Apocalypticon (37 page)

“You just saw it. The storms make it hard to grow with any sort of consistency. The rain falls so hard, it washes out a lot of the younger crops, or drowns the bigger ones. We lose probably 60% of what we sow.”

Rusty wheels slowly creaked to life in Patrick’s brain. He rubbed his chin, staring thoughtfully at the garden. “You know what you need,” he said, squinting and wagging a finger in the air. “You need a water distribution system. Something that’ll collect the rain and distribute it evenly through the garden over a longer period of time.
That’s
what you need.”

James nodded. “That sounds useful. Think they have those at Home Depot?”

“Sure, you could pick one up next time you run into town. Or! Or. You could have one custom designed by a wandering, talented, yet unfortunate-looking engineer.”

“Aw, damn. We just lost our last wandering, talented, yet unfortunate-looking engineer last week.”

“Fear not,” Patrick said, clapping James on the shoulder. “For I, too, am a wandering, somewhat talented, yet unfortunate-looking engineer. And believe me when I tell you, I would be thrilled to design a water distribution system for you.”

“That sounds good to me,” James nodded, smiling out over the garden. “How long do you think it’d take?”

“The design itself wouldn’t take long. I could have something drawn up in a day or two. Building it, though, that’ll take some time. Maybe two, two and a half weeks, depending on how easy materials are to come by.”

“Well, we’d sure appreciate any sort of plans you could come up with, if you don’t mind sticking around a day or two.”

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll help you build the whole blessed thing.”

James raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have anything better to do for the next few weeks than build a glorified watering hose?”

“I have very good things to do,” Patrick admitted, “this is true. But James, old boy, fish gotta swim, raptors gotta hunt, and engineers gotta geek out over complex structures.”

James’ lopsided grin nearly tipped over the side of his face. “Well, we’re happy to have you. Like I said, you’re welcome to an open cabin, and stay as long as you want.”

“I hereby declare that I will not rest until your water distribution system is complete!” Patrick cried, hoisting a determined finger in the air.

“You should probably rest at some point,” James said.

“Well, sure, I’ll rest. I didn’t mean that in the strictest sense. More in the royal sense.” Patrick rubbed his hands together. Dozens of designs were already cranking through his brain. He felt an old, familiar flush of excitement. It was no steam-powered locomotive death engine, sure, but it was a
project
. But before he got started on the watering system, first things first. “You said the last one on the end there is the outhouse?”

“Last one on the left,” James said. He reached down, plucked a few cabbage leaves, and slapped them into Patrick’s hand. “Enjoy.”

•

Something inside Ben was burning. Not like acid reflux burning, but like blazing pit of hell burning, as if a pot of coals had caught fire somewhere in his left lung.
Oh shit
, he thought.
Shit, shit, shit, I swallowed a firefly. It broke open in my throat
. Then he saw the rascally little firebug, not with his eyes, of course, but with some internal unseeing, all-seeing vision. The firefly’s bioluminescent behind had been swapped with a tiny kerosene lantern, and Ben watched as the lightning bug buzzed around and around his lung sacs, until it spun out of control, heady with vertigo, and smashed into his upper lobe. The lantern broke, the bug’s fire exploded into Ben’s pleural cavity, and he caught fire from the inside out, like that big poor bastard whale in
Pinocchio
, with plumes of black smoke billowing out of his mouth, his nose, his ears, and his tear ducts. 

He coughed his way awake, though it was at first impossible to tell dream from reality, because when he opened his eyes, he did indeed see smoke, a great charcoal pillar of it enveloping his head. And when he spied the round face of a bespectacled stoner pushing through to the surface of the haze, he knew he was in hell, his own personal hell, where hippies would torment him for all eternity. “Breathe it in, man,” said the hippie, his voice echoing through the fumes. “Breathe it in, and be free.”

Ben was weak, so weak, and his throat was raw with secondhand smoke. He was on the cusp of damnation, but for this one, last moment, his will was still his own. He summoned his last, desperate breath, and rasped, “Don’t...tell me...what to do...hippie.”

