Dumpsters. When I lift the hood up, smoke billows out.
There’s no way I’m going to be able to fix this.
I’m completely overwhelmed. Lost. No phone. No computer. A gunshot wound.
And no one in the world knows where I am.
I let the hood fall back down. Anger, fear, confusion—my blood is boiling . I bring my right fist down onto the hood, denting it a little. It feels good to do so. And then suddenly I’m kicking at the headlights and slamming my knuckles into the side of the truck over and over again. The wound in my arm hurts with each impact, but I’m so overcome with rage that I keep on beating the crap out of this vehicle, this thing that has let me down and stranded me in the middle of nowhere. I don’t even care about the noise I’m making, all the grunting and shouting and banging.
Finally, I stop, exhausted. I let my head rest against the driver’s-side door. My breathing is fast and shallow,making me a little lightheaded. The knuckles on my right hand are bloody, and my skin feels clammy.
Calm down, Mark. Get your shit together.
I take a deep breath. In the distance, I see a sign for a hotel. That at least gives me a destination. I can’t exactly walk in with a bloody arm, so I fish my letter jacket out of the backseat, grimacing as I slide my injured limb through it. I gather all my important belongings and shove them into the messenger bag, then start out on foot, walking the half a dozen blocks to the hotel. Before I go in, I tiptoe through the side gate where there’s a pool and dunk my hands into the cool water to wash them off. A dark-red cloud drifts away from my fingers as I rub them together, and I wonder how the hell I ended up in this situation.
Inside, I feed the front-desk girl a story about how I was mugged and just left the police station and don’t have any ID but, luckily, still have a stack of cash I’d hidden in my shoe that can pay for the night. She seems hesitant at first, but I put on my best pouting face and practically beg her to get me a room. This must work, because she relents, and then suddenly I’m inside a decent hotel room that looks like heaven after some of the shit-box motels I’ve been staying in lately. I’ve got an exterior room, meaning the front door opens up to the parking lot and a window in the bathroom leads to a wooded area out back. After the last hour of my life,it’s good to know I have multiple escape routes if I need them.
On the bed, I take stock of everything in my bag. The computers are a little scuffed up but don’t look too damaged. I plug the little netbook in, fire it up, and then log on to TWAU’s secure chat client. GUARD messages me right away.
GUARD: I thought you were a goner.
Me: How do I kno this is the real u?
GUARD: I come from the planet Schlongda.
I actually laugh. I can’t help it. The planet Schlongda appeared in one of the first issues of They Walk Among Us —the old print version I took from Sam Goode’s house—and was supposed to be the home of a bunch of krakens or something. When I’d read the name of the planet, I’d immediately forwarded a scan of the article to GUARD and laughed about the fact that someone had obviously made it up to screw with the editors there.
This is the real GUARD.
I give him the short story of what happened, being sure to point out the fact that I just faced half a dozen evil FBI agents and survived while he was hiding behind a computer somewhere. Eventually, I get to thereal issue: I’m kind of stuck here now, and as soon as someone finds my truck, they’ll start looking for me in this area.
GUARD: Stay there for the night. I’ll have directions for you in the morning. I’ll work something out.
Me: What the hell was that grenade?
GUARD: Combination specialized EMP and concussion blast.
I stare at the computer, wondering yet again who it is that’s on the other end of this chat. All I know about GUARD is his screen name and that he’s someone who can deliver a bunch
There’s no way I’m going to be able to fix this.
I’m completely overwhelmed. Lost. No phone. No computer. A gunshot wound.
And no one in the world knows where I am.
I let the hood fall back down. Anger, fear, confusion—my blood is boiling . I bring my right fist down onto the hood, denting it a little. It feels good to do so. And then suddenly I’m kicking at the headlights and slamming my knuckles into the side of the truck over and over again. The wound in my arm hurts with each impact, but I’m so overcome with rage that I keep on beating the crap out of this vehicle, this thing that has let me down and stranded me in the middle of nowhere. I don’t even care about the noise I’m making, all the grunting and shouting and banging.
Finally, I stop, exhausted. I let my head rest against the driver’s-side door. My breathing is fast and shallow,making me a little lightheaded. The knuckles on my right hand are bloody, and my skin feels clammy.
Calm down, Mark. Get your shit together.
I take a deep breath. In the distance, I see a sign for a hotel. That at least gives me a destination. I can’t exactly walk in with a bloody arm, so I fish my letter jacket out of the backseat, grimacing as I slide my injured limb through it. I gather all my important belongings and shove them into the messenger bag, then start out on foot, walking the half a dozen blocks to the hotel. Before I go in, I tiptoe through the side gate where there’s a pool and dunk my hands into the cool water to wash them off. A dark-red cloud drifts away from my fingers as I rub them together, and I wonder how the hell I ended up in this situation.
Inside, I feed the front-desk girl a story about how I was mugged and just left the police station and don’t have any ID but, luckily, still have a stack of cash I’d hidden in my shoe that can pay for the night. She seems hesitant at first, but I put on my best pouting face and practically beg her to get me a room. This must work, because she relents, and then suddenly I’m inside a decent hotel room that looks like heaven after some of the shit-box motels I’ve been staying in lately. I’ve got an exterior room, meaning the front door opens up to the parking lot and a window in the bathroom leads to a wooded area out back. After the last hour of my life,it’s good to know I have multiple escape routes if I need them.
On the bed, I take stock of everything in my bag. The computers are a little scuffed up but don’t look too damaged. I plug the little netbook in, fire it up, and then log on to TWAU’s secure chat client. GUARD messages me right away.
GUARD: I thought you were a goner.
Me: How do I kno this is the real u?
GUARD: I come from the planet Schlongda.
I actually laugh. I can’t help it. The planet Schlongda appeared in one of the first issues of They Walk Among Us —the old print version I took from Sam Goode’s house—and was supposed to be the home of a bunch of krakens or something. When I’d read the name of the planet, I’d immediately forwarded a scan of the article to GUARD and laughed about the fact that someone had obviously made it up to screw with the editors there.
This is the real GUARD.
I give him the short story of what happened, being sure to point out the fact that I just faced half a dozen evil FBI agents and survived while he was hiding behind a computer somewhere. Eventually, I get to thereal issue: I’m kind of stuck here now, and as soon as someone finds my truck, they’ll start looking for me in this area.
GUARD: Stay there for the night. I’ll have directions for you in the morning. I’ll work something out.
Me: What the hell was that grenade?
GUARD: Combination specialized EMP and concussion blast.
I stare at the computer, wondering yet again who it is that’s on the other end of this chat. All I know about GUARD is his screen name and that he’s someone who can deliver a bunch
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