Beyond the flashback, p.15
Beyond the Flashback, page 15
“I have some,” said Maria, curtly, coldly, all business. “The first is: How can we be expected to place bets on animals that we know nothing about?”
I’m pretty sure Caleb and I just looked at her.
“And the second is: I counted three adolescent allosaurs present in the stables—one next to us and two across—not four. All of which begs the question: Where is the other one? And why is he being treated differently from the rest?”
Nobody said anything—for several breaths, at least.
“Ah, yes,” said De Santo after some length, “you mean Bromtide. Well, that’s the wild card, isn’t it? Because, you see, Bromtide isn’t a dinosaur ... he’s a horse.”
I looked at him quizzically and then at The Jockey, who just nodded, like he was fucking Boba Fett or something.
“As to the background of the animals, you’ll find it all right here,” He pushed a leather-bound binder toward us—I had assumed it was a menu. “Race results, pedigree, notes on health and temperament, it’s really quite comprehensive. You’ll even be left alone with it—before the race, that is—after which you’ll dog-ear a profile and kindly leave it on the table, yes?”
Nobody said anything as we stared at the book.
At last I said, “And you’re just going to pretend that cloud, or whatever it is, doesn’t exist ...”
“Ah, that. Yes—bromtide. The low rumble of distant thunder. Like those rumors of an uprising, I suppose. Or my attempted assassination.”
“I should think that would concern you,” I said.
He tucked a napkin into his shirt as dinner was served. “You know what my father used to say? He said, ‘Rudy, there’s but two kinds of people in the world: those that are players, and those that are spectators. Don’t ever let me catch you being a spectator.’”
He cocked his head as the plates were set down, seeming to study me. “You know what else? He said the worst thing about Hell is that you could still see Heaven, up there, just beyond the firmament, forever out of reach. Now—what do you suppose he meant by that?”
I stared at him numbly, utterly bewildered.
“I didn’t know either—and still don’t. It was just shit my dad said.”
And then we ate—quickly, silently—and he left, followed immediately by The Jockey and then Luther, who remained just outside the door, watching us, guarding us.
I’ll confess I jumped when the starting pistol fired—which seemed inordinately loud even from the top of the bleachers—mainly because I’d turned around to look at the cloud, which had doubled in size and now claimed nearly one quarter of the sky—spreading across it like a cancer, pulsing and flashing from deep inside.
“And here they go! They’re on their way down the stretch. The break was good; every animal got a clean shot out of the gate. And as they come down here to the eighth pole, it is Mesozoic Nights and Caligula ...”
I peered at the announcer’s booth, wondering once again what they were using for power, and so much of it—the stadium lights alone would have overwhelmed most generators. But then Maria nudged me and I focused on the action—seeing, to my horror, that Bromtide had already fallen behind; Bromtide, whom we had unanimously voted to support.
“Caligula is trying to force his way to the front and doing a good job of it as they pass the stands. Here on the outside comes Lovely Bones, in a good position. And as they go by me it is Caligula on the lead by one length. Caligula has the lead and then comes Mesozoic Nights in second place right along beside him. Going into the first turn is Caligula by a length. Mesozoic Nights is second and on the outside of him is Lovely Bones. Far back in the crowd, on the inside, in about fourth place, is Bromtide. They’re going into the stretch; they’ve gone about half a mile ...”
“Jesus,” I said, even as something like thunder rumbled and a flash of light illuminated the stadium. “What’s wrong with him, you think?”
“Might be the T. rex piss,” said Luther, leaning in, and chuckled. “Had to spray him down with it—otherwise the allos would be all over him. Guess we forgot to tell you that.”
I glared at him before shifting my gaze to Maria and Caleb and finally to De Santo, at the very end, who looked like a kid on Christmas. “Oh, Caligula!” he cried, and clasped his hands above his head. “Beautiful! Beautiful!”
“They’re turning into the backstretch with Caligula on the lead,” said the announcer. “Caligula has a lead now of one length and a half. Right behind him comes Mesozoic Nights. And in there, slipping through on the inside, is—it’s Bromtide! Bromtide is going up on the inside now and in a good position ...”
