Rhubarb (37 page)

Martin had awoken in the back seat a few miles south of
Doris Solberg’s place. He had groaned, and Cheryl had given him a weak, pained,
smile in the rearview mirror. Lee had stared ahead. Questions had arisen, but
lost their way.

Lee, Brian, and X-Ray wandered into the lobby, spoke
conspiratorially for a moment, and then Lee joined Martin. His arm had been
rebandaged with materials a little more human, and he wore a baseball cap low
over his face.

“You okay?” asked Lee.

“How’s Cheryl?” Martin asked.

“She’s with him now, but…” Lee said, and shook his head.

Martin sighed. What did he expect? To be sitting hand in
hand, comforting Cheryl in Stewart’s dying minutes? That she’d cry on his
shoulder, longing for a comforting kiss?

A few minutes later, the lobby door chimed, and Brenda
called Cheryl’s name. Martin stood, but Cheryl crossed the lobby, weeping. She
ducked behind the counter and disappeared into the housekeeping room. Brenda
followed, abandoning her customers.

Martin stuck out a hand to Lee. “Thank you,” he said.

“No, thank you,” Lee replied. “You’re not going to…?” He
nodded toward the counter.

“No,” said Martin.

Martin left the Brixton Inn on foot. Even if he’d had the
keys to the Town Car, the Highway Patrol wasn’t letting anyone turn anywhere
but out of town. He walked against the flow of the crowd, ignoring them and
their plight, all the way across Brixton and out of it again.

The roadblock at the junction had been hardened and
reinforced by the National Guard. A colossal wall of smoke billowed from the southern
horizon behind the endless line of stunned Wakers streaming north on foot.

Scotch-taped bits of paper fluttered in the breeze on the
gas pumps at Herbert’s Corner. “No gas,” each read.

In the half-lit diner, the chairs had been flipped upside
down on tables. Martin feared to talk over the hush of the silent jukebox.

“Martin?” Eileen asked, setting aside a magazine. “Lorie,
get out here.”

Martin stumbled to a stool and sat heavily.

“My goodness,” said Lorie, coming out from the kitchen.
“What’s happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Martin.

“I don’t have anything to give you, ’cept for a glass of
water,” Eileen said. “We’re cleaned out.”

“There’s still those packs of black licorice in the store,”
said Lorie.

“That’s okay,” said Martin. “I don’t need anything.”

~ * * * ~

Martin awoke to the sound of whispering and sat up in the
booth. He banged a shoulder on the edge of the table, but it hurt no worse than
anything else. He squinted across the diner, unsure of how long he’d been
asleep. There was no sunlight in the vestibule. The dark Pepsi clock couldn’t
be trusted. A third person was talking with Eileen and Lorie. Someone in a red
hoodie.

Martin rubbed the sleep from his eyes and prepared to stand
up, but Cheryl slid into the booth across from him. She’d been crying, and she
still had shards of alien conduit tangled in her hair. “Hi,” she said.

“Stewart…?” Martin asked. Cheryl nodded and touched the back
of her wrist to the corner of each eye. “I’m sorry. About everything.”

“Stewart told me what you’ve been doing for him, for me.”

“He loved you very much.”

Cheryl accepted this. “What are you going to do now? Stewart
said you lost your job.”

Martin chuckled weakly, remembering Rick, maybe still at
Cheryl’s place. It would probably be best to avoid him right now, likewise the
Highway Patrol, and maybe the FBI. “Don’t worry about me. What about you?”

“I can’t imagine leaving Brixton,” said Cheryl. “Even now.”

“Brixton wouldn’t be the same town without you,” said
Martin.

“Besides…” said Cheryl. She scanned the diner and blew out a
hard sigh.

“What?”

“Stewart owned this place, Martin. After Herbert died,
Stewart created a corporation, bought the place, and made sure they stopped
selling rhubarb pie. He made them remodel and took out the bakery. And he
stopped them spreading all the alien rumors.”

“To protect you,” said Martin.

Cheryl nodded. “And now, it’s mine. He left it all to me.”

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Martin. “Keeping
in mind that it’s the only decent place to get breakfast and coffee in a
hundred-mile radius.”

Eileen crossed the diner carrying a tray. Without a word,
she set a steaming mug of coffee in front of each of them.

“What’s this?” asked Martin. “I thought you were out.”

“Lorie found a box of coffee up in the office,” said Eileen.
“It’s on the house. This time.” She winked, spun away, and called back over her
shoulder. “It’ll take more than this to close Herbert’s Corner.”

“Order a triple shot in your coffees, Waker Nation. It’s Weird
Science Wednesday night, sponsored by the University of Phoenix, and in a
moment we’ll be taking your calls and questions for Dr. Helmut Schwartz,
theoretical physicist and the author of a recent paper that explores the
relationship between dark matter and dark energy and redefines how they affect
the fabric of our universe. But first, a reminder that with us tomorrow night
will be our friend and official Waker Nation economist Lawrence Montgomery, a
professor at the University of Rhode Island, and the author of the book
Everything
You Need to Know About Economics Should Be Taught in Kindergarten.
On
Friday, live all night with us in the bunker will be thirteen-year-old prodigy
Ayani Anami. You absolutely have to meet this young lady. Not only has she been
appointed as a UN goodwill ambassador for children based on her humanitarian
blog, but she’s completing her medical degree, and her first play opens next
week off-Broadway.

“And as always, you can find more detailed information about
these topics and the work of all our guests on wakernation.com. Welcome back,
Dr. Schwartz.”

“Thank you, Lee.”

