than I could have expected," said Tuck. "Thank you."
"No skin off my nose," said the doctor. "Now, let's find out whether or not you get to call me Evelyn."
[Also, Jonathan asked about what happens if Tuck and Paul actually DO kill whoever it was who got the powers of Forgotten Zed. The answer: I've got it covered.]
Tuck and Paul sat in the hallway on a pair of chairs that they'd liberated from someone's office.
"This has the potential to be awkward," said Paul.
"Awkward how?" asked Tuck.
"I don't know. Maybe I'm just thinking that, with the mess we left TWO HALLWAYS OVER, someone might have a few questions for us, two random guys in dark suits in the middle of the morgue."
"We're not random. We're here for a very specific reason."
"Yes, and it was nice of her to end up in the same building as our other corspe. Saves us travel time, though I'm still not sure why we're waiting in the hall, when she's in that room." Paul pointed across the hall to a closed door. "That room right there. And we could walk right in."
"But the medical examiner asked us to wait."
"That doesn't mean that we HAVE to wait."
"It's a professional courtesy."
"And it's stupid. Every minute we spend NOT finding the person who has become a god, that's another minute for him to become more comfortable with his powers and more invulnerable. You'll forgive me for thinking that might be a bad idea."
"Or her," said Tuck.
"Or her what?"
"It might be a woman who stole the powers. The case in point is across the hall."
"Which is where WE should be."
"But he asked us to wait."
"So help me, Tuck, I'm going to smack you."
Tuck smiled. "I got that joke. That was funny."
"It wasn't a joke."
"Yes it was."
"I can't talk to you right now." Paul sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
Tuck mused.
"I think I should be a TV writer," he said after a while.
"I'm not listening," said Paul.
"We could sell this as a screenplay," he went on. "Two hit men trying to save the world from the forces of evil. Bad guys crossing and double-crossing each other, death, mayhem, disturbing creatures. We'd be a hit, and it's not like this is the only story we'd have to tell."
Paul snorted. "Precious few romantic episodes, that's for sure."
"Your standards are too high. And I thought you weren't talking to me."
"I am now," said Paul, turning to face his partner. "Also, my standards are not too high. I just haven't found the right one. Besides," he sat back, "it's not my fault all the girls I get interested in are the wrong type."
"Demons are a type?" asked Tuck.
"Apparently. And I guess it's my type, but still: wrong type. Can't take a demon home to visit your mother."
Tuck grinned. "Your mother could handle it."
Paul smiled back, lopsidedly. "You're right, I think she could. Still, we're supposed to be the good guys, and dating demons seems wrong. Unethical."
"Not our image."
"Not at all."
"But possibly good for our street cred."
Paul looked at Tuck sideways. "When have you EVER worried about street cred?"
"I read it in a detective novel. Seemed like a good thing to have."
"Trust me, after we put several holes through that frog thing and its infernal master last Christmas, we have PLENTY of street cred. Too much, I might think. Hard to do our job if too many people recognize us. And, to change the subject, are Ipthakorians the only creatures who would like to feed off divine energies?"
Tuck shook his head. "No, definitely not. They're just among the fastest when it comes to moving between the worlds. There are Borthonts, Mulps, Vrigs, Prickiles, Dons, Froods, Back Lashers, and Pontificates. To name a few."
"'Yes' would have been enough of an answer for me."
"In that case: yes."
"So all the rest are just slower?"
"Slower and, in general, nastier. Ipthakorians show up first because, any later, and they tend to become the food."
"Let me get this clear in my head," said Paul. "If we don't move quickly, then not only are we going to get a nasty man with divine powers running around Seven Cities, but we are also going to have Bronts and Piggie-wiggies and Ponchos running around?"
"You need to read more," said Tuck.
"Fine, I didn't get the names right, but I have the general idea, correct?"
Tuck blinked at him. "You have a good point."
"I thought so."
"We're going in now."
"Finally!"
Tuck stood up, walked the three steps across the hall, and opened the door. "I'm sorry, Dr. Probst, but when I said we could wait, I was wrong."
The woman looked up from where she was doing something with a scalpel. She smiled directly at him, her eyes bright behind her safety goggles. Tuck noticed again how, in spite of her fantastically average features, the doctor's smile made her face animated and alive. Attractive. Perhaps he'd agreed to wait out of just a little more than professional courtesy.
