Authors: Edward Lee
“I’m sorry I can’t provide more, my brave Troll. But we
mustn’t be selfish, correct? We have many operations ongoing.”
Jeez. One lousy bullet to replace the one I just popped
.
Ezoriel seemed suddenly concerned. “And . . . how many rounds have you expended from your rifle?”
“Oh, the seventy-seven calibers? None.”
“Blessing to you!” Ezoriel exclaimed. “You’re as conscientious as you are sure of eye!”
“But you haven’t even told me yet who you want me to snipe,” Krilid began his next complaint.
“That’s because you don’t yet have a need to know—”
“And you haven’t told me anything about this extraction target I’m supposed to pick up, or when it will happen.”
“Again, your need to know is not yet at hand. Krilid, Christ knew well in advance that he would be betrayed, apprehended, and crucified, yet he
never told the Apostles
. Why? Because they did not have a need to know. Had they been forewarned, God’s plan might’ve been tainted. Trust me, my brave friend. All will be made known when the time has come.”
Krilid frowned. “And who told you that? No, let me guess! Your
unimpeachable authority?”
“You sound cynical, Krilid. Remember, cynicism is spiritual death—”
“But I’m a
Troll
. I don’t even
have
a spirit.”
“That’s hardly the point.”
“I don’t know anything about your information source. Sorry, but that gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
A humming pause. “Surely you don’t think I’m lying to you—”
“No,” Krilid blurted. “But maybe
they’re
lying to
you
. Come on, I hear stories every day about Lucifer’s counterintel systems. He’s got
whole complexes
of Wizards and Channelers filling the Hell-Flux with phony transmissions. How do you know—”
“How do I know I haven’t been duped myself by such a trick?” the Fallen Angel challenged. “Hear me. I know because
God
told me.”
Krilid was hard-pressed not to laugh. “Oh, God did, huh? God—what?—he called you up on a hectophone personally and
told you
the intel was on the level?”
“He did it
spiritually
, Krilid. Calm your worries—believe me, I understand them—”
“You want to know the truth, Ezoriel? Half the time I feel like I’m on a suicide mission. Otherwise there’d be a hundred more insurgents in the Nectoport with me. For a mission like this? But, no, just little old me and no one else. Almost like someone said, ‘Well, if the intel turns out to be bad, then it’s better to lose just one guy than a whole company.’ ”
When Ezoriel laughed, there came a sensation like one’s reaction to sudden lightning.
“It’s not that funny—”
“Krilid, please. You
worry
too much. Best to think only of God’s glory and the entails of your mission. You’re in God’s hands; therefore . . . you’ll do fine.”
Yeah
. . .
“So your reconnaissance at the Reservoir went well,” the higher being said rather than asked.
“Sure. I mean, I found the landmark and the pickup point. But the Reservoir’s still empty. Once it’s filled, it’ll be harder to relocate the extraction point—”
“Just use your sextant, and you’ll have no trouble—”
More gripes came to the Troll. “And I don’t know
when
they’re going to fill it, or with
what
. I feel like I’m standing at home plate in a headball game but I’m blindfolded . . .”
More illuminating chuckles issued from the Fallen Angel. “I’m happy to impart to you, Krilid, that I have been permitted to answer those questions now, as your particular need to know has been sparked.”
Krilid sat up stiff, keenly and suddenly attentive.
Ezoriel’s voice seemed to lower to a glittering whisper. “The time will be
very soon
. And just exactly
what
the massive Reservoir will be filled with . . . is this: six billion gallons of the Gulf of Cagliostro . . .”
“What!”
“It’s true,” Ezoriel said. “That Pipeway is impressive—hundreds of miles long and quite a feat for Lucifer’s Engineers. Oh, we might’ve been able to bomb it but then . . .” The refulgent Angel seemed to smile. “Powers far more lofty than I insisted that that not happen . . .”
Krilid refrained from sarcastic comment.
“All things for a purpose, yes? It’s all part of God’s plan, and we are tiny yet essential
pieces
of that plan. Expendable? Yes. But loved by God as well, even in our Damnation.”
Oh, that makes me feel
MUCH
better
, Krilid’s thoughts sputtered.
“Have
faith
, in this place of the faithless.”
