Night 0110

Oops. Late.

Flynn was underwater again. The bubbles seemed to rise from his nose in slow motion. His glazed eyes were fixed on the bright surface of the water, just out of his reach. He was dying, he knew. But Flynn was at peace. She would come. She always came.

And she did. The shimmering smooth surface broke, and that beautiful face appeared, wreathed in a mane of black hair. Her arms reached down to him, her nails short and unpainted, her hands hard, her arms strong but graceful. Flynn stretched out his own arms, and their hands locked. The ends of her lips curved upwards, and she smiled, serious no longer.

But Flynn pulled her down towards him. Her smile vanished, and then she frowned. She began to struggle, and her own stream of bubbles emerged from mouth and nose. She thrashed, but Flynn would not let go. She was with him, under the water. She came. And with him she would stay. Flynn wanted to say: no, no, I'm not killing you, I love you, I want you with me always.

But the woman he loved was drowning. She screamed, and water flooded into her mouth.

Flynn woke up. He was in his sleeping bag on the floor of Rutt's guest room, catching a little more sleep. He blinked stupidly and sat up.

Something buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out the new phone. The picture of the caller was the image Flynn had captured of the woman, when she was reading a map over another man's shoulder.

She was calling him.

( Read more... )

Night 0111

They flew in formation, the setting sun at their backs. Slate had point, with Ernest and Gus out at the wings. Rutt was somewhere above them; they didn't bother trying to include the Cheshire Cat in the pattern because nobody could see it. They skimmed low over the scrubland, moving nice and slow to conserve fuel and minimize noise.

"Wish I knew where that slacker Flynn has got to," Rutt grumbled. "I'm not paying him good money to sit in the head all day."

"I told you he was a useless pussy," Ernest said. "Who's shot up the most Mexicans on this trip? Me, the guy with the least air time."

"That's bullshit," protested Gus. "I got three all by myself, and Rutt helped on two others…"

"Pocho, trim it in a bit and drop twenty feet," said Slate. Slate was all business.

"This formation crap is bullshit," said Gus. "Who gives a shit which direction we're coming from?"

"Because we don't want the target to see us," Slate replied. "And if we keep it nice and tight, we'll be coming right out of the sun."

"And the moral of that story, Gus, is that you need to shut the fuck up," said Rutt. Just then a housekeeper came knocking at the door of the man-cave, all a-twitter and sobbing. Rutt came to see what was going on. "Aw, not now," snarled Ernest. "Whatever it is, it can keep!"

But even further behind the drone formation, another Vigilant kept to the same heading, with the same idea. Flynn kept himself between the sun and the other drones. Unlike the others, he wasn't interested in conserving fuel or keeping quiet. He just wanted to close the distance before the others knew where he was. There was no room for fancy flying, because he was steering the joystick with his right hand and steering his car with his left as he drove furiously down the Interstate towards his trailer. He had to get it hitched up and gone before he was missed.

But meanwhile his drone roared up behind the others, a killer stalking killers. It was four on one, but what choice did Flynn have?

It was time to save Lupe.

( Read more... )