The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel (5 page)

10

Lost Causes

I shake myself
from my remembrances by turning on the radio. Five years ago, they’d left me a note announcing that I’d been fired, and would be a prime candidate for Erasure should I get any ideas about causing trouble. That was what they did to the problem cases: just
boom,
gone, whitewashed from time forever. Not a bad solution; send some unwitting bastard back to the age of William the Conqueror and he’ll start talking crazy and making trouble.

I’d had plenty of vengeful ideas since then—even before Kristine was more than a shade in the depths of my mind. The switchbox, it’s just the first step—but Isaac and his Rapture buddies, I need them for the execution. Those metal monsters, the Erasers, they’ll be on me soon. I have to work quick—but first, I need to find Kristine, see where that path will wind this time.

I know where to find her. And, at this point, I’m fine with heading to what could be my early demise. But I still need to make a stop, get patched up. I roll past the El Dorado, into the wasteland of outcasts—those who aren’t welcome in the double-wides and collapsed houses.

No one lives here if they’ve got another option. Lucky for most, it never comes to that. But for a few, including Candice, this has been home for more time than I’ve spent on this mortal coil. The truck kicks up dust when I veer off the asphalt. Her trailer can be seen from the road—good for business, that—but it’s far enough where, if no one was looking, they might never notice it.

But, since Candice is a whore, you can trust that people are always looking.

I get out and rub my boots into the dirt. The dry cigarette crackles in my lips, burns harsh when I draw. Maybe they could market these. Riverton brand—sunburnt and past their prime.

Her door’s got police tape covering it, one of those crime scene seals over the crack. A window’s open, too small to get in through.

“Candice,” I call out, “you in there?”

A dumb question, unless she’s taken to partnering with the local police for anti-prostitution outreach. I lean my head in the window too far, and I’m met with the putrid stench of decay. The place has been rummaged through. I don’t stop to inspect; something—or, more to the point, someone—died in there.

And, seeing as how I haven’t seen old Candy down at the El Dorado as of late, I can only assume it was her that did the dying. Maybe that drug addiction snuck up on her.

I shuffle back to the truck, smoke trailing from my fingers, and pause to glance back at the trailer. She’d have patched me up all right; she was good like that. Someone who beds everyone tends to become a bit of a Renaissance Man—or Woman.

There’s a crumpled piece of paper stuck to a cactus near my truck. I pluck it off, find that it’s an old photograph. Candice and a little girl, not a few days old.

I didn’t know the whore had a kid. I wonder where the little girl went; her smile looks sweet in the picture, like she don’t know that life is hard—even moreso for the offspring of someone who turns tricks.

Makes me feel bad about Candice leaving this earth for wherever she’s headed; I never did employ her services, but she seemed about the only one who didn’t complain about Riverton. Just accepted it, got to whoring and got by as best she could. Which, even if she died and rotted out here, made her better than most.

11

Gold Rush

Strobe lights pulse
to bad ‘80s hair metal as the bitter whiskey glides down my throat. After a few hasty drags on a cigarette, I motion again, a man trying to disappear or be swallowed up in the vastness of the desert. I know how that story ends, but I pretend—or delude myself—that my tale will go a little different. Besides, I’m in pain, and a hospital isn’t an option.

I’m waiting for this meeting. I don’t know what to expect.

The girls on stage—and most of them aren’t much older than that—slink back and forth in front of a comatose crowd. Someone passing by the El Dorado might wonder how anyone ends up in an establishment such as this, on the edge of existence.

I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.

The current patrons must’ve grown tired of tits; two guys are passed out in their chairs, and that about does it for company. Soon enough, though, the morning crew will trickle in, eager to wallow away their disability and social security checks in transactions humiliating for everyone involved.

“Say Diz, you heard anything about Candice,” I say to the barman.

Dizzy shoots me this look like I’m well behind the times. “Cops pulled her out of her trailer a week ago. Been dead for at least twice that long.”

“Shoot, that’s rough.”

“A good woman is hard to find, but she was one of them.”

“You a patron of her services?” Inappropriate, I know, but I can’t quite determine what’s right these days. Could blame that on the liquor. Or the flare. It’s a toss-up.

“We had our discussions, nothing more.”

“Do they know what killed her?”

“Could be lots of people.” He shrugs. “Dangerous profession.”

“People?”

“Pulled a bullet right out of her skull, the cops did.”

“Here’s to not dying in the wasteland.” I hoist the shot glass in the air and suck it down. Dizzy’s got it refilled before it hits the countertop.

“Rumor has it they had to pull some coyotes off her. Shot them dead before they could take the body away.”

“A little big for a coyote to be partial to her, don’t you think?”

“Hell if I don’t think the whole world’s going crazy. All sorts of stuff out there if you look close enough.” Dizzy leans against the counter and cranes his neck over, like he’s got a secret. “You hear about the old bank?”

“It isn’t that old.”

“Sure, smartass, but all the same. Someone knocked it off.”

“Robbed?” So it’s out. Don’t know why I’m surprised. Whole town shook from the explosion, if Jasper can be taken at his word.

