Variance - Book 2: The Others - Issue #1

“The planets are bells on his motley

He fleers at the stars in their state,

He banters the suns burning hotly—

The Jester whose nickname is Fate.

The lanterns that kindle their rays with

The comets, are food for his mirth;

But, oh, how he laughs as he plays with

His mad little bauble, the Earth!”

                           --Arthur Guiterman

                             “Fate, The Jester”

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you

When I sit alone or wake at night, alone

I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again

I am to see to it that I do not lose you

                           --Walt Whitman

                             “To A Stranger”

Rhinelander, Wisconsin

Day 32 of The Rise

   “Hannah.”

   A mutter.

   “Hannah…Sweetheart, you have to get up.”

   Hannah Phillips woke feeling as if the voice had been trying to rouse her for hours.  Her sleep that night had been restless and dream-filled.  One dream, in particular, she and her brother, Harry, climbed into a storm drain where there were small creatures with webbed feet climbing on the pipe’s ceilings.  All she and Harry had was a small flashlight and when he turned it on, she saw one of the creatures hanging upside down, its razor sharp teeth gleaming at her in the light.  Its eyes were fantastically red, and they were so close together it looked almost cycloptic.  The creature leapt at her and, right before she woke up, it unlocked its jaw and sunk its teeth into her neck.  But it was, as they say, just a dream.

   “Hannah, come on, honey, please get up.”

   Her eyes opened and she saw her father, Bill, holding a candle very near her face.  The light was so bright she, in her haze, thought it was the morning sun slipping its way through the Venetian blinds.  But when her eyes adjusted she realized it was still dark.  She sat up and faced her father.

    Bill Phillips was a brawny man.  His wide shoulders were like the cab of a pickup truck and his square jaw seemed chiseled from granite.  His biceps were the width of Hannah’s neck and, in this candlelight, his brown eyes looked an almost charcoal black.

   “What is it, Daddy?” she asked rubbing the sleep from her eyes.  “What happened?”

   “Things have gotten worse.”

   “Worse?”

   “Much worse.”

   “What’s going on?”

   “Honey, listen, they’ve gotten past the town line and broken through the barriers, and…”  He paused, considering the information readying on his lips.  

   “Yes, Daddy?”

   “They’re here,” was all he said.

   Any remnant of sleep in her head was suddenly gone.

   “We have to get out of here.”

   “Where’s Harry?”

   “Loading the truck,” he told her.  “Come on, get dressed.”

   Bill moved the candle from her face and stood up.  The flame flickered under his chin, and, for the first time in her life, she saw fear in her father’s eyes.  He turned his back to her and began pacing about the room.  “The Variants…they…” his voice trailed away and then he said steadily, “Jim Terry and his wife are dead.  Mayor Rigby, too.”  Hannah could almost reach out and touch his exasperation.  “The whole goddamn town is falling apart.”

   “How do you know?”

   “Stevie Kohler told us.  He’s outside helping your brother.”

   “Where are the rest of the Kohler’s?”  Hannah asked. 

   He didn’t answer, nor did he have to.  He ran his stubby fingers through his thinning hair and let out a long sigh.  “Please, just hurry on up, all right?”

   “Where are we going?”

   “No more questions, just get a move on.”  Bill Phillips left, taking the candle with him.

Barry & A Thief (a.k.a. Greg) & Ratman (a.k.a. Dave) - A Conversation

   Barry works at a gas station.  A thief wearing a ski mask enters the gas station and confronts him.

   “Give me all the cash!”

   “What?”

   “Give me all the cash, man!  The cash!”

   “How much do you want?”

   “I said give me all of it!”  He points the gun at the register.

   “Do you want all that’s in the register or do you want all that’s in the safe?”  Barry pauses.  “Or do you just want both?”

   “Jesus, man, what’s with all the questions?  Just give me the cash!”

   “I can’t give you the cash, man, until you tell me if you want the ‘register cash’ or the ‘safe cash.’”

   “Gimme both, you derelict!”

   Barry begins to gather the cash.  Suddenly, glass from the skylight rains down on Barry and the thief.  They fall to the floor, dazed.  A man wearing a rat costume descends through the skylight.  He cuffs the thief to a rack of Little Debbie snack cakes.

   “Have no fear!” shouts the man in the rat costume.

   Barry gets up and asks, “Who are you?”

   “It is I!  Superhero: Ratman!”

   “Batman?”

   “No,” Ratman says, annoyed.  “Ratman.”

   “I feel like you keep saying Batman.”

   “No, you’re just hearing me incorrectly.  I’m Ratman.  Not Batman.”

   “…All right.”

   “Why does everybody always say Batman after I introduce myself?  I don’t even look remotely close to a bat!”  Ratman points at the rat tail on his costume.  “Does this look like a bat tail to you, man?”

   Barry points at the tail.  “Why do you have a tail?”

   “What?”

   “Why do you have a tail, man?”

   “Because I’m a rat.  God, what is it with you people?”

   “I thought you said you were a superhero.”

   “What?”

   “When you crashed through the roof you said you were Superhero Ratman.”