"Gentlemen," said Dr. Probst, "I recognize that your time is important, and you're handsome enough that I would be glad to sit down with you immediately, but you're nearly half-an-hour early for the interview, and I have work to do."
"Interview?" said Tuck, confused--and slightly flattered.
"For the newspaper."
"We're not from the newspaper."
"You're not?"
"Very much not," said Paul, his voice catching. Tuck looked over at his partner, who, on close examination, was suppressing a laugh.
"Then why are you here?"
"For her," said Tuck, pointing at the woman on the table.
"For Jane?"
"Her name was Jane?"
"Jane Doe. No ID on her, and we still don't know her name."
"Of course."
"What do you want to do with Jane?"
"Examine her."
"That's my job."
"And mine."
"I still don't understand."
"Why don't I put her to sleep," muttered Paul.
"No!" said Tuck, more loudly than he intended.
"No what?" asked Dr. Probst.
"This is hilarious," murmured Paul.
"Dr. Probst," said Tuck, thinking quickly, "can we trust you?"
"Shouldn't I be the one asking that question?"
"She has a point," said Paul.
"An excellent point," agreed his partner. "I suppose it's my turn to do the explaining. I'm going to ask you that what I tell you here will stay in this room."
"I can't agree to that," said the doctor.
Tuck paused, his mouth open. "I suppose that's fair, too. Here, I'll tell you what we're doing here, then you decide if it isn't better to keep it a secret."
"That sounds reasonable. And, as nice as you two are being, please keep in mind that I do have access to several sharp objects, including an electric saw."
"I'm starting to like her, too," said Paul quietly, stepping back to lean against the wall.
"Too?" asked Tuck, looking over his shoulder.
Paul waved his hand, shooing off his partner. "Carry on, Romeo."
"Romeo was an idiot."
"Of course. How could I forget?" Paul looked smug, but Tuck was too flustered to figure out exactly why. He gave up and turned back to the doctor.
"Mrs. Probst--sorry, Dr. Probst--you're shaking your head."
"Not 'Mrs.' anything," she said. "And, depending on your story, Evelyn would be fine."
Tuck swallowed, creased his forehead, smiled in what he was certain was a forced manner, and soldiered on. "Dr. Probst. As we mentioned before, my name is Tuck, and this is my partner, Paul."
"Do you have last names?"
"Excuse me?"
"Or is Tuck your first name?"
"It's my--does that really matter?"
"I was curious."
"It's my business name. Can that be enough for now?"
The doctor shrugged. "Tuck suits you fine. Continue."
Idly, Tuck wondered how old the doctor was. Evelyn. It was a bit of an old-woman name, he'd always thought, but she couldn't be over thirty, and Tuck was only thirty-one. He wasn't entirely sure why that detail mattered--well, he knew, but he was repressing it, he realized--forget it. She was watching him expectantly.
"Where was I?" he asked.
"Tuck."
"Right. And my partner, Paul. We were hired by the Agency."
"Which agency?"
"The Fifth City Agency."
"What are they in charge of?"
"The Fifth City."
"Where's that?"
"Here."
She cocked her head at an angle--it was CUTE. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"There are Seven Cities, and we--the human world--are the fifth. And the Fifth City Agency attempts to maintain cosmic and magical balance in the Fifth City."
Her eyes were wider and her eyebrows up. "You've lost me."
Tuck looked back to his partner for help, but Paul had his hand over his face, his head bowed, sniggering. Fine. Tuck could fix this.
"Dr. Probst, nothing that I'm about to tell you will make any sense, but I'm going to tell you anyway because, as one professional to another, you deserve the truth. You will think I'm either insane or an idiot, but I'm going to tell you anyway, and I hope you'll listen with an open mind."
"I've opened a number of minds in my few short years as a medical examiner, so I'll try to take a lesson from that. Go ahead."
Tuck blinked. "That was a joke."
She smiled slightly and nodded.
"Right. Time to explain, then. You know that our city is called Seven Cities."
"Born and raised here," said the doctor.
"And you know the reasons it's called that."
"From the old Native American name for the place. I knew what it was in fifth grade, but I've forgotten."
"Exactly. I forgot it, too. But they called it Seven Cities for another reason. It's because this is the place where seven different worlds, with their seven different cities, all meet."
"What, some kind of cosmic, inter-dimensional metropolis?"
