Chris Holm - The Wrong Goodbye

The light was red. Traffic flowed past us in both directions, dense and steady. But waiting for the green was not an option.

I laid on the horn, and goosed ol’ Bertha into action. She leapt forward like she’d been born to, and we shot out into the intersection like a bullet from a barrel.

Horns blared. Shouted curses peppered us in Spanish and English both. The chopper gave chase a moment, and then pulled back, mere inches from a tangle of power lines. The streetlight to its left was not so lucky —it wound up a fine dice as the helicopter peeled away. Sparks rained down. The mangled streetlight pole toppled, yanking free a phone line as it fell. Amidst the swerving, honking chaos, the chrome and steel seas parted. I saw my opening and took it. For a moment, I thought we were gonna make it. But the moment didn’t last.

You wanna know the problem with goddamn UHauls? I’ll tell you what the problem is: the fucking “U". I mean, sure, most truckers the country over are jacked up on coffee or meth or Pixy Stix or whatever, and not a one of ’em you encounter on the road has had a full night’s sleep in weeks, but at least they know how to drive their fucking trucks. I’ve seen the commercials late at night on cable; they’ve got to go to school and take a test and everything. But all you need to drive a U-Haul is a license and a bunch of shit to move, and it seems to me neither of those qualifications is a reliable indicator of your ability to successfully pilot fifteen tons of truck and cargo down a busy city street. Which is to say, OK, I ran the fucking light, but I still maintain that bastard should have swerved the same as everybody else when the streetlight came down, and he never would have hit me.

He did, though. Hit me. Well, hit Bertha, at least. Smack in the rear right tire. Spun us around like this behemoth of a vehicle was nothing more than a children’s toy, leaving the three of us clinging for dear life so as to not get thrown.

Could’ve been worse, though. If I hadn’t seen him and cut left at the last minute, Theresa would’ve wound up pasted to his grill. I’m guessing getting Gio’s woman killed would’ve made him a whole lot less cooperative —and, you know, I would’ve felt bad and stuff, too. So thank God for small favors.

Anyways, when our Sit’n Spin stopped going round, we found ourselves facing back the way we came. The chopper hovered wobbily above the offramp, its rotor damaged —more keeping watch than giving chase. That bought us some time till the cavalry arrived. Seconds, not minutes.

The Caddy was straddling a low hedge in front of a Staples and a Taco Bell, and tottering like a seesaw. Woozy and out of sorts as I was from the crash, all I could think was what kind of an idiot drops a Taco Bell smack in the middle of one of the largest Mexican populations in the country? I mean, I like Chalupa Supremes as much as the next guy —preferably with some of that caulk-gun guac they put on ’em if you ask —but seriously? Putting a Taco Bell here is like plopping a Red Lobster on the coast of Maine. The sight of it depressed me so, I half wondered if I should let Danny do his thing, and wait for the rising waters to wash the world clean.

But of course then I wouldn’t be around to enjoy it. So to hell with it, I thought —let’s go save the world.

Again.

Problem was, the Caddy wasn’t moving. I must’ve thumbed the ignition a half a dozen times, but she just sat there, engine ticking, refusing to move.

Poor Bertha, I thought. She gave her all. Of course, every war’s got its casualties —I hoped to God Bertha would be the only one tonight. I stole a glance at Gio and Theresa, and muttered a silent prayer to that effect. I’d lost enough friends in my life already.

Yeah, I called them friends. Shut up.

I glanced at the clock on the dash —an old, round analog dealie with light-up numbers at three, six, nine, and twelve. The second-hand was stopped dead, and the display read nine-thirty. Which meant I had no more than two hours and change before Charon plunged me into Nothingness. And that’s assuming bug-monsters are on Pacific time.

“You two OK?”

“Yeah,” said Gio, though he didn’t sound it.

“Never better,” said Theresa. “Did you really die back there?”

“This body did,” I said. “But only for a sec.”

“A sec. Right. ’Cause that’s a lot less fucked up than dead for good.”

“Not saying it’s less fucked up. But from where I’m sitting, it’s sure as hell preferable . Looks like we’re on foot from here. You up for it?”

“You askin’ ’cause I’m blind? That’s discrimination, friend.”

“Actually,” I said, “I was asking Gio.”

But Gio didn’t hear me. He was just sitting there, one hand to his chest, his face pained and slick with sweat.

I put a hand on Gio’s shoulder, tried to rouse him. “Gio?”

“I can feel it,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

Theresa leaned forward, put a hand to Gio’s cheek. “Feel what, hon?”

“I can feel his hands around my soul! Clawing,

gouging, tearing it free of my flesh… Jesus, Sam, is this what it’s like to be collected?”

“Afraid so. And when we take you, we feel everything you’ve ever felt —up to and including your collection. Which means that’s what it feels like to collect as well.”

“But why… why didn’t I remember ?”

“Shock,” I said. “But that particular get-out-of-jailfree card only comes up once a deck —next time, you’ll feel it, and you’ll remember.”

“If there is a next time,” Theresa said.

“Right,” I said. I didn’t have the heart to tell her sooner or later, there was bound to be a next time. “But right now what matters is that feeling means Danny’s close.”

Theresa cocked her head and frowned. “Let’s hope he’s closer than those sirens,” she said.

I listened for a moment. She was right. They were distant, but approaching fast. “We need to move.”

We set out at a trot past the strip mall down a gently curving street that some overzealous city planner likely thought of as “organic.” Arc-sodium orange from the streetlights lit our way past lowslung ranches on modest lots, and put me in mind of faded sepia photographs, pale golden-hued mementos of better times that never were. The night air was cool and crisp, low seventies at most, and was alive with mariachi music, spiced meats, and something more sinister —the faint ozone scent of magic. At first, we saw no signs of celebration save the makeshift altars set out on stoops and sidewalks: votive candles, marigolds, children’s toys, and sugar skulls surrounding pictures of the departed both young and old —the flowers, sweets, and trinkets intended as ofrendas to the dead. But as we ran —me out front, the shotgun held tight to my chest so as to attract less attention, Gio and Theresa hand-in-hand behind me —we happened upon passersby bedecked in their Dia de los Muertos finery: their outfits a garish funhouse reflection of their Sunday best, their faces painted up as skulls, or hidden behind ornate calavera masks. As they made their way westward toward the festivities, they laughed and hooted and whooped, and shot off rapid-fire Spanish at one another. If they noticed us, they gave no sign. It was as if we were the spirits that walked invisible among them.

Invisible to them , perhaps, but not to all. For all around us —on every streetlight, every rooftop, every fence post and power line in sight —were the jagged silhouettes of thousands upon thousands of crows. Their heads turned as one as they tracked our progress, their ink-black eyes unblinking as they watched us pass.

We’d lost the chopper when we abandoned the commercial strip right off the freeway and disappeared into the relative darkness of the neighborhood beyond, but it hadn’t given up on us. It hovered low over the rooftops, its searchlight tracing out a grid below. Searching. Probing. Advancing ever toward us. But the costume-clad around us paid it little mind. Even blocks away, the music from the festival was loud enough to drown out the thrumming of its rotor, and perhaps the sight of searching helicopters was all too common to the residents of LA.