Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Coming Home ❯ 74 ( Chapter 74 )

74

 

Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys,
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love.

 

::Figure it out, he says,:: I grumbled to Nagi as we claimed our own room for the night.

 

Nagi shrugged. ::Maybe he can't be any more specific because of the mice.::

 

I set my bags by the bed nearest the door. Bags, hell - two backpacks and a canvas satchel. I'd pretty much given up on ever having proper luggage again. Part of my mind wanted to decipher Brad's intentions, but the rest of it was too damn weary. I took my clean and freshly reloaded gun out of my waistband and placed it on the nightstand.

 

“Mind if I use the shower?” Nagi asked, pausing by the door.

 

“Let me get some water first,” I told him, heading past him to fill up a glass. I drained it, filled it again, and carried it back to the bedroom.

 

“Do you want me to leave the shower running for you when I'm done?”

 

“Sure, I could use one.”

 

“I noticed.” Nagi shut the door before I could comment.

 

I sighed and flopped onto the bed. The room smelled vaguely musty; gun oil and flea powder didn't improve it any. Still, the bed was comfortable enough, and the sound of the running water was almost as soothing as rain.

 

Dreams faded slowly, leaving me foggy-headed. The clock on the nightstand said it was 5:30 in the morning. I struggled out from under a heavy coverlet, then realized it was the one from Nagi's bed. He'd apparently covered me with it, effectively sandwiching me between two of the things. Nagi lay curled up in his own bed, sleeping soundly.

 

“Damn,” I muttered at myself. I hadn't intended to fall asleep like that, and never that deeply. Maybe a shower would wake me up. I picked out the clothes for the day and headed for the bathroom. At least I wouldn't smell like flea powder - not so strongly, anyway. Granted, everything we had smelled like tobacco to varying degrees, but at least this outfit didn't have the stuff ground into the fibers.

 

The cheap shampoo stung the neglected cut on my finger, adding insult to my already off-kilter morning. I finished washing up in a hurry before anything else could go wrong. Nagi had a first aid kit in his backpack, I'd raid it for a bandage as soon as I was decent.

 

My reflection in the steam-fogged mirror caught my attention, and I stared for a moment. The last year had not been kind. Living on a highly improvised diet wasn't doing me any good, and I knew it was hell on Nagi. Brad and Farfarello seemed to have cast iron stomachs: they could eat things that Nagi or I couldn't even bear to look at. I sighed at myself, the shadow of my ribs just becoming visible as I inhaled. We'd have to do something different about the food situation, or half the team would end up looking like self-starved Tibetan monks before Esset ever got their hands on us.

 

Deodorant, fresher clothing, and a bandage helped bring my mood back to neutral, if not good. “Chibi, I'm going to check on the others. I won't be long.” ::It might look odd if we keep wandering between rooms carrying all our junk. You stay here, I'll be right back.::

 

Far answered the door. “Perfect timing. We were just trying to decide what to do about breakfast.”

 

“Didn't you say something about a pancake house last night?” I asked Brad as he finished tying his sneakers.

 

Brad smirked. “Thought you didn't like pancakes.”

 

I laughed a little and shook my head. “Let's not do that again, okay? I was just thinking it might be good for the kid, something bland like that.”

 

Brad looked up at me with a frown. “Is he all right?”

 

“Remember, last night he was kind of dubious about the food? He's been having trouble with the local cuisine. Simple is best, and you can't get much simpler than pancakes.”

 

“Well, unfortunately, this isn't the motel with the pancake house down the street,” Brad stated, “though there is a McDonald's between here and Springfield.”

 

I sighed. “Guess that'll do.”

 

“Keep me posted on this. Is he nauseous again? Or just picky?” Brad asked, collecting his bags and heading for the door.

 

“Not sure. I'll try to find out more,” I promised, not liking the hint of worry in his voice.