"That's a very accurate description."
Dr. Probst glanced at Paul and back to Tuck. "Is this a joke?"
"Yes," said Paul, still laughing.
"No!" Tuck shook his head as sincerely as possible. "This is very serious. And the human world, where we live, is the fifth world."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why the fifth?"
"I think there are reasons having to do with alignment of the different worlds along the pan-dimensional axes, but I haven't researched it thoroughly. Should I?"
Behind him, Paul snorted.
"No," said the doctor. "That can wait for later. And the Fifth City Agency deals with magical events in our city?"
"Right. And they hired us."
"And my Jane Doe was killed by magical means?"
"I have no idea."
"But she WAS magical?"
"At least temporarily, yes."
"Fascinating. So what did you want to do with her?"
"Look into the last five minutes or so of her life. Find out who killed her."
"You can do that?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I have Play-Doh."
Paul laughed out loud.
"Do you need to touch the body?"
"No. I won't contaminate any evidence."
"And when you find out who killed her, can I pass that information on to the police? Assuming that whatever you're about to do works, and you're not simply a cute crackpot."
"I'm not," Tuck assured her. "Not a crackpot."
"But you are cute?"
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
"Also, you can't tell the police yet. Later, sure, but not yet."
"Care to explain?"
"Because if you tell them, they'll start trying to chase down an extremely dangerous individual with powers beyond their comprehension, that could probably call down lightning to fry them where they stand. Unless he just sucked the life right out of them."
Dr. Probst rocked back. "That's a disturbing thought."
"Very."
"What are you going to do with him?"
Tuck swallowed and didn't say anything. The doctor looked at him, then at Paul, then back to Tuck.
"You're serious about this, aren't you."
Tuck just nodded.
"I'm not at all sure why I'm doing this," said Dr. Probst, "but I'm going to step back from the table and watch. If you manage to do something amazing, I'll think about starting to believe you. If all you do is mess around with a bit of Play-Doh, I'm calling for security."
"It's more than I could have expected," said Tuck. "Thank you."
"No skin off my nose," said the doctor. "Now, let's find out whether or not you get to call me Evelyn."
Friday, August 13, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 07
[This section actually required some research, and I still don't know if I got the medical details right, but hey--it's written now.
[Also, I've taken up running. I think the key for me to really stay committed will be to hire an angry, three-legged dog. Angry, so he'll chase me, and three-legged so he won't chase too fast.
[Also, for those who didn't know, I have the 'friends and family' copies of Fat Tony available. Send an email if you want a copy and don't have one yet.
[Finally, I heard that Fidel Castro is releasing a memoir. I'm somewhat interested in reading it, but I'd be more enthused if it were a 'how-to' manual for oppression. My children have way too much freedom.]
It was quiet in the hospital room. There were the usual quiet beepings and hummings, the quiet sigh of oxygen, the conversation of nurses in the hall. It wasn’t a depressing room—mildly sunlit and human enough, as hospital rooms go—but it was an empty room. No one waiting for the man in the bed to wake up. No one talking to him as he lay there, giving no response. No flowers.
So when Rodrigo Malena’s eyes opened, there was no celebration and no tears. In fact, at first, Senor Malena couldn’t even remember who he was. He did know one thing, though, and he knew that with the simplicity of a child.
There was someone he needed to kill.
Not a very childlike thought, but he felt it with every weak muscle and heavy breath, and he believed in it completely, totally, passionately.
His increased heart rate brought with it the sound of quick footsteps and a nurse, male, walked into sight, leaning over the bed. He looked more like a moose than a nurse, but Rodrigo decided the scrubs were a give-away. Also, this wasn’t the man who needed to die.
“Awake, are we?” asked the nurse.
Obviously, thought Rodrigo.
“You’re probably wondering about the tube in your mouth.” Do I have a tube? Rodrigo felt it with his tongue and decided to keep still, avoiding any gag reflex. “You went into anaphylactic shock, but the EMT’s got that bit of plastic in there in time. Also, the soreness in your side?” Hard to miss, thought Rodrigo. “Cracked rib from the CPR someone gave you. Probably helped save your life, so I’d suggest not getting too upset about it.” No, that’s not what I’m upset about. The moose-nurse kept talking. “I’m assuming you’re following what I’m saying, based on how your eyes are tracking me. You ready to breathe on your own? Your oxygen levels have been good for a while now, so we can take this thing out, if you’re up for it.”