   “Well, yes, I am a superhero.  But I’m also a rat.”

   Barry blinks at Ratman, mouth open.

   “You see, while I’m Ratman the superhero, I must also have a secret identity.  The rat costume is my secret identity.”

   “Yeah, I realize that.  But why did you choose to be a rat?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “I mean, rats are lame.”

   “Rats aren’t lame.”

   “I don’t know,” Barry says.  “Rats are pretty lame.”

   “No, they’re not.  Rats are great hunters.  They have great instincts.  What exactly is lame about a rat?”

   “They just seem to put people off, man.  Nobody likes rats.  Rats are like beets.  Nobody likes beets.”

   “Everybody likes beets, you imbecile!”

   “All right, man.”

   “Everybody likes beets and everybody likes rats, okay?”

   “I said I got it, man.  No worries.”  Barry scratches his nose, assesses the damage to the skylight.  “You sure did a number on this place, man.”

   Ratman looks up.  “Yeah, sorry about that.”

   “I mean, you couldn’t have just come in through the front door?”

   “What’s that?”

   “It just seems like you could have easily run in through the front door while he had his gun on me and just grabbed him.  If anything, you exploding through the skylight seemed like a giant distraction.”

   “Exactly!”

   “No, not a distraction in a good way.”

   “There are no bad distractions in the superhero world!” Ratman declares, pounding his chest with a closed fist.

   “What do you mean?  I just named a bad distraction.”  

   “And I told you—“

   “—You jumping through a skylight to capture a thief stealing eighteen dollars is the bad distraction I just named.”

   “I don’t undertand.”

   “You caused like fifteen hundred dollars worth of damages, man.  Not to mention insurance premiums going up.  So what if this poor schlub gets away with eighteen dollars?  Ain’t no skin off anybody’s nose, you know what I mean.  I probably wouldn’t’ve even reported it.”

   “But…” Ratman says timidly, “then your till would have been all mucked up at the end of the night.”

   Barry shrugs.  “It’s eighteen dollars, man.  Who cares?”

   Ratman glares through his mask.  “Hey, what’s your deal, man?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “I mean, why are you coming at me like this?”

   “Like what?” Barry asks, still breathing out of his mouth.

   “I just saved your life and you’re treating me like a buffoon.”

   “Hey, man, I thought superheroes would be a bit more receptive to constructive criticism.”

   “Constructive!  You’re not being constructive, you’re just being an ass!”

   “Whoa, take it easy will ya?”

   “I am easy!”

   “You’re easy?”

   “No, that’s not what I meant!  You know that’s not what I meant!”

   “Hey, man, there’s no shame in being easy.  Some of my best friends are easy.”

   “I JUST TOLD YOU THAT WASN’T WHAT I MEANT!”

   “You’re about a nine on the tension scale, Ratman.”

   Ratman picks up the unconscious thief, tipping Little Debbie’s everywhere.  He says quietly, “There’s not a lot left.”

   “There’s not a lot left of what?”

   “There aren’t a whole lot of options left.  For superhero names, I mean.”

   “Oh.”

   “You know, like there’s Batman, and Antman, and Aquaman, and Wovlerine, and The Flash.  There’s Superman, Marvelman, The Arrow, Spiderman.  When you get down to brass tacks, there aren’t a whole lot of names left to pick from.”

   “I understand.”
   “I was behind my time, you know?”

   “Sure.”

   “If I was a superhero in the 50s, I would’ve been golden.”

   “I know, man, I know.”  

   “Fucking Marvel.”

   “And D.C.”

   “Yes!  Thank you!  And D.C.!”

   Barry points at the rat tail again.  “I still gotta be honest, though, that thing is just ridiculous.  Plus, it’s gotta mess with your aerodynamics…especially with you jumping through skylights and all.”

   “I don’t only jump through skylights.”

   “Well then in this particular instance, the rat tail most likely altered your aerodynamics.”

   “All right!” Ratman snaps.  “Maybe I didn’t think through the costume all that well.”

   Barry scratches the back of his head and looks closely at Ratman.  “You sound familiar.”

   “What?”

   “You got a voice that sounds really familiar.  It’s like I’m having deja vu or something.”

   Ratman glances nervously about the room.

   “Have we met somewhere before?”

   “No.”

   “Are you sure?”

   “Yes.”

   “Yes you’re sure?  Or yes we’ve met somewhere before.”  Barry pauses, eyes grow wide.  “Or yes you’re sure we’ve met somewhere before!”

   Ratman thinks hard.  “Stop making no sense!”

   Barry thinks about that and decides, “That didn’t make too much sense, Ratman.”

   “Yes it did, goddamn it!  Yes it did!”

   Barry leans over the counter, cocking his head at the man in the rat costume.  “Dave?”

   Ratman glances about nervously.  “What?”

   “Is that you, Dave?”

   “It’s not me.”

   “It’s not you?  Or it’s not Dave?”

   “Stop saying things like that!”

   “Like what?”

   “You know exactly what!”
   “Dave, it’s cool, man.  No need to get testy.”

   “I’m not getting testy!”  He pauses, then realizes, “And I’m not Dave!”

