Variance - Book 2: The Others - Issue #3

The Wisconsin River

32 days after The Rise

   For seven days and eight nights, Bill Phillips, daughter Hannah, son Harry, and Stevie Kohler moved on without incident.

Variance - Book 2: The Others - Issue #2

Rhinelander, Wisconsin

Day 32 of The Rise

   There was a warm breeze that met Hannah Phillips’ face as soon as she left the house.  She bounded down the rickety porch steps and saw Harry and her father throwing boxes and bags into the bed of their truck.  Stevie Kohler stood nearby, but his actions were muted.  

   “Hi, Hannah,” Stevie muttered, not meeting her eyes.  He stared at his laces and slid the toes of his shoes through the dry soil.  Stevie was a tall and slender kid, same age as Harry.  He had played on the town basketball team for three years before a knee injury sidelined him.  There were talks of scholarships and whatnot, but Hannah didn’t know how much of it was true. 

   “Hey, Stevie,” Hannah offered back.  She contemplated mentioning how sorry she was about his parents, and how utterly horrifying and heartbreaking everything was that was happening, and how she was sure everything would go back to normal soon, but Hannah couldn’t find the words.

   Bill put a reassuring hand on Stevie’s slumped shoulder.  “We appreciate everything, Stevie.  You’re a good man, stronger than I could ever hope to be.  And as long as we’re together, you got a family in us, ya hear?”  Bill lowered his eyes to Stevie’s so Stevie knew the promise was real.

   Stevie nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

   “All right, let’s go,” Bill said.

   Off they went.  The truck’s tires spewed up gravel in one gigantic cough as they headed north on Germond Road at speeds Hannah thought inconceivable.  Stevie and Bill were situated in front.  In the back, Harry sat next to Hannah, his hand in hers, but he never once looked at her; his eyes were fixed on the nightmare that was now their town.

   As they turned left on Hilltop Road, they saw Stan Lusk’s house ablaze, a pack of Variants circling it like wolves in the night.  Harry saw two people, their legs thrashing and arms flailing as seven Variants ripped and tore their flesh and limbs.  The victims’ faces were indistinguishable either because of the night sky or their sudden lack of jawbones, but Harry suspected it was Mr. Lusk and his wife, Harriet.   

   Ruby Tenner ran across the street and Bill swerved the truck, the back fishtailing across the rocky shoulder before regaining tractions.  Ruby Tenner was wearing a velvet red nightgown and had half a dozen curlers still stuck in her hair.  The nightgown streaked behind her like a magic carpet as her old, vein-ridden legs worked like mad to escape the pursing Variants.  Harry turned and saw one of the Variants leap on top of Ruby.  Her legs gave out in crippling defeat shortly before her arms were pulled from their sockets. 

   “What are you doing?” Hannah yelled at her father.  “Why aren’t you helping them?”

   Nobody spoke.

   “Turn around!” she cried.

   “There is no helping them.  Goddamn things are too fast and too strong,” Bill said.  “We help ‘em, we die.”

   “But…how do you know that?”

   Again, no one spoke.

   “How do you know that!” she practically screamed.

   “Because my parents helped,” Stevie said finally.  He was staring out the passenger window with a sort of thoughtful indifference.  “Mayor Rigby helped.  Thomas Muelton helped.  Oly Ownst helped.     They all helped, and they all died.”

   Silence again.

   “I’m…I’m sorry,” she said.  But she did not garner a response.  She felt like an outcast in her own family and the insanity brewing outside only added to the anguish.  She felt Harry squeeze her hand and when she turned to look at him she saw how terribly sad his eyes were.

   The truck made a sharp right onto County Road G and Hannah was surprised the truck hadn’t tipped over.  Bill steadied the vehicle without a blink of the eye and punched down on the accelerator, lurching them in their seats. 

   “If we can get to the boat, we can take it down the Wisconsin River,” said Bill.  “From there, well…I guess we’ll just have to make it up as we go along.  Ain’t nothing better I can offer or do.”

   The truck rattled on until they turned onto County Road 47, raced past town—a town that burning—and made a sharp left onto County Road 17.  17 was heavily wooded, but there were scattered docks through the dense lining of trees.  The forth dock, wonderfully camouflaged, was where they kept their boat.  It was nothing fancy, a simple single-engine, the kind with the steering rod attached to the back.  It was maroon in color, but much of the paint had chipped away and a lining of rust had settled across the lower half of the bow.  The Phillips’ used to take it out as a family and fish for hours on end, pulling up Sunnies and Crappies until their buckets were full.  But they hadn’t gone out since their mother died.

   They hadn’t gone a hundred yards down 17—one of the most deserted roads in the state, if not the country—to find a stack of Variants blocking the truck’s path.  

   Bill slammed on the brakes and the tires hopelessly clutched loose gravel.  The tail veered left and the sweet smell of burning rubber plumed from the tires.  Hannah hit her head on the back of the driver’s seat and she felt the warm trickle of blood run down her neck and seep into her shirt.

   The swarm of Variants stood before them, stretched across the road, white line to white line, their eyes gleaming at prospective death.

   “Back up!” Hannah screamed.