Rodrigo nodded slowly. It was an odd sensation with the tube down the inside of his neck.
“Good,” said moose-nurse. “I could just do this on my own, but doctors tend to get their panties in bunches if I go running around, fixing people all on my own, so I’ll go get our local god, and he can pull that out for you. He’ll also ask you several annoying questions and check things that I’ve already checked, so you might want to get ready for all that as well. Back in a minute or five.”
The nurse walked off and Rodrigo wasn’t sad to see him go. He needed to think, figure out what, exactly, had happened. It was hard to concentrate, though. His mind felt as if it had been washed with glue, and there was something missing. Something very important. And what was that thing clinging to the corner of the room? It seemed wrong. Gray and red and too many joints. But somehow familiar.
What was that the nurse had said about a local god? Important, it was all important, the bits and pieces floating around in his head. A recipe jumped into his conscious mind: four parts sweetened condensed milk, one part cocoa powder, a dash of cinnamon, one part deadly nightshade picked at the blackest midnight, and three Drooping Butterflies lightly blended. He’d used that poison recently, he knew, or tasted it. Was that what put him in the hospital? Also there was a Swede, or some flavor of northern European. Baernson. What had happened to him? Rodrigo knew he didn’t hate the man, but he did know that Baernson was an obstacle to be removed. Had he removed him? The creature in the corner opened its mouth and licked an improbably long tongue across the blank skin of its upper-face and bald skull.
“How are we feeling?” said the man who must be the doctor.
Wonderful, thought Rodrigo, glancing at the narrow, self-important face for long enough to understand the moose-nurse’s feelings. Another idiot. He tried to pull back his feelings, rein them in. This man didn’t deserve his anger. He was a doctor, doing his job, and idiot or not, this wasn’t the person Rodrigo needed to kill. It was someone else. Who? And why?
“Brock tells me you’re ready to get the tube out.” The doctor was talking, and part of Rodrigo’s brain made the connection between the name ‘Brock’ and the nurse. He supposed it was a good enough name for a moose, earthy and solid. Also very capable of crushing you. Rodrigo realized that the doctor was waiting for some kind of response, so he nodded. “All right, then. This is going to feel strange, and don’t be embarrassed if you feel like throwing up. Most of us aren’t sword swallowers, are we. Here goes.”
The doctor undid a piece of tape from Rodrigo’s face and started pulling. It was like swallowing in reverse, food tickling its way back up in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go, like vomiting out of his lungs. He locked his muscles, refusing to gag. Showing weakness was out of the question. Rodrigo almost laughed at the irony—incapacitated in a hospital bed, weak like a kitten, but refusing to gag—but it mattered. He had to be strong. There were things to do, and strength starts right here, right now. It’s not something you can put off for later. Strength procrastinated is weakness.
The tube came free and he suppressed a cough, licking his lips. Rodrigo grimaced. The taste in his mouth was something between a dead fish and a dead rat.
“Well done, Mr. Malena,” said the doctor. “No need to rush things, but when you’re ready to drink something, let us know.”
“Now,” he whispered.
The doctor looked surprised, but the moose already had a straw between Rodrigo’s lips. Brock gave him a wink, and Rodrigo decided he liked the man. When the water hit his mouth, he liked him even more. The straw was gone too quickly, but it was probably wise to start slowly. The doctor was right: no need to rush. No delay, but no undue haste.
“Thank you,” he said. “Tired.”
“Just let me listen to your lungs for half a minute.” The doctor put a stethoscope into his ears and touched the cold metal to the skin just over Rodrigo’s hospital gown. Rodrigo decided that, while death was certainly an overreaction to idiocy, a solid beating might be in order. He filed that away for later and took a deep breath, as instructed. “Excellent,” said the doctor, pulling the stethoscope down around his neck. “Considering that twelve hours ago you were dead, you are in remarkable condition. Now, Mr. Malena, try to get some rest.”
The doctor patted his patient on the leg and walked away. Brock the nurse started to follow, but Rodrigo caught the man with his eyes and held him there.
“Did you need something?”
Rodrigo licked his lips again. “I was dead?”
“For a bit over four minutes, dead as can be. A Good Samaritan kept your chest pumping air as long as possible, so your brain probably had all the oxygen it needed. I wouldn’t expect any kind of brain damage, so I think you should lose that angry look there, Mr. Malena. You’ve got a lot to be happy about.”
