Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #7

Day 39 of The Rise

CFB Cold Lake Canadian Air Force Base

Cold Lake, Alberta, Canada

   A snoring Lieutenant Russell Hughes was the solo occupant of the barracks when the alarm sounded.  The other soldiers were in different locations across the base, pacing around the quad, smoking feverishly in the common room, listening to their radios in the men’s stalls, cleaning their cockpits, testing their instruments, the mundane list of things solders do when they are nervous.  But not Russell.  Russell liked his sleep.  And if it was bedtime and the world was burning, he’d strip off his shirt, climb into the nearest cot, and pull the sheets across his eyes.

   However, on this particular day, as the alarm sounded, Russell’s feet hit the floor before his discarded sheets did.

   “Russell Hughes, report to your station,” a droning voice instructed over the base speakers.  “Russell Hughes, report to your station immediately!” 

   CFB Cold Lake Base was—and is—the busiest Air Force Base in all of Canada.  Following the Variance situation in the United States, all resources were consolidated to Cold Lake while the other ten Canadian bases were promptly shut down.  In its nearly sixty years in existence Cold Lake has seen some of the finest and most courageous fighter pilots the world has ever seen.  Sven Polly (1963), Simon Little (1977), Michael Budman (1985), Nick Northfor (1988), Kyle Olney (1999), and Ken Thornhill (2003).  While their flying styles and skills were unrivaled at their respective times, they paled in comparison to Russell Hughes.  

   And even though the situation was contained along U.S. and Canadian border, Russell knew it was only a matter of time before the Variants broke through and hell spread to Canada.  After Canada, maybe Europe, then Africa, then Russia, the far East, the islands… 

   …And so on, and so on…

   The untied laces on Russell’s shoes bounced against the shiny leather with little pitter-patters of abandonment.  He was running so fast he thought he’d fly right out of his shoes.  But there was a Variant breach threatening Canada and his country was calling on him to right the wrong.

   O Canada, we stand on guard for thee, the words danced in Russell’s head like some sick brainwashing trick.  And he believed every word.  God keep our land glorious and free! 

   “Hughes!  Get over here!” Russell heard his commanding officer, Dick Breadman, bark.

   Dick was a burly man.  He had meaty, calloused hands that made him look more like a farmer than a military man.  His chest seemed to go on forever and his shoulders looked like two anchors propped upon his torso.  His neck had a constant web of veins that pulsated with his every breath.  Dick liked to talk with his mouth full, usually of donuts or some type of pastry.  The remnants of his breakfast, lunch, or dinner had sprayed on Russell’s face on more than one occasion.  But, tonight, there was no food in Dick’s hands, and his ghostly skin and grave eyes made Russell shiver.

   “Yes, sir?” Russell said.

   Dick noticed the untied boots and Russell felt his Adam’s apple bob strenuously against his throat.

   “Lace up those boots, son, and follow me,” Dick said, his words coarse and direct.  He turned and headed toward the hangar.  Russell haphazardly tied his laces and double timed it after him, nearly tripping over his own feet.

   “What’s going on, sir?” Russell asked.  The uneasiness he saw in Breadman’s eyes left him cold and troubled.

   “We have a situation, Hughes.”  Dick held his hands behind his back as he walked, shoulders pulled back, taut and rigid.

   “I’ve gathered that, sir.”

   “I’m going to be frank,” Dick said, stopping.  “We have an inbound aircraft on its way to Winnipeg from Sweetwater Creek State Park, just outside Lithia Springs, Georgia.”

   “What’s the problem, sir?” 

   “It left an American military base with military personnel and civilians.  They took off shortly after a Variant breach…” Dick’s words hung in the air.  He looked longingly at Russell as if he hoped he would finish his thought.  But Russell only stared back at him with vacant eyes and Dick let out a long, full-bodied sigh.  “Are you understanding what I’m saying, Hughes?” 

   “I’m afraid not, sir.  What does an American aircraft have to do with us.”

   “Intelligence suggests the aircraft carries at least one of these…Variants.  And if there’s one, there could be two, and if there are two, there’s no telling where this could stop.  The Canadian military has done a damn fine job containing the problem.  We’ve worked too long and too hard to let the Americans curse us now.  Are you understanding me, Hughes?”

   “I think so, sir.”  Russell gulped down saliva in an anxious jerk, but dry air clogged his throat and he nearly burst out into a coughing fit.  “May I ask where the other officers are, sir?” 

