Iron Mike (29 page)

Mike

Mike felt the mattress sag a bit under Gran’s slight weight as she sat down beside him. She positioned the tray comfortably and he could smell the savory spices of her extra-everything hearty chicken soup. He must have injured himself somehow, although he didn’t feel any pain. The extra-everything soup meant he was getting Gran’s own version of Sheldon Cooper’s “Soft Kitty” therapy.

“You’re propped up enough to eat, boy, but don’t move about too much,” Gran’s firm voice said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mike replied and opened his eyes to assess his wounds. He was in his bedroom at Gran’s house, propped up on about six pillows, and his ribs were bandaged tightly. He wasn’t in any pain, though, not even when he inhaled. That was a pleasant surprise. He’d had a broken rib before, and it had hurt like crazy, with or without breathing.

Gran leaned forward to hand Mike a tablespoon, and he accepted it eagerly, dipping it into the bowl and barely blowing to cool it before swallowing. Gran’s “extra-hearty, extra-healing, extra-loving, extra-everything” soup was for momentous occasions, better or worse, such as the team winning the Final Four, or someone being ill or seriously “down and out.” The savory flavors exploded in Mike’s mouth, just as perfect as he remembered. As Mike remembered the taste of the soup, he remembered the rest of it, too.

“I died?” he asked quietly. There was a slight tremble in his voice, and he felt immediate shame for the show of weakness.

Gran looked surprised. “Why on Earth would you say that, boy?” She paused a moment, considering, then nodded once in understanding before shaking her head firmly. “The avatar you see in front of you is the image of your dead grandmother, son, but you - no, you are most definitely alive.”

“Then how -”

Gran held up her hand, and a lifetime of respect and obedience silenced him. “I’ll answer as many questions as I can, Ryan,” she promised quietly. “But I will need to ask you some questions first. Feel free to eat while we talk. I’m actually kind of proud of myself for making that soup.”

Suspicion filled Mike’s mind but ... damn! The soup was perfect! It was as delicious as any Gran had ever made, but it was more than that. Something about the soup, his bedroom, Gran, the whole situation he impossibly found himself in ... was soothing. Everything seemed to work together to calm him, to reassure him that he was, at least for now, safe.

The Gran avatar’s question, when it came, was as far out of left field as anything he could have possibly imagined.

“Transubstantiation?” he repeated, his blue eyes puzzled. “Yeah, I know what it means. It’s the belief that the bread and wine used in the Eucharist actually become the body and blood of Christ. You - I mean, my Gran - told me about it when she wanted me to think about getting confirmed - that's like baptized, but for adults. I just don’t understand why you’re asking the question.”

“Is transubstantiation something your grandmother believed in, Ryan? Did she truly believe the wafer and wine became actual human flesh and blood?”

Mike shrugged uncomfortably. “Well ... yeah, I guess so,” he said.

The avatar with the face of his grandmother looked very, very somber. “Ryan Michael Sanderlin, this is a matter that is much too important to be determined by a guess,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You need to think about this - really, deeply think about it. What did your grandmother believe?”

Mike considered the question as he slowly finished the bowl of soup. He didn’t know why it was so important, and a vague part of him wondered why he should care. His grandmother’s beliefs wouldn’t bring her back from the dead. He himself was obviously in the middle of an unconscious (or dying) hallucination. The answer shouldn’t matter, but for some reason, his grandmother’s face told him that it did. It very much did.

“I can’t say either way,” he finally said quietly. “I know Gran believed most of what the Church said. She believed in Jesus and she believed in miracles. She believed in Heaven and Hell, and in God and the devil. But I also know there were a bunch of things the Church said she didn’t believe at all.”

“Elaborate, please?” the Gran avatar asked quietly. Her words were another sharp reminder Mike was delusional. Gran would never have spoken like that.

“Holy Communion ... made Gran feel happy,” Mike said, frowning thoughtfully as he remembered countless masses he had attended with his grandmother. “After she took the wafer she would always have this soft, peaceful smile on her face, like she just
knew
some wonderful secret. And then she would sit in the pew very quietly and pray until everyone else was finished, and the mass moved on. She was never showy about it, like a lot of the parishioners were - she never acted smug or ‘more saved’ than anyone else. She just seemed ... quiet and happy. She said she always felt peaceful when she took Communion.”

The Gran avatar nodded thoughtfully. “And the other teachings of the Church? There were some teachings she did not believe?”

Mike nodded. “She didn’t believe some of them at all and some of them actually made her angry at the Church. Like no birth control. She told us one time that she saw too many babies go hungry during the Great Depression to think birth control was always a bad thing. She always said it was better for the baby to never be born at all, rather than to be born and then murdered inside its mother’s own body. She was really against abortion but she understood sometimes a woman feels like she has no choice. Gran blamed the Church’s old-fashioned rules about birth control for a lot of the abortions Catholic teenagers were having.