Rodrigo closed his eyes and opened them again, trying to will his face into some kind of pleasant expression. “You’re right, Brock. There is much for me to be happy about. I am only tired, I imagine.”
Moose-nurse grinned and shrugged. “I expect most people who used to be dead usually are. Want me to dim the lights?”
“Please.” And the nurse was gone, closing the door behind him.
Dead. Rodrigo had died, and he had lost what he had worked so hard to obtain. He could remember it now, the rush of power like sunshine in his veins, how the curry had tasted richer and more real than curry had ever been before. The feel of the cloth napkin under his fingertips, the smell of rice and spice coming from the kitchen, the annoyingly friendly look on the face of the waiter—though he supposed they were all called ‘servers’ now. What had ever been wrong with ‘waiter’ and ‘waitress?’ Americans were crazy, with their determination to brutalize the English language. The Spanish could make progress in rights for women without having to assassinate any words to do it.
Assassination. Who had killed him? He didn’t remember any attack, and a quick check didn’t turn up any bandages other than what was needed for the IV in his arm, so it wasn’t an assault. All he felt was a deep ache in his chest and neck. He’d been eating, so it was poison, then. How ironic. The power that came to him through the subtle art had left him the same way.
The creature in the corner twitched, reminding Rodrigo of its presence. Magical, obviously, making it harder for most people to see, which was why the idiot doctor wouldn’t be having nightmares for the next several months. But what kind of creature was it? Familiar, somehow, but the memory was wedged in the middle of every fact he’d ever gleaned from any magical tome or codex. He could almost remember something, but there was only one of the creatures, so it couldn’t be that.
Then the other creature crawled along the wall and into Rodrigo’s field of vision, a gray, double-jointed shadow with a tail.
“Of course,” whispered Rodrigo to himself. “Ipthakorians. You’re here after what I’ve lost, aren’t you?” He wondered if they’d been feeding off him while he slept, draining away the residue of divine energy. His forehead creased with a puzzled thought. If they’d been sucking away his soul, or whatever all that energy counted as, why was he awake? He didn’t recall any description of Ipthakorians that included the words ‘restraint’ or ‘self discipline.’ ‘Hunger,’ ‘greed,’ and ‘appetite,’ those were the words. They would have sucked him dry, if they could. So why hadn’t they?
The creatures on the wall circled each other in a strange, vertical dance, tails bumping into limbs with a soft rasp. He couldn’t stop them if they tried to come closer, but they kept their distance. They almost seemed nervous. What could have them scared of an invalid?
A slow smile crept across Rodrigo’s face, cracking his dry lips. He had a hunch. How to test it? He looked around: no flowers, no people, nothing living in the room. Except for the Ipthakorians.
“What shall we call you, my pets? Why not Fausto and Faustina. Are you hungry, little ones? Would you like to eat, mi cachorros? I have something that you want, and I’m willing to share.” The creatures had stopped moving, their blank faces staring at him intently. “I do have something you want, don’t I? I didn’t lose it all when I died, and that’s why you’re frightened, but you don’t need to be, my Fausto. Come closer, Faustina. I’m willing to share.” Rodrigo took a deep breath, his chest aching with the effort, but he hardly noticed. He concentrated, pushing his breath down his arm, imagining energy reaching out through his hand. A glow like a sunset faded into view over his right arm, and Fausto inched closer along the wall, Faustina along the ceiling. “Interested, aren’t you? Come, my puppies. Come eat and become my friends. My good little friends.”
He pushed an extra effort of soul down into the glow, and it was enough. Faustina surged across the ceiling and dropped onto the bed, neatly straddling Rodrigo’s body, her tongue lapping at his hand. Not to be left behind, Fausto was right behind, clinging to the hard plastic railing along the bed and eating just as furiously.
“Yes, my ugly ones,” said Rodrigo. “Eat as much as you like—almost. And then, together, let us go and get more.”
[Also, I've taken up running. I think the key for me to really stay committed will be to hire an angry, three-legged dog. Angry, so he'll chase me, and three-legged so he won't chase too fast.
[Also, for those who didn't know, I have the 'friends and family' copies of Fat Tony available. Send an email if you want a copy and don't have one yet.
