The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel (4 page)

I reach to draw and she fires. The Bullet roars through the chill air and sails past me into the endless night. I return the favor, but there isn’t any hope of hitting her at this distance, so I begin to run, faster and faster, dropping the .45 as I dash towards the car.

I still have the keys, and when I reach the driver’s door I guide them into the lock, one try, quicker than anyone ever has. The engine springs to life—reliable as always—as another round crashes through the glass and into the passenger seat with a muted thud.

The tires screech when I mash the accelerator to the floor and careen out of the lot. No shots follow me, but I can see the woman in the mirror, pistol by her side, watching as I roll off in the direction of the Lucky Lady.

When she’s swallowed up by the darkness, I slump down in the driver’s seat and exhale. It’s over. I touch my shoulder, only to be greeted with a tacky warmth.

I shift in my seat and my right arm explodes, sends shockwaves through my mind, jolts me from the road. I veer off, car tumbling into the cracked earth.

This, this is new. I put my finger into the wound, and fire sears through my entire body. I laugh.

Yes—this is new indeed.

8

No Escape

I tear the
ski mask from my sticky face and toss it out the window. When I look in the rearview real close, I can still spot wisps of smoke hovering above the town like man-made storm clouds. I try to focus on the road, but the initial glee has subsided.

Now my shoulder just hurts like a bitch.

I scream, do it until my throat is raw and my breath runs ragged. When there’s nothing left, I shut my mouth, grit my dust-covered teeth together and try the ignition. The twisting motion racks my shoulder with pain, but I keep going, and the engine coughs back to life.

Then I keep driving, in no hurry to get to anywhere. A rush of fear seizes my consciousness; the familiarity of the loop, numbing as it was, seemed like it would never end. I now have no idea what the hell to expect—no hints, no feelings within my soul to guide the way.

And he’s dead. I have the stuff, but my brother is dead.

The Lucky Lady sits silent, windows dark. The engine dies with a little sputter and a groan when I turn the key. I’m surrounded by murky blackness as I hoist the bag out of the trunk and walk into the bar.

Overheads buzz and the heater purrs away in some closet, but silence hovers above it all. Slung over my shoulder, the bag jangles, the spoils oblivious to all that has been spoiled. I pour a drink, then another, try to burn everything away in fiery waves of liquor.

I strip naked, my clothes feeling like shackles, and walk outside for an oil waste barrel. I drag everything—myself, the barrel, the clothes—out behind the bar, silhouetted by faint moonlight.

I shiver with each small bite of wind. I touch my shoulder once more, but the blood is somewhat dry. I need to get fixed up. I fish my lighter out from the oily mess inside the barrel and take a few steps back. With a flick and a toss, the tiny orange light ignites it all, the air nipping at my back, the fire lapping at my front.

“Damn it.” I’ve burned my cigarettes with the clothes. It’s all right; the can sputters out so fast that there wouldn’t have been enough time for half a smoke. No customers means no cooking, no cooking means no oil. Why the bank was trying to foreclose. Now they know what
that
feels like.

The pay from my other gig, the Coyote one, it was good; the pay as a small business owner, well, not so much. I never claimed to be a financial guru, just an opportunist—and now a revenge-seeker.

I dump the sludge out in the desert, right into the cracked soil. Even in the dim light, I can see it blacken the earth, forever staining the divots and lines. I leave the barrel and head back inside, up the stairs.

I can’t recognize myself in the mirror; my hair matted to my face, thin frame caked in grime. I slam my fist into the reflection, sending a cobweb of cracks through the glass.

I watch the shower water at my feet turn a brackish shade of reddish-black. The coppery aroma of blood and synthetic scent of body wash coalesce in the air, fused together by the steam. I scrub until my skin is raw and pink, fingertips shriveled from the heat.

The smell reminds me of something.

“Stop,” she said,
but her giggles told a different story. She slapped at my arms, trying to block my attack. It was unproductive; resistance always is.

I got the soap in her eyes, and she shrieked and hit me, this time hard.