“And also ... well ... my Uncle Phil was gay, but everyone just pretended not to know it. Gran loved Ortiz, Uncle Phil’s buddy, as much as she loved Phil, or my mom, or my Aunt Karen. So ... there were a lot of things the Church is pretty adamant on that she didn’t believe.”

The avatar sighed heavily. “I don’t know how to analyze this data,” she said, as much to herself as to Mike. “Your grandmother sounds like too much of an open thinker to believe in some of her religion’s more anachronistic teachings. However, the sense of peace you describe her experiencing after partaking of the Eucharist lends itself to the belief it holds great tangible, as well as spiritual, power. Within the tenets of the religion’s teachings, one would extrapolate she believed in the act of cannibalism.”

Mike’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing blue fury. “The Catholic church is not about cannibalism!” he snapped, his voice hot and uncompromising. “And my grandmother would have
never
believed in that! She would have died before eating human flesh!”

The absolute conviction in Mike’s eyes and, even more, in the dark red and black lightning streaks of anger in his aura, startled the avatar. There was no doubt - none - the boy believed what he was saying. But ... would that be enough?

Kari

Kari smiled as the sun baked into her skin, warming her body with its delicious, penetrating rays. The smells of suntan lotion and chlorine and the familiar sensation of the towel under her body soothed away all of her worries.

“Well, you look as happy as a lizard on a rock, little girl,” Daddy said, his voice warm and pleased.

“Mmhmmm,” Kari agreed, the moan as close to one of ecstasy as she ever expected her father to hear from her lips. She adjusted her bikini, making sure she hadn’t untied the top string, before opening her eyes and looking up into her father’s smiling face. Someone had adjusted the umbrella perfectly - it gave her and Daddy enough shade to be able to talk comfortably, yet still gave the warm sunshine access to most of her body. Her dad held out a frosted glass of lemonade and Kari’s eyes lit up with pleasure as she accepted it.

“Thank you!” she smiled, taking a greedy sip of the icy sweet tartness. She shivered in delight - it was perfect! It was just tart enough, exactly like Mom used to make it. Between them, she and Daddy got it right about twenty percent of the time.

“I’m so sorry I missed your retirement cere -” Kari started, and froze, her mind spinning into an almost panicked overdrive.

“It’s all right, baby girl,” the fucking imposter who
dared
to look like her father said calmly. “It didn’t go off as planned anyway.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Kari hissed. The hand holding the frosted glass of lemonade trembled slightly as her grip tightened around it. She wanted to smash the glass on the table in front of her and hold the jagged shards to the motherfucker’s throat!

“Calmly.” His quiet voice had the same tone her father used to soothe her nightmares away when she was a child. Kari tried to make her hand move sharply, to force it downward, but instead she found herself taking another sip of the lemonade. It was so sweet and tart, just dancing on her tongue --

“NO!” she gasped, struggling for control with everything inside her. The lemonade glass shook in her hand, cold liquid sloshing over her fingers. “Who are you?” she growled again, the words harsh and demanding.

“I am Scientist-Farmer,” the man with her father’s eyes replied, and, just like that, it - whatever “it” was - was over. Her fear and anger vanished as completely as if they were never there in the first place. Kari tentatively probed at her own mind, feeling for a hint of brain bruise or some leftover adrenaline. So much fear and rage, and now ... simple calm. Way too weird.

“What do you want, Scientist?” she asked, no longer ready to kill the man outright but not ready to make kissy-face either.

“I am Scientist-Farmer,” the man repeated, as if explaining something to a young child, with a slight emphasis on the last word. “Scientist is not even deployed in this galaxy ... and he knows nothing of the land or animals.”

Kari simply stared at the man who looked so much like Daddy and, after a moment, he sighed.

“I am trying to stop my people from committing ... from completing ... a heinous act of genocide against your people,” he said, and Kari’s muscles relaxed even more as the truth of his words sunk in. “I need to ask you some questions about your mother’s religious beliefs.”

Kari arched a quizzical eyebrow, and then a comfortable blackness settled over her.

March 18.

Mike

Hershey barked once, sharply, as the small black orb floated close enough for his humans to see. He heard Kari gasp and smelled the adrenaline suddenly pouring from Mike. Good. His job was done. They knew.

The orb came up to Mike and did nothing, simply floated there about a foot away. Hershey yawned, settling his head between his paws. Yippyface was already snoring softly next to Hershey’s side, her tiny paws kicking a bit as she dreamed.

