John Miller - Death Draws Five

“What happened?” Finn asked. “We thought we’d lost you. The monitor showed your heart beat slowing down over the last hour or so, until we couldn’t get a reading and we thought it had stopped.”

“I was gone,” Fortunato said. “For a bit, anyway. Now I’m back.”

Finn handed the paddles to the nurse who was hovering anxiously over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off his patient. “Gone—like on a trip? Were you astral projecting?”

Fortunato nodded.

“Then your powers have returned?” Finn asked.

Fortunato nodded again, cautiously. “It seems so. It’s all so new, that I’m not sure.”

“Uh...” Finn cleared his throat. “They’re not... activated... like in the old days?”

“You mean by Tantric magick and the intromission of my sperm?” Fortunato asked. “That was before your time. How’d you know about that?”

“I’ve read your file,” Finn said. “You’re an unusual patient with unusual powers and presumably unusual strengths and weaknesses. Dr. Tachyon kept extensive notes on you, as he did on many aces and jokers—”

Fortunato laughed quietly. “I hope you didn’t believe all the bad stuff he said about me.”

Finn smiled. “Tachyon was—is—highly opinionated.”

Fortunato’s laughter turned to a sigh. “I’m sure I gave him cause.”

He stared at the ceiling, hardly believing that this notion had come into his head. What am I thinking? Fortunato thought. I must be tired. Over-wrought from the action of the past couple of days. I am getting old.

“What’s the matter?” Finn asked.

“Nothing,” Fortunato said. “I’m just tired. I need some sleep.”

Finn looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

“All right. Do you need anything for the pain?”

Fortunato lay back on the pillow and took stock of his body. The pain from the beating he’d suffered at the hands of the Jokka Bruddas hadn’t entirely vanished, but it had receded from the forefront of his consciousness, going deep into bone and muscle where it was a dully-throbbing presence. He could stand it. He shook his head.

“No,” he said, surprised. “It’s not too bad.”

“All right,” Finn said. “We’ll leave you then.” He stopped at the doorway after the others had streamed out of the room and looked back at Fortunato, shaking his head. “Aces! You always make the worst patients. No more gallivanting around in your astral form. You need rest. Get some.”

“All right.” Even if the boy was safe for the moment, Fortunato still had to be sure of his eventual rescue. But now he knew how to track him anytime he wanted to. Finn was right. Now he needed rest.

Finn switched off the overhead light as he left the room, leaving Fortunato discommoded by the annoying LED lights and rhythmic blips from the machinery and monitors connected to him. He thought that the distractions would make it difficult to sleep, but he was wrong. He closed his eyes and went out almost instantaneously.

While he slept his unconscious mind shunted energy throughout his body, repairing damage old and new, restoring tissue, strengthening ligaments, and mending tendons worn with use and age.

For the first time in years Fortunato slept, and did not dream.

New Hampton: the Snake-Handlers’ Commune

“I’m sure there’s some way we can fix all this,” Jerry said.

Uzziah shook his head. “I’ve seen many things happen in this here church over the years. Many strange and awful things.”

“Uh-huh,” someone in the audience said.

“I’ve seen people possessed by the Holy Spirit fall on the floor and shake like the good Lord himself had put His icy hand on their spine.”

“Amen,” some in the audience called, and there were scattered echoes as others took up the cry.

“I’ve seen people prophecy in tongues no longer spoken in this world of woe.”

The response came louder as the parishioners gathered about their preacher.

“I’ve seen people DRINK POISON and TAKE UP SERPENTS with no harm come to them.”

The cries of the audience reverberated in the tiny church, and Jerry found himself inching backwards, slowly and carefully, as he realized that this might be his best opportunity to escape.

“But NEVER. NEVER in all my days have I EVER seen someone so possessed, so consumed, so TAKEN UP by the Holy Spirit that WALLS could not hold them, TONGUES could not tell of them, PRAYER could not contain the energy that DROVE them to their worship, AMEN.”

Someone rattled a tambourine and the band started playing loudly and raggedly. The service, so unexpectedly interrupted, was suddenly whole again.

The dancing and praying and testifying was back up to full speed as Jerry slipped through the hole that Angel had smashed through the wall in her inexplicable frenzy to escape. Outside, the afternoon was turning toward dusk. He had to report to Ackroyd, then they had to go after Angel and the kid and rescue them both from whatever had possessed her so unexpectedly.

Something was wrong, though. It took Jerry a moment to realize that it was the music coming from the church. There was no electric guitar. He stopped, and Mushroom Daddy, following behind, almost walked right into him.

“Hey,” Daddy said, “you’re not splitting, are you man?”

Jerry started walking again. He didn’t have time to waste on hippie burn-outs no matter how nice they seemed to be. “Can’t talk now, uh, Daddy. Got to get after Angel.”

“Groovy. That’s all cool, man,” Daddy said, falling in beside Jerry now that he’d been noticed. “We got to go after Angel. And my van, man. I got to get it back.”

“Sure, Daddy,” Jerry assured him. “We’ll get it back for you. She probably had a good reason to take it. I’m sure she had. Fastest way might be to call it in to the Troopers. You got the license plate and tag number somewhere?”

Jerry hoped that wouldn’t be too much to ask, but by the look on Daddy’s face maybe it was. “Uh, man, I don’t know about that. It’d be a bummer to call the pigs in. I don’t know how they could help us.”

“They can find the van through the plate number,” Jerry said patiently.

“Well, probably not, man, because I made ‘em myself.”

Jerry stopped and looked at him. “You what?”

“Yeah, made ‘em myself, man. In my garage. I’ve always been pretty good with my hands. Saves me over thirty bucks a year, that doesn’t have to go to, like, the state and the military industrial complex.”

Jerry frowned at him. “Even the yearly renewal tag?”

Daddy looked proud. “That’s the easiest part, man. Color Xerox and rubber cement.”

“I don’t suppose you remember the numbers you put on the plate, or wrote them down or something?”

“Why would I, man? They’re just numbers. They don’t mean anything.”

Jerry sighed. “No, I guess they don’t,” he said. We can still call in the Troopers, Jerry thought. There can’t be too many thirty-year-old VW vans on the road. And she couldn’t have gotten far.

They’d reached the dirt parking lot in front of the snake handler’s tumble-down barn. Then he froze as he realized there were far too many cars.

“Hello, boys,” a voice said from inside one of them. “What are you two doing wandering around here?”

I know that voice, Jerry thought. I’ve heard it before. He shaded his eyes, trying to look through the glare of the sun shining off the car’s windshield.

“This chick friend of his stole my van, man,” Daddy chimed in helpfully. “We’re looking for it.”

“That’s funny,” the voice said. “So are we.”

Jerry’s hand dropped to his side. He thought for a moment of going for the gun Ackroyd had given him, which he was carrying snugged in a holster against the small of his back. But he knew that would be suicide. He’d recognized the speaker’s voice, he saw the others emerging from their vehicles.