“Ow,” I said, in faux-agony, “why’d you do that?”

Through laughs and little chirps of pain—discomfort—she managed to choke out, “Because it stings, you asshole.”

“That type of language, young lady,” I said, grabbing more soap, “it will not be tolerated. I think someone needs to be cleansed.”

“No,” she yelled, but couldn’t stop from laughing, “I’ll be a good girl.”

“Yeah,” and I rubbed my hand against her back, the soap suds sliding down her smooth skin with the water. I kissed her and grasped her tight.

“Well, that doesn’t mean we can’t get dirty in other ways,” she said, a little sly, all sexy.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Let me show you.”

I miss her, sometimes.

Most of the time.

I don’t bother
to dry; in the hall, the watery footprints move opposite the dirty ones until I turn into an unsullied room. I throw on some jeans and a collared shirt and wander about on the first floor, going nowhere in particular.

“Well, that went well, didn’t it,” Monk says, stepping out from behind the bar, “I think the whole town heard that goddamn explosion.”

“Jesus Christ, man, don’t you knock?” My heart’s beating loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it clear across the room.

He shakes the key ring in his hand.

“Just stopping by your pharmacy for some medicine.” He whistles when he sees me, and I glance at my shoulder. A hint of blood is seeping through. “Don’t tell me you caught one.”

“Then I didn’t. What’d you find?”

“You’re a cool customer, getting shot like that and thinking about that video. I don’t know about you sometimes, man.” I should have done like Isaac said, not told Monk anything—but just because he’s irritating. He unzips the bag and runs his hand through it. “Oh, that’s beautiful.” He kind of moans. I walk over and look in, expecting to be overwhelmed by opulence.

Broaches, bands and earrings, crisp bills of all sorts—colored foreign ones along with standard greenbacks. A couple strange ones, huge as legal sheets. Says they’re issued by the New London National Bank.

“Another joker,” I say, yanking them from the pile. They aren’t a joke; I know the truth.

“I don’t think so, Damien, I don’t think so.” He’s done a little digging.

“Care to share?”

“Where’s Isaac,” he asks, looking about, “haven’t seen him in a damn minute.”

“Running late.”

Monk raises his eye at this, but doesn’t have a response. “You know my daddy died not three days after he worked that case, right?”

“Yeah, I do seem to recall that.”

“Seems strange, don’t it?”

I put my feet up on the bar and lean back.

“That a drug addict died of a heart attack? Nah.”

“Hey, asshole,” Monk says, pushing me a little, enough to almost send me crashing over, “that’s still my old man.”

“And he was such a junkie that you could’ve gotten high just drinking his piss.”

“Yeah, but he was a pro. Knew his drugs.”

“That’s a unique perspective on the matter.”

“You know, I think I’m going to drink somewhere that isn’t filled with assholes.” Monk heads out the door and leaves without telling me what he’s found. Just like that. And then he comes back, yanks a couple bills from the bag without saying anything.

And then he’s gone again.

I don’t stop him. I’d rather be alone. I already know what he’s going to say: that the circumstances, the coincidences are all fishy.

“Good luck finding a decent man in this town,” I say when he’s gone, and then I sit back down. I run my fingers through the bag. Passports. Must be Mitch. Poor bastard saw too many spy movies, thought these could be sold on some black market or another.

I flip through them. One’s newer than the others, with crisp foil letters and a picture recent enough to be considered modern. Janice Kaye, still pretty, but older than I thought—36, if one should believe the US government. Wait until she’s been in Riverton for a few more years. Time will catch up with her yet. It always does.

I toss them and the other useless crap in the bag and put it all in the oven, crank the heat. This smells awful, but hell if I’m going back outdoors. On the table I’m left with a collection of heirlooms, a stack of gold bricks, a black book and the switchbox.

The device looks like a little walkie-talkie or AM radio, but not quite, more like a rejected design than anything retailers would ever stock. I flick the power switch on top and three sets of numbers flash across the tiny screen, followed by an asterisk. And another set, and then another.