   “This comes directly from the Prime Minister and, needless to say, is highly classified.”  Dick placed a fatherly hand on Russell's shoulder and Russell felt a surge of warmth rush to his cheeks.  Dick had yelled at him, had ordered him around, had inadvertently spit toast and bacon in his face, but he had never touched him.  But there they were, on the brink of war, and his tenderness was a welcome change.  “You’re our top pilot, Hughes, everybody knows it.  You’re more gifted than any soldier I’ve instructed and it has been an honor watching you grow.  I’m as proud as any commanding officer could be, and that’s why we need you now.  This is a delicate situation that needs to be handled with the utmost discretion.  There won’t be any record of the mission nor any flight log recorded.  This is completely off the books.”  He took his hand off Russell’s shoulder and dropped his voice to a low, raspy whisper.  “We need you to shoot that plane down, Russell.”  His words were stunning.  “We need you to shoot it down before it crosses the border.  If you don’t, this God-forsaken thing will become an epidemic nobody will be able to control.”

   “But how do you know there are Variants on board, sir?”

   “Do your job, Hughes, do you understand me?”  Dick pushed a finger toward Russell’s face and those fatherly intents suddenly vanquished.  “I need to know you understand.”

   “Yes, sir.  Of course.  I understand.”

   Dick lowered his head and nodded.  It was as if he didn’t believe what Russell was doing was right.  But Russell had his orders. 

   And Dick Breadman had his. 

   And Dick’s commanding officer had his. 

   And so on and so on and so on…

   It was a never ending cycle that Dick Breadman would never fully understand, not even on the day he would die (which would be exactly three weeks later).

   “Godspeed, Hughes.”  Dick saluted him.  It occurred to Russell this had been the first time his commanding officer saluted first, and it took Russell a jarring moment to clap his feet together, right his back, and flick his wrist.  Their eyes met, both possessing a hint of sadness.  It was as if they knew they would never see each other again.  It was an enigmatic truth that they both understood, but neither knew why.

   “It has been an honor serving for you, sir,” Russell told him.

   “The honor has been mine, Lieutenant Hughes.”

   Russell placed his hands behind his back and hurried toward the hangar.

   With glowing hearts we see thee rise, the True North strong and free, Russell thought, the words repeating over and over in melancholic rhythm. 

* * *

   Russell climbed into his neat, organized cockpit.  Long after the other pilots stowed away their jackets and reattached their seat buckles, Russell could be found wiping down the glass, dusting the controls, and polishing the board with such meticulous style he had often stopped and marveled at his own obsessiveness.  But soon Russell would cross out of the blue and into the black.

   “Y’all right, Lieutenant?” he heard a meek voice ask.

   Russell’s thoughtful eyes left the dash and landed on a pale, sickly soldier named Bobby Brodeaur.  Bobby stood on the ladder next to the F-18 staring at Russell with a tremendous fondness, as if Russell was a celebrity he had idolized for years.  Bobby was one of those hypochondriacs who had miraculously found his way into the service.  His skin was an ashen gray and his eye sockets were practically hollow.  He was a good kid, Russell knew that, he was just afraid Brodeaur’s meager body would crumble to dust if handled the wrong way.  

   “Yeah, Bobby, just fine,” Russell said, his deep, calming voice having a visible affect on him.

   “Y’all set?” he asked.

   Russell drew in a breath and exhaled in a solemn consistency.  “All set.”

   Bobby smiled.  He placed his foot on the aircraft and reached toward Russell.  There were three metal fasteners that he pulled down over him.  One of the fasteners caught Russell at the side of his eye, causing him to flinch.  Bobby’s eyes grew and his mouth curved into a funny “O” shape.  

   “I’m sorry, Russell, I just—“

   “’S’all right.”  Russell patted the side of Bobby’s face with his massive brown hand.

   Bobby smiled again, reassured.  He fastened the three straps across Russell’s chest and yanked on the shiny polyvinylidene strap just above his waist.  Russell felt the strap go taut and then slacken as he let out a long breath.  Bobby handed Russell a hard, gray helmet with a sticker of the Canadian flag encircled by a thick blue ring.  The red leaf looked ablaze atop the dull gray exterior.

   “Good luck, sir.”  Bobby offered him a salute.

   “Thank you, soldier.  See ya on the other side, yeah?”

   Bobby nodded, though he didn’t know why.  He descended the ladder and rolled it away from the plane. 

   Russell pressed a few buttons and the Plexiglass dome lurched forward, sealing him in.  The aircraft whirred to life with a gradual, yet thundering spur.

