Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Coming Home ❯ 73 ( Chapter 73 )

73

 

I get my kicks on Route 66

 

“You're kidding, right?”

 

Crawford wiped sweat from his eyes before replacing his glasses and gracing me with a weary glare. “No, Schuldig. I'm not.”

 

“Flea powder.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Shit, Brad, I thought America was going to be an improvement!” I'd never been there before, but from all I'd heard it was a self-proclaimed high point of the civilized world. And now Crawford was telling me to put flea powder in my socks.

 

“It's summer, Schuldig. Almost fall. Flea and tick season. Get used to it.” Brad finished sprinkling the tobacco-scented powder into his shoes, then handed the canister to me.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“At least it's not lice,” Nagi offered, wiping insecticide-dusty hands over his clothes. These weren't the nice clothes I'd appropriated back in England - we'd just finished stashing those in the trunk of the car. No, like the rest of us, Nagi wore nondescript clothing purchased in a second-hand store in Dallas. We all looked like beggars, in my opinion, but Brad had called it protective coloring. In any case, Nagi looked as uncomfortable about it as I felt. He sniffed reprovingly at the chemical on his skin, then reached for a packet containing a pre-moistened towelette that smelled like lemon oil; the advertising on the courtesy pack claimed it could remove barbecue grease better than the competitor's brand.

 

“Fleas are worse,” Far muttered as he shrugged into a dark gray t-shirt with a picture of a motorcycle on it. The shirt seemed to complement his shabby blue-jeans and yellowish leather boots with well-worn heels. Farfarello removed his eyepatch and donned a pair of ultra-dark wrap-around sunglasses, then topped the whole thing off with a faded black cowboy hat. The effect was unsettling.

 

“Tell me again why we're here,” I asked as I dumped way too much flea powder into my right sneaker.

 

Brad sighed and looked up at the cloudless sky. Heat shimmered on the horizon. “They were getting too close. This was our best surprise move. I wish we hadn't had to use it so early, but that can't be helped.” He watched as I struggled to transfer the excess powder from one sneaker to the other, then took both shoes from me and neatly finished the job, scattering the excess powder over the floorboards of the car. “Besides,” he added, handing me back my shoes, “there are things we can get here that we will need. I know how to use the system in the States. We can get around fairly easily, as long as we stay sharp. Now, there are Esset operatives in this country; we can't afford to get too comfortable. But I think the change of scenery will do us some good.”

 

“In other words,” Far observed as he tore open a wet towelette and cleaned the powder from his hands, “you're looking for something.”

 

Crawford smiled thinly. “Of course.” He gestured at the car. “Get in.”

 

Brad drove; I sat beside him, staring out my window. The dirt showing through the sparse brown grass seemed to suck in light and heat until it turned dull red. “Where are we, anyway?” I asked. Only the old westerns showed such a desolate landscape, and I'd thought those were faked.

 

“Desolate?” Brad asked with a sidelong smirk. “You think this is desolate? Be happy we're not in Arizona. And fix your shields!”

 

I sank back into the passenger seat and pouted. The entire car smelled like a humidor coated with lemon furniture polish, not a bad smell but rather disconcerting. I picked up the can of bug poison. “They use this on tomato plants? And dogs?”

 

“It's safe for humans and cats,” Brad stated. “Don't even start it, Schuldig. You'll be glad we have that stuff. Trust me.”

 

“Is that the Oracle talking, or the American?” I grumbled.

 

“Both.” Brad was nearly laughing, which only made me angrier.

 

From the back seat came the sound of Farfarello singing along with the radio. “Goes from St. Louie down to Missouri, Oklahoma City looks oh so pretty…”

 

“Is that where we are?” I muttered. “I thought we were on Mars.”

 

Brad shook his head. “Oklahoma, Schuldig. But only for about another hour or so.”

 

I stared out the window. “Damn, it's flat.”

 

The road poured by us like a river. From the radio came a seemingly bottomless assortment of old rock songs interspersed with ads for cars, beer, and bail bonds. I found myself almost dozing, mesmerized by the monotony.

 

The sky took on an indigo shade as night rolled over the horizon; to our right, a road sign announced we had wandered into Missouri.

 

It didn't look that different.

 

Brad pulled into a petro stop and parked. The fluorescent lights high overhead defied the coming darkness, bathing everything in a sharp blue-white glow. Around us rumbled the massive trucks that hauled cargo across the country.

 

The shop itself housed not only the fuel business but also a restaurant and a laundromat. A sign in the window advertised that its bathrooms and pay showers were “certified clean”.

 

::Um, Brad?::

 

“It's a truck stop,” Brad stated, running a hand through his hair as if to make it look even more unkempt than it currently did. “Food's decent. Come on.”

 

I sighed and followed him, with Nagi and Far trailing along behind.

 

As the little bell on the door announced our arrival, the guy at the register looked up and waved. “Frank! Welcome back!”

 

Not missing a beat, Brad strolled to the counter and returned the offered handshake with uncharacteristic vigor. “Heya, Charlie, how's th' wife `n kids?”

 

His voice - he sounded like an Elvis impersonator, but it came out so naturally!