I shut the bizarro radio off and the red lights fade from the display. It won’t do anything on its own; I need to find someone who knows what to do with it.

The book seems more interesting, but whoever it belongs to used some sort of code. I figure it’s Henderson’s, but the first entry starts with “Henderson _ not _ today _ says _will_.” I stop after that, because it makes no sense with half the words missing. It must have a mate, but the missing piece ain’t here; maybe Henderson’s got it. Should make for a useful bargaining chip. The Sheriff’s name is all over it, and your name doesn’t show up in a black book when you’re on the level. I hear insurance is a good a thing. My fingers begin to beat a furious tattoo against the laminated wood while my wanders,
thump-a-thump, thump,
louder and louder.

And then the light is sucked out of the room and I’m surrounded by darkness. I get up, but I stumble about and crash into almost everything in the damn bar before I make my way outside.

There’s a lone person on the road, perched atop a chopper, chrome trim gleaming. Helmet on, decked out in leather, I can’t make out a face, or even if it’s a chick or dude. But we look at each other for a moment—whoever it is, they want to be seen—and then the vandal grips the throttle tight and roars off.

I head around back and find a pair of thick bolt cutters on the ground, left like a calling card. The generator’s screwed.

“What a goddamn prick.” I head to my truck and grab a flashlight out of the glovebox. Using it makes me feel like I’m searching for something in the shadows—like the hot co-ed in a horror movie, right before her guts get blown all over the screen—but it’s better than bumbling around.

There’s a little safe behind the counter, and inside is a paltry amount of cash—not even enough to take out of the till—a couple important papers and a 9mm pistol. The .45 I dropped might be nice to have—could stop an elephant with that thing, maybe two—but I can’t go back now, no matter how much I might want to.

I get another message from my unknown friend, demanding that I head to the El Dorado for a face-to-face encounter.

I’m reminded of the horror flick, aware that I could be the new star in the sequel to someone’s snuff film. I guess it works out well enough, though—I want to visit the El Dorado anyway, blunt my nerves and racing mind with a few pours of whiskey and the delightful ambiance.

More than a few. It’s been a hard day’s work, and I think a celebration is in order. The secret to spiritual enlightenment and freedom from the tyranny of your captors is simple.

Catch a bullet.

I load the loot in the safe before I head out, grab some cigarettes—stale, but what the hell—and the gun. It doesn’t quite fit the holster, so I just tuck it into my jeans, lock everything up and head to the truck, where the sun is starting to peek out from beneath the gray sky.

9

A Dangerous Life

Kristine was reading.

That’s what I remember from the dreams. They can’t be real, because I only ever get three days with her—three days from when she pops up at the bank, shoots at me. But the dreams, those are a lifetime, the lifetime I see when I look into her eyes, feel her soul grab mine. And who can tell me that dreams aren’t real, premonitions of what will come when I break free from time’s grip?

Isn’t it such a cliché, the chick of letters, the bookworm, the good girl student, with the bad ass? I think it is, and I haven’t even seen that many movies.

But there we were, her brains, me brawn. I had brains once, heart too, but I traded them in for a gun and a shipping manifest and a couple gold bricks.

It happens, even to the best of us. And I was far from that category. But there she was, reading, brunette hair shining in the afternoon light, me just watching her.

“What are you doing,” she said, “I don’t like being watched.”

“I like watching you, though.” I smiled. She looked like she had purpose; like the world was made so she could sit in that chair and learn.

She put her feet up on the table and leaned back. The Lady—or someplace like it—was open, but no one else was inside. That wasn’t unusual, and it didn’t matter.

“You’re killing me on the health code,” I said, and I knew it was a bad joke, but I didn’t care. You know the chick you can say anything to, and she won’t leave? I mean the dumb things, not vile or offensive stuff—because if she knew who I was, what I’d done, I don’t know if she’d stayed.

Well, she did find out, and in the real world, she dies for it. But this was my dream. And in my dream, that was her; she was the chick I could say anything to. She just rolled her eyes, and went back to reading.