   “Wait!” Stevie interrupted.

   “What do you mean ‘wait?’” Harry asked.  And that’s when Hannah realized it was the first time her brother spoke since they left the house.  It was a welcome sound to her, otherwise, horrified ears.

   “Run ‘em down,” Stevie said.  “The boat’s a quarter of a mile away.  If we turn around, we’ll backtrack for miles.  Even then there’s no guarantee we’ll make it.  We’re in here and they’re out there, so…run ‘em down.”  His words were harsh, maniacal.

   Bill shifted the clutch and revved the engine.  Filthy exhaust billowed from the truck’s rusted muffler.  The Variants remained very still, calculating their next move.

   But there would move be no more moves. 

   Bill removed his foot from the brake and the tires gave a quick squeal before launching forward.  Hannah felt her seatbelt lock into place.  The thuds of the Variants spilling over and off the hood sounded like softballs dropping on blocks of wood.  The truck swerved to the right and the back right tire caught one of the Variants, hurtling him into the ditch.  Harry could see its twisted legs as it flew through the air to its inevitable demise.  The bones were bent in so many directions his legs must have shattered on impact.  Blood spurted onto the windshield in a glorious mist of red.  Bill threw on the wipers, scraping the macabre across the glass like a streak of paint, momentarily blinding them.  He grabbed hold of the wheel and the truck tilted to the left.  Bill was losing control.  He cranked to the right, but far too aggressively.  The back tires caught the rocky shoulder while the front caught the fresh asphalt.  Suddenly everything tipped upside down.  Hannah watched as Harry’s hair flopped to the right and then seemed to stand on end.  The truck had flipped, and there was no reversing it. 

   The brutal sounded of crunching metal and shattered glass ripped through her ears as she finally grasped what was happening.  The truck landed upside down on the left side of the ditch.  The engine was smoking and the one of the blinkers was methodically clicking.  Bright orange, darkness.  Bright orange, darkness.  Bright orange, darkness.

   Then came thundering footsteps.  

   The Variants…The…Variants…The…

   “…Variants!” Bill was yelling.  

   Her eyes rolled around and she saw her father’s feet already outside the truck.  He pulled open her door and saw his horrified face against the clicking glow of the blinker’s orange light. 

   “Come on, honey,” Bill said undoing her seatbelt.

   Hannah felt the taste of blood in her mouth and a sharp pain on her tongue.  She must have bit down on it when the truck rolled.  It felt like it was hanging there by a strand of muscle.  She opened her mouth to speak to him, but the words didn’t form.  She tried again, but her father put a finger to her lips.

   “Shh…” he whispered, “they’re almost on us.” 

   It didn’t take long for him to pull her from the car.  When she was out, she realized there was a massive gash running along her shin, bits of glass embedded in the wound.

   Hannah glanced across the cab and saw Harry reach down and grab Stevie’s shirt collar.  Stevie moaned as Harry pulled him from the wreckage.  “Come on, Stevie,” Harry said softly.

   The footsteps amplified.

   “Harry, hurry up!  They’re coming!”

   Harry pulled Stevie onto the road, dragging his calves through the dirt and broken glass.  Stevie writhed in pain, trying to push Harry off.

   “I got ya, I got ya,” Harry kept saying.

   The sound of the footsteps changed.  They no longer pounded against the pavement; they moved into the gravel and then over tall weeds and dead grass.  The Variants were in the ditch and the vehicle was in their sights.

   “I’ve got him, come on!” Harry called to Bill.

   Bill slung Hannah’s arm across his neck and pulled her into the woods.

   Harry and Stevie were just ahead of them, though they were mere outlines in the darkness; the towering trees had blocked all potential moonlight.  

   The Variants charged after them.

   Wind skipped off the river and a cool breeze nestled alongside Hannah’s face.  

   They were close to the dock…

   Then she heard the welcome, glorious sound of the boat motor purring to life.  Harry and Stevie had made it.  This ray of hope resonated with Bill as his pace quickened and Hannah felt the muscles along his back tense up in a magnificent rush of adrenaline.

   They emerged from the wood to find Harry setting Stevie back on one of the boat’s dilapidated pleather seats.  He grabbed a .22 rifle from under the side panel and placed it in Stevie’s hands.  “Point and shoot, big guy, point and shoot,” Harry told him, turning back to the motor.

   Stevie cocked the gun and aimed it into the darkness.

   Bill picked Hannah up off her feet and stepped into the murky water.  He handed her off to Harry, the boat wavering slightly, who put her in the seat next to Stevie.  Bill climbed into the boat and the quick pop of the .22 firing a shot rang into their ears.  Bill whirled around and saw a Variant fall forward, rolling down the embankment.  A dozen more outlines appeared at the wood’s edge.  Then, a dozen more.  And so on, and so on, and so on…

   Harry pushed down on the throttle and the engine growled its power (modest power, but power nonetheless).  The front end nosed up slightly before splashing back down.

   Stevie cocked the rifle in a furious motion and unloaded another round into a second Variant.  He reloaded and fired until Harry made a sharp left and the current grabbed hold of the boat.  They sped down the Wisconsin River, the Variants’ screams dissipating as they went.

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.