I refocused on the race even as Maria leapt to her feet and clapped—watching as the Thoroughbred accelerated through the dust like a thunderbolt and the allos’ upright tails bobbed; as the mechanical rabbit with the steel gallimimus attached raced along its track, glinting and vibrating. That’s when I noticed her, I’m not sure why—the concessions girl with the vending tray strapped to her shoulders, selling hot dogs—way down in the front, but moving our way. And it was the weirdest thing because even though her features were barely discernible I was certain I had seen her before, and in a situation similar to this—having to do with the races, that is—and in a flash it came to me, for she was the very same woman who had visited Hawkins in his cell and had spoken to him in such hushed, conspiratorial tones—about the next race and the uppermost row of the bleachers, about decapitating the snake and a future free of want. And then the sky was flashing and thunder boomed and I turned to look at the storm, and saw, with a mixture of wonder and terror, that it was not one cloud but two; one below the other, and more, that the lower cloud was ascending, not drifting—by which I mean it was being kicked up from the earth, and that, indeed, it wasn’t a cloud at all but dust, great, billowing plumes of it.
“Jesus—Maria, Caleb, look at it,” I said, even as the crowd went wild and the announcer related breathlessly, “And Bromtide is now moving up and challenging as they turn for home. It’s Caligula and Bromtide challenging head-to-head as they swing into the stretch. And they’ve only got a quarter of a mile to go. Bromtide has got the lead halfway down the stretch. But here comes Lovely Bones challenging on the outside, challenging boldly. And the battle is on. And Lovely Bones may take it all. It’s gonna be a photograph finish. It’s anybody’s race right up to the end ...”
Maria gasped, staring at the cloud of dust. “Are—are those what I think they are?”
I squinted and saw shapes beginning to materialize—large ones, little ones, shapes of every size and stripe—close enough now to identify, close enough even to—
“We’re in trouble,” I said—even as the dinosaurs herded directly toward us, like driven cattle, as the diplodocuses and brachiosaurs and tyrannosaurs and triceratops stampeded straight for Checkered Flags. “We’re in—like—serious trouble ...”
And then there were screams and a great upheaval from the crowd, and we turned in time to see that the girl with the vending tray had produced a gun, produced it and was pointing it at Se Santo. Pointing it at him even as the sky boomed and Luther drew his own, shooting her in the arm; as the rumble of the approaching dinosaurs intensified and the announcer exhaled, catching his breath, and said, at last, “I think Lovely Bones got the money. I think Lovely Bones was first. It was an eyebrow finish. And Bromtide was the second. Bromtide was second and Caligula and Mesozoic Nights each tied for third. It was very close. That was an eyelash finish ...”
But by then, of course, the cloud was upon us. And as it turned out, I had been right. For it was the Flashback come again.
“The car!” barked De Santo, taking his eyes off the sky. “Get the goddamn car!” At which Luther hustled away and Caleb moved to intercept—until I blocked him with an arm across his chest and held him that way until both men were gone.
“Jesus, man! I could have stopped them.”
“And we will,” I said—even as the great herd crashed the gates and began stampeding onto the field: trampling the fences, toppling the media tower, crushing and goring bystanders. “But first let’s follow them to that car, yeah?”
And then we moved—hurrying after them into the stairwell, ignoring the fact that, in a reversal of the first Flashback, the prehistoric creeper vines and overgrowth that pervaded the venue had started to disappear, to simply vanish without a trace, and so, for that matter, had the rampaging dinosaurs. Nor had we gone far when we came upon the car—one of those ridiculous Hummer limousines which was just as white as De Santo’s hat and was already pulling clear even as Luther kicked its rear bumper and pointed his pistol, barking, “You bastard, De Santo! There was enough for both of us! There was enough for both!”
And then he opened fire, Crack! Crack! Ca-crack! —blowing out the rear window as well as the tires, causing the back portion of the vehicle to drop, after which the limo briefly continued on just sort of dragging its hind-end—like a dog wiping its ass—before getting stuck in a quagmire of tar and starting to sink; but not before De Santo climbed out and began staggering back toward us, reeling and stumbling.