 

::I need to know the condition of my team, Schuldig. If one of you is incapacitated in any way, and I don't know about it, that could be a disaster for us all. Remember, I don't See things well when it comes to those close to me. Now, team link, if you please.::

 

I sought out Nagi's mind, and Far's. ::Ready.::

 

::Nagi, Schuldig, if you reloaded your guns last night I need you to unload them again. Leave the ammunition in your bags, keep the gun on your person. Concealment is the rule for the day. Schuldig, you will keep unnecessary eyes from noticing. I'll explain more later.::

 

I fought down the urge to argue with him about this. It seemed utter folly to carry around unloaded weapons, but clearly Brad had a plan and did not want to risk anyone finding out about it. Besides, Farfarello himself was a weapon, and one that was always set to go off.

 

Far, Nagi and I carried the bags to the car while Brad went back into the office to turn in our keys.

 

I told Nagi that we'd be getting breakfast at the Golden Arches, and he groaned. “Not again, I almost threw up last time!” His eyes looked huge, and desperate.

 

“Kiddo, try the pancakes without anything on them,” I suggested. “You like the orange juice, right? And the powdered eggs?”

 

“I'll get a biscuit with egg on it and you can have the egg,” Far offered.

 

Nagi sighed and nodded. “All right. They give you meat with the pancakes, don't they? You can have that, Far.”

 

“It's a fair trade.”

 

As I went to drop my bags in the trunk, something about the back end of the car caught my attention. I finished stowing my gear, then leaned down to take a closer look.

 

Our bumper now sported a jaunty blue tag proclaiming “God was my co-pilot, but we crashed in the mountains and I had to eat Him.” Fitting commentary for a car driven by a devout atheist; I grinned. No wonder Far had looked so smug the night before.

 

When Brad returned from the office, I watched his thoughts to see if he noticed the bumper sticker. He paused, shook his head, and got in the driver's seat. “Nice try, Schuldig. But you're not getting in without an invitation.” To Farfarello he merely said, “I presume it's yours?”

 

Far smiled and nodded pleasantly.

 

“At least we'll blend in.” Brad started the car and aimed for the road.

 

Our breakfast adventure went smoothly, if a bit oddly. We ordered our food and ate as we drove, which made the food swapping exercise more challenging than it needed to be. Far traded his egg for Nagi's sausage patty, while I appropriated the kid's butter and syrup. I'd ordered the pancake-and-sausage sandwich with built-in syrup pockets, but the damn thing was dry as hell.

 

By the time I finished slathering butter on it and dipping it in the syrup, I needed two towellettes to clean up but it had been quite worth the effort.

 

Nagi seemed pleased enough with his breakfast as well, though he had eaten around the portion of one pancake that bore the imprint of a sausage patty. That part he gave to Farfarello, who took it with a “thank you”.

 

For the next couple of hours we drove in silence, each man praying in his own way that the air conditioner not die just yet. Though it was only mid-morning, late summer heat beat down on us like unrefreshing rain. This did not bode well for the rest of the day.

 

Around noon we left the highway, guided by a friendly-looking sign that read “Welcome to Springfield”.

 

Traffic picked up a little, all heading toward what looked like a large indoor sports arena. Brad followed the herd into a vast parking lot. ::Schuldig, I hope you're well rested,:: he stated without a trace of humor.

 

::What do you have in mind?::

 

::Did you read that flyer?::

 

::Not really, no,:: I confessed, glaring at my bandaged finger. ::They sell guns and knives, right?::

 

::They buy and trade guns, too.:: Brad adjusted his glasses; they caught the sunlight with a flash. ::Can you imagine the number of people handling these items?::

 

Comprehension dawned, and I grinned.

