The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel (6 page)

BOOK: The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel
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“No? I thought this was about vengeance.”

“Of a different sort, sure. Let’s call it…prevention.”

“Candice,” I say, and the words hang for a moment before I catch them. “I went over there. Sorry.”

“Now, old Candy wasn’t too good of a mother, but she kept me from being swept up, sent me into the future when I was real little. So I owe her.”

“Owe her?”

“I need to
Erase
the man that killed her.” She meets my gaze, and she knows I understand. Hell of a goal.

“What do you need me for?”

“The book, it’s got instructions on how to do it all.”

“And who are we erasing?”

“Henderson.” She spits his name out like she’s uttering an epithet.

“I guess I could provide some insight on that.” I lock eyes with her.

“As stunning as your insights may be, the book shall suffice Mr. Mitchell.”

“I don’t know if I like where this is headed, all official sounding…” Two bags on the floor behind the counter catch my eye. I examine one—red bull horns and a star in the center, like you might see on a Sheriff’s badge in an old Hollywood talkie.

I reach down, not stealthy or anything, just interrupt the proceedings to tap out a little on the counter. I lick my finger and press it against the powder to taste it. Not cocaine, but something that sure seems like it.

Flare.

“You know I’m a federal agent, right?”

“Like it matters. Tell your boss where this came from, see if he doesn’t throw you into the damn nut bin.”

“You’re getting better at this.” She rolls her eyes. I slip a bag in my boot when she’s not looking, throw her the other. Good to have for the road; could be useful to bargain with. People can’t get enough of this brain-rotting crap. “You pulling something back there?”

“No.” Yes, yes I am.

“So,” she says, and the words linger in the air before she continues, “about my offer?”

“Seems like I’m getting kind of screwed here.”

“You’re getting screwed if you say no.”

“Well shit, then, I guess that’s a yes.”

“Ok,” she says, beckoning with a slender finger, “how about a dance?” I wrinkle my nose and touch it; I’m not dreaming. I follow her slinky form into one of the private rooms, pushing aside the faux-velvet drapes that haven’t been soft to the touch in years. I sprawl out on the leather sofa, eyes level with a miniature version of the main floor’s strobe light.

“I’m curious,” I say, as she begins to turn and twist, “why you chose this cover.”

“Good for gossip,” and her voice, it’s changed now; in this room, she’s someone else, her tone saccharine, a little smoky, but smooth, like a jazz singer, “you’re here all the time. You can figure it out.” She edges closer, a smoldering fire ready to spread. The music somehow fades into the background, leaving us alone. She leans down, whispers in my ear. “I learned that trick from my momma.”

Sex and titties grease information’s wheels. Unoriginal, but I like the simplicity of it all. Horny bastards say things they shouldn’t.

“But there’d be other ways,” I say, watching her hips gyrate back and forth, “wouldn’t your boss give you some other option?”

“Can’t a girl like to dance?” And she’s in front of the table now, gaining on me fast, but it’s just a small room, where you’re almost on top of each other from the beginning. She puts a leg up on the table, pushes herself up, and now she’s towering above me, her form shimmering and shimmying like ice cream melting down a cone.

“Not a girl like you,” I say. The glass shakes a little, so I snatch it away from her little show.

“I’m not from here, though.” This should be interesting—just what I need. A law-woman turned stripper’s sob story. I’m sure it’s a hell of a sordid tale—the parts I know sure are—but I’m almost as sure that I don’t want to hear it all.

“Where are you from, then,” I say, pressing the vodka to my lips but not drinking, afraid to avert my eyes for a minute, lest the mirage disappears like an oasis from a parched traveler, “who are you?” Maybe I am curious. Kristine, she has an intoxicating effect.

“I might ask you the same thing, Damien Mitchell,” she replies and then she turns around and drops out of her not-there shorts and top, reaching towards my pants.

“Hey, stop that.” Not that I want her to stop, but then, quick as lightning, she has the handgun from the back of my jeans. “Hell, this all over again?”

“Just seeing if you changed your mind.” I sit up straight, forgetting about the drink, soak my shirt in whiskey. Despite what people might suggest, a naked woman with a firearm pointed at your chest is not sexy.

“Christ, a real boner killer, I’ll tell you that, just when I was beginning to enjoy this and settle down —”

“Can I trust you?” This is a funny thing to ask someone. If they say no, that they’re a liar, you can’t trust them—after all, they’re a liar.

“This morning, once the sun’s out, I’ll show you everything I got.”

“You’re a strange one, Damien Mitchell.” Kristine glides off the table and grabs her discarded clothing before walking from the room.

Then, quick as anything, she darts over and jabs me with a needle, right in my bullet wound. I yelp a little, like when you step on an animal’s tail. Then I lean back and slump in my seat, eyes closed. Kristine doesn’t have my number. Maybe she won’t call. My phone buzzes a couple minutes later.
The morning.

Of course she has my number. She’s the videographer. There’s way too much going on for me to keep track of it all. She must have found it at Candice’s—the information about the heist, put it all together, looked it up. Maybe Mitch and his big mouth told her whore mother about the heist. Bastard, despite his size, couldn’t hold his liquor better than a bottomless bucket.

