Patrick Griffin's Last Breakfast on Earth (27 page)

“Oh,” replied Patrick as he grabbed hold of her big wet ponytail and clambered up onto the back-platform.

“Say,” said the giant, peeking over her shoulder, “that's some shirt you're wearing—what color is that, dark zebra?”

Patrick looked down at his new shirt and shook his head. In the monochrome flashes of lightning he supposed it was hard to see that the stripes of Bing Steenslay's shirt were yellow, not white.

“Um, I guess it would be dark bee.”

“Ah,” said the giant, squatting slightly. “Dark bee. Well, just don't sting me, ay?”

Patrick smiled and wondered if she might be Canadian.

“All comfy?”

“Sure,” said Patrick, twining the handhold straps around his arms.

“Good. Now hold tight!”

And with that, the giant carried Patrick out into the stormy night, quickly crossing several streets and at least twice as many backyards.

“Got elbow room back there?” asked the giant over her shoulder, her booming words loud enough to be understood through the storm.

“Yeah, sure,” yelled Patrick. The only trouble was that the giant's wet gray ponytail kept swishing back and forth and sometimes hitting him in the face.

“Good, 'cause here's our friend!”

The big woman squatted and Oma stepped forward from behind a tree, quickly clambering aboard the platform next to Patrick. She was wearing a ninja suit, just like the girl from the locker room.

“Hello, Patrick Griffin!” she said, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“So what's the plan?” asked Patrick as the giant stood. “Where are we going?”

“We're going to go learn a thing or two.”

“Grip tight, we've reached the woods!” announced the giant.

A welter of torn leaves and small sticks drove home the point. She forged forward maybe a half mile into what seemed to be a proper forest, and then the big woman stopped and tensed.

Patrick craned his neck to see what was going on. The giant was looking intently at a nearby pine tree and, after a moment, her hand darted down through its boughs. A horrible screeching noise ensued as the giant brought the same hand down and over her shoulder to Oma. Extending from the top of her massive fist was the head of a very unhappy raccoon.

Oma smiled and quickly secured a band around the panicked animal's neck.

“What the!?” said Patrick.

Oma fist-bumped the giant's finger and turned her attention to her binky. She pulled her ankh necklace up, swiped the pendant against the back of the device, and pressed it into Patrick's belly.

“What are you doing!?” asked Patrick.

“What?!”

Patrick yelled the question more loudly. The storm's roar was not easy to overcome even at a standstill.

“Had to disable—tracking—personal beacon!” she replied. “—raccoon—false signal—me, both. Red herring—better chance—”

“Okay!?” said the giant.

“Okay!” said Oma. The big woman opened her hand and the terrified raccoon scooted off into the storm.

“Come back soon, raccoon,” said Oma.

“Now,” said the giant, holding up a pair of earbuds the size of strawberries, “I hope you don't think me unmannerly, but I make mooch better progress when I keep a beat.”

“Enjoy!” said Oma.

The giant smiled affably, popped the buds into her ears, quickly did something to her oversized binky, replaced the device in the pocket of her flannel shirt, and took off running.

“—what—you think of Purse-Phone?!” asked Oma, leaning in close.

“Who is she?!” asked Patrick, trying to stop his head from banging against the pack.

“A Commonplacer!” she replied.

“Okay, and
what
is she?!” asked Patrick, looking up at the back of the woman's hairy—woolly, actually—neck.

She gave an answer but a thunderclap shook the very ground just then. It sounded to Patrick like maybe she'd said “sock scratch.”

Patrick shook his head.

“—talk more when—get there,” she yelled. “It's kind—hard—hear!”

“Okay!” agreed Patrick.

Oma leaned up against him again and he in turn against Purse-Phone's back. The volume on the giant's buds was up very loud and the beat—with which she was keeping pace—reminded Patrick of a Green Day song he'd always quite liked, “Warning Sign.” Despite the strangeness of it all, despite the noise, and despite the pelting rain, Patrick felt pretty warm and happy.

And, before very much longer, he fell sound asleep.

 

CHAPTER 44

Course Correction

Novitiate Frank Kyle had heard of “seeing stars” but it wasn't till this moment, trying to stand, that he had experienced the condition firsthand.

Whatever had hit him had hit him very hard. Hard enough to have given him a concussion, hard enough to have made him lose consciousness. He explored his face with his fingers. The socket of his left eye was puffy, the bridge of his nose tender. Now, as long as his—

A horrible realization dawned as he tried to focus his eyes through the swirling spots in his vision: his golf bag was right there on the grass next to him—but the gun was gone!

He kicked the bag over in case somehow the weapon had ended up underneath. It wasn't there.

He reached into his fanny pack for his BNK-E so he could initiate the weapon's homing signal, but now an equally if not even more horrible feeling overcame him—the spare ammunition was still there, but his BNK-E was missing, too!

Only decades of training kept him from outright panic. He judged the sun's position hadn't radically shifted—probably he hadn't been unconscious for more than half a deuce—then he reached down to his ankle to make sure his ceramic combat knife was still there. His assailant hadn't known about that, at least. He removed it from its sheath and, as he did so, noticed something wrong with his knuckles. In blue permanent ink,
N-I-C-E
was spelled out on his left knuckles, and
F-A-C-E
on the right.