 

Crawford got out of the car and led the way toward the building. ::Each of you, I want you to touch as many weapons as you can get your hands on. When showing your guns, don't take the first offer, or the second. Be picky. Make sure a number of different people handle your weapons, then return to whichever vendor carries the same make and model as your own. Schuldig will take care of the messier details. Ready, gentlemen?::

 

We queued up behind a dozen people heading into the arena. I could see two armed policemen standing at the door. ::Brad, I don't like this.::

 

::Steady, all.:: Brad touched my arm for emphasis. ::They need to verify that all guns brought in to this show are unloaded, and that our permits are in order. That's where you come in, Schuldig. Look at the thoughts of the people ahead of us, and the police themselves. Find out what they expect to see, then show it to them as we reach their position.::

 

I took a deep breath and braced myself, then surveyed the minds around us. I had to go slowly, cautiously, in case there were any psi-surprises waiting for me; there were none. Through the eyes of one man I saw exactly what the appropriate concealed-carry permit would look like, and through another I found a buyer's permit.

 

The people ahead of us parted into three lines, two for those with guns and one for those without. Far headed for the shortest line, then vanished into the building. If there were any trouble, he'd get what he needed and meet up with us later. I nudged the people behind us so it wouldn't look odd that Brad, Nagi, and I went through the same line. It would be best if I could work on one mind only, less chance for something going wrong.

 

Brad greeted the policeman like an old fishing buddy and offered his gun butt-first. Then he took out his wallet and pulled out a card, handing it to the officer with a smile. Holding fast to the cop's mind, I showed him what I wanted him to see: a valid permit to carry a concealed weapon. The cop smiled and nodded, gave Brad back his gun. Brad paid his five dollar admission fee and strolled inside.

 

My rite of passage went more smoothly than it had any right to, considering that I didn't even have a bogus card to offer.

 

As the officer checked Nagi's pistol, I saw an unexpected complication in his thoughts. The kid just looks too damn young... A soft mental tweak took care of that, and the cop smiled and wished Nagi a pleasant day at the expo.

 

Once we were inside, I let out the breath I'd been holding. The headache started to creep up on me, and I looked around for a place to sit. As I looked, I realized that I didn't see Far anywhere.

 

“Y'awright?” Brad drawled as he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Too damn hot in here, that's fer sure!”

 

I nodded, worried for a moment that my head would just fall off and roll across the floor.

 

Brad gently squeezed my shoulder. His eyes told me more than he could safely say.

 

Nagi excused himself for a moment. He returned with a bottle of soda, a packet of headache pills, and an oversized hot pretzel. Nagi shrugged as he handed me the items in significant order. “I thought it might help.”

 

I couldn't tell which made me happier, the medicine or the caffeine, or just the thoughtfulness of the act. “Thanks, kiddo.”

 

Someone nearby mumbled about needing to fix the air conditioner before anyone else passed out from heat stroke. At least no one would associate my condition with the police at the door.

 

Brad wandered along the aisle, staying within view while I composed myself. A few minutes later, Nagi and I strolled down the aisle in his wake, admiring the steelworks and pausing to handle a few guns as we went.

 

I'd never seen anything quite like this place, and I knew Nagi hadn't, either. The vast, open-span building housed row upon row of long tables, the kind that fold up for storage. Here and there, glass display cases replaced the tables, gleaming dully in the uneven light.

 

All around us milled men and the occasional woman, all intent on satisfying whatever weapons fetish they happened to have. Some sought out the newest pistols, while others surveyed the hunting rifles. Elsewhere, vendors displayed an assortment of bows and arrows, ninja-style weapons, and pieces of body armor.

 

I found myself smiling as I browsed. It occurred to me that we were in one of the safest places in the whole world at that very moment. No operative would be foolish enough to try something in the midst of a hundred likely members of the NRA! Few things were as predictably dangerous as an armed American, and there were too many here for even a highly-skilled telepath to affect as a group.

 

I nearly bumped into a man at the next booth, then realized it was Brad. He was studying the contents of a tidy glass case, his expression intent. Curious, I looked down.

 

Arranged on black velvet with asymmetric care, an assortment of antiques waited patiently within the case. Brad stood to my left, and whatever held his attention was in fairly slim company. There were a few pistols, some medals, cigarette lighters and other odds and ends. The right-hand side of the case held more flashy fare: sleek pistols, dark medals, and a cap and three daggers marked with the swastika.