So Kristine ransacked the place. Chick was certifiable. Family was what this was all about—her mom dying. Wherever Candy had shipped little Kristine off to, all those years ago, well, it’d done wonders. Now the little kid would help the old workhorse get some justice.

Feds. What assholes. I don’t want to think about Kristine and her ultimatums right now. It’ll be wondrous if I even survive the next couple days. Best case scenario, I’ll end up in jail—or just get shipped back to the Ice Age. I heard they did that to a guy, once.

That has to suck. I wonder if it’s worse than being stuck in Riverton for as long as I have. Doubtful.

“Hey buddy, this
look like a retirement community? Paying customers only,” a bouncer says, looming a little closer than I’d like in a room this small. His thick arms are crossed, biceps threatening to burst out of his too tight shirt.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes and check the time. Damnit; that shot must have gotten me good.

“Look, I’ve had a hell of a night, so just give me a minute here.”

“This is a business, not a goddamn daycare center.”

“Yeah, I get that,” I say as I edge past him out into the now buzzing main room.

“You getting smart?” He pushes me from behind.

“No sir.”

“That’s not what I was hearing. You were giving me some—”

I smack him clear across the mouth with the gun. And then I do it again, and again, until his face is almost unrecognizable and his teeth are mingling with the bar peanuts on the rug.

It’s a rude interruption to the festivities; I glance around at the subpar morning talent onstage, feel everyone’s gaze lock on to me. I keep walking, and the scene unpauses, right back to the same sad story that will play out here every day until eternity.

The bright light hurts my head. Out on the road, I’m accompanied by nothing but the yammer of talk radio and the hum of the truck’s engine as I roll back to the Lucky Lady.

My shoulder doesn’t hurt once. I check it, and the bullet hole is gone. Hell of a future to look forward to.

12

Visitors

The Lucky Lady’s
door is splintered on the floor, and everything inside has been overturned. Upstairs, I find my room in a similar state of disarray. And the bed’s wet. Piss. Great.

Someone’s been here, and I think it was the Syndicate’s Erasers. Don’t ask me how they empty the old tank in their goddamn jousting gear, but those sick bastards are the prime suspects for something like this.

The safe.

I hurtle down the stairs, over the broken bottles strewn on the ground, skidding to a halt behind the counter. The safe’s banged up—a crowbar, maybe, or some other blunt metal object—but still looks secure. I dial it open and hold my breath. Everything glitters inside.

I pull one of the bricks out and hold it to my chest like a small child. It’s amazing how attached you get to stuff you didn’t want to steal in the first place. But now, after the price has been paid, it seems like this makes up for it, if only a bit. And besides, the book’s going to save my ass: I need to deliver it to Kristine.

Calling her might not be a bad idea, but hell, she might be the one who broke in—as weak a chance as that is. And the cops, well, I can’t give them a ring. Henderson is a bastard, and I’m sitting on six figures in stolen goods, plus some of his very valuable merchandise.

There’s a nice strongbox in the cab of my pickup, so I transfer the loot from the safe and head back upstairs. All I can do is sit against the cold metal frame at the foot of the bed, smoke a cigarette and hope I’m tired enough that sleep will take me, imperfect as I am.

The exoskeleton of ash grows as I wait, everything still and silent. A smirk creases my face as I reflect on how quick it all can change. Six, seven years ago—in regular time, not my screwed up looping reality—there’s a solution, an easy fix to all my problems. No one said anything about it making new ones.

And so you take a shortcut down a dark alley and never reach the other side. Invisible in the darkness, no one comes to help you while everyone’s coming to get you.

I hear the rumble of a large rig pull up. Half past ten; must be Thursday, which means a liquor delivery. I glance at my watch; it’ll all be over at Friday, right before midnight.

The delivery guy’s always nice, but I don’t think I can take that right now. I close my eyes, but the knocking doesn’t end. He knows it can take a moment for me to shake off a hangover. A bar owner who enjoys his drink is like a sex addict working at a porno store. Positive outcomes are rarer than unicorns.

I drag myself down the stairs to open up.

“Damien,” Danny says, “it looks like a tornado hit The Lady.”

“Yeah, a little bit of a rough night, I guess.”

“Man, I sure missed whatever was going on here. Must be dying for a restock.” He pops the truck’s back. “Got some new microbrews in this week, all the way from Dallas. Cost me a goddamn fortune to get them here without skunking them, but I think these are the ones.” He places the case in front of me with a grunt, then goes back for more. “On the house. And your regular order, of course.”

I sign the invoice, running up a tab I won’t pay.

“Danny,” I say, as I hand him back the slip, “I think this is the last one.”

“This place is just getting started, man. Hang in there, buddy. She’s a real gem.”

“Afraid not.”

“Well, you’ll have to do a little send-off for her.” He climbs into the cab. “Can’t let good booze go to waste.” Whatever else he says is drowned out by the roar of the engine and groan of the wheels. And then he drives away, back to a town not far from here, just far enough to be a thousand miles away.

I pick up the two wooden cases, straining under the weight, and put them on the bar. I crack open one of these fancy beers and flip over an overturned stool. Sipping it, I think I know why it was free.