He closed his eyes and fell back onto the pillow, conceding his soul to the fire within. But then gentle fingers touched his cheek, fingers too soft and smooth to be attached to the patchouli-stained hand of the flower child. He cracked open one eye. There was another face next to the hippie face, a smooth, ovular face with large, sad eyes and a long, sad scar running down the cheek. “Get out of here, Dylan,” she said, her voice a thin lilt. With a flick of her hand, she fanned the hippie away, and his devil’s smoke with him. The air cleared. The fire in his lungs petered out. This woman, this sad angel, had saved his life. In return, he hacked smoky phlegm into her face.

“Oh God,” he said, sitting up and wiping his hand across his mouth. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry. That was--“ He turned his head and retched out a few more clouds of smoke. The girl bristled noticeably.

“It’s all right,” she said evenly, her lips thin. “You inhaled a lot of smoke. Are you okay?”

He nodded and hoped his watery eyes wouldn’t betray him. “Fine. I’m--
ahem
--I’m fine. Smoke is just--
cough
--it’s bad for my lungs.”
Yes. Perfect. A sparkling conversationalist am I
, he thought. Christ.

“That smoke is bad for most people,” she said softly.

The hippie wheezed somewhere off to the left. Ben pulled himself all the way up and examined his surroundings. He was in a cabin that was divided into two rooms, a living room and a room that maybe passed for a kitchen. The front door was closed, but windows on either side showed it to be dark out, probably dusk. A low fire crackled in a small stone fireplace against one wall. The old hippie sat before it. He held a thin joint between his lips, and he was leaning in close to the fire, trying to light it with no hands. His salt and pepper bangs flopped forward into the fire and began to smoke. The smell of burnt hair and sweet ash filled the room. Ben thought he might vomit.

“Is there a bathroom?” he asked, burying his chin against his chest. He might have coughed on the sad angel, but by God, he would not throw up on her.

“Out the door, down the row, last cabin on the left,” she said.

“Thanks.” Ben pulled himself to his feet and took exactly two and one-third steps before his legs turned to jelly and he crashed to the floor. The hippie made a
cluck-cluck-cluck
sound. The girl just stood over him with her arms folded.

“You’ve inhaled too much ash. Do you need help?”

“Nope. I’m good. It’s nice down here.” The floor was cool against his cheek, and the nausea passed.
Thank God
.

The girl watched him disinterestedly. Finally she said, “I’m going to find your friend.” She left him alone with the hippie, who retrieved a broken piece of chalk from his hip pocket and began to draw the solar system on the wood slats of the floor, using the fire as the sun. He worked his way across the room, drawing spheres and rings in increasing distances from the fiery center. Ben was lying directly on top of where Saturn should go, so the hippie drew a circle with a thick ring right across his cheek. “Thank you,” Ben said, closing his eyes.

“Shh. Do not speak, Cronus.”

•

“Ben! Benny Boy! You live!” Patrick exclaimed, bursting through the door. “You live!”

“I lie,” Ben mumbled from the floor.

“Yes, you lie,” he agreed. “Well, to lie is to live, if you live to lie.”

Ben groaned. “My head hurts.”

Patrick plopped down on the floor next to his fallen and chalk-dusted friend. “The damsel with the serious expression tells me that you, my friend, are as high as a gym teacher’s hem.”

“The hippie did it,” Ben grumbled, pointing at Dylan.

“Hippies never do anything,” Patrick said, patting Ben on the head. “You know that.”

“He lives!” cried James, stepping into the cabin. “Too bad. We could’ve used the fertilizer.”

“Who’s our hilarious new friend?” Ben said, not looking up from the floor.

“This, my good man, is our noble host, James. We are guests in his camp and shall show him all proper respect. You may throw yourself prostrate at his feet.” He clapped his hands together. “Perfect. Well done.”