   “Sure thing, Dave.”

   “Stop saying my name!  I mean, stop saying the name Dave.  Not that that’s my name…Goddamn it!”  Ratman takes a breath, collects himself.  “What I’m saying is, I’m not Dave, all right?  I want that to be clear.”

   “That you’re saying you’re not Dave.”

   “Yes.”

   “But you really are Dave, you’re just saying that you’re not.”

   “Goddamn it, Barry!  You are such a little twat, you know that?”

   Barry begins to laugh. 

   “What’s so funny!”

   Barry continues to laugh.

   “Stop continuing to laugh, Barry!”

   But Barry continues to laugh.

   “I mean it!”

   “Dave, I’m fucking with you, man.”

   A pause.  “What?”

   “I’m fucking with you!”

   Ratman looks around one last time.  “What do you mean?”

   “I mean we know it’s you.”

   “We?”

   “Oh shit, yeah, oh man, I almost forgot.  That’s Greg!”

   “Who’s Greg?”

   “That perp you’re holding!  The dude you cuffed!  That’s Greg.  We knew it was you, man.  We just did all of this to fuck with you.”

   “Wait…But…What?”

   Greg, still held by Ratman, opens his eyes.  “Hi, Dave!”

   Ratman drops Greg and yelps.  Greg gets up.

   “See, I told ya,” says Barry.

   “How are you awake?” Ratman cries.  “I drugged you with sodium thiopental.  That’s impossible.”

   Greg begins to laugh.

   “Stop laughing, Greg!”

   But Greg continues to laugh.

   “What is going on?” 

   “You left your costume in my car,” says Barry.

   “What?”

   “You left your costume in my car after my bachelor party.”

   Ratman thinks about it.  “But your bachelor party was eighteen months ago.”

   Greg steps proudly to Ratman.  “Precisely!  After we found the costume it was confirmed that Ratman was Dave.  And Dave was Ratman.  They were one in the same!  So, for the past eighteen months we began to uncover more truths about the Ratman.  One of these truths was that he loved to foil crooks with the use of sodium thiopental.  Since we uncovered this little nugget of information, both Barry and I began building up an immunity to sodium thiopental.”

   “You guys built up an immunity to sodium thiopental?”

   “Correct.”

   “But…why?”

   “To fuck with you,” says Greg.  “I thought Barry made that clear.”  He turns to Barry.  “You made that clear, didn’t you?”

   “I thought I made it clear.”

   “Will you two shut up?”  Ratman thinks about the past eighteen months.  “So everything you’ve done for the past year and a half…it’s all been a ruse…?”

   “Also correct.”

   “This doesn’t make any sense.  Barry, you got this gas station job six months ago.  You had a fake job for six months all for a prank?”

   “After we built up the immunity to sodium thiopental I met the manager about the night clerk position.  Was I overqualified?  Sure.  But Greg and I had concocted a plan for him to rob this particular gas station on a night we knew Ratman—a.k.a. Dave—was patrolling these parts.  At the right moment, he would enter this establishment, pretend to rob the register, Ratman would pull some preposterous stunt to foil the crime, thus, causing hundreds, if not thousands of dollars worth of damages, we would then berate Ratman—whom we’ve already establish is Dave—for an extended period of time until Dave would erupt into a volcano of irrational emotion and Greg and I would laugh.”

   Ratman (who has been established as Dave, but for the intents and purposes of this story, will continue to be referred to as Ratman) steps away from Greg and Barry.

   “So…” Barry says.  “Mission accomplished.”

   “So you know I’m Dave?”

   “Yes,” they say.

   “Wow.”

   “Yeah,” they say.

   “That came out of left field.”

   “Yeah…”

   “Classic prank, though.”

   “We know.”

   Ratman looks around at the damage.  “So I guess there’s no crime fighting to be done here tonight.”

   “Guess not.”

   “All right…well I’m gonna get going.”

   “Sure, man.”

   “Crime to be fought and all.”

   “We understand.”

   Ratman heads for the front door.  He turns back.  “You know what’s funny though?”

Barry and Greg shrug.

   “In the time that it took you to execute and explain your joke, I probably missed out on a lot of crime.”

   Barry and Greg look at each other.  “What?” they ask.

   “What I’m saying is: in the time that it took you to do all of this—to get me here—to this exact position, at the exact time, at the exact right moment—had you not done that, I’d probably be somewhere else in the city, preventing some sort of crime.  Helping the good and just of the city.”

   Barry and Greg stare at him and begin to laugh again.  “Dave, you’re such a loser!” declares Greg.

   “You got a rat tail, man!  A rat tail!  Who gets a fucking rat tail anymore?  What is this?  1986?”

   “I don’t have a rat tail haircut!” screams Ratman.  “It’s an actual rat tail!”

   “Well, it’s not an actual rat tail,” says Greg.

   “What?”

   “I mean, only real rats can have actual rat tails.  Your rat tail is a costume, thus, not an actual rat tail.”

   “You know what I meant, Greg!”

   Greg begins to laugh again.  “I know, Dave.  It’s just so easy to mess with you.”