 

Memories flew through my head - a faded photograph, a heavy iron medal, the smell of old wool - and gone again, as if they had never been. The headache flared and receded, cheated of its prey as my mind refused to play along with it.

 

Brad handed the vendor some cash, and accepted a small parcel in return. Slipping the item into his pocket, Brad turned and looked at me with an odd misty expression. When he spoke, his “local boy” accent sounded too sincere to ever have been faked. “C'mon, let's not be all day about it.”

 

I wanted to ask him what he'd bought, but something about the transaction led me to believe he wouldn't want to tell me. Not here, not now.

 

Nagi fell into step behind us as we made our way around the tables. Brad and I asked several vendors for appraisals on our guns; I had to show them serial numbers that didn't appear anywhere on the weapons. That part had almost gotten past me; when I saw the confusion in the first buyer's mind, I quickly fixed the problem, earning another few minutes of pain for my effort.

 

After we had seen damn near every gun in the place - and handled at least a third of them - Brad led us back to one of the vendors who dealt in Berettas. In moments Nagi had a new weapon, while his old one was packed away with the surplus. Until the suggestion wore off, the vendor would keep that gun away from customers, and the secret of its non-existent serial number would not come to light. And when the secret did come to light, there was a very real possibility that the new owner would end up discarding that gun somewhere rather than risk losing his business and going to jail for trafficking in stolen goods.

 

Either way, Schwarz won.

 

I repeated the transaction three more times, resting just enough in between that I could guarantee a few days lag time for the suggestion. By the time we were done, I felt raw and wrung out, and badly in need of a cigarette.

 

“Jus' two more things to do, then lunchtime,” Brad told me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “An' there's one of `em now. You take care o' that, I'll be right back.”

 

Ahead of us stood Farfarello, at a knife seller's booth. The Irishman had pushed his dark glasses up, revealing the single golden eye and the puckered socket where its mate had once been. He held a knife up close to his good eye, studying it like an archaeologist with a new find. He sighted down its length, then turned it over and repeated his scrutiny.

 

Far tested the balance of the knife, resting it across his fingertips. Then, fast as thought he whirled and flung it at the wall twenty feet away, burying the blade hilt-deep in the targeted four-inch-wide support strut. He retrieved the knife, studying it intently as he returned to the booth whereupon he nodded, replaced his glasses, and said, “It'll do.”

 

Nagi and I glanced at each other, then approached cautiously as Far concluded his transaction. By the look of things, he'd been busy. He had two parcels already, and added a bag carrying half a dozen throwing knives to the lot. As I came up beside him, the Irishman turned with a smile. “Done shopping?”

 

“As soon as…Frank gets back,” I replied, nearly forgetting Brad's borrowed name. “You?”

 

Far nodded. “I'm good.”

 

Brad ambled toward us, carrying two rifle cases and grinning widely. “Y'all ready?”

 

“More than ready,” I murmured, wanting only to sit and molest a cigarette for a while.

 

When the afternoon heat slammed into me like a brick wall, I staggered a step and amended my goal: I still wanted that smoke, but more than that I wanted something cold to drink. I felt like my muscles were melting. Asphalt-scented air clung to the ground in an obscene mockery of fog. Nasty damn weather…

 

The air inside the car was even hotter, the tobacco smell rising and making me queasy. Maybe some real tobacco would exorcise it; I chanced Brad's veto and pulled out my smokes. Then I paused, and grudgingly asked, “Hey, that flea shit isn't flammable, is it?”

 

Brad smiled and murmured, “No, that's jes th' smell lingerin'. Go ahead, y'know y'wan' to.”

 

::You going to keep talking like that?:: I asked him, not intending to blow his cover if it were still necessary but unable to listen to it anymore without reacting if it weren't. ::It's a little unnerving.::

 

::I might.::

 

I sighed as best I could and lit up. It did seem to banish the chemical smell, though Nagi glared at me over a wrinkled nose. Since the car was too hot for the air conditioner to kick in just yet, we kept the windows down, so I didn't feel much remorse over my habit.