“Now, I’m going to ask you more about what we learn from the
map of dark energy, but I need to do my nightly penance first, if you don’t
mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Let’s get this over with, X-Ray. Greenville, North
Carolina, you’re Beyond Insomnia.”

“Lee, this is Richard. I can’t believe you’re not talking
about aliens anymore.”

“What’s there to talk about, Richard? Extraterrestrials
exist. We know this for certain now. We know a little about their biology and
their culture and are learning more every day. We’re preparing to make official
contact. And we know that the government did not conspire to keep this from us.
Every Thursday we get an update from Pauline Nelson, a member of the
international observation and research team. There’s still much we don’t know,
but the speculation is over.”

“And you believe whatever they tell you?”

“I believe the things that they have evidence to back up.”

“Someone got to you, didn’t they?”

“I came to the conclusion that it’s time to start living in
reality. In other words, I woke up.”

“You’re a hack, Danvers. And your show is crap.”

“I’m sorry you think so…and he’s hung up. If you’re still
listening, Richard, and every other Waker out there, I’m sorry. I will gladly
shoulder the blame for the speculation and lies for as long as it takes. Phew. Okay.
Let’s get back to business. Helmut, you described how if you overlaid the map
of a galaxy’s dark energy with a map of its dark matter…”

~ * * * ~

The pilot relaxed and let his computer maneuver the rig into
the slot. He stretched his tentacles and torso, expelled all the air from his
bladders, and filled them anew. When the ship was parked, he activated system
standby and then noticed an object near the portal facility on the icy chunk.
He glurmed quizzically, tapped his screens, and his windshield targeted and
magnified the image—a flat, rectangular, faintly lit object, but readable. A
homey amateur logo decorated one corner, a flap-watering picture the other, and
familiar and welcome script filled the space in between. He plurbed to himself,
pleased, and found his dermis generator in a drawer.

A few minutes later, he blurred into place behind a steering
wheel on a familiar road between two walls of crumbling rock. More than a
thousand lenses, sensors, and monitors captured his arrival and his descent of
the hill. He crossed a bridge, slowing as the new signs directed. A lowered
barricade blocked the road, so he turned onto a driveway of freshly constructed
concrete.

He rolled down his window as he stopped by a little
building, built up on a platform. A window slid aside, and a man said, “Welcome
to Earth. Name and destination?”

“Um…Glen,” said the pilot.

“You real name, please,” said the attendant.

“Mushfronf,” said the pilot, but with a little burble in the
middle of it all. “Do you need my reef name, too?”

“Please,” said the attendant, and Mushfronf obliged.
“Destination?”

“Headin’ up to the Corner.”

The man in the booth handed him a blinking puck of plastic.
“Keep this in your vehicle at all times,” he said. He handed him another that
had a clip on one side. “And that one stays on your person. Return them here on
your way out.”

“Got it,” said the pilot.

“Have a nice day.”

“I will. You, too,” Mushfronf replied.

He parked alongside several other trucks at Herbert’s Corner
and headed inside.

“Glen,” said Eileen. “Long time, no see.”

“Afternoon, Eileen. But forget the ‘Glen.’ I suppose you can
call me Mushfronf now, seein’ as.” He chose a stool. “Saw your new sign. Says
you got the pie again.”

“We surely do,” said Eileen. “Made fresh every day. You want
some now, or do you want somethin’ that Mama would want you to eat first?”

“Better bring me a number seven with a side of coleslaw, but
make sure and save me a couple slices,” he said.

“I’ll save you a whole pie,” said Eileen.

Eileen put in his order, then headed upstairs to the office.
She knocked and opened the door, then shut it as quickly.

She scurried away, laughing.

“What’s going on?” Lorie asked her, peering up the stairs.
“Let me guess.”

“Goin’ at it again. At least with their clothes on this
time,” said Eileen.

A minute later, Martin found Eileen in the kitchen. “Sorry
about that. What’s going on?”

Eileen nodded out through the kitchen window, and Martin
ducked to peek out into the diner. “You’re sure?” he asked.

“I can’t believe you don’t remember that mustache and that
ridiculous little hat,” said Eileen.

Martin donned the dark glasses to be sure.

Cheryl came in behind him. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“The truck driver there. I’ve had Eileen keeping an eye out
for him. I owe him an apology,” said Martin.

“He’s asked for the pie,” said Eileen.

“He probably deserves pie for life after the scare I gave
him,” said Martin.

“Don’t look at me,” said Eileen. “The owner’d have to
approve that.”

“What do you say, Madame Owner?” asked Martin.

“What did you do to the poor man?” Cheryl asked, and then
threw up her hands. “I don’t care. If you want to give him free pie, go ahead,
but it’s coming out of your paycheck, Mr. Manager.”

Martin delivered the man’s meal and set his pie on the
counter.

“It’s you,” said the pilot.

“Yeah, hi. I wanted to say sorry about…everything. Your
meal’s free today, and anytime you want pie, it’ll be on me.”

“Thank you,” the pilot said hesitantly. “Mighty generous.”

“Enjoy,” said Martin. The pilot took a large bite of pie and
quivered with delight. “As good as you remember?” Martin asked.

“Oh yeah,” said the pilot. “I’ve always said that you could
sell this here recipe. Probably make a fortune.”

“Nah,” said Martin. “It’s not
that
good.”

M.H. Van Keuren quit a perfectly good job to devote his life
to writing science fiction. He lives in Billings, Montana, with his wife and
two sons.

Find his blog at:
mhvankeuren.blogspot.com
.