There’s little to do except wait for Kristine. She’s already late, but that woman doesn’t adhere to any plans, far as I can fathom. So I pick up the pieces and wipe everything down, call the generator guy and, by early afternoon, The Lady is back in the semblance of order, except for the side dining room.

I head into the private area, brush back the velvet curtain separating it from the main drinking lounge, and that’s when I see it.

A body—Davey’s, to be precise. He was tortured, that much is clear, and it looks like just about every pint of his blood is now a permanent part of my hardwood. One of those big metal Erasers ran him through with a saber, pinned him to the ground with it like a note.

I’m being set up. Panic sets in, and I begin to race around, unsure what to do next. I check the time. It’s three in the afternoon. Whoever did this is taking it slow.

I still haven’t heard nothing from the crazy bitch, but it’s time to jet. She didn’t do this; my initial suspicions were confirmed, that it was the Syndicate. Must’ve been Henderson’s orders. And her threats, they pale in comparison to whatever they have planned for me.

Too late. I hear a window break. Someone’s back for more.
I pull the gun from my waistband and edge towards the door. Nothing. There’s a little ping and a rattle, which is when I see a metal canister in the middle of the room start spewing out a hazy mixture. I’m engulfed in gas and nano-mites before I have a chance to retrace my steps. I’m curled up on the floor, vomiting from the burn, little machine ants stinging and shocking me.

Technology.

“Get down, get down,” voices yell, and I want to scream,
I am down you assholes,
but my throat is too swollen to respond. Metal-toed boots stomp by my head. I can feel cold cuffs slide over my wrists and click shut.

“You have the right to an attorney you piece of shit,” someone says, words echoing from behind his mask, “I’ve been waiting for this.” He drags me up by the shirt. “We got a warrant to search your safe, asshole.”

A gloved hand shoves a wad of paper towards me. Could be a delivery menu or the deed to the goddamn moon; I still can’t see. “You’d best start talking and give me the combo.”

I can’t answer him, so I moan in response.

“Christ, Richards,” another voice says, “the poor bastard doesn’t have a mask. Take him outside.”

“It’s what the prick deserves,” Richards says, but he takes me outdoors all the same. Light makes my eyes hurt even worse and tears stream from beneath the closed lids. A moment or two passes; seems like an eternity. “The combination, now. If you’re feeling up to it.” That last bit is more of a threat.

“49 - 3 - 25 - 6,” I say, and then he drops me on the ground and heads back inside. He returns, grabbing my arm as he begins talking with another officer.

“We got the son of a bitch, Rod, but he hid it.”

“This ain’t him, dumbass.” I recognize this voice. Sheriff Henderson. He seems nonplussed about the body in my bar.

“It’s Mitchell.”

“I swear, Richards, sometimes I think you’re half retard.”

“But you said Mitchell would be in the bar.”

“You got a Mitchell all right—the one who spends the whole day with his prick in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.” I’m not sure if I like his tone, but that isn’t too far off the truth.

A tense pause hovers in the air, thick enough to slice through, like cream from milk. I dry heave. Richards groans.

“You’re not Isaac Mitchell?”

“No,” I manage to rasp out, “Damien.”

“What’s that?”

“…Damien.” The inside of my mouth feels like it’s been through a belt sander.

“He says his name’s Damien,” he calls to the rest of the gang—how many, I can’t tell, but it sure seems like they brought in the whole goddamn cavalry.

“Good job, Richards. Fucking ace detective work. My God, I went to school with this bastard you got drooling on himself. He’s afraid of his own damn shadow, too scared to even drive by the bank. He wouldn’t have waxed Candice. Wouldn’t have even screwed her.”

Henderson’s pinning the murder on Isaac. Not a bad plan; the proverbial two birds come to mind. Isaac’s dicking with the Syndicate; they don’t seem to know that I am, yet.

“So,” and Richards relaxes his grip on my arm, “what are we going to do with him?”

“We’ll sure look like a bunch of peckerwoods if we let him go now, don’t you think? Bring him along.”

“But there’s no evidence—”

“There’s plenty of evidence, Richards. There’s a goddamn dead officer in there, for one, and even if the son of a bitch who called said it was Isaac, this little shit was found standing knee deep in blood.”

“But sir, the forensics at Candice’s—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Henderson says, waving his hand like he gives zero shits, “but maybe our friend knows something about the bank. Take him away.”

“You just said he’s scared of his own shadow.”

Wrong move. Henderson’s eyes burn, even behind the stereotypical reflective aviators.

“Hell, Richards, maybe he knows something about this fireworks show or maybe he don’t know his damn johnson from a stick of dynamite. Just do it, would you?”

“You heard the man,” Richards says, his deep voice no longer dripping contempt, “we’re taking you in for questioning.” He puts me in the back of a car, pushes my head down so it doesn’t bang against the frame. Black leather’s a little warm in the sun. Either Riverton PD had some sadistic assholes buying their cars, or whoever ordered these cruisers didn’t think that detail through.

We drive off, my wrists chafing in the tight cuffs.

BOOK: The Rapture: A Sci-Fi Novel
4.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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