   Two faceless soldiers pulled open the hangar door and Russell pushed down on the throttle.  The plane jerked as the wheels gripped the concrete and rolled forward.

   Russell’s eyes dropped to Bobby once more, who watched, transfixed, as the F-18 crept by him like a monumental float on the 4th of July.  

   It would be the last time he would ever see Bobby Brodeaur alive.

   Though it would be much disputed, Bobby Brodeaur would be the first recorded Variant to set foot on Canadian soil.  After Brodeur’s attack, a slew of Variants would soon follow.  Bobby would be shot and killed outside his barracks moments after tearing Dick Breadman’s tongue from his mouth.  Breadman would die in the hospital four hours later, the final of Brodeur’s 12 victims.  How and why Bobby Brodeur became a Variant would forever go unsolved. 

   As for Lieutenant Hughes, he would not have the misfortune of seeing the madness unfold in the country he loved so much, as he would never again cross the border back into Canada.  Russell Hughes’ journey within the wasteland that was now America was set to begin.

   God keep our land glorious and free, O Canada, we stand on guard for thee…O Canada we stand on guard for thee, stand on guard for thee, guard for thee, for thee…

   And the record stopped.

Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #6

The Wisconsin River

Lewiston, WI

Day 41 of The Rise

   “So they’re called Variants, huh?” Stevie grunted.  The color in his face had gone and his voice was weak and broken.  He craned his neck, trying not to look at Max suturing his calf. 

   “Look a little pale there, pal,” Dave said, a little bemused. 

   “Fuck off!” Stevie snapped, and the color returned to his cheeks in a flash of rage.

   “Kid’s got a temper, huh?” Dave said, turning the Harry.  Harry lowered his head, choosing, instead, to stare at his dirty fingernails.  “Cat got your tongue?” Dave asked.  Harry shrugged it off and took a step toward Hannah.

   “He doesn’t like strangers,” Hannah said quietly.

   “Who does?”  Dave reached into his back pocket and removed a crumpled pack of Marlboro Mediums.  The gold font kicked up a bit of morning light and streaked across Hannah’s face.  He shook the pack and a cigarette tipped out.  He stuck it in his mouth and lit it with a shiny, silver Zippo.  Hannah watched him curiously, and when his eyes met hers he offered her the pack.  “Want one?”

   She shrugged.

   “Is that a no?”

   “No,” she said.  “I think I will have one.”

   “You don’t smoke,” Harry whispered.

   “He speaks!” Dave cried.  “Thank God almighty the boy speaks.  It’s a miracle, I tell ya!  It’s a miracle.”  Dave’s voice took on his radio persona.  He raised his arms to the heavens, shaking them in mock lunacy.  Hannah took a step toward Dave and he handed her the pack.  She clumsily withdrew a cigarette and stuck it between her lips.  Dave couldn’t help but smile at her awkwardness.

   “What are you grinning at?” Hannah barked.

   “Nothing.”  But, of course, that wasn't altogether true.

   “Just light it.”

   Dave flicked open the Zippo and clicked back on the thumbwheel.  A flame kicked up from the wick and he held it to her.  Hannah leaned toward it, captivated by the dancing flame.  The tip kissed the end of the cigarette and she inhaled.  Her lungs contracted as the smoke worked its way inside of her and she choked on a breath.  Then heaved.  She lowered her face and her tongue fell out, saliva spilling across the dirt in a disgusting line.  It took nearly a minute for her breathing to normalize again.  Her back and chest felt tight and sore and the cigarette continued to burn between her fingers.

   “You all right?”  Dave stuck his cigarette between his lips and took a long, patronizing drag.

   “Fine…” Hannah muttered.  She put the cigarette back to her lips, took a quick breath in, and immediately blew it out, not daring to let that foreign smoke torture her lungs again.

   “All done,” Max said placing a fresh piece of gauze of Stevie’s calf. 

   “Okay.”  Stevie hobbled to his feet.

   “The way the world’s going, sounds like we all need a break.” 

   Stevie nodded.  “Well, then I’m sorry.”

   “Sorry for what?” Max asked, zipping up his medical pack.

   Stevie cocked the .22 and pointed it between Max’s eyes.

   “What the hell’s this?” Dave shouted.  The cigarette, which had been dangling from his lips, fell from his mouth and rolled into the dirt.

   “We’ll be taking your packs now,” Stevie told them.