“And not just that,” he says, pouring more liquid gold into my glass, “there isn’t nothing left.”

“You sure one of these guys here isn’t just yanking your dick?”

“I sure isn’t one for believing lies.” I say nothing. “You don’t seem to care one way or the other, I reckon.”

“I’m just shocked those charlatans lasted at all in a town like this.”

Dizzy snorts and pours himself a whiskey, sips it like someone in no hurry to get drunk or anywhere at all.

“Whoever done it, they got some real big ones,” Dizzy says, grabbing his crotch with his free hand, “I couldn’t do it.”

“Maybe they were just stupid.”

“No more stupid than the rest of us waiting to die here.” A bombastic, bass heavy rap track surges from the sound system, much too aggressive for the current state of affairs. “Lucky,” he says, watching me sling back another drink, “my head’s got to be on right for any nonsense in the morning.”

“Hell of a DJ you guys got in here.”

“I tell you, where I’m from, they don’t play records like this.”

“I knew you were from the damn moon.”

“That reminds me,” he says with a shrug that says
fine, don’t believe me
, “about Candice.”

“I’m listening.”

“They said the whole place was ransacked, everything on the floor.”

“Could be them coyotes you were going on about.”

“I don’t think they can get in the top shelves and the drawers, now, you think?”

“I don’t know,” I say, sliding the glass back and forth on the counter, “you’re the one talking about how crazy everything is getting.”

“But the cops said,” and now Dizzy’s voice gets real low, “that the robbery looked stage. That it was fake. Just a murder, nothing more. Cold, right?”

“Sure. I’m on the case.” I’ll drink to that—being an insufferable asshole.

“You were the one that brought it up.” He folds his arms. “Now I was going to share some of this crazy coke I got, special blend from the Bull, imported from thousands of miles away.”

“Sounds more like the Bullshit.” I’m on fire right now.

“Maybe it’s just the Bull,” he says, looking off at the stage, “hell, I can’t remember. And his name may be bullshit, but there’s some insane things in this world like you don’t know.”

“What’s a regular Socrates doing in this town?”

He shakes his head at this, but I think I can see a grin beneath that massive beard.

“You know what my daddy told me, just as soon as my nuts dropped?” Dizzy is focused real intense on me. I can’t take the heat. I look at the counter.

“Nah.”

“Our dog died. Nasty old thing, real ornery. But I loved it, and I think he loved me, in some way. And my pops, he tells me, ‘Life ain’t just handjobs and lollipops, kid. You best learn that now.’ I still remember a hand-rolled in his mouth, wagging between his lips as he talked.”

“Yeah, yeah. Life’s tough.”

Dizzy ignores me. “And then, I asked him, ‘What’s a handjob?’ And he just sort of stared.” I swear, Dizzy’s going soft on me here. He keeps it going. “He says, “Diz, you ain’t never had a handjob before? I got to teach you more than I thought. Better than a lollipop, that’s for sure.’ He roughed up my hair, and that was that.”

“Sweet story.”

“He died a couple months later, and I bounced around a lot after that. And when they found me on the streets, mumbling into a pile of my own shit, I joined up. And when they asked me to come, I was the first one to take that goddamn transport. And here we are. At a crossroads. ” Dizzy looks at me.

“I bet we are, old man.”

“You’re some sort of jackass after you get a few drinks deep, know that kid?”

“But you love me for it.”

“That,” he says, “is a discussion for another time.” He polishes off his whiskey and sets it down with a bow. “You just holler, now, if anyone important comes in. And don’t touch my stash. I don’t share with pricks.” He walks out from behind the bar, slaps me in the back with one of his large, weather-beaten hands, and then disappears into the kitchen.

I wouldn’t take a nap in there if it was the last place on earth, but I guess when you’re old certain things matter less.

And then it hits me: Dizzy, that dog. His mannerisms, his way of fitting in. I figured he was just some old hippy, but that wasn’t it. Unlike most of them, he was lucid, knew that he was on this goddamn planet. No, he’d come from another time. What with his long hair and kind eyes, he could be Jesus Christ.

Not that I believe, or anything, but I’m just saying—the man had goodness in his face, like some people do. Even if he could use a haircut to get with the style of this millennium.

I scramble over the bar, shouting his name, but the kitchen is deserted. All that there is, in the center of stainless steel island, is a pamphlet for the Rapture.

There’s some scrawled writing in the middle:
see you again
, it says, and I guess it’s by Dizzy’s hand. I rub the glossy card stock and sigh. This is all different. All so goddamn different.

The paper even feels different, but I think that’s my imagination. I’ve only touched a couple things that passed through the continuum, but they all had a weird energy surrounding them, something like a glow.

This thought makes me believe that I have to stop drinking. I walk back through the doors, out to the main floor, and the chick on stage gives me an eye roll. I return serve with the best
fuck you
glare I have, and, if there’s one thing I know, I’ve cultivated quite a mean gaze.

The girl shuffles off in a hurry.