 

Before I got halfway done with my smoke, a tickle in my chest dared me to even think about taking another drag. I let out a stiff cough, then another. In desperation I opened a bottled water; the liquid tasted like hot plastic. “Damn it!” I gasped. “Any chance for a cold drink, here?”

 

Brad sighed and aimed for a convenience store. Before I could reach for my door, Brad said, “No, Schu. Let Far do it.” Mercifully, he sounded like the Brad Crawford I knew again. “Farfarello, see if they have ice chests. If they do, stock us up.” To me he stated, “Did you forget? You're still armed. Convenience store clerks get very nervous about guns, and everything's on camera.”

 

I snuffed out my cigarette and left it in the ashtray. My chest still felt trembly, as though it wanted to have another round of choking for its own entertainment. That lingering-cough sensation annoyed me no end. Then again, that's what I got for sucking on hot smoke on a fucking hot day in an overly-hot car. I scrounged up some more headache pills and debated taking them with the nasty warm water, then decided to wait the extra minute for something worth drinking. Leaning back in my seat, I sighed and watched my teammate make his purchases and head back to the parking lot.

 

Far carried a large white styrofoam box, and he looked quite pleased with himself. He set the box on the backseat and said, “Be right back, need the ice.” Nagi took two bottles out of the box and handed them up to the front seat. I opened mine with a grateful sigh and washed down the migraine medicine without even tasting the drink. Far strode up to the silver bin next to the building and pulled out two bags of ice, then waved through the window at the clerk before returning to the car. Far opened the bags of ice and dumped them into the cooler, then Nagi arranged the remaining bottles and replaced the lid.

 

“Ready?” Brad asked, setting his drink in the holder on his door. He didn't wait for an answer.

 

I tried to relax and encourage the headache to fade quickly. My sunglasses were barely keeping things dim enough; I flung an arm across my eyes and tried to melt into the seat.

 

A rough, smelly object landed on my face, blocking the sunlight but startling me awake in the process. My nose was nearly touching the inside band of Far's recycled cowboy hat, and it was not a pleasant thing. Still, it did block the light, and at the moment my head could more easily forgive my nose than my eyes, so I waved a half-hearted thank-you and settled myself for a nap.

 

When I blinked myself awake, the car was cloaked in darkness; Nagi and Far were sleeping soundly in the back seat. Beside me, Brad maintained as steady a course as the captain of a phantom ship.

 

“Where are we?” I murmured, setting Far's hat on the dashboard and reaching for a drink.

 

“Nowhere important,” Brad whispered, unwittingly reinforcing my image of him as some grim revenant guiding a ship out of hell. “Are you rested?”

 

“Fairly, why?”

 

Instead of answering, Brad pulled the car to the shoulder of the highway and parked, leaving the engine running. “Take a turn,” he said, getting out of the car and coming around to my door. I slid over, he got in, and I put the car in drive. “Just keep on this road. Don't take any exits unless there's trouble. Oh, and watch out for animals.”

 

“Like what, bears?” I laughed, adjusting the mirrors.

 

“Deer, coons,” he said as he tossed Far's hat into the back seat. “Skunks.”

 

“Skunks?” I growled. “Lovely.”

 

Brad smiled and settled down to sleep.

 

As I drove, I noticed two things. One, there was almost no traffic, and the night wasn't bright enough for anyone to go about without headlights; I would see any pursuit or interceptors miles away. And two, there was no mental traffic, either. Compared to Japan, or nearly every other place we'd been recently, this stretch of highway was…empty. True, with Brad Crawford nearby, there would be no intense pressure against my mind anyway, but this sense of quiet seemed almost profound.

 

I smiled as I drove, watching for four-legged obstacles and the occasional shooting star. The highway unfolded, spooling like ribbon across a sleeping world.

 

Before sunrise the next morning, I was convinced we were utterly lost.

 

“Perfect,” Brad whispered, looking around as I refueled the car. He directed me to a military surplus store, then told Far and Nagi to wait in the car while we went inside.