“Fine, fine,” Krilid interjected, “but . . .
why
does Lucifer want to fill that ridiculous Reservoir with six billion gallons of disgusting Bloodwater from the Gulf?”
Ezoriel’s undetectable gaze fixed on Krilid.
“All right, I get it,” Krilid droned. “I don’t have a need to know yet. You’re afraid if I get captured, I’ll spill the beans.”
The illumined presence seemed to nod. “God’s work calls me to depart. The coordinates for your next reconnaissance will be delivered telepathically very soon.” The Angel raised a finger. “Rest assured that, just as Daniel had no fear of the lion’s pit, you need not have fear of what awaits you.” Ezoriel passed Krilid a small cloth sack. “Until we meet again . . . go with God.” And then—
Sssssssssssssssss-ONK!
—the Fallen Angel’s Nectoport was gone.
Krilid opened the sack and withdrew—
“Oh, wow! What a great guy!”
—a big chunk of Ghor-Hound sausage.
What an ass I am
, Gerold thought. A male intern who looked like he hadn’t slept in days wheeled him through the hospital lobby and out into blazing sun. Once outside, the stubbled assistant lit a cigarette and frowned right at Gerold.
“What?” Gerold asked.
“I’m supposed to be off now, that’s what,” the guy said. “I’ve been up thirty-six hours but now I’ve got to do
this
.”
“Sorry.” Gerold felt sheepish. “So . . .
where
am I going?”
“VA.” The guy rubbed his sandpapery chin. “You’re what we call a ‘punt.’ ”
“A . . . what?”
“A punt. We’re punting you. It’s tax dollars paying for this stunt of yours—”
Gerold’s well-developed arms tensed. “It’s wasn’t a
stunt
—”
“Yeah, it was. We get ‘em all the time. Look, I’m sorry you can’t walk but—shit. My brother can’t walk either—he got hit by a drunk. And you know what? He’s never pulled a stunt like this. Clogging up a busy hospital with bullshit is no way to vent your need for attention.”
Gerold winced. “You’re worse than that lady upstairs! I wasn’t trying to get attention! I was just trying to kill myself, but I fucked up!” His tempered sizzled. “And I wish to God I hadn’t.”
“You and me both . . .”
Gerold rolled his eyes.
“Anyway, we’re punting you.” The guy tapped ashes disgustedly. “See, we gotta file for the damn money we burned on you last night. We have to send in a bill, and then wait months for the provider to pay—”
“I didn’t
burn
any money,” Gerold spat.
“Sure, you did. Every square inch of this place costs money, pal. And us having to give you a bed in the precaution ward last night is a big ticket, probably a couple of grand—”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, see, you don’t even give a shit. Typical. You think everything should be free while guys like me gotta work our asses off catering to you. The fact is, caregivers—like me—love to help people in need. It’s our duty. But what we
hate
is having to help people who pretend to be fucked up in the head.”
“This is some real compassionate care, man . . .”
“Fuck off. Let VA have your ass. You can burn
their
tax dollars.”
“I was fuckin’ fighting for my country!” Gerold bellowed.
The guy expectorated loudly. “You were fighting for a bunch of political
war pigs
, man. If you want to be a patriot, you
protest
the war, you don’t
fight
in it.”
Gerold groaned. “Your political views are your business, but I sure as shit—”
“What?” snapped the intern. “You don’t want to hear it, G.I. Joe? Well, tough.”
Gerold dared to laugh. “I’d love to see you on a bivouac. You wouldn’t last a day, you’d be cryin’ like a baby, cryin’ for your mother with your thumb in your mouth.”
The intern lurched forward, gnashed his teeth, then pulled back.
“Yeah, go ahead, tough guy,” Gerold said. “Punch a guy in a wheelchair. Shit, I’d
still
kick your ass.”
“In your dreams.”
The hits just keep on comin
’, Gerold thought. “We’re sitting out here in the hot sun for
what
reason?”
“Waiting for your transport, and
I
have to go with you,” the intern seethed. “I have to check you in.”
“Tell you what,” Gerold posed. “Go on home for your much-needed beauty sleep, and I’ll check myself in.”
“Right. You’d just go somewhere and pretend you’re trying to kill yourself again, to get more attention.”
Gerold would’ve paid any price just to be able to stand up for one second and clean this guy’s clock.
“Aw, shit!” the guy spat, and looked at his watch.