   “Excuse me?” said Max.

   “You heard me!  Hand it over.”

   “Listen, friend—“

   “I ain’t your friend!”

   “Stevie, what are you doing?” Hannah screamed.

   “We might need their packs!”

   “We might need them!” 

   “Doubtful.” 

   “What are you gonna do?  Kill them?” 

   “If I have to.”  Stevie’s words were so cold and definitive they seemed to knock Max backwards.

   “You don’t mean that,” Hannah said.

   “Hannah, just shut up and take the bag!”

   “You don’t want to do this, son,” said Dave.

   “Shut up!” 

   “Stevie!”

   “Stop yelling or I’ll shoot all of ya!” 

   Silence tore through the group and Max shook the bag off his shoulder.  The strap fell lazily to the crux of his elbow and he wiggled it to his fingers.  There was a moment of hesitation, maybe contemplation, before he extended his hand to Hannah.  “Here.”

   Hannah lowered her head and stepped to him.  She took the leather strap in her fingers.  “I’m sorry.”

   Max nodded his recognition then averted his eyes.  Sweat lined his brow in tiny droplets of glimmering terror.  Stevie’s finger danced over the trigger with anxious energy.

   When the gun would go off—some seconds later—the bullet would exit the barrel in a thunderous flash, whiz so close to Hannah her hair would flutter and skip over Max’s shoulder fraying his tattered, wool sweater.  The bullet would eventually lodge in one of the pines fifteen feet behind them, splintering wood and tearing bark in the process.  That first bullet, however, wouldn’t draw any blood.  “Now I want you two—“ Stevie started.  But the hammer dropped on the .22 and the bullet exploded out of the barrel.  Stevie’s eyes went wide.  Hannah dropped to the ground.  Max clasped his hand to his right ear.    But Stevie knew they came out unscathed when he saw the pine trunk spray a cloud of bark dust.

   With Stevie’s eyes fixed on the recently executed pine, Harry snatched up a broken tree branch lying near his feet.  Dave saw him grab it and witnessed Harry’s forearms flex and pulsate as he swung the branch like a baseball bat.  Stevie’s ear twitched when he heard the rush of wind as the branch cut through the air.  The top half of the branch struck the side of his face.  There was a quick thwack as they heard the crunch of Stevie’s teeth dislodge from his gums and rattle around his mouth.  The end of the branch caught Stevie on the forehead, just above the eye, slicing open his skin and drawing blood.  A river of red flowed into his eye, stinging him.

   Stevie screamed a horrifying, gut-wrenching scream and he lost his grip on the gun.

   Harry wound up and struck him again.  The branch connected with the other side of Stevie’s face and there was another crunch, this one originating from his nose.  It flattened and made a sound like somebody stepping on a Twinkie still in its bag.  Another scream sound amongst the pines.  The scene was such a gory mess it would have otherwise made Harry puke, but his adrenaline was so immense his stomach wouldn’t cooperate.  

   Harry raised the branch over his head and brought it down on top of Stevie’s.  This time there was a clunk, like a poorly struck golf ball, and Stevie dropped to his knees.

Harry began to hit Stevie with short, efficient strokes, each one drawing a small amount of blood, shooting out  in quick spurts.  Stevie’s body was fetal, his eyes clenched shut.  He screamed in pleading bursts, but Harry refused to stop.  

   “Harry…” Hannah said warily.  But she found she didn’t want him to stop.  She wanted Stevie to suffer for what he had done to their father, for what he wanted to do to Dave and Max, and for what he probably would have done to her and Harry.

   There was a clink that resonated after the final blow, Stevie’s bottom teeth connected with the tops and his head snapped back in one furious motion.  Stevie’s body rolled off the bank, bouncing across the prehistoric roots, and splashed into the river’s shallow water.  There was the brief sound of bone connecting with rock and then the current swallowed him up.  Harry thought Stevie might float, even surface for a moment, but he didn’t; he was sucked into the depths of the river like some sort of evil vacuum.  

   Harry stood there, staring at the water as it settled back to its original, peaceful flow.  Blood dripped from the end of the branch and formed an irregular puddle on the soil.  His massive, broad chest heaved in and out with he gasping breath, but he perspired very little.

   At last, Harry’s breathing slowed and he looked up at the others.  Hannah’s eyes were the only ones that met his, Dave and Max were staring at the bloodied branch still clutched in his hand.  Hannah was crying, but it wasn’t out of fear or sadness or anger, it was simply an emotional outburst she no longer could control.  She would’ve liked to have swatted Stevie a few times herself, but that wasn’t how things had unfolded.  And it was just as well.  Harry dropped the branch and went to his sister.  He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.  Tears fell on the side of his neck as her sobbing intensified.  

