Hitchers (35 page)

I had gone through half a dozen ideas and discarded them all. Pay tribute to Thomas Darby, the strip's creator? Even now I didn't have it in me to do that. Not sincerely.

A note of explanation to my readers, who would be disappointed? My agent and the syndicate certainly were. Some sort of tribute to those readers? I couldn't think of a way to do it without being wincingly schmaltzy.

The Bill Watterson route, where the characters move on, but on a happy, hopeful note? That in no way reflected the truth behind the strip, the emotional tug-of-war between my grandfather and me, both before his death and after.

I had mixed emotions about the strip. The success I'd found with it would likely always be the high point in my professional life. For better or worse, I would always be remembered for Wolfie, would always be connected to
Toy Shop
. At the same time, Grandpa had
been right: I had no right to take it. I had violated a man's dying wish, and I'd gotten caught. I was probably the first person in history who could honestly say that. But even if Grandpa had stayed dead, I had no right.

Chances were that I wouldn't die in Aunt Julia's living room, in which case I would never have the chance to tell Grandpa that
Toy Shop
had crossed over into Deadland, if a bit later than he'd wished. Hopefully Grandpa was finding it easier to let go of this world, and would be long gone by the time I crossed over in any case.

Toy Shop
was crossing over into Deadland. The thought sparked an idea. What better ending for a strip that was so intimately tied to that world?

It was dark, but it felt right. Some hitchers were here to stay, and we were going to have to learn to live with them. We were also going to have to come to terms with Deadland. While the TV newscasters had been racing around asking the dead a series of disconnected stream-of-consciousness questions, Amy Harmon, a
New York Times
journalist, had focused on one issue: the nature of Deadland. Her meticulous account, “Where We Go When We Die,” had hit the newsstands and Internet yesterday, and caused a worldwide furor. Many were decrying it a pile of lies, but the shrillness and panic in the tone of these naysayers was telling. Even they seemed to understand that there was no stifling this new order. The uncertainty of life after death had always terrorized us, now it was replaced by a new terror—the certainty of it, of what it was.

What better way to cope with fear than to laugh at it?

I put up my materials, grabbed my keys, and headed out to the Maserati. It looked absurdly out of place in the parking lot of Summit Pointe, my new home in Decatur, just east of the city.

The Maserati leapt out of the parking space as soon as I touched the pedal. It occurred to me that Mick would look more natural in this sort of car than 1. I would have given it to him, if not for Lorena. There were yellow roses set on the dash. I wasn't sure she could see them—I still wasn't clear how closely things in the real world translated in Deadland—but I hoped she could.

From my new place it was only a ten-minute-drive to Summer's apartment. The Maserati seemed even more absurd in her complex, surrounded by rusting Grand Marquises and trucks propped on blocks.

I rang the bell; inside I heard the pathetic buzzing thunk that reminded me the bell didn't work. I rapped on the door.

Summer was wearing black jeans and a bright tie-dyed t-shirt sporting Elvis's face.

“Hey,” she said, pushing the screen door open to let me in.

Suddenly I was nervous. Until now I'd always had a reason for
calling.

She sat on the couch, propped one foot on the coffee table. “I've got to go to my new job in a half hour, but I'm glad you stopped by. I was going to call you. How are you?”

“I'm good. Mostly I've spent the past two days on the couch. Being lashed to a piling for four hours can be tiring.”

She shook her head, laughed.

“What?”

“I still can't believe you did that. I wish I could have seen the look on Grampie's face in that moment when he first came out.”

“Oh, he was pissed.”

“I imagine he's still pissed.”

I laughed, but it came out as more of a pained grunt. I wasn't sure I could ever go to Aunt Julia's house again, knowing he was right there, probably on Julia's couch, staring at the oil painting of Julia's late, beloved Chihuahua Petey that hung on the opposite wall.

Summer sprung up, headed for the kitchen. “You want anything? I need some water. I'm nervous about this new job.”