“What? That time of the month again?”
“Fuck off. I forgot your out-pross papers.” He pointed right in Gerold’s face. “Listen, dick, I have to go back inside and get your papers. I’ll only be five minutes, and when I’m back you
better
still be here. Don’t even
think
about eloping.”
“Eloping?”
Gerold stretched the word.
“That’s
what they call it?”
“Yeah, you’re an
elopement
risk. Says so right in your records. Elopement is when a
pseudo–mental patient
tries to escape from the people trying to help his sorry ass.”
“Where am I gonna go in five minutes, man!” Gerold yelled.
The finger kept pointing. “Just know this. If you
do
try to flee, I’ll find you, and you’ll be
real
sorry.”
“What, you’re threatening me?”
The stubbled face grinned. “Yeah. So what’re you gonna do about it, Hot Wheels?”
Gerold laughed hard now. “That’s what I like about interns. It puts the good ones into the system.”
The intern gave him the finger, then turned and headed back toward the building.
Gerold could only shake his head, chuckling morosely.
This has been the worst twenty-four hours of my life. Wouldn’t
it be nice if just once the Fates would let something GOOD happen to me?
A second after the automatic doors closed behind the intern, a city bus pulled up at the shelter not ten yards from where Gerold sat. “Yo, yo! Hold up!” Gerold launched himself forward with such force his wheels nearly left the pavement. Immediately the wheelchair lift began to beep, the ramp lowering.
“Come on in,” the uncharacteristically friendly driver invited. In no time, Gerold was on the ramp, going up.
Come on! Come on!
he fretted. “Is this a time point?” he asked. “I got a connection.”
“It is but I’m running late,” the driver said and belted Gerold’s chair into the cubby. “We gotta leave right now.”
All right!
Gerold sat hunched, peeking with half an eye out the window. He just
knew
that before the bus pulled away, that intern would be running after them.
The bus pulled away.
No sign of the intern.
Go! Go!
his thoughts pleaded, and he rocked back and forth with his fingers crossed.
The bus made the turn, roared onto the main road, and was on its way.
Gerold stared desperately behind until the hospital disappeared. He went slack in his chair.
Thank you, Fates
.
The bus was empty and deliciously cool.
“So what’s your connection?” the driver said.
“Uh, the 52.” Gerold picked the first bus route that came to mind.
“Oh, hell, we’ll be at the terminal at least ten minutes before that one leaves.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Gerold smiled, rocking over the gentle bumps in the road. But a glance down showed him a crumpled newspaper. He snatched it up.
It was the
Tampa Bay Times
, the local popified daily. His eyes idled over the “hip” articles and blaring ads for lingerie and singles clubs. It was a girl in a bikini holding a long fish that snagged more of his attention.
Gerold read the half-page ad—its headline:
FUN & SUN AT BEAUTIFUL LAKE MISQUAMICUS!
—to learn of a quaint, out-of-the-way camping and fishing resort several counties north of here. Jet Skis, parasailing, freshwater fishing, and, of special note, “Catch your own crawdads! Lake Misquamicus crawdads are the biggest in the state! We have delicious freshwater clams too!” Gerold really liked crawdads . . .
“Excuse me, driver? Now that I think of it, I won’t need to go to the terminal. Just drop me off on Ninth Avenue.”
“Sure. You taking a Greyhound somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Gerold said, still eyeing the ad and its accompanying bikini-clad model. “I’m heading up to . . . Lake Misquamicus.”
The driver nodded. “Good choice. They’ve got great fishing there and crawdadding. They stock the lake every year, and the place isn’t all full of tourists.”
“Cool,” Gerold said. Suddenly he felt wonderful, and he was genuinely looking forward to some fresh-cooked crawdads. They seemed a
perfect
last meal.
. . . and you’re not sure what you’re looking at, but when your supernatural vision sharpens—
“It’s like a mansion, except it’s
got
to be over five hundred feet on each side . . .”
“Sixty hundred and sixty-six,” Howard redresses,
“if
you’re interested in exactitude, and six floors each precisely sixty-six feet in height. Six belfries and six towers per side, six spires and crockets per tower. Six windows per dormer
section, sixty-six chimneys, sixty-six occuli, and six hundred and sixty-six crest spikes along each of sixty-six cornices, not to belabor the evidence of sixty-six—”