   “You guys are assholes!”  Ratman pushes his way through the gas station’s exit.

   “Dave, come back, man.  Don’t be like that,” Barry calls.

   “Yeah, we’re sorry, man.  Hey, it’s cool, you can come back and hit us if you want.”

   The gas station’s hum of fluorescent lights is the only response.

   “Dave?”

   Hum…

   “Dave?”

   “Ratman, dude,” says Barry.

   “What?”

   “Try saying Ratman.”

   Greg rolls his eyes and asks, “Ratman?”

   Hum…

   And then, “Yeah?” comes from the darkness.

   “Are you still gonna be at poker Friday night?”

   Ratman says from the shadows, “This Friday or next Friday?”

   “I think it’s this Friday.”

   “Oh…”

   “No, it’s not,” whispers Barry.

   “It’s not?” asks Greg.

   “No, Roger’s got that thing this Friday."  

   "Who?"

   "Roger Donnell.  The new guy."

   "Ugh!" says Greg.  "I hate that guy.  He's so goddamn depressing."

   "Hey, take it easy, man.  His wife just left him."

   "You're right, I'm sorry."

   "It's cool.  So, it’s next Friday we’re playing poker.”

   “You're sure?”

   “Big time.”

   “Hey, Dave—I mean, Ratman?”

   Silence before, “Yeah?”

   “It’s actually next Friday.  Not this Friday.”

   “Next Friday?”

   “Yeah, I was wrong.”

   “Oh,” says Ratman.  “Yeah, I’ll be at poker next Friday.”

   “Cool, man.”

   “Cool.”

   Greg shakes the remaining shards of glass from his windbreaker.  “I think I’ll go home now.”  He heads for the exit.

   “Hey, you should ask Dave for a ride.”

   “Yeah?”

   “Yeah, I saw him park around the corner when I got here this morning.  I’m sure it’s cool.”

   “Nice.  Thanks, man.”

   “Oh, and if he does give you a ride home, check his car for me.  I lent him my Marcy Playground CD ages ago and he still hasn’t given it back.”

   “That’s a great CD.”

   “Fuckin’ A right it’s a great CD!”

   “What a dick!”

   “I know, right?”

   “Classic Dave.”

   “Classic Ratman.”

   “All right, one Marcy Playground CD, got it.”

   “Thanks, man.”

   “No worries.”

   Greg leaves, ski-mask in tow, and catches a ride with Ratman.  Barry writes out his letter of resignation and leaves.  He walks home.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #22

A note to the reader: This marks the final Issue of Book 1 of the Variance Series.  "Book 2: The Others" will follow sometime hereafter.

   Martin turned to look for the source of that alarming, booming voice, but stiffened when he heard, “Don’t you dare turn around or I’ll clip that head of yers clean off!”

   “All right,” he said.  “It’s all right.  We’re just here to—“

   “Shut the fuck up, pretty boy!” the voice interrupted.

   Martin raised his hands above his head (the voice didn’t need to ask).  Everyone else followed suit, except Enrique who looked as if he was ready to retch.

   “You in a world a shit now, sunshine” the voice said.  “Turn around so I can see ya’s faces.”

   “Great,” said Lara.  “We survive an all out Variant attack only to be murdered by some unhinged Chicago Bulls fan.”

   “I told you to shut ya mouth,” the voice hissed.  They heard the crack of knuckles as he tightened his grip around the gun. “Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re doing here?”

   “That’s a very long and very complicated story,” Martin said.  “I’m going to turn around now.”  He waited for the voice to respond, but when it didn’t, he said, “If that’s all right.”  Still, the voice said nothing.  Slowly, Martin turned toward it, half-expecting a gunshot to ring out and to fall dead in a pile of Scottie Pippin paraphernalia.  But when he got fully turned he was startled to find the owner of that voice was closer than he initially thought.  Standing before him was a tall and broad African American man.  His shoulders would rival a Volkswagon and his features were sharp and jarring.  He held the gun (which looked cartoonishly small against his massive shoulder) close to his eye, Martin’s forehead pinned in his sights.

   “Long story?” he questioned.  “If I'm a bettin' man--and I'd like to think I am--I'd say we're all gonna have some time.”  The man lowered the gun to his side.  “I take it you ain’t Variants then.”

   “No shit, Sherlock!” Lara spouted.  

   “Thank fucking God for that,” said the black man, ignoring her.

   “You the one firing at us from the rooftop?”  she demanded.

   “No…” he said softly.  “No, I wasn’t.”

   “Musta known who it was, though,” Captain Blake said gruffly.  “You clipped our boy here!”

   The black man’s eyes came to rest on Enrique.  He was still propped up on Lara’s shoulder, his shirt a blurry mess of clotted blood.

   “I see,” the black man said steadily.  “Let’s get him upstairs.”

   “What’s upstairs?” Lara asked.

   “This man’s last chance for hope.”

   “We’re not going anywhere with you!”

   “Lara, calm down,” Martin told her.

   “I didn’t shoot yer friend.  You can believe that.  Now, if you want to save his life, I suggest you follow me.”