I’m alone now and I could use a refresher, even though my face feels funny and buzzes when I touch it. Around me, the music plays, the lights flash, the crappy speakers boom with each drum kick blast—everything keeps on going, except without people. In a place used to kinetic chaos, it’s rather eerie—like the world has ended, except for one sliver of the universe. I worm on to the sticky counter, feet dangling, groping for the closest available bottle.

I hear the double doors swing open and slam against the concrete walls. I try to make a graceful escape back into my seat, but nothing ever goes according to plan, and this is no exception: I knock off all the bottles with a crash, miss the stool and land square on my ass.

“Goddamnit.” I look around for witnesses. The two sad saps, they’re still sleeping off their excessive alcohol consumption.

“You’re going to have to pay for all that, you know,” a woman says, her voice coming from above.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” I wipe the stale booze from the seat of my pants and situate myself back on the stool. But oh, that’s a lie. We have. Many times. Most people in this world, they’re just stock characters, flitting in and out of your life—a guy at the bank, a woman at the grocery store.

But her, no, not her. She was never that for anyone. People are always unknowable to start, but once you look into those eyes, you can see it all, know her story. And she knows yours.

“Oh, we have. Earlier today.” Kristine stares straight at me, glitter and fake eyelashes and all. “You remember it, don’t you?”

“Where now?” My heart beats a furious tattoo against the confines of my chest. I can’t screw this up; there won’t be a repeat. There’s always a last time, and this is it: the first step towards redemption.

“You know the place,” she says, finger pointing towards Riverton proper.

“I don’t think I understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying you shot at me, honey.” I force the rest of the piss-warm drink down. My hand creeps towards my waistband. “I wouldn’t do that.” The slender barrel of a pistol glints in the kaleidoscopic light as she presses it against my shoulder. I wince. “How about making a girl a drink?”

“This girl have a name?”

“Kristy Kane.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what your mother named you, ain’t it,” I say as I hop over the counter and comb through the wreckage.

“With a name like Candy, she could have.”

I keep my poker face on, don’t let on that I’ve seen a baby picture of her, just a few minutes back. “I still doubt it. Sins of the mother shouldn’t be passed down, and all.”

“Well, you sure aren’t as stupid as you look.” She sizes me up. “Kristine.” No handshake, no hug, no greeting; the name just hangs in the air, like I can do what I want with it.

“That sounds like it could be real,” I say.

“Real as anything here.”

“That don’t say much.”

“Shooting at me like that, I thought you’d just about lost your damn mind,” she says, dark chestnut eyes spitting venom, “be a gentleman and hurry up on the vodka.”

“To be fair about that, you shot first. And I’m injured.”

I don’t say much else, or anything, just stare at her for a little bit, because that seems like the only thing to do right then.

“We do need to work that out.”

“Here’s your drink.” I pour and she takes the glass, holstering her firearm. Better. I can almost feel the blood rushing back to my cheeks.

“I could take you in,” she says, eying me while she stirs the ice with her finger. I’m glad that the bar is between us. She looks like she could be bad news.

“To your lair?”

“Custody.” Shit. She’s the law.

“What type of custody we talking about?” I’d rather it not be the Syndicate, though she looks a little too much on the straight and narrow to believe in time travel and temporal crime. I have to remind myself that she knows as much, more than I do.

Good poker face, this Kristine.

“Federal.”

I let loose a low a whistle, like I actually care. That would be a treat; the Syndicate doesn’t mess with the Feds. Too high visibility.

“You wouldn’t dare arrest me. Not after a drink like that.”

“I’ve tasted better.”

“Not around here you haven’t.”

“Now that,” she says, motioning for a refill, “that could just be true.” She pauses. “The way I see it, Damien, you look real helpful to me. More helpful than you would be doing a dime down in the finest Federal Corrections facility Phoenix has to offer.”

“And what help might we be discussing?” I don’t bother to ask how she knows my name. Could be a million ways.

“You have some things from the bank.”

“That’s not an official inquiry, I hope.”

“It could be.”

“Let’s say I do.” I’m not sure why I’m playing coy, but I’ve seen some cop movies. Admit nothing.

“I want the little black book. Give it to me, you walk.”

“Maybe you’re just screwing with me and pretending to be the law.”

“Be that as it may,” she says, fingering her gun, “there’s still one in the chamber. And I won’t miss from this distance.”

“But you don’t get what you want then.”

“Negotiating?”

“I don’t have the whole thing, anyway. Someone else has the other half.” I jab my thumb towards the door and the rolling desert.

“What if I said it has to do with those messages I sent you earlier?” This isn’t news. My face must say as much, because Kristine lets out a laugh. “Don’t look so surprised, now. I’d clean you out if we were playing cards. You’re a bad liar.” Her pink lips glisten in the dim light. I imagine what they feel like. “You killed that poor bastard.” There’s a hint of
wince
in the word bastard, like the kid in the desert deserved more.

“Yeah,” I say, “or no, I was just there.” This feels like entrapment.

“I’m glad it got your attention.” She takes a sip from her glass. “Among other things.”

“It did do that.”

“Now, I don’t care about five years ago.” That’s a relief. “But I do care about something else. Right now. The future.”