James stepped forward and handed Ben a leather flask. “Here, drink this.”

He eyed the jug suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Beet juice. Freshly squeezed from our own garden. It’ll clear you right up.”

Ben took the flask and drank. He turned his head and spat the beet juice into the fire, which in turn had much the same reaction. “Holy God,” he coughed, his face pinched in disgust. “I think I’ll just let it run its course.”

“Nope,” Patrick said. “We’re the guests of honor at dinner, so you need to be clear. Drink up.”

•

As they ate, Patrick regaled the crowd with a spirited retelling of his and Ben’s cross-country adventure. Sarah asked about the bandages on his hand, and the answer turned into the full, epic tale of their journey from Chicago to Mobile, flavored here and there with the spice of exaggeration. Ben’s shortened message of flame became a sweeping prairie fire. Madame Siquo’s restaurant transformed into a dark, dank cave. Reverend Maccabee’s eyes became the dark, bottomless pools of inky black hell. The dusters became green skinned, salivating monsters. The Tinder family began speaking only in robotic monotone. Leanne was now a psychotic female Rambo. The Brothers of the Post-Alignment became shabbily-robed nincompoops who beat each other about the head with Nerf bats. Ponch took on folk hero status and spoke directly to Patrick with his soul. Then, of course, Ben got the shit beat out of him, and that’s how they ended up at Fort Doom.

“What’s the next stop?” asked James.

Patrick slapped his hands together. Fire rang through his injured palm. “Ow! Dammit. Why do I keep forgetting about that?” he wondered aloud. “Anyway. Our next and final destination is Orlando, Florida, and the Wonderful World of Disney.”

“You’re going to Disney World?” James laughed. 

“We are.”

Annie snickered. “If you leave now, you can make breakfast with Mickey.”

“A capital idea! Ben, add it to the royal itinerary.”

“What’s at Disney World?” Sarah asked gently, picking at her toes on the other side of the room.

“What
isn’t
at Disney World?” Patrick cried.

“Doctors,” offered Annie. “I think I need one. My left foot started smelling like cottage cheese today. All on its own. With no discernible catalyst. Definitely not healthy. Thoughts?”

James groaned. “Anyone care to offer a subject change?”

Patrick raised his hand. “Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed. I say love, it is a flower, and you its only seed. Discuss.”

“Let’s go back to the foot,” Ben groaned, eyes rolling.

“The cosmos are one big, great fuck you. Unless you’re a worm spore. But that price is hiiiiiigh,
hombre
.”

Annie guffawed. “Please, Dylan, the grownups are talking.”

“Tell us more about the omens,” Sarah asked, her dull eyes brightening a bit. “The perils from the oracle. Have you hit them all yet?”

“Ah! An excellent question!” Patrick straightened up into full storyteller posture. “As it happens, we have not. The oracle has foretold of two more challenges that will plague our odyssey--sirens, and Bobcat Tom and the Quiet Man.”

“That’s three things,” Annie pointed out.

“Boy, I take it back. You
are
like the real Annie,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “The last two are one. I think they’re one. You know, she never actually said that, come to think of it. It was more the
way
she said it that makes me think that. So at least two more challenges, possibly three. Sirens, Bombastic Tom, and the Invisible Man.”

“I thought it was the Quiet Man,” said Annie.

“And is it Bobcat Tom or Bombastic Tom?” added James.

Patrick frowned. “Did I say--? What did I say? Secretary?” No one spoke. Patrick coughed and looked pointedly at Ben.

“Oh. That’s me? I’m the secretary now?” he asked.

Patrick nodded happily. “Yes. Please read it back.”

“I’m not your secretary.”

“Fine,” Patrick huffed. “Give me the script. I’ll take it from here.”

“There is no script.”

“
I mean the notebook
,” Patrick hissed in a loud stage whisper. “
Hand me the notebook.
”

“Yes, I know what you mean. We don’t have the notebook. It was stolen, along with everything else we own.”