On All Hallows Eve Eve, Parka sat on his motorcycle in the unending desert. The moon was a low-hanging fruit. The blue fires of Casino were off in the far distance to the north. Parka pulled an apple out of his jacket pocket, cut it in half with his claw, and offered one half to his fellow traveler, Jar.
“The apple has a pleasing scent,” Jar said before he ate it, crushing the apple into pulp with his mandibles.
“I would have to agree,” Parka said.
“Where did you procure it?”
“In a house outside of Casino.” He indicated the blazing pyramids and monoliths with his claw. “Two days ago. I forgot I had it. There it was, sitting on a kitchen table. Red and perfect.” When he finished eating the apple, Parka brushed off a posse of stick insects that landed on his shoulders.
“Hey, cool, walking sticks,” Jar said, brushing them off Parka’s jacket.
“Is that what the locals call them? I just don’t know where these bugs come from,” Parka said.
“They are everywhere,” Jar said, cleaning his mandibles with his fingers afterward.
Parka watched the walking sticks rattle on the hard desert ground.
“All right,” Parka said, kicking his motorcycle to life. The reactors shot into clutch for a second and then hummed. Jar followed with his. “Santa Fey then?”
“They are expecting us.”
Parka patted his satchel, the one containing the Amulet of Ruby Webs, which he had extracted from Casino at great cost.
“Yes they are. I do not expect traffic. Or to encounter those we disposed of.”
Parka was thinking of the Worm-Hares.
“Not under the mountains.”
“Nope.”
Parka leaned forward and his bike shot ahead. Jar soon followed. After they broke the sound barrier, Parka put on his headphones. He liked Toby Keith.
In the great tunnel underneath the mountains, they stopped at a rest stop. They hydrated and Jar sulfurized his joints. There were a couple of other travelers at the rest stop. Others sped by on their motorcycles and flaming chariots. Every once in a while there would be a rumbling sound that would shake the wire grating of the low roof and send dust to the ground. Once there was a low growl far above, like a brane gun backfiring.
“What’s that?” Jar asked once.
“Taos,” Parka said, not looking up from his hammock and his well-thumbed copy of
“Ah,” Jar said, going back to his sour acupuncture.
The human child who was indentured to the rest stop looked up from his abacus. He had a nametag that said SHARON. “They’ve been going like that for a fortnight. The Black Rooster Company is finally yielding their fortress against the Azalean Gullet.”
But the two couriers ignored him. Blushing, the child went back to his figures.
“Say,” Parka said, “what are you going to be for All Hallows Eve?”
Jar pulled the needle from his spine and blew on the tip. “I was thinking Jack Nicklaus.”
“Really? I love
Three of Jar’s eyelids quivered, a sign of confusion and then mild amusement. “No, not the actor. The golfer.”
Parka raised his eyebrows. “Really? Do you golf?”
Jar shrugged. “Who are you going to be?”
“Dwight D. Eisenhower,” Parka said without any hesitation.
“Really? I love World War II!” It took Parka a few seconds to realize Jar was being a sarcastic mimic.
Parka sighed.
“But seriously,” Jar said, perhaps sensing Parka’s exasperation, “I would have sworn that you’d be one of the indigenous musicians.” Jar pointed at the cover of
“I’m not quite so easily typecast, friend,” Parka said. “Not quite so easily in one box or another. I have a lot of interests.”
“Uh-huh,” Jar said.
“Anyway,” Parka said, wanting to change the subject a bit, “it won’t matter if we can’t make Santa Fey by tomorrow.”
“Ha ha,” Jar said. “Don’t worry. We’re in the slow season. We’re deep underground. The winds of war are incapable of blowing upon our faces.”
“I am not quite so sanguine,” Parka said, closing his magazine and hopping off the hammock. “We should go.”
“So soon?” Jar said. “I still need to sanitize my needles.” He held a glinting needle out. The tip wavered.
Parka was going to say something clever and lewd but the sound of an approaching caravan drowned out any coherent thought. Three motorcycles and a black Camaro. They were slowing down and resting at the rest stop.
“Hey. Jar,” Parka shouted, before the caravan stopped.
Jar looked over. It was a caravan of Casino dwellers, all Worm-Hares.
“Ugh,” Parka said. “Like I said, let’s go.”
“Hey!” the prime Worm-Hare said, slithering out of the Camaro. It was too late. “Hey!”
“What?” Parka called out.
The other Worm-Hares had hopped off their motorcycles and were massing together. The prime pointed at the Amulet of Ruby Webs that was half-hidden in Jar’s satchel. “I believe you have something of ours!” he said.
“It’s not yours anymore,” Jar said. “So you should have said, ‘I believe you have something of yours!’”
Parka had to shake his head at this. Even in danger, he had trouble not to break out laughing. This, at least, gave them a couple of seconds while the Worm-Hares tried to parse this out.
“The Amulet of Ruby Webs is a sacred symbol for our community through many generations and systems,” the prime said.
“Well, it’s your damn fault you brought it down from orbit then.”
The prime paused. The other Worm-Hares were getting antsy, stroking their floppy ears with their tentacles. They likely surmised that Parka and Jar would be
difficult to slay in close-quarters combat. Or perhaps they were worried about damaging the amulet.
“How about we race for it?” the prime said brightly.
“No, you can’t have a good race in the tunnel and you know that,” Parka said. “Hm, I will kickbox you for it though.”
All of the Worm-Hares laughed as one. “Seriously?” the prime said. “Um, okay. Sure.”
“Great. If I win you’ll have to leave us alone. And…” Parka thought about it. “Give up driving your Camaro for a year. No, wait, you’ll have to give it to him.” He pointed to the human child. “Aw yeah, that’s right. Are you ready?”
The prime nodded and smiled, but then grew grim. “But, listen. Hey. I’m being serious here. Whatever you do, do not—
“Yeah, don’t worry,” Parka said dismissively. “I’m no amateurish idiot.”
“Fair enough,” the prime said. “I am going to enjoy kicking your ass.” The residents of Casino were known for their kickboxing prowess, and the Worm-Hares learned such local arts after they followed the Beings down to the surface.
“You sure about this?” Jar said to Parka, putting his hand on Parka’s shoulder as he was doing stretches.
“Not really,” he said. “But this is the only way they’ll stay off our ass. So we can make it to Hallows Eve.”