   The black man turned around and Captain Blake noticed the pale green Air Force fatigues he was wearing.  Though, they were not American military.  They were rumpled and filthy, and ripped in several places, but they were fatigues nonetheless.

   “What’s yer name, solider?” Captain Blake asked.

   The black man stopped and peered up at Captain Blake.  His eyes were dark and alarming.  He stood there with his back arched and attention ready.  “Lieutenant Hughes,” he answered. “Lieutenant Russell Hughes, Canadian Royal Air Force.”

   “Goddamn pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” Captain Blake said holding out his hand.  “I’m Captain Richard Blake, United States Army.  Retired, of course.”

   “‘Course.”  Russell took Captain Blake’s hand in his.  He nodded toward Enrique.  “Let’s get him upstairs.  I’d hate for him to die on my watch.”  He paused, surveying his audience.  “Or by our hands.”

   “Are there others upstairs?” Annie asked.

   “Yeh,” he grunted.  “Four more.  C’mon, I think we all got a lot to talk about.”  Russell waved his massive hand and led them to the elevators.  

   By the time the elevators started moving, Enrique had passed out.  Lara had managed to slow the bleeding, but life continued to pour out of him at a snail’s pace.  The purple bags under his eyes made his sockets seem hollow and old.

   When the elevators opened on the second floor, Russell led them to one of the luxury suites overlooking the basketball court.  Inside the suite were three exam tables, a cabinet full of antibiotics, syringes, bandages, and antiseptics.  On the far wall were half a dozen microscopes, hundreds of slides and petri dishes, and a computerized display chart for testing.  Everything inside had the blue and white CDC sticker plastered to its side.

   “Help me get him on the table,” Martin said.  He and Captain Blake propped Enrique up and tilted him back.

   “Can you help him?” Lara asked.

   “I don’t know,” Martin said.  “Lieutenant Hughes—“

   “Russell,” he interrupted.

   “Russell, I need you to bring me any bandages you have, any gauze, peroxides, antiseptics, things like that.”

   Russell nodded and, while Martin was cutting off Enrique’s shirt, he went about the room retrieving anything he could find.

   “What the fuck is this, Russell?” a woman’s voice came from behind them.  

   Lara spun around, her .357s cocked and readied.  Across the barrel of the guns was a striking young woman, twenty-one or twenty-two.  Her blonde hair was recently shampooed and brushed, and her skin possessed no traces of dirt or grime.  The clothes on her body were freshly washed and pressed.  And from where Lara was standing, she could faintly smell the woman’s anti-perspirant.  Slung over the woman’s shoulder was a Barrett M82 sniper rifle.

   Behind the young woman was a young man, seemingly the same age as her.  They had similar features and their hair was nearly identical in color.  He had broad shoulders and a thin, goose-like neck.  His blue eyes fell to the floor and he stood behind the young woman the way a child does when their parents introduce them to an adult for the first time.

   “You’re the one who shot Enrique,” Lara said.

   The young man stepped in front of the young woman and removed his sidearm with the quickest of draws.  Lara barely had a chance to blink by the time his gun was pinned on her.

   “This your muscle?”

   “He’s my brother,” the woman said, noticing Enrique on the exam table.

   “Harry, put that away!” Russell yelled, handing Martin a first-aid kit.  “And Hannah, how many times do I gotta tell ya to shut the fuck up?”

   Hannah’s eyes widened in humiliation.  Harry looked to his sister who nodded at him with her eyes, and he holstered his sidearm.

   “I thought you were Variants,” Hannah said.

   “Well, we’re not, you twat!” Lara snapped.

   “I saved your lives!” 

   “We wouldn’t have needed savin’ if your dumb ass hadn’t sent a hollow point through my friend here!”

   “Lara, please!  I need to focus!” Martin snapped.

   Lara looked over and saw Martin start to work on Enrique.  His wound bubbled as he poured fresh peroxide on it.  The white foam mounded up like stiff peaks of meringue then transformed into a mountain of pink bubbles.

   “Why don’t we go next door?” Russell suggested.  “We’ll grab a drink."
   "You said there were five of you," said Annie.  "Where are the rest of you?"
   "They're just in the other room," Russell told her.  "Don't worry, I'll round 'em up."  Russell looked over an uneasy Annie Walker.  "It's all right, ma'am, you're safe now."
   Annie rubbed her shoulders with the insides of her hands, suddenly cold.
   "Come on, follow me.  I'm sure we've all got stories to tell," said Russell.  "You all right in here by yourself for a while, Doc?”

   Martin nodded, but never looked up.  Russell nodded his confirmation and headed out of the suite.  Hannah and Harry followed after him.

   “I don’t like this, Martin,” said Lara.

   “Just go hear what they have to say,” he instructed.

   “I don’t trust them!”

   “I said, ‘go!’”

   Nobody wanted to be the first to move.  But, eventually, Annie stepped around Captain Blake and left the room.  He and Lara followed silently, casting one final glance back at their fallen compatriot.

   The survivors’ world was changing.  They were in the hands of the others now.