He tamped down his anger. He had to stay rational. Clearly the enemy combatant was employing psychological warfare, was trying to discomfit him, was trying to throw him off his game.

He tucked the blade up inside the sleeve of his Tommy Hilfiger jacket and inspected the putting green beneath his feet. Head down, he walked four, five, six meters and finally spied the telltale impressions—long, thin footprints that could only belong to the enemy combatant. He followed them a few meters and confirmed that there was only the one set—the creature was alone.

Lips closed and without a sign of worry or strain upon his bruised face, he hurried along his enemy's path.

Novitiate Frank Kyle followed the trail down the gently curving green. His target was sticking to the winding but easy-to-navigate fairway. His surgical augments allowed him to sprint at over fifty kilometers per hour, and he took full advantage of them as he turned off the course and sprinted up the wooded hill to the south. Hurdling the old stone wall at its crest, he half hoped to see his targets on the next green, but instead, standing next to a golf cart in the middle of a gravel path were a middle-aged man and woman. Each was wearing a Tommy Hilfiger golfing outfit identical to his own.

His stomach surged upward as if he were standing in an elevator whose cables had been cut. He considered running back the way he had come—running with abandon, running till he dropped from exhaustion. But there would be no point. They would overtake him as surely as the night. He dropped his shoulders and went to meet his fellow novitiates from—and competitors for—Prefecture One.

“Nice face,” said the broad-shouldered woman, Novitiate Sara Michel.

“Yes, I expect the contusion will last a good while,” admitted Frank Kyle.

“Is that all just contusion?” said Novitiate Greg Andrew, his voice dripping with unkind amusement.

“There's
writing
on your face, brother,” said Sara Michel, pursing her perfectly glossed lips as she held out her BNK-E.

Frank Kyle put his hand to his face.

The screen of Sara Michel's BNK-E pushed upward, quickly adopting the shape of a man's head. Frank Kyle recognized the subject of the communications holograph and quickly lowered his hand, which had begun to tremble.

“Are we correct in observing that you have lost your BNK-E?” said the deep-voiced, dark-eyed head. This was none other than Victor Pierre, Rex's very first novitiate here on Earth. Rumor had it that it was he who had personally overseen the last winnowing—the elimination of unfit novitiates after the annual review. The fact that he was personally involved in this, was directly communicating from his European post, was a terrifying sign.

“Mirror app, horizontal inversion,” said Greg Andrew to his own BNK-E, and passed it to Frank Kyle, who now saw on his forehead the words
BAD MAN
.

“Oh,” said Frank Kyle.

“Let's get moving, shall we?” said Sara Michel.

Frank Kyle briefly stared into Victor Pierre's depthless, data-dilated eyes.

“I have another call. We'll debrief later,” said the head, and promptly melted back into Sara Michel's screen.

“Did you at least get a good look at the enemy combatant?” asked Greg Andrew as he gestured for Frank Kyle to get into the golf cart.

“Umm,” said Frank Kyle, marshaling his thoughts, “lagomorphic, maybe forty-one, forty-two kilograms.”

“So you got beat up by … a
bunny
,” said Sara Michel.

Frank Kyle ignored the taunt. He'd still beaten them to the target. And he had known they weren't going to be supportive. Until and unless they made the final twelve, they would remain his competitors, not his friends.

“It's not a flier, at least—it
can't
have gotten too far,” he said as he sat. “It was heading southeast—”

“Rex has cut short the mission,” said Sara Michel.

“We,” said Greg Andrew, “have a vid conference in less than a deuce.”

Though his mouth had gone entirely dry, Frank Kyle found himself swallowing. He wondered if he'd have a chance to wash his face before then. Not that it probably mattered.

 

CHAPTER 45

To Dream, Perchance to Sleep

The next thing Patrick knew it was daytime. He was awake and lying upon the narrow strip of grass behind the garage.

He was glad to be back home, back in the real world. But he couldn't help feeling a little wistful. He'd been proud of himself for deciding to join Oma, and that adventure with her and the giant had been genuinely exciting.

But there was no question about falling back asleep here, about getting back to the dream. The grass was wet and he was stiff and sore and thirsty and he absolutely had to get back inside and clean up the kitchen before his parents came back and he found himself grounded for the rest of his life.

His being outside behind the garage like this wasn't any big mystery. He must have staggered out when the kitchen had filled with fumes, and then, obviously, passed out.

He hurried around the garage and crossed the yard to the side door—the same door through which he'd let out the cat.

There were voices down the hall. His father's—and Neil's, and Carly's, and maybe Eva's.

And while he knew he should be worried about being in trouble, he realized suddenly, acutely, that he had missed them all—really actually missed them. He burst through to the kitchen door, knocking right into Neil.

“Hey, buddy. What's that on your face!?” his older brother yelled, grabbing him by the shoulders.

“What!?” asked Patrick, anger and embarrassment clutching at his chest.

“No way,” said Neil. “Hey, everybody—PATRICK'S WEARING MAKEUP!”

 

CHAPTER 46

Executional Assessment