 

I looked at Nagi.

 

Nagi looked at Brad.

 

Far looked at the display of bumper stickers.

 

“Can't complain,” Charlie said. “Don't get me started on the in-laws, though!” He gestured at Nagi. “That your boy there?”

 

Brad shook his head. “Naw, th' boy's stayin' with his mother fer a while. That there's Jack's exchange student, from Japan.” Brad looked around as if he'd misplaced us, then gestured at me to join them. “Jack, c'mon over here!”

 

I hoped to hell Brad had his shields down as I groped for my script. Nagi followed me to the counter, watching everything very closely. I could feel his tension like a pulsating wall of static.

 

Brad introduced me as his brother-in-law from New York. I shook Charlie's hand and tried not to stare. His teeth were yellowed from chewing tobacco. In fact, he had a wad of it in his cheek even now; behind the cash register sat a paper cup half-full of brown strands and juice. The thought alone was enough to make me ill.

 

Brad continued talking like he did this all the time. “An' this here's Akira Yamamoto, from Okinawa.” Then he paused and gave Nagi a little apologetic-looking bow. “Wait a sec, it'd be Yamamoto Akira, wouldn' it? Last name first? I can't seem to get used to that!”

 

Nagi almost rolled his eyes, then bowed slightly and said, “It's all right, I get that all the time. Pleased to meet you, Charlie-san.”

 

“That means `Mister Charlie',” Brad drawled with a down-home grin. “Kinda nice havin' a po-lite kid around for a change, ain't it?”

 

Charlie laughed. “Yeah, not like my kids!” He paused and spat into the paper cup.

 

Nagi's eyes widened, then he turned away and struggled to compose himself.

 

I tried not to laugh. Then I noticed the self-serve display of assorted dried meats - including a moist shredded variety of beef jerky that looked disturbingly like used chewing tobacco. Humor turned to queasiness in a heartbeat.

 

The clerk's thick-mouthed voice addressed me again, calling me away from my shocked scrutiny of the meat bins. “So, Jack, travelin' the country with old Frank here? Seein' the sights?”

 

“Yeah,” I said, hoping I sounded vaguely New York-ish and not like I wanted to puke. “Frank thought we should all hook up for a road trip. It's been a while. At least his driving's improved,” I added, tossing the verbal ball back to Brad.

 

“Oh, c'mon off it, Jack,” Brad grinned. “You know I didn' hit that sow on purpose! That reminds me, you got pork chops today, Charlie?”

 

“Sure do, but you'd best hurry. We stop servin' dinner at ten - after that, it's breakfast only.”

 

Brad glanced at his watch, then guided us toward the restaurant portion of the store.

 

Far walked as if he had the place memorized.

 

“Hey, Frank, where's the washroom here?” I wanted to scrub my hands before even thinking about food.

 

Brad pointed, and I reached the door only three steps ahead of Nagi. Once inside, I made sure we were alone before asking, “You okay, chibi? You look a little pale.”

 

“That man is disgusting!” Nagi replied in Japanese.

 

I smiled a little and started washing up. Nagi's switch to his native language didn't faze me, as I knew that phrase well from our Takatori days. “At least he's nice.”

 

“Define nice.”

 

::How's your head?:: I asked, wanting to talk privately with the team but not wanting to give the kid a headache, either.

 

::It's okay. Just don't shout.::

 

We returned to the restaurant and joined the others at a wide, vinyl-seated booth. I brought Brad and Far into the link, then pounced. ::Okay, Brad, I have to know. This whole “Frank/Jack” thing - how did you set this up? And what else do I need to know for the act?::

 

::He set it up on our last trip to America,:: Far replied matter-of-factly. ::Your wife's brother, Frank, is a traveling salesman who loves fishing and whose own wife is threatening to leave him and take custody of his son.::

 

::…Really.:: I couldn't think of anything useful to add to that.

 

Nagi, however, asked, ::Why “Frank”?::

 

Brad smiled a little and replied, ::In case one of you slips and calls me “Brad”. It's a close enough match, for speech and for lip-reading.::

 

Out loud, we discussed our menu options, with Brad drawling on like some kind of country-western act. I talked Nagi into trying the soup, though the kid seemed convinced that nothing here would be edible. He'd been having problems with the local food ever since arriving in this country. ::Look,:: I told him, ::I'm daring the pork chops because these people seem to have a love affair with meat. The soup's probably out of a can or something. You'll be fine.::

 

Brad chatted about road-trip things, Nagi smiled and nodded, Far tossed out the occasional comment, while I kept a different conversation moving on the mental level.

 

::So where are we going next?:: I asked, suppressing my amazement that the pork chops actually tasted pretty damn good. Then again, they were only making up for the coffee: I'd had better out of a vending machine.

 

::I'm playing things by ear at the moment, gentlemen,:: Brad told us. ::Hopefully confounding the mice a little. Enjoy your rest stop. As soon as I find what brought me here, we're hitting the road again.::

 

I frowned into my coffee cup. ::So you're following visions, just incomplete ones?::

 

::Basically.::

 

::Crawford,:: Nagi asked, ::won't people think it strange that Farfarello is wearing dark glasses at night?::

 

Brad smiled a little. ::They've never said anything before.::

 

::They think I'm famous,:: Far commented with a mental laugh.