END OF BOOK ONE

Billy & Jerry - A (Brief) Conversation

    Billy sits on his couch.  Jerry calls.  Billy answers.
    "Hello."
    "What are you doing?"
    "Who is this?"
    "It's Jerry."
    "Oh."
    "What are you doing?"
    "I'm watching Back to the Future Part II."
    "What?"
    "I'm watching Back to the Future Part II."
    Jerry doesn't say anything for a long time.  And then, "I'm coming over."
    Billy says, "Ok."
    Jerry comes over.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #21

A note to the reader: Issue #22 will mark the final Issue of Book 1 of the Variance Series.  "Book 2: The Others" to follow thereafter.

The United Center

Chicago, IL

Four months after The Rise

   The gymnasium was disproportionately large for a junior high school.  There were banners on the walls proclaiming things like “Colts Are #1!” and “William H. Brown High Rules!”  Martin supposed the gym had been rented out for some high school games.  There were sets of pompoms on the floor and empty paper Coke cups scattered forlornly amongst the open bleacher seats.  It was as if a mass exodus had happened in the middle of a game.

   The Variants continued to urge their weight through the door and, a few times, Martin thought it would give.  It didn’t, though he knew the inevitable was waiting around the corner.

   “We need to take our chances with that,” Annie said, pointing to the Emergency Exit behind them.

   “We won’t be more than three steps outside the door before our brains are on the pavement.”

   “If we stay here we’re dead anyway.  At least if we go outside we have a chance.  No matter how small…”

   She was right.  Martin knew that much.  He took Annie’s hand and they crossed to the Emergency Exit.  

   “If we don’t make it through this, I’m sorry I wandered off,” she said.

   He smiled, grabbed the door’s broad, metal handle and pushed down.

   “Wait!” Annie said suddenly.

   “What?”

   “Do you hear that?”

   “Hear what?”

   “Listen.”

   They pushed their ears against the cool metal.  On the other side of the door they heard the undeniable sound of a bus blaring its horn.

   “Captain Blake, you gorgeous, gorgeous man,” said Martin.

   The doors on the other side of the gym burst open.  The latch exploded off the frame and bounced across the glossy, waxed floor.  Variants surged into the gym like a cloud of angry bees.

   The horn outside grew louder.  The bus was nearing.

   Martin threw open the Emergency Exit and saw the bus hurtling toward them.  It swerved slightly to the right before Captain Blake regained control.  They broke for the bus.

   Pfft!  A sniper shot whizzed past Martin’s ear.

   Captain Blake spun the wheel and the tail of the bus skidded sideways.  Rubber shredded and melted, and the thick smell sprang into the night air.  The bus turned ninety degrees to the left and came to a screeching halt.

   Another sniper shot ripped through one of the bus windows just as Martin and Annie took cover behind the its back wheel.

   “Oh, holy hell,” Captain Blake said.

   “What is it?” said Lara.

   Captain Blake pointed at the Variants spilling through the gymnasium’s Emergency Exit and into the street.  He stuck his head out the driver’s side window, “You guys mind hurrying yer little keesters up!”

   Martin and Annie made a break for the bus’ back exit.  Lara threw up the emergency latch and kicked open the door, cracking the base of glass with her foot.  

   A Variant rounded the bus just as Martin was helping Annie in.  It grabbed Martin’s arm and he felt his elbow hyperextend.  An extreme jolt of pain ran up to his arm and he cried out in pain. The Variant twisted again and just when he thought his elbow would pop from his joint, a sniper bullet tore through the Variants skull.  It convulsed, then toppled over.  Suddenly the sniper bullets shifted and were raining down on the Variants.  Lara held out her hand and pulled Martin inside.

   “Go!” she yelled.

   “Aye Aye,” Captain Blake called back in a mock salute.  He threw the bus in reverse and gunned the engine.  The vehicle rattled up and down as it crushed a handful of Variants.  Other Variants clanked against the yellow siding like massive chunks of hail.  He shifted gears and let loose on the accelerator.  The tires spun and the muffler choked up a plume of smoke.  They rocked briefly as the bus fishtailed to one side and then hopped a curb.  Enrique cried out in a fit pain.

   Out the back window they could see a hundred Variants, maybe more, all tearing after the bus.  They all replicated the same unwavering look, their incensed expressions perfect copies of one another.

   The bus crashed through the chain link fence surrounding the United Center parking lot and slammed into the side of a Chicago police cruiser.  The car spun to one side before coming to rest in a crumpled heap.

   Captain Blake let out a little roar of delight.

   “You want to focus?” Martin yelled to him.

   “Doc, this is the most focused I’ve been in weeks!”  He upshifted and they all jolted back in their seats.  “Hold on!”

   Martin had just enough time to peer through the windshield, see the north entrance of United Center growing before them, and dive on top of Annie.

   The bus crashed through the doors in a masterpiece of destruction.  They were surrounded by a violent sonata of shattered glass, screeching tires, and crippled metal.  Some of the bus windows exploded in, shards raining down on them.  The thick frames of the United Center doors grabbed hold of the bus and held it hostage in its entryway.  The back half of the bus was protruding outside the United Center while the front half was lodged inside.