[Finally, I heard that Fidel Castro is releasing a memoir. I'm somewhat interested in reading it, but I'd be more enthused if it were a 'how-to' manual for oppression. My children have way too much freedom.]
It was quiet in the hospital room. There were the usual quiet beepings and hummings, the quiet sigh of oxygen, the conversation of nurses in the hall. It wasn’t a depressing room—mildly sunlit and human enough, as hospital rooms go—but it was an empty room. No one waiting for the man in the bed to wake up. No one talking to him as he lay there, giving no response. No flowers.
So when Rodrigo Malena’s eyes opened, there was no celebration and no tears. In fact, at first, Senor Malena couldn’t even remember who he was. He did know one thing, though, and he knew that with the simplicity of a child.
There was someone he needed to kill.
Not a very childlike thought, but he felt it with every weak muscle and heavy breath, and he believed in it completely, totally, passionately.
His increased heart rate brought with it the sound of quick footsteps and a nurse, male, walked into sight, leaning over the bed. He looked more like a moose than a nurse, but Rodrigo decided the scrubs were a give-away. Also, this wasn’t the man who needed to die.
“Awake, are we?” asked the nurse.
Obviously, thought Rodrigo.
“You’re probably wondering about the tube in your mouth.” Do I have a tube? Rodrigo felt it with his tongue and decided to keep still, avoiding any gag reflex. “You went into anaphylactic shock, but the EMT’s got that bit of plastic in there in time. Also, the soreness in your side?” Hard to miss, thought Rodrigo. “Cracked rib from the CPR someone gave you. Probably helped save your life, so I’d suggest not getting too upset about it.” No, that’s not what I’m upset about. The moose-nurse kept talking. “I’m assuming you’re following what I’m saying, based on how your eyes are tracking me. You ready to breathe on your own? Your oxygen levels have been good for a while now, so we can take this thing out, if you’re up for it.”
Rodrigo nodded slowly. It was an odd sensation with the tube down the inside of his neck.
“Good,” said moose-nurse. “I could just do this on my own, but doctors tend to get their panties in bunches if I go running around, fixing people all on my own, so I’ll go get our local god, and he can pull that out for you. He’ll also ask you several annoying questions and check things that I’ve already checked, so you might want to get ready for all that as well. Back in a minute or five.”
The nurse walked off and Rodrigo wasn’t sad to see him go. He needed to think, figure out what, exactly, had happened. It was hard to concentrate, though. His mind felt as if it had been washed with glue, and there was something missing. Something very important. And what was that thing clinging to the corner of the room? It seemed wrong. Gray and red and too many joints. But somehow familiar.
What was that the nurse had said about a local god? Important, it was all important, the bits and pieces floating around in his head. A recipe jumped into his conscious mind: four parts sweetened condensed milk, one part cocoa powder, a dash of cinnamon, one part deadly nightshade picked at the blackest midnight, and three Drooping Butterflies lightly blended. He’d used that poison recently, he knew, or tasted it. Was that what put him in the hospital? Also there was a Swede, or some flavor of northern European. Baernson. What had happened to him? Rodrigo knew he didn’t hate the man, but he did know that Baernson was an obstacle to be removed. Had he removed him? The creature in the corner opened its mouth and licked an improbably long tongue across the blank skin of its upper-face and bald skull.
“How are we feeling?” said the man who must be the doctor.
Wonderful, thought Rodrigo, glancing at the narrow, self-important face for long enough to understand the moose-nurse’s feelings. Another idiot. He tried to pull back his feelings, rein them in. This man didn’t deserve his anger. He was a doctor, doing his job, and idiot or not, this wasn’t the person Rodrigo needed to kill. It was someone else. Who? And why?
“Brock tells me you’re ready to get the tube out.” The doctor was talking, and part of Rodrigo’s brain made the connection between the name ‘Brock’ and the nurse. He supposed it was a good enough name for a moose, earthy and solid. Also very capable of crushing you. Rodrigo realized that the doctor was waiting for some kind of response, so he nodded. “All right, then. This is going to feel strange, and don’t be embarrassed if you feel like throwing up. Most of us aren’t sword swallowers, are we. Here goes.”