 

I suppressed a grin. Brad's genius for planning never failed to amaze me. It made me wonder just what sort of mayhem those two had been up to last year.

 

After dinner, we wandered through the store, browsing idly among shelves of junk food and souvenirs. I gathered an armload of vaguely healthful snacks and bottled drinks, while Brad picked out automotive supplies and medicines. Far added a newspaper and a couple of travel magazines to the pile as Charlie rang us up.

 

While waiting for his change, Brad glanced down at a stack of canary yellow paper on the counter. He seemed to pause, then picked one up in slow motion. He read the flyer, then asked, “Where's this at?”

 

“Springfield. Couple hours drive. You lookin' for a motel?”

 

Brad picked up a bag of groceries and stuffed the flyer inside. “Ah seem to recall a place not too far from here.” He grinned and winked at me and added, “It's just on down the road from a pancake house, matter oh fact.”

 

::Ha, ha, Brad. I'm never going to live that down, am I?::

 

::Not if I can help it.::

 

We said our goodbyes, then headed for the car, Brad again taking the driver's seat. Far walked around the back of the car before getting in. He seemed rather smug about something; I'd have to ask him later. Right then, I wanted to know what was on that flyer. I dug in the bag and retrieved the obnoxiously bright sheet, getting a paper cut in the process. I cursed and sucked my finger as I read. “Gun and knife show?”

 

Brad smiled briefly, then closed his eyes a moment and said, “Try not to think about it too much. It's only an idle possibility, after all.”

 

The best way for me to stop thinking about something was to sleep, so I did, dozing in the passenger seat and consigning myself to a badly cricked neck. I woke around midnight, when Brad exited the highway. The whine from the tires had changed pitch as the road surface changed from asphalt to concrete - damn, I must have been spending way too much time in a car if something like that could wake me up!

 

Brad parked in front of a run-down hotel with the “L” missing from the sign and a “Vacancy” notice in the office window. The night clerk here knew “Frank”, too. He traded room keys for cash and a signature, told us where to find vending machines and an icemaker, and directed us through the back door and across the courtyard, past a shabby-looking swimming pool. On Brad's unspoken order, Far and I retrieved our belongings from the car and hauled everything around the main building.

 

The four of us convened in the nearer of our two rooms. Far set down his share of the luggage and helped himself to a glass of water from the bathroom. I dropped my bags with a grunt; damn things got heavier by the day.

 

::Heads up, people,:: Brad announced, unpacking his two pistols. ::We have work to do.::

 

::Is there trouble?:: I asked, not sensing anything.

 

::I didn't say we had a problem, I said we have work to do.:: He regarded me with an almost wicked sparkle in his eyes. ::Schuldig, Nagi - consider this a firearms inspection. I want your guns cleaned and presentable, get to it.:: Brad switched on the television and turned the volume up, then returned to his own weapons.

 

Within half an hour, every pistol in our possession lay clean and empty on oil-stained rags on the bathroom floor. I regarded Brad with mild concern as I asked, ::Are you going to explain, or are we spending the night unarmed just for the hell of it?::

 

Brad studied Nagi's Tomcat closely, squinting down the barrel. ::Load up, then, if it makes you feel better.::

 

::In other words, you're not going to explain.::

 

Picking up my pistol and reaching for a fresh rag, Crawford stated, ::Figure it out. I can't tell you any more than that.::

 

 

 

A/N:

I get my kicks on Route 66

 

“Route 66”, originally by Bobby Troup, covered by almost everybody. (The version I have on my computer was covered by The Cramps on Flamejob.)

 

Contrary to the song, Schwarz is going east, not west. That California trip will just have to wait.

 

Funny, when people say “write what you know” I never expected this to come in handy. I grew up in Oklahoma, and I can attest to the usefulness of a can of Sevin Dust (5%). It's the same chemical they use in VetKem Flea Powder (carbaryl). When used correctly, it's fairly safe for cats and kids (and tomatoes), and it doesn't smell nasty either. And if you grind it into your carpet, you'll never have fleas in your home again (or spiders, or ants…).

 

Oklahoma - flat as hell. And the dirt really is red.

 

Weapons Notes -

So far I've resisted the temptation to get technical about what kind of guns the men of Schwarz favor. It's too easy to get swept up in detail and forget why it's important, and I'm trying not to fall into that trap. The only specific weapon I mention is the Tomcat, and that more for curiosity than necessity.

 

The Beretta Tomcat is a small and easily concealed 32 caliber handgun. I tried to figure out what kind of pistol Nagi might be issued at Rosenkreuz, if he got one at all. A small caliber weapon in the hands of a telekinetic would be at least as dangerous as a more powerful weapon used by a trained `normal', and with Nagi's small stature I think a smaller, more readily hidden gun would be in order. Besides, I can't imagine Brad giving up the chance for his team to carry around a little extra firepower. So, after a little research, Tomcat it is.