Parka was thinking of the Worm-Hares.
“Not under the mountains.”
“Nope.”
Parka leaned forward and his bike shot ahead. Jar soon followed. After they broke the sound barrier, Parka put on his headphones. He liked Toby Keith.
In the great tunnel underneath the mountains, they stopped at a rest stop. They hydrated and Jar sulfurized his joints. There were a couple of other travelers at the rest stop. Others sped by on their motorcycles and flaming chariots. Every once in a while there would be a rumbling sound that would shake the wire grating of the low roof and send dust to the ground. Once there was a low growl far above, like a brane gun backfiring.
“What’s that?” Jar asked once.
“Taos,” Parka said, not looking up from his hammock and his well-thumbed copy of The Toby Keith Review.
“Ah,” Jar said, going back to his sour acupuncture.
The human child who was indentured to the rest stop looked up from his abacus. He had a nametag that said SHARON. “They’ve been going like that for a fortnight. The Black Rooster Company is finally yielding their fortress against the Azalean Gullet.”
But the two couriers ignored him. Blushing, the child went back to his figures.
“Say,” Parka said, “what are you going to be for All Hallows Eve?”
Jar pulled the needle from his spine and blew on the tip. “I was thinking Jack Nicklaus.”
“Really? I love As Good as It Gets!”
Three of Jar’s eyelids quivered, a sign of confusion and then mild amusement. “No, not the actor. The golfer.”
Parka raised his eyebrows. “Really? Do you golf?”
Jar shrugged. “Who are you going to be?”
“Dwight D. Eisenhower,” Parka said without any hesitation.
“Really? I love World War II!” It took Parka a few seconds to realize Jar was being a sarcastic mimic.
Parka sighed.
“But seriously,” Jar said, perhaps sensing Parka’s exasperation, “I would have sworn that you’d be one of the indigenous musicians.” Jar pointed at the cover of The Toby Keith Review, in which Toby was performing in his moon-slave cage for various Being seneschals.
“I’m not quite so easily typecast, friend,” Parka said. “Not quite so easily in one box or another. I have a lot of interests.”
“Uh-huh,” Jar said.
“Anyway,” Parka said, wanting to change the subject a bit, “it won’t matter if we can’t make Santa Fey by tomorrow.”
“Ha ha,” Jar said. “Don’t worry. We’re in the slow season. We’re deep underground. The winds of war are incapable of blowing upon our faces.”
“I am not quite so sanguine,” Parka said, closing his magazine and hopping off the hammock. “We should go.”
“So soon?” Jar said. “I still need to sanitize my needles.” He held a glinting needle out. The tip wavered.
Parka was going to say something clever and lewd but the sound of an approaching caravan drowned out any coherent thought. Three motorcycles and a black Camaro. They were slowing down and resting at the rest stop.
“Hey. Jar,” Parka shouted, before the caravan stopped.
Jar looked over. It was a caravan of Casino dwellers, all Worm-Hares.
“Ugh,” Parka said. “Like I said, let’s go.”
“Hey!” the prime Worm-Hare said, slithering out of the Camaro. It was too late. “Hey!”
“What?” Parka called out.
The other Worm-Hares had hopped off their motorcycles and were massing together. The prime pointed at the Amulet of Ruby Webs that was half-hidden in Jar’s satchel. “I believe you have something of ours!” he said.
“It’s not yours anymore,” Jar said. “So you should have said, ‘I believe you have something of yours!’”
Parka had to shake his head at this. Even in danger, he had trouble not to break out laughing. This, at least, gave them a couple of seconds while the Worm-Hares tried to parse this out.
“The Amulet of Ruby Webs is a sacred symbol for our community through many generations and systems,” the prime said.
“Well, it’s your damn fault you brought it down from orbit then.”
The prime paused. The other Worm-Hares were getting antsy, stroking their floppy ears with their tentacles. They likely surmised that Parka and Jar would be
difficult to slay in close-quarters combat. Or perhaps they were worried about damaging the amulet.
“How about we race for it?” the prime said brightly.
“No, you can’t have a good race in the tunnel and you know that,” Parka said. “Hm, I will kickbox you for it though.”
All of the Worm-Hares laughed as one. “Seriously?” the prime said. “Um, okay. Sure.”
“Great. If I win you’ll have to leave us alone. And…” Parka thought about it. “Give up driving your Camaro for a year. No, wait, you’ll have to give it to him.” He pointed to the human child. “Aw yeah, that’s right. Are you ready?”
The prime nodded and smiled, but then grew grim. “But, listen. Hey. I’m being serious here. Whatever you do, do not—do not—touch the red button on the center of the Amulet of Ruby Webs. Okay?”
“Yeah, don’t worry,” Parka said dismissively. “I’m no amateurish idiot.”
“Fair enough,” the prime said. “I am going to enjoy kicking your ass.” The residents of Casino were known for their kickboxing prowess, and the Worm-Hares learned such local arts after they followed the Beings down to the surface.
“You sure about this?” Jar said to Parka, putting his hand on Parka’s shoulder as he was doing stretches.
“Not really,” he said. “But this is the only way they’ll stay off our ass. So we can make it to Hallows Eve.”
Jar nodded. “Right. Hey, look at that kid’s face.”
Parka looked over. The face was beginning to fill with walking sticks. Circling the neck, darting down the cheeks. The child was fearful, but was unable to brush the insects off, because of the chains.
“What is with that?” Parka said, as he stepped into the makeshift kickboxing ring, an enclosure of the Worm-Hares’ motorcycles. “Seriously, do any of you know what is going on with those insects?” He pointed to the human. None of the Worm-Hares paid Parka any mind. The prime took off his leather jacket and Parka did the same. Then the Worm-Hares—and Jar too, for that matter—counted down to ten and the kickboxing match began.
Parka then entered a trance-like state, without his consent or volition. When he snapped out of it, the prime Worm-Hare was sprawled on the asphalt, his head twisted backward, tentacles twitching here and there.
“Wow,” Jar said. “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” Parka said. “What did happen?”
“He tried to kick your face, but you spun away. Then you kicked his face.”
“Oh.” Parka felt a few of the walking sticks scurry and drop off his shoulders, which felt sore. He didn’t realize that they had landed on him. The other Worm-Hares were motionless and scared.
As Parka and Jar drove away, they noticed that the human child’s body was entirely covered in the walking sticks. Parka tried to make eye contact, as a way of saying, Hey, the Camaro’s yours, I hope you get to drive it someday, but there were no eyes visible to connect with.
A few hours later in the tunnel, they had to stop again. Flashing lights and a tall human woman wearing a sandwich board.
“Bypass,” the woman said.
“Oh, for the love of God,” Parka said.
“Cave-in,” the woman elaborated. She also had a nametag that said SHARON. “You’ll have to go to the surface.”
“You think?” Parka said.
“Hey, she’s just doing her job,” Jar said.
“I know that, Jar,” Parka said. “And don’t lecture me like I’m some kind of phobe. I mean, I’m the one who gave a Camaro to a human child. I’m a friend of these people, believe me.”