 

At the counter, a grim-faced man watched television on one of those tiny camping sets. He looked up, offered Brad a warm smile. “Frank! It's been a while!”

 

Brad looked around almost furtively, told me to go get some camping gear, then went toward the counter. I took a shopping cart, as I had the feeling this was going to be serious. ::Brad? Mind if I listen in?:: His shields didn't block me out, so I eavesdropped on his conversation while trying to figure out what he wanted me to shop for. The images from Brad's point of view superimposed on the shelves in front of me, and I had to concentrate to keep it all straight.

 

“Hey, Burke.” Brad fidgeted, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. He looked around, taking note of the store security mirrors and locating the other three shoppers, including me. “No time to chat. Jes need a few things. Gonna be roughin' it for a while.”

 

Realization dawned on the clerk's ruddy face. The man leaned over the counter and whispered, “Holy shit, you did it, didn't you?”

 

Brad's heart rate sped up and his voice rose in pitch, cracking a little in a rush of emotion. “What was I s'ppose to do, Burke? I love my son! There's no way that cheatin' bitch is takin' him away from me!”

 

I had to take a breath and pull back from the connection a little, before Brad dragged me in too deep. Damn, but he was a good actor! Then again, it didn't take much acting to go from being persecuted by Esset to warring with an ex-wife: either way, if you weren't careful you could lose everything you held dear, though ex-wives usually didn't take the final step of execution.

 

“Whoa, I'm with you, man,” Burke said. “You need any help, just ask.”

 

“All we need is a little time,” Brad hissed. “That's all, just time. Time away from her lawyers and her family's money and all that. I just don't want him to hate me, and I know that's what she'll do.”

 

Again I saw the scene through Brad's eyes, though this time I kept things purposely shallow. Sight and sound only, thank you; Brad could keep the rest of his method acting to himself.

 

Burke frowned, then palmed something and passed it across the counter. “You remember where the place is?”

 

Brad put his hand over the item - a key - and pushed it back toward Burke. “You don't have to do this, Burke. I just want some supplies, don't get involved.”

 

“I lost my two kids in a custody fight six years ago. I'm already involved.”

 

I'd found a camping stove and some cookware, blankets, tents, and generally more crap than I could cram into the shopping cart. I let my psychic eavesdropping trail off and returned to the front counter with everything but the tents.

 

“Great, Jack, thanks,” Brad said in a distracted tone. To Burke he asked, “How much for two decent-sized tents?” He started counting out cash.

 

“Just use the damn cabin,” Burke said. “Anything inside is yours, just put back what you can. And help the next guy along the road, once your own trials are over.”

 

Brad smiled. “Thank you, Burke. God bless.” ::Schuldig, give him the suggestion to send one of his hunting buddies to tell me if anyone comes poking around asking questions.::

 

I did, weaving the command with gentle ease. Burke had been half inclined to do this anyway; the suggestion wasn't difficult to enforce.

 

Then we were back on the road, the trunk of the car full of camping gear.

 

“Do I even want to know where we're going now?” I asked, glancing at Brad.

 

Brad turned the steering wheel and aimed away from the main highway. “No, Schuldig, you probably don't.”

 

 

 

A/N:

Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys,
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love.

 

Yee-haw - that was from “Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” from the Ultimate Waylon Jennings album. I figure, if Schu is at all like me, he'll get some obnoxious song stuck in his head if he hears it on the radio - and, unlike me, for Schuldig every human mind is like a radio. That'll teach him to go to a gun and knife show in the American heartland without his CD player.

 

I must confess, I'm a McDonald's McGriddles fan. (I blame that on the newspaper route my partner and I do from time to time. Sometimes you end up so damn hungry you'll try anything…) They're basically a sausage sandwich made with bun-shaped pancakes instead of a biscuit. The pancakes have these little syrup pockets, and the whole thing is atrociously nasty. But add a little butter and some real syrup, and you have yourself a breakfast masterpiece.

 

NRA - National Rifle Association of America. The “you can have my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers” guys.