And now, every time I’m surrounded by silence, I think of this. It brings me back, but not in the good way, not in that sepia-toned nostalgic fashion. No, in these memories, the pictures are burning, bloodied, ruined—and it’s all my fault.

I didn’t get there in time; that was the problem. Or it was the drugs, maybe, or the booze, or maybe—and this is what I tell myself to make it feel a little better—it was just that I wanted to steal another moment with her, and it cost us both.

But it’s simpler than that. She died because I am who I am. We all are, and we can’t help it. Fate’s cruel that way, kind to others. But I’m Damien Mitchell, and that makes me good at a couple things. And none of them make the world better.

The dreams always turn into nightmares. They always do, at least for me. The Erasers come, and this part, this part is true; I’ve seen it three times. They come to mop up the mess that I created.

I was the concierge, the person who led them straight to where they needed to go; they were the mathematicians’ pen, balancing the universe’s complicated equation so things didn’t get wonky. There wasn’t room for screw-ups in those neat lines, just precision.

I was a screw-up. She was a screw-up.

This was no life for screw-ups.

I wake with
a start, find myself on the side of the road. I pulled over; I don’t remember that. Maybe it’s from the pain, maybe it’s from being shocked back into reality after over thirty years of hearing the same song.

I fish around in the glovebox and pull out a small packet of white powder, jam it up my nose. I got to find someone to stitch me up, make me semi-whole again.

I remember the time I first did flare. It was like coke, sure—or any other upper—but it was better. They’d figured it out, there in the future; only thing is, it degraded during time travel, became unstable.

It was safe in 2049, where it hailed from, the addictive qualities notwithstanding. But its colloquial name here in 2029, it lived up to it, burning you up from the outside. You burned bright, bright, bright, and then collapsed into nothing at all—like a tiny supernova.

I can still hear her screams. All the way out here, in the desert, I hear them, like a bird having both its wings broken, realizing that it will never fly again.

That it will never see again.

Her screams echo across time, and I realize that they haven’t happened yet. It’s not too late—not this time. There are no sayings about fourth chances, no pithy proverbs or clever quotes. But there are ones about last chances, and I know this is mine.

I have to find her, and I have to save her.

And maybe, just maybe, I can save myself. I glance at my watch. Not everything will be different. I know when this ends. I haven’t broken the whole chain, just a link, perhaps a few. It’ll all end in two days—and I’ll either progress, or I’ll be flung back to the beginning.

I floor it, chasing my dreams into the horizon, fleeing from the reality in the rearview. Because they can switch, one can become the other. They must.

I’ve seen this
reality three times. There cannot be a fourth.

I rushed back, the dust streaming behind me, but it was too late. He was waiting. Despite the big metal suits, like some sort of techno-knight, the Erasers were stealthy, had to be stealthy.

He just wanted me to see.

He ended her with a .45 to the chest. Just as I got to the window, the timing perfect. But this Eraser made a mistake, an error, because she’d gotten him too. His dedication to theatre killed him. But I was still on the outside, looking in at the scene, scarlet streaks spattered across the diner.

Bubbles of blood dripped from her mouth, in between little whimpers. There were no screams; there was no energy left for sounds, just enough for fear, for pain.

Kristine tried to talk, but nothing came out but more crimson. And then, the eyes; you can see it leave, the soul. I rushed inside, shoulder slamming the door, chimes ringing. I ripped my shirt from my body with no effort, placed it around the wound. I said nothing, because I wanted to believe that she could be saved.

I knew the truth, and the helplessness boiled over into anger. I shook and I quaked, but the ground didn’t move, and no lightning bolts came from the heavens as retribution. Everything was silent, and her eyes were blank. I hadn’t even been here when she died; I was outside, looking in.

She’d died alone.

Kristine, she’d died alone.

I flung myself at the armored freak, slammed my fists bloody against his iron corpse, but the sequence played the same way every time. The last time I ever see her.

I’m done with dreams and memories. They’re too harsh.