“You'll be great. Plus Mick will have told everyone about the role you played in saving him, so they'll all love you from the start.”

“I guess. How's the rescue effort going?”

“Okay.” I waggled my hand. “I thought I'd be spending most of my time trying to help people dump their hitchers, but a lot of the time they've got me coaching other volunteers. I don't know how many we'll be able to save. Time's ticking.”

“I feel guilty that I haven't stepped up to volunteer.”

“Nah. You put in your time with the dead. You've earned a little respite.” It was strange. Summer was acting like she hadn't heard me tell Lorena that I was in love with her. I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting. A passionate embrace in the doorway? Summer and her daughter on my doorstep, suitcases in hand? To me it felt like my confession was a big, honking presence in the room. At the same time, as I sat there, I knew down to my bones that it was true, I was in love with her. I wanted to know if she felt the same, but
didn't know how to ask.

“So, Rebecca's in school?”

“Yeah. It's good to have her back.”

I nodded. “I bet.” I went on nodding, not sure what to say next.

Summer tilted her head, broke into a crooked smile. “You okay?”

I was tempted to just bring it up, but chickened out. “Yeah, I'm fine.” Even to me my voice sounded strained.

“Sooo,” Summer rolled her eyes to one side, made a popping sound with her lips. “There's nothing you want to ask me?”

I looked into her eyes, searching for where she was going with this. She smiled, shrugged.

“Um, can you help me out here?” I asked. “There are a lot of things I want to ask you, but I'm having trouble figuring out how to dive in.”

Summer's smile grew wider. “Well, I just thought you might have come over to ask me out. You know—dinner, or a movie. Maybe mini golf.”

I felt my chest loosen with relief. Yes, that was a fine place to start. “I did indeed come over for just that reason,” I said without missing a beat. I cleared my throat. “Would you go to dinner with me? With maybe a quick stop at the French Impressionist room at the High beforehand?”

Summer gave me a big, emphatic nod. “I'd love to. When?”

“Tonight, if that's not too presumptuous?”

“Not at all. Tonight it is.” She put her finger to her lips. “No, wait, we're going to Mick's tonight, remember?”

“Right.” How could I have forgotten? Only asking Summer out for the first time could have blanked my mind like that. “Can I pick you up? We could go together.”

“Absolutely.”

She looked at her watch. “Ooh, I need to get going.” She held out her hand, soliciting a boost off the couch. “Walk me to my car?”

I took her hand, pulled her forward, holding my ground so we came face to face. I needed to get it out in the open, and this
seemed like a good time. “What I said about you to Lorena? Normally I wouldn't blurt out something like that before we'd even been on a date, you know? I feel a little weird.”

Summer took my other hand. “It's okay, you don't have to feel weird. I thought maybe you just said it to save me.” She shrugged, quickly added, “Which would be fine.”

“No, I pretty much meant it.”

She gave me a mock-questioning look. “Pretty much?”

“No.” I wrapped my arms around her waist. “Delete the ‘pretty much' part. Leave the rest.”

This seemed like a good time to kiss her, so I did.

Will McIntosh is a Hugo Award winner and Nebula Award finalist whose debut novel,
Soft Apocalypse,
was published by Night Shade in 2011. His short fiction has appeared in
Asimov's
(where his story “Bridesicle” won the 2010 Reader's Award, as well as the 2010 Hugo Award for Best Short Story),
Strange Horizons, Science Fiction and Fantasy: Best of the Year,
and others. A New Yorker transplanted to the rural south, Will is a psychology professor at Georgia Southern University, where he studies Internet dating, and how people's TV, music, and movie choices are affected by recession and terrorist threat. In 2008 he became the father of twins.

© 2012 by Will McIntosh

This edition of
Hitchers
© 2012 by Night Shade Books

 

 

Edited by Ross E. Lockhart

 

All rights reserved

 

 

 

 

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-597-80336-6

 

 

 

 

Night Shade Books
http://www.nightshadebooks.com