   The Variants descended on the bus’ back exit.

   Captain Blake yanked the accordion-style door open and a cloud of concrete dust floated down from the ceiling.  Chunks of the United Center rattled against the hubcaps and layers of insulation blanketed the bus’ hood.  There were still Chicago Bulls jerseys stacked clumsily on wire racks in front of the bus.  Now the poor things were covered in fine layers of dust and debris, making them look tired and old.

   “Last stop!” Captain Blake shouted.

   Annie and Martin pulled Enrique from the back seat and dragged him toward the front of the bus.  Lara and Captain Blake were already off by the time they were out.  

   The Variants rocked the massive vehicle back and forth, the wheels squeaking violently on its axis.

   “Watch this,” Captain Blake said to Lara.  The corners of his mouth curled up like a deranged Cheshire cat.  He reached into his backpack and removed his four remaining grenades.  He pulled their pins and tossed them toward the back of the bus.  “We should probably take cover.”

   They did, alarmingly fast. (And wisely so).

   When the bombs went off nearly 100 Variants had surrounded the bus.  They pounded on its yellow sides as if hoping the unwanted obstruction would magically disappear.  It was a haunting moment (as to be expected) when their screams suddenly vanished, cut off by a deafening blast.  Most of the explosion ripped through the sides and rear of the bus.  Concrete crumbled from the ceiling, landing on the bus and clogging up the United Center’s entryway.  The moonlight on the survivors’ faces suddenly evaporated and they were cloaked in an abrupt world of darkness.

   For a while, the only sound was Annie Walker coughing against the freshly fallen asbestos.

   “Everyone all right?” Martin finally asked.

   “Fresh as knickers.”  Captain Blake shook a mess of dust from his silver hair.  

   “Well…we…made…it…” Enrique croaked.

   They all turned to look at him.  He was on his feet, leaning heavily on Lara’s body.  His skin was so pale it seemed as if they no longer needed the moon for light.  He was up.  Struggling, yes, but he was back on his feet.  He had hope again.  They all had hope again.  The Variants were blocked from the entrance and they had shelter.  Nightfall had come, sure, but it hardly mattered, they could move on in the morning.  For now they could rest, and rest was exactly what they needed.

   “We’re all right now,” Martin said.

   “Goddamn, Doc, I swear we jus’ keep cuttin’ things closer and closer.”

   “Don’t you fuckin’ move!” a booming, authoritative voice came from the darkness.

   “And…of course,” muttered Captain Blake.

   It was either the voice or the cocking of a gun that came first.  Later, everyone would have different accounts.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #20

A note to the reader: Book 1 of the Variance Series will consist of 22 Issues.  This installment marks the third-to-last Issue before "Book 2: The Others" arrives.  As always, please enjoy...

The United Center

Chicago, IL

Four months after The Rise

   Enrique was dying.  That much was clear.  His skin had turned an ashen white and his hands trembled in shock.  He would go in and out of consciousness, and, even when lucid, could only say through chattering breaths how cold he was.

   “You sure you can do this?  It’s not going to be easy,” Martin said to Captain Blake, leading him back to the school’s entrance.

   “Doc, I reckon we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t thrive in situations involving high probabilities of death and little chance of success,” Captain Blake said.

   Martin nodded.  He turned toward Annie, but only an empty hallway met his eyes.  “Where’s Annie?”

   “I…I don’t know.  She was here a minute ago.”

   “Well she’s not here now.” 

   “I can see that, Martin.”

   “Did either of you see where she went?”

   They shrugged.

   Martin gnawed on his lower lip.  He was tense, and the others could sense every ounce of it.  “Get out to the bus and pull it around back,” he said, his words echoing their usual notes of calm.  “We’ll drive it to the north entrance and hope no sniper bullets clip us in the process.  Lara, I need you to take Enrique to the south exit and wait for Captain Blake.”  

   “What are you gonna do?” she asked.

   “I’m gonna go find Annie.  If I’m not to the bus in five minutes, just go, I’ll find some other way to the stadium.”

   “We’re not leaving you,” Lara insisted.

   “Yes.  You are.”

   “But—“

   “This isn’t a discussion!”  And that was the end of it.

   “Roger that, Doc,” Captain Blake said.  “See you guys on the other side.”  He threw the front door open spilling in a small amount of dying light.  Martin and Lara barely had time to shield their eyes before the door shut and the latch caught.  There was the faint sound of a single sniper bullet ricocheting off the crumbling brick, but then silence followed.

   All was calm.

   “What happened?” Lara asked.  “Did they get him?”

   “I don’t know.”

   Calm.

   And then they heard the comforting roar of the bus’s engine cough.

   Relief.

   “Get Enrique up and help him to the back, I’ll meet you there!”  Martin disappeared down the hall before Lara had a chance to respond.