   “Jesus, son, you sure do know how to give a licking,” someone finally said (Harry thought it was Mr. Cash), his words breaking the silence as well as the tension.

   “He killed our pa.”  Hannah's words shook as her crying tapered off.  Dave and Max asked no questions and provided no inquires, they simply nodded their acknowledgement.  “I’m Hannah.  And this is my brother Harry.  And I truly can’t tell you how pleased we are to have come across you.”

   “Pleasure’s ours,” Max said shaking their hands.  “Now then, why don’t you tell us what you’ve seen out there.  Seems like we’re all gonna have stories that’ll unsettle more than a few nights of sleep.”

   And that’s what they did, swapping stories for the next few of hours.  The tales of horror and macabre seemed artificial and staged, nobody could truly believe the things they were saying.  Though, all knew the stories were true and the terror was real.

   They went on talking until it was nearly midday and then hunger struck them.  Max opened a can of garbonzo beans and a pouch of tuna packed in water, a feast which they all shared. 

   After lunch Dave lit another cigarette and went on talking about a Variant who had entered the radio station, and how his producer, Larry Kling struggled with it until they both toppled out the twelfth floor window, landing in a bloody heap on Washington Boulevard.

   When the beans were gone and the tuna pouch licked clean, they zipped up their packs and got into the boat.  Harry drove the thing down the river while the others sat up front.  And though he never said it, Harry traversed those waters half expecting Stevie to explode from its depths and pull him under like a savage crocodile.  That, however, never happened.

   Harry Phillips and Stevie Kohler would not cross paths for another twelve weeks, when a very alive, very bitter, very incensed Stevie Kohler would shoot Harry Phillips in the chest. 

Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #5

The Wisconsin River

Lewiston, WI

Day 41 of The Rise

   When dawn arrived, Hannah’s tears had subsided, her body shaking with the slightest of vibrations.  Harry hadn’t moved or taken his hand off the throttle.  He gripped the handle so tight his palm had clammed into a white and translucent prune.  He could feel the sweat tickling the insides of his fingers, but he wasn’t willing to adjust for comfort.  He kept his eyes fixed on the villain that was now Stevie Kohler.  Stevie occupied in the boat's middle seat, staring out at the water that meandered around bend after bend.  He had become fantastically pale, and the sun beating down on him made his skin almost sparkle in the morning's new light.

   And then a voice, eager and expectant, called from the riverbank.  It was a faint and dying,  but unmistakable, “Hello…!” that echoed away into the trees.

   Harry's hand slipped off the throttle and the motor sputtered to a halt.

   “Hello…!” the voice came again.

   Stevie got to his feet, the .22 rifle cocked and ready.  The boat wavered against the current and Hannah stifled a sudden rush of nausea. 

   “Who is that?” Hannah whispered.

   “Hello over there…!” 

   Under the tall pine branches Harry saw a pair of faded jeans and a pair of ragged slacks walking along the shoreline.

   “Hello!” Harry called back.

   “What are you doing, Phillips?” Stevie hissed.  “Shut the fuck up!”

   “They might need help.  Or maybe they can help us.”

   “Or maybe you just wanna rat me out for what I did to yer daddy?”

   “So what if I do?  What’s gonna happen?  They gonna send you to jail?  In case you hadn’t noticed, Stevie, the world kinda ended.” 

   Stevie’s eyes wandered over Harry with a mix of skepticism and intrigue.  “All right,” he said.  “But, even still, you mention one word about yer daddy and I’ll kill all ya both.” 

   Harry pulled back on the throttle and headed for shore.  The boat’s metal underside slide across the bed of rocks.  Hannah jumped out and helped pull the boat onto the saturated sand.

   “Go on,” Stevie told Harry, motioning with the rifle.

   Harry hopped out and Stevie followed.  There was a small section of eroded shoreline next to the boat with massive, prehistoric-looking roots protruding from the earth.  One by one, they used the roots to climb to where they had seen the jeans and slacks.  Even with the rifle and his injured leg, Harry and Hannah were surprised at how nimble Stevie was at maneuvering the eroded shoreline. 

   “Anyone here?” Harry called.

   “Over here!”  The voice was very close now.

   Harry crouched and saw the jeans and slacks traversing through the dense pines.

