Scarecrow Gods (20 page)

John was becoming angry at the fragment’s vagaries. Was he to kill every black man he came across?

“What else?”

It sounds stupid, but the only other thing we get is…

“Answer.”

…a maggot.

“A
maggot
?”

You know, them little white worms that feed off the dead?

“Yes. I know what a maggot is.” John felt his power begin to wane, the
ajna
slipping. “Now, come to me. Let me thank you. Let me love you.”

It’s about fuckin’ time you thanked me, boy
, said the fragment as it merged.

And John clamped down hard. He called again upon his
Sashasrara
and molded the luckless fragment into energy. For a fleeting moment he missed the Dolemite man, the fragment’s love and past deeds the reason for his hesitation. Gripping the deconstructed fragment, John called upon Azreal: “I invoke thee, Oh Azreal. Archangel of Neptune and ruler of the invisible powers. I ask thee now to open my third eye and show me the light. Let me see the future. Let me see the past. Let me see the present. Let me see the kingdoms of the unknown. Let me understand the light of the MacroMind. So mote it be.”

With his adapted Wiccan prayer, John the New Baptist launched from the confines of his mind and entered the realm of the MacroMind, dragging the fragment with him. The MacroMind was a deeper blue with a representation of the earth below and a Dark Sun above. John cast his sight once again forward as he searched for a host. Perhaps one of the many homeless.

It wasn’t long before he spotted a grouping of energies close by in the desert. He willed himself closer and saw that one of the energies was strobing in electric spasms. This energy was already fragmented, evidencing another splintered mind. With a rush, John descended. He felt the woman stiffen and read her thoughts. She was an illegal being carried across the border by her son and his family.
Roberto. Old, bones brittle. Please don’t drop me
. She rode high on her son’s labor-hardened back. John felt the pressure of forgetfulness surrounding her thoughts, dulling them, making her a risk to herself and others. He recognized Alzheimers. The disease made her perfect. She’d never know what hit her. He released his fragment, sending it to the fate of Rufus, Nancy, Little Ernie, Margeret and a dozen more.

He departed, a little more perfect. Not a moment too soon, he felt the
ajna
slip. He left the MacroMind and returned to a world where imperfection was the rule and where he would be ruler.

* * *

Chattanooga, Tennessee

Bergen tripped over a small stick and fell to one knee. He hit hard, but not hard enough to dislodge the sloppy grin from his face. He’d never drunk alcohol before. There’d been plenty of times where he could’ve stolen some of his father’s stock, but he’d never felt the urge. He was a good boy and good boys didn’t get drunk.

Yet, after their incredible victory over Greg and everything evil the bastard bully stood for, drinking four or five beers had just seemed the perfect thing to do. He’d have drunk more if they hadn’t run out.

Pushing himself up, Bergen sought balance and struggled against the sudden imperative to wobble. Seconds passed before his knees locked into their familiar bend. He giggled. Leaning forward, he allowed momentum to pull him towards a small oak. His hands met the rough bark and slowed him enough so that when his cheek met the wood, it was only a rough caress.

They’d kicked some serious bully butt.

Although his brother Doug had received the brunt of the bully’s attention, Greg had at one time or another cornered them all. Each one of the boys had been beaten, bruised and bloodied.

Yes, the victory was truly flawless. Julius Caesar, Attila the Hun, Alexander the Great, even Rambo would have been envious at the surgical precision with which they’d administered the ambush.

Bergen swayed into a small pine. He batted the offending branches away with his hands, feeling the needles seek his tender places. Taking one last swat at the branches, Bergen stepped past the tree, then turned and kicked it twice for good measure.

Yes. He was invincible—a Bergen David to a Greg Goliath.

Placing his hand upon a rotting stump, Bergen steadied himself. The world had gone out of focus. Some of the trees, saplings and bushes along the forest floor were coalescing and doubling. Was he drunk? Turning so his back was to the stump, he removed his glasses. With his small stubby hands he rubbed at his eyes.

One thing was for sure, he needed to get home. The quicker, the better, because the longer he stood, the worse he felt. What had once been fun was becoming perilous. Walking was difficult. His stomach churned.

Bergen replaced his glasses and stared at the path in front of him. There seemed to be two of everything. Momentarily panicked at the possible dangers of his journey home, he was able to calm himself with the seemingly logical solution that walking between the images would perhaps be safer. Stifling another giggle, he let go of the tree and allowed the heaviness of his head propel him forward.

In no time at all, Bergen had weaved his way to the thigh-high weeds that marked the edge of the forest. The two-lane, black-top road rippled like a deep dark river. He stared at it in wonder, then collected himself. What he needed was a bridge to cross the road. His mother would be seriously upset with him if he was to come home wet. God knows it would be hard enough to sneak into the house without her figuring out he’d been drinking, but soaking wet would be a dead give away.

So, Bergen stood and waited for a bridge to appear, or maybe a barge, anything that would allow him dry access to the other side of the black-top river. He swayed slightly, matching the movement of the weeds surrounding him until they became one, nudged by the small gusts of summer wind.

Bergen wasn’t certain how long he’d been waiting, but it was the sound of an engine that brought him back. He turned and couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping as a red, polka-dotted white car pulled up to the bank he was standing upon and stopped. Four vaguely familiar heads turned and seemed to consume him with their eyes. Ignoring their predatory stares, Bergen failed to stifle his laughter. This was what he had been waiting for—finally, a way across the river.

He opened his mouth to greet the two people, but was forced to pause as images of an old television show surfaced through the thick stew of his mind—a car that both floated and flew. A cool car. A magical car. So instead of a
hello
or a
hi
or any of the other greetings Bergen had learned to be the standard, slightly off-key lyrics erupted from his open mouth.