“Mike –?” Kari asked, a warning clear in her tone. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Mike wasn't backing away from the orb, but was instead slowly reaching toward it. He didn’t reply, just stretched out his hand. And then Hershey heard a sharp
pop!
and a hiss of pain as Mike jerked his hand back, shaking it sharply. “Son-of-a-bitch!” he yelped, sticking two fingers into his mouth and glaring as the black orb accelerated away, almost immediately becoming lost in the trees.

“Well, that was pretty much genius,” Kari chuckled, one eyebrow raised mockingly.

Mike shot her a glare and straddled his motorcycle, nodding for her to do the same. Hershey jumped up into the sidecar without being told, a big floppy doggy grin on his face. “We should hit White Sulphur Springs around 1800,” Mike commented. “We can stop early for the night or if you’re still up to riding we can try to make it a bit closer to Beckley, and find somewhere secure outside the city.”

Kari shook out her hair before slipping her helmet on and visor down. “Let’s roll!” she agreed.

They rode for several hours, stopping only to fuel up, piddle, and check the radio periodically. The interstate heading west was even more damaged and ruined than the eastbound lanes. More people had fled the coast, apparently reasoning it safer to be away from all the military bases and shipyards. Not that it mattered, in any case. In late February, resistance census workers tried to estimate the U.S. population after the attrition of a hard winter, but even they admitted their figure of .7 million survivors was a simple shot in the dark.

Mike swerved slightly and eased off the gas as an animal ran out in front of his headlights; he raised a fist to slow Kari as well. “Starting to get dark,” he told her as she drew up near him, their machines idling. “Best case, we still have about half an hour to get to Beckley, but there was a sign saying there’s a rest stop two miles up the road. If we’re lucky, the custodian has a nice couch in his office. If not, at least we’ll have solid walls around us.”

Kari nodded agreement, and they headed to their exit. The grass around the rest area was high and unkempt. Mike checked the perimeter while Kari let Butterball and Hershey stretch their legs and drink the last of the water from their first container. She looped the handle around the bungee cord holding her bedroll, knowing the empty gas container and empty water container banging against each other would irritate her. They’d have to come up with a better solution before they set off in the morning.

“I wish I had my bow,” Mike commented as he came around to the motorcycles. He nodded over to the tree line as he straddled his bike and began walking it toward the shattered glass door of the rest area facility. “The rabbit population has exploded since the war started. I saw some pretty little bunny wabbits out there that would taste a damn sight better than MREs, but I don’t want to risk bringing hostiles around with a shot. I’ll set a couple traps I can check in the morning before we head out.”

“Hell, I’d eat Thumper himself about now,” Kari agreed, following Mike inside the building, “and all his little rabbit babies, too.”

“Hedonist,” Mike accused with a grin.

“Let’s look for that custodian’s couch!” she leered in response. “I’ve got a taste for meat!”

They found the custodian’s office and, amazingly, Mike actually had to break the lock to get in. The small room hadn’t been ransacked and was surprisingly well-appointed. They immediately noticed the water cooler beside the filing cabinet. Mike poured a small measure of water into one of the triangle-shaped cups from the cup holder next to the cooler and sipped tentatively. He nodded. “It’s hot, but good,” he said, and Kari began filling their canteens. No sense wasting resources, even if they did still have ten gallons in the sidecar.

While Kari saw to the canteens, Mike checked out the rest of the office. The filing cabinet held no surprises ... personnel files and office supplies. The wardrobe held a state worker’s uniform and jacket and a small, personal-sized lunch cooler Mike knew better than to open. The desk held ... Pharaoh’s treasure.

“Bingo,” Mike said reverently, drawing Kari's attention.

“What?” she asked, screwing the lid on the last canteen closed.

“Look on my works, ye mortals, and despair!” Mike misquoted, and with a flourish, he held out the 3.75 liter bottle of Maker’s Mark, Kentucky’s finest brand of whiskey.

“Ohhhh, my god,” Kari said, her eyes wide and her voice hushed with dramatic awe. “For a minute there, I thought you’d found something amazing ... like a Hershey bar!”

Mike mock-glared at her, and they both grinned as the brown hound dog pricked his ears up upon hearing his name. “We will definitely pack this baby up with us,” Mike promised, patting the bottle lovingly.

The couch wasn’t roomy enough for two so Mike used both sleeping rolls and took the floor, while Kari stretched out on the comparatively luxuriant upholstery. Butterball firmly wriggled her way up onto the couch even before Kari settled down, and Mike looked at Hershey with long-suffering pathos. “Just you and me, boy,” he said, patting the bedroll beside him.

Hershey started toward Mike, but Kari made a slight kissing sound. Hershey glanced at Kari, saw the invitation in her smile and immediately jumped up on the couch, settling down at her feet with a happy sigh, his head resting on her thigh.

“Fuuuuuck,” Mike grumbled, and fell asleep to the sound of Kari’s quiet giggles, regretting only that they were both too exhausted to make other use of the custodian’s couch.