   “Goddamn it, we just came this way!” Harry heard one of the voices hiss.

   “Are you sure?” the other voice asked, his tone a little meeker than the first.

   “Stay there!  We’ll come to you!” Harry called.

   The voices continued bickering and Harry followed them like a pair of comical compasses.  Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb were lost in the woods, ready to strangle each other; how perfectly strange.

   Harry emerged from a cluster of pines and saw two men standing before him.  The man wearing the jeans was tall and slender.  He had sandy blonde hair which was thinning to the point of non-existence, and his smile was blisteringly white, almost harsh in the morning sun.  There was a gray North Face backpack, stuffed to the gills, slung around his shoulders.  He was wearing a 94.7 WLS-FM t-shirt that was coated in a fine layer of dust but, otherwise, in good condition.  Had Harry been a Detroit resident (or owned a radio for that matter) he might have recognized it was “D.J. Dave Cash In The Morning” staring back at him.  But, since neither were the case, such a realization never came to pass.

   The man sporting the slacks was much shorter than Mr. Cash.  He had thick, black rimmed glassed propped on the bridge of his nose making him look a bit like Squints Palledorous.  He was quite portly and seemed to waddle rather than walk.  There was a black leather attache case strapped across his chest, which, at first glance, looked more like an expensive purse.  Both of their eyes doubled in size when they saw Stevie aiming the .22 at them.  Their hands went up and Harry could see the yellowing pit stains that blotched both of their shirts.

   “Look, we-we-we don’t want any trouble,” the man with the glasses said.

   “Stevie, put that down,” Harry told him.

   Stevie lowered the gun, but kept it at the ready.  His eyes were quick and untrusting, and all of them were more than aware of it.

   “You all right, buddy,” Dave Cash asked.

   Stevie nodded, but kept the frown, his eyes unwavering and tense. 

   “What are you two doing out here?” Harry asked.

   “Found him coming up from Chicago,” Dave said.  “I was coming down from Detroit.  Told him ain’t worth going up there.  City had been taken, so I just got the fuck out.”

   “Jesus,” Hannah muttered.

   “You said it, sister,” Dave grumbled.

   “My name’s Max.  Max Horwitz,” the man with the glasses said. “This here is Dave Cash.”

   There was a look in Dave’s eye as if he expected recognition, that they would all fall to their knees and praise the glory that was DJ Dave Cash in the Morning.  But when only somber, sullen eyes glanced back at him, he knew he would get no such attention.

   “What you got in yer bags?”  Stevie asked.

   “Medicine,” said Max, adding, “I’m a doctor.  Managed to round up what I could.”

   “Think you can fix up my leg?” Stevie said limping forward.

   Max’s eyes fell to Stevie’s leg and he saw the sides of his knee were sickly and blue. 

   “Jeez, that sure looks bad,” Max said uneasily.  “Come and sit over here.”  Max patted the base of a fallen tree and Stevie limped to it.  He took a seat and lifted his leg.  Max squatted next to him.     “What kind of gun is that?” Max asked unzipping the pack.  Inside were all the tools a doctor might need to perform a craniotomy on the go, fixed with scalpels, syringes, bandages, peroxide, antiseptics, pills, and sutures. 

   “None of your business,” Stevie said.

   “Just making conversation,” Max said throwing the end of the stitch through the tip of a needle.  

   “You believe what’s going on out there?” Dave asked.

   “It’s awful,” said Hannah.

   “Government’s calling those things ‘Variants.’”

   “How you know that?”  Stevie barked his question with blatant suspicion.

   Dave went on, seeming not to notice.  “We got a radio.  Most of the stations are shut down, except for one: the Emergency Response Station.  It’s only a recording, but knowing the government did something is better than radio silence.”

   “What’s it say?” Hannah asked.

   “Well, here…”  Dave unzipped his backpack and removed out a small, bedside radio.  He flicked it on and held it out so the others could listen.  “Runs on a loop.  Been running for days now—“

   “Weeks,” Max interrupted.

   “Yeah, weeks, I guess…shit…The recording’s just wrapping up.”

   “…life under any circumstances.  Good luck and Godspeed,” the voice on the radio said.  There was a long pause of white noise and the radio’s female voice came back.  The woman’s slow, calculating, robotic voice chimed in with such strange apathy Hannah thought it had to be computerized.  But, somehow, there was a sense of terror in the voice, computerized or not.  “This is a special bulletin from the United States Government…”

   Ain’t nothing special about it, Hannah thought.

