He spoke with a natural sort of rhythm which was as off-putting as it was hypnotic. Like a mother reading a nursery rhyme or a poet picking his way through pentameter.
Like an evangelist, too. Like a mantra.
The weirdest thing was, every now and again there was a crack in what he said. Just a little fissure, a hint of something beneath. You notice that shit when you're me.
The voice changed, the eyes blinked. For a second or two he was just some kid; confused and wrapped up in something too big to understand, who didn't believe his own mumbo-jumbo any more than I did and had all the attitude of a scared young thing caught in the company of double-hard bastards. Too much testosterone for his own good, too much insecurity for his own safety.
I preferred him, in those tiny moments.
He said someone called the 'Tadodaho' had decided that my course and his were… well, he used the word 'aligned'. It seemed too weird, to me. I'd never heard of this guy and he already knew where I was headed, what area I'd be passing through, who I'd be up against.
Hiawatha said:
'It's all been seen. It's all been dreamed.'
Enigmatic Bullshit.
Listen: I believe in moving fast, taking opportunities, focusing on what's ahead and getting the job done. I believe that anyone who gets in my way is dead. I believe in my own ability to deal resourcefully with any situation, and kill the fuck out of any stupid wanker who tries to stop me.
I believe in:
Don't you fucking give up, soldier!
I believe in:
Know everything.
Cover the angles.
What I don't believe in is Thunderbirds and dream-quests and voices on the wind and patterns in the sky, which is the sort of stuff Hiawatha talk/recited about right after he'd smoked one of his spliffs. Outside a town called Mifflin, as the afternoon wore on, Malice lost her temper and shouted at him to quit murdering her baby with his second-hand cancer gas. He smiled, shrugged, and blinked once or twice at the baby, like he was about to deliver some quasi-wise rebuttal.
Instead he just looked somehow… sad.
'Yeah,' said the real-life-insecure-boy lost behind all that mystical arsebilge. 'Yeah.'
He climbed up to smoke on the roof, after that, and every time he went Nate watched him go, muttering and rolling his eyes, groaning in pleasure.
I caught him shooting-up, once or twice – sat in the dark corner at the back of what had once been the Inferno's pump-housing. Hey, I told myself, as long as he's happy.
But still. But still.
Lamar.
Boggs.
Lawrence.
Pine Creek.
Place names harder and harder to read with every mile. Eventually the sun slid like an old turd behind the hazy west and even the road signs – decorated variously in graffiti, dangling bodies and hungry looking crows – vanished into the ocean of dark beyond the Inferno's lights. At some unspecified moment, ducking and weaving between the mangled remains of some long-gone pileup, Spuggsy declared out loud the road was 'covered in more shit than a nuthouse wall,' and declined to go any further until it was light.
We pulled up and ate again, in silence.
Up in the hills, and across the landscape to either side, tiny embers of light shivered away, like fireflies. Families, maybe. Cannibals, psychotic mountain-men, diseased brain-dead mutants or whatever. But most probably just families – normal people, or as good as – trying to stay warm and stay together.
Poor fuckers.
I chewed rat and didn't think about it.
Somewhere nearby, Nate was singing a song to himself and laughing after every verse. Totally wasted, totally out of his tree. It would have been funny – would have been endearing – if he didn't glance up every now and again, all casual, and stare at Malice's kid. I was noticing it now. The little hint of… what? Intensity, that visited his face in those moments.
I shivered again.
The crew slept in shifts. Two on watch at all times. Malice volunteered to take the last shift alone and I offered to accompany her. She shrugged, like:
Do what you want, asshole. It's your lack of sleep.
I dreamed of seagulls wearing robes, man-sized spliffs running up and down along the George Washington Bridge on little stubby feet, and of a great wound in the heart of New York; bleeding a fine mist of QuickSmog up into the air, where it separated into colossal blood cells that floated and wobbled like lava-lamp clouds.
I dreamed of Bella saying:
'Doesn't matter. Not your problem. But that's why I'm going.'
Then she flopped over in my arms, gave me a look of bored disinterest, and poked me in the rigs.
'Hey,' she said. 'Hey, Patchwork…'
Malice, waking me up for the watch. I tried to conceal my hard-on.
'So.'
'So.'
'What's this all about?'
I scratched my manky ear through its equally-as-manky dressing. 'Which 'this', specifically?'
She nodded out into the dark.
'Going west. Highway 80. Lake Erie. What's there, patchwork man?'
I smiled.
'Probably nothing.'
She thought about that for a moment. 'That's a long way to go. Lot of trouble, for probably nothing.'
We sat in silence for a minute or two, listening to the deafening silence of the world. It wasn't a cold night, exactly, but there was something… shivery, yeah, about such profound darkness. Like living in oil.
Yeah, we had a rifle each. And yeah, we could scramble inside and be manning Tora's collection of hardcore artillery within a second or two. But still, we were tiny. We were nothing. There were stars and sky and road and hills, and nothing else, and we were just parasites. Fucking fleas on the back of an elephant.
I told you already, I get abstract when I'm bored.
'Okay,' I said to Malice, suddenly feeling talkative, catching her eye. 'Long way to go. You're right. You mind if I ask you something?'
She shrugged.
'It might piss you off.'
'Would that stop you?'
'Probably not.'
'Then shoot.'
I fiddled with the rifle, keeping my eyes fixed – uselessly – on the night. Somewhere far, far away I thought I could hear engines, a muted throb that died away almost instantly, and left me doubting my own senses.
'Let's say there's something you want,' I said. 'Let's say you… you had it once. Lost it. Want it back.'
Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction. I wondered if she knew Tora told me about her other kid, and if she'd blow my head off for raking the past. She didn't look the type to enjoy in-depth discussion about personal tragedies long bygone.
I know the feeling.
'Let's say,' she said, cold.
'Right. Now let's say you find out there's a chance. This thing, getting it back, it's… It's the world. It'll make everything better. It's important – and, shit… not just to you. To everyone.'