   Along the school’s east corridor, adjacent to the gym, Annie Walker found herself standing in front of a glass display case.  Half a dozen basketball trophies, along with the photos of their respective teams, rested proudly inside.  Fine layers of dust collected along the chrome coatings, but, otherwise, seemed to be in decent condition.  In the corner of the case there was a small bronze trophy, lined with cheap, poorly stained plywood.  A meager gold-plated basketball rested on its dusty top.  Engraved in the base was:

KYLE WALKER – MOST VALUABLE PLAYER

   Behind the trophy was a picture of a young boy, thirteen or fourteen at most.  He had a messy mop of dirty blonde hair and his blue eyes popped against the bright red jersey.  He wasn’t smiling; he stared intently at the camera like so many athletes do: looking serious, tough.  But the eyes wouldn’t lie.  This was a happy boy, full of life.

   Annie drew her fingers across the display, her greasy hands smudging the immaculate glass.  The edges of her eyes took turns dropping tears like a metronome of sorrow.

   “Annie?”

   Annie turned and saw Martin standing at one end of the hallway.

   “What are you doing?” he asked.  “You shouldn’t go off alone.”

   “I…” she began, but her attention returned to the photo before a set of words could satisfy his inquiry.

   “What is it?” he said.

   “My son…” she said pointing to the picture.  “My son went here.  It was only for a year.  Before…before his father took him.”  Her voice dropped.  She sighed heavily.  “This was his school.  I had forgotten.  I don’t know how or why, but…I just did.  But then we got inside, and like some miracle, here he is.  Like some sick, cruel miracle!”  Her words pierced the silent hallways.  “God damn it!”

Annie snatched up the garbage bin next to the display case and threw it into the glass.  The shards erupted into the air in a cacophony of clings and clangs.

   Martin hadn’t jumped, as if half-expecting it.  Annie’s breathing was deep, but controlled.  She reached into the case and ripped down the picture of her son in one, aggravated motion.  She held it thoughtfully in her hands, stroking the edges as though it had the fragility of a newborn.  

   “I wasn’t able to grab any pictures of him when…when it happened.”

   Martin nodded.

   “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gone off like that.  That was foolish.”

   “We should go,” was all he said.

   Annie nodded in agreement, but didn’t move.  “It’s just that—“

   The double doors behind her exploded open.  Running toward them in a surge of violent lust were fifty Variants.  Behind the Variants, hanging in the night sky, was a freshly painted yellow moon.  Night had come and so had the Variants.

   Martin grabbed Annie’s wrist and yanked her in the other direction.  They rounded a corner in time to see a second herd of Variants running toward them.  They were cornered.  The Variants had executed their plan marvelously.  Clever devils.  

   “Go back!”  Martin veered her to the left and they crashed through a set of double doors into the gymnasium.  Annie lost her balance and she slid to the floor.  Her head snapped around and she saw him throw his shoulder into doors, slamming them shut.  Before it latched, she saw a Variant’s arm thrust through the narrow opening, just above the lock; its wild fingers straining to grab any piece of Martin.  He threw his weight against the door and the arm snapped, producing the most horrendous sound of crunching bone and twisting cartilage.  The Variant screamed and hissed as its arm bent in a horrid direction.  The veins turned a pale blue, pounding and pulsating.  The Variant managed to pull the arm from the opening and Martin latched the door.  The Variants pounded the other side of the door.  The hinges squeaked ominously.

   Annie got to her feet.  “What do we do?”

   “I don’t know.” 

   “How are we going to—?”

   “I don’t know!”

   There was an exit on the other side of the gym, but that only led back out to the street, where they would surely become sniper bait.  They could wait and try their hands at the Variants, but there would be too many of them.

   The noise outside intensified as the number of Variants grew.  Martin and Annie were trapped, and the door would not hold for long.

* * *

   On the south end of the school, Lara was making her way toward the exit, Enrique’s arm slung over her neck.  Apart from a stifled groan or two, Enrique was mercifully silent.  They had not heard Annie’s tantrum near the display case.  They had not heard the Variants inside the school.  For all they knew, everything was going according to plan.  Oh, how terribly wrong they were.

   Lara kicked open the exit and they were met by a ripple of crisp, night air.  Propped against the night sky Lara saw Captain Blake leaning against the side of the bus, his pipe lit, smoke pouring from his nose.  “Taking a break?” she asked, her question coming out in little heaves as she steadied her weight against Enrique’s.

   Captain Blake smiled and a cloud of smoke escaped out his nostrils.  He bit down on the end of the pipe, sauntered over, and helped Lara carry Enrique onto the bus.

   Captain Blake checked his watch.  “It’s been seven minutes.”

   “He’ll be here.”

   “Doc told us to leave.”

   “I don’t care what he said; we’re staying.”  

   They waited another agonizing minute, but still no Martin or Annie.  Lara pulled away from Captain Blake and headed for the entrance.  He caught hold of her wrist.  “Sweetheart, if something’s wrong—like some Variants clawed their way in—the last thing I reckon we do is go traipsing back in there like a couple’a wanderin’ cattle.”  

   “Then what are we supposed to do?”

   “If the Doc and his lil’ girlfriend won’t come to us, then we’ll go to him in style.”  He took a long drag and tapped the side of his pipe against the rusty, yellow school bus.