Only then did what had occurred become clear: for the Flashback, or mini-Flashback, or controlled Flashback, or whatever it was, had stopped; and now two time zones existed where before there had only been one—the New Mesozoic, in which we had lived and breathed just a moment before (but which now contained only De Santo), and the Modern Era Come Again (in which we existed now). And yet that is not to say they occupied the same space; for between them, blue and opaque, ran what could only be described as a forcefield, a field which crackled and hissed as De Santo stumbled into it and blocked him—as much as any physical wall—from returning.
And, considering the world on our side had been restored to how it was before the Flashback—or at least, as we know now, a stretch of land from Devil’s Lake, North Dakota through Checkered Flags, in Kansas—and its people and geography brought back from whatever phantom zone they had disappeared to, he must have wanted that very much. Dear God, how he must have wanted it. I could see it in his eyes as the race-famished allosaurs—who had escaped the storm in front of him only to come slowly creeping back—encircled him and cut him off, trapping him where he stood.
And I could see it as he died—as they ate him alive—still gazing at us (who, from his point of view, would have been rimmed in fire from the stadium lights) and at Checkered Flags; which, having been restored to its former glory, must have shined for him in that moment like Heaven itself.
THE ELEPHANT SLAYER (2020)
It was called Netherville, which wasn’t too bad a name compared to some of the settlements I’d been to: places like Misery, Montana and Malaise, North Dakota; Grimburg, Texas; Forsaken Falls, Idaho. I guess you could say that American towns have always had ominous names—that it was part of our frontier heritage—but then, I wasn’t in America anymore, I was in Canada. Edmonton, Alberta to be precise. The Big E, as they called it.
As for how I’d come to be there—I’d rather not talk about it, and it’s not important, anyway. Suffice it to say I’d caught a broadcast on the radio of my new Cadillac Escalade (Thanks, Butte Auto Sales, I left a silver dollar in the break room) which had urged me to go north to a town called Paradise—a town I’d mistaken for Paradise, Alberta, and so overshot by about 500 miles. Luckily for me, I’d come to Netherville before running out of gas (the Escalade’s tank had been completely full, go figure; that’s why I’d chosen it) and found a friendly settlement in spite of my folly.
At least, it had been friendly so far. In my experience, these things could—and often did—change on a dime. Which is about what I had on me when I walked into the ‘Goodbye to All That’ Saloon and ordered a drink at the makeshift bar; a bar whose counter had been fashioned from the scorched wing of an airplane.
“Keep it,” said the bartender, a largish man with thick stubble and bad teeth, as he pushed back the coins. “First visit’s on us, always.”
He moved toward the back door—which was propped open with a rifle; probably due to heat from the firepit—walking awkwardly, haltingly, as though he had a bad hip. “Beer’s out back—in the snow.”
I glanced around the room as he went: at the other patrons—bearded men, all of them—who had peeled off coats and hats; and at one who hadn’t—a lone figure sitting in the corner ... with a pair of crutches nearby.
“That includes the mastodon; the mammoth. The roast elephant, whatever you want to call it.”
He shuffled back, slowly, arduously, twisting the cap off a bottle of Molson, setting it down. “It’s good—fresh. The meat, eh, not the beer. It was harvested only yesterday.”
He laughed a little and shook his head. “Whatever he does with that ivory, I’ll never know.”
I looked at the bottle of beer, which had foamed over onto the counter—onto the Cessna’s battered wing. “What who does with it?”
“What?”
“What who does with the ivory?”
He lifted the bottle and wiped around the rivets, fussily, fastidiously. “Oh, yuh. You’re the new guy. Why, Gavin Carter, of course. Our mysterious and storied Great White Hunter.”
“Our Nanook of the North!” hollered a nearby patron, lifting his sloshing glass. “The Elephant Slayer of Alberta.”
“Or at least the frozen shithole that used to be Alberta,” said another.
I must have looked confused.