“Chitty chitty. Chitty chitty. Chitty chitty. Bang Bang.”

“What the fuck is his problem?” asked two of the heads.

“Just one of my brother’s little punk friends, is all. They’re a bunch of retards.”

Bergen heard the words and somewhere within the still sparking synapses of his mind he understood what they meant. Yet, like a broken record, he was stuck, and there was nothing he could do but follow the grooves until bumped.

“Chitty chitty. Bang Bang. Bang Bang. Bang Bang.”

What seemed like half a dozen hands reached out and grasped his shirt front, jerking him to the edge of the floating automobile and dangerously close to the rushing water beneath it. Two sets of eyes narrowed. Remembering what his father had said about the importance of staring a person in the eye when they spoke, Bergen began to swivel his head back and forth. Left. Right. Left. Right. But it wasn’t fair. He only had two eyes, not four. How was he supposed to keep up? How was he supposed to tell the truth?

“What the hell you shakin’ your head about? I haven’t even asked you a fuckin’ question, yet. Yeah. Definitely retarded. Definitely—
Whoa
! Greg. This boy’s been drinkin.”

“Bergen? No way. The gimp wouldn’t know how to drink.”

“No. Seriously, man. He reeks.”

“Shit. Probably means my brother’s been drinking too. Little bastard is going to get me in trouble. God knows I always get blamed for everything.”

The left-right-left of his head and the undulations of the black river beneath the car sent Bergen’s stomach spiraling violently against its internal confines. A strange metallic taste appeared in his mouth as if he’d just ingested a roll of old pennies. His head sagged backward as equilibrium suddenly escaped him.

“Better let him go before he gets sick, Ernie. After all this, the last thing I need is retard puke smelling up the inside of the car.”

“Wait a minute. Here,” Ernie said grabbing Bergen’s right hand, “look at this.”

Bergen stared as well and was stunned by what he saw. He knew he was going to be in trouble, for his palm was covered with dried red paint from handling the paintballs. His mind momentarily cleared, detailing the terrifically terrible enormity of the situation. He’d made a horrible mistake. He was drunk, well on the way to what was scientifically termed as
wasted
. The fear was almost enough to sober him.

“You rotten little motherfucker!”

A blow to his stomach sent the air rushing from his body. A second blow released its contents in a spew of watery alcoholic residue and yellow bile. The third blow was mercifully delayed as he heard cursing. He discovered his hands had been protectively covering his face. He spread his fingers and opened his eyes just in time to see a boot coming towards him. Before he could close them, a shattering pain left a dazzling galaxy in the place of his vision.

He heard screaming in the distance and even amidst his own pain, felt pity for the poor soul. A yawning chasm of blackness rushed towards him; although dark and deep, it was far less deadly than the light. He felt himself sliding towards the chasm, but unconsciousness was preempted by yet another blow. He felt the warm stickiness of blood mix with the slickness of snot as both ran into his mouth. He retched once more, sending shock waves of pain through his ribs. He tried to cry out, but there was no longer breath enough for it.

He whimpered once, dreading what was surely to come.

And it did…

A flurry of long-limbed retaliation sent him once and for all deep into the blackness of nowhere.

* * *

When the beating began he’d tried to stop it. But for all his size and sharp wings and claws, it had only made the boys pause in their assault upon Bergen. When the other boy who’d been dancing around cheering his friend on had picked up a large stick, Maxom knew it was time to change tactics.

He dodged the thick piece of wood twice, then hurtled himself into the woods. Once he was certain the bird would be safe, he snapped back into himself. The combination of distance and his own anxiety made his head spin. He felt nauseous. Staring down at his prosthetics laying on the carpet beneath him, he knew he had no chance to make it to the bathroom. With his remaining hand, he swept the prosthetics out of the way, a mere second before his clenched mouth opened up and the remains of scrambled eggs and grits hit the floor. He lay there heaving, his mind still spinning.

It was dangerous to disengage like that. So soon. So quick. Without any preparation. But it had been necessary. A boy’s life depended on him. No telling what was happening to him even now, much less what would happen to the boy when they left. And if there was one thing that he didn’t want, it was to have another life upon his conscience.

Maxom slid off the couch, avoiding the vomit. He pulled himself to where his prosthetics lay upon the ground. He grabbed the arm first, and began the contortions necessary to attach it. Staring at the couch in the darkness of the living room, he felt a great sweep of
Déjà Vu
.

It was happening again.

For a long time, he’d blamed himself for the death of his mother. It had been a Saturday. Four years back from the war and the Veteran’s Administration had decided that it was time for him to stop receiving his medication. So, amidst the constant itching of his phantom limbs and his mind’s need to relive the pain of their loss, Mad Dog 20/20 had become his only respite.

The night before, as Maxom sprawled upon his urine-soaked bed trying to blend in with the darkness and tipping back a bottle of grape flavored redemption, his mother had complained of a headache.

“Maxom, Honey. Why you layin’ in there like that? Why don’t you come out and keep your momma company.”

“Leave me alone, Momma.”

“You gonna spend the rest of your life in there?”

“If I have my way,” he said, scratching another itch with a swig of Mad Dog.

“Come on. Mr. Lawrence Welk is coming on and after that comes Marlin Perkins. You always used to like that show.”

Maxom grinned in the darkness, pushing a cheekful of liquor back and forth with his tongue. He did indeed used to like the show. Every week, he looked forward to watching the two white men adventure forth in his lost homeland, death hiding behind every tree. Who knew when the land might reach out and retaliate against the outrage?