“How about a movie?” Private Zulu suggested. “It’ll be cool inside. This heat is killing me.”
“Sorry.” The Fire Team Leader apologized for his truck’s clunky air conditioning. “You want to go to that big movie cinema across town?”
“The SuperMegaJumboPlex? You bet, they got all the new stuff,” the private said as he picked his nose and flicked the findings out the cracked window, only to have it blow back in. A bit later, the men arrived at their destination and approached the ticket counter. “What should we see?” Private Zulu asked as they dodged a throng of teenagers.
“How about that one?” Fire Team Leader Alpha suggested as he pointed to the top of the board.
“The Artist?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it about?”
“Don’t know, but I heard it was up for all the awards.”
“Okay by me. Hope it’s got a car chase.” The men purchased their tickets, went inside, and hit the concession stand. Taking their seats, they crammed fists of popcorn into their mouths as the previews rolled. The next several hours left the men rather confused, but less sweaty than before. The movie wasn’t exactly what they expected.
“Well,” Fire Team Leader began as they left the theater. “What did you think?”
“I think I’m never coming back to this place again. We got swindled. The dang audio was busted for the whole movie, and nobody even bothered to fix it. I couldn’t hear a word they were saying.” The two disgruntled men climbed into the pickup and headed back to the bus lot. The sun was going down, and they had to get to work. Pulling up to the depot, Fire Team Leader Charlie pulled over on the side of the road. They could see the gate was locked. “Which one should we swipe?” the private asked.
“Which ever one is handiest, I suppose. Just curious — can you drive one of those things?”
“I guess so. Can’t be that hard, although, come to think of it, that’s what I said about algebra, and that bitch ’bout done killed me. How come they always want you to find X? That sucker is long gone by now.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. All right, let’s get that gate open.” The men climbed out, and the Fire Team Leader grabbed his bolt cutters. Sneaking along the quiet road until they reached the gate, the men prepared to cut the chain around the fence. Suddenly, the sound of grinding gears came from behind them. “Private, take cover, now!” The men dove into a small drainage ditch beside the road just as a school bus pulled up to the gate. The driver got out and unlocked the chain before getting back into the bus and pulling into the lot. He parked it in an empty space. A minute later the driver climbed out and headed for the main office. “Hurry up, Zulu, grab the one that just pulled in. It’s already warmed up. I’ll wait here and keep watch.”
“What?”
“Quick. You may not have much time.”
“I’m going alone? That wasn’t the deal.”
“We didn’t have a deal. Now get moving. I’ll watch your six. I’ll hoot like an owl three times if someone is coming.”
“You better not leave me.”
“You know we never leave a man behind. It’s in the STRAC-BOM Code of Conduct. Right after incoming fire always has the right of way.”
“Yeah, I remember. Okay, cover me.” Private Zulu scampered into the lot and made his way to the bus. The door was open. Private Zulu used his screwdriver to remove the ignition cover and expose the wires inside. “Dang it!” exclaimed the Private, as the colors of the wires were different from what he was used to. Which one is it? He struggled to open the blade on his rusty Swiss Army knife. Gotta remember to clean this som’bitch. Eventually, he got the knife open. Fumbling with the wires, he used his pocketknife to strip the plastic covering off the ends of all of them. Holding his breath and squinting, he twisted two of the wires together. Nothing happed. He tried two more. Nothing. He tried two more. Bang! A filling in one of his back molars exploded. Head spinning, lying on his back, the gearshift between his scrawny legs, he heard a faint sound, another, and then one more. It could have been an owl, but it would have to have been an old, diseased, choking, dying hoot owl, with a pronounced lisp. Actually, it didn’t really sound like an owl at all, but it was enough to get the private motivated. Pulling himself to his feet, he noticed movement in the office. Terrified, he grabbed the wires again, then braced himself and touched them together. Sparks flew, and the engine lurched. Trying one more time as he clenched his teeth, Private Zulu twisted the two exposed wires together and pinched them off. The engine turned over. It was running. Zulu jumped into the driver’s seat and put the school bus into gear, grinding the gears in the process. As he swung around to exit through the gate, he sideswiped another bus. Then he heard more hooting: lisping, diseased, choking, dying bird hooting. Stomping on the gas, he sped out of the lot. Looking back, he saw Fire Team Leader Charlie racing to his truck. The Fire Team Leader caught back up with him before they even made it back to the interstate. Neither man let off the gas until they saw the Tornillo exit.
CHAPTER NINE
Ghost From the Past
Back in his office, Avery packed his roller bag, fanny pack, and ice chest for the upcoming journey. He wanted to be sure he wouldn’t run out of Mountain Dew. More importantly, he hoped he would have sufficient time on the trip to continue his critical correspondence. He’d been quite aggravated lately, even more than usual. His “hit list” of targets destined to receive a rambling, scathing petition was at an all-time high. He was hot. It made his blood boil. He needed to get a few letters sent off immediately, before STRAC-BOM arrived, in order to cool down. If nothing else, Avery was persistent, kind of like a bad rash. He wanted to start his epic road trip feeling good about himself, and the best way for Avery to feel better about himself was to annoy someone else. He figured he’d be up all night anyway. So he typed away.
To: Subscription Department
Wicked Gamer Illustrated
Dear Whoever,
I’m writing you today to kindly ask you to politely, comfortably, and conveniently bend over and stick your head up your ass. I’ve been a loyal subscriber to your somewhat entertaining, mildly informative, but mostly advertising-ridden rag for over twenty years. I was probably your first customer. I remember when I used to have to walk thirteen blocks to a rundown smoke shop to buy your periodical before you actually started mailing it out. I remember when your crappy magazine came with rusty staples and warped pages. I remember when it came with full-color advertisements for dehydrated Sea Monkeys on the back pages. Trust me, I’ve ordered them. Horrible pets. No sense of obedience. Taste horrible. Anyway, I’VE PAID MY SUBSCRIPTION! But, given your recent correspondence, you apparently don’t know that. Why do you insist on bombarding my mailbox with countless renewal letters marked URGENT — THIS IS YOUR LAST ISSUE? Really? Seriously? At the bottom of your last letter, or, more precisely, your latest threat, it clearly states that my subscription runs until February of next year. Why would I renew now? Are you financially insolvent? If so, what’s the point? If you go bankrupt, will my subscription be transferred to another magazine? Newsweek, maybe? Good God, I hope not. Their coverage of first-person shooters (FPS) and role-playing games (RPG) is pathetic. And no, I don’t want to buy a gift subscription! Who am I going to give it to? Some anonymous kid in Tokyo with a pithy Internet handle who shot me in the back of the head after a marathon twelve-hour online session? The little jackass! And another thing that pisses me off, why the hell does the issue that shows up in my mailbox in August state very clearly on the front of the magazine that it’s your October issue? Naturally, I assume as the writers of a video game magazine you smoke a lot of pot, but it’s supposed to slow you down, not speed you up. At least, that’s what I’m told. I eagerly await your next edition.