“Local hero,” explained the bartender. “Big-time trophy hunter. Lives in that house up on the ridge; the one with the orange roof—the old Riblet Mansion. Just helped himself to it one day. But he’s a hero because he hunts the mammoth—and I mean consistently, successfully—and keeps the town fed.”
A patron leaned in abruptly, thoughtlessly—as drunk people are wont to do—his breath reeking of Molson. “Speakin’ a which—I’ll take some more of that, eh? The stew.”
“Well, that depends, Liam,” said the bartender. “Where is your bowl?”
The man looked around, dazed and confused, until his glassy eyes settled on the back of the room—and the booth next to the solitary figure.
“Never mind, Liam,” said the bartender warily. “I’ll get it for you. Just relax.” He gave me a little bow. “Excuse me.”
“Of course,” I said.
And then I took my first drink and paused—savoring it. Savoring its bite and its body and its bitterness and its perfection. Worshiping it; and focusing upon it to the exclusion of all else. Because the truth of it was, drinking it was like drinking civilization itself.
The drunk, meanwhile, was just staring at me: as though he knew me, perhaps, or maybe not. As though he loved me, perhaps—but maybe hated me too. As though there was something on his mind that he just had to say—if he could just untangle his thoughts and find the right words. If he could just get his mouth to open and his tongue to—
“Don’t,” I said.
And he didn’t—talk to me, that is—after which the bartender returned and fetched me another beer—saying, as he twisted the cap off and set it down, “Compliments of the young lady in the corner.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw that the figure had unzipped its coat and removed its scarf and hat—revealing a woman with black, unkempt hair and harsh, asymmetrical features (and yet attractive, for all that) who couldn’t have been more than, say, twenty-five. A woman who looked at me with such startling clarity and matter-of-factness that I almost averted my eyes—but didn’t, because I didn’t want to appear weak. Instead, I just smiled—confidently, breezily (at least that was my schtick), raising my beer bottle. As though I wasn’t just Travis Hayes, UPS delivery driver from Denver, Colorado, but Travis-fucking-Hayes, Carefree Stud of the Apocalypse.
That’s when it happened; when the fight broke out, erupting in a flurry of broken glass and expletives (and flying booze), toppling the nearby barstools.
“Hey, goddamnit!” shouted the bartender, as I scrambled clear of the melee—which, surprise! involved the man who had been staring at me— “Hey, hey, hey!”
And then everything was noise and fury as others joined in and I turned to check on the black-haired girl (although why I am not certain; she could clearly take care of herself), but saw only an empty booth. Everything was chaos and confusion as I stared into her corner and noted the missing crutches—but couldn’t for the life of me figure out where they—or she—had gone.
I looked to where a wooden door swung back and forth in the wind, letting in gusts of snow. The side alley, of course—!
And then I was moving—double-timing it, as we used to say in the corps—dodging a pair of brawlers, bursting into the alley; pausing by a heap of garbage as I noticed there were no footprints in the snow and thus no way to—
At which my vision winked out and I could see only stars, like scratches in space-time itself. At which I saw only comets—which darted and swirled, ember-like, as I fell.
“Ah, ah! Here he comes. You see now, Eska? You didn’t hit him so hard after all. Our sleeper has awakened.”
I blinked, clearing my eyes, as the room swam into focus: as the floating spheres of light resolved into candle flames and the hovering pink blur became a face, which smiled—patiently, fatherly. Elusively, like a wolf.
“Welcome to the Roc’s Nest,” said the face—its skin cracked like bleached leather, its teeth straight and white. “Please, have a look around. I’m Gavin Carter. And this—this here is Eska. My adopted daughter.”
I looked at her even as I became aware of my pounding head: at her strange, harsh face and dense, un-manicured brows; her large, stout teeth—which were not straight and white—her eyes like chiseled obsidian.
“Go on, Eska,” said the man—Carter—who appeared to be in his late 50s. “Be a dear and give Mr. Hayes a smile. Show him some of that primal charm you have; and in such great abundance. Come, come, now.”
I watched as the corners of her mouth crept up, slowly, hesitantly. Indeed, she could be charming—even beautiful—when she wasn’t braining you with a board, that is (or whatever she’d used).