   “This report is in conjunction with the United States Military, the Center for Disease Control, and the Federal Emergency Management Agency,” it continued.  “By now you all know we have been attacked.  How this terrible tragedy has started, we are not entirely sure.  What the CDC can confirm, however, is that this is not a disease outbreak.  From what we have gathered and studied over this short time, those initiating the attacks are—as best we can tell—still human, only a slight variation.  Because of this, the CDC is calling the murderers: Variants.  In spite of their behavior traits, their genetics appear unchanged.  It is unclear if the variation has to do with the nervous, cardio, or endocrine systems, but we are continuing to exhaust all the possibilities.  Contrary to initial reports, these Variants are not what some are calling ‘zombies.’  Variants possess no cannibalistic tendencies of any kind.”  The woman’s voice wavered, suggesting a bit of humanness, and the horror in her voice grew.  

   Cannibalistic tendencies.  A shiver ran up Hannah’s spine and her body turned to ice. 

   “Their only true motivation appears to be rage.  The United States Military is working contain the problem and are assuring everyone there is no reason to panic.  If you come across a Variant or they are outside your home, lock the door and stay inside.  Don’t approach or antagonize them.  Stay safe and out of their way.  Again, please rest assured the CDC, FEMA, and United States Military are working tirelessly to stop the madness…”

   The madness.

“…currently plaguing this great country.  As long as everyone stays calm and alert, this problem will be resolved shortly.  The military is discouraging any and all types of vigilantism.  Anyone caught intervening will be prosecuted to the fullest extent.  There are to be no attempts on the Variants’ lives under any circumstances.  Good luck and Godspeed.”

   The report finished and the white noise returned before the woman’s voice started all over again, “This is a special bulletin from the United States Government…”

   Dave switched off the radio and the wind rippling the water and rustling the trees suddenly became still.

Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #4

Castle Rock Lake, Adams County, Wisconsin

Day 40 of The Rise   

   At first it did not seem real.  

   The sound was so jarring the four felt a simultaneous wave of discombobulating terror.  There was a screeching whirr that tore across the river bed, shaking the river’s steady current.  

   Hannah covered her ears and gritted her teeth.  She cocked her head and looked up at the darkened sky.  There were hundreds of sparkling stars, but no source of the sound.  She looked down at Stevie who was lying in the bottom of the boat.  His ears were uncovered but he, too, was searching for the violent sound.  Hannah’s eyes flicked over to her father and Harry.  The expressions on their faces were identically docile, as if they hadn’t heard the foreign noise.  But they did hear it.  They threw their heads back, inspecting the dark sky with the same degree of calculation. 

   “What is that?” Harry shouted as the sound exploded around them.

   And then they saw it.

   Hannah’s eyes bulged, the whites shimmering against the glowing moon.  Above them, no more than two hundred feet up, they watched as the outline of a jetliner streaked across the sky.  The tail of the plane passed over them as the aircraft’s nose dipped down.  Hannah saw a fire on the hull of the plane, black smoke pluming out in a cataclysmic cloud.  The boat rocked as the plane’s engines sucked up the air around them and waves rippled across the dark water nearly capsizing their boat.  The plane’s left wing tilted left and struck the top of the lake, the achy metal twisting in the unforgiving water.  The tail slid back and forth in one succinct motion and then the front end of the plane appeared to topple forward.  For a moment, the plane looked like it would roll over onto its side like a sick Labrador, but it only skipped across the water in three successions.  Fire erupted from the tail and metal exploded out one of the sides.  The left engine, engulfed in flames, exploded into a billowing fireball.  The engine whistled a furious tune as it disappeared into the star-filled sky before its smoldering mess landed on the shoreline a hundred yards away.  Gasoline peppered the water and ignited into a manic ring of fire.  The battered plane gave one last cough of concession as it was sucked into the abyss of an angry maelstrom of death, waiting for Castle Rock Lake to swallow it up.  The plane settled, then the noise settled, and then the screams came.

    “Christ!” Hannah heard her father say as the ringing in her ears dissipated.  “Harry, turn this thing round.”

   “Stop!” Stevie shouted.

   “You nuts, boy?” Bill shouted, alarmed.

   “We can’t help those people,” Stevie said pulling himself up off the boat’s floor.

   “Like hell we can’t!” Bill said.

   “If we go back for them, then we’ll all die.”

   “That’s ridiculous!  Come on, Harry, turn ‘er around.”