The doctor undid a piece of tape from Rodrigo’s face and started pulling. It was like swallowing in reverse, food tickling its way back up in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go, like vomiting out of his lungs. He locked his muscles, refusing to gag. Showing weakness was out of the question. Rodrigo almost laughed at the irony—incapacitated in a hospital bed, weak like a kitten, but refusing to gag—but it mattered. He had to be strong. There were things to do, and strength starts right here, right now. It’s not something you can put off for later. Strength procrastinated is weakness.
The tube came free and he suppressed a cough, licking his lips. Rodrigo grimaced. The taste in his mouth was something between a dead fish and a dead rat.
“Well done, Mr. Malena,” said the doctor. “No need to rush things, but when you’re ready to drink something, let us know.”
“Now,” he whispered.
The doctor looked surprised, but the moose already had a straw between Rodrigo’s lips. Brock gave him a wink, and Rodrigo decided he liked the man. When the water hit his mouth, he liked him even more. The straw was gone too quickly, but it was probably wise to start slowly. The doctor was right: no need to rush. No delay, but no undue haste.
“Thank you,” he said. “Tired.”
“Just let me listen to your lungs for half a minute.” The doctor put a stethoscope into his ears and touched the cold metal to the skin just over Rodrigo’s hospital gown. Rodrigo decided that, while death was certainly an overreaction to idiocy, a solid beating might be in order. He filed that away for later and took a deep breath, as instructed. “Excellent,” said the doctor, pulling the stethoscope down around his neck. “Considering that twelve hours ago you were dead, you are in remarkable condition. Now, Mr. Malena, try to get some rest.”
The doctor patted his patient on the leg and walked away. Brock the nurse started to follow, but Rodrigo caught the man with his eyes and held him there.
“Did you need something?”
Rodrigo licked his lips again. “I was dead?”
“For a bit over four minutes, dead as can be. A Good Samaritan kept your chest pumping air as long as possible, so your brain probably had all the oxygen it needed. I wouldn’t expect any kind of brain damage, so I think you should lose that angry look there, Mr. Malena. You’ve got a lot to be happy about.”
Rodrigo closed his eyes and opened them again, trying to will his face into some kind of pleasant expression. “You’re right, Brock. There is much for me to be happy about. I am only tired, I imagine.”
Moose-nurse grinned and shrugged. “I expect most people who used to be dead usually are. Want me to dim the lights?”
“Please.” And the nurse was gone, closing the door behind him.
Dead. Rodrigo had died, and he had lost what he had worked so hard to obtain. He could remember it now, the rush of power like sunshine in his veins, how the curry had tasted richer and more real than curry had ever been before. The feel of the cloth napkin under his fingertips, the smell of rice and spice coming from the kitchen, the annoyingly friendly look on the face of the waiter—though he supposed they were all called ‘servers’ now. What had ever been wrong with ‘waiter’ and ‘waitress?’ Americans were crazy, with their determination to brutalize the English language. The Spanish could make progress in rights for women without having to assassinate any words to do it.
Assassination. Who had killed him? He didn’t remember any attack, and a quick check didn’t turn up any bandages other than what was needed for the IV in his arm, so it wasn’t an assault. All he felt was a deep ache in his chest and neck. He’d been eating, so it was poison, then. How ironic. The power that came to him through the subtle art had left him the same way.
The creature in the corner twitched, reminding Rodrigo of its presence. Magical, obviously, making it harder for most people to see, which was why the idiot doctor wouldn’t be having nightmares for the next several months. But what kind of creature was it? Familiar, somehow, but the memory was wedged in the middle of every fact he’d ever gleaned from any magical tome or codex. He could almost remember something, but there was only one of the creatures, so it couldn’t be that.
Then the other creature crawled along the wall and into Rodrigo’s field of vision, a gray, double-jointed shadow with a tail.
“Of course,” whispered Rodrigo to himself. “Ipthakorians. You’re here after what I’ve lost, aren’t you?” He wondered if they’d been feeding off him while he slept, draining away the residue of divine energy. His forehead creased with a puzzled thought. If they’d been sucking away his soul, or whatever all that energy counted as, why was he awake? He didn’t recall any description of Ipthakorians that included the words ‘restraint’ or ‘self discipline.’ ‘Hunger,’ ‘greed,’ and ‘appetite,’ those were the words. They would have sucked him dry, if they could. So why hadn’t they?
The creatures on the wall circled each other in a strange, vertical dance, tails bumping into limbs with a soft rasp. He couldn’t stop them if they tried to come closer, but they kept their distance. They almost seemed nervous. What could have them scared of an invalid?