   Harry went to turn the rudder, but stopped when he heard Stevie cock the .22.  He looked up to find him pointing the gun at Bill.

   “What in the hell you doin’, son?” Bill asked, not an ounce of fear in his voice.  

   “We’re not helping them.  The only reason we’re alive is because we never went back and we sure as hell ain’t starting now!”

   “That ain’t no Variants!  That’s a plane!  And people are gonna die unless we go an’ help ‘em!”  Bill was angry now, his voice no longer calm or fatherly. 

   “How do you know there ain’t Variants!” Stevie cried.

   “Put the gun down!” Hannah screamed.

   “Stay outta this!”

   “Don’t you talk to her like that,” Bill told him, his voice thundering around them.  

   Bubbles began popping all around the sinking plane as if it was being sucked down.

   “Keep going Harry,” Stevie said, his eyes never leaving Bill.

   “Don’t listen to him,” Bill said.

   “Do it!”

   “No!”

   “If you help them, I will shoot you Bill.”

   Hannah could see Harry’s mind spinning, crippled by the peril that stood before him.  His hand was shaking on the rudder, but his eyes were steady and focused. 

   “Move over,” Bill said to Harry.

   Harry did as he was told and Bill pulled back on the throttle.  The boat leaned back as the motor roared.  The engine’s sound was so loud it nearly drowned out the gunshot that followed.  

   Nearly…

   Blood spattered across Harry’s face and neck in a quick burst.  Bill’s body slumped back against the motor.  The small red dot on his chest expanded into a splotch of dark maroon.  Bill’s eyes locked on Stevie’s with a look of mixed horror and disbelief before rolling back in his head.  His eyelids fell and then Bill Phillips became still.  The death had happened so fast Harry had not been able to move.     But Hannah was quick to rush Stevie.

   If she hadn’t screamed, she may have gotten him, but her rage was too flagrant to go unnoticed.  Stevie swung the rifle around and the end of the barrel caught Hannah’s right cheek.  Pain surged up her face stinging her eye.  She fell back striking her head against one of the oars.  The world spun and hazed all at once.

   Stevie spun back around as Harry was getting to his feet and cocked the gun in one brilliant motion.  “Uh, uh, uh…” he muttered.  “Take a seat, Phillips, and get us out of here.”

   Harry stared at him, incensed. 

   “I did what I had to do,” was all Stevie said.

   Harry could still feel the warmth from his father’s body next to him and he stifled the urge to cry.  On the floor of the boat he could hear Hannah’s soft whimpers, but they were suddenly drowned out by another throaty rumble from the dying plane.

   “Shut up!” Stevie shouted at her.  “Now, get us outta here or else I’ll shoot yer sister, too.”

   Harry pulled back on the throttle, but only barely, spurring the boat to life again.  Stevie climbed over the middle seat, the gun pinned on Harry.  He reached down with one hand and grabbed hold of Bill’s plaid shirt, now soaked in gruesome layer of sticky blood.

   “Don’t touch him!” Hannah screamed.

   “You wanna join him?” Stevie asked.

   This silenced Hannah.

   Harry watched as Stevie pulled up Bill from his collar and dumped him over the side.  There was a shuddering gulp as the water sucked Bill Phillips down and then there was nothing.  Harry turned back and watched the ripples of the water settle as the boat traveled away.

   “…You hear me, Phillips?” Harry heard Stevie yelling.

   “Wha’?”

   “I said move!  That plane explodes we’ll all be ripped to shreds!”

   Harry thought he nodded, but it didn’t matter.  He felt himself pull back on the throttle and the boat sped away.  The screams echoing from the plane churned Harry’s gut and he thought for a moment that he would vomit.  But he didn’t.  Stevie was sitting in front of him now, the .22 clutched in his hands.  He wondered if it possible to let go of the throttle and tackle him before Stevie had a chance to react.  He just had to be quick.  All he had to do was get the upper hand.  That’s all there was to it.  He would knock him out and go back for his father.  He would dive into the dark and pull him from the watery grave.  He would get him back in the boat and find a way to save him.  He would go back for the others on the plane and pull them to safety.  He would save them all…

   But the boat roared along, pitter-pattering on the waves, leaving the plane entombed in its spectacular ring of fire.

   Hannah would whimper until morning, not knowing that it was the Globemaster C-17 carrying Captain Blake, Lara Holliday, and Enrique Valenzuela that was being devoured by the depths of Castle Rock Lake.

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.