A slow smile crept across Rodrigo’s face, cracking his dry lips. He had a hunch. How to test it? He looked around: no flowers, no people, nothing living in the room. Except for the Ipthakorians.
“What shall we call you, my pets? Why not Fausto and Faustina. Are you hungry, little ones? Would you like to eat, mi cachorros? I have something that you want, and I’m willing to share.” The creatures had stopped moving, their blank faces staring at him intently. “I do have something you want, don’t I? I didn’t lose it all when I died, and that’s why you’re frightened, but you don’t need to be, my Fausto. Come closer, Faustina. I’m willing to share.” Rodrigo took a deep breath, his chest aching with the effort, but he hardly noticed. He concentrated, pushing his breath down his arm, imagining energy reaching out through his hand. A glow like a sunset faded into view over his right arm, and Fausto inched closer along the wall, Faustina along the ceiling. “Interested, aren’t you? Come, my puppies. Come eat and become my friends. My good little friends.”
He pushed an extra effort of soul down into the glow, and it was enough. Faustina surged across the ceiling and dropped onto the bed, neatly straddling Rodrigo’s body, her tongue lapping at his hand. Not to be left behind, Fausto was right behind, clinging to the hard plastic railing along the bed and eating just as furiously.
“Yes, my ugly ones,” said Rodrigo. “Eat as much as you like—almost. And then, together, let us go and get more.”
Friday, August 6, 2010
Wish I Could Get Upset
Another section is on the way, I promise. I had to look up tracheal intubation, and it meant throwing away a third of what I wrote yesterday. But onward!
The major point of this post, though, is that I wish an agent would send me a really nasty rejection letter. So far they've all been impersonally polite, or even positive and encouraging, and I simply can't hate these agents. Every one I've dealt with, without exception, has been courteous, some even going out of their way to give a response.
In other words, I don't have anything to get angry about. If they sent me really rude letters, well! Then I'd have an excuse. As it is, I've got nothin'.
So while I WANT to fume and rage and shout to the world that the literary world is CRAZY...I can't. So far, just a bunch of nice people.
Sigh.
The major point of this post, though, is that I wish an agent would send me a really nasty rejection letter. So far they've all been impersonally polite, or even positive and encouraging, and I simply can't hate these agents. Every one I've dealt with, without exception, has been courteous, some even going out of their way to give a response.
In other words, I don't have anything to get angry about. If they sent me really rude letters, well! Then I'd have an excuse. As it is, I've got nothin'.
So while I WANT to fume and rage and shout to the world that the literary world is CRAZY...I can't. So far, just a bunch of nice people.
Sigh.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Writing Small Children
I've noticed a tendency in fiction: people seldom include families. At least not families with any realistic range of ages, coming from my experience. Characters are almost always single, or if in a relationship, there are no children, or, if there are children, you never see the children.
Or, if there is a family, with a child, and that child actually appears in the story, the child doesn't seem natural.
In fiction, dialogue and action almost always have a purpose. They're moving toward something. The moment a small child begins to have plot-related purpose in her conversation, she no longer sounds like a child.
That's right: based on extensive interaction with children between the ages of ten-months and eight years old, I can conclusively say that a conversation with a child has no center. It will be random, unexpected, and contain leaps of logic that put kangaroos to shame. (Because kangaroos have large gaps in their logic.)
Children cannot be plot devices, any more than they can be useful tools in a parent's toolbox. Real children have personalities and agendas all their own, and that holds true for fiction as well as real life. If you're going to write a small child, be prepared for them to go off the rails. Your book will be better for it.
Or, if there is a family, with a child, and that child actually appears in the story, the child doesn't seem natural.
In fiction, dialogue and action almost always have a purpose. They're moving toward something. The moment a small child begins to have plot-related purpose in her conversation, she no longer sounds like a child.
That's right: based on extensive interaction with children between the ages of ten-months and eight years old, I can conclusively say that a conversation with a child has no center. It will be random, unexpected, and contain leaps of logic that put kangaroos to shame. (Because kangaroos have large gaps in their logic.)
Children cannot be plot devices, any more than they can be useful tools in a parent's toolbox. Real children have personalities and agendas all their own, and that holds true for fiction as well as real life. If you're going to write a small child, be prepared for them to go off the rails. Your book will be better for it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
